human
Can you write me a poem about ludgate street, fleet street and alexander pope in the style of Baron George Gordon Byron Byron?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about ludgate street, fleet street and alexander pope in the style of Baron George Gordon Byron Byron:
  INTRODUCTION                                                 xv
The Works of Mr. ALEXANDER POPE. London: Printed by W.
BOWYER for BERNARD LINTOT, between the Temple Gates, 1717.
This volume consists of all the acknowledged poems which Pope had
The Works of Mr. ALEXANDER POPE. Volume ii. London: Printed
by J. WRIGHT, for LAWTON GILLIVER, at Homer's Head in Fleet
Letters of Mr. ALEXANDER POPE, and Several of his friends.
London: Printed by J. WRIGHT for J. KNAPTON in Ludgate
Street, L. GILLIVER in Fleet Street, J. BRINDLEY in New Bond
Street, and R. DODSLEY in Pall-Mall, 1737. 4to and folio.
The Works of Mr. ALEXANDER POPE, in Prose. Vol. ii. London:
Printed for J. and P. KNAPTON, C. BATHURST, and R. DODSLEY,
The Works of ALEXANDER POPE, ESQ.; vol. i. with explanatory
Notes and Additions never before printed. London: Printed
commenced printing his particular section of the octavos when the
Quo desiderio veteres revocamus amores
Atque olim amissas flemus amicitias.
Nutrix mea fidelissima M. Beech, obiit 5 Novem. 1725, aet. 77.
Edwardus Blunt, vir amicissimus obit, Aug. 1726.
Francisc. Atterbury, Roffens Episcopus, vir omni scientia clarus,
The fourth volume contains the Satires, with their Prologue,--the
alterations."--_His Last Will and Testament._--WARBURTON.]
A wit's a feather, and a chief's a rod,
An honest man's the noblest work of God.--WARBURTON.]
The Life which Warburton promised with such solemn pomp was never
compilation.]
alterations which had not the sanction of any prior edition were
And now vile poets rise before the light,
And walk, like Margaret's ghost, at dead of night.
necessity of having the voucher of the poet's handwriting for the
transcripts of Richardson.
Warburton, Pope's first editor, had a vigorous understanding, and
interpretation, and it was not from hostility that he exposed the
patience.
affection. If they are read in that light, they will be very
friendship."
contrary,--such sober sense, such gravity of manners, and so much
publication had vindicated Wycherley, it would have been its own
justification; but as it was put forth to do honour to Pope, he
Pope tells us, in the preface to the authorised edition of his
letters of about fifteen and twenty years old." When the poet had
antipathies of Curll. He pretends that the poet, with whom he was
The point upon which the bargain went off for a time is equally
significant. P. T. enclosed an advertisement of the letters, and
connived at the publication he was contriving; it would afford an
likely to deceive, for he told the fact in the course of a
correspondent." Curll asserted that the advertisement came to him
omissions. Nor had the leaves which contained it been simply kept
furnished by Curll; and, notwithstanding the revenge by which he
procedure, probably mistrusted Curll's cordiality or skill in a
commendations that he proved the mere echo of Pope in his
self-applauding moods.
Wycherley's memory to print a few to discredit that imposition."
correspondents,--Addison, Steele, Congreve, Gay, Walsh, Trumbull,
printed, and his vanity would have been doubly gratified by the
Every incident which arose in the progress of the controversy
advice of P. T., he showed the letter which contained it. Pope's
This was an old device of the poet. To escape from the obloquy he
gentleman,--_veni, vidi, vici_." His ally, P. T., derived no
The resolution of P. T. to proclaim his own disgrace was less
correspondence with Curll.
Faulkner, the Dublin printer, told Dr. Birch, in 1749, that James
their advertisement of May 23 that Curll's notes "had proved not
projects of Pope, and Pope, in return, appeared to smile upon the
correspondence respecting it. His sanction of the publication is
confirmed by the catalogue of surreptitious editions, since this
insignificant" than the printed collection. The coincidence of
misconstruction which had been put upon his words. While the
It is amusing to observe the indifference and distaste which Pope
printed." This edition bears internal evidence of having been
accrediting his feigned reprobation of the P. T. volume.
fabrications was a falsehood.
The next letter Pope rejected consisted of a satirical and false
The controversies on Pope's character have naturally drawn forth
impressions necessarily carried with them the conviction that the
counterfeited. He made the distinction in the catalogue almost
The reason assigned by Pope why a letter must be forged which he
Montpelier, November 20, 1729: "Yes, dear sir, I have had all you
difficult to say whether his effrontery or his hypocrisy was most
brilliant; but his pretence of sinking the author in the friend
suggested by his recent collection and arrangement of his
original of his share of the epistle still exists, and shows that
letters--by Lord Orrery, and the act by which the intention was
which would naturally have been made over to the latter when he
correspondence on both sides at his command.
one of those instances in which he had recourse to the licence he
allegation of the poet was a wilful untruth, this additional
hand. She evidently preferred that they should go direct to their
custody." Mrs. Whiteway had merely undertaken to return to Pope
professedly the originals of the correspondence in her hands. She
postscript of August 24, to add, in a note, "The book that is now
immediately veered from decision to uncertainty, and in the next
preserved throughout. But there is a second coincidence which is
monument he was eager to erect to their friendship in 1737, he
compositions. He denied that a prior publication in Ireland could
one of the counsel for the poet, and afterwards, when Lord Chief
composition is written can be construed a conveyance of the copy,
evidence leaves no doubt of their authenticity. One unexpected
Another passage of a letter to Caryll, dated September 20, 
condition of the walks below. None of the phenomena which were
The Wycherley correspondence furnishes fresh illustrations of the
unpublished. Imperfect as is the series, it is sufficient to show
hypocrisy." Pope thought fit in the published letters to reverse
acquiescence, or dissent. The omission cannot be explained by the
critic. Pope did indeed suppress the beginning and the end of
subject, and protests by everything that is holy that he is not
advantageous to himself that they should say.
orders." In the dangerous manoeuvre of printing covertly the
copies. He may even have believed that his secret, under any
circumstances, was safe with the printer. A theory which has been
manuscript, while the impression he hid from him was garbled and
indignation at everything base, and his claim to adopt this lofty
purposes;
"Who for this end would earn a lasting name,
Join moral infamy to mental fame,
Would tear aside the friendly veil of night
To stand degraded in a blaze of light."
documents, and to have dissociated the subsidiary from the main
Mr. Bowles remarked in the course of the skirmish of pamphlets he
Lockman, and other hands." Vol II. p. 447.]
addressed by Swift to thirty or forty different persons, who had
certainly not returned them.]
Attorney-General, and Mr. Noel. They all paid Pope the tribute of
acknowledgements."]
corrected by Bolingbroke, is in the British Museum.]
The clearness, the closeness, and the elegance of style with
which this preface is written, render it one of the best
pieces of prose in our language. It abounds in strong good
sense, and profound knowledge of life. It is written with
such simplicity that scarcely a single metaphor is to be
found in it.--WARTON.
expression, or erred in any particular point: and can it then be
I believe if any one, early in his life, should contemplate the
Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own, because they
live. One may be ashamed to consume half one's days in bringing
In this office of collecting my pieces, I am altogether uncertain
self-interest; the gratification of public prejudices or private
passions; the flattery of the undeserving, or the insult of the
practice of fulsome dedications, but he made the most of his
speedily forgotten.]
pleasing the critics."]
introduced into this preface in a forced manner, and treated with
With age decayed, with courts and bus'ness tired,
Caring for nothing but what ease required;
Too dully serious for the muses' sport,
And from the critics safe arrived in port;
I little thought of launching forth again,
Amidst advent'rous rovers of the pen:
And after so much undeserved success,
Thus hazarding at last to make it less.
Encomiums suit not this censorious time,
Itself a subject for satiric rhyme;
Ignorance honoured, wit and worth defamed,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blamed!
But to this genius, joined with so much art,
Such various learning mixed in ev'ry part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.
And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing
As the great Iliad, scarce could make me sing,
Except I justly could at once commend
A good companion, and as firm a friend,
One moral, or a mere well-natured deed
Can all desert in sciences exceed.
'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways,
But a much greater to give merit praise.
The muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allowed
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extensive is the poet's aim,
And in each verse he draws a bill on fame.
For none have writ (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a patron, or a friend;
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating poems of the age;
Nor by injurious scruples think it fit
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit.
But let their pens to yours the heralds prove,
Who strive for you as Greece for Homer strove;
Whilst he who best your poetry asserts,
Asserts his own, by sympathy of parts.
Me panegyric verse does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire;
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counsel in your ear.
Go on, to gain applauses by desert,
Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart;
Inflame the soldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the sage;
Allure with tender verse the female race,
And give their darling passion courtly grace;
Describe the Forest still in rural strains,
With vernal sweets fresh breathing from the plains.
Your tales be easy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the poet in that part display;
Nor let the critic there his skill unfold,
For Boccace thus, and Chaucer tales have told.
Soothe, as you only can, each diff'ring taste,
And for the future charm as in the past.
Then should the verse of ev'ry artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unless, since short in beauty of your own,
Some envious scribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you placed them there.
But envy could not against you succeed,               }
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;  }
Censure or praise must from ourselves proceed.        }
In these more dull, as more censorious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
A muse sincere, that never flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendship and desert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found
Art strength'ning nature, sense improved by sound.
Unlike those wits whose numbers glide along
So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song:
Laboriously enervate they appear,
And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmoved and unconcerned they lull,
And are at best most musically dull:
So purling streams with even murmurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into sleep.
As smoothest speech is most deceitful found,    }
The smoothest numbers oft are empty sound,      }
And leave our lab'ring fancy quite aground.  }
But wit and judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too:
Your strains are regularly bold, and please  }
With unforced care, and unaffected ease,     }
With proper thoughts, and lively images:     }
Such as by nature to the ancients shown,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great men's fashions to be followed are,
Although disgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polished style write pastoral,
Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall;
Like some fair shepherdess, the sylvan muse,
Decked in those flow'rs her native fields produce,
With modest charms would in plain neatness please,  }
But seems a dowdy in the courtly dress,             }
Whose awkward finery allures us less.            }
But the true measure of the shepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the country fit:
Yet must his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common swain's be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the players dress
In silks the shepherd and the shepherdess;
Yet still unchanged the form and mode remain,
Shaped like the homely russet of the swain.
Your rural muse appears to justify
The long lost graces of simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her modesty those charms concealed,
'Till by men's envy to the world revealed;
For wits industrious to their trouble seem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.
Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,
Which would, if Virgil lived, on Virgil wait;
Whose muse did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight;
So larks, which first from lowly fields arise,
Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.
_Killala, in the county of Mayo, in Ireland, June 7, 1715._
Hail, sacred bard! a muse unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore.
To our dark world thy shining page is shown,
And Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,
And India poured her gaudy treasures here:
A various spoil adorned our naked land,       }
The pride of Persia glittered on our strand,  }
And China's earth was cast on common sand:    }
Tossed up and down the glossy fragments lay,
And dressed the rocky shelves, and paved the painted bay.
Thy treasures next arrived: and now we boast
A nobler cargo on our barren coast:
From thy luxuriant Forest we receive
More lasting glories than the East can give.
Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous scenes our busy thoughts engage!
The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were;
Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows
The sylvan state that on her border grows,
While she the wond'ring shepherd entertains
With a new Windsor in her wat'ry plains;
Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living scene is in the muse's glass.
Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer,
When Philomela sits and warbles there,
Than when you sing the greens and op'ning glades,
And give us harmony as well as shades:
A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you
Can paint the grove, and add the music too.
With vast variety thy pages shine;
A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight,  }
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, }
And give at once the day, at once the night!  }
And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
In dreary deserts mixed with painted plains!
And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side,
And bearded groves display their annual pride.
Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre,
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you sing so well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,          }
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme,  }
Here on the western beach attempt to chime.  }
O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main!
Bordered with weeds, and solitudes obscene!
Let me ne'er flow like thee! nor make thy stream
My sad example, or my wretched theme.
Like bombast now thy raging billows roar,
And vainly dash themselves against the shore;
About like quibbles now thy froth is thrown,
And all extremes are in a moment shown.
Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much loved Isis' walks convey,
And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.
Thence let me view the venerable scene,
The awful dome, the groves' eternal green:
Where sacred Hough long found his famed retreat,
And brought the muses to the sylvan seat,
Reformed the wits, unlocked the classic store,
And made that music which was noise before.
There with illustrious bards I spent my days
Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise,
Enjoyed the blessings that his reign bestowed,
Nor envied Windsor in the soft abode.
The golden minutes smoothly danced away,
And tuneful bards beguiled the tedious day:
They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fired
That Maro taught, or Addison inspired.
Ev'n I essayed to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?
Roused from these dreams by thy commanding strain,
I rise and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy muse, from sport to sport I run,
Mark the stretched line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring pheasant lie;
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather shines and varies there.
Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by,    }
But while the prancing steed allures my eye, }
He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly  }
O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse.
O could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courser that might match his own!
Fired with the sport, and eager for the chase,
Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.
Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?
The soft complaint shall over time prevail;
The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore,
The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.
Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the subject and the song divine;
Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their shouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world should tremble at her awful name:
From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks awhile,
At once they murmur and enrich the isle;
A while distinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguished names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
When Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids,
Of old assembled in the Thespian shades;
What theme, they cried, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear?
Replied the god: "Your loftiest notes employ,
To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."
The wond'rous song with rapture they rehearse;
Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse?
He answered with a frown: "I now reveal
A truth, that envy bids me not conceal:
Retiring frequent to this laureat vale,
I warbled to the lyre that fav'rite tale,
Which, unobserved, a wand'ring Greek and blind,
Heard me repeat, and treasured in his mind;
And fired with thirst of more than mortal praise,
From me, the god of wit, usurped the bays.
But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame,
Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name;
Yet when my arts shall triumph in the west,
And the white isle with female pow'r is blest;
Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,
And the translator's palm to me transfer.
With less regret my claim I now decline,
The world will think his English Iliad mine."
To praise, and still with just respect to praise
A bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The learn'd to show, the sensible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the friend;
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What music tune them, what affection fire?
O might thy genius in my bosom shine,
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine:
The brightest ancients might at once agree
To sing within my lays, and sing of thee.
Horace himself would own thou dost excel
In candid arts to play the critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame
Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream;
On silver feet, with annual osier crowned,
She runs for ever through poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's hair,
Made by thy muse the envy of the fair!
Which sweet Callimachus so sung before.
Here courtly trifles set the world at odds;
Belles war with beaus, and whims descend for gods.
The new machines, in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave phrenzy of the chomic fool.
But know, ye fair, a point concealed with art,
The sylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart.
The graces stand in sight; a satire-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.
In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits
Inshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits,
And sits in measures such as Virgil's muse
To place thee near him might be fond to choose.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise,
Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!
Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,
Parent of flow'rets, old Arcadia, hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head:
Still slide thy waters soft among the trees,
Thy aspens quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,
Be hushed, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.
In English lays, and all sublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in council, thunders in the fight,
And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight.
Long has that poet reigned, and long unknown,
Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the majesty of Greek retired;
Himself unknown, his mighty name admired;
His language failing wrapt him round with night;
Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden ore,
When choked by sinking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only say, the "mines were here:"
Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand informed with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.
How vast, how copious, are thy new designs!
How ev'ry music varies in thy lines!
Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat,
And rise in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when summer dressed the days,
While Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease,
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,
And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:
The shades resound with song--O softly tread,
While a whole season warbles round my head.
This to my friend--and when a friend inspires,
My silent harp its master's hand requires;
Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound;
For fortune placed me in unfertile ground;
Far from the joys that with my soul agree,
From wit, from learning--very far from thee.
Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf;
Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,
Rocks at their sides, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood,
Whose dull, brown naiads ever sleep in mud.
Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease,
A friend delight me, and an author please;
Ev'n here I sing, when POPE supplies the theme,
Show my own love, though not increase his fame.
He comes, he comes! bid ev'ry bard prepare
The song of triumph, and attend his car.
Great Sheffield's muse the long procession heads,
And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads;
First gives the palm she fired him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and shows him how to reign.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was formed for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleased to behold the earnest of a god.
But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crowds rejoice!
Unstained their praise by any venal voice,
Such as th' ambitious vainly think their due,
When prostitutes, or needy flatt'rers sue.
And see the chief! before him laurels borne;
Trophies from undeserving temples torn;
Here Rage enchained reluctant raves, and there
Prone to the earth she bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.
But what are they that turn the sacred page?
Three lovely virgins, and of equal age;
Intent they read, and all enamoured seem,
As he that met his likeness in the stream:
The Graces these; and see how they contend,
Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend.
The chariot now the painful steep ascends,
The paeans cease; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fixed, the bright eternal temple stands,
Its prospect an unbounded view commands:
Say, wond'rous youth, what column wilt thou choose,
What laurelled arch for thy triumphant muse?
Though each great ancient court thee to his shrine,
Though ev'ry laurel through the dome be thine,
(From the proud epic, down to those that shade
The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid)
Go to the good and just, an awful train,
Thy soul's delight, and glory of the fane:
While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
"Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies."
Let vulgar souls triumphal arches raise,
Or speaking marbles, to record their praise,
And picture (to the voice of fame unknown)
The mimic feature on the breathing stone;
Mere mortals! subject to death's total sway,
Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day!
'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise,
A monument which worth alone can raise:
Sure to survive, when time shall whelm in dust
The arch, the marble, and the mimic bust:
Nor till the volumes of th' expanded sky
Blaze in one flame, shalt thou and Homer die:
Then sink together in the world's last fires,
What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires.
If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled,
With human transport touch the mighty dead,
Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines;
Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines;
Just to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought;
So Tully published what Lucretius wrote;
Pruned by his care, thy laurels loftier grow,
And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.
Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades,
And the bold figure from the canvas fades,
A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part
Some latent grace, and equals art with art;
Transported we survey the dubious strife,
While each fair image starts again to life.
How long, untuned, had Homer's sacred lyre
Jarred grating discord, all extinct his fire!
This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to sing,
Called the loud music from the sounding string.
Now waked from slumbers of three thousand years,
Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears,
Towers o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns,
Keen flash his arms, and all the hero burns;
With martial stalk, and more than mortal might,
He strides along, and meets the gods in fight:
Then the pale Titans, chained on burning floors,
Start at the din that rends th' infernal shores,
Tremble the tow'rs of heav'n, earth rocks her coasts,
And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts.
To ev'ry theme responds thy various lay;
Here rolls a torrent, there meanders play;
Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rise,
Toss the wild waves, and thunder in the skies;
Or softer than a yielding virgin's sigh,
The gentle breezes breathe away and die.
Thus, like the radiant god who sheds the day,
You paint the vale, or gild the azure way;
And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies,
Sink without grov'ling, without rashness rise.
Proceed, great bard! awake th' harmonious string,
Be ours all Homer; still Ulysses sing.
How long that hero, by unskilful hands,
Stripped of his robes, a beggar trod our lands!
Such as he wandered o'er his native coast,
Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior lost;
O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread;
Old age disgraced the honours of his head;
Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball shined
The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind.
But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold
With royal robes, and bid him shine in gold;
Touched by your hand his manly frame improves
With grace divine, and like a god he moves.
Ev'n I, the meanest of the muses' train,
Inflamed by thee, attempt a nobler strain;
Advent'rous waken the Maeonian lyre,
Tuned by your hand, and sing as you inspire:
So armed by great Achilles for the fight,
Patroclus conquered in Achilles' right:
Like theirs, our friendship! and I boast my name
To thine united--for thy friendship's fame.
This labour past, of heav'nly subjects sing,
While hov'ring angels listen on the wing,
To hear from earth such heart-felt raptures rise,
As, when they sing, suspended hold the skies:
Or nobly rising in fair virtue's cause,
From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws:
Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend:
To verse like thine fierce savages attend,
And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,
Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.
Immortal bard! for whom each muse has wove
The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preserved, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darkened age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspired by memory of ancient wit:
For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost:
From tyrants, and from priests, the muses fly,
Daughters of reason and of liberty.
Nor Baiae now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where cheered with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful silence saddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whose altered state
Has felt the worst severity of fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke
And bowed her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desert, and her fields unsown;
But that her ancient spirit is decayed,
That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the source of science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supplied the world before.
Illustrious names! that once in Latium shined,
Born to instruct, and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was raised,
And poets, who those chiefs sublimely praised!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;
Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those hallowed ruins better pleased to see
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.
As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strowed,
While with th' inspiring muse my bosom glowed,
Crowned with eternal bays my ravished eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise:
Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this message from his master bear:
"Great bard! whose numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit,
No more let meaner satire dim the rays,
That flow majestic from thy nobler bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,
But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine,
Address the least attractive of the nine.
"Of thee more worthy were the task to raise
A lasting column to thy country's praise,
To sing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Rome has lost,
Where science in the arms of peace is laid,
And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade.
Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung,
Such was the people whose exploits I sung;
Brave, yet refined, for arms and arts renowned,
With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phoebus crowned,
Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,
But pleased, a mild AUGUSTUS to obey.
"If these commands submissive thou receive,
Immortal and unblamed thy name shall live;
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,
And howl with furies in tormenting fire;
Approving time shall consecrate thy lays,
And join the patriot's to the poet's praise."
Miscellany.--CROKER.
questioned, notwithstanding the emphatic praise of Warton. The
translations from Chaucer. They were first separately printed in
It was in his childhood only that Pope could make choice of so
sublime.--WARTON.
consciousness that he had distanced so famous a name. His great
The "Episode of Sarpedon" is now incorporated in the complete
excellence.
Virgil." He soon began to turn the Thebais into English, and he
representation of the original. The harmony and phraseology of
incidents in the Thebais were too humble to be endured.
equivocal meaning of a word. There is no connection between the
greatness of a kingdom, and the greatness of a theme for poetic
purposes. The poverty of Scotland did not detract from the tragic
Fraternal rage, the guilty Thebes' alarms,
Th' alternate reign destroyed by impious arms,
Demand our song; a sacred fury fires
My ravished breast, and all the muse inspires.
O goddess, say, shall I deduce my rhymes
From the dire nation in its early times,
Europa's rape, Agenor's stern decree,
And Cadmus searching round the spacious sea?
How with the serpent's teeth he sowed the soil,
And reaped an iron harvest of his toil?
Or how from joining stones the city sprung,
While to his harp divine Amphion sung?
Or shall I Juno's hate to Thebes resound,
Whose fatal rage th' unhappy monarch found?
The sire against the son his arrows drew,
O'er the wide fields the furious mother flew,
And while her arms a second hope contain,
Sprung from the rocks and plunged into the main.
But waive whate'er to Cadmus may belong,
And fix, O muse! the barrier of thy song
At Oedipus: from his disasters trace
The long confusions of his guilty race:
Nor yet attempt to stretch thy bolder wing,
And mighty Caesar's conqu'ring eagles sing;
How twice he tamed proud Ister's rapid flood,
While Dacian mountains streamed with barb'rous blood;
Twice taught the Rhine beneath his laws to roll,
And stretched his empire to the frozen pole;
Or long before, with early valour, strove,
In youthful arms, t' assert the cause of Jove.
And thou, great heir of all thy father's fame,
Increase of glory to the Latian name,
Oh! bless thy Rome with an eternal reign,
Nor let desiring worlds entreat in vain.
What though the stars contract their heav'nly space,
And crowd their shining ranks to yield thee place;
Though all the skies, ambitious of thy sway,
Conspire to court thee from our world away;
Though Phoebus longs to mix his rays with thine,
And in thy glories more serenely shine;
Though Jove himself no less content would be
To part his throne and share his heaven with thee;
Yet stay, great Caesar! and vouchsafe to reign
O'er the wide earth, and o'er the wat'ry main;
Resign to Jove his empire of the skies,
And people heav'n with Roman deities.
The time will come, when a diviner flame
Shall warm my breast to sing of Caesar's fame:
Meanwhile permit, that my preluding muse
In Theban wars an humbler theme may chuse:
Of furious hate surviving death, she sings,
A fatal throne to two contending kings,
And fun'ral flames that, parting wide in air,
Express the discord of the souls they bear:
Of towns dispeopled, and the wand'ring ghosts
Of kings unburied in the wasted coasts;
When Dirce's fountain blushed with Grecian blood,
And Thetis, near Ismenos' swelling flood,
With dread beheld the rolling surges sweep,
In heaps, his slaughtered sons into the deep.
What hero, Clio! wilt thou first relate?
The rage of Tydeus, or the prophet's fate?
Or how, with hills of slain on ev'ry side,
Hippomedon repelled the hostile tide?
Or how the youth with ev'ry grace adorned
Untimely fell, to be for ever mourned?
Then to fierce Capaneus thy verse extend,
And sing with horror his prodigious end.
Now wretched Oedipus, deprived of sight,
Led a long death in everlasting night;
But while he dwells where not a cheerful ray
Can pierce the darkness, and abhors the day,
The clear reflecting mind presents his sin
In frightful views, and makes it day within;
Returning thoughts in endless circles roll,
And thousand furies haunt his guilty soul:
The wretch then lifted to th' unpitying skies
Those empty orbs from whence he tore his eyes,
Whose wounds, yet fresh, with bloody hands he strook,
While from his breast these dreadful accents broke.
"Ye gods! that o'er the gloomy regions reign,
Where guilty spirits feel eternal pain;
Thou, sable Styx! whose livid streams are rolled
Through dreary coasts, which I though blind behold:
Tisiphone, that oft hast heard my pray'r,
Assist, if Oedipus deserve thy care!
If you received me from Jocasta's womb,
And nursed the hope of mischiefs yet to come:
If leaving Polybus, I took my way,
To Cirrha's temple on that fatal day,
When by the son the trembling father died,
Where the three roads the Phocian fields divide:
If I the Sphinx's riddles durst explain,
Taught by thyself to win the promised reign:
If wretched I, by baleful furies led,
With monstrous mixture stained my mother's bed,
For hell and thee begot an impious brood,
And with full lust those horrid joys renewed;
Then self-condemned to shades of endless night,
Forced from these orbs the bleeding balls of sight:
Oh hear! and aid the vengeance I require,
If worthy thee, and what thou mightst inspire.
My sons their old, unhappy sire despise,
Spoiled of his kingdom, and deprived of eyes;
Guideless I wander, unregarded mourn,
Whilst these exalt their sceptres o'er my urn;
These sons, ye gods! who with flagitious pride
Insult my darkness, and my groans deride.
Art thou a father, unregarding Jove!
And sleeps thy thunder in the realms above?
Thou fury, then some lasting curse entail,
Which o'er their children's children shall prevail:
Place on their heads that crown distained with gore,
Which these dire hands from my slain father tore;
Go! and a parent's heavy curses bear;          }
Break all the bonds of nature, and prepare }
Their kindred souls to mutual hate and war.    }
Give them to dare, what I might wish to see
Blind as I am, some glorious villainy!
Soon shalt thou find, if thou but arm their hands,
Their ready guilt preventing thy commands:
Couldst thou some great, proportioned mischief frame,
They'd prove the father from whose loins they came."
The fury heard, while on Cocytus' brink
Her snakes untied, sulphureous waters drink;
But at the summons rolled her eyes around,
And snatched the starting serpents from the ground.
Not half so swiftly shoots along in air
The gliding lightning, or descending star.
Through crowds of airy shades she winged her flight,
And dark dominions of the silent night;
Swift as she passed the flitting ghosts withdrew,
And the pale spectres trembled at her view:
To th' iron gates of Taenarus she flies,
There spreads her dusky pinions to the skies.
The day beheld, and sick'ning at the sight,
Veiled her fair glories in the shades of night.
Affrighted Atlas, on the distant shore,
Trembled, and shook the heav'ns and gods he bore.
Now from beneath Malea's airy height
Aloft she sprung, and steered to Thebes her flight;
With eager speed the well-known journey took,
Nor here regrets the hell she late forsook.
A hundred snakes her gloomy visage shade,
A hundred serpents guard her horrid head,
In her sunk eye-balls dreadful meteors glow:
Such rays from Phoebe's bloody circle flow,
When lab'ring with strong charms, she shoots from high
A fiery gleam, and reddens all the sky.
Blood stained her cheeks, and from her mouth there came
Blue steaming poisons, and a length of flame:
From ev'ry blast of her contagious breath
Famine and drought proceed, and plagues, and death.
A robe obscene was o'er her shoulders thrown,
A dress by fates and furies worn alone.
She tossed her meagre arms; her better hand
In waving circles whirled a fun'ral brand:
A serpent from her left was seen to rear
His flaming crest, and lash the yielding air.
But when the fury took her stand on high,
Where vast Cithaeron's top salutes the sky,
A hiss from all the snaky tire went round:     }
The dreadful signal all the rocks rebound,     }
And through th' Achaian cities send the sound. }
Oete, with high Parnassus, heard the voice;
Eurotas' banks remurmured to the noise;
Again Leucothea shook at these alarms,
And pressed Palaemon closer in her arms.
Headlong from thence the glowing fury springs,
And o'er the Theban palace spreads her wings,
Once more invades the guilty dome, and shrouds
Its bright pavilions in a veil of clouds.
Straight with the rage of all their race possessed,  }
Stung to the soul, the brothers start from rest,     }
And all their furies wake within their breast.       }
Their tortured minds repining envy tears,
And hate, engendered by suspicious fears;
And sacred thirst of sway; and all the ties
Of nature broke; and royal perjuries;
And impotent desire to reign alone,
That scorns the dull reversion of a throne;
Each would the sweets of sov'reign rule devour,
While discord waits upon divided power.
As stubborn steers by brawny plowmen broke,
And joined reluctant to the galling yoke,
Alike disdain with servile necks to bear
Th' unwonted weight, or drag the crooked share,
But rend the reins, and bound a diff'rent way,
And all the furrows in confusion lay:
Such was the discord of the royal pair,
Whom fury drove precipitate to war.
In vain the chiefs contrived a specious way,
To govern Thebes by their alternate sway:
Unjust decree! while this enjoys the state,
That mourns in exile his unequal fate,
And the short monarch of a hasty year
Foresees with anguish his returning heir.
Thus did the league their impious arms restrain,
But scarce subsisted to the second reign.
Yet then, no proud aspiring piles were raised,
No fretted roofs with polished metals blazed;
No laboured columns in long order placed,
No Grecian stone the pompous arches graced;
No nightly bands in glitt'ring armour wait
Before the sleepless tyrant's guarded gate;
No chargers then were wrought in burnished gold,
Nor silver vases took the forming mold;
Nor gems on bowls embossed were seen to shine,
Blaze on the brims, and sparkle in the wine.
Say, wretched rivals! what provokes your rage?
Say, to what end your impious arms engage?
Not all bright Phoebus views in early morn,
Or when his ev'ning beams the west adorn,
When the south glows with his meridian ray,
And the cold north receives a fainter day;
For crimes like these, not all those realms suffice,
Were all those realms the guilty victor's prize!
But fortune now (the lots of empire thrown)
Decrees to proud Eteocles the crown:
What joys, oh tyrant! swelled thy soul that day,
When all were slaves thou couldst around survey,
Pleased to behold unbounded power thy own,
And singly fill a feared and envied throne!
But the vile vulgar, ever discontent,
Their growing fears in secret murmurs vent;
Still prone to change, though still the slaves of state,
And sure the monarch whom they have, to hate;
New lords they madly make, then tamely bear,
And softly curse the tyrants whom they fear.
And one of those who groan beneath the sway
Of kings imposed, and grudgingly obey,
(Whom envy to the great, and vulgar spite
With scandal armed, th' ignoble mind's delight,)
Exclaimed--"O Thebes! for thee what fates remain,
What woes attend this inauspicious reign?
