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ENGUSH PROSE AND VERSE 
 
 FROM BEOWULF TO STEVENSON 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED 
 BY 
 
 HENRY S. PANCOAST 
 
 NEW YORK \ 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 

 COPYBIOHT, 1913 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANf 
 
TO 
 
 FELIX E. SCHELLING 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA 
 
 JUSTLY EMINENT AS 
 
 SCHOLAR, TEACHER, AND WRITER 
 
 AND AS CONSTANT AND GENEROUS 
 
 IN FRIENDSHIP AS HE IS 
 
 UNWEARIED IN THE SERVICE 
 
 OF LEARNING 
 
 408944 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The present collection is intended to serve as a supplement to a general course 
 in the history of English literature, from its beginnings to the end of the Victorian 
 era. With our modem methods of teaching, which insist upon some knowledge of 
 the works of the authors, in addition to the study of literary history and biography, 
 collections of this kind have become almost indispensable. In the rapid survey 
 of the whole extent of English literary history, which is often undertaken before 
 any careful and minute study of an especial author, or period, or literary form, 
 is begun, the student is apt to find himself confused and discouraged by references 
 to authors whose names mean nothing to him, and to works with whose very titles 
 he is unfamiliar. Many of the books referred to are expensive, or, for some other 
 reason, not readily accessible; ^ some of these are only obtainable in an English 
 which repels him by its strangeness, or which he finds wholly unintelligible. In 
 any case, to master all of the works mentioned in such a general course would 
 be the lalDor not of a college year, but of a life time. Even if it were possible, such 
 omnivorous reading would be far from desirable in this early stage of literary study. 
 One whose immediate purpose is to fix clearly in his mind the topography of a 
 whole continent, who seeks to see distinctly the general trend of its coast-line, the 
 general disposition of its great mountain ranges, its rivers, and its plains, will do 
 well to disregard for the time the windings of some obscure and tributary stream. 
 The familiar words of Bacon have lost none of their force by frequent repetition: 
 ''Some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; 
 and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention." A few pages 
 are enough to give one a very fair notion of the general character of the Anglo- 
 Saxon Chronicle, and a chapter or two of Bede's Ecclesiastical History will at least 
 help to make that book something more than a disembodied title, and clothe it 
 with the form and substance of reality. That such a method of approach is, and 
 should be, a mere preliminary to fuller studies, is obvious enough: that it is a wise, 
 almost a necessary, preliminary, few sensible persons will, I think, be disposed 
 to deny. 
 
 To represent a vast, varied, and ancient literature like the English, — a literature 
 practically limitless, — in a book of reasonable compass, and in a manner at all 
 adequate to the student's needs, is no easy task. The present collection is the 
 result of more than twenty years of effort and experiment. As long ago as 1892, 
 I published a volume containing a number of representative English masterpieces 
 in prose and verse, with a setting of historical and biographical comment. This 
 was followed by a collection of Standard English Poems, from Spenser to Tennyson; 
 a companion book of Standard English Prose, from Bacon to Stevenson; and a col- 
 lection of Early English Poems, translated or modernized in collaboration with 
 Dr. J. Duncan Spaeth, of Princeton University. The three books last named have 
 been used freely in the making of the present collection; but while many of the old 
 selections have been retained, I have taken advantage of this opportunity for 
 revision and rearrangement, so that the present book is not a mere consolidation 
 
 1 RoUe's Pricke of Conscience, is a glaring example of a book which is constantly referred to, 
 and practically very difficult to procure. I know several large libraries that have not a single 
 copy of it in any form, and have, so far, been unable to secure one. 
 
 iii 
 
iv PREFACE 
 
 of its predecessors into one volume, but virtually a new collection. In the interests 
 of proportion, some of the poetical selections in the Old and Middle English periods 
 have been omitted; illustrations of English prose before Bacon have been intro- 
 duced; while many new selections, most of them from 18th and 19th century authors, 
 have also been added. So much space has been saved by increasing the size 
 of the page, and by greatly reducing the length of the notes, that the amount of 
 text in the present volume is materially greater than that in its three predecessors 
 combined. 
 
 In a book of this character, the needs of the teacher must be the first considera- 
 tion. To be practically useful, such a supplementary collection as this must in- 
 clude at least a large proportion of the authors usually considered or incidentally 
 referred to in the class-room; it must contain, at least, certain famous poems, 
 with which every cultivated reader is familiar; and it must contain, at least, well- 
 known passages from the monumental masterpieces of prose. To supply these 
 needs, one must be content to follow in the well-beaten track, made smooth by 
 innumerable anthologists; he must, of necessity, provide again those inevitable 
 masterpieces which no well regulated anthology could possibly be without. 
 
 But, when this primary requirement has been met (as fully and faithfully as 
 space and the personal limitations of the editor allow), there still remains a wide 
 field for liberty of choice. The treasures of English literature are practically in- 
 exhaustible; we can say of it, as the English Chancellor said of the law, "the Lord 
 forbid, that any man should know it all." When the paramount needs of teacher 
 and student shall have been satisfied, an editor will do well, I think, in the interest 
 of freshness and variety, to give some hint of the queer nooks and less-trodden 
 paths that wait to be explored. We are sometimes prone to become a trifle narrow 
 and conventional in our literary judgments, to regard not so much what we like as 
 what we are expected to like, and to pay too exclusive a reverence to the " canonical 
 books.'' We must remember, moreover, that a book like the present is, after all, 
 intended to awaken and foster a love of literature in readers whose taste is at best 
 immature. While such a book ought certainly to give the inevitable and indis- 
 pensable masterpieces, we should remember that for some the real quickener of 
 the spirit may prove to be a comparatively obscure and little-regarded work, long 
 relegated, perhaps, to the literary apocrypha. "The appreciation of Lycidas," 
 said Mark Pattison, with a rare wisdom, "is the last reward of a consummated 
 scholarship." 
 
 While I have not made any very daring innovations, I have, accordingly, not 
 hesitated to follow my own judgment, and include some authors and selections, 
 both ancient and modem, not usually found in a book of this kind. For instance, 
 in the earlier literature, the thirteenth, early fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries 
 (times fuller of vital hterature than we are apt to realize), have been represented 
 with comparative fullness; while in recent times, I have included such writers as 
 John Richard Green, F. W. H. Myers, Leslie Stephen, and two living authors, 
 Frederic Harrison and Austin Dobson, who, as I had resolved to exclude con- 
 temporary authors, were not strictly eligible. The choice of selections must be of 
 necessity a compromise between the often conflicting claims of many requirements; 
 but, so far as I could do so in justice to other needs, I have tried to make a book 
 that would be not merely "educational," — in our restricted sense, — but one that 
 could be read with interest and pleasure. 
 
PREFACE V 
 
 On the other hand, especial care has been taken to make the book practically 
 helpful and suggestive on the historical side. Besides the chronological arrange- 
 ment, the division into literary periods, the insertion of biographical dates, and 
 such obvious aids to the student, wherever it was practicable the selections have 
 been so chosen, that the authors speak for themselves, and reveal their own char- 
 acters, or the plan and purpose of their works. Thus, Bede, Alfred, Layamon, 
 Geoffrey of Monmouth, Caxton, Burton, and many others, tell us directly about 
 their lives, their characters, or the making of their books. We learn of Spenser's 
 hot anger at the intrigues and procrastinations of the Court, from his own lips; we 
 listen to Greene's tragic self-reproaches; while Milton's unconquerable nobility 
 of spirit under the chastisement of blindness and disappointment, and Scott's no 
 less splendid fortitude, lie open to us, with no medium of critic or commentator 
 between their souls and ours. To study literary history in such a fashion is to drink 
 from the fountain-head. 
 
 Care has also been taken to introduce selections illustrative of literary history, 
 and, so far as possible, to make one selection explain or supplement another. For 
 instance, we can follow up our reading of Caedmon's Hymn and Bede's Death Song, 
 with Bede's story of Caedmon, and with Cuthbert's Letter on the Death of Bede; 
 we can study Dr. Johnson in his prose and poetry, we can see him through the 
 eyes of Boswell "in his habit as he lived," or again, we can look back and, with 
 Macaulay and Carlyle, regard both Johnson and Boswell in that perspective which 
 time only can supply. Many of the biographical and critical selections can be 
 made in this way to serve a double purpose, for when one great author writes of 
 another, he tells us something not only of his subject but of himself. Or again, 
 we can see how the same experience, or the same problem, has impressed different 
 minds. As we read the account of the fire of London in Evelyn or in Pepys, we see 
 something more than confusion, terror, and burning houses, — we see with an equal 
 distinctness the contrasted natures of the two men. Or if we would understand the 
 widely different impressions made upon thoughtful men by the material progress 
 and scientific spirit of the last century, we can gain some notion of it by contrasting 
 the utterances of Macaulay and Newman, of Huxley and of Ruskin and Carlyle. 
 Hence, while a general adherence to chronology in the arrangement of the selec- 
 tions was manifestly advisable, the order in which the selections are read may be 
 modified by the teacher at his discretion, for many selections may be found 
 to belong together in spirit and to be separated only by the accident of 
 time. 
 
 As the book is intended primarily for students who are approaching the subject 
 from the purely literary side, all the selections from the Old and Middle English 
 periods (with the single exception of Chaucer) have been translated or modernized. 
 For a few of the renderings I have gone to Tennyson, Henry Morley, or others; 
 some of them have been made by Dr. Percy V. D. Shelly for the present book; 
 but by far the greater number are versions, made by Dr. J. Duncan Spaeth or 
 by myself, which have already appeared in the Early English Poems. In any case, 
 the object has been to furnish the student with a version which, while it gives the 
 meaning of the original, preserves something, at least, of its illusive spirit and its 
 poetic form. Every one agrees, that to be good a translation must be accurate; 
 but many confuse the deeper faithfulness to one's original, with a merely servile 
 and literal accuracy, forgetting that, especially in translating poetry, there is an. 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 obligation to be faithful to the spirit as well as to the letter, and that the letter 
 without the spirit is dead. 
 
 Translation or modernization was necessary if the earlier literature were to be 
 made generally accessible, but the original texts have been changed as little as 
 was consistent with this object, and in many cases obsolete words or quaint and 
 unusual expressions have been retained and explamed. In order that the student 
 may have some idea of the nature and extent of these changes, and have some 
 concrete reminder of the slow growth of the language, short passages from the 
 earlier authors are given in the appendix in their original form. 
 
 To give the reader ready access to the author, it was not enough to clear away the 
 barriers of an unfamiliar language, there were also obscure allusions, involved or 
 ambiguous expressions, or other difficulties, which it was necessary to explain. 
 In such cases the necessary explanation has been given at the foot of the page. I 
 have tried to make these notes as few in number, as brief and as unobtrusive as I 
 possibly could. Except in a few cases, I have confined myself to a short explana- 
 tion of some real difficulty in the text. Biographical and critical matter has been 
 introduced very sparingly, and I have often refrained from giving the source of a 
 quotation, believing that the formal reference to an ancient and little-read book 
 was of no real help to the student. The traditional commentator is not unlike 
 the traditional policeman, always on hand except when he is really needed, and 
 the middle path between the too-little and the too-much is a hard one to hit or 
 to follow. 
 
 The practice of giving complete works, rather than fragments or "extracts," 
 has been followed in this book, as in its predecessors, wherever circumstances 
 allowed. But to hold rigidly to this practice in all cases (and especially where one 
 is dealing with prose) would entail too great a sacrifice. Most of the selections 
 are, however, either literally or essentially complete; while in cases where this was 
 impracticable, I have tried to make the selection intelligible by explanatory notes, 
 or by an abstract of the portion omitted. As the drama and fiction could not be 
 adequately represented by extracts, and as it was obviously impossible to give an 
 entire novel or play, it seemed best to leave these two important divisions of litera- 
 ture unrepresented. I have, however, given a few passages, not scenes, — from 
 the Elizabethan dramatists, which can be read purely as poetry, and, for the con- 
 venience of the teacher, I have inserted a short specimen of a Miracle, and of a 
 Moral play in the appendix. 
 
 One personal conviction it may, perhaps, be permissible for me to express here, 
 for a preface is a spot which even an impersonal editor can call his own. The chief 
 business of the teacher of English literature is to lead the student to read the right 
 things in the right way. The student must be taught to interpret, possibly ''to 
 contradict and to confute," but he must, above all, be taught to enjoy. The range 
 of his enjoyment must be widened; his taste must be made more catholic, ex- 
 cluding nothing that is really significant or really excellent of its kind; yet he must 
 be taught to discriminate, and trained to prefer in all sincerity the good to the 
 inferior, and even above the good, to set the best. To this supreme object, all 
 others, however curious or praiseworthy, must, after all, be made subordinate 
 and contributory. The historical development of the literature, the lives, the 
 characters, the personal peculiarities of authors, the "chatter about Harriet," 
 the study of philology, the study of dates, or "sources," the problems of text and 
 
PREFACE vii 
 
 authorship, all such things, fascinating and important as they undeniably are, 
 must be regarded as means to an end, for, as Tennyson said of Knowledge, — they 
 are ''the second not the first." 
 
 This business of teaching people to read is really a matter of incalculable, of 
 national, importance to us in America. I doubt whether there was ever a country 
 on the face of the earth which contained such multitudes of people who knew 
 how to read, and so few true readers; a country which contained so few who were 
 illiterate, and so many who were uneducated. With all this we have quite un- 
 paralleled opportunities for the reader. We teach him the mechanical process of 
 reading, and we establish innumerable agencies to provide him with reading matter 
 at a small cost, or at no cost at all. We have a great host of writers, who produce 
 books without number, yet we make but a trifling contribution to the permanent 
 literature of the world. I suspect that the true reader is almost as rare as the great 
 writer, and I suspect that to teach a child to read without teaching him to prefer 
 a good book to a bad one, is very like giving a boy a loaded gun without showing 
 him how to use it. Such a situation, and I do not think it is over-stated, imposes 
 a heavy but an honorable responsibiUty upon the teacher of English. It is his 
 task, subordinating all merely curious researches and vain disputations, to teach 
 as many as he can among this multitude of un-read readers, to Imow and to delight 
 in the best literature. ''We need to be reminded every day," says Frederic Har- 
 rison, "how many are the books of mimitable glory, which, with all our eagerness 
 after reading, we have never taken in our hands." Many works of this enduring 
 and "inimitable glory" have been brought together here, gathered from the noblest 
 utterances of more than a thousand years. If a book of this kind helps the teacher 
 to bring these glories nearer to the minds and lives of his students, if it helps any 
 reader in school or out, to come into closer and more human relations with great 
 literature, it has its place and part (small as it may be) in an immeasurably im- 
 portant work. 
 
 My indebtedness to others is too great to be specifically acknowledged. I can- 
 not, however, omit a word of especial gratitude to my friend Dr. Percy V. D. Shelly, 
 of the University of Pennsylvania, who, besides contributing several translations 
 from Old English and Latin, has worked with me faithfully in the preparation of 
 this book. 
 
 H. S. P. 
 IsLESPORD, Maine, 
 July 15. 1915. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I. FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 POETRY 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Charm for Bewitched Land 3 
 
 Charm for a Sudden Stitch 3 
 
 Beowulf: The Fight with Grendel's 
 
 Mother 3 
 
 Beowulf's Last Fight and Death 6 
 
 Caedmon's Hymn 8 
 
 Bede's Death Song 8 
 
 Drowning of the Egyptians (From Exodus) 8 
 Cynewulf: 
 
 The Voyage of Life (From The Crist). . 9 
 
 Doomsday (From the same) 9 
 
 The Ruin 10 
 
 The Wanderer 11 
 
 The Seafarer 12 
 
 The Battle of Brunanburh (Tennyson's 
 
 Translation) 14 
 
 The Grave (Longfellow's Translation) ... 15 
 
 PROSE 
 
 Bede (673-735) : page 
 
 King Edwin Considers Adopting Chris- 
 tianity (From Historia Ecclesiastica) . . 16 
 The Vision of Caedmon (From the same) 17 
 Bede's Account of Himself . . .' 18 
 
 CUTHBERT (C. 735) I 
 
 Letter on the Death of Bede 19 
 
 King Alfred (849-901): 
 
 The State of Learning in England (From 
 Alfred's Preface to Gregory's Pastoral 
 
 Care) 20 
 
 The Consolation of Boethius (Selections 
 
 from King Alfred's Translation) 21 
 
 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Selections) 23 
 
 Aelfric (c. 955-c. 1020) : 
 
 The Daily Miracle (From Homilies) ... 23 
 WuLFSTAN (d. 1023): 
 Sermon to the English 23 
 
 II. THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 (c. 1066-c. 1350) 
 
 POETRY 
 Poema Morale (Before 1200, Selection) 27 
 
 Layamon: 
 How Layamon Wrote his Book (From 
 
 The Brut, c. 1205) 27 
 
 Orm: 
 
 Ormulum (c. 1215-1220, Selection) 28 
 
 Thomas of Hales: 
 
 A Love Rune (Before 1226) 28 
 
 The Owl and the Nightingale (c. 1216- 
 
 1225, Selection) 29 
 
 The Debate of the Body and the Soul 
 
 (13th Century) 30 
 
 Robert of Gloucester: 
 
 In Praise of England (From Riming 
 
 Chronicle, c. 1300) 33 
 
 Norman and English (From the same) . . 33 
 Robert Manning, of Brunne: 
 
 In Praise of Woman (From Handlyng 
 
 Synne, c. 1303) 33 
 
 Cursor Mundi (c. 1320-1325): 
 
 The Prologue, abridged 34 
 
 Richard Rolle of Hampole (d. 1349) : 
 The Infant (From The Pricke of Con- 
 
 science, c. 1340) 35 
 
 The Celestial Country (From the same) 35 
 
 Lawrence Minot (c. 1300-1352): 
 
 The Battle of Halidon Hill 36 
 
 Prayer for King Edward (From How 
 
 Edward the King Came to Brabant) 37 
 
 Sir Orpheo (14th Century) 37 
 
 EARLY SONGS 
 
 Cuckoo Song (c. 1250) 41 
 
 Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt (c. 1280) . 41 
 
 Spring Song (c. 1300) 42 
 
 Alysoun (c. 1300) 42 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind (c. 1300) 42 
 
 When the Nightingale Sings (Early 14th 
 
 Century) 43 
 
 Joan 43 
 
 Song of the Scottish Maidens After 
 
 Bannockburn (1314) 43 
 
 Lullaby (Early 14th Century) 44 
 
 Ave Maria 44 
 
 PROSE 
 
 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: 
 
 A Description of William the Conqueror 
 William OF Malmsbury (c. 1095-c. 1142): 
 
 Malmsbury's Account of Himself (From 
 Gesta Regum Anglorum, c. 1120) 45 
 
 44 
 
 IX 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Battle of Hastings and the Ef- 
 fect of the Conquest (From the 
 
 same) 46 
 
 Thomas of Ely (d. c. 1107): 
 
 Canute and the Monks of Ely (From 
 
 Historia Eliensis, 12th Century) 48 
 
 Geoffrey of Monmouth (d. 1154?): 
 
 Dedicatory Epistle (From HisUyria 
 Regum BritanicB, 1147) 48 
 
 The Story of King , Leir (From the 
 same) 49 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ancren Riwle (c. 1210-1225) Selections: 
 
 Of Speech 51 
 
 Watchfulness and Dihgence 52 
 
 Joy in Suffering 52 
 
 Temptations 52 
 
 The Ladder of Pain 53 
 
 Matthew Paris (d. 1259) : 
 An Irruption of the Tartars (From 
 
 Historia Anglorum) 53 
 
 Of an Unusual Swelling and Commotion 
 
 of the Sea (From the same) 54 
 
 III. CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 (c. 1350-c. 1557) 
 
 THE AGE OF CHAUCER 
 POETRY 
 
 John Barbour (c. 1316-1396): 
 
 Freedom (From The Bruce, c. 1375) ... 55 
 
 The Pearl (c. 1370, Abridged) 55 
 
 The Seasons (From Sir Gawayne and the 
 
 Green Knight, 1370) 58 
 
 Sir Gawayne's Journey (From the same) 58 
 
 John Gower (c. 1325-1408) : 
 
 The Praise of Peace 59 
 
 William Langland (c. 1332-1400) : 
 Piers the Plowman (Selection from the 
 Prologue) 60 
 
 Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1340-1400) : 
 The Legend of Good Women (c. 1385, 
 
 From the Prologue) 62 
 
 The Canterbury Tales: The Prologue . . 64 
 
 The Pardoner's Tale (Abridged) 72 
 
 The Complaint of Chaucer to His Purse 74 
 The Ballad of Good Counsel or Truth . . 75 
 
 PROSE 
 
 The Voyages and Travels of Sir John 
 
 Mandeville (The Prologue) 75 
 
 Wonders of the Isles About Java 76 
 
 King Alexander and the Isle of Brag- 
 man 76 
 
 The Hills of Gold and the Terrestrial 
 
 Paradise 77 
 
 John Wyclif (c. 1324-1384): 
 A Short Rule of Life 78 
 
 XVth and early XVIth CENTURIES 
 POETRY 
 
 ENGLISH FOLLOWERS OF CHAUCER 
 
 A Praise of Women (Selection) 79 
 
 Merciles Beaute 79 
 
 Sir Thomas Clanvowb (c. 1400) : 
 
 The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 80 
 
 John Lydgate (1370-c. 1451): 
 
 In Praise of Chaucer 80 
 
 The Testament of John Lydgate 80 
 
 Thomas Hoccleve or Occleve (c. 1370- 
 1450): 
 
 Thomas Hoccleve's Complaint 80 
 
 A Lament for Chaucer (From The 
 Regimen of Princes) 81 
 
 SCOTTISH POETS AFTER CHAUCER 
 
 King James I of Scotland (1394-1437) : 
 
 A Ballad of Good Counsel 82 
 
 Robert Henryson (c. 1425-c. 1500): 
 The Tale of the Paddock and the 
 
 Mouse 82 
 
 Content (From The Tale of the Upland 
 
 ^ Mouse and the Burgess Mouse) 84 
 
 William Dunbar (c. 1460-c. 1525) : 
 
 No Treasure Without Gladness 84 
 
 The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins. . . 84 
 
 The Lament for the Makers 85 
 
 Gawain Douglas (c. 1474-1522) : 
 Welcome to the Summer Sun (From 
 
 Prologue to the Mneid) : 86 
 
 Sir David Lyndsay (1490-1555): 
 
 An Apology for Writing in the Vulgar 
 and Maternal Language (From The 
 
 Monarchy) '. 87 
 
 James Wedderburn (c. 1500-1564-5): 
 
 Leave Me Not 87 
 
 y BALLADS OF UNCERTAIN DATE 
 
 Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 88 
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot 90 
 
 Sir Patrick Spens 93 
 
 The Twa Corbies 93 
 
 The Twa Sisters o' Binnorie 94 
 
 Bonnie George Campbell 95 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Nut Brown Maid 95 
 
 Helen of Kirconnell 98 
 
 POEMS, SONGS, AND CAROLS OF THE 
 EARLY TUDOR PERIOD 
 
 A Lyke-Wake Dirge 98 
 
 Carol "Make we merry in hall and hour" . . 99 
 
 The Jolly Shepherd 99 
 
 The Hunt is Up 99 
 
 My Heart is High Above (16th Century) . . 100 
 
 Death 100 
 
 William Cornish (d. 1524?) : 
 
 God's Care for Man 100 
 
 John Skelton (c. 1460-1529) : 
 
 A Dirge for Philip Sparrow 100 
 
 Cohn Clout (Selections) 101 
 
 PROSE 
 Sib John Fortescue (d. c. 1476): 
 
 The Royal Power in France and Eng- 
 
 paqe 
 land (From The Difference between 
 j An Absolute and a Limited Monarchy) 102 
 V Sir Thomas Malory (c. 1430-c. 1470) : 
 
 The Drawing of the Sword (From Morte 
 d' Arthur) 103 
 
 Arthur's Encounter With Pellinore .... 104 
 
 How Arthur Got the Sword from the 
 Lady of the Lake 105 
 
 Sir Launcelot Departs Out of England . . 105 
 
 King Arthur Makes Mordred Chief 
 Ruler 106 
 
 Tidings Make Arthur Return to Eng- 
 land 106 
 
 The Death of Arthur 107 
 
 Sir Launcelot 109 
 
 William Caxton (1422-1491): 
 
 The New Invention of Printing (From 
 The Recuyell of the Histories of Troye) 110 
 
 King Arthur (From Caxton's Prologue 
 to Malory's Morte d' Arthur) 110 
 
 IV. WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 (c. 1525-1637) 
 
 WYATT AND SURREY AND THE 
 
 EARLY ELIZABETHANS 
 
 (c. 1525-1579) 
 
 y POETRY 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542): 
 
 The Lover's Life Compared to the Alps 113 
 
 And Wilt Thou Leave Me Thus 113 
 
 </ Henry Howard, Earl op SuRREi'{^. 1517- 
 1547): 
 
 Description of Spring 113 
 
 The Frailty of Beauty 113 
 
 The Means to Attain a Happy Life. ... 114 
 Selections from Translation of Aeneid. 114 
 
 The Death of LaocoSn 114 
 
 Night. 114 
 
 George Gascoigne (c. 1536-1577): 
 
 The Lullaby of a Lover 114 
 
 De Profundis 115 
 
 Thomas Sackville (1536-1608): 
 
 Introduction to a Mirrour for Magis- 
 trates 115 
 
 PROSE 
 
 Sir John Bourchier, Lord Berners 
 (1467-1533): 
 Prologue to Froissart's Chronicles (From 
 Berner's translation of the Chronicles 
 
 of Sir John Froissart) 121 
 
 The Battle of Cressy 122 
 
 The Speech of John Ball i 124 
 
 1^ The Burial of Richard II 7 125 
 
 ^SiR Thomas More (1478-1535) : 
 
 The People are Urged to Choose Richard 
 for their King (From History of Rich- 
 ard III) 125 
 
 Utopia and Europe Contrasted (From 
 
 Utopia) 126 
 
 William Roper (1496-1578): 
 
 The Execution of Sir Thomas More 
 (From Life of Sir Thomas More) .... 129 
 Hugh Latimer (c. 1491-1555) : 
 The Flowers (From A Sermon Preached 
 
 at St. Paul's, 1548) . . ' 130 
 
 Description of His Father (From Ser- 
 mon Preached March 8, 1549) 133 
 
 Roger Ascham (1515-1568): 
 Ascham Explains the Purpose of His 
 Book (From Preface to The School- 
 master) 133 
 
 The Training of Children 133 
 
 The Evil Enchantment of Italy 135 
 
 JohnFoxe (1516^1587): 
 
 The Execution of Lady Jane Grey (From 
 The Book of Martyrs) 135 
 
 THE AGE OF ELIZABETH 
 
 (c. 1579-1637) 
 
 POETRY 
 
 Edmund Spenser (1552-1599): 
 The Faerie Queene (Selections from 
 Bks. I and II) 136 
 
xu 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Courtier (From Mother Hubbard's 
 
 Tale) 147 
 
 Prothalamion 147 
 
 sonnets: 
 
 XL (From Amoretti) 149 
 
 LXXV (From the same) 149 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618): 
 The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate 
 
 Shepherd 149 
 
 Pilgrim to Pilgrim 150 
 
 Lines Written the Night before his 
 
 Death 150 
 
 John Ltlt (1553-1606) : 
 Apelles' Song (From Alexander and 
 
 Campaspe) 160 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586): 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 XXXI (From Astrophel and Stella) .... 150 
 XXXIX. On Sleep (From the same)... 151 
 
 A Farewell 151 
 
 Thomas Lodge (1558-1625): 
 
 A Protestation (From Rosalind) 151 
 
 Phillis (From Phillis Honored with Pas- 
 toral Sonnets) 151 
 
 George Peele (c. 1558-c. 1598) : 
 
 Song, "Fair and fair, and twice so fair" 
 
 (From The Arraignment of Paris) .... 151 
 "His Golden Locks Time hath to Silver 
 
 Turned" (From Polyhymnia) 152 
 
 "Illustrious England, Ancient Seat of 
 
 Kings" (From Edward 1st) 152 
 
 George Chapman (c. 1559-1634): 
 Hector and Andromache (From Trans- 
 lation of Homer's Iliad) 152 
 
 Zeus Sends Hermes to Calypso (From 
 
 Translation of Homer's Odyssey) 154 
 
 Robert Greene (1560-1592) : 
 
 Content 155 
 
 Samuel Daniel (1562-1619): 
 
 Sonnet LI (From Delia) 155 
 
 Prophecy of Literature in America 
 
 (From Musophilus) 155 
 
 To the Lady Margaret, Countess of 
 
 Cumberland 155 
 
 To Henry Wriothesly 156 
 
 Michael Drayton (1563-1631): 
 Sonnet LXI. "Since there's no help," 
 
 etc 157 
 
 Agincourt 157 
 
 From the "Virginian Voyage" 158 
 
 Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) : 
 The Passionate Shepherd to His Love. . 158 
 passages prom the dramas: 
 