Must we, alas! our doubtful necks prepare,           }
Each haughty master's yoke by turns to bear,         }
And still to change whom changed we still must fear? }
These now control a wretched people's fate,
These can divide, and these reverse the state:
Ev'n fortune rules no more!--O servile land,
Where exiled tyrants still by turns command.
Thou sire of gods and men, imperial Jove!
Is this th' eternal doom decreed above?
On thy own offspring hast thou fixed this fate,
From the first birth of our unhappy state;
When banished Cadmus, wand'ring o'er the main,
For lost Europa searched the world in vain,
And fated in Boeotian fields to found
A rising empire on a foreign ground,
First raised our walls on that ill-omened plain,
Where earth-born brothers were by brothers slain?
What lofty looks th' unrivalled monarch bears!
How all the tyrant in his face appears!
What sullen fury clouds his scornful brow!
Gods! how his eyes with threat'ning ardour glow!
Can this imperious lord forget to reign,
Quit all his state, descend, and serve again?
Yet, who, before, more popularly bowed?
Who more propitious to the suppliant crowd?
Patient of right, familiar in the throne?
What wonder then? he was not then alone.
O wretched we, a vile, submissive train,
Fortune's tame fools, and slaves in ev'ry reign!
As when two winds with rival force contend,
This way and that, the wav'ring sails they bend,
While freezing Boreas, and black Euros blow,
Now here, now there, the reeling vessel throw:
Thus on each side, alas! our tott'ring state
Feels all the fury of resistless fate,
And doubtful still, and still distracted stands,
While that prince threatens, and while this commands."
And now th' almighty father of the gods
Convenes a council in the blest abodes:
Far in the bright recesses of the skies,
High o'er the rolling heav'ns, a mansion lies,
Whence, far below, the gods at once survey             }
The realms of rising and declining day,                }
And all th' extended space of earth, and air, and sea. }
Full in the midst, and on a starry throne,
The majesty of heav'n superior shone;
Serene he looked, and gave an awful nod,
And all the trembling spheres confessed the god.
At Jove's assent the deities around
In solemn state the consistory crowned.
Next a long order of inferior pow'rs
Ascend from hills, and plains, and shady bow'rs;
Those from whose urns the rolling rivers flow;
And those that give the wand'ring winds to blow:
Here all their rage, and ev'n their murmurs cease,
And sacred silence reigns, and universal peace.
A shining synod of majestic gods
Gilds with new lustre the divine abodes;
Heav'n seems improved with a superior ray,
And the bright arch reflects a double day.
The monarch then his solemn silence broke,
The still creation listened while he spoke,
Each sacred accent bears eternal weight,
And each irrevocable word is fate.
"How long shall man the wrath of heav'n defy,
And force unwilling vengeance from the sky!
Oh race confed'rate into crimes, that prove
Triumphant o'er th' eluded rage of Jove!
This wearied arm can scarce the bolt sustain,
And unregarded thunder rolls in vain:
Th' o'erlaboured Cyclops from his task retires,
Th' AEolian forge exhausted of its fires.
For this, I suffered Phoebus' steeds to stray,
And the mad ruler to misguide the day;
When the wide earth to heaps of ashes turned,
And heaven itself the wand'ring chariot burned.
For this, my brother of the wat'ry reign        }
Released th' impetuous sluices of the main:     }
But flames consumed, and billows raged in vain. }
Two races now, allied to Jove, offend;
To punish these, see Jove himself descend.
The Theban kings their line from Cadmus trace,
From godlike Perseus those of Argive race.
Unhappy Cadmus' fate who does not know,
And the long series of succeeding woe?
How oft the furies, from the deeps of night,
Arose, and mixed with men in mortal fight:
Th' exulting mother, stained with filial blood;
The savage hunter and the haunted wood;
The direful banquet why should I proclaim,
And crimes that grieve the trembling gods to name?
Ere I recount the sins of these profane,  }
The sun would sink into the western main, }
And rising, gild the radiant east again.  }
Have we not seen (the blood of Laius shed)
The murd'ring son ascend his parent's bed,
Through violated nature force his way,
And stain the sacred womb where once he lay?
Yet now in darkness and despair he groans,
And for the crimes of guilty fate atones.
His sons with scorn their eyeless father view,
Insult his wounds, and make them bleed anew.
Thy curse, oh Oedipus, just heav'n alarms,
And sets th' avenging thunderer in arms.
I from the root thy guilty race will tear,
And give the nations to the waste of war.
Adrastus soon, with gods averse, shall join
In dire alliance with the Theban line;
Hence strife shall rise, and mortal war succeed;
The guilty realms of Tantalus shall bleed;
Fixed is their doom; this all-rememb'ring breast
Yet harbours vengeance for the tyrant's feast."
He said; and thus the queen of heav'n returned;
(With sudden grief her lab'ring bosom burned)
"Must I, whose cares Phoroneus' tow'rs defend,
Must I, oh Jove, in bloody wars contend?
Thou know'st those regions my protection claim,
Glorious in arms, in riches, and in fame:
And there deluded Argus slept, and bled;
Though there the brazen tower was stormed of old,
When Jove descended in almighty gold:
Yet I can pardon those obscurer rapes,
Those bashful crimes disguised in borrowed shapes;
But Thebes, where shining in celestial charms
Thou cam'st triumphant to a mortal's arms,
When all my glories o'er her limbs were spread,
And blazing light'nings danced around her bed;
Cursed Thebes the vengeance it deserves, may prove:
Ah why should Argos feel the rage of Jove?
Yet since thou wilt thy sister-queen control,
Since still the lust of discord fires thy soul,
Go, raze my Samos, let Mycene fall,
And level with the dust the Spartan wall;
No more let mortals Juno's pow'r invoke,      }
Her fanes no more with eastern incense smoke, }
Nor victims sink beneath the sacred stroke;   }
But to your Isis all my rites transfer,
Let altars blaze and temples smoke for her;
Let weeping Nilus hear the timbrel sound.
But if thou must reform the stubborn times,
Avenging on the sons the father's crimes,
And from the long records of distant age
Derive incitements to renew thy rage;
Say, from what period then has Jove designed
To date his vengeance; to what bounds confined?
Begin from thence, where first Alpheus hides       }
His wand'ring stream, and through the briny tides  }
Unmixed to his Sicilian river glides.          }
Thy own Arcadians there the thunder claim,
Whose impious rites disgrace thy mighty name;
Who raise thy temples where the chariot stood
Of fierce Oenomaus, defiled with blood:
Where once his steeds their savage banquet found,
And human bones yet whiten all the ground.
Say, can those honours please; and canst thou love
Presumptuous Crete that boasts the tomb of Jove?
And shall not Tantalus's kingdoms share
Thy wife and sister's tutelary care?
Reverse, O Jove, thy too severe decree,
Nor doom to war a race derived from, thee;
On impious realms and barb'rous kings impose
Thy plagues, and curse 'em with such sons as those."
Thus, in reproach and pray'r, the queen expressed
The rage and grief contending in her breast;
Unmoved remained the ruler of the sky,
And from his throne returned this stern reply:
"'Twas thus I deemed thy haughty soul would bear }
The dire, though just, revenge which I prepare   }
Against a nation thy peculiar care:              }
No less Dione might for Thebes contend,
Nor Bacchus less his native town defend;
Yet these in silence see the fates fulfil
Their work, and rev'rence our superior will.
For by the black infernal Styx I swear,
(That dreadful oath which binds the thunderer)
'Tis fixed; th' irrevocable doom of Jove;
No force can bend me, no persuasion move.
Haste then, Cyllenius, through the liquid air;
Go, mount the winds, and to the shades repair;
Bid hell's black monarch my commands obey,
And give up Laius to the realms of day,
Whose ghost yet shiv'ring on Cocytus' sand,
Expects its passage to the further strand:
Let the pale sire revisit Thebes, and bear
These pleasing orders to the tyrant's ear;
That from his exiled brother, swelled with pride
Of foreign forces, and his Argive bride,
Almighty Jove commands him to detain
The promised empire, and alternate reign:
Be this the cause of more than mortal hate:
The rest, succeeding times shall ripen into fate."
The god obeys, and to his feet applies
Those golden wings that cut the yielding skies.
His ample hat his beamy locks o'erspread,
And veiled the starry glories of his head.
He seized the wand that causes sleep to fly,
Or in soft slumbers seals the wakeful eye;
That drives the dead to dark Tartarean coasts,
Or back to life compels the wand'ring ghosts.
Thus, through the parting clouds, the son of May
Wings on the whistling winds his rapid way;
Now smoothly steers through air his equal flight,
Now springs aloft, and tow'rs th' ethereal height;
Then wheeling down the steep of heav'n he flies,
And draws a radiant circle o'er the skies.
Meantime the banished Polynices roves
(His Thebes abandoned) through th' Aonian groves,
While future realms his wand'ring thoughts delight,
His daily vision and his dream by night;
Forbidden Thebes appears before his eye,
From whence he sees his absent brother fly,
With transport views the airy rule his own,
And swells on an imaginary throne.
Fain would he cast a tedious age away,
And live out all in one triumphant day.
He chides the lazy progress of the sun,
And bids the year with swifter motion run.
With anxious hopes his craving mind is tost,
And all his joys in length of wishes lost.
The hero then resolves his course to bend       }
Where ancient Danaus' fruitful fields extend, }
And famed Mycene's lofty towers ascend,           }
(Where late the sun did Atreus' crimes detest,
And disappeared in horror of the feast.)
And now by chance, by fate, or furies led,
From Bacchus' consecrated caves he fled,
Where the shrill cries of frantic matrons sound,
And Pentheus' blood enriched the rising ground.
Then sees Cithaeron tow'ring o'er the plain,
And thence declining gently to the main.
Next to the bounds of Nisus' realm repairs,
Where treach'rous Scylla cut the purple hairs:
The hanging cliffs of Sciron's rock explores,
And hears the murmurs of the diff'rent shores:
Passes the strait that parts the foaming seas,
And stately Corinth's pleasing site surveys.
'Twas now the time when Phoebus yields to night,
And rising Cynthia sheds her silver light,
Wide o'er the world in solemn pomp she drew
Her airy chariot hung with pearly dew;
All birds and beasts lie hushed; sleep steals away
The wild desires of men, and toils of day,
And brings, descending through the silent air,
A sweet forgetfulness of human care.
Yet no red clouds, with golden borders gay,
Promise the skies the bright return of day;
No faint reflections of the distant light
Streak with long gleams the scatt'ring shades of night:
From the damp earth impervious vapours rise,
Encrease the darkness, and involve the skies.
At once the rushing winds with roaring sound
Burst from th' AEolian caves, and rend the ground,
With equal rage their airy quarrel try,
And win by turns the kingdom of the sky:
But with a thicker night black Auster shrouds
The heav'ns, and drives on heaps the rolling clouds,
From whose dark womb a rattling tempest pours,
Which the cold north congeals to haily show'rs.
From pole to pole the thunder roars aloud,
And broken lightnings flash from ev'ry cloud.
Now smoaks with show'rs the misty mountain-ground,
And floated fields lie undistinguished round.
Th' Inachian streams with headlong fury run,
And Erasinus rolls a deluge on:
The foaming Lerna swells above its bounds,
And spreads its ancient poisons o'er the grounds:
Where late was dust, now rapid torrents play,
Rush through the mounds, and bear the dams away:
Old limbs of trees from crackling forests torn,
Are whirled in air, and on the winds are borne:
The storm the dark Lycaean groves displayed,
And first to light exposed the sacred shade.
Th' intrepid Theban hears the bursting sky,
Sees yawning rocks in massy fragments fly,
And views astonished, from the hills afar,
The floods descending, and the wat'ry war,
That, driv'n by storms, and pouring o'er the plain,
Swept herds, and hinds, and houses to the main.
Through the brown horrors of the night he fled,
Nor knows, amazed, what doubtful path to tread;
His brother's image to his mind appears,
Inflames his heart with rage, and wings his feet with fears.
So fares a sailor on the stormy main,
When clouds conceal Booetes' golden wain,
When not a star its friendly lustre keeps,
Nor trembling Cynthia glimmers on the deeps;
He dreads the rocks, and shoals, and seas, and skies,
While thunder roars, and lightning round him flies.
Thus strove the chief, on every side distressed,
Thus still his courage, with his toils increased;
With his broad shield opposed, he forced his way
Through thickest woods, and roused the beasts of prey,
Till he beheld, where from Larissa's height
The shelving walls reflect a glancing light:
Thither with haste the Theban hero flies;     }
On this side Lerna's pois'nous water lies,    }
On that Prosymna's grove and temple rise: }
He passed the gates, which then unguarded lay,
And to the regal palace bent his way;
On the cold marble, spent with toil, he lies,
And waits till pleasing slumbers seal his eyes.
Adrastus here his happy people sways,
Blest with calm peace in his declining days;
By both his parents of descent divine,
Great Jove and Phoebus graced his noble line:
Heaven had not crowned his wishes with a son,
But two fair daughters heired his state and throne.
To him Apollo (wondrous to relate!
But who can pierce into the depths of fate?)
Had sung--"Expect thy sons on Argos' shore,
A yellow lion and a bristly boar."
This long revolved in his paternal breast,
Sate heavy on his heart, and broke his rest;
This, great Amphiaraus, lay hid from thee,
Though skilled in fate, and dark futurity.
The father's care and prophet's art were vain,
For thus did the predicting god ordain.
Lo hapless Tydeus, whose ill-fated hand
Had slain his brother, leaves his native land,
And seized with horror in the shades of night,
Through the thick deserts headlong urged his flight:
Now by the fury of the tempest driv'n,
He seeks a shelter from th' inclement heav'n,
Till, led by fate, the Theban's steps he treads,
And to fair Argos' open court succeeds.
When thus the chiefs from diff'rent lands resort
T' Adrastus' realms, and hospitable court;
The king surveys his guests with curious eyes,
And views their arms and habit with surprise.
A lion's yellow skin the Theban wears,
Horrid his mane, and rough with curling hairs;
Such once employed Alcides' youthful toils,
Ere yet adorned with Nemea's dreadful spoils.
A boar's stiff hide, of Calydonian breed,
Oenides' manly shoulders overspread.
Oblique his tusks, erect his bristles stood,
Alive, the pride and terror of the wood.
Struck with the sight, and fixed in deep amaze,
The King th' accomplished oracle surveys,
Reveres Apollo's vocal caves, and owns
The guiding godhead, and his future sons
O'er all his bosom secret transports reign,
And a glad horror shoots through ev'ry vein.
To heav'n he lifts his hands, erects his sight,
And thus invokes the silent queen of night.
"Goddess of shades, beneath whose gloomy reign
Yon spangled arch glows with the starry train:
You who the cares of heav'n and earth allay, }
Till nature quickened by th' inspiring ray   }
Wakes to new vigour with the rising day:     }
Oh thou who freest me from my doubtful state,
Long lost and wildered in the maze of fate!
Be present still, oh goddess! in our aid;
Proceed, and firm those omens thou hast made.
We to thy name our annual rites will pay,
And on thy altars sacrifices lay;
The sable flock shall fall beneath the stroke,
And fill thy temples with a grateful smoke.
Hail, faithful Tripos! hail, ye dark abodes
Of awful Phoebus: I confess the gods!"
Thus, seized with sacred fear, the monarch prayed;
Then to his inner court the guests conveyed;
Where yet thin fumes from dying sparks arise, }
And dust yet white upon each altar lies,      }
The relics of a former sacrifice.             }
The king once more the solemn rites requires,
And bids renew the feasts, and wake the fires.
His train obey, while all the courts around
With noisy care and various tumult sound.
Embroidered purple clothes the golden beds;
This slave the floor, and that the table spreads;
A third dispels the darkness of the night,
And fills depending lamps with beams of light.
Here loaves in canisters are piled on high,
And there in flames the slaughtered victims fry.
Sublime in regal state Adrastus shone,
Stretched on rich carpets on his iv'ry throne;
A lofty couch receives each princely guest;
Around, at awful distance, wait the rest.
And now the king, his royal feast to grace,
Acestis calls, the guardian of his race,
Who first their youth in arts of virtue trained,
And their ripe years in modest grace maintained;
Then softly whispered in her faithful ear,
And bade his daughters at the rites appear.
When from the close apartments of the night,
The royal nymphs approach divinely bright;
Such was Diana's, such Minerva's face;
Nor shine their beauties with superior grace,
But that in these a milder charm endears,
And less of terror in their looks appears.
As on the heroes first they cast their eyes,
O'er their fair cheeks the glowing blushes rise,
Their downcast looks a decent shame confessed,
Then on their father's rev'rend features rest.
The banquet done, the monarch gives the sign
To fill the goblet high with sparkling wine,
Which Danaus used in sacred rites of old,
With sculpture graced, and rough with rising gold.
Here to the clouds victorious Perseus flies,     }
Medusa seems to move her languid eyes,           }
And, ev'n in gold, turns paler as she dies. }
There from the chace Jove's tow'ring eagle bears,
On golden wings, the Phrygian to the stars:
Still as he rises in th' ethereal height,
His native mountains lessen to his sight;
While all his sad companions upward gaze,
Fixed on the glorious scene in wild amaze;
And the swift hounds, affrighted as he flies,
Run to the shade, and bark against the skies.
This golden bowl with gen'rous juice was crowned,
The first libations sprinkled on the ground,
By turns on each celestial pow'r they call;
With Phoebus' name resounds the vaulted hall.
The courtly train, the strangers, and the rest,
Crowned with chaste laurel, and with garlands dressed,
While with rich gums the fuming altars blaze,
Salute the god in num'rous hymns of praise.
Then thus the king: "Perhaps, my noble guests,
These honoured altars, and these annual feasts
To bright Apollo's awful name designed,
Unknown, with wonder may perplex your mind.
Great was the cause; our old solemnities
From no blind zeal, or fond tradition rise;
But saved from death, our Argives yearly pay
These grateful honours to the god of day.
"When by a thousand darts the Python slain
With orbs unrolled lay cov'ring all the plain,
(Transfixed as o'er Castalia's streams he hung,
And sucked new poisons with his triple tongue)
To Argos' realms the victor god resorts,
And enters old Crotopus' humble courts.
This rural prince one only daughter blest,
That all the charms of blooming youth possessed;
Fair was her face, and spotless was her mind,
Where filial love with virgin sweetness joined.
Happy! and happy still she might have proved,
Were she less beautiful, or less beloved!
But Phoebus loved, and on the flow'ry side
Of Nemea's stream, the yielding fair enjoyed:
Now, ere ten moons their orb with light adorn,
Th' illustrious offspring of the god was born;
The nymph, her father's anger to evade,
Retires from Argos to the sylvan shade;
To woods and wilds the pleasing burden bears,
And trusts her infant to a shepherd's cares.
"How mean a fate, unhappy child! is thine?
Ah how unworthy those of race divine?
On flow'ry herbs in some green covert laid,
His bed the ground, his canopy the shade,
He mixes with the bleating lambs his cries, }
While the rude swain his rural music tries  }
To call soft slumbers on his infant eyes.   }
Yet ev'n in those obscure abodes to live,
Was more, alas! than cruel fate would give,
For on the grassy verdure as he lay,
And breathed the freshness of the early day,
Devouring dogs the helpless infant tore,
Fed on his trembling limbs, and lapped the gore.
Th' astonished mother, when the rumour came,
Forgets her father, and neglects her fame;
With loud complaints she fills the yielding air,
And beats her breast, and rends her flowing hair;
Then wild with anguish to her sire she flies:
Demands the sentence, and contented dies.
"But touched with sorrow for the dead too late,
The raging god prepares t' avenge her fate.
He sends a monster, horrible and fell,
Begot by furies in the depths of hell.
The pest a virgin's face and bosom bears;        }
High on a crown a rising snake appears,          }
Guards her black front, and hisses in her hairs: }
About the realm she walks her dreadful round,
When night with sable wings o'erspreads the ground,
Devours young babes before their parents' eyes,
And feeds and thrives on public miseries.
"But gen'rous rage the bold Choroebus warms,
Choroebus, famed for virtue, as for arms;
Some few like him, inspired with martial flame,
Thought a short life well lost for endless fame.
These, where two ways in equal parts divide,     }
The direful monster from afar descried;          }
Two bleeding babes depending at her side;        }
Whose panting vitals, warm with life, she draws,
And in their hearts embrues her cruel claws.
The youths surround her with extended spears;
But brave Choroebus in the front appears,
Deep in her breast he plunged his shining sword,
And hell's dire monster back to hell restored.
Th' Inachians view the slain with vast surprize,
Her twisting volumes and her rolling eyes,
Her spotted breast, and gaping womb embrued
With livid poison, and our children's blood.
The crowd in stupid wonder fixed appear,
Pale ev'n in joy, nor yet forget to fear.
Some with vast beams the squalid corpse engage,
And weary all the wild efforts of rage.
The birds obscene, that nightly flocked to taste,
With hollow screeches fled the dire repast;
And rav'nous dogs, allured by scented blood,
And starving wolves ran howling to the wood.
"But fired with rage, from cleft Parnassus' brow }
Avenging Phoebus bent his deadly bow,              }
And hissing flew the feathered fates below:        }
A night of sultry clouds involved around
The tow'rs, the fields, and the devoted ground:
And now a thousand lives together fled,              }
Death with his scythe cut off the fatal thread, }
And a whole province in his triumph led.             }
"But Phoebus, asked why noxious fires appear,
And raging Sirius blasts the sickly year,
Demands their lives by whom his monster fell,
And dooms a dreadful sacrifice to hell.
"Blest be thy dust, and let eternal fame
Attend thy manes, and preserve thy name,
Undaunted hero! who divinely brave,
In such a cause disdained thy life to save;
But viewed the shrine with a superior look,
And its upbraided godhead thus bespoke:
"With piety, the soul's securest guard,
And conscious virtue, still its own reward,
Willing I come, unknowing how to fear;
Nor shalt thou, Phoebus, find a suppliant here.
Thy monster's death to me was owed alone,
And 'tis a deed too glorious to disown.
Behold him here, for whom, so many days,
Impervious clouds concealed thy sullen rays;
For whom, as man no longer claimed thy care,
Such numbers fell by pestilential air!
But if th' abandoned race of human kind
From gods above no more compassion find;
If such inclemency in heav'n can dwell,  }
Yet why must unoffending Argos feel      }
The vengeance due to this unlucky steel? }
On me, on me, let all thy fury fall,
Nor err from me, since I deserve it all:
Unless our desert cities please thy sight,
Or fun'ral flames reflect a grateful light.
Discharge thy shafts, this ready bosom rend,
And to the shades a ghost triumphant send;
But for my country let my fate atone,
Be mine the vengeance, as the crime my own.
"Merit distressed, impartial heav'n relieves:
Unwelcome life relenting Phoebus gives;
For not the vengeful pow'r, that glowed with rage,
With such amazing virtue durst engage.
The clouds dispersed, Apollo's wrath expired,
And from the wond'ring god th' unwilling youth retired.
Thence we these altars in his temple raise,
And offer annual honours, feasts, and praise;
These solemn feasts propitious Phoebus please;
These honours, still renewed, his ancient wrath appease."
"But say, illustrious guest," adjoined the king,
"What name you bear, from what high race you spring?
The noble Tydeus stands confessed, and known
Our neighbour prince, and heir of Calydon.
Relate your fortunes, while the friendly night
And silent hours to various talk invite."
The Theban bends on earth his gloomy eyes,
Confused, and sadly thus at length replies:
"Before these altars how shall I proclaim,
O gen'rous prince! my nation, or my name,
Or through what ancient veins our blood has rolled?
Let the sad tale for ever rest untold!
Yet if propitious to a wretch unknown,
You seek to share in sorrows not your own;
Know, then, from Cadmus I derive my race,
Jocasta's son, and Thebes my native place."
To whom the king (who felt his gen'rous breast
Touched with concern for his unhappy guest)
Replies: "Ah! why forbears the son to name
His wretched father, known too well by fame?
Fame, that delights around the world to stray,
Scorns not to take our Argos in her way.
Ev'n those who dwell where suns at distance roll,
In northern wilds, and freeze beneath the pole;
And those who tread the burning Lybian lands,
The faithless Syrtes and the moving sands;
Who view the western sea's extremest bounds,
Or drink of Ganges in their eastern grounds;
All these the woes of Oedipus have known,
Your fates, your furies, and your haunted town.
If on the sons the parents' crimes descend,
What prince from those his lineage can defend?
Be this thy comfort, that 'tis thine t' efface, }
With virtuous acts, thy ancestor's disgrace,    }
And be thyself the honour of thy race.          }
But see! the stars begin to steal away,
And shine more faintly at approaching day;
Now pour the wine; and in your tuneful lays
Once more resound the great Apollo's praise."
"O father Phoebus! whether Lycia's coast
And snowy mountain, thy bright presence boast;
Whether to sweet Castalia thou repair,
And bathe in silver dews thy yellow hair;
Or pleased to find fair Delos float no more,
Delight in Cynthus, and the shady shore;
Or choose thy seat in Ilion's proud abodes,
The shining structures raised by lab'ring gods;
By thee the bow and mortal shafts are borne;
Eternal charms thy blooming youth adorn:
Skilled in the laws of secret fate above,
And the dark counsels of almighty Jove,
'Tis thine the seeds of future war to know,
The change of sceptres, and impending woe,
When direful meteors spread, through glowing air,
Long trails of light, and shake their blazing hair.
Thy rage the Phrygian felt, who durst aspire
T' excel the music of thy heav'nly lyre;
Thy shafts avenged lewd Tityus' guilty flame,
Th' immortal victim of thy mother's fame;
Thy hand slew Python, and the dame who lost
Her num'rous offspring for a fatal boast.
In Phlegyas' doom thy just revenge appears,
Condemned to furies and eternal fears;
He views his food, but dreads, with lifted eye,
The mould'ring rock that trembles from on high.
"Propitious hear our prayer, O pow'r divine!
And on thy hospitable Argos shine;
Whether the style of Titan please thee more,
Whose purple rays th' Achaemenes adore;
Or great Osiris, who first taught the swain
In Pharian fields to sow the golden grain;
Or Mitra, to whose beams the Persian bows,
And pays, in hollow rocks, his awful vows;
Mitra, whose head the blaze of light adorns,
Who grasps the struggling heifer's lunar horns."
The time may come when a divinor rage.]
funeral flames
Divided, like the souls they carry.
When Dirce blushed, being stained with Grecian blood.]
Which shall o'er long posterity prevail.
And children's children shall the crown sustain.]
Put on that diadem besmeared with gore
Which from my father's head these fingers tore.]
Broke ev'ry bond of nature and of truth]
And from Strymonius hewed his better hand.]
Headlong from thence the fury urged her flight,
And at the Theban palace did alight.]
jurisque secundi
Ambitus impatiens, et summo dulcius unum
Stare loco,--
Not all those realms could for such crimes suffice.
Pope might have done more to improve this prosaic couplet.]
How wast thou lost
In thine own joys, proud tyrant then, when all
About thee were thy slaves.]
De Quincey was mistaken in his inference that Pope was unable to
He sets him down on his bespangled throne.
The rest stand and expect: not one presumed
To sit till leave was beckoned.]
invectives of Juno had not been addressed to Jupiter himself.]
So may thy silver streams beneath the tide,
Unmixed with briny seas, securely glide.]
This were such a day
He'd spend an age to see 't.]
The silent world does view
Her airy chariot pearled with drops of dew.]
And nodding through the air brings down in haste
A sweet forgetfulness of labour passed.]
He copied Dryden's Virg. AEn. iv. 638:
As when the winds their airy quarrel try.
Thus, when the rival winds their quarrel try,
Contending for the kingdom of the sky.]
penetrated.]
The prince with wonder did the waste behold,
While from torn rocks the massy fragments rolled.]
The shepherd climbs the cliff, and sees from far
The wasteful ravage of the wat'ry war.]
Bore houses, herds, and lab'ring hinds away.]
One only daughter heired the royal state.
Only one daughter heirs my crown and state.]
But oh! be present to thy people's aid,
And firm the gracious promise thou hast made.]
And on his altars waked the sleeping fires.]
picturesque epithets.--WARTON.
earth prepares thy room
Garnished with flow'ry beds, and thatched above
With oaken leaves close woven; whilst the grove
Lends bark to make thy garments.]
And calls the furies from the depth of hell.]
devouring some
With rav'nous jaws before their parents' eyes,
And fats herself with public miseries.]
Thou dost the seeds of future wars foreknow.]
He views his food, would taste, yet dares not try,
But dreads the mould'ring rock that trembles from on high.
High o'er their heads a mould'ring rock is placed
That promises a fall, and shakes at ev'ry blast.
The revolting nature of the food itself is the reason assigned by
Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sail;
Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command,
Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
Must then her name the wretched writer prove,
To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love?
Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose,
The lute neglected, and the lyric muse;
Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow.
And tuned my heart to elegies of woe.
I burn, I burn, as when through ripened corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne!
Phaon to AEtna's scorching fields retires,
While I consume with more than AEtna's fires!
No more my soul a charm in music finds;
Music has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft scenes of solitude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own disease.
No more the Lesbian dames my passion move,
Once the dear objects of my guilty love;
All other loves are lost in only thine,
Ah youth ungrateful to a flame like mine!
Whom would not all those blooming charms surprise,
Those heav'nly looks, and dear deluding eyes?
The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear,
A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear;
Would you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair,
Not Bacchus' self with Phaon could compare:
Yet Phoebus loved, and Bacchus felt the flame,
One Daphne warmed, and one the Cretan dame;
Nymphs that in verse no more could rival me,
Than ev'n those gods contend in charms with thee.
The muses teach me all their softest lays,
And the wide world resounds with Sappho's praise.
Though great Alcaeus more sublimely sings,
And strikes with bolder rage the sounding strings,
No less renown attends the moving lyre,
Which Venus tunes, and all her loves inspire;
To me what nature has in charms denied,
Is well by wit's more lasting flames supplied.
Though short my stature, yet my name extends
To heav'n itself, and earth's remotest ends.
Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame
Inspired young Perseus with a gen'rous flame;
Turtles and doves of diff'ring hues unite,
And glossy jet is paired with shining white.
If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign,
But such as merit, such as equal thine,
By none, alas! by none thou can'st be moved,
Phaon alone by Phaon must be loved!
Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ,
Once in her arms you centered all your joy:
No time the dear remembrance can remove,
For oh! how vast a memory has love?
My music, then, you could for ever hear,
And all my words were music to your ear.
You stopped with kisses my enchanting tongue,
And found my kisses sweeter than my song.
In all I pleased, but most in what was best;
And the last joy was dearer than the rest.
Then with each word, each glance, each motion fired,
You still enjoyed, and yet you still desired,
Till all dissolving in the trance we lay,
And in tumultuous raptures died away.
The fair Sicilians now thy soul inflame;
Why was I born, ye gods, a Lesbian dame?
But ah! beware, Sicilian nymphs! nor boast
That wand'ring heart which I so lately lost;
Nor be with all those tempting words abused,
Those tempting words were all to Sappho used.
And you that rule Sicilia's happy plains,
Have pity, Venus, on your poet's pains!
Shall fortune still in one sad tenor run,
And still increase the woes so soon begun?
Inured to sorrow from my tender years,
My parent's ashes drank my early tears;
My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame,
Ignobly burned in a destructive flame:
An infant daughter late my griefs increased,
And all a mother's cares distract my breast.
Alas! what more could fate itself impose,
But thee, the last and greatest of my woes?