 Ambition (From Tamburlaine) 159 
 
 Tamburlaine to the Subject Kings 159 
 
 Faustus' Vision of Helen (From Faustus) 159 
 Faustus Fulfils His Compact with the 
 Devil 159 
 
 page 
 Leander Sees Hero at the Feast at Sestos 
 
 (From Hero and Leander) 160 
 
 William Shakespeare (1564-1616): 
 songs: 
 
 Sylvia (From Two Gentlemen of Verona) 161 
 Fairy Song (From Mid. Night's Dream) 161 
 "You spotted snakes with double 
 
 tongue" (From the same) 161 
 
 Fairies Song "Now the hungry hon," 
 
 etc. (From the same) 161 
 
 Under the Greenwood Tree (From As 
 
 You Like It) 161 
 
 O Mistress Mine, Where are you Roam- 
 ing (From Twelfth Night) 162 
 
 Take, Oh Take those lips away (From 
 
 Measure for Measure) 162 
 
 Hark, hark, the lark (From Cymbeline) . 162 
 
 Dirge (From the same) 162 
 
 A Sea Dirge (From The Tempest) 162 
 
 Ariel's Song (From the same) 162 
 
 Crabbed Age and Youth (From The 
 
 Passionate Pilgrim) 162 
 
 sonnets: 
 
 XV. When I consider everything that 
 
 grows 163 
 
 XVIII. Shall I compare thee to a sum- 
 mer's day? 163 
 
 XXIX. When, in disgrace with fortune 
 and men's eyes 163 
 
 XXX. When to the sessions of sweet silent 
 thought 163 
 
 XXXIII. Full many a glorious morning 
 have I seen 163 
 
 LV. Not marble, nor the gilded monu- 
 ments 163 
 
 LX. Like as the waves make towards the 
 pebbled shore 163 
 
 LXV. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, 
 etc 164 
 
 LXVI. Tired with all these, for restful 
 death I cry 164 
 
 LXXIII. That time of year thou may'st 
 in me behold 164 
 
 CXI. 0, for my sake do you with Fortune 
 chide 164 
 
 CXVI. Let me not to the marriage of true 
 minds 164 
 
 CXLVI. Poor soul, the centre of my sinful 
 earth 164 
 
 prom the dramas: 
 
 The Shepherd's Life: Henry Vlth's So- 
 liloquy at the battle of Towton (From 
 /// Henry VI) 164 
 
 England: "This royal throne of Kings," 
 etc. (From Richard II) 165 
 
 Sleep: "How many thousands of my 
 poorest subjects" (From // Henry 
 IV) 165 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Xlll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Henry Vth's Address to his soldiers be- 
 fore Harfleur (From Henry V.) 165 
 
 Death and Hereafter: "Aye but to die, 
 
 »and go we know not where" (From 
 Measure for Measure) 166 
 
 Isabella's Plea for Mercy (From the 
 
 same) 166 
 
 Piospero's Sohloquy (From The Terry- 
 
 vest) 166 
 
 Thomas Nash (c. 1567-1601): 
 
 Death's Summons (From Summer's Last 
 
 Will and Testament) 166 
 
 The Coming of Winter (From the same) 167 
 Thomas Dekker (c. 1570-c. 1637) : 
 O Sweet Content (From The Patient 
 
 Grissell) 167 
 
 Saint Hugh (From The Shoemaker's 
 
 Holiday) 167 
 
 John Donne (1573-1631): 
 An Elegy upon the Death of the Lady 
 
 Markham 167 
 
 A Valediction Forbidding Mourning. . . 168 
 
 Song, "Sweetest love, I do not go" 168 
 
 Sonnet X— On Death 169 
 
 A Hymn to God the Father 169 
 
 Ben Jonson (1573-1637) : 
 To the Memory of My Beloved Master 
 
 William Shakespeare, and what He 
 
 Hath Left us 169 
 
 Song — to Cynthia (From Cynthia's 
 
 Revels) 170 
 
 Simplex Munditiis (From Epiccme) 170 
 
 Song to Celia (From The Forest) 170 
 
 The Triumph of Charis (From Under- 
 woods) 170 
 
 Life's True Measure (From the same) . . 171 
 Thomas Campion (c. 1575-1620?) : 
 
 To Lesbia (In Rosseter's Book of Airs) . 171 
 The Armour of Innocence (From the 
 
 same) 171 
 
 Fortunati Nimium 172 
 
 Thomas Heywood (c. 1581-1640?): 
 
 Good Morrow (From The Rape of 
 
 Lucrece) 172 
 
 John Fletcher (1579-1625) : 
 
 "Weep no more, nor sigh," etc. (From 
 
 The Queen of Corinth) 172 
 
 The Praises of Pan (From The Faithful 
 
 Shepherdess) 172 
 
 Song of the Priest of Pan (From the 
 
 same) 172 
 
 Song to Pan (From the same) 173 
 
 Melancholy (From Nice Valour) 173 
 
 Francis Beaumont (1586?-1616): 
 
 On the Life of Man 173 
 
 On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey . . 173 
 John Webster (Fl. 1602-1624): 
 
 A Dirge (From The White Devil) 173 
 
 page 
 Dirge before Death (From The Duchess 
 
 of Malfy). 174 
 
 Song "All the flowers of the Spring" 
 
 (From The Devil's Law Case) 174 
 
 William Drummond (1585-1649): 
 
 On Sleep 174 
 
 Sonnet "I know that all," etc 174 
 
 Sonnet "Of this fair volume which 
 
 we world do name" 174 
 
 Madrigal "This life which seems so 
 
 fair" 174 
 
 Madrigal "This world a-hunting is" . . 175 
 
 PROSE 
 John Stow (1525-1605): 
 
 Sports and Pastimes of Old London 
 
 (From Survey of London) 175 
 
 Sir Thomas North (1535-1601): 
 
 The Death of Cseear (From translation 
 
 • of Plutarch's Lives) 176 
 
 Raphael Holinshed (d. 1580) : 
 
 Macbeth's Meeting with the Weird-* 
 Sisters (From A Chronicle of England 
 
 and Scotland) 177 
 
 Richard Hakluyt (1553-1616): 
 
 Dedication to Sir Francis Walsingham 
 
 (From Voyages and Discoveries) 178 
 
 The Loss of Sir Humphrey Gilbert 179 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618): 
 
 Raleigh's Account of His Book (From 
 
 Preface to History of the World) 182 
 
 Fame and Death (From the same) .... 183 
 Richard Hooker (1553-1600): 
 
 A Plea for Charity in Controversies and 
 for Sincerity (From Preface to Ec- 
 clesiastical Polity) 184 
 
 The Divine Source of Law (From the 
 
 same) 185 
 
 JohnLyly (1553-1606): 
 
 A Good Schoohnaster (From Euphues) 185 
 Euphues Glass for Europe (From 
 
 Euphues and His England) 187 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586): 
 
 The Preeminence of Poetry (From 
 
 The Defense of Poesy) 188 
 
 Claius Describes Urania (From The 
 
 Arcadia) 189 
 
 A Description of Arcadia (P'rom the 
 
 same) 189 
 
 Thomas Lodge (c. 1558-1625): 
 
 Saladin and Rosader (From Rosalind) . . 190 
 Robert Greene (1560-1592): 
 
 Greene's Farewell to His Fellow Play- 
 wrights (From A Groat's Worth of 
 
 Wit) 192 
 
 Francis Bacon (1561-1626): 
 
 Of Death (From Essays) 193 
 
 Of Adversity 194 
 
XIV 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Of Wisdom for a Man's Self 194 
 
 Of Riches I95 
 
 Of Studies 196 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ben Jonson (1573-1637): 
 From Timber, or Discoveries (Selec- 
 tions) 
 
 197 
 
 V. THE AGE OF MILTON 
 (c. 1625-1660) 
 
 POETRY 
 
 Phineas Fletcher (1582-1650): 
 
 The Shepherd's Life (From The Purple 
 Island) 199 
 
 Giles Fletcher (1588-1623) : 
 Christ's Victory and Triumph (Selec- 
 tion) 200 
 
 George Wither (1588-1667): 
 
 The Author's Resolution in a Sonnet. . 200 
 A Christmas Carol 200 
 
 William Browne (1590-1645): 
 
 Britannia's Pastorals (Selections) 201 
 
 Francis Quarles (1592-1644): 
 
 Mors Tua 202 
 
 Invidiosa Senectus 202 
 
 Epigram "Art thou consumed," etc. . . . 202 
 
 George Herbert (1593-1633): 
 
 Vertue 202 
 
 The Pulley 203 
 
 The Elixir 203 
 
 The Collar 203 
 
 James Shirley (1596-1667): 
 A Dirge: "The glories of our blood and 
 state" 204 
 
 William Habington (1605-1654) : 
 
 Nox Nocti Indicat Scientam 204 
 
 Richard Crashaw (c. 1613-1649): 
 An Epitaph Upon Husband and Wife . . 205 
 Wishes to his Supposed Mistress 205 
 
 Henry Vaughan (1621-1695): 
 
 The Retreate 205 
 
 Departed Friends 205 
 
 The World 206 
 
 Thomas Traherne (1634?-1674) : 
 
 The Approach 206 
 
 Wonder 207 
 
 Edmund Waller (1605-1687) : 
 
 On a Girdle 207 
 
 Song "Go, lovely Rose" 208 
 
 On the Foregoing Divine Poems 208 
 
 John Milton (1608-1674): 
 
 L' Allegro 208 
 
 II Penseroso 209 
 
 Song, Sweet Echo (From Comus) 211 
 
 Song, Sabrina Fair (From the same) ... 211 
 
 Lycidas 211 
 
 sonnets: 
 
 On His Having Arrived at the Age of 
 Twenty-three 214 
 
 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont .... 214 
 
 On His Blindness 214 
 
 To Cyriack Skinner 214 
 
 XXI. To Cyriack Skinner 214 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book 1 215 
 
 Invocation to Light (From Bk. III).. . . 222 
 Invocation to Urania (From Bk. VII) . . 223 
 Milton Speaks of his Theme (From 
 Bk. IX) 223 
 
 Abraham Cowley (1618-1667): 
 
 The Wish 223 
 
 The Grasshopper 224 
 
 Bread and Liberty 224 
 
 Andrew Marvell (1621-1678): 
 
 The Garden 224 
 
 Bermudas 225 
 
 To His Coy Mistress 225 
 
 Thomas Carew (1589-1639): 
 
 Disdain Returned 226 
 
 Robert Herrick (1591-1674): 
 
 Argument to Hesperides 226 
 
 Corinna's Going A-Maying 226 
 
 To Primroses Filled with Morning Dew 227 
 To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time 227 
 
 To Daffodils 227 
 
 The Hag 227 
 
 A Thanksgiving to God for his House. . 228 
 His Grange, or Private Wealth 228 
 
 Sir John Suckling (1609-1641): 
 
 Orsames' Song "Why so pale and wan, 
 fond lover?" 228 
 
 Richard Lovelace (1618-1658): 
 
 To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars. .... 229 
 To Althea, from Prison 229 
 
 PROSE 
 
 Robert Burton (1577-1640) : 
 
 Burton Tells Why He Writes Under the 
 Name of Democritus Jr. (From The 
 
 Anatomy of Melancholy) 229 
 
 Remedies against Discontents (From the 
 
 same) 231 
 
 Sir Thomas Overbury (1581-1613): 
 
 A Fair and Happy Milkmaid 232 
 
 Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679): 
 
 War (From Leviathan) 233 
 
 IsAAK Walton (1593-1683): 
 
 Hawking, Hunting, and Fishing (From 
 The Complete Angler) 234 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XV 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Selection from the Life of Hooker 
 
 (From Walton's Lives) 239 
 
 JohnEarle (1601?-1665): 
 
 A Critic (From Microcosmographie) .... 240 
 Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682) : 
 
 Death and Immortality (From Hydrio- 
 
 taphia: Urn Burial) 240 
 
 Faith (From Religio Medici) 244 
 
 God's Wisdom and Eternity (From the 
 
 same) 245 
 
 The Divinity in Man (From the 
 
 same) 245 
 
 Thomas Fuller (1608-1661): 
 The Good Schoolmaster (From The 
 
 Holy State) 246 
 
 Of Self Praising (From the same) 247 
 
 Of Books (From the same) 248 
 
 Edward Hyde, Earl op Clarendon 
 
 (1608-1674): 
 Charles 1st Sets Up His Standard at 
 
 page 
 Nottingham (From History of the 
 
 Rebellion) 249 
 
 Lord Falkland (From the same) 251 
 
 Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667) : 
 
 Of Contentedness in all Estates and 
 
 Accidents (From Holy Living) 253 
 
 Consideration of the Vanity and Short- 
 ness of Man's Life (From Holy Dying) 254 
 Anger a Hinderance to Prayer (From 
 
 Sermons) 1 257 
 
 John Bunyan (1628-1688): 
 
 The Fight With ApoUyon (From Pil- 
 grim's Progress) 257 
 
 John Milton (1608-1674): 
 
 Tractate on Education: Letter to Hart- 
 lib 260 
 
 Areopagitica (Selection) 266 
 
 Abraham Cowley (1618-1667) : 
 
 Of Myself (From Essays in Prose and 
 Verse) 271 
 
 VI. DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 (c 1660-1784) 
 
 THE AGE OF DRYDEN 
 POETRY 
 
 5AMUEL Butler (1612-1680) : 
 The Merits of Sir Hudibras (From 
 Hudibras) 273 
 
 John Dryden (1631-1700): 
 
 /^JMfac-Flecknoe 275 
 
 Achitophel (From Absalom and Achit- 
 
 ophel) 277 
 
 A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 277 
 
 Alexander's Feast 278 
 
 Under Mr. Milton's Picture 280 
 
 Song (From The Indian Emperor) 280 
 
 Veni Creator Spiritus 280 
 
 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647- 
 1680): 
 Epitaph on Charles II 280 
 
 PROSE 
 
 John Evelyn (1620-1706): 
 
 The Great Fire (From Evelyn's Diary) . . 280 
 Sir William Temple (1628-1698): 
 
 Of Health and Long Life (From Miscel- 
 lanea) 282 
 
 John Dryden (1631-1700) : 
 
 French and English Tragic Writers 
 
 (From An Essay of Dramatic Poesy). . 285 
 Shakespeare (From Preface to Troilus 
 
 and Cressida) 287 
 
 Postcript to the Reader (From Transla- 
 tion of Virgil) 289 
 
 Samuel Pepys (1633- 1703) : 
 
 The Return of Charles II. (From Diary) 291 
 The Great Fire of London (From the 
 
 same) 292 
 
 The Last Entry in Pepys' Diary 293 
 
 THE AGE OF POPE 
 POETRY 
 
 Matthew Prior (1664-1721): 
 
 To a Child of Quality Five Years Old. . 294 
 A Better Answer 294 
 
 Jonathan Swift (1667-1745): 
 
 In Sickness, Written in Ireland in Oc- 
 tober, 1714 294 
 
 The Day of Judgment 295 
 
 Joseph Addison (1672-1719): 
 
 Ode. The Spacious Firmament On High 295 
 Cato's Soliloquy (From Cato) 295 
 
 Alexander Pope (1688-1744): 
 
 The Rape of the Lock 290 
 
 Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate 
 
 Lady 303 
 
 Universal Prayer ^04 
 
 Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot • • -^ 304 
 
 End of the Dundad "In vain, in vain," 
 
 etc. 
 
 306 
 
 An Essay on Man (Selections) 306 
 
 John Gay (1688-1732): 
 
 Fable XVIII. The Painter Who Pleased 
 
 Nobody and Everybody 309 
 
 On a Lapdog 310 
 
XVI 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Black Eyed Susan 310 
 
 Trivia (Selections) 310 
 
 PROSE 
 
 DANIEL Defoe (1659?-1731): 
 t^A True Relation of the Apparition of 
 
 Mrs. Veal 312 
 
 //The Plague in London (From A Journal 
 
 of the Plague Year) 316 
 
 Jonathan Swift (1667-1745): 
 
 Meditation Upon a Broomstick 320 
 
 Predictions for the Year 1708, by Isaak 
 
 Bickerstaff 321 
 
 The Accomplishment of the First of Mr. 
 
 Bickerstafif's Predictions 324 
 
 Gulliver Among the Lilliputians (From 
 
 Gulliver's Travels) 325 
 
 How Gulliver Conquered the Fleet of 
 
 the Blef uscudians) 326 
 
 A Voyage to Brobdignag 327 
 
 Joseph Addison (1672-1719): 
 
 Ned Softly, the Poet (From The Tatler) 332 
 The Object of the Spectator (From The 
 
 Spectator) 334 
 
 Thoughts in Westminster Abbey (From 
 
 the same) 336 
 
 The Fine Lady's Journal (From the 
 
 same) 337 
 
 Sir Roger at Church (From the same) . . 339 
 Sir Richard Steele (1671-1729) : 
 
 On True Distinction (From The Tatler) 340 
 On the Funeral of Betterton (From the 
 
 same) 341 
 
 Recollections (From the same) 342 
 
 The Spectator Club (From The Spectator) 344 
 
 On Testimonials (From the same) 346 
 
 Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke 
 (1678-1751): 
 From "Reflections Upon Exile" 348 
 
 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE 
 ROMANTIC SCHOOL 
 
 Thomas Parnell (1679-1718): 
 
 A Night Piece on Death 352 
 
 A Hymn to Contentment 352 
 
 A Hymn for Morning 353 
 
 Edward Young (1681-1765): 
 On Life, Death and Immortality (From 
 
 Night Thoughts) 354 
 
 George Berkeley (1685-1753) : 
 Verses on the prospect of planting Arts 
 
 and Learning in America 355 
 
 Allan Ramsay (1686-1758): 
 
 An Ode to Ph— 355 
 
 Song "My Peggy is a young thing" 
 (From The GerUle Shepherd) 356 
 
 PAGE 
 
 William Somerville (1692-1742): 
 
 Field Sports (From The Chase) 356 
 
 Address to the Author's Elbow Chair 
 New-Clothed 357 
 
 John Dyer (c. 1698-1758): 
 
 Grongar Hill 357 
 
 An Epistle to a Friend in Town 358 
 
 The Fleece (Selections) 359 
 
 ToAurelia 360 
 
 James Thomson (1700-1748); 
 
 Spring (From The Seasons) 360 
 
 Summer (From the same) 361 
 
 Autumn (From the same) 361 
 
 Winter (From the same) 362 
 
 Rule Britannia 363 
 
 The Castle of Indolence (Selections) ... 364 
 
 AGE OF JOHNSON 
 POETRY 
 
 Samuel Johnson (1709-1784): 
 
 London 366 
 
 Prologue at the Opening of the Drury 
 Lane Theatre, 1747 369 
 
 John Armstrong (1709-1779): 
 
 The Art of Preserving Health (Selection) 370 
 
 William Shenstone (1714-1763): 
 
 The Schoolmistress (Selections) 371 
 
 Written at an Inn at Henley 374 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) : 
 
 The Deserted Village 374 
 
 The Hermit: A BaUad 378 
 
 PROSE 
 
 Phiup Dormer Stanhope, Lord Ches- 
 terfield (1694-1773): 
 Manners Makyth Man (From Letters to 
 
 His Son) 379 
 
 Style (From the same) 380 
 
 Henry Fielding (1707-1754): 
 
 Partridge at the Play (From Tom Jones) 382 
 Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) : 
 The Lady's Misery in a Summer Retire- 
 ment 384 
 
 Letter to Lord Chesterfield 385 
 
 Collins (From lAves of the Poets) 386 
 
 The Character of Pope (From the same) 388 
 Laurence Sterne (1713-1764): 
 
 Mr. Shandy on His Son's Death (From 
 
 Tristram Shandy) 394 
 
 The Starling (From A Sentimental Jour- 
 ney) 396 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) : 
 
 The Impressions of a Chinese Traveller 
 
 (From Citizen of the World) 397 
 
 Letter III. (From the same) 398 
 
 A Visit to Westminster Abbey (From 
 the same) 400^ 
 
I 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Edmund Burke (1729-1797): 
 
 Warren Hastings (From Opening of the 
 Impeachment, Fourth Day) 403 
 
 Reflections on the Revolution in 
 France 406 
 
 A Letter to a Noble Lord. (Abridged) 408 
 William Cowper (1731-1800): 
 
 Letters from Olney: 
 
 Letter to Rev. William Unwin 415 
 
 Letter to Rev. John Newton 416 
 
 Letter to Rev. John Newton 417 
 
 Letter to Rev. John Newton 417 
 
 Edward Gibbon (1737-1794): 
 
 Gibbon is Inspired to Write His History 
 (From Autobiography) 417 
 
 Boethius (From The Decline and Fall of 
 the Roman Empire) 418 
 
 The Causes of the ruin of Rome (From 
 
 the same) 420 
 
 James Boswell (1740-1795): 
 
 Boswell's First Meeting with Dr. John- 
 son (From Life of Johnson) 424 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith (From the same) .... 426 
 
 .POETS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 
 
 Thomas Gray (1716-1771): 
 
 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton Col- 
 lege 427 
 
 Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Richard 
 
 West 428 
 
 Elegy Written in a Country Church- 
 yard 428 
 
 The Bard 430 
 
 Wi;.LiAM Collins (1721-1759) : 
 
 tr4)de to Evening 431 
 
 ^ The Passions: An Ode for Music 432 
 
 Ode: "How sleep the brave" 433 
 
 Dirge in Cymbeline 433 
 
 Thomas Percy (1729-1811): 
 
 The Friar of Orders Gray 433 
 
 William Cowper (1731-1800): 
 
 The Task (Selections) 435 
 
 On the receipt of my Mother's Picture 
 
 out of Norfolk 439 
 
 On the Loss of the Royal George 440 
 
 The Castaway 440 
 
 William Julius Micklb (1735-1788): 
 
 There's Nae Luck about the House. . . . 441 
 
 James Beattie (1735-1803): 
 
 The Minstrel (Selections) 441 
 
 The Hermit 444 
 
 James Macpherson (1738-1796) : 
 
 Carthon (From translation of Ossian) , . 444 
 
 Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770) : 
 
 The Minstrel's Roundelay (From Mia) 446 
 
 The Balade of Charitie 446 
 
 Bristowe Tragedie 448 
 
 xvu 
 
 page 
 
 George Crabbe (1754-1832): 
 
 The Modem Pastoral (From The Village) 452 
 
 Peter Grimes (From The Borough) 454 
 
 Farmer Moss's Daughter (From Tales 
 
 in Verse) 454 
 
 William Blake (1757-1827): 
 
 To the Muses 455 
 
 To the Evening Star 455 
 
 Introduction from "Songs of Inno- 
 cence" 455 
 
 The Lamb 455 
 
 Night 455 
 
 To the Divine Image 456 
 
 On Another's Sorrow 456 
 
 The Tiger 456 
 
 Ah! Sunflower 457 
 
 SCOTCH SONG WRITERS 
 
 John Skinner (1721-1807): 
 
 Tullochgorum 457 
 
 Jane Elliot (1727-1805): 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest 457 
 
 Isabel Pagan (1740-1821) : 
 
 Ca' the Yowes 458 
 
 Lady Anne Barnard (1750-1825) : 
 Auld Robin Gray 458 
 
 Caroline Oliphant, Lady Nairn (1766- 
 1845): 
 The Land of the Leal 459 
 
 Anonymous: 
 
 The Wee, Wee German Lairdie 459 
 
 "Charlie is my Darting" 459 
 
 Robert Fergusson (1750-1774): 
 The Daft Days 460 
 
 Robert Burns (1750-1796): 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night 460 
 
 Epistle to John Lapraik 463 
 
 To a Mouse 464 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy 464 
 
 A Bard's Epitaph 465 
 
 A Prayer Under the Pressure of Violent 
 
 Anguish 465 
 
 Auld Lang Syne 465 
 
 Of a' the Airts the Wind Can Blaw 466 
 
 My Bonie Mary 466 
 
 The Wounded Hare 466 
 
 Ae Fond Kiss and then We Sever 466 
 
 Tam O'Shanter 467 
 
 Afton Water 469 
 
 Highland Mary 469 
 
 Bruce's Address to His Army at Ban- 
 
 nockbum 469 
 
 A Red, Red Rose 470 
 
 Contented Wi' Little and Cantie Wi' 
 
 Mair 470 
 
 Is There for Honest Poverty 470 
 
 Oh! Wert thou in the cauld blast 470 
 
.VYlll 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 VII. THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 (c. 1784-c. 1837) 
 
 POETRY 
 
 William Wordsworth (1770-1850): page 
 
 Tintern Abbey 471 
 
 Expostulation and Reply 472 
 
 The Tables Turned 472 
 
 Three Years She Grew 473 
 
 She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways 473 
 
 Michael 473 
 
 My Heart Leaps Up 478 
 
 The Solitary Reaper 478 
 
 Immortality Ode 478 
 
 I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 480 
 
 She was a Phantom of Delight 480 
 
 Ode to Duty 481 
 
 Resolution and Independence 481 
 
 sonnets: 
 
 Written in London, 1802 483 
 
 London, 1802 483 
 
 When I have Borne in Memory 483 
 
 Composed Upon Westminster Bridge. . 483 
 
 Composed Upon the Beach near Calais . 483 
 The World is too much with us late and 
 
 soon 483 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834): 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 484 
 
 France: An Ode 490 
 
 Dejection: an Ode 492 
 
 The Good Great Man 493 
 
 Sonnet to the River Otter 493 
 
 Kubla Khan 493 
 
 Youth and Age 494 
 
 Work without Hope 494 
 
 Robert Southey (1774-1843): 
 
 The Battle of Blenheim 495 
 
 The Well of St. Keyne 495 
 
 My Days among the Dead are Passed. . 496 
 Sir Walter Scorr (1771-1832): 
 Harold's Song to Rosabelle (From The 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel) 496 
 
 Hunting Song 497 
 
 Lochinvar (From Marmion) 497 
 
 Ballad, Alice Brand (From Lady of the 
 
 Lake) 498 
 
 Edmund's Song (From Rokehy) 499 
 
 Song, A Weary Lot is Thine (From the 
 
 same) : 499 
 
 Song, Allan-a-Dale (From the same) . . . 500 
 
 Song, The Cavalier (From the same) . . 500 
 
 Jock of Hazoldean 500 
 
 Harlaw (From The Antiquary) 501 
 
 Madge Wildfire's Song (From The Heart 
 
 of Midlothian) 501 
 
 Border Ballad (From The Monastery) . 501 
 
 County Guy (From Quentin Durward) . . 502 
 
 Charles Lamb (1775-1834) : page 
 
 To Hester 502 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces 502 
 
 Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864): 
 
 Mild is the parting year, and sweet. . . . 503 
 
 Ah! what avails the sceptered race 503 
 
 Yes, I write verses 503 
 
 To Robert Browning 503 
 
 Introduction to the last fruit off an old 
 tree 503 
 
 Joseph Blanco White (1775-1841): 
 
 Sonnet to Night 503 
 
 Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 504 
 
 Hohenlinden 504 
 
 The Battle of the Baltic 504 
 
 Song, Men of England 505 
 
 Song, To the Evening Star 505 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter 505 
 
 Thomas Moore (1779-1852): 
 
 As slow our ship 506 
 
 The harp that once through Tara's Halls 506 
 
 She is far from the land 507 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 507 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott (1781-1849): 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph 507 
 
 James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859): 
 
 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket. . . 507., 
 
 Bryan Waller Proctor (Barry Corn- 
 wall) (1787-1874): 
 
 A Petition to Time 507 
 
 The Sea 508 
 
 George Gordon Byron (1788-1824): 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
 
 (From the Giaour) 508 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib 509 
 
 Oh! Snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom. . 509 
 
 Stanzas for Music 509 
 
 She walks in beauty 509 
 
 Sonnet on Chillon 610 
 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Selections 
 
 from Cantos HI. and IV) 510 
 
 The Coliseum at Night (From Manfred) 515 
 Don Juan (Selection from Canto III.) 516 
 On this day I complete my thirty-sixth 
 year 518 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822): 
 
 Ode to the West Wind 518 
 
 To a Skylark 519 
 
 The Cloud 520 
 
 Ozymandias 521 
 
 Adonais 521 
 
 Time 528 
 
 To — " Music, when soft voices die" ... 528 
 To Night ( 528\ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XIX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Lament "Oh, world, oh life, oh time" 528 
 
 To , One word is too often profaned 528 
 
 John Keats (1795-1821): 
 
 Opening of "Endymion" 529 
 
 sonnets: 
 
 On First Looking into Chapman's 
 
 Homer 529 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent . . 529 
 On the Grasshopper and the Cricket. . . 529 
 On Seeing the Elgin Marbles for the first 
 
 time 529 
 
 On the Sea 530 
 
 Why did I laugh tonight 530 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 530 
 Last Sonnet 530 
 