No more my robes in waving purple flow,
Nor on my hand the sparkling diamonds glow;
No more my locks in ringlets curled diffuse
The costly sweetness of Arabian dews,
Nor braids of gold the varied tresses bind,
That fly disordered with the wanton wind:
For whom should Sappho use such arts as these?
He's gone, whom only she desired to please!
Cupid's light darts my tender bosom move,
Still is there cause for Sappho still to love:
So from my birth the sisters fixed my doom,
And gave to Venus all my life to come;
Or, while my muse in melting notes complains,
My yielding heart keeps measure to my strains.
By charms like thine which all my soul have won,
Who might not--ah! who would not be undone?
For those Aurora Cephalus might scorn,
And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn.
For those might Cynthia lengthen Phaon's sleep,
And bid Endymion nightly tend his sheep.
Venus for those had rapt thee to the skies,
But Mars on thee might look with Venus' eyes.
O scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy!
O useful time for lovers to employ!
Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race,
Come to these arms, and melt in this embrace!
The vows you never will return, receive;
And take at least the love you will not give.
See, while I write, my words are lost in tears!
The less my sense, the more my love appears.
Sure 'twas not much to bid one kind adieu,
(At least to feign was never hard to you,)
Farewell, my Lesbian love, you might have said;
Or coldly thus, "Farewell, O Lesbian maid!"
No tear did you, no parting kiss receive,
Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve.
No lover's gift your Sappho could confer,
And wrongs and woes were all you left with her.
No charge I gave you, and no charge could give,
But this, "Be mindful of our loves, and live."
Now by the Nine, those pow'rs adored by me,
And Love, the god that ever waits on thee,
When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew)
That you were fled, and all my joys with you,
Like some sad statue, speechless, pale I stood,
Grief chilled my breast, and stopped my freezing blood;
No sigh to rise, no tear had pow'r to flow,
Fixed in a stupid lethargy of woe:
But when its way th' impetuous passion found,
I rend my tresses, and my breast I wound;
I rave, then weep; I curse, and then complain;
Now swell to rage, now melt in tears again.
Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame,
Whose first-born infant feeds the fun'ral flame.
My scornful brother with a smile appears,
Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears;
His hated image ever haunts my eyes;
"And why this grief? thy daughter lives," he cries.
Stung with my love, and furious with despair,
All torn my garments, and my bosom bare,
My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim;
Such inconsistent things are love and shame!
'Tis thou art all my care and my delight,
My daily longing, and my dream by night:
Oh night more pleasing than the brightest day,
When fancy gives what absence takes away,
And, dressed in all its visionary charms,
Restores my fair deserter to my arms!
Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine,
Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine:
A thousand tender words I hear and speak;
A thousand melting kisses give, and take:
Then fiercer joys, I blush to mention these,
Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please.
But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly,
And all things wake to life and joy, but I,
As if once more forsaken, I complain,
And close my eyes to dream of you again:
Then frantic rise, and like some fury rove
Through lonely plains, and through the silent grove,
As if the silent grove, and lonely plains,
That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains.
I view the grotto, once the scene of love,
The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,
That charmed me more, with native moss o'ergrown,
Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone;
I find the shades that veiled our joys before;
But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.
Here the pressed herbs with bending tops betray
Where oft entwined in am'rous folds we lay;
I kiss that earth which once was pressed by you,
And all with tears the with'ring herbs bedew.
For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
And birds defer their songs till thy return:
Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie,
All but the mournful Philomel and I:
With mournful Philomel I join my strain,
Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain.
A spring there is, whose silver waters show,
Clear as a glass, the shining sands below:
A flow'ry lotos spreads its arms above,
Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove;
Eternal greens the mossy margin grace,
Watched by the sylvan genius of the place:
Here as I lay, and swelled with tears the flood,
Before my sight a wat'ry virgin stood:
She stood and cried, "O you that love in vain!
Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main;
There stands a rock, from whose impending steep
Apollo's fane surveys the rolling deep;
There injured lovers, leaping from above,
Their flames extinguish, and forget to love.
Deucalion once with hopeless fury burned,
In vain he loved, relentless Pyrrha scorned:
But when from hence he plunged into the main,
Deucalion scorned, and Pyrrha loved in vain.
Haste, Sappho, haste, from high Leucadia throw
Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below!"
She spoke, and vanished with the voice--I rise,
And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes.
I go, ye nymphs! those rocks and seas to prove;
How much I fear, but ah, how much I love!
I go, ye nymphs, where furious love inspires;
Let female fears submit to female fires.
To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon's hate,
And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate.
Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow,
And softly lay me on the waves below!
And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain,         }
Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main,      }
Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood profane!   }
On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow,
And this inscription shall be placed below,
"Here she who sung, to him that did inspire,
Sappho to Phoebus consecrates her lyre;
What suits with Sappho, Phoebus, suits with thee;
The gift, the giver, and the god agree."
But why, alas, relentless youth, ah! why
To distant seas must tender Sappho fly?
Thy charms than those may far more pow'rful be,
And Phoebus' self is less a god to me.
Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea,
Oh! far more faithless and more hard than they?
Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast
Dashed on these rocks, than to thy bosom pressed?
This breast which once, in vain! you liked so well;
Where the loves played, and where the muses dwell.
Alas! the muses now no more inspire,
Untuned my lute, and silent is my lyre.
My languid numbers have forgot to flow,
And fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe.
Ye Lesbian virgins, and ye Lesbian dames,
Themes of my verse, and objects of my flames,
No more your groves with my glad songs shall ring,
No more these hands shall touch the trembling string:
My Phaon's fled, and I those arts resign:
(Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)
Return, fair youth, return, and bring along
Joy to my soul, and vigour to my song:
Absent from thee, the poet's flame expires;
But ah! how fiercely burn the lover's fires!
Gods! can no prayers, no sighs, no numbers move
One savage heart, or teach it how to love?
The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers bear,
The flying winds have lost them all in air!
Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious gales
To these fond eyes restore thy welcome sails!
If you return--ah why these long delays?
Poor Sappho dies, while careless Phaon stays.
O launch the bark, nor fear the wat'ry plain;
Venus for thee shall smooth her native main.
O launch thy bark, secure of prosp'rous gales;
Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sails.
If you will fly--(yet ah! what cause can be,
Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?)
If not from Phaon I must hope for ease,
Ah let me seek it from the raging seas:
To raging seas unpitied I'll remove,
And either cease to live or cease to love!
Say, lovely youth, why would'st thou thus betray.--WAKEFIELD.]
These mournful numbers suit a mournful muse.]
I burn, I burn, like kindled fields of corn,
When by the driving winds the flames are borne.--WAKEFIELD.
I burn, I burn, as when fierce whirlwinds raise
The spreading flames, and crackling harvests blaze.]
My muse, and lute can now no longer please;
These are th' employments of a mind at ease.--WAKEFIELD.]
monster, and made Andromeda his wife.]
For they who truly love remember all.--BOWLES.]
My ruined brother trades from shore to shore,
And gains as basely as he lost before:
Me too he hates, advised by me in vain,
So fatal 'tis to be sincere and plain.
Of the last couplet the MS. contains a second version:
He hates his sister for a sister's care,
So unsuccessful 'tis to be sincere.]
An infant now my hapless fortunes shares,
And this sad breast feels all a mother's cares.]
When grey Aurora, having vanquished night,
Beheld me on the ever-fragrant hill
Of steep Hymettus, and against my will,
As I my toils extended, bare me thence.]
Oh! let me once more see those eyes of thine!
Thy love I ask not; do but suffer mine.--WAKEFIELD.
Pope's couplet was as follows in the MS.:
Thy love I ask not to forsaken me,
All that I ask is but to doat on thee.
Aspice, quam sit in hoc multa litura loco;
My constant falling tears the paper stain,
And my weak hand, etc.--BOWLES.]
No gift on thee thy Sappho could confer.
The original couplet in the MS. was
No pledge you left me, faithless and unkind!
Nothing with me but wrongs was left behind.
pleasingly introduced.--BOWLES.]
Their daily longing, and their nightly dream.
It was at first thus in Pope's MS.:
Thou art at once my anguish and delight,
Care of my day, and phantom of my night.
Thy kisses then, thy words my soul endear.
Glow on my lips, and murmur in my ear.
The charming phantom flies, and I complain,
As if thyself forsook me once again.
I dread the light of cruel heav'n to view,
And close my eyes once more to dream of you.
Soon as I rise I haunt the caves and groves.--BOWLES.
I find the shades that did our joys conceal,
Not him who made me love those shades so well.]
Of Tereus she complains, and I of thee.--WAKEFIELD.
The entire story was probably a legend.]
Lo, where Maeotis sleeps, and hardly flows.--WARTON.
A constant trade-wind will securely blow,
And gently lay us on the spicy shore.--WAKEFIELD.]
To those steep cliffs, that ocean must I fly.]
If thou return thy Sappho too shall stay,
Not all the gods shall force me then away;
Nor Love, nor Phoebus, then invoked shall be,
For thou alone art all the gods to me.
Another version ran thus:
Wouldst thou return, oh more than Phoebus, fair
No god like thee could ease thy Sappho's care.]
What I that loved, and you that _liked_,
Shall we begin to wrangle?
No, no, no; my heart is fixed,
And cannot disentangle.
Phaon--_my_ Phaon I almost had said--
Is fled, with Phaon your delights are fled.
Is gone, and with him all your pleasures fled.
Is gone, and all that's pleasing with him fled.
Is gone, and with him your delights are fled.]
Oh, when shall kinder, more auspicious gales,
Waft to these eyes thy long-expected sails.
"Pleonasm," says a note on the manuscript. "_Kinder_, and _more
auspicious_, too much."]
Ipse gubernabit residens in puppe Cupido,
Ipse dabit tenera vela legetque manu.--BOWLES.
Shall take the rudder in his tender hand,
And steer thee safe to this forsaken land.
There is a second, but inferior rendering:
Shall sit presiding on the painted prore,
And steer thy ship to this forsaken shore.
She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs,
When the fair consort of her son replies:
Since you a servant's ravished form bemoan,
And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own,
Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate
A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate.
No nymph of all Oechalia could compare
For beauteous form with Dryope the fair,
Her tender mother's only hope and pride,
(Myself the offspring of a second bride.)
This nymph compressed by him who rules the day,
Whom Delphi and the Delian isle obey,
Andraemon loved; and, blessed in all those charms
That pleased a god, succeeded to her arms.
A lake there was, with shelving banks around,
Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crowned.
These shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought,
And to the naiads flow'ry garlands brought;
Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she pressed
Within her arms, and nourished at her breast.
Nor distant far a wat'ry lotos grows,
The spring was new, and all the verdant boughs,
Adorned with blossoms, promised fruits that vie
In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye:
Of these she cropped to please her infant son,
And I myself the same rash act had done:
But lo! I saw (as near her side I stood,)
The violated blossoms drop with blood;
Upon the tree I cast a frightful look;
The trembling tree with sudden horror shook.
Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true)
As from Priapus' lawless lust she flew,
Forsook her form; and fixing here, became
A flow'ry plant, which still preserves her name.
This change unknown, astonished at the sight,
My trembling sister strove to urge her flight:
And first the pardon of the nymphs implored,
And those offended sylvan pow'rs adored:
But when she backward would have fled, she found
Her stiff'ning feet were rooted in the ground:
In vain to free her fastened feet she strove,
And, as she struggles, only moves above;
She feels th' encroaching bark around her grow
By quick degrees, and cover all below:
Surprized at this, her trembling hand she heaves
To rend her hair; her hand is filled with leaves:
Where late was hair the shooting leaves are seen
To rise, and shade her with a sudden green.
The child Amphissus, to her bosom pressed,
Perceived a colder and a harder breast,
And found the springs, that ne'er till then denied
Their milky moisture, on a sudden dried.
I saw, unhappy! what I now relate,
And stood the helpless witness of thy fate,
Embraced thy boughs, thy rising bark delayed,
There wished to grow, and mingle shade with shade.
Behold Andraemon and th' unhappy sire
Appear, and for their Dryope inquire:
A springing tree for Dryope they find,
And print warm kisses on the panting rind;
Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew,
And close embrace, as to the roots they grew.
The face was all that now remained of thee,
No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree;
Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear,
From ev'ry leaf distils a trickling tear,
And straight a voice, while yet a voice remains,
Thus through the trembling boughs in sighs complains.
If to the wretched any faith be giv'n,
I swear by all th' unpitying pow'rs of heav'n,
No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred;
In mutual innocence our lives we led:
If this be false, let these new greens decay,    }
Let sounding axes lop my limbs away,             }
And crackling flames on all my honours prey. }
But from my branching arms this infant bear,
Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care:
And to his mother let him oft be led,
Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed;
Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame
Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name,
To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes,
Within this plant my helpless parent lies;
And when in youth he seeks the shady woods,
Oh! let him fly the crystal lakes and floods,
Nor touch the fatal flow'rs; but, warned by me,
Believe a goddess shrined in ev'ry tree.
My sire, my sister, and my spouse, farewell!
If in your breasts or love or pity dwell,
Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel
The browzing cattle or the piercing steel.
Farewell! and since I cannot bend to join
My lips to yours, advance at least to mine.
My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive,
While yet thy mother has a kiss to give.
I can no more; the creeping rind invades
My closing lips, and hides my head in shades;
Remove your hands, the bark shall soon suffice
Without their aid to seal these dying eyes.
She ceased at once to speak, and ceased to be;
And all the nymph was lost within the tree;
Yet latent life through her new branches reigned,
And long the plant a human heat retained.
For form few might with Dryope compare.]
The violated myrtle ran with gore.--WAKEFIELD.]
No more a woman, nor yet quite a stone.--WAKEFIELD.]
And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears.--WAKEFIELD.]
If credit to the wretched may be giv'n,
I swear by all the pow'rs embowered in heav'n.]
Or if I lie, may my green branches fade;
And felled with axes on the fire be laid.]
Dear husband, sister, father, all farewell.]
At once th' encroaching rinds their closing lips
The fair Pomona flourished in his reign;
Of all the virgins of the sylvan train,
None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,
Or more improved the vegetable care.
To her the shady grove, the flow'ry field,
The streams and fountains no delights could yield;
'Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend,
And see the boughs with happy burthens bend.
The hook she bore instead of Cynthia's spear,
To lop the growth of the luxuriant year,
To decent form the lawless shoots to bring,
And teach th' obedient branches where to spring.
Now the cleft rind inserted graffs receives,
And yields an offspring more than nature gives;
Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew,
And feed their fibres with reviving dew.
These cares alone her virgin breast employ,
Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy.
Her private orchards, walled on ev'ry side,
To lawless sylvans all access denied.
How oft the satyrs and the wanton fauns,
Who haunt the forests, or frequent the lawns,
The god whose ensign scares the birds of prey,
And old Silenus, youthful in decay,
Employed their wiles, and unavailing care,
To pass the fences, and surprise the fair?
Like these, Vertumnus owned his faithful flame,
Like these, rejected by the scornful dame.
To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears;
And first a reaper from the field appears;
Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain
O'ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain.
Oft o'er his back a crooked scythe is laid,
And wreaths of hay his sun-burnt temples shade:
Oft in his hardened hand a goad he bears,
Like one who late unyoked the sweating steers.
Sometimes his pruning-hook corrects the vines,
And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines.
Now gath'ring what the bounteous year allows,
He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs.
A soldier now, he with his sword appears;
A fisher next, his trembling angle bears;
Each shape he varies, and each art he tries,
On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes.
A female form at last Vertumnus wears,     }
With all the marks of rev'rend age appears,  }
His temples thinly spread with silver hairs; }
Propped on his staff, and stooping as he goes,
A painted mitre shades his furrowed brows.
The god in this decrepid form arrayed,        }
The gardens entered, and the fruit surveyed;  }
And "Happy you!" (he thus addressed the maid) }
"Whose charms as far all other nymphs outshine,
As other gardens are excelled by thine!"
Then kissed the fair; (his kisses warmer grow
Than such as women on their sex bestow);
Then placed beside her on the flow'ry ground,
Beheld the trees with autumn's bounty crowned.
An elm was near, to whose embraces led,
The curling vine her swelling clusters spread:
He viewed her twining branches with delight,
And praised the beauty of the pleasing sight.
Yet this tall elm, but for his vine (he said)
Had stood neglected, and a barren shade;
And this fair vine, but that her arms surround
Her married elm, had crept along the ground.
Ah! beauteous maid, let this example move
Your mind, averse from all the joys of love.
Deign to be loved, and ev'ry heart subdue!
What nymph could e'er attract such crowds as you?
Not she whose beauty urged the Centaur's arms,
Ulysses' queen, nor Helen's fatal charms.
Ev'n now, when silent scorn is all they gain,
A thousand court you, though they court in vain,
A thousand sylvans, demigods, and gods,
That haunt our mountains and our Alban woods.
But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise,
Whom age and long experience render wise,
And one whose tender care is far above
All that these lovers ever felt of love,
(Far more than e'er can by yourself be guessed)
Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest.
For his firm faith I dare engage my own;
Scarce to himself, himself is better known.
To distant lands Vertumnus never roves;
Like you, contented with his native groves:
Nor at first sight, like most, admires the fair; }
For you he lives; and you alone shall share      }
His last affection, as his early care.           }
Besides, he's lovely far above the rest,
With youth immortal, and with beauty blest.
Add, that he varies ev'ry shape with ease,
And tries all forms that may Pomona please.
But what should most excite a mutual flame,
Your rural cares and pleasures are the same:
To him your orchards' early fruits are due,
(A pleasing off'ring when 'tis made by you;)
He values these; but yet, alas! complains,
That still the best and dearest gift remains.
Not the fair fruit that on yon branches glows
With that ripe red th' autumnal sun bestows;
Nor tasteful herbs that in these gardens rise,
Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies;
You, only you, can move the god's desire:
Oh crown so constant and so pure a fire!
Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind;
Think, 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind!
So may no frost, when early buds appear,
Destroy the promise of the youthful year;
Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows,
Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs!
This, when the various god had urged in vain,
He straight assumed his native form again;
Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears,
As when through clouds th' emerging sun appears,
And thence exerting his refulgent ray,
Dispels the darkness and reveals the day.
Force he prepared, but checked the rash design;
For when, appearing in a form divine,
The nymph surveys him, and beholds the grace
Of charming features, and a youthful face,
In her soft breast consenting passions move,
And the warm maid confessed a mutual love.
--his kisses too intemperate grow,
Not such as maids on maidens do bestow.]
In olde dayes of the King Arthour
Of which that Britains speken great honour,
All was this land fulfilled of fairie;
The elf-queen with her jolly company,
Danced full oft in many a greene mead;
This was the old opinion, as I read;
I speak of many hundred year ago;
But now can no man see none elves mo.
For now the greate charity and prayers
Of limitours, and other holy freres,
That seeken every land, and every stream,
As thick as motes in the sunne-beam,
Blessing halls, chambers, kitchenes, and bowers,
Cities, and boroughs, castles high, and towers,
Thorpes and barnes, sheepnes, and daieries,
That maketh that there be no faieries.
In days of old when Arthur filled the throne,
Whose acts and fame to foreign lands were blown,
The king of elfs, and little fairy queen,
Gambolled on heaths, and danced on every green,
And where the jolly troop had led the round
The grass unbidden rose, and marked the ground:
Nor darkling did they dance; the silver light              }
Of Phoebe served to guide their steps aright,              }
And, with their tripping pleased, prolonged the night.     }
Her beams they followed where at full she played,          }
Nor longer than she shed her horns they stayed,            }
From thence with airy flight to foreign lands conveyed.    }
Above the rest our Britain held they dear,                 }
More solemnly they kept their sabbaths here,               }
And made more spacious rings, and revelled half the year.  }
I speak of ancient times, for now the swain,               }
Returning late, may pass the woods in vain,                }
And never hope to see the nightly train.                   }
For priests with prayers and other godly gear,
Have made the merry goblins disappear;
And where they played their merry pranks before
Have sprinkled holy water on the floor;
And friars that through the wealthy regions run
Thick as the motes that twinkle in the sun,
Resort to farmers rich, and bless their halls,
And exorcise the beds, and cross the walls:
This makes the fairy choirs forsake the place
When once 'tis hallowed with the rites of grace.
Men dream all day of owles and of apes,
And eke of many a mase therewithall;
Men dream of thinges that never be shall.
Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes;
When monarch-reason sleeps this mimic wakes;
Compounds a medley of disjointed things,
A mob of cobblers, and a court of kings:
Light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad;
Both are the reasonable soul run mad;
And many monstrous forms in sleep we see,
That neither were, nor are, nor e'er can be.
Sometimes forgotten things long cast behind
Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind;
The nurse's legends are for truths received,
And the man dreams but what the boy believed.
Sometimes we but rehearse a former play;      }
The night restores our actions done by day,   }
As hounds in sleep will open for their prey.  }
He was a shepherd, and no mercenary,
The prelate for his holy life he prized;
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised.
His Saviour came not with a gaudy show,
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind,             }
These marks of church and churchmen he designed,   }
And living taught, and dying left behind.          }
The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn;
In purple he was crucified, not born.
They who contend for place and high degree,
Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee.
"By Dryden's Fables," says Johnson, "which had then been not long
English the loss exceeds the gain. Pope was not insensible to the
There lived in Lombardy, as authors write,
In days of old, a wise and worthy knight;
Of gentle manners, as of gen'rous race,
Blest with much sense, more riches, and some grace.
Yet led astray by Venus' soft delights
He scarce could rule some idle appetites:
For long ago, let priests say what they could,
Weak sinful laymen were but flesh and blood.
But in due time, when sixty years were o'er,
He vowed to lead this vicious life no more;
Whether pure holiness inspired his mind,
Or dotage turned his brain, is hard to find;
But his high courage pricked him forth to wed,
And try the pleasures of a lawful bed.
This was his nightly dream, his daily care,
And to the heav'nly pow'rs his constant prayer,
Once, ere he died, to taste the blissful life
Of a kind husband and a loving wife.
These thoughts he fortified with reasons still,
For none want reasons to confirm their will.
Grave authors say, and witty poets sing,
That honest wedlock is a glorious thing:
But depth of judgment most in him appears,
Who wisely weds in his maturer years.
Then let him chuse a damsel young and fair,
To bless his age, and bring a worthy heir;
To sooth his cares, and free from noise and strife,
Conduct him gently to the verge of life.
Let sinful bachelors their woes deplore,
Full well they merit all they feel, and more:
Unawed by precepts, human or divine,
Like birds and beasts, promiscuously they join:
Nor know to make the present blessing last,
To hope the future, or esteem the past:
But vainly boast the joys they never tried,
And find divulged the secrets they would hide.
The married man may bear his yoke with ease,
Secure at once himself and heav'n to please;
And pass his inoffensive hours away,
In bliss all night, and innocence all day:
Though fortune change, his constant spouse remains,
Augments his joys, or mitigates his pains.
But what so pure, which envious tongues will spare?
Some wicked wits have libelled all the fair.
With matchless impudence they style a wife
The dear-bought curse, and lawful plague of life;
A bosom serpent, a domestic evil,
A night invasion, and a mid-day devil.
Let not the wise these sland'rous words regard,
But curse the bones of ev'ry lying bard.
All other goods by fortune's hand are giv'n,
A wife is the peculiar gift of heav'n.
Vain fortune's favours, never at a stay,
Like empty shadows, pass, and glide away;
One solid comfort, our eternal wife,
Abundantly supplies us all our life;
This blessing lasts, if those who try, say true,
As long as heart can wish--and longer too.
Our grandsire Adam, ere of Eve possessed,
Alone, and ev'n in Paradise unblessed,
With mournful looks the blissful scenes surveyed,
And wandered in the solitary shade.
The Maker saw, took pity, and bestowed
Woman, the last, the best reserve of God.
A wife! ah gentle deities, can he,
That has a wife, e'er feel adversity?
Would men but follow what the sex advise,
All things would prosper, all the world grow wise.
'Twas by Rebecca's aid that Jacob won
His father's blessing from an elder son:
Abusive Nabal owed his forfeit life
To the wise conduct of a prudent wife:
Heroic Judith, as old Hebrews show,
At Hester's suit, the persecuting sword
Was sheathed, and Israel lived to bless the Lord.
These weighty motives, January the sage
Maturely pondered in his riper age;
And charmed with virtuous joys, and sober life,
Would try that christian comfort, called a wife.
His friends were summoned on a point so nice,
To pass their judgment, and to give advice;
But fixed before, and well resolved was he,
As men that ask advice are wont to be.
My friends, he cried (and cast a mournful look
Around the room, and sighed before he spoke):
Beneath the weight of threescore years I bend,
And, worn with cares, am hast'ning to my end;
How I have lived, alas! you know too well,
In worldly follies, which I blush to tell;
But gracious heav'n has ope'd my eyes at last,
With due regret I view my vices past,
And, as the precept of the church decrees,
Will take a wife, and live in holy ease.
But since by counsel all things should be done,
And many heads are wiser still than one,
Chuse you for me, who best shall be content
When my desire's approved by your consent.
One caution yet is needful to be told,
To guide your choice; this wife must not be old:
There goes a saying, and 'twas shrewdly said,
Old fish at table, but young flesh in bed.
My soul abhors the tasteless, dry embrace
Of a stale virgin with a winter face:
In that cold season love but treats his guest
With bean-straw, and tough forage at the best
No crafty widows shall approach my bed;
Those are too wise for bachelors to wed.
As subtle clerks by many schools are made,
Twice married dames are mistresses o' th' trade:
But young and tender virgins ruled with ease,
We form like wax, and mould them as we please.
Conceive me, sirs, nor take my sense amiss;
'Tis what concerns my soul's eternal bliss;
Since if I found no pleasure in my spouse,
As flesh is frail, and who, God help me, knows?
Then should I live in lewd adultery,
And sink downright to Satan when I die.
Or were I cursed with an unfruitful bed,
The righteous end were lost for which I wed;
To raise up seed to bless the pow'rs above,
And not for pleasure only, or for love.
Think not I doat; 'tis time to take a wife,
When vig'rous blood forbids a chaster life:
Those that are blest with store of grace divine,
May live like saints, by heav'n's consent, and mine.
And since I speak of wedlock, let me say,
(As, thank my stars, in modest truth I may,)
My limbs are active, still I'm sound at heart,
And a new vigour springs in ev'ry part.
Think not my virtue lost, though time has shed
These rev'rend honours on my hoary head:
Thus trees are crowned with blossoms white as snow,
The vital sap then rising from below.
Old as I am, my lusty limbs appear
Like winter greens, that flourish all the year.
Now, sirs, you know, to what I stand inclined,
Let ev'ry friend with freedom speak his mind.
He said; the rest in diff'rent parts divide;
The knotty point was urged on either side:
Marriage, the theme on which they all declaimed,
Some praised with wit, and some with reason blamed,
Till, what with proofs, objections, and replies,
Each wond'rous positive, and wond'rous wise,
There fell between his brothers a debate,
Placebo this was called, and Justin that.
First to the knight Placebo thus begun,
(Mild were his looks, and pleasing was his tone,)
Such prudence, sir, in all your words appears,
As plainly proves, experience dwells with years;
Yet you pursue sage Solomon's advice,
To work by counsel when affairs are nice:
But, with the wise man's leave, I must protest,  }
So may my soul arrive at ease and rest,          }
As still I hold your own advice the best.        }
Sir, I have lived a courtier all my days,
And studied men, their manners, and their ways;
And have observed this useful maxim still,
To let my betters always have their will.
Nay, if my lord affirmed that black was white,
My word was this, "Your honour's in the right."
Th' assuming wit, who deems himself so wise,
As his mistaken patron to advise,
Let Tirm not dare to vent his dang'rous thought,
A noble fool was never in a fault.
This, sir, affects not you, whose ev'ry word
Is weighed with judgment, and befits a lord:
Your will is mine; and is, I will maintain,
Pleasing to God, and should be so to man;
At least your courage all the world must praise,
Who dare to wed in your declining days.
Indulge the vigour of your mounting blood,
And let grey fools be indolently good,
Who, past all pleasure, damn the joys of sense,
With rev'rend dulness and grave impotence.
Justin, who silent sat, and heard the man,
Thus, with a philosophic frown, began:
A heathen author, of the first degree,
Who, though not faith, had sense as well as we,
Bids us be certain our concerns to trust
To those of gen'rous principles, and just.
The venture's greater, I'll presume to say,
To give your person, than your goods away:
And therefore, sir, as you regard your rest,
First learn your lady's qualities at least:
Whether she's chaste or rampant, proud or civil;
Meek as a saint, or haughty as the devil;
Whether an easy, fond, familiar fool,
Or such a wit as no man e'er can rule.
'Tis true, perfection none must hope to find
In all this world, much less in woman-kind;
But if her virtues prove the larger share,
Bless the kind fates, and think your fortune rare.
Ah, gentle sir, take warning of a friend,
Who knows too well the state you thus commend;
And spite of all its praises must declare,
All he can find is bondage, cost, and care.
Heav'n knows, I shed full many a private tear,
And sigh in silence, lest the world should hear:
While all my friends applaud my blissful life,
And swear no mortal's happier in a wife;
Demure and chaste as any vestal nun,
The meekest creature that beholds the sun!
But, by th' immortal powers, I feel the pain,
And he that smarts has reason to complain.
Do what you list, for me; you must be sage,
And cautious sure; for wisdom is in age:
But at these years to venture on the fair!
By him, who made the ocean, earth, and air,
To please a wife, when her occasions call,
Would busy the most vig'rous of us all.
And trust me, sir, the chastest you can chuse
Will ask observance, and exact her dues.
If what I speak my noble lord offend,
My tedious sermon here is at an end.
'Tis well, 'tis wond'rous well, the knight replies,
Most worthy kinsman, faith you're mighty wise!
We, sirs, are fools; and must resign the cause
To heath'nish authors, proverbs, and old saws.
He spoke with scorn, and turned another way:--
What does my friend, my dear Placebo, say?
I say, quoth he, by heav'n the man's to blame,
To slander wives, and wedlock's holy name.
At this the council rose, without delay;
Each, in his own opinion, went his way;
With full consent, that, all disputes appeased,
The knight should marry, when and where he pleased.
Who now but January exults with joy?
The charms of wedlock all his soul employ:
Each nymph by turns his wav'ring mind possessed,
And reigned the short-lived tyrant of his breast;
Whilst fancy pictured ev'ry lively part,
And each bright image wandered o'er his heart.
Thus, in some public forum fixed on high,
A mirror shows the figures moving by;
Still one by one, in swift succession, pass
The gliding shadows o'er the polished glass.
This lady's charms the nicest could not blame,
But vile suspicions had aspersed her fame;
That was with sense, but not with virtue, blest:
And one had grace, that wanted all the rest.
Thus doubting long what nymph he should obey,
He fixed at last upon the youthful May.
Her faults he knew not, love is always blind,
But ev'ry charm revolved within his mind:
Her tender age, her form divinely fair,
Her easy motion, her attractive air,
Her sweet behaviour, her enchanting face,
Her moving softness, and majestic grace.
Much in his prudence did our knight rejoice,
And thought no mortal could dispute his choice:
Once more in haste he summoned ev'ry friend,
And told them all, their pains were at an end.
Heav'n, that (said he) inspired me first to wed,
Provides a consort worthy of my bed:
Let none oppose th' election, since on this
Depends my quiet, and my future bliss.
A dame there is, the darling of my eyes,
Young, beauteous, artless, innocent, and wise;
Chaste, though not rich; and though not nobly born,
Of honest parents, and may serve my turn.
Her will I wed, if gracious heav'n so please;
To pass my age in sanctity and ease;
And thank the pow'rs, I may possess alone
The lovely prize, and share my bliss with none!