 The Eve of St. Agnes 530 
 
 Robin Hood 535 
 
 La Belle Dame Sans Merci 535 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale 536 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn 537 
 
 To Autumn 537 
 
 Ode on Melancholy 538 
 
 Charles Wolfe (1791-1823): 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna 538 
 
 William Motherwell (1797-1834): 
 Jeanie Morrison 539 
 
 PROSE 
 
 Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): 
 Selections from Scott's Journal 539 
 
 page 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) : 
 
 The Wanderings of Cain 541 
 
 Origin of the Lyrical Ballads (From 
 
 Biographia Literaria) 543 
 
 Characteristics of Shakespeare's Dramas 
 (From Lectures Upon Shakespeare) . . 544 
 Robert Southey (1774-1843): 
 The Battle of Trafalgar (From Life of 
 
 Nelson) 548 ^ 
 
 Charles Lamb (1775-1834): 
 
 Dream Children, A Reverie (From Elia) 554 
 Detached Thoughts on Books and Read- 
 ing (From Last Essays) 556 
 
 The Superannuated Man 559 
 
 On the Death of Coleridge 562 
 
 /King Lear (From The Tragedies of 
 
 Shakespeare) 563 
 
 Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864) : 
 Essex and Spenser (From Imaginary 
 
 Conversations) 564 
 
 William Hazlitt (1778-1830): 
 Hamlet (From The Characters of Shake- 
 speare's Plays) 567 
 
 The English and their Literature (From 
 
 The Age of Elizabeth) 569 
 
 On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth 
 
 (From Winterslow) 569 
 
 Thomas de Quincey (1785-1859): 
 
 Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow (From 
 
 Suspiria de Profundis) 572 
 
 The English Mail Coach (Abridged) ... 576 
 
 VIII. THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 (c. 1837-1900) 
 
 POETRY 
 
 Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): 
 
 Song, The Owl 683 
 
 The Palace of Art 583 
 
 The Lotus Eaters 586 
 
 "You ask me why" 588 
 
 Of Old sat Freedom on the heights .... 588 
 
 Locksley Hall 589 
 
 Ulysses 593 
 
 . Sir Galahad 593 
 
 The Epic (Introduction to Morte 
 
 d'Arthur) 594 
 
 Morte d'Arthur 594 
 
 Break, Break, Break 597 
 
 A Farewell 597 
 
 Tears, idle tears (From The Princess) . . 598 
 
 In Memoriam (Selections) 598 
 
 The Charge of the Light Brigade 601 
 
 • Maud (Selections) 601 
 
 Song "^^ato, late, so late" (From 
 Guinevere) 602 
 
 The Higher Pantheism ." . . . 602 
 
 Frater ave atque vale 603 
 
 Locksley Hall Sixty Years After 603 
 
 The Throstle (From Demeter) 608 
 
 Crossing the Bar 609 
 
 Robert Browning (1812-1889) : 
 Song, "The Year's at the Spring" 
 
 (From Pippa Passes) 609 
 
 Cavalier Tunes II. Give a Rouse 609 
 
 III. Boot and Saddle 609 
 
 My Last Duchess 609 
 
 How they Brought the Good News 
 
 from Ghent to Aix 610 
 
 Home Thoughts from Abroad 611 
 
 Home Thoughts from the Sea 611 
 
 The Guardian Angel 611 
 
 Evelyn Hope 612 
 
 By the Fireside 613 
 
 De Gustibus 616 
 
 Andrea del Sarto 616 
 
 An Epistle of Karshish 619 
 
 A Toccata of Galuppi's ., . 622 
 
XX 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Saul 623 
 
 Prospice 628 
 
 Rabbi Ben Ezra 628 
 
 Martin Relph 631 
 
 "O Lyric Love" (From The Ring and 
 
 the Book) 633 
 
 Epilogue from Asolando 634 
 
 EuzABETH Barretf Browning (1809- 
 
 1861): 
 
 A Musical Instrument 634 
 
 sonnets: 
 
 Cheerfulness Taught by Reason 634 
 
 The Prospect 635 
 
 Work 635 
 
 From the Portuguese: I. I thought once 
 
 how Theocritus had sung 635 
 
 VI. Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall 
 
 stand 635 
 
 XXXV. If I leave aU for thee, wilt thou 
 
 exchange 635 
 
 XLIII. How do I love thee? Let me 
 
 count the ways 635 
 
 Matthew Arnold (1822-1888): 
 
 Thyrsis 636 
 
 To Marguerite (From "Switzerland") . . 639 
 
 Absence 639 
 
 Self Dependence 639 
 
 Dover Beach 639 
 
 Shakespeare 640 
 
 Worldly Place 640 
 
 Geist's Grave 640 
 
 Lines Written in Kensington Gardens. . 641 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882): 
 
 The Blessed Damozel 641 
 
 The Sea Limits 643 
 
 sonnets: 
 
 Sybilla Palmifera 643 
 
 Silent Noon 643 
 
 Inclusiveness 644 
 
 A Superscription 644 
 
 Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830- 
 
 1894): 
 
 Up-Hill 644 
 
 Symbols (From Devotional Pieces) 644 
 
 Sonnet "Thou who didst make," etc. . . 644 
 William Morris (1834-1896): 
 
 An Apology (From Earthly Paradise) . . 645 
 
 Prologue (From the same) 645 
 
 The Son of Crcesus (From the same) . . . 645 
 L'Envoi (Abridged) (From the same) . . 650 
 
 Drawing near the Light 650 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837- 
 
 1909): 
 
 Chorus (From Atlanta in Calydon) 650 
 
 Chorus, "We have seen thee, oh! Love" 
 
 (From the same) 651 
 
 The Garden of Proserpine 652 
 
 Pastiche 653 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Forsaken Garden 653 
 
 Upon a Child 654 
 
 The Salt of the Earth 654 
 
 On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and 
 George Eliot 654 
 
 OTHER POETS OF THE VICTORIAN 
 AGE 
 
 Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849) : 
 
 Song, "She is not fair to outward view" 655 
 Sonnet on Prayer 655 
 
 Thomas Hood (1798-1845): 
 
 The Death Bed 655 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs 655 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800- 
 1859): 
 The Battle of Ivry 656 
 
 John Henry Newman (1801-1890): 
 
 Lead Kindly Light 657 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker (1803-1875): 
 The Song of the Western Men . ; 658 
 
 Richard Chevenix Trench (1807-1886) : 
 "Some murmur when their sky is clear" 658 
 
 Edward Fitzgerald (1809-1883) : 
 Rubaiyat (Selections) 658 7 
 
 Sir Francis Hastings Charles Doyle 
 (1810-1888): 
 The Private of the Buffs 659 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray (1811- 
 1863): 
 
 At the Church Gate 659 
 
 The End of the Play 660 
 
 William E. Aytoun (1813-1865): 
 The Widow of Glencoe 660 
 
 Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) : 
 
 Song, "Oh! that we two were Maying" 662 
 
 The Sands of Dee 662 
 
 The Three Fishers 662 
 
 Clear and Cool 662 
 
 George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) 
 (1818-1890): 
 O may I join the choir invisible 663 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861) : 
 
 Qua cursum ventus 663 
 
 "With whom is no variableness neither 
 
 shadow of turning" 663 
 
 f/'^Say not the struggle naught availeth . . . 663 
 
 George Meredith (1828-1909): 
 
 Juggling Jerry 664 
 
 Lucifer in Starlight 665 
 
 Love in the Valley (Selection) 665 
 
 Henry Austin Dobson (1840- ) : 
 
 A Gentleman of the Old School 665 
 
 The Ballad of Beau Brocade 666 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) : 
 
 A Song of the Road 669\ 
 
 The Celestial Surgeon 669^ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XXI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Counterblast 669 
 
 A Lad that is Gone 670 
 
 Requiem 670 
 
 ■~^ PROSE 
 
 Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881): 
 The Philosophy of Clothes (From Sar- 
 tor Resartus) 670 
 
 Natural Supernaturalism (From the 
 
 same) 672 
 
 Boswell the Hero Worshipper (From 
 
 Essay on Johnson) 676 
 
 ■■The Hero (From Heroes and Hero Wor- 
 
 V/L ship) 680 
 
 I^Burns (From the same) 683 
 
 I^Phe Gospel of Work (From Past and 
 wW Present) 686 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800- 
 1859): 
 
 swell (From Review of Croker^s Bos- 
 well's Life of Johnson) 687 
 
 e Trial of Warren Hastings 690 
 
 liver Goldsmith 693 
 
 he State of England in 1685 (From 
 History of England) 699 
 
 he XVIIth Century Squire (From the 
 same) 701 
 
 he Coffee House (From the same) 702 
 
 OHN Henry Newman (1801-1890): 
 Knowledge and Character (From Dis- 
 cussions and Arguments) 704 
 
 [ The Site of a University (From The 
 
 ■K^ Office and Work of Universities) 707 
 
 ■Hrhe Aim of a University Course (From 
 
 ^ Idea of a University) 709 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray (1811- 
 
 1863): 
 The Restoration Drama (From English 
 
 Humorists) 710 
 
 Nil Nisi Bonum (From RoundahotU 
 
 Papers) 711 
 
 Charles Dickens (1812-1870): 
 Our School (From Household Words). . . 715 
 
 George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) 1819- 
 
 1880): 
 . The Old Coach Roads of England (From 
 
 Introduction to Felix HoU) 718 
 
 James Anthony Froude (1818-1894): 
 The Execution of Mary Queen of 
 
 Scots (From History of England) 721 
 
 John Davis: an example of a true hero 
 
 (From England's Forgotten Worthies) 725 
 
 PAGE 
 
 John Ruskin (1819-1900): 
 
 Some Sea Pictures of Turner (From 
 
 Modem Painters) 726 
 
 The Lamp of Memory (From Seven 
 
 Lamps of Architecture) 727 
 
 Science and Modern Progress (From 
 
 Modem Painters) 728 
 
 Money (From The Crown of Wild Olive) 730 
 
 Taste (From the same) 731 
 
 Art and Character (From The Queen 
 
 of the Air) 733 
 
 Liberty and Restraint (From the same) 735 
 Science and Life (From Fors Clavigera) 737 
 
 Charles Kingsley (1819-1875): 
 St. Guthlac (From The Hermits) 741 
 
 Matthew Arnold (1822-1888): 
 The Grand Style (From On Translating 
 
 Homer) 743 
 
 Oxford (From Essays in Criticism) .... 745 
 The Celtic Spirit (From CeUie Litera- 
 ture) 745 
 
 Culture (From Culture and Anarchy) . . . 748 
 The Voices of Youth (From Discourses 
 
 in America) 749 
 
 Wordsworth (From Essays in Criticism) 750 
 
 Thomas Henry Huxley (1825-1895): 
 On the Advisableness of Improving 
 Natural Knowledge 753 
 
 Frederick Harrison (1831- ): 
 Walter Scott (From The Choice of Books) 760 
 On Reading (From the same) 761 
 
 Sir Leslie Stephen (1832-1904): 
 Swift and the Spirit of His Time (From 
 History of English Thought in the 
 Eighteenth Century) 762 
 
 John Richard Green (1837-1883) : 
 The Death of Queen Elizabeth (From 
 
 History of the English People) 764 
 
 Religion and the Bible in 16th and 17th 
 
 Century England (From the same) . . 765 
 
 Walter Pater (1839-1894): 
 The Perception of Beauty (From The 
 
 Renaissance) 767 
 
 Wordsworth (From Appreciations) 769 
 
 Frederick W. H. Myers (1843-1901): 
 Poetry (From "Virgil" in Essays Clas- 
 sical and Modern) 771 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson (1845-1894) : 
 -^s Triplex (From Virginibus Puerisque) 772 
 Pulvis et Umbra (From Across the 
 Plains) 776 
 
 Francis Thompson (18597-1907): 
 The Eternal Child in Shelley 779 
 
xxii CONTENTS 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 PAG] 
 
 I. Selections Illustrating the English Language 781 
 
 II. Illustrations of the Early Drama: 
 
 Noah's Flood. A Miracle Play 7? 
 
 Everyman. Morality Play ' * 
 
 Index of Authors ' ^ 
 
 Index op First Lines ; °"^ 
 
 Index op Titles ^^ 
 
ENGLISH PROSE AND VERSE 
 
 I 
 
.^ 
 
FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 (From the translation by J. D. Spaeth) 
 
 Erce,2 Erce, Erce, Mother of Earth, 49 
 
 May the Almighty, Lord Everlasting, 
 Grant thee fields, green and fertile. 
 Grant thee fields, fruitful and growing, 
 Hosts of Spear-shafts, shining harvests, 
 
 Harvest of Barley the broad, 
 
 Harvest of Wheat the white, 65 
 
 All the heaping harvests of earth! 
 May the Almighty Lord Everlasting, 
 And his holy saints in heaven above, 
 From fiend and foe defend this land. 
 Keep it from blight and coming of harm, 60 
 
 From spell of witches wickedly spread! 
 Now I pray the Almighty who made this world, 
 That*malice of man, or mouth of woman 
 Never may weaken the words I have spoken. 
 Hail to thee Earth, Mother of men! 67 
 
 Grow and be great in God's embrace, 
 ed with fruit for the food of men! 
 
 20 
 
 f 
 
 HARM FOR A SUDDEN STITCH » 
 
 (Translated by J. D. Spaeth) 
 
 Take feverfew, and plantain, and the red 
 nettle that grows, into the house. Boil in but- 
 ter. Say: — 
 
 Loud was their cry as they came o'er the 
 hill; 
 ierce was their rage as they rode o'er the 
 land. 
 Take heed and be healed of the hurt they have 
 done thee. 
 Out little spear if in there thou be ! 4 
 
 My shield I lifted, my linden-wood shining, 
 ' en the mighty women mustered their 
 
 force, 
 d sent their spear-points spinning toward 
 me. 
 '11 give them back the bolt they sent, 
 flying arrow full in the face. 
 
 Out little spear if in there thou be! lo 
 Sat a smith, 
 
 A hard blade hammered. 
 Out little spear if in there thou be! 
 Six smiths sat. 
 
 Fighting spears forged they. 15 
 
 Out spear, out! 
 No longer stay in! 
 If any iron be found herein, 
 The work of witches, away it must melt. 
 
 The original charm includes directions (of which 
 selection given is one) for restoring fertility to land 
 at was supposed to have been bewitched. The Charms 
 ' are one of the characteristic types of old English verse, 
 
 I are of great antiquity. 
 Name of an ancient goddess of fertility, perhaps 
 iogous to the Roman goddess Demeter. 
 Stitch, or rheumatism, was supposed to be caused by 
 
 25 
 
 Be thou shot in the fell,^ 
 
 Be thou shot in the flesh, 
 
 Be thou shot in the blood. 
 
 Be thou shot in the bone. 
 
 Be thou shot in the limb. 
 
 Thy life shall be shielded. 
 
 Be it shot of Ese,' 
 
 Be it shot of Elves, 
 
 Be it shot of Hags, 
 
 I help thee surely. 
 This for cure of Esa*-shot, 30 
 
 This for cure of EK-shot, 
 This for cure of Hag-shot, 
 
 I help thee surely. 
 Witch fly away to the woods and the moun- 
 tains. 34 
 Healed be thy hurt ! So help thee the Lord. 
 
 BEOWULF 
 
 THE FIGHT WITH GRENDEL'S MOTHER 
 
 (Translated by J. D. Spaeth) 
 
 [The Hero Beowulf grew up at the Court of 
 his uncle Hygelac, King of the Geats or Jutes. 
 Hearing how Heorot, the great Hall of the 
 Danish King Hrothgar, was ravaged by a night- 
 prowling monster namlld Grendel, Beowulf 
 sailed with a chosen band to Hrothgar's 
 kingdom, and offered to rid the Danes of their 
 enemy. Alone and weaponless he fought with 
 and killed Grendel in Heorot, and it was sup- 
 posed that the Hall was again safe. But 
 Grendel's mother, a wolfish water-wife, bent on 
 revenge, broke into the Hall and carried off 
 the King's best Thane. The next morning 
 Beowulf, who had slept elsewhere, heard wljft,t 
 had happened, and asked if he might undertake 
 a second and more perilous adventure. Before 
 going, the King describes t« him the haunts of 
 the monster.] 
 
 " I have heard my people, the peasant folk 1345 
 Who house by the border and hold the fens. 
 Say they have seen two creatures strange. 
 Huge march-stalkers,^ haunting the moorland, 
 Wanderers outcast. One of the two 
 Seemed to their sight to resemble a woman; 1350 
 The other manlike, a monster misshapen. 
 But huger in bulk than human kind. 
 Trod an exile's track of woe. 
 The folk of the fen in former days 
 Named him Grendel. Unknown his father, 1355 
 Or what his descent from demons obscure. 
 Lonely and waste is the land they inhabit. 
 Wolf-cliffs wild and windy headlands, 
 Ledges of mist, where mountain torrents 
 Downward plunge to dark abysses, 1360 
 
 And flow unspen. Not far from here 
 
 2 Skin. . 3 The gods. < Of the gods. 
 
 1 Creatures that stalk along the Marches, or Borders. 
 
FROIyl THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 O'er the moorland in miles, a mere expands: 
 Spray-frosted trees o'erspread it, and hang 
 O'er the water with roots fast wedged in the 
 
 rocks. 
 There nightly is seen, beneath the flood, 1365 
 A marvellous light. There lives not the man 
 Has fathomed the depth of the dismal mere. 
 Though the heather-stepper, the strong-horned 
 
 stag, 
 Seek this cover, forspent with the chase, 
 Tracked by the hounds, he will turn at bay, 1370 
 To die on the brink ere he brave the plunge, 
 Hide his head in the haunted pool. 
 Wan from its depths the waves are dashed. 
 When wicked storms are stirred by the wind, 
 And from sullen skies descends the rain. 1375 
 In thee is our hope of help once more. 
 Not yet thou hast learned where leads the way 
 To the lurking-hole of this hatcher of outrage. 
 Seek, if thou dare, the dreaded spot! 
 Richly I pay thee for risking this fight, 1380 
 
 With heirlooms golden and ancient rings. 
 As I paid thee before, if thou come back alive." 
 
 Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow: 
 "Sorrow not gray-beard, nor grieve o'er thy 
 
 friend! 
 Vengeance is better than bootless mourning. 
 To each of us here the end must come 1386 
 
 Of life upon earth: let him who may 
 Win glory ere death. I deem that best, 
 The lot of the brave, when life is over. 
 Rise, O realm-ward, ride we in haste, 1390 
 
 To track the hag that whelped this Grendel. 
 I tell thee in truth, she may turn where she will, 
 No cave of ocean nor cover of wood. 
 No hole in the ground shall hide her from me. 
 But one day more thy woe endure, 1395 
 
 And nurse thy hope as I know thou wilt." 
 Sprang to his feet the sage old king. 
 Gave praise to God for the promise spoken. 
 And now for Hrothgar a horse was bridled, 
 A curly-maned steed. The king rode on, 1400 
 Bold on his charger. A band of shield-men 
 Followed on foot. Afar they saw 
 Footprints leading along the forest. 
 They followed the tracks, and found she had 
 
 crossed 
 Over the dark moor, dragging the body 1405 
 Of the goodliest thane that guarded with 
 
 Hrothgar 
 Heorot Hall, and the home of the king. 
 The well-born hero held the trail; 
 Up rugged paths, o'er perilous ridges, 
 Through passes narrow, an unknown way. 1410 
 By beetling crags, and caves of the nicors." 
 He went before with a chosen few, 
 Warriors skilled, to scan the way. 
 ** Sudden they came on a cluster of trees 
 
 Overhanging a hoary rock, 1415 
 
 A gloomy grove; and gurgling below, 
 A stir of waters all stained with blood. 
 Sick at heart were the Scylding chiefs, 
 0. Many a thane was thrilled with woe, 
 
 For there they beheld the head of iEschere 1420 
 Far beneath at the foot of the cliff. 
 
 2 Sea-monsters, water-goblina 
 
 They leaned and watched the waters boil 
 With bloody froth. The band sat down. 
 While the war-horn sang its summons to battle. 
 They saw in the water sea-snakes a many, 1425 
 Wave-monsters weird, that wallowed about. 
 At the base of the cliff lay basking the nicors, 
 Who oft at sunrise ply seaward their journey, 
 To hunt on the ship-trails and scour the main, 
 Sea-beasts and serpents. Sudden they fled, 1430 
 Wrathful and grim, aroused by the hail 
 Of the battle-horn shrill. The chief of the Jutes, 
 With a bolt from his bow a beast did sunder 
 From life and sea-frolic; sent the keen shaft 
 Straight to his vitals. Slow he floated, 1435 
 Upturned and dead at the top of the waves. 
 Eager they boarded their ocean-quarry; 
 With barb-hooked boar-spears the beast they 
 
 gaffed. 
 Savagely broached him and brought him to 
 
 shore. 
 Wave-plunger weird. The warriors viewed 
 The grisly stranger. But straightway Beowulf 
 Donned his corslet nor cared for his life. . , . 1442 
 
 To Hrothgar spoke the son of Ecgtheow: 1473 
 
 "Remember O honored heir of Healfdene, 
 
 Now that I go, thou noble king. 
 
 Warriors' gold-friend, what we agreed on, 
 
 If I my life should lose in thy cause, 
 
 That thou wouldst stand in stead of my father, , 
 
 Fulfil his office when I was gone. 
 
 Be guardian thou, to my thanes and kinsmen. 
 
 My faithful friends, if I fail to return. 1481 
 
 To Hygelac send, Hrothgar beloved. 
 
 The goodly gifts thou gavest to me. 
 
 May the Lord of the Jutes, when he looks on 
 
 this treasure, 
 May Hrethel's son, when he sees these gifts, 
 Know that I found a noble giver, i486 
 
 And joyed while I lived, in a generous lord. 
 This ancient heirloom to Unferth give, 
 To the far-famed warrior, my wondrous sword 
 Of matchless metal, I must with Hrunting ' 1490 
 Glory gain, or go to my death." 
 
 After these words the Weder-Jute lord 
 Sprang to his task, nor staid for an answer. 
 Swiftly he sank 'neath the swirling flood; 
 'Twas an hour's time ere he touched the bot- 
 tom. 1495 
 Soon the sea-hag, savage and wild, 
 Who had roamed through her watery realms at 
 
 will. 
 For winters a hundred, was 'ware from below 
 An earthling had entered her ocean domain. 
 Quickly she reached and caught the hero; isoo 
 Grappled him grimly with gruesome claws. 
 Yet he got no scratch, his skin was whole; 
 His battle-sark shielded his body from harm. 
 In vain she tried, with her crooked fingers. 
 To tear the links of his close-locked mail. 1505 
 Away to her den the wolf-slut dragged 
 Beowulf the bold, o'er the bottom ooze. 
 Though eager to smite her, his arm was help- ., 
 less. \ 
 
 3 The name of Beowiilf *s sword. 
 
I 
 
 BEOWULF 
 
 Swimming monsters swarmed about him, 
 Dented his mail with dreadful tusks. 1510 
 
 Sudden the warrior was 'ware they had come 
 To a sea-hall strange and seeming hostile, 
 Where water was not nor waves oppressed, 
 For the caverned rock all round kept back 
 The swallowing sea. He saw a light, 1515 
 
 A flicker of flame that flashed and shone. 
 Now first he discerned the sea-hag monstrous, 
 The water-wife wolfish. His weapon he raised. 
 And struck with his sword a swinging blow. 
 Sang on her head the hard-forged blade 1520 
 Its war-song wild. But the warrior found 
 That his battle-flasher refused to bite. 
 Or maim the foe. It failed its master 
 In the hour of need, though oft it had cloven 
 Helmets, and carved the casques of the doomed 
 In combats fierce. For the first time now 1526 
 His treasure failed him, fallen from honor. 
 But Hygelac's earl took heart of courage; 
 In mood defiant he fronted his foe. 
 The angry hero hurled to the ground, 1530 
 
 In high disdain, the hilt of the sword. 
 The gaudy and jewelled; rejoiced in the strength 
 Of his arm unaided. So all should do 
 Who glory would find and fame abiding, 
 In the crash of conflict, nor care for their lives. 
 The Lord of the Battle-Jutes braved the en- 
 counter; 1536 
 . The murderous hag by the hair he caught; 
 Do\vn he dragged the dam of Grendel 
 In his swelling rage, tiU she sprawled on the 
 
 floor. 
 Quick to repay in kind what she got, 1540 
 
 On her foe she fastened her fearful clutches; 
 Enfolded the warrior weary with fighting; 
 The sure-footed hero stumbled and fell. 
 On his prostrate body she squatted enormous; 
 Unsheathed her hip-knife, shining and broad. 
 Her son to avenge, her offspring sole. 1546 
 
 But the close-linked corslet covered his breast, 
 Foiled the stroke and saved his life. 
 All had been over with Ecgtheow's son, 
 Under the depths of the Ocean vast, 1550 
 
 'Had not his harness availed to help him. 
 His battle-net stiff, and the strength of God. 
 The Ruler of battles aright decided it; 
 The Wielder all- wise awarded the victory: 
 Lightly the hero leaped to his feet. 1555 
 
 He spied 'mongst the arms a sword surpassing, 
 Huge and ancient, a hard-forged slayer. 
 Weapon matchless and warriors' delight, 
 Save that its weight was more than another 
 Might bear into battle or brandish in war; 1560 
 Giants had forged that finest of blades. 
 Then seized its chain-hilt the chief of the 
 
 Scyldings; 
 His wrath was aroused, reckless his mood. 
 As he brandished the sword for a savage blow. 
 Bit the blade in the back of her neck, 1565 
 
 Cut the neck-bone, and cleft its way 
 Clean through her body; she sank to the 
 
 ground; 
 The sword was gory; glad was the hero. 
 A light flashed out from the inmost den, 
 Like heaven's candle, when clear it shines 1570 
 
 From cloudless skies. He scanned the cave. 
 Walked by the wall, his weapon upraised; 
 Grim in his hand the hilt he gripped. 
 Well that sword had served him in battle. 
 Steadily onward he strode through the cave, 
 Ready to wreak the wrongs untold. 
 That the man-beast had wrought in the realm 
 of the Danes. ... 1579 
 
 He gave him his due when Grendel he 
 
 found 1589 
 
 Stretched as in sleep, and spent with the battle. 
 But dead was the fiend, the fight at Heorot 
 Had laid him low. The lifeless body 
 Sprang from the blows of Beowulf's sword. 
 As fiercely he hacked the head from the carcass. 
 
 But the men who were watchmg the water with 
 Hrothgar 1595 
 
 Suddenly saw a stir in the waves. 
 The chop of the sea all churned up with blood 
 And bubbling gore. The gray-haired chiefs 
 For Beowulf grieved, agreeing together 
 That hope there was none of his home-returning 
 With victory crowned, to revisit his lord. I601 
 Most of them feared he had fallen prey 
 To the mere-wolf dread in tne depths of the sea. 
 When evening came, the Scyldings all 1604 
 
 Forsook the headland, and Hrothgar himself 
 Turned homeward his steps. But sick at heart 
 The strangers sat and stared at the sea. 
 Hoped against hope to behold their comrade 
 And leader again. 
 
 Now that goodly sword 
 Began to melt with the gore of the monster; 1610 
 In bloody drippings it dwindled away. 
 'Twas a marvellous sight: it melted like ice. 
 When fetters of frost the Father unlocks. 
 Unravels the ropes of the wrinkled ice. 
 Lord and Master of months and seasons. 1615 
 Beheld in the hall the hero from Juteland 
 Treasures unnumbered, but naught he took. 
 Save Grendel' s head, and the hilt of the sword. 
 Bright and jeweled, — the blade had melted. 
 Its metal had vanished, so venomous hot 1620 
 Was the blood of the demon-brute dead in the 
 caver. 
 
 Soon was in the sea the slayer of monsters; 
 Upward he shot through the shimmer of waves; 
 Cleared was the ocean, cleansed were its waters. 
 The wolfish water-hag wallowed no more; 1625 
 The mere- wife had yielded her miserable life. 
 Swift to the shore the sailors' deliverer 
 Came lustily swimming, with sea-spoil laden; 
 Rejoiced in the burden he bore to the land. 
 Ran to meet him his mailed comrades, 1630 
 
 With thanks to God who gave them their leader 
 Safe again back and sound from the deep. 
 Quickly their hero's helmet they loosened. 
 Unbuckled his breastplate. The blood-stained 
 
 waves 
 Fell to a calm 'neath the quiet sky. 1635 
 
 Back they returned o'er the tracks with the ^ 
 
 footprints, 
 Merrily measured the miles o'er the fen. 
 Way they knew well, those warriors brave; 
 
6 
 
 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 Brought from the holm-cliff the head of the 
 
 monster; 
 'Twas toil and labor to lift the burden, 
 Four of their stoutest scarce could carry it 
 Swung from a spear-pole, a staggering load. . 1638 
 Thus the fourteen of them, thanes adventur- 
 ous, 1641 
 Marched o'er the moor to the mead-hall of 
 
 Hrothgar. 
 Tall in the midst of them towered the hero; 
 Strode among his comrades, till they came to 
 
 the hall. 
 In went Beowulf, the brave and victorious, 1645 
 Battle-beast hardy, Hrothgar to greet. 
 Lifting by the hair the head of Grendel, 
 They laid it in the hall, where the heroes were 
 
 carousing, 
 Right before the king, and right before the 
 
 queen; 
 Gruesome was the sight that greeted the Danes. 
 