If you, my friends, this virgin can procure,
My joys are full, my happiness is sure.
One only doubt remains: Full oft, I've heard,
By casuists grave, and deep divines averred;
That 'tis too much for human race to know
The bliss of heav'n above, and earth below.
Now should the nuptial pleasures prove so great,
To match the blessings of the future state,
Those endless joys were ill exchanged for these;
Then clear this doubt, and set my mind at ease.
This Justin heard, nor could his spleen controul,
Touched to the quick, and tickled at the soul.
Sir knight, he cried, if this be all your dread,
Heav'n put it past your doubt, whene'er you wed;
And to my fervent prayers so far consent,
That ere the rites are o'er, you may repent!
Good heav'n, no doubt, the nuptial state approves,
Since it chastises still what best it loves.
Then be not, sir, abandoned to despair;     }
Seek, and perhaps you'll find among the fair, }
One, that may do your business to a hair;     }
Not ev'n in wish, your happiness delay,
But prove the scourge to lash you on your way:
Then to the skies your mounting soul shall go,
Swift as an arrow soaring from the bow!
Provided still, you moderate your joy,
Nor in your pleasures all your might employ;
Let reason's rule your strong desires abate,
Nor please too lavishly your gentle mate.
Old wives there are, of judgment most acute,
Who solve these questions beyond all dispute;
Consult with those, and be of better cheer;
Marry, do penance, and dismiss your fear.
So said, they rose, no more the work delayed;
The match was offered, the proposals made
The parents, you may think, would soon comply;
The old have int'rest ever in their eye.
Nor was it hard to move the lady's mind;
When fortune favours, still the fair are kind.
I pass each previous settlement and deed,
Too long for me to write, or you to read;
Nor will with quaint impertinence display
The pomp, the pageantry, the proud array.
The time approached, to church the parties went,
At once with carnal and devout intent:
Forth came the priest, and bade th' obedient wife
Like Sarah or Rebecca lead her life:
Then prayed the pow'rs the fruitful bed to bless,
And made all sure enough with holiness.
And now the palace-gates are opened wide,            }
The guests appear in order, side by side,              }
And placed in state, the bridegroom and the bride. }
The breathing flute's soft notes are heard around,
And the shrill trumpets mix their silver sound;
The vaulted roofs with echoing music ring,
These touch the vocal stops, and those the trembling string.
Not thus Amphion tuned the warbling lyre,
Nor Joab the sounding clarion could inspire,
Nor fierce Theodomas, whose sprightly strain
Could swell the soul to rage, and fire the martial train.
Bacchus himself, the nuptial feast to grace,
(So poets sing) was present on the place:
And lovely Venus, goddess of delight,          }
Shook high her flaming torch in open sight,    }
And danced around, and smiled on ev'ry knight: }
Pleased her best servant would his courage try,
No less in wedlock, than in liberty.
Full many an age old Hymen had not spied
So kind a bridegroom, or so bright a bride.
Ye bards! renowned among the tuneful throng
For gentle lays, and joyous nuptial song,
Think not your softest numbers can display
The matchless glories of this blissful day;
The joys are such, as far transcend your rage,
When tender youth has wedded stooping age.
The beauteous dame sate smiling at the board,
And darted am'rous glances at her lord.
Not Hester's self, whose charms the Hebrews sing,
E'er looked so lovely on her Persian king:
Bright as the rising sun, in summer's day,
And fresh and blooming as the month of May!
The joyful knight surveyed her by his side,
Nor envied Paris with his Spartan bride;
Still as his mind revolved with vast delight
Th' entrancing raptures of th' approaching night,
Restless he sate, invoking ev'ry pow'r
To speed his bliss, and haste the happy hour.
Mean time the vig'rous dancers beat the ground,
And songs were sung, and flowing bowls went round.
With od'rous spices they perfumed the place,
And mirth and pleasure shone in ev'ry face.
Damian alone, of all the menial train,
Sad in the midst of triumphs, sighed for pain;
Damian alone, the knight's obsequious squire,
Consumed at heart, and fed a secret fire.
His lovely mistress all his soul possest,
He looked, he languished, and could take no rest:
His task performed, he sadly went his way,
Fell on his bed, and loathed the light of day.
There let him lie; till his relenting dame
Weep in her turn, and waste in equal flame.
The weary sun, as learned poets write,
Forsook th' horizon, and rolled down the light;
While glitt'ring stars his absent beams supply,
And night's dark mantle overspread the sky.
Then rose the guests; and as the time required,
Each paid his thanks, and decently retired.
The foe once gone, our knight prepared t' undress,
So keen he was, and eager to possess:
But first thought fit th' assistance to receive,
Which grave physicians scruple not to give;
Satyrion near, with hot eringos stood,
Cantharides, to fire the lazy blood,
Whose use old bards describe in luscious rhymes,
And critics learn'd explain to modern times.
By this the sheets were spread, the bride undressed,
The room was sprinkled, and the bed was blessed.
What next ensued beseems not me to say;
'Tis sung, he laboured till the dawning day,
Then briskly sprung from bed, with heart so light, }
As all were nothing he had done by night;          }
And sipped his cordial as he sat upright.          }
He kissed his balmy spouse with wanton play,
And feebly sung a lusty roundelay;
Then on the couch his weary limbs he cast;
For ev'ry labour must have rest at last.
But anxious cares the pensive squire oppressed,
Sleep fled his eyes, and peace forsook his breast;
The raging flames that in his bosom dwell,
He wanted art to hide, and means to tell.
Yet hoping time th' occasion might betray,
Composed a sonnet to the lovely May;
Which writ and folded with the nicest art,
He wrapped in silk, and laid upon his heart.
When now the fourth revolving day was run,
('Twas June, and Cancer had received the sun)
Forth from her chamber came the beauteous bride,
The good old knight moved slowly by her side.
High mass was sung; they feasted in the hall;
The servants round stood ready at their call.
The squire alone was absent from the board,
And much his sickness grieved his worthy lord,
Who prayed his spouse, attended with her train,
To visit Damian, and divert his pain.
Th' obliging dames obeyed with one consent;
They left the hall, and to his lodging went.
The female tribe surround him as he lay,
And close beside him sat the gentle May:
Where, as she tried his pulse, he softly drew
A heaving sigh, and cast a mournful view!
Then gave his bill, and bribed the pow'rs divine,
With secret vows, to favour his design.
Who studies now but discontented May?
On her soft couch uneasily she lay:
The lumpish husband snored away the night,
Till coughs awaked him near the morning light.
What then he did, I'll not presume to tell,
Nor if she thought herself in heav'n or hell:
Honest and dull in nuptial bed they lay,
Till the bell tolled, and all arose to pray.
Were it by forceful destiny decreed,
Or did from chance, or nature's power proceed;
Or that some star, with aspect kind to love,
Shed its selectest influence from above;
Whatever was the cause, the tender dame
Felt the first motions of an infant flame;
Received th' impressions of the love-sick squire,
And wasted in the soft infectious fire.
Ye fair, draw near, let May's example move
Your gentle minds to pity those who love!
Had some fierce tyrant in her stead been found,
The poor adorer sure had hanged, or drowned:
But she, your sex's mirrour, free from pride,
Was much too meek to prove a homicide.
But to my tale: Some sages have defined
Pleasure the sov'reign bliss of human-kind:
Our knight (who studied much, we may suppose)
Derived his high philosophy from those;
For, like a prince, he bore the vast expense
Of lavish pomp, and proud magnificence:
His house was stately, his retinue gay,
Large was his train, and gorgeous his array.
His spacious garden made to yield to none,
Was compassed round with walls of solid stone;
Priapus could not half describe the grace
(Though god of gardens) of this charming place:
A place to tire the rambling wits of France
In long descriptions, and exceed romance:
Enough to shame the gentlest bard that sings
Of painted meadows, and of purling springs.
Full in the centre of the flow'ry ground,       }
A crystal fountain spread its streams around,     }
The fruitful banks with verdant laurels crowned:  }
About this spring, if ancient fame say true,
The dapper elves their moonlight sports pursue:
Their pigmy king, and little fairy queen,
In circling dances gambolled on the green,
While tuneful sprites a merry concert made,
And airy music warbled through the shade.
Hither the noble knight would oft repair,
(His scene of pleasure, and peculiar care)
For this he held it dear, and always bore
The silver key that locked the garden door.
To this sweet place in summer's sultry heat,
He used from noise and bus'ness to retreat;
And here in dalliance spend the live-long day,
_Solus cum sola_, with his sprightly May.
For whate'er work was undischarged a-bed,
The duteous knight in this fair garden sped.
But ah! what mortal lives of bliss secure,
How short a space our worldly joys endure!
O Fortune, fair, like all thy treach'rous kind,
But faithless still, and way'ring as the wind!
O painted monster, formed mankind to cheat,
With pleasing poison, and with soft deceit!
This rich, this am'rous, venerable knight,
Amidst his ease, his solace, and delight,
Struck blind by thee, resigns his days to grief,
And calls on death, the wretch's last relief.
The rage of jealousy then seized his mind,
For much he feared the faith of woman-kind.
His wife, not suffered from his side to stray,   }
Was captive kept, he watched her night and day,  }
Abridged her pleasures, and confined her sway.   }
Full oft in tears did hapless May complain,
And sighed full oft; but sighed and wept in vain;
She looked on Damian with a lover's eye;
For oh, 'twas fixed, she must possess or die!
Nor less impatience vexed her am'rous squire,
Wild with delay, and burning with desire.
Watched as she was, yet could he not refrain
By secret writing to disclose his pain;
The dame by signs revealed her kind intent,
Till both were conscious what each other meant.
Ah, gentle knight, what would thy eyes avail,
Though they could see as far as ships can sail?
'Tis better, sure, when blind, deceived to be,
Than be deluded when a man can see!
Argus himself, so cautious and so wise,
Was over-watched, for all his hundred eyes:
So many an honest husband may, 'tis known,
Who, wisely, never thinks the case his own.
The dame at last, by diligence and care,
Procured the key her knight was wont to bear;
She took the wards in wax before the fire,
And gave th' impression to the trusty squire.
By means of this, some wonder shall appear,
Which, in due place and season, you may hear.
Well sung sweet Ovid, in the days of yore,
What sleight is that, which love will not explore?
And Pyramus and Thisbe plainly show
The feats true lovers, when they list, can do:
Though watched and captive, yet in spite of all,
They found the art of kissing through a wall.
But now no longer from our tale to stray;      }
It happed that once upon a summer's day,         }
Our rev'rend knight was urged to am'rous play:   }
He raised his spouse ere matin-bell was rung,
And thus his morning canticle he sung.
Awake, my love, disclose thy radiant eyes;
Arise, my wife, my beauteous lady, rise!
Hear how the doves with pensive notes complain,
And in soft murmurs tell the trees their pain:
The winter's past; the clouds and tempests fly;
The sun adorns the fields, and brightens all the sky.
Fair without spot, whose ev'ry charming part
My bosom wounds, and captivates my heart;
Come, and in mutual pleasures let's engage,
Joy of my life, and comfort of my age.
This heard, to Damian straight a sign she made,
To haste before; the gentle squire obeyed:
Secret and undescried he took his way,
And, ambushed close, behind an arbour lay,
It was not long ere January came,
And, hand in hand with him his lovely dame;
Blind as he was, not doubting all was sure,
He turned the key, and made the gate secure.
Here let us walk, he said, observed by none,
Conscious of pleasures to the world unknown:
So may my soul have joy, as thou my wife
Art far the dearest solace of my life;
And rather would I chuse, by heav'n above,
To die this instant, than to lose thy love.
Reflect what truth was in my passion shown,    }
When, unendowed, I took thee for my own,       }
And sought no treasure but thy heart alone.    }
Old as I am, and now deprived of sight,          }
Whilst thou art faithful to thy own true knight, }
Nor age, nor blindness, rob me of delight.       }
Each other loss with patience I can bear,
The loss of thee is what I only fear.
Consider then, my lady and my wife,
The solid comforts of a virtuous life.
As first, the love of Christ himself you gain;
Next, your own honour undefiled maintain;
And lastly, that which sure your mind must move,
My whole estate shall gratify your love:
Make your own terms, and ere to-morrow's sun
Displays his light, by heav'n it shall be done.
I seal the contract with a holy kiss,
And will perform, by this--my dear, and this.
Have comfort, spouse, nor think thy lord unkind;
'Tis love, not jealousy, that fires my mind.
For when thy charms my sober thoughts engage,
And joined to them my own unequal age,
From thy dear side I have no pow'r to part,
Such secret transports warm my melting heart.
For who that once possessed those heav'nly charms,
Could live one moment absent from thy arms?
He ceased, and May with modest grace replied;
(Weak was her voice, as while she spoke she cried;)
Heav'n knows (with that a tender sigh she drew)
I have a soul to save as well as you;
And, what no less you to my charge commend,
My dearest honour, will to death defend.
To you in holy church I gave my hand,
And joined my heart in wedlock's sacred band:
Yet, after this, if you distrust my care,
Then hear, my lord, and witness what I swear:
First may the yawning earth her bosom rend,
And let me hence to hell alive descend;
Or die the death I dread no less than hell,
Sewed in a sack, and plunged into a well,
Ere I my fame by one lewd act disgrace,
Or once renounce the honour of my race.
For know, sir knight, of gentle blood I came,
But jealous men on their own crimes reflect,
And learn from thence their ladies to suspect:
Else why these needless cautions, sir, to me?
These doubts and fears of female constancy!
This chime still rings in ev'ry lady's ear,
The only strain a wife must hope to hear.
Thus while she spoke, a sidelong glance she cast
Where Damian, kneeling, worshipped as she passed:
She saw him watch the motions of her eye,
And singled out a pear-tree planted nigh:
'Twas charged with fruit that made a goodly show,
And hung with dangling pears was ev'ry bough.
Thither th' obsequious squire addressed his pace,
And climbing, in the summit took his place;
The knight and lady walked beneath in view,
Where let us leave them, and our tale pursue.
'Twas now the season when the glorious sun
His heav'nly progress through the Twins had run;
And Jove, exalted, his mild influence yields,
To glad the glebe, and paint the flow'ry fields:
Clear was the day, and Phoebus rising bright,
Had streaked the azure firmament with light;
He pierced the glitt'ring clouds with golden streams,
And warmed the womb of earth with genial beams.
It so befel, in that fair morning tide,      }
The fairies sported on the garden side,        }
And in the midst their monarch and his bride.  }
So featly tripped the light-foot ladies round,                }
The knights so nimbly o'er the green-sward bound,             }
That scarce they bent the flow'rs, or touched the ground. }
The dances ended, all the fairy train
For pinks and daisies searched the flow'ry plain;
While on a bank reclined of rising green,
Thus, with a frown, the king bespoke his queen:
'Tis too apparent, argue what you can,
The treachery you women use to man:
A thousand authors have this truth made out,
And sad experience leaves no room for doubt.
Heav'n rest thy spirit, noble Solomon,
A wiser monarch never saw the sun:
All wealth, all honours, the supreme degree
Of earthly bliss, was well bestowed on thee!
For sagely hast thou said: Of all mankind,
One only just, and righteous, hope to find:
But should'st thou search the spacious world around,
Yet one good woman is not to be found.
Thus says the king who knew your wickedness;
The son of Sirach testifies no less.
So may some wildfire on your bodies fall,
Or some devouring plague consume you all;
As well you view the lecher in the tree,
And well this honourable knight you see:
But since he's blind and old (a helpless case)
His squire shall cuckold him before your face.
Now by my own dread majesty I swear,
And by this awful sceptre which I bear,
No impious wretch shall 'scape unpunished long,
That in my presence offers such a wrong.
I will this instant undeceive the knight,
And, in the very act, restore his sight:
And set the strumpet here in open view,           }
A warning to these ladies, and to you,        }
And all the faithless sex, for ever to be true.   }
And will you so, replied the queen, indeed?  }
Now, by my mother's soul it is decreed,        }
She shall not want an answer at her need.      }
For her, and for her daughters, I'll engage,
And all the sex in each succeeding age;
Art shall be theirs to varnish an offence,
And fortify their crimes with confidence.
Nay, were they taken in a strict embrace,
Seen with both eyes, and pinioned on the place;
All they shall need is to protest and swear,
Breathe a soft sigh, and drop a tender tear;
Till their wise husbands, gulled by arts like these,
Grow gentle, tractable, and tame as geese.
Called women fools, and knew full many a one;
The wiser wits of later times declare,
How constant, chaste, and virtuous women are:
Witness the martyrs, who resigned their breath,
Serene in torments, unconcerned in death;
And witness next what Roman authors tell,
How Arria, Portia, and Lucretia fell.
But since the sacred leaves to all are free,
And men interpret texts, why should not we?
By this no more was meant, than to have shown,    }
That sov'reign goodness dwells in him alone       }
Who only Is, and is but only One.             }
But grant the worst; shall women then be weighed
By ev'ry word that Solomon has said?
What though this king (as ancient story boasts)
Built a fair temple to the Lord of Hosts;
He ceased at last his Maker to adore,
And did as much for idol gods, or more.
Beware what lavish praises you confer
On a rank lecher and idolater;
Whose reign indulgent God, says Holy Writ,
Did but for David's righteous sake permit;
David, the monarch after heav'n's own mind,
Who loved our sex, and honoured all our kind.
Well, I'm a woman, and as such must speak;
Silence would swell me, and my heart would break.
Know then, I scorn your dull authorities,
Your idle wits, and all their learned lies.
By heav'n, those authors are our sex's foes,
Whom, in our right, I must and will oppose.
Nay, quoth the king, dear madam, be not wroth:
I yield it up; but since I gave my oath,
That this much injured knight again should see,
It must be done--I am a king, said he,
And one whose faith has ever sacred been.
And so has mine, she said, I am a queen:
Her answer she shall have, I undertake;
And thus an end of all dispute I make.
Try when you list; and you shall find, my lord,
It is not in our sex to break our word.
We leave them here in this heroic strain,
And to the knight our story turns again;
Who in the garden, with his lovely May,
Sung merrier than the cuckoo or the jay:
This was his song; "Oh kind and constant be,
Constant and kind I'll ever prove to thee."
Thus singing as he went, at last he drew
By easy steps, to where the pear-tree grew:
The longing dame looked up, and spied her love,
Full fairly perched among the boughs above.
She stopped, and sighing: Oh, good gods, she cried,
What pangs, what sudden shoots distend my side?
Oh for that tempting fruit, so fresh, so green;
Help, for the love of heav'n's immortal queen;
Help, dearest lord, and save at once the life
Of thy poor infant, and thy longing wife!
Sore sighed the knight to hear his lady's cry,
But could not climb, and had no servant nigh:
Old as he was, and void of eye-sight too,
What could, alas! a helpless husband do?
And must I languish then, she said, and die,
Yet view the lovely fruit before my eye?
At least, kind sir, for charity's sweet sake,
Vouchsafe the trunk between your arms to take;
Then from your back I might ascend the tree;
Do you but stoop, and leave the rest to me.
With all my soul, he thus replied again,
I'd spend my dearest blood to ease thy pain.
With that, his back against the trunk he bent,
She seized a twig, and up the tree she went.
Now prove your patience, gentle ladies all!
Nor let on me your heavy anger fall:
'Tis truth I tell, though not in phrase refined,
Though blunt my tale, yet honest is my mind.
What feats the lady in the tree might do,
I pass as gambols never known to you;
But sure it was a merrier fit, she swore,
Than in her life she ever felt before.
In that nice moment, lo! the wond'ring knight
Looked out, and stood restored to sudden sight.
Straight on the tree his eager eyes he bent,
As one whose thoughts were on his spouse intent;
But when he saw his bosom-wife so dressed,
His rage was such as cannot be expressed:
Not frantic mothers when their infants die,
With louder clamours rend the vaulted sky:
He cried, he roared, he stormed, he tore his hair;
Death! hell! and furies! what dost thou do there!
What ails my lord? the trembling dame replied;
I thought your patience had been better tried;
Is this your love, ungrateful, and unkind,
This my reward for having cured the blind?
Why was I taught to make my husband see,
By struggling with a man upon a tree?
Did I for this the pow'r of magic prove?
Unhappy wife, whose crime was too much love!
If this be struggling, by this holy light,
'Tis struggling with a vengeance, quoth the knight;
So heav'n preserve the sight it has restored,
As surely seize thee, as I saw too well.
Guard me, good angels! cried the gentle May,
Pray heav'n this magic work the proper way!
Alas, my love! 'tis certain, could you see,
You ne'er had used these killing words to me:
So help me, fates, as 'tis no perfect sight,
But some faint glimm'ring of a doubtful light.
What I have said, quoth he, I must maintain,
For by th' immortal pow'rs it seemed too plain.
By all those pow'rs, some frenzy seized your mind,  }
Replied the dame, are these the thanks I find?        }
Wretch that I am, that e'er I was so kind!            }
She said; a rising sigh expressed her woe,
The ready tears apace began to flow,
And as they fell she wiped from either eye
The drops; for women, when they list, can cry.
The knight was touched; and in his looks appeared
Signs of remorse, while thus his spouse he cheered:
Madam, 'tis past, and my short anger o'er!
Come down, and vex your tender heart no more;
Excuse me, dear, if aught amiss was said,
For, on my soul, amends shall soon be made:
Let my repentance your forgiveness draw,
By heav'n, I swore but what I thought I saw.
Ah, my loved lord! 'twas much unkind, she cried,
On bare suspicion thus to treat your bride.
But till your sight's established, for awhile,
Imperfect objects may your sense beguile.
Thus when from sleep we first our eyes display, }
The balls are wounded with the piercing ray,    }
And dusky vapours rise, and intercept the day:  }
So just recov'ring from the shades of night,                }
Your swimming eyes are drunk with sudden light,             }
Strange phantoms dance around, and skim before your sight.  }
Then, sir, be cautious, nor too rashly deem;
Heav'n knows how seldom things are what they seem!
Consult your reason, and you soon shall find
'Twas you were jealous, not your wife unkind:
Jove ne'er spoke oracle more true than this,
None judge so wrong as those who think amiss.
With that she leaped into her lord's embrace
With well-dissembled virtue in her face.
He hugged her close, and kissed her o'er and o'er,
Disturbed with doubts and jealousies no more:
Both, pleased and blessed, renewed their mutual vows,
A fruitful wife and a believing spouse.
Thus ends our tale, whose moral next to make,
Let all wise husbands hence example take;
And pray, to crown the pleasure of their lives,
To be so well deluded by their wives.
We wedded men live in sorwe and care;
Assay it whoso will, and he shall find
That I say sooth, by Saint Thomas of Inde,
As for the more part; I say not all;
God shielde that it shoulde so befall.
Gladly, quoth he, but of mine owne sore
For sorry heart I telle may no more.
Thus said this olde knight that was so wise,
And when that he was passed sixty year,
Were it for holiness or for dotage,
I cannot say, but such a great courage
Hadde this knight to be a wedded man,
That day and night he doth all that he can
Taspye where that he might wedded be;
Praying our Lord to grante him that he
Might ones knowen of that blissful life,
That is betwixt a husband and his wife.]
And certainly, as sooth as God is king,
To take a wife it is a glorious thing;
And namely when a man is old and hoar,
Then is a wife the fruit of his tresor.
description is a preface, shows that the praises are meant to be
interpreted in an adverse sense.]
This entent and an hundred sithe worse
Writeth this man; there God his bones curse.
A wife! ah! Sainte Mary, _benedicite_,
How might a man have any adversite
That hath a wife? certes I cannot say.
She saith nought ones nay when he saith ye;
Do this, saith he; all ready, sir, saith she.
Consequently the married man
Upon his bare knees ought all his life
Thanken his God that him hath sent a wife;
May not be deceived as I guess.
From the praise of wives, the merchant, speaking the views of the
assertion that a married man was secured against deception is
Lo Judith, as the story telle can,
By wise counsel she Goddes people kept
And slew him Holofernes while he slept.
Lo Abigail by good counsel how she
Saved her husband Nabal, when that he
Should have been slain.
The rest are summoned on a point so nice.
But one thing warn I you, my friendes dear,
I will none old wife have in no manere.
She shall not passe sixteene year certain.
Old fish, and young flesh, that would I have full fain.
Bet is, quoth he, a pike than a pikerel,
And bet than old beef is the tender veal.
Children to thonour of God above,
And not only for paramour, and for love.
Friendes I am hoar and old,
And almost, God wot, at my pittes brink
Upon my soule somewhat must I think.
I have my body folily dispended
Blessed be God that it shall be amended.
Helpen other
In meschief, as a sister shall the brother,
And live in chastity full holily.
But, sires, by your leave that am not I,
For, God be thanked, I dare make avaunt,
I feel my limbes stark and suffisaunt.
Ev'n when the vital sap retreats below,
Ev'n when the hoary head is hid in snow.]
And synnes ye have heard all mine intent,
I pray you to my wille ye assent.
A full great fool is any counsellor
That serveth any lord of high honour,
That dare presume, or once thinken it,
That his counsel should pass his lordes wit.
Nay lordes be no fooles by my fay.
Ye have yourself y-spoken here to-day
So high sentence, so holy, and so well,
That I consent, and confirm every dole
Your wordes all, and your opinion.]
He portrayed in his heart, and in his thought
Her fresche beauty, and her age tender,
Her middle small, her armes long and slender,
Her wise governance, her gentilnesse
Her womanly bearing, and her sadnesse.--BOWLES.]
For when that he himself concluded had,
He thought each other mannes wit so bad,
That impossible it were to replie
Against his choice; this was his fantasie.]
Placebo came, and eke his friendes soon,
And althirfirst he bad them all a boon,
That none of them no argumentes make
Against the purpose which that he had take;
Which purpose was pleasaunt to God said he,
And very ground of his prosperite.]
All were it so she were of small degree,
Sufficeth him her youth and her beaute.]
As alle wedded men do with their wives,
and trembles to think that he shall have his heaven upon earth.
This is my dread, and ye my brethren twey
Assoileth me this question I you pray.]
And when they saw that it must needis be,
They wroughten so by sleight and wise treate,
That she, this maiden, which that Maybus hight,
As hastily as ever that she might,
Shall wedded be unto this January.]
For women to the brave an easy prey,
Still follow fortune where she leads the way.]
I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array.]
omitted:
Expensive dainties load the plenteous boards,
The best luxurious Italy affords.]
What thoughts he had beseems me not to say.]
The slacke skin about his necke shaketh
While that he sung.]
As custom is unto these nobles all,
A bride shall not eaten in the hall,
Till dayes four, or three days atte least
I-passed be; then let her go to the feast.
The fourthe day complete from noon to noon,
When that the highe masse was i-doon,
In halle sit this January and May,
As fresh as is the brighte summer's day.]
This gentle May fulfilled of pite,
Right of her hand a letter maked she;
In which she granteth him her very grace;
There lacked nought but only day and place.
And when she saw her time upon a day
To visite this Damian goeth May,
And subtilely this letter down she thrust
Under his pillow; read it if him lust.
She taketh him by the hand, and hard him twist
So secretly, that no wight of it wist,
And bade him be all whole; and forth she went
To January, when that he for her sent.
Up riseth Damian the nexte morrow;
All passed was his sickness and his sorrow.]
My humbler verse demands a softer theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling stream.]
The king of elfs, and little fairy queen
Gambolled on heaths, and danced on ev'ry green.]
Thus many a day with ease and plenty blessed
Our gen'rous knight his gentle dame possessed.]
Nor art, nor nature's band can ease my grief,
Nothing but death, the wretch's last relief.]
But atte last, after a month or tweye,
His sorrow gan assuage sooth to say;
For when he wist it may not other be
He patiently took his adversitie.
This is one of the deeper and more solemn touches which Pope
Oh! January, what might it thee avail
If thou might see as far as shippes sail?
For as good is blind deceived be,
As to be deceived when a man may see.]
Their kisses greet
The senseless stones, with lips that could not meet.]
Thou art the creature that I best love;
For by the Lord that sit in heaven above,
Lever I had to dyen on a knife.
Than thee offende, deare, trewe wife.]
And with that word she saw where Damyan
Sat in the bush, and coughing, she began;
And with her fingers signes made she,
That Damyan should climb upon a tree,
That charged was with fruit, and up he went,
For verily he knew all her intent;
For in a letter she had told him all
Of this mattier, how he worke shall.]
He saw a choir of ladies in a round,
That featly footing seemed to skim the ground:
Thus dancing hand in hand, so light they were,
He knew not where they trod, on earth or air.]
Now by my mother Ceres' soul, I swear
That I shall give her suffisaunt answere,
And alle women after for her sake;
That though they be in any guilt i-take,
With face bold they shall themselves excuse,
And bear them down that woulde them accuse.
For lack of answer none of them shall dyen.
All had ye seen a thing with both your eyen,
Yet shall we women visage it hardily,
And weep, and swear, and chide subtilely.]
Found of us women fooles many one;
But though he be founde no good woman,
Yet hath there founde many another man
Women full true, full good, and vertuous;
Witness on them that dwell in Christes house;
With martyrdom they proved their constaunce.]
Dame, quoth this Pluto, be no longer wroth,
I give it up; but since I swore mine oath,
That I will grante him his sight again,
My word shall stand, I warne you certain;
I am a king it sit me not to lie.
And I, quoth she, am queen of faierie.
Her answer shall she have I undertake,
Let us no more wordes hereof make.]
I tell you well, a woman in my plight
May have to fruit so great an appetite,
That she may dyen, but she it have.]
published under the name of Betterton.--WARTON.
The imitations of Chaucer's January and May, and Wife of Bath's
testimonies to her cleverness and power. She has no compunctious
satire.
Behold the woes of matrimonial life,
And hear with rev'rence an experienced wife;
To dear-bought wisdom give the credit due,
And think for once, a woman tells you true.
In all these trials I have borne a part,
I was myself the scourge that caused the smart;
For, since fifteen, in triumph have I led
Five captive husbands from the church to bed.
Christ saw a wedding once, the Scripture says,
And saw but one, 'tis thought, in all his days;
Whence some infer, whose conscience is too nice,
No pious Christian ought to marry twice.
But let them read, and solve me, if they can,
The words addressed to the Samaritan:
Five times in lawful wedlock she was joined;
And sure the certain stint was ne'er defined.
"Encrease and multiply," was heav'n's command,
And that's a text I clearly understand.
This too, "Let men their sires and mothers leave,
And to their dearer wives for ever cleave."
More wives than one by Solomon were tried,
Or else the wisest of mankind's belied.
I've had myself full many a merry fit;
And trust in heav'n I may have many yet.
For when my transitory spouse, unkind,          }
Shall die, and leave his woeful wife behind,    }
I'll take the next good Christian I can find.   }
Paul, knowing one could never serve our turn,
Declared 'twas better far to wed than burn.
There's danger in assembling fire and tow;
I grant 'em that, and what it means you know.
The same apostle too has elsewhere owned,
No precept for virginity he found:
'Tis but a counsel, and we women still
Take which we like, the counsel, or our will.
I envy not their bliss, if he or she
Think fit to live in perfect chastity;
Pure let them be, and free from taint or vice;
I, for a few slight spots, am not so nice.
Heav'n calls us diff'rent ways, on these bestows
One proper gift, another grants to those:
Not ev'ry man's obliged to sell his store,
And give up all his substance to the poor;
Such as are perfect, may, I can't deny;
But, by your leaves, divines, so am not I.
Full many a saint, since first the world began,
Lived an unspotted maid, in spite of man:
Let such (a God's name) with fine wheat be fed,
And let us honest wives eat barley bread.
For me, I'll keep the post assigned by heav'n,
And use the copious talent it has giv'n:
Let my good spouse pay tribute, do me right,
And keep an equal reck'ning ev'ry night:
His proper body is not his, but mine;
For so said Paul, and Paul's a sound divine.
Know then, of those five husbands I have had,
Three were just tolerable, two were bad.
The three were old, but rich and fond beside,
And toiled most piteously to please their bride:
But since their wealth, the best they had, was mine,
The rest, without much loss, I could resign.
Sure to be loved, I took no pains to please,
Yet had more pleasure far than they had ease.
Presents flowed in apace: with show'rs of gold,
They made their court, like Jupiter of old.
If I but smiled, a sudden youth they found,
And a new palsy seized them when I frowned.
Ye sov'reign wives! give ear, and understand,
Thus shall ye speak, and exercise command.
For never was it giv'n to mortal man,
To lie so boldly as we women can:
Forswear the fact, though seen with both his eyes,
And call your maids to witness how he lies.
Hark, old Sir Paul, 'twas thus I us'd to say,
Whence is our neighbour's wife so rich and gay?
Treated, caressed, where'er she's pleased to roam--
I sit in tatters, and immured at home.
Why to her house dost thou so oft repair?
Art thou so am'rous? and is she so fair?
If I but see a cousin or a friend,
Lord! how you swell, and rage like any fiend!
But you reel home, a drunken beastly bear,
Then preach till midnight in your easy chair;
Cry, wives are false, and ev'ry woman evil,
And give up all that's female to the devil.
If poor, you say she drains her husband's purse;
If rich, she keeps her priest, or something worse;
If highly born, intolerably vain,
Vapours and pride by turns possess her brain,
Now gayly mad, now sourly splenetic,
Freakish when well, and fretful when she's sick.
If fair, then chaste she cannot long abide,
By pressing youth attacked on ev'ry side:
If foul, her wealth the lusty lover lures,
Or else her wit some fool-gallant procures,
Or else she dances with becoming grace,
Or shape excuses the defects of face.
There swims no goose so grey, but soon or late,
She finds some honest gander for her mate.
Horses, thou say'st, and asses men may try,
And ring suspected vessels ere they buy:
But wives, a random choice, untried they take,
They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake;
Then, nor till then, the veil's removed away,
And all the woman glares in open day.
You tell me, to preserve your wife's good grace,
Your eyes must always languish on my face,
Your tongue with constant flatt'ries feed my ear,
And tag each sentence with, My life! my dear!
If, by strange chance, a modest blush be raised,
Be sure my fine complexion must be praised.
My garments always must be new and gay,
And feasts still kept upon my wedding-day.
Then must my nurse be pleased, and fav'rite maid:
And endless treats, and endless visits paid,
To a long train of kindred, friends, allies;
All this thou say'st, and all thou say'st, are lies.
On Jenkin too you cast a squinting eye:
What! can your 'prentice raise your jealousy?
Fresh are his ruddy cheeks, his forehead fair;
And like the burnished gold his curling hair.
But clear thy wrinkled brow, and quit thy sorrow,
I'd scorn your 'prentice, should you die to-morrow.
Why are thy chests all locked? on what design?
Are not thy worldly goods and treasures mine?
Sir, I'm no fool; nor shall you, by St. John,
Have goods and body to yourself alone.
One you shall quit, in spite of both your eyes;
I heed not, I, the bolts, the locks, the spies.
If you had wit, you'd say, "Go where you will,
Dear spouse, I credit not the tales they tell;
Take all the freedoms of a married life;
I know thee for a virtuous, faithful wife."
Lord! when you have enough, what need you care
How merrily soever others fare?
Though all the day I give and take delight,
Doubt not, sufficient will be left at night.
'Tis but a just and rational desire,
To light a taper at a neighbour's fire.
There's danger too, you think, in rich array,
And none can long be modest that are gay:
The cat, if you but singe her tabby skin,
The chimney keeps, and sits content within;
But once grown sleek, will from her corner run,
Sport with her tail, and wanton in the sun;
She licks her fair round face, and frisks abroad,
To show her fur, and to be catterwawed.
Lo thus, my friends, I wrought to my desires
These three right ancient venerable sires.
I told 'em, Thus you say, and thus you do,
And told 'em false, but Jenkin swore 'twas true.
I, like a dog, could bite as well as whine,
And first complained, whene'er the guilt was mine.
I taxed them oft with wenching and amours,
When their weak legs scarce dragged 'em out of doors;
And swore the rambles that I took by night,
Were all to spy what damsels they bedight.
That colour brought me many hours of mirth;
For all this wit is given us from our birth;
Heav'n gave to woman the peculiar grace,
To spin, to weep, and cully human race.
By this nice conduct, and this prudent course,
By murm'ring, wheedling, stratagem, and force,
I still prevailed, and would be in the right,
Or curtain lectures made a restless night.
If once my husband's arm was o'er my side,
What! so familiar with your spouse? I cried:
I levied first a tax upon his need:
Then let him--'twas a nicety indeed!
Let all mankind this certain maxim hold,
Marry who will, our sex is to be sold.
With empty hands no tassels you can lure,
But fulsome love for gain we can endure;
For gold we love the impotent and old,
And heave, and pant, and kiss, and cling, for gold.
Yet with embraces, curses oft I've mixed,
Then kissed again, and chid, and railed betwixt.
Well, I may make my will in peace, and die,
For not one word in man's arrears am I.
To drop a dear dispute I was unable,
Ev'n though the Pope himself had sat at table.
But when my point was gained, then thus I spoke,
"Billy, my dear, how sheepishly you look?
Approach, my spouse, and let me kiss thy cheek;
Thou should'st be always thus resigned and meek!
Of Job's great patience since so oft you preach,
Well should you practise, who so well can teach.
'Tis difficult to do, I must allow,
But I, my dearest, will instruct you how.
Great is the blessing of a prudent wife,
Who puts a period to domestic strife.
One of us two must rule, and one obey;           }
And since in man right reason bears the sway,    }
Let that frail thing, weak woman, have her way.  }
The wives of all my family have ruled
Their tender husbands, and their passions cooled.
Fye, 'tis unmanly thus to sigh and groan;
What! would you have me to yourself alone?
Why take me, love! take all and ev'ry part!
Here's your revenge! you love it at your heart.
Would I vouchsafe to sell what nature gave,
You little think what custom I could have.
But see! I'm all your own--nay hold--for shame!
What means my dear--indeed--you are to blame."
Thus with my first three lords I passed my life;
A very woman, and a very wife.
What sums from these old spouses I could raise,
Procured young husbands in my riper days.
Though past my bloom, not yet decayed was I,
Wanton and wild, and chattered like a pye.
In country dances still I bore the bell.
And sung as sweet as ev'ning Philomel.
To clear my quail-pipe, and refresh my soul,
Full oft I drained the spicy nut-brown bowl;
Rich luscious wines, that youthful blood improve,
And warm the swelling veins to feats of love:
For 'tis as sure as cold ingenders hail,
A liqu'rish mouth must have a lech'rous tail;
Wine lets no lover unrewarded go,
As all true gamesters by experience know.
But oh, good gods! whene'er a thought I cast
On all the joys of youth and beauty past,
To find in pleasures I have had my part,
Still warms me to the bottom of my heart.
This wicked world was once my dear delight;
Now all my conquests, all my charms, good night!
The flour consumed, the best that now I can,
Is e'en to make my market of the bran.
My fourth dear spouse was not exceeding true!
He kept, 'twas thought, a private miss or two:
But all that score I paid--as how? you'll say,
Not with my body, in a filthy way:
But I so dressed, and danced, and drank, and dined;
And viewed a friend, with eyes so very kind,
As stung his heart, and made his marrow fry,
With burning rage, and frantic jealousy.
His soul, I hope, enjoys eternal glory,
For here on earth I was his purgatory.
Oft, when his shoe the most severely wrung,
He put on careless airs, and sat and sung.
How sore I galled him, only heav'n could know,
And he that felt, and I that caused the woe.
He died, when last from pilgrimage I came,
With other gossips, from Jerusalem;
And now lies buried underneath a rood,
Fair to be seen, and reared of honest wood.
A tomb indeed, with fewer sculptures graced,
Than that Mausolus' pious widow placed,
Or where inshrined the great Darius lay;
But cost on graves is merely thrown away.
The pit filled up, with turf we covered o'er;
So bless the good man's soul, I say no more.
Now for my fifth loved lord, the last and best;
(Kind heav'n afford him everlasting rest)
Full hearty was his love, and I can shew
The tokens on my ribs in black and blue;
Yet, with a knack, my heart he could have won,
While yet the smart was shooting in the bone.
How quaint an appetite in woman reigns!
Free gifts we scorn, and love what costs us pains:
Let men avoid us, and on them we leap;
A glutted market makes provision cheap.
In pure good will I took this jovial spark,
Of Oxford he, a most egregious clerk.
He boarded with a widow in the town,
A trusty gossip, one dame Alison.
Full well the secrets of my soul she knew,
Better than e'er our parish priest could do.
To her I told whatever could befall:
Had but my husband pissed against a wall,
Or done a thing that might have cost his life,
She, and my niece, and one more worthy wife,
Had known it all: what most he would conceal,
To these I made no scruple to reveal.
Oft has he blushed from ear to ear for shame,
That e'er he told a secret to his dame.
It so befel, in holy time of Lent,
That oft a day I to this gossip went;
(My husband, thank my stars, was out of town)
From house to house we rambled up and down,
This clerk, myself, and my good neighbour Alse,
To see, be seen, to tell, and gather tales.
Visits to ev'ry church we daily paid,
And marched in every holy masquerade,
The stations duly, and the vigils kept;
Not much we fasted, but scarce ever slept.
At sermons too I shone in scarlet gay,         }
The wasting moth ne'er spoiled my best array;  }
The cause was this, I wore it ev'ry day.       }
'Twas when fresh May her early blossoms yields,
This clerk and I were walking in the fields.
We grew so intimate, I can't tell how,
I pawned my honour, and engaged my vow,
If e'er I laid my husband in his urn,
That he, and only he, should serve my turn.
We straight struck hands, the bargain was agreed;
I still have shifts against a time of need:
The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole,
Can never be a mouse of any soul.
I vowed, I scarce could sleep since first I knew him,
And durst be sworn he had bewitched me to him;
If e'er I slept, I dreamed of him alone,                }
And dreams foretell, as learned men have shown:         }
All this I said; but dreams, sirs, I had none:          }
I followed but my crafty crony's lore,
Who bid me tell this lie, and twenty more.
Thus day by day, and month by month we passed;
It pleased the Lord to take my spouse at last.
I tore my gown, I soiled my locks with dust,
And beat my breasts, as wretched widows must.
Before my face my handkerchief I spread,
To hide the flood of tears I did not shed.
The good man's coffin to the church was borne;
Around, the neighbours, and my clerk too, mourn.
But as he marched, good gods! he showed a pair
Of legs and feet, so clean, so strong, so fair!
Of twenty winters' age he seemed to be;
I, to say truth, was twenty more than he;
But vig'rous still, a lively buxom dame;
And had a wond'rous gift to quench a flame.
A conj'ror once, that deeply could divine,
Assured me, Mars in Taurus was my sign.
As the stars ordered, such my life has been:
Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!
Fair Venus gave me fire, and sprightly grace,
And Mars assurance, and a dauntless face.
By virtue of this pow'rful constellation,
I followed, always, my own inclination.
But to my tale: A month scarce passed away,
With dance and song, we kept the nuptial day.
All I possessed I gave to his command,
My goods and chattels, money, house, and land:
But oft repented, and repent it still;
He proved a rebel to my sov'reign will:
Nay, once, by heav'n! he struck me on the face;
Hear but the fact, and judge, yourselves, the case.
Stubborn as any lioness was I,
And knew full well to raise my voice on high;
As true a rambler as I was before,
And would be so, in spite of all he swore.
He, against this, right sagely would advise,
And old examples set before my eyes;
Tell, how the Roman matrons led their life,
Of Gracchus' mother, and Duilius' wife;
And close the sermon, as beseemed his wit,
With some grave sentence out of Holy Writ.
Oft would he say, who builds his house on sands,
Pricks his blind horse across the fallow lands,
Or lets his wife abroad with pilgrims roam,
Deserves a fool's-cap, and long ears at home.
All this availed not; for, whoe'er he be
That tells my faults, I hate him mortally:
And so do numbers more, I'll boldly say,
Men, women, clergy, regular and lay.
My spouse, who was, you know, to learning bred,
A certain treatise, oft, at evening, read,
Where divers authors, whom the devil confound
For all their lies, were in one volume bound.
Valerius, whole; and of St. Jerome, part;
Chrysippus and Tertullian; Ovid's Art,
Solomon's Proverbs, Eloisa's loves,
And many more than sure the church approves.
More legends were there, here, of wicked wives,
Than good, in all the Bible and saints' lives.
Who drew the lion vanquished? 'Twas a man.
But could we women write as scholars can,
Men should stand marked with far more wickedness
Than all the sons of Adam could redress.
Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies,
And Venus sets, ere Mercury can rise.
Those play the scholars who can't play the men,
And use that weapon which they have, their pen;
When old and past the relish of delight,
Then down they sit, and in their dotage write,
That not one woman keeps her marriage vow.
This by the way, but to my purpose now.
It chanced my husband, on a winter's night,
Read in this book, aloud, with strange delight,
How the first female, as the Scriptures show,
Brought her own spouse and all his race to woe:
How Sampson fell; and he, whom Dejanire
Wrapp'd in th' envenomed shirt, and set on fire:
How cursed Eryphile her lord betrayed,
And the dire ambush Clytemnestra laid:
But what most pleased him was the Cretan dame,
And husband-bull--oh monstrous! fie for shame!
He had by heart, the whole detail of woe,
Xantippe made her good man undergo;
How oft she scolded in a day, he knew,
How many piss-pots on the sage she threw;
Who took it patiently, and wiped his head;
"Rain follows thunder," that was all he said.
He read how Arius to his friend complained,
A fatal tree was growing in his land,
On which three wives successively had twined
A sliding noose, and wavered in the wind.
Where grows this plant, replied the friend, oh! where?
For better fruit did never orchard bear;
Give me some slip of this most blissful tree,
And, in my garden, planted shall it be.
Then, how two wives their lords' destruction prove,
Through hatred one, and one through too much love;
That for her husband mixed a pois'nous draught,
And this, for lust, an am'rous philtre bought:
The nimble juice soon seized his giddy head,
Frantic at night, and in the morning dead.
How some, with swords, their sleeping lords have slain,
And some have hammered nails into their brain,
And some have drenched them with a deadly potion;
All this he read, and read with great devotion.
Long time I heard, and swelled, and blushed, and frowned;
But when no end of these vile tales I found,
When still he read, and laughed, and read again,
And half the night was thus consumed in vain;
Provoked to vengeance, three large leaves I tore,
And, with one buffet, felled him on the floor.
With that, my husband in a fury rose,
And down he settled me, with hearty blows.
I groaned, and lay extended on my side;
Oh! thou hast slain me for my wealth, I cried,
Yet I forgive thee--take my last embrace--
He wept, kind soul! and stooped to kiss my face;
I took him such a box as turned him blue,
Then sighed and cried, Adieu, my dear, adieu!
But, after many a hearty struggle past,
I condescended to be pleased at last.
Soon as he said, My mistress and my wife,
Do what you list, the term of all your life,
I took to heart the merits of the cause,
And stood content to rule by wholesome laws;
Received the reins of absolute command,           }
With all the government of house and land,        }
And empire o'er his tongue, and o'er his hand.    }
As for the volume that reviled the dames,
'Twas torn to fragments, and condemned to flames.
Now heav'n, on all my husbands gone, bestow
Pleasures above, for tortures felt below:
That rest they wished for, grant them in the grave,
And bless those souls my conduct helped to save!
When my husband is from the world i-gone,
Some Christian man shall wedde me anon.]
Beside a welle Jesus, God and man,
Spake in reproof of the Samaritan:
"Thou hast i-had five husbandes," quoth he,
"And that ilk-man, which that now hath thee
Is not thine husband." Thus he said certain;
What that he meant thereby I cannot sayn,
But that I axe why the fithe man
Was not husband to the Samaritan?
Abide, quoth she, my tale is not begun.
Nay, thou shalt drinke of another tun
Ere that I go, shall savour worse than ale.
And when that I have told thee forth my tale
Of tribulation in marriage,
Of which I am expert in all my age,
That is to say, myself hath been the whip,
Then might thou choose whether thou wilt sip
Of thilke tunne that I shall abroach:
Beware of it ere thou too nigh approach.
I shall say sooth of husbands that I had,
As three of them were good, and two were bad.
And all were worthy men in their degree.
Now for my fifth loved lord, the last and _best_,
indifference.]
Me needeth not no longer doon diligence
To win their love, or do them reverence.
They loved me so well, high God above!
That I tolde no deynte of their love.
A wise woman will busy her ever in one
To gete her love, there she hath none.
But synnes I had them wholly in my hand
And synnes they had me given all their land,
What should I take keep them for to please
But it were for my profit or mine ease?
Ye wise wives that can understand
Thus should ye speak, and bear them wrong in hand;
For half so boldely can there no man
Swere and lie as a woman can.
intersperses her repetition of his objurgations with abusive and
Or elles I had often time been spilt.
The poor man thus suddenly assailed stood upon the defensive,
youthful friends.
Under that colour had I many a mirth.
For all such wit is given us of birth;
Deceipt, weeping, spinning, God hath give
To women kindely while they may live.
And thus of one thing I avaunte me,
At th' end I had the bet in each degree,
By sleight or force, or of some maner thing,
As by continual murmur or chiding.
"Kindely" is by nature.]
With empty hand men may no hawkes lure.
O for a falconer's voice
To lure this tassel-gentle back again.
That made me that ever I would them chide.
For though the pope had seten them beside,
I nold not spare them at their owne board,
For, by my troth, I quit them word for word.
As help me very God omnipotent,
Though I right now should make my testament,
I owe them nought a word, that it nis quit;
I brought it so aboute by my wit,
That they must give it up, as for the best,
Or elles had we never been in rest.
For though he looked as a grim lion,
Yet should he fail of his conclusion.
Ev'n Jove is thwarted by his haughty wife,
Still vanquished yet she still renews the strife.]
And I was young, and full of ragerie,
Stubborn and strong and jolly as a pye.]
The flour is gone, there nis no more to tell,
The bran as I best can, now must I sell.]
I made him of the same wood a cross.
Not of my body in no foul manere;
But certainly I made folk such cheer,
That in his owne grease I made him fry
For anger and for very jealousy.
By God, in earth I was his purgatory,
For which I hope his soule be in glory.
For God it wot, he sat full still and sung,
When that his shoe full bitterly him wrung.
There was no wight save God and he that wist
In many wyse how sore I him twist.
crushing retort.]
And thrice had she been at Jerusalem;
She hadde passed many a strange stream;
At Rome she hadde been, and at Boulogne,
I trow I loved him beste for that he
Was of his love daungerous to me.
We women have, if that I shall not lie,
In this matter a queynte fantasy.
Wayte, what thing we may not lightly have,
Thereafter will we soonest cry and crave.
Forbid us thing, and that desire we;
Press on us fast, and thenne will we flee.
With danger outen alle we our ware;
Great press at market maketh dear chaffare.
all the land and fee
That ever was me give therebefore;
But afterward repented me full sore.
He some time was a clerk of Oxenford,
And had left school, and went at home to board,
With my gossib, duelling in our town:
God have her soul, her name was Alisoun.
what wist I where my grace
Was shapen for to be, or in what place?
Now will I telle forth what happed me.
I say that in the fieldes walked we
Till truely we had such dalliance
This clerk and I, that of my purveyance
I spake to him, and saide how that he
If I were widdow, shoulde wedde me.
For certainly I say for no bobaunce,
Yet was I never withouten purveyance
Of mariage, ne or no thinges eke;
I hold a mouse's heart not worth a leek,
That hath but oon hole to sterte to,
And if that faile then is all i-do.
He is now in his grave and in his chest.]
I followed ay my dames lore,
As well of that as of other thinges more.]
When that my fourthe husband was on bier,
I wept algate, and made a sorry cheer,
As wives musten for it is usage;
And with my kerchief covered my visage;
But, for that I was purveyed of a mate,
I wept but small, and that I undertake.
When that I saw him go
After the bier, methought he had a pair
Of legges and of feet so clean and fair
That all my heart I gave unto his hold.]
He had a book that gladly night and day,
For his desport he woulde read alway.
After describing the contents of the book the wife of Bath adds,
And alle these were bound in one volume;
And every night and day was his custume,
When he had leisure and vacatioun
From other worldes occupation,
To reden in this book of wicked wives.
Ne I would not of him corrected be;
I hate him that my vices telleth me.
And eke there was a clerk sometime in Rome
A _cardinal,_ that highten St. Jerome.--WARTON.]
Who painted the lion, tell me, who?
and with an oath she adds,
If women hadde written stories,
As clerkes have within their oratories,
They would have writ of men more wickedness,
Than all the mark of Adam may redress.
translation of Ovid:
Her sisters often, as 'tis said, would cry
Fie, Salmacis, what always idle, fie:]
Therefore no woman is of clerkes praised.]
How Sampson's heart false Delilah did move,
His strength, his sight, his life were lost for love.
Then how Aleides died whom Dejanire, &c.]
The woe that in mine hearte was and pine?
And when I saw he nolde never fine
To reden on this cursed book all night,
All suddenly three leaves have I plight
Out of this booke that he had, and eke
I with my fist so took him on the cheek,
That in our fire he fell backward adown.
And he upstert as doth a wood leoun,
And with his fist he smote me on the head
That in the floor I lay as I were dead.
And when he saw so stille that I lay
He was aghast, and would have fled away.
Till atte last out of my swoon I braide;
O hastow slain me, false thief I said,
And for my land thus hastow murdered me?
Ere I be dead, yet will I kisse thee.
And near he came, and kneeleth fairadown,
And saide, Deare sister Alisoun,
As help me God, I shall thee never smite;
That I have done it is thyself to wite;
Forgive it me, and that I thee beseke;
And yet oftsoon I hit him on the cheek,
And saide, Thief thus muchel I me wreke
Now will I die, I may no longer speak.
But atte last, with muchel care and woe
We fell accorded by ourselven two;
He gave me all the bridle in mine hand
To have the governance of house and land,
And of his tongue, and of his hand also,
And made him burn his book anon right tho.
God help me so, I was to him as kind
As any wife from Denmark unto Inde.
By Mr. POPE.
notes.
conduct, than any Dryden has made of the same author.
Chaucer's poem contains great strokes of Gothic imagination, yet
principles so professedly romantic and anomalous, is like giving
Corinthian pillars to a Gothic palace. When I read Pope's elegant
Little can be added to T. Warton's masterly appreciation of the
The Muses raise
The golden trumpet of eternal praise.
To his mouth
And blew it east, and west, and south,
And north, as loud as any thunder,
productions of the author, displaying a fertile invention and an
Chaucer's House of Fame is adorned with statues
Of all manner of minstrales,
And gestours that tellen tales
Both of weeping and of game.
Ever alike fair and fresh of hue,
And I love it, and ever alike new,
And ever shall till that mine hearte die.
These traits present a charming picture of the man, and they are
It was of gold, and shone so bright
That never saw men such a sight,
But if the heaven had ywon
All new of God another sun.
translation. "I should have sat down to it," he said, "with this
admiration of tyrannicides even led him to celebrate Timoleon for
twenty-two. He did not publish it till 1715, and between his
advertisement.]
In that soft season, when descending show'rs
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs;
When opening buds salute the welcome day,
And earth relenting feels the genial ray;
As balmy sleep had charmed my cares to rest,
And love itself was banished from my breast,
(What time the morn mysterious visions brings,
While purer slumbers spread their golden wings)
A train of phantoms in wild order rose,
And joined, this intellectual scene compose.
I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies;
The whole creation open to my eyes:
In air self-balanced hung the globe below,
Where mountains rise, and circling oceans flow;
Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen,
There tow'ry cities, and the forests green;
Here sailing ships delight the wand'ring eyes;
There trees, and intermingled temples rise:
Now a clear sun the shining scene displays;
The transient landscape now in clouds decays.
O'er the wide prospect as I gazed around,
Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound,
Like broken thunders that at distance roar,
Or billows murm'ring on the hollow shore:
Then, gazing up, a glorious pile beheld,
Whose tow'ring summit ambient clouds concealed.
High on a rock of ice the structure lay,
Steep its ascent, and slipp'ry was the way;
The wondrous rock like Parian marble shone,
And seemed, to distant sight, of solid stone.
Inscriptions here of various names I viewed,
The greater part by hostile time subdued;
Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,
And poets once had promised they should last.
Some fresh engraved appeared of wits renowned;
I looked again, nor could their trace be found.
Critics I saw, that other names deface,
And fix their own, with labour, in their place:
Their own, like others, soon their place resigned,
Or disappeared, and left the first behind.
Nor was the work impaired by storms alone,
But felt th' approaches of too warm a sun;
For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays
Not more by envy than excess of praise.
Yet part no injuries of heav'n could feel,
Like crystal faithful to the graving steel:
The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade,
Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade.
Their names inscribed unnumbered ages past
From time's first birth, with time itself shall last;
These ever new, nor subject to decays,
Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days.
So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of frost)
Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast;
Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away,
And on th' impassive ice the lightnings play;
Eternal snows the growing mass supply,
Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent sky:
As Atlas fixed, each hoary pile appears,
The gathered winter of a thousand years.
On this foundation Fame's high temple stands;
Stupendous pile! not reared by mortal hands.
Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld,
Or elder Babylon, its frame excelled.
Four faces had the dome, and ev'ry face
Of various structure, but of equal grace:
Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high,
Salute the diff'rent quarters of the sky.
Here fabled chiefs in darker ages born,
Or worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn,
Who cities raised, or tamed a monstrous race,
The walls in venerable order grace.
Heroes in animated marble frown,
And legislators seem to think in stone.
Westward, a sumptuous frontispiece appeared,
On Doric pillars of white marble reared,
Crowned with an architrave of antique mold,
And sculpture rising on the roughened gold,
In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld,
And Perseus dreadful with Minerva's shield:
There great Alcides stooping with his toil,
Rests on his club, and holds th' Hesperian spoil.
Here Orpheus sings; trees moving to the sound
Start from their roots, and form a shade around:
Amphion there the loud-creating lyre
Strikes, and beholds a sudden Thebes aspire!
Cithaeron's echoes answer to his call,
And half the mountain rolls into a wall:
There might you see the length'ning spires ascend,
The domes swell up, the widening arches bend,
The growing tow'rs like exhalations rise,
And the huge columns heave into the skies.
The Eastern front was glorious to behold,
With di'mond flaming and barbaric gold.
There Ninus shone, who spread th' Assyrian fame,
And the great founder of the Persian name:
There in long robes the royal Magi stand,
Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand,
The sage Chaldaeans, robed in white, appeared,
And Brachmans, deep in desert woods revered.
These stopped the moon, and called th' unbodied shades
To midnight banquets in the glimm'ring glades;
Made visionary fabrics round them rise,
And airy spectres skim before their eyes;
Of talismans and sigils knew the pow'r,
And careful watched the planetary hour.
Superior, and alone, Confucius stood,
Who taught that useful science, to be good.
But on the South, a long majestic race
Who measured earth, described the starry spheres,
And traced the long records of lunar years.
High on his car, Sesostris struck my view,
Whom sceptered slaves in golden harness drew:
His hands a bow and pointed jav'lin hold;
His giant limbs are armed in scales of gold.
Between the statues obelisks were placed,
And the learn'd walls with hieroglyphics graced.
Of Gothic structure was the Northern side,
O'erwrought with ornaments of barb'rous pride:
There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crowned,
And Runic characters were graved around.
There sat Zamolxis with erected eyes,
And Odin here in mimic trances dies.
There on rude iron columns, smeared with blood,
The horrid forms of Scythian heroes stood,
Druids and bards (their once loud harps unstrung),
And youths that died to be by poets sung.
These, and a thousand more, of doubtful fame,
To whom old fables gave a lasting name,
In ranks adorned the temple's outward face;
The wall in lustre and effect like glass,
Which o'er each object casting various dyes,
Enlarges some, and others multiplies:
Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall,
For thus romantic Fame increases all.
The temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold,
Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold:
Raised on a thousand pillars, wreathed around
With laurel-foliage, and with eagles crowned:
Of bright transparent beryl were the walls,
The friezes gold, and gold the capitals:
And ever-living lamps depend in rows.
Full in the passage of each spacious gate,
The sage historians in white garments wait;
Graved o'er their seats the form of Time was found,
His scythe reversed, and both his pinions bound.
Within stood heroes, who through loud alarms
In bloody fields pursued renown in arms.
High on a throne with trophies charged, I viewed
The youth that all things but himself subdued;
His feet on sceptres and tiaras trod,
And his horned head belied the Libyan god.
There Caesar, graced with both Minervas, shone;
Caesar, the world's great master, and his own;
Unmoved, superior still in ev'ry state,
And scarce detested in his country's fate.
But chief were those, who not for empire fought,
But with their toils their people's safety bought:
High o'er the rest Epaminondas stood;
Timoleon, glorious in his brother's blood;
Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state;
Great in his triumphs, in retirement great;
And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind,     }
With boundless pow'r, unbounded virtue joined,    }
His own strict judge, and patron of mankind,  }
Much-suff'ring heroes next their honours claim,
Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame,
Fair Virtue's silent train: supreme of these
Here ever shines the godlike Socrates:
He whom ungrateful Athens could expel,
At all times just, but when he signed the shell:
Here his abode the martyred Phocion claims,
With Agis, not the last of Spartan names:
Unconquered Cato shows the wound he tore,
And Brutus his ill Genius meets no more.
But in the centre of the hallowed choir,
Six pompous columns o'er the rest aspire;
Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand,
Hold the chief honours, and the fane command.
High on the first, the mighty Homer shone;
Eternal adamant composed his throne;
Father of verse! in holy fillets drest,
His silver beard waved gently o'er his breast;
Though blind, a boldness in his looks appears;
In years he seemed, but not impaired by years.
The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen:
Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian queen;
Here Hector, glorious from Patroclus' fall,
Here dragged in triumph round the Trojan wall:
Motion and life did ev'ry part inspire,
Bold was the work, and proved the master's fire;
A strong expression most he seemed t' affect,
And here and there disclosed a brave neglect.
A golden column next in rank appear'd,
On which a shrine of purest gold was rear'd;
Finished the whole, and laboured ev'ry part,
With patient touches of unwearied art:
The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate,
Composed his posture, and his looks sedate;
On Homer still he fixed a rev'rent eye,
Great without pride, in modest majesty.
In living sculpture on the sides were spread
The Latian wars, and haughty Turnus dead;
Eliza stretched upon the fun'ral pyre,
AEneas bending with his aged sire:
Troy flamed in burning gold, and o'er the throne
"Arms and the man" in golden ciphers shone.
Four swans sustain a car of silver bright,
With heads advanced, and pinions stretched for flight:
Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode,
And seem'd to labour with th' inspiring god.
Across the harp a careless hand he flings,
And boldly sinks into the sounding strings.
The figured games of Greece the column grace,
Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race.
The youths hang o'er the chariots as they run;
The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone;
The champions in distorted postures threat,
And all appeared irregularly great.
Here happy Horace tuned th' Ausonian lyre
To sweeter sounds, and tempered Pindar's fire:
Pleased with Aleaeus' manly rage t'infuse
The softer spirit of the Sapphic muse.
The polished pillar diff'rent sculptures grace;
A work outlasting monumental brass.