 BEOWULF'S LAST FIGHT AND DEATH 
 
 [Beowulf left with the Danes his grisly 
 trophies of battle, the head of Grendel, his 
 huge forequarter, and the hilt of the giant 
 sword with its mystical runic inscription. 
 Loading his boat with the gifts of Hrothgar, 
 he and his comrades sailed away home. After 
 the death of Hygelac and his son, Beowulf 
 became king of the Jutes, and ruled over them 
 fifty years. In his old age his people were 
 harried by a fire-dragon whom the hero went 
 out to fight. It seems that an outlaw, banished 
 and flying for shelter, had come upon a treas- 
 ure hid in a deep cave or barrow, guarded by a 
 dragon. Long years before, an earl, the last of 
 his race, had buried the treasure. After his 
 death the dragon, sniffing about the stones, 
 had found it and guarded it three hundred 
 years, until the banished man discovered the 
 place, and carried off one of the golden goblets. 
 In revenge the dragon made nightly raids on 
 Beowulf's realm, flying through the air, spitting 
 fire, burning houses and villages, even Beo- 
 wulf's hall, the "gift-stool" of the Jutes. Beo- 
 wulf had an iron shield made against the dragon's 
 fiery breath, and with eleven companions, 
 sought out the hill-vault near the sea. Before 
 attacking the monster he spoke these words 
 to his comrades:] 
 
 Beowulf said to them, brave words spoke he: 
 
 " Brunt of battles I bore in my youth, 2512 
 
 One fight more I make this day. 
 
 I mean to win fame defending my people. 
 
 If the grim destroyer will seek me out, 2515 
 
 Come at my call from his cavern dark." 
 
 Then he greeted his thanes each one, 
 
 For the last time hailed his helmeted warriors, 
 
 His comrades dear. "I should carry no sword. 
 
 No weapon of war 'gainst the worm should bear. 
 
 If the foe I might slay by strength of my arm. 
 
 As Grendel I slew long since by my hand. 2522 
 
 But I look to fight a fiery battle, 
 
 With scorching puffs of poisonous breath. 
 
 For this I bear both breastplate and shield; 2525 
 
 No foot will I flinch from the foe of the barrow. 
 
 Wyrd is over us, each shall meet 
 
 His doom ordained at the dragon-cliff! 
 
 Bold is my mood, but my boast I omit 
 
 'Gainst the battle-flier. Abide ye here, 2530 
 
 Heroes in harness, hard by the barrow, 
 
 Cased in your armor the issue await: 
 
 Which of us two his wounds shall survive. 
 
 Not yours the attempt, the task is mine. 
 
 'Tis meant for no man but me alone 2535 
 
 To measure his might 'gainst the monster fierce. 
 
 I get you the gold in glorious fight, 
 
 Or battle-death bitter shall bear off your lord." 
 
 Uprose with his shield the shining hero. 
 Bold 'neath his helmet. He bore his harness 
 In under the cliff; alone he went, 2541 
 
 Himself he trusted; no task for faint-heart. 
 Then saw by the wall the warrior brave, 
 Hero of many a hard-fought battle. 
 Arches of stone that opened a way; 2545 
 
 From the rocky gate there gushed a stream. 
 Bubbling and boiling with battle-fire. 
 So great the heat no hope was there 
 To come at the hoard in the cavern's depth, 
 Unscathed by the blast of the scorching dragon. 
 He let from his breast his battle-cry leap, 2551 
 Swoln with rage was the royal Jute, 
 Stormed the stout-heart; strong and clear 
 Through the gloom of the cave his cry went 
 
 ringing. 
 Hate was aroused, the hoard-ward knew 2555 
 The leader's hail. Too late 'twas now 
 To parley for peace. The poisonous breath 
 Of the monster shot from the mouth of the cave, 
 Reeking hot. The hollow earth rumbled. 
 The man by the rock upraised his shield, 2560 
 The Lord of the Jutes, 'gainst the loathly 
 
 dragon. 
 Now kindled for battle the curled-up beast; 
 The king undaunted with drawn sword stood, 
 ('Twas an heirloom olden with edge of lightning) 
 Each was so fierce he affrighted the other. 2565 
 Towering tall 'neath tilted shield. 
 Waited the king as the worm coiled back. 
 Sudden to spring: so stood he and waited. 
 Blazing he came in coils of fire 
 Swift to his doom. The shield of iron 2570 
 
 Sheltered the hero too short a while, — 
 Life and limb it less protected 
 Than he hoped it would, for the weapon he held 
 First time that day he tried in battle; 
 Wyrd had not willed he should win the fight. 
 But the Lord of the Jutes uplifted his arm, 2576 
 Smote the scaly worm, struck him so fierce 
 That his ancient bright-edged blade gave way, 
 Bent on the bone, and bit less sure 
 Than its owner had need in his hour of peril. 2580 
 That sword-stroke roused the wrath of the cave- 
 guard; 
 Fire and flame afar he spirted, 
 Blaze of battle; but Beowulf there 
 No victory boasted: his blade had failed him, 
 Naked in battle, as never it should have, 258f 
 Well-tempered iron! Nor easy it was \ 
 
 For Ecgtheow's heir, honored and famous, 
 
BEOWULF 
 
 This earth to forsake, forever to leave it; 
 
 Yet he must go, against his will 
 
 Elsewhere to dwell. So we all must leave 2590 
 
 This fleeting life. — Erelong the foes 
 
 Bursting with wrath the battle renewed. 
 
 The hoard-ward took heart, and with heaving 
 
 breast 
 Came charging amain. The champion brave, 
 Strength of his people, was sore oppressed, 2595 
 Enfolded by flame. No faithful comrades 
 Crowded about him, his chosen band, 
 All sethelings' sons, to save their lives, 
 Fled to the wood. One of them only 
 Felt surging sorrow; for nought can stifle 2600 
 Call of kin in a comrade true; 
 Wiglaf his name, 'twas Weohstan's son 
 Shield-thane beloved, lord of the Scylfings 
 iElfhere's kinsman. When his king he saw 
 Hard by the heat under helmet oppressed, 2605 
 He remembered the gifts he had got of old. 
 Lands and wealth of the Waegmunding line, 
 The folk-rights all that his father's had been; 
 He could hold no longer, but hard he gripped 
 Linden shield yeUow and ancient sword. . . . 2610 
 For the first time there the faithful thane, 2652 
 Youthful and stalwart, stood with his leader, 
 Shoulder to shoulder in shock of battle. 
 Nor melted his courage, nor cracked his blade. 
 His war-sword true, as the worm found out 2656 
 IWhen together they got in grim encounter. 
 
 Wiglaf in wrath upbraided his comrades, 
 Sore was his heart as he spake these words: 
 ''Well I mind when our mead we drank 2660 
 In the princely hall, how we promised our lord 
 Who gave us these rings and golden armlets, 
 That we would repay his war-gifts rich. 
 Helmets and armor, if haply should come 
 His hour of peril ; us hath he made 2665 
 
 Thanes of his choice for this adventure; 
 Spurred us to glory, and gave us these treasures 
 Because he deemed us doughty spearmen, 
 Helmeted warriors, hardy and brave. 
 Yet all the while, unhelped and alone, 2670 
 
 He meant to finish this feat of strength, 
 Shepherd of men and mightiest lord 
 Of daring deeds. The day is come,^ 
 Now is the hour he needs the aid 
 Of spearmen good. Let us go to him now, 2675 
 Help our hero while hard bestead 
 By the nimble flames. God knows that I 
 Had rather the fire should ruthlessly fold 
 My body with his, than harbor me safe. 
 Shame it were surely our shields to carry 2680 
 Home to our lands, unless we first 
 Slay this foe and save the life 
 Of the Weder-king. Full well I know 
 To leave him thus, alone to endure, 
 Bereft of aid, breaks ancient right. 2685 
 
 My helmet and sword shall serve for us both. 
 Shield and armor we share to-day." 
 
 Waded the warrior through welter and reek; 
 Buckler and helmet he bore to his leader; 
 Heartened the hero with words of hope: 2690 
 "Do thy best now, dearest Beowulf, 
 
 Years ago, in youth, thou vowedst 
 Living, ne'er to lose thine honor, 
 Shield thy life and show thy valor. 
 I stand by thee to the end!" 2695 
 
 After these words the worm came on, 
 Snorting with rage, for a second charge; 
 All mottled with fire his foes he sought. 
 The warriors hated. But Wiglaf's shield 
 Was burnt to the boss by the billows of fire; 
 His harness helped not the hero young. 2701 
 Shelter he found 'neath the shield of his kins- 
 man. 
 When the crackling blaze had crumbled his own: 
 But mindful of glory, the mighty hero 
 Smote amain with his matchless sword. 2705 
 Down it hurtled, driven by anger, 
 Till it stuck in the skull, then snapped the blade. 
 Broken was Nsegling, Beowulf's sword. 
 Ancient and gray. 'Twas granted him never 
 To count on edge of iron in battle; 2710 
 
 His hand was too heavy, too hard his strokes, 
 As I have heard tell, for every blade 
 He brandished in battle: the best gave way. 
 And left him helpless and hard bestead. 
 Now for a third time neared the destroyer; 2715 
 The fire-drake fierce, old feuds renlembering, 
 Charged the warrior who wavered an instant; 
 Blazing he came and closed his fangs 
 On Beowulf's throat; and throbbing spirts 
 Of life-blood dark o'erdrenched the hero. 2720 
 
 Then in the hour of utmost peril, 
 The stripling proved what stock he came of; 
 Showed his endurance and dauntless courage. 
 Though burnt was his hand when he backed his 
 
 kinsman. 
 With head unguarded the good thane charged, 
 Thrust from below at the loathly dragon, 2726 
 Pierced with the point and plunged the blade in, 
 The gleaming-bright, till the glow abated 
 Waning low. Ere long the king 
 Came to himself, and swiftly drew 2730 
 
 The war-knife that hung at his harness' side. 
 And cut in two the coiled monster. 
 So felled they the foe and finished him bravely. 
 Together they killed him, the kinsmen two, 
 A noble pair. So needs must do 2735 
 
 Comrades in peril. For the king it proved 
 His uttermost triumph, the end of his deeds 
 And work in the world. The wound began, 
 Where the cave-dragon savage had sunk his 
 
 teeth. 
 To swell and fever, and soon he felt 2740 
 
 The baleful poison pulse through his blood, 
 And burn in his breast. The brave old warrior 
 Sat by the wall and summoned his thoughts. 
 Gazed on the wondrous work of the giants: 
 Arches of stone, firm-set on their pillars, 2745 
 Upheld that hill-vault hoar and ancient. 
 
 Now Beowulf's thane, the brave and faithful, 
 Dashed with water his darling lord, 
 His comrade and king all covered with blood 
 And faint with the fight; unfastened his helmet. 
 Beowulf spoke despite his hurt, 2751 
 
 His piteous wound. Full well he knew 
 
8 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 His years on earth were ended now, 
 
 His hours of glad life gone for aye, 
 
 His days alloted, and death was near: 2755 
 
 " Now would I gladly give to a son 
 
 These weapons of war, had WjTd ^ but granted 
 
 That heir of my own should after me come, 
 
 Sprung from my loins. This land have I ruled 
 
 Fifty winters. No follc-king dared, 2760 
 
 None of the chiefs of the neighboring tribes, 
 
 To touch me with sword or assail me with terror 
 
 Of battle-threats. I bided at home, 
 
 Held my peace and my heritage kept. 
 
 Seeking no feuds nor swearing false oaths. 2765 
 
 This gives me comfort, and gladdojas me now, 
 
 Though wounded sore and sick unto death. 
 
 As I leave my life the Lord may not charge me 
 
 With kiUing of kinsmen. Now quickly go, 
 
 Wiglaf beloved, to look at the hoard, 2770 
 
 Where hidden it rests 'neath the hoary rock. 
 
 For the worm lies still, put asleep by his wound. 
 
 Robbed of his riches. Then rise and haste! 
 
 Give me to see that golden hoard. 
 
 Gaze on the store of glorious gems, 2775 
 
 That easier then I may end my life, 
 
 Leave my lordship that long I held." 
 
 Swiftly, 'tis said, the son of Weohstan 
 Obeyed the words of his bleeding lord. 
 Maimed in the battle. Through the mouth of 
 
 the cave 2780 
 
 Boldly he bore his battle-net in. 
 Glad of the victory, he gazed about him; 
 Many a sun-bright jewel he saw; 
 Glittering gold, strewn on the ground. 
 Heaped in the den of the dragon hoary, 2785 
 Old twilight-flier, — flagons once bright. 
 Wassail cups wondrous of warriors departed 
 Stript of their mountings, many a helmet 
 Ancient and rusted, armlets a many. 
 Curiously woven. (Wealth so hoarded, 2790 
 Buried treasure, will taint with pride, 
 Him that hides it, whoever it be.) 
 Towering high o'er the hoard he saw 
 A gleaming banner with gold inwoven. 
 Of broidure rare, its radiance streamed 2795 
 So bright, he could peer to the bounds of the cave. 
 Survey its wonders; no worm was seen. 
 Edge of the sword had ended his life. 
 Then, as they say, that single adventurer 
 Plundered the hoard that was piled by the 
 
 giants 2800 
 
 Gathered together old goblets and platters, 
 Took what he liked; the towering banner 
 Brightest of beacons he brought likewise 2776 
 
 So Wiglaf returned with treasure laden 2783 
 The high-souled hero hastened his steps. 
 Anxiously wondered if he should find 2785 
 
 The lord of the Weders alive where he left him 
 Sapped of his strength and stretched on the 
 
 ground. 
 As he came from the hill he beheld his comrade. 
 His lord of bounty, bleeding and faint, 
 Near unto death. He dashed him once more 
 Bravely with water, till burden of speech 2791 
 Broke from his breast, and Beowulf spoke, 
 1 The Goddess of Fate. 
 
 Gazing sad at the gold before him: 
 
 "For the harvest of gold that here I look on, 
 
 To the God of Glory I give my thanks. 279S 
 
 To the Ruler Eternal I render praise 
 
 That ere I must go he granted me this. 
 
 To leave to my people this priceless hoard. 
 