Here smiling loves and bacchanals appear,
The Julian star, and great Augustus here.
The doves that round the infant poet spread
Myrtles and bays, hung hov'ring o'er his head.
Here in a shrine that cast a dazzling light,
Sat fixed in thought the mighty Stagirite;
His sacred head a radiant zodiac crowned,
And various animals his sides surround;
His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view
Superior worlds, and look all nature through.
With equal rays immortal Tully shone,
The Roman rostra decked the consul's throne:
Gath'ring his flowing robe, he seemed to stand
In act to speak, and graceful stretched his hand.
Behind, Rome's genius waits with civic crowns,
And the great father of his country owns.
These massy columns in a circle rise,
O'er which a pompous dome invades the skies:
Scarce to the top I stretched my aching sight,
So large it spread, and swelled to such a height.
Full in the midst proud Fame's imperial seat
The vivid em'ralds there revive the eye,
The flaming rubies show their sanguine dye,
Bright azure rays from lively sapphires stream,
And lucid amber casts a golden gleam.
With various-coloured light the pavement shone,
And all on fire appeared the glowing throne;
The dome's high arch reflects the mingled blaze,
And forms a rainbow of alternate rays.
When on the goddess first I cast my sight,
Scarce seemed her stature of a cubit's height;
But swelled to larger size, the more I gazed,
Till to the roof her tow'ring front she raised.
With her, the temple ev'ry moment grew,
And ampler vistas opened to my view:
Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend,
And arches widen, and long aisles extend.
Such was her form, as ancient bards have told,
Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold;
A thousand busy tongues the goddess bears,
And thousand open eyes, and thousand list'ning ears.
Beneath, in order ranged, the tuneful Nine
(Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine.
With eyes on Fame for ever fixed, they sing;
For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string;
With time's first birth began the heav'nly lays,
And last, eternal, through the length of days.
Around these wonders as I cast a look,
The trumpet sounded, and the temple shook,
And all the nations, summoned at the call,
From diff'rent quarters fill the crowded hall:
Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard;
In various garbs promiscuous throngs appeared;
Thick as the bees that with the spring renew
Their flow'ry toils, and sip the fragrant dew,
When the winged colonies first tempt the sky,
O'er dusky fields and shaded waters fly,
Or settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield,
And a low murmur runs along the field.
Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend,
And all degrees before the goddess bend;
The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage,
And boasting youth, and narrative old age.
Their pleas were diff'rent, their request the same:
For good and bad alike are fond of fame.
Some she disgraced, and some with honours crowned;
Unlike successes equal merits found.
Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns,
And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
First at the shrine the learned world appear,
And to the goddess thus prefer their prayer.
Long have we sought t' instruct and please mankind,
With studies pale, with midnight vigils blind;
But thanked by few, rewarded yet by none,
We here appeal to thy superior throne:
On wit and learning the just prize bestow,
For fame is all we must expect below.
The goddess heard, and bade the muses raise
The golden trumpet of eternal praise:
From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound,
That fills the circuit of the world around;
Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud;
The notes at first were rather sweet than loud:
By just degrees they ev'ry moment rise,
Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies,
At ev'ry breath were balmy odours shed,
Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread;
Less fragrant scents th' unfolding rose exhales,
Or spices breathing in Arabian gales.
Next these the good and just, an awful train,
Thus on their knees address the sacred fane.
Since living virtue is with envy cursed,
And the best men are treated like the worst,
Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth,
And give each deed th' exact intrinsic worth.
Not with bare justice shall your act be crowned,
(Said Fame,) but high above desert renowned:
Let fuller notes th' applauding world amaze,
And the loud clarion labour in your praise.
This band dismissed, behold another crowd
Preferred the same request, and lowly bowed;
The constant tenour of whose well spent days
No less deserved a just return of praise.
But straight the direful trump of slander sounds;
Through the big dome the doubling thunder bounds;
Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies,
The dire report through ev'ry region flies,
In ev'ry ear incessant rumours rung,
And gath'ring scandals grew on ev'ry tongue.
From the black trumpet's rusty concave broke
Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke:
The pois'nous vapour blots the purple skies,
And withers all before it as it flies.
A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore,
And proud defiance in their looks they bore:
For thee, (they cried,) amidst alarms and strife,
We sailed in tempests down the stream of life;
For thee whole nations filled with flames and blood,
And swam to empire through the purple flood.
Those ills we dared, thy inspiration own,
What virtue seemed, was done for thee alone.
Ambitious fools! (the queen replied, and frowned)
Be all your acts in dark oblivion drowned;
There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone,
Your statues mouldered, and your names unknown!
A sudden cloud straight snatched them from my sight,
And each majestic phantom sunk in night.
Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen;
Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien.
Great idol of mankind! we neither claim
The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame!
But safe in deserts from th' applause of men,
Would die unheard of, as we lived unseen;
'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight
Those acts of goodness, which themselves requite.
O let us still the secret joy partake,
To follow virtue ev'n for virtue's sake.
And live there men, who slight immortal fame?
Who then with incense shall adore our name?
But, mortals! know, 'tis still our greatest pride
To blaze those virtues, which the good would hide.
Rise! muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath,
These must not sleep in darkness and in death.
She said: in air the trembling music floats,
And on the winds triumphant swell the notes:
So soft, though high, so loud, and yet so clear,
Ev'n list'ning angels leaned from heav'n to hear:
To farthest shores th' ambrosial spirit flies,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.
Next these, a youthful train their vows expressed,
With feathers crowned, with gay embroid'ry dress'd,
Hither, they cried, direct your eyes, and see
The men of pleasure, dress, and gallantry;
Ours is the place at banquets, balls, and plays,
Sprightly our nights, polite are all our days;
Courts we frequent, where 'tis our pleasing care
To pay due visits, and address the fair:
In fact, 'tis true, no nymph we could persuade,
But still in fancy vanquished ev'ry maid;
Of unknown duchesses lewd tales we tell,
Yet, would the world believe us, all were well.
The joy let others have, and we the name,
And what we want in pleasure, grant in fame.
The queen assents, the trumpet rends the skies,
And at each blast a lady's honour dies.
Pleased with the strange success, vast numbers pressed
Around the shrine, and made the same request:
What! you (she cried) unlearn'd in arts to please,
Slaves to yourselves, and ev'n fatigued with ease,
Who lose a length of undeserving days,
Would you usurp the lover's dear-bought praise?
To just contempt, ye vain pretenders, fall,
The people's fable, and the scorn of all.
Straight the black clarion sends a horrid sound,
Loud laughs burst out, and bitter scoffs fly round,
Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud,
And scornful hisses run through all the crowd.
Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done,
Enslave their country, or usurp a throne;
Or who their glory's dire foundation laid
On sov'reigns ruined, or on friends betrayed;
Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix,
Of crooked counsels and dark politics;
Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne,
And beg to make th' immortal treasons known.
The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire,
With sparks, that seemed to set the world on fire.
At the dread sound, pale mortals stood aghast,
And startled nature trembled with the blast.
This having heard and seen, some pow'r unknown
Straight changed the scene, and snatched me from the throne.
Before my view appeared a structure fair,
Its site uncertain, if in earth or air;
With rapid motion turned the mansion round;
With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound;
Not less in number were the spacious doors,
Than leaves on trees, or sands upon the shores;
Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day,
Pervious to winds, and open ev'ry way.
As flames by nature to the skies ascend,
As weighty bodies to the centre tend,
As to the sea returning rivers roll,
And the touched needle trembles to the pole;
Hither, as to their proper place, arise
All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies,
Or spoke aloud, or whispered in the ear;
Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here.
As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes
The sinking stone at first a circle makes;
The trembling surface, by the motion stirred,
Spreads in a second circle, then a third;
Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance,
Fill all the wat'ry plain, and to the margin dance:
Thus ev'ry voice and sound, when first they break,
On neighb'ring air a soft impression make;
Another ambient circle then they move;
That, in its turn, impels the next above;
Through undulating air the sounds are sent,
And spread o'er all the fluid element.
There, various news I heard of love and strife,
Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and life,
Of loss and gain, of famine, and of store,
Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore,
Of prodigies, and portents seen in air,
Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair,
Of turns of fortune, changes in the state,
The falls of fav'rites, projects of the great,
Of old mismanagements, taxations new:
All neither wholly false, nor wholly true.
Above, below, without, within, around,
Confused, unnumbered, multitudes are found,
Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away;
Hosts raised by fear, and phantoms of a day:
Astrologers, that future fates foreshew,
Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few;
And priests, and party-zealots, num'rous bands
With home-born lies, or tales from foreign lands;
Each talked aloud, or in some secret place,
And wild impatience stared in ev'ry face.
The flying rumours gathered as they rolled,
Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told;
And all who told it added something new,         }
And all who heard it, made enlargements too;     }
In ev'ry ear it spread, on ev'ry tongue it grew. }
Thus flying east and west, and north and south,
News travelled with increase from mouth to mouth.
So from a spark, that kindled first by chance,
With gath'ring force the quick'ning flames advance;
Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire,
And tow'rs and temples sink in floods of fire.
When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung,
Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue,
Through thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow,
And rush in millions on the world below.
Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course,
Their date determines, and prescribes their force;
Some to remain, and some to perish soon;
Or wane and wax, alternate, like the moon.
Around, a thousand winged wonders fly,
Borne by the trumpet's blast, and scattered through the sky.
There, at one passage, oft you might survey,
A lie and truth contending for the way;
And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent,
Which first should issue through the narrow vent:
At last agreed, together out they fly,
Inseparable now, the truth and lie;
The strict companions are for ever joined,
And this or that unmixed, no mortal e'er shall find.
While thus I stood, intent to see and hear,
One came, methought, and whisper'd in my ear:
What could thus high thy rash ambition raise?
Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise?
'Tis true, said I, not void of hopes I came,
For who so fond as youthful bards of fame?
But few, alas! the casual blessing boast,
So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.
How vain that second life in others' breath,
Th' estate which wits inherit after death!
Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign;
Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine!
The great man's curse, without the gains, endure,
Be envied, wretched, and be flattered, poor;
All luckless wits their enemies professed,
And all successful, jealous friends at best.
Nor fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all.
But if the purchase cost so dear a price,
As soothing folly, or exalting vice;
Oh! if the muse must flatter lawless sway,
And follow still where fortune leads the way;
Or if no basis bear my rising name,
But the fall'n ruins of another's fame;
Then teach me, heav'n! to scorn the guilty bays;
Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise;
Unblemished let me live, or die unknown;
Oh! grant an honest fame, or grant me none!
imagination, and constantly descriptive. From these, Petrarch and
And boldly trust their buds in open air.
In this soft season.--WAKEFIELD.
Dryden's Flower and Leaf:
Where Venus from her orb descends in show'rs
To glad the ground, and paint the fields with flow'rs.]
But when the western winds with vital pow'r
Call forth the tender grass, and budding flow'r.--WAKEFIELD.]
Salute the welcome sun and entertain the day.]
And harder glebe relents with vernal winds.--WAKEFIELD.]
Cares I had none to keep me from my rest,
For love had never entered in my breast.]
Believe me, madam, morning dreams foreshow
Th' events of things, and future weal or woe.]
In a deep vision's intellectual scene;
and Mrs. Singer's Vision:
No wild uncouth chimeras intervene
To break the perfect intellectual scene.--WAKEFIELD.]
Full in the midst of this created space,
Betwixt heav'n, earth, and skies, there stands a place
Confining on all three.--WAKEFIELD.]
And earth self-balanced on her center hung.--WAKEFIELD.]
And intermingled temples rise between.]
Tho beheld I fields and plains,
And now hills, and now mountains,
Now valeys, and now forestes,
And now unnethes great bestes,
Now riveres, now citees,
Now townes, and now great trees,
Now shippes sayling in the sea.--POPE.
Unde quod est usquam, quamvis regionibus absit,
Or as Sandys translates it,
Where all that's done, though far removed, appears.]
Confused and chiding, like the hollow roar
Of tides, receding from th' insulted shore;
Or like the broken thunder heard from far
When Jove at distance drives the rolling war.
"And what sound is it like?" quoth he.
"Peter! beating of the sea,"
Quoth I, "against the rockes hollow,
When tempest doth the shippes swallow,
Or elles like the last humbling
After the clap of a thundring."
It stood upon so high a rock,
Higher standeth none in Spayne--
What manner stone this rock was,
For it was like a lymed glass,
But that it shone full more clere;
But of what congeled matere
It was, I niste redily;
But at the last espied I,
And found that it was every dele,
A rock of ice and not of stele.--POPE.
So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.--WAKEFIELD.
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way.]
Tho saw I all the hill y-grave
With famous folkes names fele.
That had been in muchel wele
And her fames wide y-blow;
But well unneth might I know
Any letters for to rede
Their names by, for, out of drede,
They weren almost off-thawen so,
That of the letters one or two
Were molte away of every name,
So unfamous was woxe their fame;
But men said what may ever last.--POPE.]
Tho gan I in myne harte cast,
That they were molte away for heate,
And not away with stormes beate.--POPE.]
Not only is the comparison defective, but the fundamental idea is
different use of the image. In his poem the north side of the icy
For on that other side I sey
Of that hill which northward ley,
How it was written full of names
Of folke, that had afore great fames,
Of olde time, and yet they were
As fresh as men had written hem there
The self day, right or that houre
That I upon hem gan to poure:
But well I wiste what it made;
It was conserved with the shade
(All the writing that I sye)
Of the castle that stoode on high,
And stood eke in so cold a place,
That heate might it not deface.--POPE.]
Stiff with eternal ice, and hid in snow,
That fell a thousand centuries ago.]
Eternal house not built with mortal hands.]
Wide is the fronting gate, and raised on high
With adamantine columns, threats the sky.]
Behold how raised on high
A banquet house salutes the southern sky.]
No Thracian born,
But in that town which arms and arts adorn.]
The fourfold walls in breathing statues grace.
Or teach their animated rocks to live.
And emperors in Parian marble frown.]
Doric pillars overlaid
With golden architrave, nor did there want
Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven.--WAKEFIELD.]
An ample goblet stood of antique mould
And rough with figures of the rising gold.
And Roman triumphs rising on the gold.
Addison's Letter from Italy:
And pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies.]
undertook to kill the Gorgon, Medusa.]
And over them triumphant Death his dart
Shook, but delayed to strike.--WAKEFIELD.]
a fabric huge
Rose like an exhalation.--BOWLES.]
discipline, and the old asceticism is now confined to individual
Charms in her wonted course can stop the moon.]
Thin airy shapes, that o'er the furrows rise,
A dreadful scene! and skim before his eyes.]
And sigils framed in planetary hours.
Dryden's Virgil, AEn. vii. 25:
That watched the moon and planetary hour.]
Upon an iron pillar strong
That painted was, all endelong,
With tigers' blood in every place.]
It shone lighter than a glass,
And made well more than it was,
To semen every thing, ywis,
As kind of thinge Fames is.--POPE.]
The roof was fretted gold.--WAKEFIELD.]
Both the castle, and the tower
And eke the hall, and every bower
was of beryl, which Pope transfers to the inside of the building.
Every wall
Of it, and floor, and roof, and all
Was plated half a foote thick
Of gold.
ornaments
Fine, of the finest stones fair
That men read in the Lapidaire.]
From the arched roof
Pendent by subtle magic many a row
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed
With Naptha and Asphaltus, yielded light
As from a sky.--WAKEFIELD.]
A dragon's fiery form belied the god.--BOWLES.]
How o'er himself as o'er the world he reigns.]
Here too the wise and good their honours claim,
Much-suff'ring heroes of less noisy fame.
characters who made a stir in the world. When Pope originated the
From the dees many a pillere,
Of metal that shone not full clere, &c.
Upon a pillere saw I stonde
That was of lede and iron fine,
Him of the sect Saturnine,
The Ebraike Josephus the old, &c.
Upon an iron piller strong,
That painted was all endelong,
With tigers' blood in every place,
The Tholosan that highte Stace,
That bare of Thebes up the fame, &c.--POPE.]
Full wonder hye on a pillere
Of iron, he the great Omer,
And with him Dares and Titus, &c.--POPE.]
There saw I stand on a pillere
That was of tinned iron cleere,
The Latin poete Virgyle,
That hath bore up of a great while
The fame of pious AEneas.
And next him on a pillere was
Of copper, Venus' clerk Ovide,
That hath y-sowen wondrous wide
The great God of Love's name--
Tho saw I on a pillere by
Of iron wrought full sternely,
The greate poet Dan Lucan,
That on his shoulders bore up than
As high as that I mighte see,
The fame of Julius and Pompee.
And next him on a pillere stoode
Of sulphur, like as he were woode,
Dan Claudian, sothe for to tell,
That bare up all the fame of hell, &c.--POPE.
Iron Martes metal is,
Which that god is of battaile.]
There too in living sculpture might be seen
The mad affection of the Cretan queen.]
He sinks into the cords with solemn pace,
To give the swelling tones a bolder grace.--WAKEFIELD.]
Spiritum Graiae tenuem camoenae,
as another which follows, to
Exegi monumentum aere perennius.
Me fabulosae Vulture in Apulo
Altricis extra limen Apuliae,
Ludo fatigatumque somno,
Fronde nova puerum palumbes
Texere; mirum quod foret omnibus--
Ut tuto ab atris corpore viperis
Dormirem et ursis; ut premerer sacra
Lauroque, collataque myrto,
Non sine Dis animosus infans.
Which may be thus Englished:
While yet a child, I chanced to stray,
And in a desert sleeping lay;
The savage race withdrew, nor dared
To touch the muses' future bard;
But Cytherea's gentle dove
Myrtles and bays around me spread,
And crowned your infant poet's head
Sacred to music and to love.--POPE.
Temperat Archilochi Musam pede mascula Sappho,
And thou whose rival tow'rs invade the skies.
Methoughte that she was so lite
That the length of a cubite
Was longer than she seemed to be;
But thus soon in a while she,
Herself tho wonderly straight,
That with her feet she carthe reight,
And with her head she touched heaven.--POPE.]
Cui quot sunt corpore plumae,
Tot vigiles oculi subter, mirabile dictu,
Tot lunguae, totidem ora sonant, tot subrigit auris.]
I heard about her throne y-sung
That all the palays walles rung;
So sung the mighty Muse, she
That cleped is Calliope,
And her eighte sisters eke.--POPE.
And evermore eternally
They sing of Fame as tho heard I;
"Heried be thou and thy name
Goddess of renown or fame."
"Heried" means praised.]
I heard a noise approchen blive,
That fared as bees done in a hive,
Against their time of out flying;
Right such a manere murmering,
For all the world it seemed me.
Tho gan I look about and see
That there came entring into th' hall,
A right great company withal;
And that of sundry regions,
Of all kind of conditions, &c.--POPE.]
About the boughs an airy nation flew
Thick as the humming bees that hunt the golden dew:
The winged army roams the field around,
The rivers and the rocks remurmer to the sound.--WAKEFIELD.
He was assisted by another passage in Dryden's Flower and Leaf:
Thick as the college of the bees in May,
When swarming o'er the dusky fields they fly,
Now to the flow'rs, and intercept the sky.]
Juvenal.--WAKEFIELD.]
And some of them she granted sone,
And some she warned well and fair,
And some she granted the contrair--
Right as her sister dame Fortune
Is wont to serven in commune.--POPE.
Fame if not double-faced is double-mouthed,
And with contrary blast proclaims most deeds;
On both his wings, one black, the other white,
Bears greatest names in his wild aery flight.]
They hadde good fame each deserved
Although they were diversely served.
Besides the passage in Chaucer, Pope evidently recalled Creech's
translation of Juvenal, Sat. xiii. 132.
ev'ry age relates
That equal crimes have met unequal fates;
That sins alike, unlike rewards have found,
And whilst this villain's crucified the other's crowned.]
Tho came the thirde companye,
And gan up to the dees to hye,
And down on knees they fell anone,
And saiden: We ben everichone
Folke that han full truely
Deserved fame rightfully,
And prayen you it might be knowe
Right as it is, and forthe blowe.
I grant, quoth she, for now me list
That your good works shall be wist.
And yet ye shall have better loos,
Right in despite of all your foos,
Than worthy is, and that anone.
Let now (quoth she) thy trumpe gone--
And certes all the breath that went
Out of his trumpes mouthe smel'd
As men a pot of baume held
Among a basket full of roses.--POPE.]
In comely rank call ev'ry merit forth,
Imprint on ev'ry act its standard worth.]
Therewithal there came anone
Another huge companye,
Of good folke--
What did this Eolus, but he
Took out his black trump of brass,
That fouler than the devil was:
And gan this trumpe for to blowe,
As all the world should overthrowe.
Throughout every regione
Went this foule trumpes soune,
As swift as pellet out of gunne,
When fire is in the powder runne.
And such a smoke gan oute wende,
Out of the foule trumpes ende, &c.--POPE.]
Within stood heroes, who through loud alarms,
In bloody fields pursued renown in arms.
I saw anone the fifth route,
That to this lady gan loute,
And down on knees anone to fall,
And to her they besoughten all,
To hiden their good workes eke,
And said, they yeven not a leke
For no fame ne such renowne;
For they for contemplacyoune,
And Goddes love hadde ywrought,
Ne of fame would they ought.--POPE.]
What, quoth she, and be ye wood?
And wene ye for to do good,
And for to have of it no fame?
Have ye despite to have my name?
Nay, ye shall lien everichone:
Blowe they trump, and that anone
(Quoth she) thou Eolus yhote,
And ring these folkes works be note,
That all the world may of it hear;
And he gan blow their loos so cleare,
In his golden clarioune,
Through the world went the soune,
All so kenely, and eke so soft,
That their fame was blowen aloft.--POPE.
And saiden, Certes, lady bright,
We have done well with all out might,
But we ne kepen have for fame,
Hide our workes and our name.
Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull.--WAKEFIELD.]
Tho came the sixthe companye,
And gan faste to Fame cry, &c.,
being too prolix to be here inserted.--POPE.]
And at each blast a lady's honour dies
Tho come another companye
That Lad ydone the treachery, &c.--POPE.
translation, AEneis, vi. 825:
Expel their parents and usurp the throne.]
Tho saw I stonde in a valey,
Under the castle faste by
A house, that Domus Dedali
That Labyrinthus cleped is,
Nas made so wonderly I wis,
Ne half so queintly ywrought;
And evermo, as swift as thought,
This queinte house aboute went,
That never more stille it stent--
And eke this house hath of entrees
As fele of leaves as ben on trees
In summer, when they grene ben;
And in the roof yet men may sene
A thousand holes, and well mo
To letten well the soune out go;
And by day in every tide
Ben all the doores open wide,
And by night each one unshet;
No porter is there one to let
No manner tydings in to pace:
Ne never rest is in that place.--POPE.]
Geffray, thou wottost well this, &c.--POPE.]
If that thou
Throw on water now a stone,
Well wost thou it will make anon
A little roundel as a circle,
Paraunture broad as a covercle,
And right anon thou shalt see wele,
That circle will cause another wheel,
And that the third, and so forth, brother,
Every circle causing other,
And multiplying evermoe,
Till that it so far ygo
That it at bothe brinkes be.
And right thus every word, ywis,
That loud or privy y-spoken is,
Moveth first an air about,
And of this moving, out of doubt,
Another air anon is moved,
As I have of the water proved
That every circle causeth other.
A "covercle" was the cover or lid of a pot.]
Whence all things, though remote, are viewed around
And hither bring their undulating sound.--WAKEFIELD.]
Of werres, of peace, of marriages,
Of rest, of labour, of voyages,
Of abode, of dethe, of life,
Of love and hate, accord and strife,
Of loss, of lore, and of winnings,
Of hele, of sickness, and lessings,
Of divers transmutations
Of estates and eke of regions,
Of trust, of drede, of jealousy,
Of wit, of winning, of folly,
Of good, or bad governement,
Of fire, and of divers accident.--POPE.
The dismissal of Lord Oxford, the death of Queen Anne immediately
But such a grete congregation
Of folke as I saw roame about,
Some within, and some without.
Was never seen, ne shall be eft--
And every wight that I saw there
Rowned everich in others ear
A newe tyding privily,
Or elles he told it openly
Right thus, and said, Knowst not thou
That is betide to night now?
No, quoth he, tell me what
And then he told him this and that, &c.--POPE.]
Thus north and south
Went every tiding fro mouth to mouth,
And that encreasing evermo,
As fire is wont to quicken and go
From a sparkle sprong amiss,
Till all the citee brent up is.--POPE.]
Fame sits aloft.
And sometime I saw there at once,
A lesing and a sad sooth saw
That gonnen at adventure draw
Out of a window forth to pace--
And no man be he ever so wrothe,
Shall have one of these two, but bothe, &c.--POPE.]
And saide, Friend, what is thy name,
Artow come hither to have fame?
Remembring well what I had seen,
And how high and far I had been
In my ghost.
Thou who rewardest but with popular breath
And that too after death.--WAKEFIELD.
worthless possession.]
Still follow fortune where she leads the way.]
Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes,
Flumina amem, sylvasque, inglorius!--VIRG.
strangers to the quarrel. These mistook the Shepherd's Week for a
admiration, and many praises were bestowed upon them and upon the
And list'ning wolves grow milder as they hear
Audiit Eurotas, jussitque ediscere lauros,
Thames heard the numbers as he flowed along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.
The manuscript of Pope's Pastorals is still preserved among the
variety, the several times of the day are observed, the rural
overlooked. Love is the sole passion which animates the actors in
Now sleeping flocks in their soft fleeces lie;
and again at ver. 37,
For her the flocks refuse their verdant food.
The bleating kind
Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glist'ning earth,
Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play.
Not a breath
Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves
Of aspen tall.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might, what nature never gives the young,
Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue.
But satire needs not this, and wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
But he (his musical finesse was such,
So nice his ear, so delicate his touch)
Made poetry a mere mechanic art,
And every warbler has his tune by heart.
preserves through all his transitions a freedom, a flow, and an
elasticity which never flag. His negligent lines, which are often
imperfectly. The uniformity of Pope gave them little trouble. The
As the Pastorals of Philips opened the sixth volume of Tonson's
resemblance at all to the original. The faults of Philips did not
A pastoral is an imitation of the action of a shepherd, or one
Among the moderns, their success has been greatest who have most
Eclogues are somewhat too long, if we compare them with the
pastoral poetry which Pope has collected are equally unfounded.]
circumstance.--BOWLES.]
Diggon Davie, I bid her good day;
Or Diggon her is, or I missay.
_Dig._ Her wus her while it was day-light,
But now her is a most wretched wight.
First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,
Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains:
Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring,
While on thy banks Sicilian muses sing;
Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play,
And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.
You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r,
Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
And carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illustriously are lost!
O let my muse her slender reed inspire,
Till in your native shades you tune the lyre:
So when the nightingale to rest removes,
The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves,
But, charmed to silence, listens while she sings,
And all th' aerial audience clap their wings.
Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews,
Two swains, whom love kept wakeful, and the muse,
Poured o'er the whit'ning vale their fleecy care,
Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair:
The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side,
Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus replied.
Hear how the birds, on ev'ry bloomy spray,
With joyous music wake the dawning day!
Why sit we mute, when early linnets sing,
When warbling Philomel salutes the spring?
Why sit we sad, when Phosphor shines so clear,
And lavish nature paints the purple year?
Sing then, and Damon shall attend the strain,
While yon slow oxen turn the furrowed plain.
Here the bright crocus and blue vi'let glow,
Here western winds on breathing roses blow.
I'll stake yon lamb that near the fountain plays,
And from the brink his dancing shade surveys.
And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines,
And swelling clusters bend the curling vines:
Four figures rising from the work appear,
The various seasons of the rolling year;
And what is that, which binds the radiant sky,
Where twelve fair signs in beauteous order lie?
Then sing by turns, by turns the muses sing;
Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring,
Now leaves the trees, and flow'rs adorn the ground;
Begin, the vales shall ev'ry note rebound.
Inspire me, Phoebus, in my Delia's praise,
With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays!
A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand,
That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand.
O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize,
And make my tongue victorious as her eyes:
No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart,
Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart.
Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain,
Then hid in shades, eludes her eager swain;
But feigns a laugh to see me search around,
And by that laugh the willing fair is found.
The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green,
She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen,
While a kind glance at her pursuer flies,
How much at variance are her feet and eyes!
O'er golden sand let rich Pactolus flow,
And trees weep amber on the banks of Po;
Bright Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield,
Feed here, my lambs, I'll seek no distant field.
Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves;
Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves;
If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid,
Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade.
All nature mourns, the skies relent in show'rs,
Hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flow'rs;
If Delia smile, the flow'rs begin to spring,
The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing.
All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair,
The sun's mild lustre warms the vital air;
If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore,
And vanquished nature seems to charm no more.
In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove,
But Delia always; absent from her sight,
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.
Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May,
More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day;
Ev'n spring displeases, when she shines not here;
But blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year.
Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears,
A wondrous tree that sacred monarchs bears;
Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize,
And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes.
Nay tell me first, in what more happy fields
The thistle springs, to which the lily yields:
And then a nobler prize I will resign;
For Sylvia, charming Sylvia shall be thine.
Cease to contend; for, Daphnis, I decree
The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee.
Blest swains, whose nymphs in ev'ry grace excel;
Blest nymphs, whose swains those graces sing so well!
Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bow'rs,
A soft retreat from sudden vernal show'rs;
The turf with rural dainties shall be crowned,
While op'ning blooms diffuse their sweets around.
For see! the gath'ring flocks to shelter tend,
And from the Pleiads fruitful show'rs descend.
This amiable old man, who had been a fellow of All Souls College,
Prima Syracusio dignata est ludere versu,
Nostra nec erubuit sylvas habitare Thalia.
A shepherd's boy (he seeks no better name)--
Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,--
Thyrsis, the Music of that murm'ring Spring,--
are manifestly imitations of
"--A shepherd's boy (no better do him call)."
I first transferred to Rome Sicilian strains:
Nor blushed the Doric muse to dwell on Mantuan plains.
Originally Pope had written,
First in these fields I sing the sylvan strains,
Nor blush to sport in Windsor's peaceful plains.
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song.--WAKEFIELD.]
Where winds with reeds and osiers whisp'ring play.
The winds within the quiv'ring branches played.--WAKEFIELD.]
And Albion's rocks repeat his rural song.--WAKEFIELD.
exeat aula
Qui vult esse pius. Virtus et summa potestas
Non coeunt.
He who would spotless live from courts must go:
No union power supreme and virtue know.--WAKEFIELD.]
Happy is she that from the world retires,
And carries with her what the world admires.--WILKES.]
Each poet of the air her glory sings
And round him the pleased audience clap their wings.
Every one must feel the image to be burlesque, and even Dryden's
authority cannot recommend it.]
Daphnis and Strephon to the shades retired,
Both warmed by love, and by the muse inspired,
Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair,
In flow'ry vales they fed their fleecy care;
And while Aurora gilds the mountain's side,
Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus replied.--POPE.
Daphnis and Strephon led their flocks along,
Both famed for love and both renowned in song.
Strephon and Damon's flocks together fed,
Both famed for wit, and famed for beauty both.
When woolly flocks their bleating cries renew,
And from their fleecy sides first shake the silver dew.]
progressive effect of the light.--WAKEFIELD.]
Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair.--WAKEFIELD.]
Hos Corydon, illos referebat in ordine Thyrsis.--WAKEFIELD.]
O! nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve!--WAKEFIELD.]
When grateful birds prepare their thanks to pay,
And warble hymns to hail the dawning day.--WAKEFIELD.]
Hylas, oh Hylas! why sit we mute
Now that each bird saluteth the spring.--WAKEFIELD.
See, my dear!
How lavish nature has adorned the year.--WAKEFIELD.]
There the pale primrose and the vi'let glow,
How the pale primrose and the vi'let spring.
The first edition of the Pastorals had
Here on green banks the blushing vi'lets glow,
his altar breathes
Ambrosial odours and ambrosial flowers.]
And his own image from the bank surveys.--POPE.
Lenta quibus torno facili superaddita vitis,
Diffusos edera vestit pallente corymbos. Virg.--POPE.]
And clusters lurk beneath the curling vines.--POPE.
Dryden's Virgil, Eclogues:
The grapes in clusters lurk beneath the vines.--BOWLES.]
And Roman triumphs rising on the gold.--WAKEFIELD.]
et quis fuit alter,
Descripsit radio totum qui gentibus orbem?--POPE.
Creech's translation of Eclogue iii.:
And showed the various seasons of the year.
Pope also drew upon Dryden's version of the passage:
Two figures on the sides embossed appear,
Conon, and what's his name who made the sphere,
And showed the seasons of the sliding year?
And cross their limits cut a sloping way,
Which the twelve signs in beauteous order sway.--WAKEFIELD.]
Alternis dicetis: amant alterna Camoenae,
Et nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos,
Nunc frondent sylvae, nunc formosissimus annus.--POPE.
Creech's translation:
By turns, for verse the muses love by turns.
And echo, from the vales, the tuneful voice rebound.--WAKEFIELD.]
Ye fountain nymphs, propitious to the swain,
Now grant me Phoebus', or Alexis' strain.
Pope imitated Virgil, Ecl. vii. 21:
Mihi carmen,
Quale meo Codro, concedite: proxima Phoebi
Versibus ille facit.]
Pascite taurum,
Qui cornu petat, et pedibus jam spargat arenam.--POPE.
A snow-white steer before thy altar led:
And dares the fight, and spurns the yellow sands.--WAKEFIELD.
With butting horns, and heels that spurn the sand.
This also was from Dryden, Ecl. iii. 135:
With spurning heels, and with a butting head.]
Pan, let my numbers equal Strephon's lays,
Of Parian stone thy statue will I raise;
But if I conquer and augment my fold,
Thy Parian statue shall be changed to gold.--WARBURTON.
This he formed on Dryden's Vir. Ecl. vii. 45:
Thy statue then of Parian stone shall stand;
But if the falling lambs increase my fold,
Thy marble statue shall be turned to gold.--WAKEFIELD.]
The lovely Chloris beckons from the plain,
Then hides in shades from her deluded swain.
The wanton Chloris beckons from the plain,
Then, hid in shades, eludes her eager swain.
The laugh that guides thee to the mark,
When the kind nymph would coyness feign,
And hides but to be found again.]
Malo me Galatea petit, lasciva puella,
Et fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri.--POPE.
Sly Galatea drives me o'er the green,
And apples throws, then hides, yet would be seen.--WAKEFIELD.]
A brisk Arabian girl came tripping by;
Passing, she cast at him a sidelong glance,
And looked behind, in hopes to be pursued.--STEEVENS.]
Go, flow'ry wreath, and let my Silvia know,
Compared to thine how bright her beauties show;
Then die; and dying, teach the lovely maid
How soon the brightest beauties are decayed.
Go, tuneful bird, that pleased the woods so long,
Of Amaryllis learn a sweeter song;
To heav'n arising then her notes convey,
For heav'n alone is worthy such a lay.
The speech of Strephon is an echo of Waller's well-known song:
Go, lovely rose,
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
The speech of Daphnis is from Dryden's Virgil, Ecl. iii. 113:
Winds, on your wings to heav'n her accents bear,
Such words as heav'n alone is fit to hear.]
Let rich Iberia golden fleeces boast,
Her purple wool the proud Assyrian coast,
Blest Thames's shores, &c.--POPE.]
Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold.--WAKEFIELD.
Saepius at si me, Lycida formose, revisas,
Fraxinus in silvis cedet tibi, pinus in hortis.--WAKEFIELD.
Bacchus the vine, the laurel Phoebus loves;
Fair Venus cherishes the myrtle groves;
Phyllis the hazel loves, while Phyllis loves that tree,
Myrtles and laurels of less fame shall be.]
Aret ager, vitio moriens sitit aeris herba [&c.]
Phyllidis adventu nostrae nemus omne virebit.--POPE.]
All nature mourns, the birds their songs deny,
Nor wasted brooks the thirsty flow'rs supply;
If Delia smile, the flow'rs begin to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing.--POPE.
Addison's Epilogue to the British Enchanters:
The desert smiles, the woods begin to grow,
The birds to warble, and the springs to flow.]
And lavish nature laughs.]
If Sylvia smiles she brightens all the shore,
The sun's outshined, and nature charms no more.
If Sylvia smile, she brightens all the shore,
{ All nature seems outshined, and charms no more.
{ Light seems outshined, and nature charms no more.
{ And vanquished nature seems to shine no more.
Hot as ripe noon, sweet as the blooming day,
Like July furious, but more fair than May.--WAKEFIELD.]
Nay, tell me first what region canst thou find
In which by thistles lilies are outshined?
If all thy skill can make the meaning known,
The prize, the victor's prize, shall be thy own.--WAKEFIELD.
Dic quibus in terris inscripti nomina regum
Nascantur flores, et Phyllida solus habeto.--POPE.
Thus translated by Dryden;
Nay, tell me first in what new region springs
A flow'r that bears inscribed the names of kings;
And thou shalt gain a present as divine
As Phoebus' self, for Phyllis shall be thine.
Et vitula tu dignus, et hic.--WAKEFIELD.]
The turf with country dainties shall be spread,
And trees with twining branches shade your head.--POPE.]
A shepherd's boy (he seeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,
Where dancing sun-beams on the waters played,
And verdant alders formed a quiv'ring shade;
Soft as he mourned, the streams forgot to flow,
The Naiads wept in ev'ry wat'ry bow'r,
And Jove consented in a silent show'r.
Accept, O GARTH! the muse's early lays,
That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays;
Hear what from love unpractised hearts endure,
From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.
Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid's beams,
To you I mourn; nor to the deaf I sing,
"The woods shall answer, and their echo ring."
The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay,
Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?
The bleating sheep with my complaints agree,
They parched with heat, and I inflamed by thee.
The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains,
While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.
Where stray ye, muses, in what lawn or grove,
While your Alexis pines in hopeless love?
In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides,
Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?
As in the crystal stream I view my face,
Fresh rising blushes paint the wat'ry glass;
But since those graces please thy eyes no more,
I shun the fountains which I sought before.
Once I was skilled in ev'ry herb that grew,
And ev'ry plant that drinks the morning dew;
Ah wretched shepherd, what avails thy art,
To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!
Let other swains attend the rural care,
Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear:
But nigh yon' mountain let me tune my lays,
Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays.
That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath
Inspired when living, and bequeathed in death:
He said; Alexis, take this pipe, the same
That taught the groves my Rosalinda's name:
But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree,
For ever silent, since despised by thee.
Oh! were I made by some transforming pow'r
The captive bird that sings within thy bow'r!
Then might my voice thy list'ning ears employ,
And I those kisses he receives enjoy.
And yet my numbers please the rural throng,
Rough satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song:
The nymphs, forsaking ev'ry cave and spring,
Their early fruit, and milk-white turtles bring!
Each am'rous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
On you their gifts are all bestowed again.
For you the swains their fairest flow'rs design,
And in one garland all their beauties join;
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are comprised in one.
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis strayed;
And chaste Diana haunts the forest-shade.
Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When swains from shearing seek their nightly bow'rs;
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
And crowned with corn their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent love abides.
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.
O deign to visit our forsaken seats,
The mossy fountains, and the green retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade;
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade;
Where'er you tread, the blushing flow'rs shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
O! how I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the muses, and resound your praise!
Your praise the birds shall chant in ev'ry grove,
And winds shall waft it to the pow'rs above.
But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wond'ring forests soon should dance again,
The moving mountains hear the pow'rful call,
And headlong streams hang list'ning in their fall.
But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murm'ring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends:
On me love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
A shepherd's boy, who sung for love, not fame, etc.
A shepherd's boy, who fed an amorous flame.
A shepherd boy (no better do him call)
Led forth his flock.--BOWLES.
There to the winds Headrigg plained his hapless love,
And Amaryllis filled the vocal grove.--WARBURTON.]
The winds within the quiv'ring branches played,
And dancing trees a mournful music made.--WAKEFIELD.]
A faithful swain, whom Love had taught to sing,
Bewailed his fate beside a silver spring;
Where gentle Thames his winding waters leads
Through verdant forests, and through flow'ry meads.--POPE.]
To which the savage lynxes list'ning stood;
The rivers stood on heaps, and stopped the running flood.
Thyrsis, whose artful strains have oft delayed
The puddling brook to hear his madrigal.--WAKEFIELD.
Garth, in his Dispensary, canto iv., says that, when Prior sings,
The banks of Rhine a pleased attention show,
And silver Sequana forgets to flow.]
Jupiter et laeto descendet plurimus imbri.--POPE.
In the original manuscript the couplet was slightly different:
Relenting Naiads wept in ev'ry bow'r,
And Jove consented in a silent show'r.
The Naiads wept in ev'ry wat'ry bow'r,
And Jove relented in a silent show'r.
Dryden's translation, ver. 17:
Amidst thy laurels let this ivy twine,
Thine was my earliest muse.
Non canimus surdis: respondent omnia sylvae.--POPE.
Ogilby's translation of the verse in Virgil:
Nor to the deaf do we our numbers sing,
Since woods, in answ'ring us, with echoes ring.--WAKEFIELD.]
The creaking locusts with my voice conspire,
They fried with heat, and I with fierce desire.
This is Virgil's:
Sole sub ardenti resonant arbusta cicadis.
hiulca siti findit Canis aestifer arva.
Such rage as winter's reigneth in my heart.]
Quae nemora, aut qui vos saltus habuere, puellae
Naiades, indigno cum Gallus amore periret?
Nam neque Parnassi vobis juga, nam neque Pindi,
Ulla moram fecere, neque Aoniae Aganippe.--POPE.
Ogilby's translation:
Say, Naiades, where were you, in what grove,
Or lawn, when Gallus fell by ill-matched love.--WAKEFIELD.]
Or where the Seine her flow'ry fields divides,
Or where the Loire through winding vineyards glides.--WAKEFIELD.
Oft in the crystal spring I cast a view,
And equalled Hylas, if the glass be true;
But since those graces meet my eyes no more, shun, etc.
Virgil again (Ecl. ii. 25), from the Cyclops of Theocritus:
nuper me in littore vidi,
Cum placidum ventis staret mare; non ego Daphnim,
Judice te, metuam, si nunquam fallit imago.--POPE.
and if the glass be true,
With Daphnis I may vie.]
And every herb that sips the dew.--WAKEFIELD.]
herbarum subjecta potentia nobis.
Hei mihi, quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis;
Nec prosunt domino, quae prosunt omnibus, artes.--WAKEFIELD.
Dryden's translation:
What herbs and simples grow
In fields and forests, all their pow'rs I know.
To cure the pains of love no plant avails,
And his own physic the physician fails.
characteristics of the English landscape.]
Est mihi disparibus septem compacta cicutis
Fistula, Damoetas dono mihi quam dedit olim,
Et dixit moriens, Te nunc habet ista secundum.--POPE.
Pope's couplet originally ran thus:
Of slender reeds a tuneful flute I have.
The tuneful flute which dying Colin gave.
"Objection," he says to Walsh, "that the first line is too much
Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas.--WAKEFIELD.]
Hic arguta sacra pendebit fistula pinu.--WAKEFIELD.
Dryden's translation:
The praise of artful numbers I resign,
And hang my harp upon the sacred pine.]
Some god transform me by his heav'nly pow'r,
E'en to a bee to buzz within your bow'r.--WAKEFIELD.
Pope had at first written:
Some pitying god permit me to be made
The bird that sings beneath thy myrtle shade.
Vatem pastores.--WAKEFIELD.]
Rough satyrs danced.
Dryden's Virgil, Ecl. vi. 42:
He raised his voice, and soon a num'rous throng
Of tripping satyrs crowded to the song.
Come forth, ye nymphs, forsake your wat'ry bowers,
Forsake your mossy caves.]
And many a nymph both of the wood and brook,
Soon as his oaten pipe began to shrill,
Both chrystal wells, and shady groves forsook
To hear the charms of his enchanting skill;
And brought him presents, flow'rs if it were prime,
Or mellow fruit if it were harvest time.]
His clownish gifts and courtsies I disdain,
His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit;
Ah, foolish Hobbinol, thy gifts been vain,
Colin them gives to Hobbinol again.]
habitarunt dii quoque sylvas.
Et formosus oves ad flumina pavit Adonis.--POPE.
Dryden's translation of the first line is
The gods to live in woods have left the skies.
The second line he expanded into a couplet:
Along the streams, his flock Adonis led,
And yet the queen of beauty blest his bed.
original.]
rapido fessis messoribus aestu.
The reapers tired with sultry heats.--Ogilby.--WAKEFIELD.]
Another couplet followed in the manuscript:
Here Tereus mourns, and Itys tells his pain,
Of Progne they, and I of you complain.
Muscosi fontes--mossy fountains.--WAKEFIELD.]
Quicquid calcaverit hic, rosa fiat.
Butler finely ridicules this trite fancy of the poets:
Where'er you tread your foot shall set
The primrose and the violet.--WAKEFIELD.]
Oh, deign to grace our happy rural seats,
Our mossy fountains, and our green retreats;
While you your presence to the groves deny,
Our flowers are faded, and our brooks are dry;
Though with'ring herbs lay dying on the plain,
At your return they shall be green again.
But if Alexis from our mountains fly,
Ev'n running rivers leave their channels dry.
But, if returning Phyllis bless the plain,
The grass revives, the woods are green again.
Winds, where you walk, shall gently fan the glade,
Where'er you walk fresh gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade,
Flow'rs where you tread in painted pride shall rise,
Where'er you tread the purple flow'rs shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes!
beginning "Where'er you walk," and "Where'er you tread."]
hic ipso tecum consumerer aevo.--WAKEFIELD.]
Your praise the tuneful birds to heav'n shall bear,
And list'ning wolves grow milder as they hear.
introducing wolves into England.--POPE.
Partem aliquam, venti, Divum referatis ad aures.--POPE.]
Such magic music dwells within your name,
The voice of Orpheus no such pow'r could claim;
Had you then lived, when he the forests drew,
The trees and Orpheus both had followed you.]
Where Orpheus on his lyre laments his love,
With beasts encompassed, and a dancing grove.--WAKEFIELD.]
de rupe pependit
Abscissa fixus torrens; amnisque cucurrit
Non qua pronus erat.
Streams have run back at murmurs of her tongue,
And torrents from the rock suspended hung. Rowe.--STEEVENS.
ridiculous.--BOWLES.]
But see the southing sun displays his beams,
See Tityrus leads his herd to silver streams.]
Me tamen urit amor, quis enim modus adsit amori?--POPE.
He had Dryden's translation of the passage in Virgil before him:
Cool breezes now the raging heats remove:
Ah, cruel heav'n, that made no cure for love.--WAKEFIELD.]
intermission.--WAKEFIELD.]
Me love inflames, nor will his fires allay.--POPE.]
written, and the false taste of Cowley at that time
Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and AEgon sung their rural lays;
This mourned a faithless, that an absent love,
And Delia's name and Doris' filled the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and AEgon's rural lays I sing.
Thou, whom the nine, with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!
Oh, skilled in nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streaked with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her, the feathered quires neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow'rs that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love?
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Cursed be the fields that cause my Delia's stay;
Fade ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flower, and perish all but she.
What have I said? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs arise;
Let op'ning roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their ev'ning song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not show'rs to larks, or sunshine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy sight to me.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds,
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes!--Now cease my lay,
And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!
Next AEgon sung, while Windsor groves admired;
Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspired.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Of perjured Doris, dying I complain:
Here, where the mountains, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies:
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat:
While curling smokes from village tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we passed the day:
Oft on the rind I carved her am'rous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain,
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove;
Just Gods! shall all things yield returns but love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey"--
Ah! what avails it me, the flocks to keep,
Who lost my heart while I preserved my sheep?
Pan came, and asked, what magic caused my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but hers, alas, have pow'r to move!
And is there magic but what dwells in love!
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains;
I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains,
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forsake mankind, and all the world--but love!
I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred,
Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed.
Thou wert from AEtna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Farewell, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains,
No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains!
Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles decked the glade,
And the low sun had lengthened ev'ry shade.
Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse.--WAKEFIELD.]
To whose complaints the list'ning forests bend,
While one his mistress mourns, and one his friend.
And trees leaned their attentive branches down.
There is nothing of the kind in the Greek text.]
While stretched at ease you sing your happy loves,
And Amaryllis fills the shady groves.--WAKEFIELD.]
action.--WARBURTON.
manifested "in a shamefully profligate dialogue and action."]
Attend the muse, though low her numbers be,
She sings of friendship, and she sings to thee.]
Made the wide country echo to your moan,
The list'ning trees, and savage mountains groan.--WAKEFIELD.
Earth, brook, flow'rs, pipe, lamb, dove,
Say all, and I with them,
Absence is death, or worse, to them that love.--WAKEFIELD.]
Fade all ye flow'rs, and wither all ye woods.]
aurea durae
Mala ferant quercus, narcisso floreat alnus;
Pinguia corticibus sudent electra myricae.--POPE.
His obligations are also due to Dryden's version of Ecl. iv. 21:
Unlaboured harvests shall the fields adorn,
And clustered grapes shall blush on ev'ry thorn:
And knotted oaks shall show'rs of honey weep,
And through the matted grass the liquid gold shall creep.
On brambles now let violets be born,
And op'ning roses blush on ev'ry thorn.
He seems to have had in view also the third Eclogue of Walsh:
Upon hard oaks let blushing peaches grow,
And from the brambles liquid amber flow.--WAKEFIELD.]
With him through Libyia's burning plains I'll go,
On Alpine mountains tread th' eternal snow;
Yet feel no heat but what our loves impart,
And dread no coldness but in Thyrsis' heart.--WARBURTON.
And climb the frozen Alps, and tread th' eternal snow.]
Quale sopor fessis in gramine, quale per aestum
Dulcis aquae saliente sitim restinguere rivo.--POPE.]
fatigue, and not pain that makes them faint.--WAKEFIELD.]
To virgins flow'rs, to sun-burnt earth the rain,
To mariners fair winds amid the main,
Cool shades to pilgrims, whom hot glances burn,
Are not so pleasing as thy blest return.--WARTON.]
an, qui amant, ipsi sibi somnia fingunt?--POPE.
Do lovers dream, or is my shepherd kind?
He comes, my shepherd comes.--WAKEFIELD.]
Parcite, ab urbe venit, jam parcite carmina, Daphnis.
Stafford's translation in Dryden's Miscellany:
Cease, cease, my charms,
My Daphnis comes, he comes, he flies into my arms.]
While I my Nisa's perjured faith deplore.
Yet shall my dying breath to heav'n complain.]
Two such I saw, what time the laboured ox
In his loose traces from the furrow came.--WAKEFIELD.]
And the fleet shades fly gliding o'er the green.--POPE.
Virgil's first eclogue, and Dryden's version of it:
For see yon sunny hill the shade extends
And curling smoke from cottages ascends.--WAKEFIELD.]
tenerisque meos incidere amores Arboribus.
The rind of ev'ry plant her name shall know. Dryden.--WAKEFIELD.
Garth's Dispensary, Canto vi:
Their wounded bark records some broken vow,
And willow garlands hang on ev'ry bough.]
Pan deus Arcadiae venit . . . .
Omnes, unde amor iste, rogant tibi.--WAKEFIELD.]
Nescio quis teneros oculus mihi fascinat agnos.--POPE.
Dryden's version of the original:
What magic has bewitched the woolly dams,
And what ill eyes beheld the tender lambs.--WAKEFIELD.]
What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r on me;
Oh mighty Love! what magic is like thee?--POPE.]
Nunc scio quid sit amor. Duris in cotibus illum, etc.--POPE.
Stafford's version of the original in Dryden's Miscellanies:
I know thee, Love! on mountains thou wast bred.
Pope was not unmindful of Dryden's translation:
I know thee, Love! in deserts thou wert bred,
And at the dugs of savage tigers fed.
But hewn from hardened entrails of a rock,
And rough Hyrcanian tigers gave thee suck.
From hardened oak, or from a rock's cold womb,
At least thou art from some fierce tigress come;
Or on rough seas, from their foundation torn,
Got by the winds, and in a tempest born.--WAKEFIELD.]
follows:
I know thee, Love! wild as the raging main,
More fell than tigers on the Lybian plain.]
Praeceps aerii specula de montis in undas
From yon high cliff I plunge into the main. Dryden.--WAKEFIELD.
Pope had at first written:
Thus sung the swains while day yet strove with night,
And heav'n yet languished with departing light.
Et sol decedens crescentes duplicat umbras.
The shadows lengthen as the sun grows low. Dryden.--WAKEFIELD.
And the brown ev'ning lengthened ev'ry shade."
Thyrsis, the music of that murm'ring spring
Is not so mournful as the strains you sing;
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,
So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.
Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky,
While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
Oh sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise!
Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,
Their beauty withered, and their verdure lost!
Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain,
That called the list'ning dryads to the plain?
Thames heard the numbers as he flowed along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.
So may kind rains their vital moisture yield,
And swell the future harvest of the field.
Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,
And said, "Ye shepherds sing around my grave!"
Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,
And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.
Ye gentle muses, leave your crystal spring,
Let nymphs and sylvans cypress garlands bring
Ye weeping loves, the stream with myrtles hide,
And break your bows, as when Adonis died;
And with your golden darts, now useless grown,
Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone:
"Let nature change, let heav'n and earth deplore,
"Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no more!"
'Tis done, and nature's various charms decay,
See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!
Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,
Their faded honours scattered on her bier.
See, where on earth the flow'ry glories lie,
With her they flourished, and with her they die.
Ah what avail the beauties nature wore?
Fair Daphne's dead, and beauty is no more!
For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood,
The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan,
In notes more sad than when they sing their own;
In hollow caves sweet echo silent lies,
Silent, or only to her name replies:
Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore,
Now Daphne's dead, and pleasure is no more!
No grateful dews descend from ev'ning skies,
Nor morning odours from the flow'rs arise;
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
No fragrant herbs their native incense yield.
The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death,
Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath;
Th' industrious bees neglect their golden store!
Fair Daphne's dead, and sweetness is no more!
No more the mountain larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall list'ning in mid-air suspend their wings;
No more the birds shall imitate her lays,
Or hushed with wonder, hearken from the sprays:
No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear,
A sweeter music than their own to hear,
But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and music is no more!
Her fate is whispered by the gentle breeze,
And told in sighs to all the trembling trees;
The trembling trees, in ev'ry plain and wood,
Her fate remurmur to the silver flood;
The silver flood, so lately calm, appears
Swelled with new passion, and o'erflows with tears;
The winds, and trees, and floods, her death deplore,
Daphne, our grief! our glory now no more!
But see! where Daphne wond'ring mounts on high
Above the clouds, above the starry sky!
Eternal beauties grace the shining scene,
Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!
There while you rest in amaranthine bow'rs,
Or from those meads select unfading flow'rs,
Behold us kindly, who your name implore,
Daphne our goddess! and our grief no more!
How all things listen, while thy muse complains!
Such silence waits on Philomela's strains,
In some still ev'ning, when the whisp'ring breeze
Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees.
To thee, bright goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed,
If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed.
While plants their shade, or flow'rs their odours give,
Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live!
But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews:
Arise; the pines a noxious shade diffuse;
Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay,
Time conquers all, and we must time obey,
Adieu ye vales, ye mountains, streams, and groves,
Adieu ye shepherds' rural lays and loves;
Adieu, my flocks; farewell, ye sylvan crew;
Daphne, farewell; and all the word adieu!
It is professedly an imitation of Theocritus, whom Pope does not
particularly admired by the author's friend Mr. Walsh, who having
Nor I. On the contrary, all the allusions to the winds are of the
And, shepherd, sweeter notes thy pipe do fill
Than murm'ring springs that roll from yonder hill.--WAKEFIELD.]
nec quae
Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.]
In the warm folds the tender flocks remain,
The cattle slumber on the silent plain,
While silent birds neglect their tuneful lays,
Let us, dear Thyrsis, sing of Daphne's praise.--POPE.
It was originally,
Now in warm folds the tender flock remains.
Now while the groves in Cynthia's beams are dressed,
And folded flocks in their soft fleeces rest;
While sleeping birds, etc.
While Cynthia tips with silver all the groves,
And scarce the winds the topmast branches moves.
While the bright moon with silver tips the grove,
And not a breeze the quiv'ring branches move."
As tuneful Congreve tries his rural strains,
Pan quits the woods, the list'ning fauns the plains.
And called the mountain ashes to the plain.
Among the poems of Congreve is one entitled "The Mourning Muse of
Audiit Eurotas, jussitque ediscere lauros.--POPE.
mandat fieri sibi talia Daphnis.]
And with fresh roses strew thy virgin urn.--STEEVENS.]
With cypress boughs the crystal fountains hide.--WAKEFIELD.]
Ecce! puer Veneris fert eversamque pharetram,
Et fractos arcus, et sine luce facem.--WAKEFIELD.
Ovid copied Bion. Idyl. 1. The Greek poet represents the Loves as
Now shepherds! now lament, and now deplore!
Delia is dead, and beauty is no more.--WAKEFIELD.
Congreve's Mourning Muse of Alexis:
All nature mourns; the floods and rocks deplore
And cry with me, Pastora is no more.]
'Tis done, and nature's changed since you are gone;
Behold the clouds have put their mourning on.--WARBURTON.
For thee, dear swain, for thee, his much-loved son,
Does Phoebus clouds of mourning black put on.--WAKEFIELD.
See sable clouds eclipse the cheerful day.]
'Twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn,
Wet was the grass and hung with pearls the thorn.
So in his version of Virgil, Ecl. x. 20:
And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears.--WAKEFIELD.]
The fields with faded flow'rs did seem to mourn.]
Each flower fades and hangs its withered head,
And scorns to thrive or live now thou art dead.--WAKEFIELD.]
For her the flocks the dewy herbs disdain,
Nor hungry heifers graze the tender plain.--POPE.
The thirsty cattle of themselves abstained
From water, and their grassy fare disdained.
Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar, November, ver. 123, where
The feeble flocks in field refuse their former food,
because Dido is dead.]
Ye gentle swans....
In doleful notes the heavy loss bewail
Such as you sing at your own funeral.--WAKEFIELD.]
Ah! gentle nymph! who lik'st so well
In hollow solitary caves to dwell.--WAKEFIELD.]
Sad echo too does in deep silence moan,
Echo no more the rural song rebounds;
Her name alone the mournful echo sounds.]
Which but for you did all its incense yield.
Fair Galatea too laments thy death,
Laments the ceasing of thy tuneful breath.
Sedley's Elegy:
Here sportive zephyrs cease their selfish play
Despairing now to fetch perfumes away.--WAKEFIELD.
The painful bees neglect their wonted toil.--WAKEFIELD.]
Alas! what boots it now thy hives to store,
When thou, that wast all sweetness, art no more.--WAKEFIELD.]
No more the wolves, when you your numbers try,
Shall cease to follow, and the lambs to fly:
No more the birds shall imitate your lays,
Or, charmed to silence, listen from the sprays.]
suspended in mid-air is striking, and, I trust, new.--RUFFHEAD.
The feathered choir that used to throng
In list'ning flocks to learn his well-tuned song.
No more the nightingales repeat her lays.
Yet his untimely fate th' Angitian woods
In sighs remurmured to the Fucine floods.--WAKEFIELD.]
Increvisse suis.
Oldham's translation of Moschus:
The rivers too, as if they would deplore
Her death, with grief swell higher than before.
Fenton in his pastoral on the Marquis of Blandford's death:
And, swoln with tears, to floods the riv'lets ride.--WAKEFIELD.]
intelligence to another class of inanimate objects till the whole
complaints. Everything in short is wondrous miserable."]
miratur limen Olympi,
Sub pedibusque videt nubes et sidera Daphnis.--POPE.
Dryden thus renders the passage in Virgil:
Daphnis, the guest of heav'n, with wond'ring eyes
Views in the milky way the starry skies.--WAKEFIELD.]
Thy songs, dear Thyrsis, more delight my mind
Than the soft whisper of the breathing wind,
Or whisp'ring groves, when some expiring breeze
Pants on the leaves, and trembles in the trees.
Not the soft whispers of the southern wind,
That play through trembling trees, delight me more.]
When the gust hath blown his fill
Ending on the rustling leaves.]
illius aram
Saepe tener, nostris ab ovilibus, imbuet agnus.--POPE.
He partly follows Dryden's translation of his original:
The tender firstlings of my woolly breed
Shall on his holy altar often bleed.--WAKEFIELD.]
While vapours rise, and driving snows descend.
Thy honour, name, and praise shall never end.--WARBURTON.]
Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit,
Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadae,
Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt.--WAKEFIELD.]
solet esse gravis cantantibus umbra;
Juniperi gravis umbra.--POPE.
Dryden's version of the passage is,
From juniper unwholesome dews distil.--WAKEFIELD.]
Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori.
Vid. etiam Sannazarii Ecl. et Spenser's Calendar.--WARBURTON.
Dryden's verse is:
Love conquers all, and we must yield to love.--WAKEFIELD.]
Adieu, ye flocks, no more shall I pursue;
Adieu, ye groves; a long, a long adieu.--WAKEFIELD.]
paraphrase.--BOWLES.
sublimity by epithets. Wordsworth was of another opinion. When he
"To _leafless_ shrubs the _flow'ring_ palms succeed,
And _od'rous_ myrtle to the _noisome_ weed."
Ye Nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heav'nly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids,
Delight no more--O Thou my voice inspire
Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire!
Rapt into future times, the bard begun:
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son!
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise,
Whose sacred flow'r with fragrance fills the skies:
Th' ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move,
And on its top descends the mystic dove.
Ye heav'ns! from high the dewy nectar pour,
And in soft silence shed the kindly show'r!
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid,
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail;
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale;
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend.
Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn!
Oh spring to light, auspicious babe, be born!
See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
With all the incense of the breathing spring:
See lofty Lebanon his head advance;
See nodding forests on the mountains dance:
See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise,
And Carmel's flow'ry top perfumes the skies!
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers;
Prepare the way! a God, a God appears:
A God, a God! the vocal hills reply,
The rocks proclaim th' approaching deity.
Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies!
Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, rise;
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay;
Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way!
The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold!
Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold!
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day:
'Tis he th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear:
And leap exulting like the bounding roe.
No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear,
From ev'ry face he wipes off ev'ry tear,
In adamantine chains shall Death be bound,
And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air,
Explores the lost, the wand'ring sheep directs,
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects,
The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms;
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage,
The promised Father of the future age.
No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more;
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad faulchion in a plow-share end.
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son
Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sowed, shall reap the field.
The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise;
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear
New fells of water murm'ring in his ear.
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods.
Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn,
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn;
To leafless shrubs the flow'ring palms succeed,
And od'rous myrtle to the noisome weed.
The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
And boys in flow'ry bands the tiger lead;
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes!
See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend;
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings,
And heaped with products of Sabaean springs!
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See heav'n its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day.
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her silver horn;
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fixed his word, his saving power remains:
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own MESSIAH reigns!
Sicilian muse, begin a loftier strain--WAKEFIELD.]
The lovely shrubs and trees that shade the plain,
Delight not all.--BOWLES.]
And join thy voice unto the angel quire,
Jam redit et Virge, redeunt Saturnia regna;
Jam nova progenies coelo demittitur alto.--
Te duce, si qua manent sceleris vestigia nostri,
Irrita perpetua solvent formidine terras.--
Pacatumque reget patriis virtutibus orbem.
But shed from nature like a kindly show'r.--STEEVENS.]
Yet of old fraud some footsteps shall remain.]
Talia saecla ... currite ...--WAKEFIELD.]
At tibi prima, puer, nullo munuscula cultu,
Errantes hederas passim cum baccare tellus,
Mixtaque ridenti colocasia fundet acantho.--
Ipsa tibi blandos fundent cunabula flores.
The line is too particular; it brings the image too close, and by
And silver fauns and savage beasts advanced,
And nodding forests to the numbers danced,]
Aggredere, o magnos, aderit jam tempus, honores,
Cara deum soboles, magnum Jovis incrementum.
Ipsi laetitia voces ad sidera jactan
Intonsi montes, ipsae jam carmina rupes,
Ipsa sonant arbusta, Deus, deus ille, Menalca!
Then, as you pass, let mountains homage pay
And bow their tow'ring heads to smooth your way.--WAKEFIELD.]
inaccuracies are not to be found in his later poems.--WARBURTON.
He wipes the tears for ever from our eyes,
which was from Milton's Lycidas, ver. 181:
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
capacious flow of the eastern garments.--WAKEFIELD.]
AEre ciere viros.
And finish what thy god-like sire begins--WAKEFIELD.]
Molli paulatim flavescet campus arista,
Incultisque rubens pendebit sentibus uva,
Et durae quercus sudabunt roscida mella.
Isaiah xxxv. 7. "_The parched ground shall become a pool, and the
circumstance.--WARTON.]
Ipsae lacte domum referent distenta capelae
Ubera, nec magnos metuent armeuta leones.--
Occidet et serpens, et fallax herba veneni
Isaiah xi. 6, 7, 8. "_The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the
ille suae lambebat conjugis ora;
Nunc quoque nec fugiunt hominem, nec vulnere laedunt.]
And with their forky tongue and pointless sting shall play.
And troops of lions innocently play.]
Magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo
--toto surget gens aurea mundo!
--incipient magni procedere menses!
Aspice, venture laetentur ut omnia saeclo! &c.
The reader needs only to turn to the passages of Isaiah, here
offensive.--WAKEFIELD.]
What sweet soe'er Sabaean springs disclose.--STEEVENS.
Sabaean odours from the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest.]
A stream of glory, and a flood of day.--WAKEFIELD.]
Now waxing Phoebe filled her wained horns.--WAKEFIELD.]
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.--WAKEFIELD.]
Non injussa cano: te nostrae. Vare, myricae,
Te nemus omne canet; nec Phoebo gratior ulla est,
Quam sibi quae Vari praescripsit pagina nomen.--VIRG.
London: Printed for BERNARD LINTOTT, at the Cross-keys,
The work appeared before March 9, 1713, on which day Swift
writes to Stella, "Mr. Pope has published a fine poem,
called Windsor Forest. Read it." In his manuscript Pope
says, "It was first printed in folio in ----. Again in folio
the same year, and in octavo the next." It was included in
the quarto of 1717, in the second edition of Lintot's
Miscellany in 1714, and in the four succeeding editions of
Somerville.--WARTON.
Then as I careless on the bed
Of gelid strawberries do tread,
And through the hazels thick espy
The _hatching thrustle's shining eye_.
Under his proud survey the city lies,
And like a mist beneath a hill does rise,
Whose state and wealth, the bus'ness and the crowd,
Seems at this distance but a _darker cloud_.
But his proud head the airy mountain hides
Among the clouds; his shoulders and his sides
A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows
Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows,
Whilst winds and storms his lofty forehead beat!
enlightened views might have justly urged that hard conditions,
Pope did not stop with applauding the Peace; he denounced the
Revolution. He afterwards professed a lofty superiority to party
And boldly rising for Britannia's laws,
Engaged great Cato in her country's cause.
unexampled success of the Homer subscription, which secured his
praise may have been influenced by the couplet in which Tickell
exclaimed,
Like the young spreading laurel, Pope! thy name
Shoots up with strength and rises into fame.
wastes." There was no occasion now to envy "Arcadia the immortal
huntress and her virgin train," since Windsor could boast
As bright a goddess, and as chaste a queen,
O early lost! what tears the river shed,
When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping swans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each muse's lyre.
Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strung
His living harp, and lofty Denham sung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are these revived?--or is it Granville sings?
What woful stuff this madrigal would be
In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought.
protestation that it was inadequate, and the pretence that Lord
Plucked the fairest, sweetest flow'r
That in the Muses' garden grew.
One likes my verses, and commends each line,
And swears that Cowley's are but dull to mine.
The wonder is not that he lost his pre-eminence, but that he ever
Unhappy Dryden! in all Charles's days,
Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays.
He might have remembered Milton if he overlooked Cowley, who was
"beseeching him not to let any pass (if anything of that kind has
A fourth element in Windsor Forest is not noticed by Bowles. Pope
Beasts urged by us their fellow beasts pursue,
And learn of man each other to undo.
The herd, unkindly wise,
Or chases him from thence, or from him flies;
Like a declining statesman, left forlorn
To his friends' pity, and pursuers' scorn,
With shame remembers, while himself was one
Of the same herd, himself the same had done.
Tell me, my Muse, what monstrous dire offence,
What crime could any Christian king incense
To such a rage? Was't luxury or lust?
Was _he_ so temperate, so chaste, so just?
Were these their crimes?--they were his own much more;
But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor,
Who having spent the treasures of his crown,
Condemns their luxury to feed his own.
Thus he the church at once protects and spoils:
But princes' swords are sharper than their styles.
Thy forest, Windsor! and thy green retreats,
At once the monarch's and the muse's seats,
Invite my lays.
When actions, unadorned, are faint and weak,
Cities and countries must be taught to speak;
Gods may descend in factions from the skies,
And rivers from their oozy beds arise.]
embellishments as may be supplied by historical retrospection or
incidental meditation."]
Thy forest, Windsor! and thy green retreats,
At once the monarch's and the muse's seats,
Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan maids!
Unlock your springs, and open all your shades.
Granville commands; your aid, O muses, bring!
What muse for Granville can refuse to sing?
The groves of Eden, vanished now so long,
Live in description, and look green in song:
These, were my breast inspired with equal flame,
Like them in beauty, should be like in fame.
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and water, seem to strive again;
Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised,
But, as the world, harmoniously confused:
Where order in variety we see,
And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Here waving groves a chequered scene display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day;
As some coy nymph her lover's warm address
Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress.
There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.
Here in full light the russet plains extend:
There wrapt in clouds the blueish hills ascend.
Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,
That crowned with tufted trees and springing corn,
Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.
Let India boast her plants, nor envy we
The weeping amber, or the balmy tree,
While by our oaks the precious loads are borne,
And realms commanded which those trees adorn.
Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,
Though gods assembled grace his tow'ring height,
Than what more humble mountains offer here,
Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.
See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crowned,
Here blushing Flora paints th' enamelled ground,
Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,
And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand;
Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains,
And peace and plenty tell, a STUART reigns.
Not thus the land appeared in ages past,
A dreary desert and a gloomy waste,
To savage beasts and savage laws a prey,
And kings more furious and severe than they;
Who claimed the skies, dispeopled air and floods,
The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods:
Cities laid waste, they stormed the dens and caves,
(For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves.)
What could be free, when lawless beasts obeyed,
And ev'n the elements a tyrant swayed?
In vain kind seasons swelled the teeming grain,
Soft show'rs distilled, and suns grew warm in vain;
The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields,
And famished dies amidst his ripened fields.
What wonder then, a beast or subject slain
Were equal crimes in a despotic reign?
Both doomed alike, for sportive tyrants bled,
But while the subject starved, the beast was fed.
Proud Nimrod first the bloody chace began,
A mighty hunter, and his prey was man:
Our haughty Norman boasts that barb'rous name,
And makes his trembling slaves the royal game.
The fields are ravished from th' industrious swains,
From men their cities, and from gods their fanes:
The levelled towns with weeds lie covered o'er;
The hollow winds through naked temples roar;
Round broken columns clasping ivy twined;
O'er heaps of ruin stalked the stately hind;
The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires,
And savage howlings fill the sacred choirs.
Awed by his nobles, by his commons curst,
Th' oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst,
Stretched o'er the poor and church his iron rod,
And served alike his vassals and his God.
Whom ev'n the Saxon spared, and bloody Dane,
The wanton victims of his sport remain.
But see, the man, who spacious regions gave
A waste for beasts, himself denied a grave!
Stretched on the lawn his second hope survey,
At once the chaser, and at once the prey:
Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart,
Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart.
Succeeding monarchs heard the subject's cries,
Nor saw displeased the peaceful cottage rise.
Then gath'ring flocks on unknown mountains fed,
O'er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread,
The forest wondered at th' unusual grain,
And secret transport touched the conscious swain.
Fair Liberty, Britannia's goddess, rears
Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years.
Ye vig'rous swains! while youth ferments your blood,
And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood,
Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset,
Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net.
When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds,
And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds,
Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds,
Panting with hope, he tries the furrowed grounds;
But when the tainted gales the game betray,
Couched close he lies, and meditates the prey;
Secure they trust th' unfaithful field beset,
Till hov'ring o'er them sweeps the swelling net.
Thus (if small things we may with great compare)
When Albion sends her eager sons to war,
Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest,
Near, and more near, the closing lines invest;
Sudden they seize th' amazed, defenceless prize,
And high in air Britannia's standard flies.
See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?
Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky,
The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny.
To plains with well-breathed beagles we repair,
And trace the mazes of the circling hare:
Beasts, urged by us, their fellow-beasts pursue,
And learn of man each other to undo.
With slaught'ring guns th' unwearied fowler roves,
When frosts have whitened all the naked groves;
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade,
And lonely woodcocks haunt the wat'ry glade.
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath,
The clam'rous lapwings feel the leaden death:
Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare,
They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade,
Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand:
With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed.
Our plenteous streams a various race supply,
The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye,
The silver eel, in shining volumes rolled,
The yellow carp, in scales bedropped with gold,
Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains,
And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery car:
The youth rush eager to the sylvan war,
Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround,
Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound.
Th' impatient courser pants in ev'ry vein,
And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain.
Hills, vales, and floods appear already crossed,
And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.
See the bold youth strain up the threat'ning steep,
Rush through the thickets, down the valleys sweep,
Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager speed,
And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed.
Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,
Th' immortal huntress, and her virgin-train;
Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen
As bright a goddess, and as chaste a queen;
Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign,
The earth's fair light, and empress of the main.
Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana strayed,
And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor shade:
Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove,
Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove;
Here armed with silver bows, in early dawn,
Her buskined virgins traced the dewy lawn.
Above the rest a rural nymph was famed,
Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named;
(Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast,
The muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last.)
Scarce could the goddess from her nymph be known,
But by the crescent and the golden zone.
She scorned the praise of beauty, and the care;
A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair;
A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,
And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.
It chanced, as eager of the chace, the maid
Beyond the forest's verdant limits strayed,
Pan saw and loved, and burning with desire
Pursued her flight, her flight increased his fire.
Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When through the clouds he drives the trembling doves,
As from the god she flew with furious pace,
Or as the god, more furious urged the chace.
Now fainting, sinking, pale, the nymph appears;
Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears;
And now his shadow reached her as she run,
His shadow lengthened by the setting sun;
And now his shorter breath, with sultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames she calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injured maid.
Faint, breathless, thus she prayed, nor prayed in vain;
"Ah Cynthia! ah--though banished from thy train,
Let me, O let me, to the shades repair,
My natives shades--there weep, and murmur there."
She said, and melting as in tears she lay,
In a soft, silver stream dissolved away.
The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the forest where she ranged before.
In her chaste current oft the goddess laves,
And with celestial tears augments the waves.
Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward skies,
The wat'ry landscape of the pendant woods,
And absent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forests paint the waves with green,
Through the fair scene roll slow the ling'ring streams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.
Thou too, great father of the British floods!
With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods;
Where tow'ring oaks their growing honours rear,
And future navies on thy shores appear.
Not Neptune's self from all his streams receives
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear,
No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear.
Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays,
While led along the skies his current strays,
As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes,
To grace the mansion of our earthly gods:
Nor all his stars above a lustre show,
Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.
Happy the man whom this bright court approves,
His sov'reign favours, and his country loves:
Happy next him, who to these shades retires,
Whom nature charms, and whom the muse inspires:
Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
Successive study, exercise, and ease.
He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,
And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields:
With chemic art exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatic souls of flow'rs:
Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figured worlds now travels with his eye;
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er:
Or wand'ring thoughtful in the silent wood,
Attends the duties of the wise and good,
T' observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow nature, and regard his end;
Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admired,
Thus Atticus, and Trumbull thus retired.
Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,
Bear me, oh bear me to sequestered scenes,
The bow'ry mazes, and surrounding greens;
To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill.
On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.
I seem through consecrated walks to rove,
I hear soft music die along the grove:
Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,
By god-like poets venerable made:
Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;
There the last numbers flowed from Cowley's tongue.
O early lost! what tears the river shed,
When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping swans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each muse's lyre.
Since fate relentless stopped their heav'nly voice,
No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strung
His living harp, and lofty Denham sung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are these reviv'd? or is it Granville sings!
'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats,
And call the muses to their ancient seats;
To paint anew the flow'ry sylvan scenes,
To crown the forests with immortal greens,
Make Windsor-hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To sing those honours you deserve to wear,
And add new lustre to her silver star.
Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage,
Surrey, the Granville of a former age:
Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance:
In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre
To the same notes of love, and soft desire:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then filled the groves, as heavenly Mira now.
Oh would'st thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,
What kings first breathed upon her winding shore,
Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains
In weeping vaults her hallowed earth contains!
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down through ev'ry age,
Draw monarchs chained, and Crecy's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal shield:
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,
Still in thy song should vanquished France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.
Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,
And palms eternal flourish round his urn.
Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps,
And, fast beside him, once-feared Edward sleeps:
Whom not th' extended Albion could contain,
From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites; where ev'n the great find rest,
And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppressed!
Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known,
(Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone)
Oh fact accurst! what tears has Albion shed,
Heav'ns, what new wounds! and how her old have bled!
She saw her sons with purple death expire,
Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs and dishonest scars.
At length great ANNA said--"Let discord cease!"
She said, the world obeyed, and all was peace!
In that blest moment, from his oozy bed
Old father Thames advanced his rev'rend head;
His tresses dropped with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffused a golden gleam;
Graved on his urn, appeared the moon that guides
His swelling waters, and alternate tides;
The figured streams in waves of silver rolled,
And on their banks Augusta rose in gold.
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell with tributary urns his flood:
First the famed authors of his ancient name,
The winding Isis and the fruitful Thame;
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renowned;
The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crowned;
Cole, whose dark streams his flow'ry islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;
The gulphy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent, stained with Danish blood.
High in the midst, upon his urn reclined,
(His sea-green mantle waving with the wind)
The god appeared: he turned his azure eyes
Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise;
Then bowed and spoke; the winds forget to roar,
And the hushed waves glide softly to the shore.
"Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days,
That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise!
Though Tiber's streams immortal Rome behold,
Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,
From heav'n itself though sevenfold Nilus flows,
And harvests on a hundred realms bestows,
These now no more shall be the muse's themes,
Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams.
Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine,
And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine;
Let barb'rous Ganges arm a servile train;
Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign.
No more my sons shall dye with British blood
Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood:
Safe on my shore each unmolested swain
Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;
The shady empire shall retain no trace
Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chace;
The trumpet sleep while cheerful horns are blown,
And arms employed on birds and beasts alone.
Behold! th' ascending villas on my side,
Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide;
Behold! Augusta's glitt'ring spires increase,
And temples rise, the beauteous works of peace.
I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!
There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,
The world's great oracle in times to come;
There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen
Once more to bend before a British Queen.
Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods,
And half thy forests rush into thy floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,
To the bright regions of the rising day;
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;
Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales!
For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
The pearly shell its lucid globe infold,
And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold.
The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind,
Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feathered people crowd my wealthy side,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire.
Oh stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,
Till conquest cease, and slav'ry be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves,
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roofed with gold.
Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds, shall barb'rous Discord dwell:
Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition shall attend her there:
There purple Vengeance bathed in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires:
There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel,
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel:
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain."
Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallowed lays
Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:
The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,
And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.
My humble muse, in unambitious strains,
Paints the green forests and the flow'ry plains,
Where Peace descending bids her olive spring,
And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise;
Enough for me, that to the list'ning swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.
Ye woods and wilds, serene and blest retreats,
At once the lovers' and the Muses' seats
To you I fly.--WAKEFIELD.]
Chaste goddess of the woods,
Nymphs of the vales, and Naiads of the flood,
Lead me through arching bow'rs, and glimin'ring glades,
Unlock your springs.--POPE.
Once more unlock for thee the sacred spring.
Now, sacred sisters, open all your spring.--WAKEFIELD.]
Of the first Paradise there's nothing found,
Yet the description lasts.--HOLT WHITE.
Addison's Letter from Italy:
Sometimes misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortalised in song,
That lost in silence and oblivion lie;
Yet run for ever by the muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.--WAKEFIELD.]
Addison's Letter from Italy:
O, could the muse my ravished breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire.--WAKEFIELD.]
Like him in birth, thou should'st be like in fame,
As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame.]
As in old chaos heav'n with earth confused,
And stars with rocks together crushed and bruised.--WAKEFIELD.]
Here Nature, whether more intent to please
Us, or herself, with strange varieties,
Wisely she knew the harmony of things,
As well as that of sounds, from discord springs.
Such was the discord which did first disperse
Form, order, beauty through the universe.--WARTON.
Why should I sing our better suns or air,
Whose vital draughts prevent the leech's care,
While through fresh fields th' enlivening odours breathe,
Or spread with vernal blooms the purple heath?--POPE.
He scapes the best, who, nature to repair,
Draws physic from the fields, in draughts of vital air.]
Bosomed high in tufted trees.--WAKEFIELD.]
Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balms.
substitutions, give no offence.--WAKEFIELD.]
Pope, in his manuscript, has underscored "Pan with flocks," and
A dismal desert, and a silent waste.
incapacitate the offender for military service.]
Prove all a desert! and none there make stay
But savage beasts, or men as wild as they.--WAKEFIELD.
Sir William Temple says of the forests on the continent that they
give a shade
To savage beasts who on the weaker prey,
Or human savages more wild than they.
From towns laid waste, to dens and caves they ran
(For who first stooped to be a slave was man).--WARBURTON.
The swain with tears to beasts his labour yields,
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The reddening orange, and the swelling grain:
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.--HOLT WHITE.
No wonder savages or subjects slain--
But subjects starved, while savages were fed.
Templa adimit divis, fora civibus, arva colonis,
an old monkish writer, I forget who.--POPE.]
O'er prostrate towns and palaces they pass,
Now covered o'er with weeds, and hid in grass.]
When winds in our ruined abbeys roar.--WAKEFIELD.]
And wolves with howling fill, &c.
translation of the Second AEneis:
At once the taker, and at once the prey.--WAKEFIELD.]
A stone pillar now marks the spot.--CROKER.]
Miraturque novas frondes et non sua poma. Virg.--WARBURTON.
Latonae tacitum pertentant gaudia pectus.--WAKEFIELD.
Dryden's translation:
And feeds with secret joy her silent breast.
O may no more a foreign master's rage,
With wrongs yet legal, curse a future age!
Still spread, fair liberty! thy heav'nly wings,
O Liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright,
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train.]
Their courage dwells not in a troubled flood
Of mounting spirits, and fermenting blood.
When yellow autumn summer's heat succeeds,
And into wine the purple harvest bleeds,
The partridge feeding in the new-shorn fields,
Both morning sports and evening pleasures yields.--POPE.
Watchful to betray
With inward rage he meditates his prey.--HOLT WHITE.]
si parra licet componere magnis.
If little things with great we may compare. Dryden.--WAKEFIELD.]
Pleased in the general's sight, the host lie down
Sudden before some unsuspecting town;
The young, the old, one instant make our prize,
manuscript:
Exults in air and plies his whistling wings.
Now what avails his well-deserving toil. Dryden.--WAKEFIELD.]
When hoary-winter clothes the years in white,
The woods and fields to pleasing toils invite.--POPE.]
O'er rustling leaves around the naked groves.--WARBURTON.
This is a better line.--WARTON.]
The fowler lifts his levelled tube on high.--POPE.
He owed the line in the text to Dryden's Virgil, Geor. ii. 774.
And bends his bow, and levels with his eyes.
the gun
Glanced just and sudden from the fowler's eye,
O'ertakes their sounding pinions.
The last expression is nobly descriptive.]
Praecipites alta vitam sub nube relinquunt. Virg.--WARBURTON.
So before Pope, Philips in his Cider:
----they leave their little lives above the clouds.--STEEVENS.
circumstances, should be all thrown in the distant ground, whilst
ended foul in many a scaly fold
Voluminous and vast,
sporting with quick glance
Show to the sun their waved coats dropt with gold.]
But when bright Phoebus from the twins invites
Our active genius to more free delights,
With springing day we range the lawns around.--POPE.]
Stare adeo miserum est, pereunt vestigia mille
Ante fugam, absentemque ferit gravis ungula campum.
They stretch, they sweat, they glow, they shout around;
Heav'n trembles, roar the mountains, thunders all the ground.
Congreve's Prologue to the Queen:
For never was in Rome nor Athens seen
So fair a circle, and so bright a queen.]
And rules the boundless empire of the main.
Here, as old bards have sung, Diana strayed,
Bathed in the springs, or sought the cooling shade.
The nicest eye did no distinction know,
But that the goddess bore a golden bow.]
Nec positu variare comas; uni fibula vestem,
Vitta coercuerat neglectos alba capillos. Ovid.--WARBURTON.]
Pope remembered Dryden's translation of Virgil, AEneis, xi. 968:
Diana's arms upon her shoulder sounds.
A gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds.]
The lover gazed, and burning with desire,
The more he looked the more he fed the fire.]
Ut fugere accipitrem penna trepidante columbae,
Sandys' translation:
As trembling doves the eager hawks eschew;
As eager hawks the trembling dovers pursue.]
As from the god with fearful speed she flew,
As did the god with equal speed pursue.
Sol erat a tergo: vidi praecedere longam
Ante pedes umbram; nisi timor illa videbat.
Sed certe sonituque pedum terrebar; et ingens
Sandys, whom our bard manifestly consulted, renders thus:
The sun was at our backs; before my feet
I saw his shadow, or my fear did see't.
Howere his sounding steps, and thick-drawn breath
That fanned my hair, affrighted me to death.--WAKEFIELD.
Not only is the story of Lodona copied from the transformation of
sufficient specimen.]
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears.--BOWLES.
Dryden's translation of the first book of Ovid's Art of Love:
Her briny tears augment the briny flood.]
And in truth they are but puerile and redundant.--WARTON.]
What's here? another firmament below
Spread wide, and other trees that downward grow.--STEEVENS.]
No seas so rich, so full no streams appear.
The epithets "clear," "gentle," "full," which Pope applies to the
Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o'er-flowing full.]
Heav'n her Eridanus no more shall boast,
Whose fame in thine, like lesser currents lost,
By nobler streams shall visit Jove's abodes,
To shine amongst the stars and bathe the gods.]
preferable both in strength and beauty:
Not fabled Po more swells the poet's lays
While through the skies his shining current strays.--WAKEFIELD.]
Nor all his stars a brighter lustre show,
Than the fair nymphs that gild thy shore below.
The MS. goes on thus:
Whose pow'rful charms enamoured gods may move
To quit for this the radiant court above;
And force great Jove, if Jove's a lover still,
To change Olympus, &c.]
Happy the man, who to these shades retires,
But doubly happy, if the muse inspires!
Blest whom the sweets of home-felt quiet please;
But far more blest, who study joins with ease.--POPE.
remarked, from Philips's Cider:
He to his labour hies
Gladsome, intent on somewhat that may ease
Unhealthy mortals, and with curious search
Examines all the properties of herbs,
Fossils and minerals, &c.
or else his thoughts
Are exercised with speculations deep,
Of good, and just, and meet, and th' wholesome rules
Of temperance, and ought that may improve
The moral life; &c.]
An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres,
Curantem quidquid dignum sapiente bonoque est?--WAKEFIELD.
Pope remembered Creech's translation of the passage:
Or dost thou gravely walk the healthy wood,
Considering what befits the wise and good.]
----servare modum, finemque tenere,
Naturamque sequi. Lucan.--WARBURTON.]
Ye sacred muses! with whose beauty fired,
My soul is ravished, and my brain inspired.--WAKEFIELD.
Addison in his Letter from Italy has the expression "fired with a
O, qui me gelidis in vallibus Haemi
Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra! Virg.--WARBURTON.]
Methinks around your hold scenes I rove,
And hear your music echoing through the grove:
With transport visit each inspiring shade,
By god-like poets venerable made.--WARBURTON.]
or what
Unrivalled authors by their presence made
For ever venerable.--STEEVENS.]
This, Thames, ah! this, is now thy second loss
For which in tears thy weeping current flows.]
quae, Tiberine, videbis
Funera, cum tumulum praeterlabere recentem.
What sighs, what murmurs, filled the vocal shore!
His tuneful swans were heard to sing no more.--POPE.]
thereof. Psalm cxxxvii. 2.--WAKEFIELD.
What bard, what angel, tunes the warbling strings?
And paint those honours thou art sure to wear.--STEEVENS.]
conclusion, were these;
My humble muse in unambitious strains
Paints the green forests and the flow'ry plains;
Where I obscurely pass my careless days,
Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise,
Enough for me that to the list'ning swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.--POPE.]
sonnets, the scene of many of which is laid at Windsor.--POPE.]
Not to recount those several kings, to whom
It gave a cradle, and to whom a tomb. Denham.--BOWLES.]
----Great Edward, and thy greater son,
The lilies which his father wore, he won.
When brass decays, when trophies lie o'er-thrown,
And mould'ring into dust drops the proud stone,
From Windsor's roofs, &c.--WARBURTON.]
The wounded arm would furnish all their rooms,
And bleed for ever scarlet in the looms.--HOLT WHITE.]
Whom Afric was not able to contain
Whose length runs level with th' Atlantic main.--WAKEFIELD.]
Make warlike James's peaceful virtues known.--WAKEFIELD.]
Oh fact accurst! oh sacrilegious brood,
Sworn to rebellion, principled in blood!
Since that dire morn what tears has Albion shed,
Gods! what new wounds, &c.--WARBURTON.]
I blush at the dishonest show,
I die to see the wounds and scars,
Those glories of our civil wars.]
Till Anna rose, and bade the Furies cease;
_Let there be peace_--she said, and all was _peace_.--WARBURTON.
Old Father Thames raised up his rev'rend head.
And again, at the conclusion of his Threnodia Augustalis:
While, starting from his oozy bed,
Th' asserted ocean rears his rev'rend head.--WAKEFIELD.
The gods of rivers are invariably represented as old men.]
his beard all gray
Dewed with silver drops that trickled down alway.--WAKEFIELD.]
From shore to shore exulting shouts he heard,
O'er all his banks a lambent light appeared,
With sparkling flames heav'n's glowing concave shone,
Fictitious stars, and glories not her own.
He saw, and gently rose above the stream
His shining horns diffused a golden gleam:
With pearl and gold his tow'ry front was drest,
The tributes of the distant East and West.--POPE.]
Pope's personification of the Thames is the echo of Addison's
translation of a passage in Claudian, describing the deity of the
His head above the floods he gently reared,
And as he rose his golden horns appeared,
That on the forehead shone divinely bright
And o'er the banks diffused a yellow light:
Beneath his arm an urn supported lies
With stars embellished, and fictitious skies.]
All little rivers, which owe vassalage
To him, as to their lord, and tribute pay,
The crystal Trent for fords and fish renowned.--BOWLES.
still Darent in whose waters clean
Ten thousand fishes play, and deck his pleasant stream.]
Where silver lakes with verdant shadows crowned.]
Her dropping locks the silver Tessin rears,
The blue transparent Adda next appears.]
Or sullen Mole, that runneth underneath.--WAKEFIELD.
The Mole at particular spots, called the swallows, sinks through
crevices in the chalk, and during dry seasons, when there is not
And the old Lee brags of the Danish blood.--BOWLES.
----stained with blood of many a band
While thus she rested on her arm reclined,
The hoary willows waving with the wind.]
The winds their breath restrain,
And the hushed waves lie flatted on the main.--WAKEFIELD.
Unrolling waves steal softly to the shore,
They know their sovereign and they fear to roar.]
As when old Nilus, who with bounteous flows
Waters a hundred nations as he goes,
Scattering rich harvests, keeps his sacred head
Amidst the clouds still undiscovered.
_septemgeminus_, from the seven mouths by which its waters are
discharged into the Mediterranean.--WAKEFIELD.]
Let Venice boast her tow'rs amidst the main,
Where the rough Adrian swells and roars in vain;
Here not a town, but spacious realms shall have
A sure foundation on the rolling wave.--WARBURTON.
O'er all the Forests shall appear no trace.
And all his malice, all his craft is shown
In innocent wars, on beasts and birds alone.
As far as fair Augusta's buildings reach,
Bent, like a bow, along a peaceful beach.--WAKEFIELD.
Cowley's Somerset House:
And here, behold, in a long bending row,
How two joint cities make one glorious bow.
Thither the kingdoms and the nations come,
In supplicating crowds to learn their doom.
To Delphi less th' inquiring worlds repair.]
Now shall our fleets the bloody cross display
To the rich regions of the rising day,
Or those green isles, where headlong Titan steeps
His hissing axle in th' Atlantic deeps:
Tempt icy seas, &c.--POPE.
And the gilded car of day
His glowing axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream.--BOWLES.]
To the fair region where the sun does rise.]
What now remains
But that once more we tempt the wat'ry plains.--WAKEFIELD.]
uncontroll'd
The British navy, through the ocean vast,
Shall wave her double cross t' extremest climes
Terrific, and return with od'rous spoils
Of Araby well fraught, or Indus' wealth,
Pearl and barbaric gold.--WAKEFIELD.
Pope also drew upon Addison's lines to William III.:
Where'er the waves in restless errors roll,
The sea lies open now to either pole:
Now may we safely use the northern gales,
And in the polar circle spread our sails:
Or deep in southern climes, secure from wars,
New lands explore, and sail by other stars;
Fetch uncontrolled each labour of the sun,
And make the product of the world our own.
Here nearer suns prepare the ripening gem,
And here the ore, &c.]
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,
But free and common as the sea or wind.--WAKEFIELD.]
While by your valour and your bounteous mind,
Nations, divided by the sea, are joined.--WAKEFIELD.]
Let none admire
That riches grow in hell; that soil may best
Deserve the precious bane.
Beneath her feet pale envy bites her chain,
And snaky discord whets her sting in vain.]
Quo, Musa, tendis? desine pervicax
Referre sermones Deorum et
Magna modis tenuare parvis.--WARBURTON.
Addison's translation of Horace's Ode:
But hold, my muse, forbear thy tow'ring flight
Nor bring the secrets of the gods to light.
But I've already troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song.
My humble verse demands a softer theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling stream:
Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays
And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise.]
Whilst I at Naples pass my peaceful days,
Affecting studies of less noisy praise.--WAKEFIELD.