 'Twas bought with my life; now look ye well 
 
 To my people's need when 1 have departed. 2800 
 
 No more I may bide among ye here. 
 
 Bid the battle-famed build on the foreland 
 
 A far-seen barrow when flames have burnt me. 
 
 High o'er the headland of whales it shall tower, 
 
 A beacon and mark to remind my people. 2806 
 
 And sailors shall call it in years to come 
 
 Beowulf's Barrow as back from afar 
 
 O'er the glooming deep they drive their keels." 
 
 The great-hearted king unclasped from his 
 neck 2810 
 
 A collar of gold, and gave to his thane, 
 The brave young warrior, his bright-gilt helmet. 
 Breastplate and ring. So bade him farewell: 
 "Thou art the last to be left of our house. 
 Wyrd hath o'erwhelmed our Wsegmunding line, 
 Swept my kinsmen swift to their doom, 2816 
 Earls in their prime. I must follow them." 
 These words were the last that the warrior gray 
 Found in his heart ere the flames he chose. 
 Swift from his bosom his soul departed 2820 
 To find the reward of the faithful and true. 
 
 C^DMON'S HYMN 
 
 (c. 670) 
 
 (Translated by P. V. D. Shelly) 
 
 Now shall we hymn high heaven's Ward, 
 
 The might of the Maker, His mind's desire. 
 
 The works of the Father; how of wonders each 
 
 one 
 He, Lord everlasting, laid the foundation. 
 First He framed for the first-born of men 5 
 Heaven for a roof, holy Creator. 
 Shaped He then earth, Shield of mankind, 
 God immortal, and made thereafter 
 Fields for the folk. Father almighty. 
 
 BEDE'S DEATH-SONG 
 (Translated by P. V. D. Shelly) 
 No man becomes, before death calls him, 
 Wiser in thought than then he needs be 
 Well to consider, ere the thread's severed, 
 What to his ghost, of good or of evil. 
 After the death-day is destined by doom. 5 
 
 THE DROWNING OF THE EGYPTIANS 
 
 (From the Exodus.^ Translated by 
 
 J. D. Spaeth.) 
 
 The host was harrowed with horror of drowning; 
 
 Sea-de^th menaced their miserable souls. 448 
 
 1 The Exodus, a poem of 589 lines, is the oldest extant 
 epic of a series on Biblical subjects, written apparently 
 in the north of England. No exact date can be given, 
 but it was evidently written before the time of King Al- , 
 fred (871-901). \^ 
 
CYNEWULF 
 
 9 
 
 The slopes of the hill-sides were splashed with 
 
 blood. 
 There was woe on the waters, the waves spat 
 
 gore; 450 
 
 They were full of weapons, and frothed with 
 
 slaughter. 
 Back were beaten the bold Egyptians, 
 Fled in fear; they were filled with terror. 
 Headlong they hastened their homes to seek. 
 Less bold were their boasts as the billows rolled 
 
 o'er them, 455 
 
 Dread welter of waves. Not one of that army 
 Went again home, but Wyrd from behind 
 Barred with billows their backward path. 
 Where ways had lain, now weltered the sea, 
 The swelling flood. The storm went up 460 
 
 High to the heavens; hugest of uproars 
 Darkened the sky; the dying shrieked 
 ^ith voices doomed. The Deep streamed with 
 
 blood. 
 Shield-walls were shattered by shock of the 
 
 tempest. 
 Greatest of sea-deaths engulfed the mighty, 465 
 Captains and troops. Retreat was cut off 
 At the ocean's brink. Their battle-shields 
 
 gleamed 
 High o'er their heads as the heaped-up waters 
 Compassed them round, the raging flood. 
 Doomed was the host, by death hemmed in, 470 
 Suddenly trapped. The salty billows 
 Swept with their swirling the sand from their 
 
 feet, 
 As the Ocean cold to its ancient bed. 
 Through winding channels the churning flood. 
 Came rolling back o'er the rippled bottom, 475 
 Swift avenger, naked and wild. 
 With slaughter was streaked the storm-dark air; 
 The bursting deep with blood-terror yawned, 
 When He who made it, by Moses' hand 
 Unbitted the wrath of the raging flood ; 480 
 
 Wide it came sweeping to swallow the foe; 
 Foamed the waters, the fated sank; 
 Earth was o'erwhelmed, the air was darkened; 
 Burst the wave- walls, the bulwarks tumbled; 
 The sea-towers melted, when the Mighty One 
 
 smote 485 
 
 The pride of the host, through the pillar of fire, 
 With holy hand from heaven above. 
 The onslaught wild of the angry main 
 None might oppose. He appointed their end 
 In the roaring horror. Wroth was the sea: 490 
 Up it rose, down it smote, dealing destruction. 
 Slaughter-blood spread, the sea-wall fell, 
 Upreared on high, the handiwork of God, 
 When the ocean He smote with His ancient 
 
 sword, 
 Felled the defence of the foam-breasted waves. 
 With the death-blow deep, the doomed men 
 
 slept. 496 
 
 The army of sinners their souls gave up, 
 The sea-pale host, ensnared and surrounded. 
 When the dark upheaval o'erwhelmed them all, 
 Hugest of wild waves. The host sank down, 
 Pharaoh and his folk, the flower of Egypt 501 
 Utterly perished. The enemy of God 
 Soon discovered, when the sea he entered, 
 
 That the ocean's master was mightier than he. 
 
 By the strength of His arm He decided the battle, 
 
 Wrathful and grim. He gave the Egyptians 506 
 
 Thorough reward for that day's work. 
 
 Not one of that host to his home came back; 
 
 Of all those warriors not one returned 
 
 To bring the news of the battle's end, 5li 
 
 To tell in the towns the tidings of woe, 
 
 Their husbands' doom to the heroes' wives. 
 
 How sea-death swallowed the stately host, — 
 
 No messenger left. The Lord Almighty 
 
 Confounded their boasting; they fought against 
 
 God. 515 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE 
 
 (From The Crist. Translated by J. D. Spaeth.) 
 
 Our life is likest a long sea-voyage : 850 
 
 O'er the water cold in our keels we glide, 
 
 O'er Ocean's streams, in our stallions of the 
 
 deep 
 We drive afar. 'Tis a dreary waste 
 Of ceaseless surges we sail across. 
 In this wavering world, o'er wind-swept tracts 
 Of open sea. Anxious the struggle, 856 
 
 Ere we bring at last our barks to land. 
 O'er the rough sea-ridges. Our rescue is near; 
 The Son of God doth safely guide us, 
 Helps us into our harbor of refuge; 860 
 
 Shows from the deck the sheltered waters 
 Where smoothly to anchor our ancient chargers, 
 Hold with the hawsers our horses of the deep. 
 Then fix we our hope on that haven of safety 
 That the Prince of Glory prepared for us all, 865 
 The Ruler on high, when He rose to heaven. 
 
 DOOMSDAY 
 
 (From The Crist. Translated by J. D. Spaeth.) 
 
 Lo! on a sudden, and all unlooked for. 
 
 In the dead of the night, the day of the Lord 
 
 Shall break tremendous on man and beast, 
 
 O'erwhelming the world and the wide creation, 
 As a ruthless robber, ranging at night, 871 
 
 Who strides through the dark with stealthy 
 
 pace. 
 And suddenly springs on sleep-bound heroes, 
 Greets with violence his victims unguarded. 
 
 A mighty host on the mount of Sion 876 
 
 Shall gather together glad and rejoicing 
 The faithful of the Lord, they shall find their 
 reward. 
 
 With one accord from the quarters four, 
 And uttermost ends of the earth at once, 
 Glorious angels together shall blow 880 
 
 Their shattering trumpets; the trembling earth 
 Shall shake and sink, as they sound together, 
 
 1 Cynewiilf, the greatest early poet of the north of 
 England, lived probably in Northumbria at the end of 
 the 8th century. The Christ, from which the two selec- 
 tions are taken, is his chief poem; it is 1664 Unea long 
 and consists of three parts, The Advent, The Ascension, 
 and Doomsday. 
 
10 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 Piercing strong to the starry track. 
 Their music swells from the South and North, 
 From East and from West, o'er the world's 
 wide round. 885 
 
 They wake from the dead to the day of judge- 
 ment 
 The children of men, with their challenge dread. 
 Out of their ancient earth and mold, 
 Forth from their sleep profound they wake 
 
 them. 
 Howling with fear they shall huddle and flock, 
 Moaning and groaning, aghast with terror, 891 
 Bewailing the deeds that were done in the body. 
 
 Eye hath not seen a sight more awful, 
 To men shall appear no portent more dread: 
 Sinners and saints in strange confusion, 895 
 Mingled together shall mount from their 
 
 graves, 
 The bright and the black: for both shall arise, 
 Some fair, some foul, as foreordained 
 To different home, of devils or angels. 
 
 From South and East o'er Sion's top, 900 
 
 In sudden radiance the sun shall flame 
 From the throne of God; more gleaming-bright. 
 Than man may imagine, or mind conceive. 
 Resplendent it shines, as the Son of God 
 Dazzling breaks through the dome of heaven. 
 Glorious appears the presence of Christ, 906 
 The King as He comes through the clouds in 
 
 the East, 
 Merciful and mild in mind to his own. 
 But with altered mood of anger toward the 
 
 wicked: 
 Unlike His looks for the lost and the blest. 910 
 
 The greedy spirit of consuming flame 
 Shall leap o'er the land, and the lofty halls; 
 With the terror of fire shall fill the world. 
 The battle-thirsty flame shall blaze afar. 
 Devouring the earth, and all therein. 915 
 
 Strong-built walls shall split and crumble; 
 Mountains shall melt, and the mighty cliffs 
 That buttress the earth 'gainst battering waves. 
 Bulwarks upreared 'gainst the rolling billows, 
 Shall fall on a sudden. The sweep of the fire 
 Shall leave no bird nor beast alive. 921 
 
 The lurid flame shall leap along the world 
 Like a raging warrior. Where the waters flowed 
 In a bath of fire the fish shall be stifled; 
 Sundered from life, their struggles over, 925 
 The monsters of the deep no more shall swim. 
 Like molten wax the water shall bum. 
 More marvels shall appear than mind may con- 
 ceive. 
 When tempest and whirlwind o'erwhelm the 
 
 earth. 
 And rocks are riven by the roaring blast. 930 
 Men shall wail, they shall weep and lament, 
 Groan aghast with grovelling fear. 
 The smoke-dark flame o'er the sinful shall roll. 
 The blaze shall consume their beakers of gold. 
 All the ancient heirlooms of kings. 935 
 
 The shrieks of the living aloud shall resound 
 Mid the crack of doom, their cry of fear, 
 
 Their howl of despair, as they struggle to hide. 
 No guilty wretch shall refuge find. 
 Not one shall escape the scorching flame; 940 
 On all it shall seize, as it sweeps through the 
 
 world. 
 It shall leap and run and ruthlessly bore 
 In the bowels of the earth, it shall burn aloft, 
 Till the ancient stains of earthly sin 
 By the purging billows are burnt away. 943 
 
 THE RUINi 
 (Translated by Stoppord A. Brooke) 
 
 Wondrous is its wall of stone. Weirds^ have 
 
 shattered it! 
 Broken are the burg-steads! Crumbled is the 
 
 giants' work. 
 Fallen are the roof beams; ruined are the 
 
 towers; 
 All undone the door-pierced towers; frozen dew 
 
 is on their plaster! 
 Shorn away and sunken down are the sheltering 
 
 battlements, 5 
 
 Undereaten of Old Age! Earth is holding in 
 
 its clutch 
 These, the power-wielding workers; all forworn 
 
 are they, forlorn in death are they! 
 Hard the grip was of the ground, while a hun- 
 dred generations 
 Move away of men. Long its wall abode 
 Through the rule that followed rule, ruddy 
 
 stained, and gray as goat, lO 
 
 Under storm-skies steady! Steep the court 
 
 that feU, 
 Still it falleth . . . (skilful ancient work it 
 
 was)! 
 Strong in rede,' (the builder strengthened), 
 
 strong of heart, in chains he bound 
 All the wall-uprights with wires, wondrous- 
 wrought together! 
 Brilliant were the burg-steads, burn-fed houses^ 
 
 many; 15 
 
 High the heap of horned gables, of the host a 
 
 mickle sound, 
 Many were the mead-halls, full of mirth of men, 
 Till the strong-willed Wyrd whirled that all to 
 
 change! 
 In a slaughter wide they fell, woeful days of 
 
 bale came on; 
 Famine-death fortook fortitude from men; 20 
 All their battle bulwarks bare foundations were! 
 Crumbled is the castle-keep; those have cringed 
 
 to earth 
 Who set up again the shrines! So the halls are 
 
 dreary. 
 And this courtyard's wide expanse! From the 
 
 raftered woodwork 
 
 ^ The Ruin here described is supposed to be that of 
 one of the walled towns of Roman-Britain, probably 
 Bath. The date of the poem is unknown, but its lan- 
 guage is later than that of Cynewulf. 
 
 2 The Fates. 
 
 ' Counsel, judgment. 
 
 < Houses fed by springs of water. This passage, and 
 the reference to the hot baths in lines 34-35 support 
 the view that the city was Bath, where the ruins of \ 
 Roman baths may still be seen. 
 
(See) the roof has shed its tiles! To ruin sank 
 
 the market-place, 25 
 
 Broken up to barrows; many a brave man there, 
 Glad of yore, and gold-bright, gloriously 
 
 adorned. 
 Hot with wine and haughty, in war-harness 
 
 shone; — 
 Saw upon his silver, on set gems and treasure. 
 On his welfare and his wealth, on his winsome 
 
 jewels, 30 
 
 On this brightsome burg of a broad dominion! — 
 There the stone-courts stood; hotly surged the 
 
 stream, 
 With a widening whirling; and a wall enclosed 
 
 it all. 
 With its bosom bright. There the baths were 
 
 set 
 Hot within their heart; fit [for health] it was! 35 
 
 THE WANDERER* 
 
 (Translated by Emily H. Hickey) 
 
 * Still the lone one and desolate waits for his 
 
 Maker's ruth — 
 God's good mercy, albeit so long it tarry, in 
 
 sooth. 
 Careworn and sad of heart, on the watery ways 
 
 must he 
 Plow with the hand-grasped oar — ^how long? — 
 
 the rime-cold sea. 
 Tread thy paths of exile, O Fate, who art 
 
 cruelty.' 5 
 
 Thus did a wanderer speak, being heart-full 
 
 of woe, and all 
 Thoughts of the cruel slayings, and pleasant 
 
 comrades' fall: 
 'Morn by mom I, alone, am fain to utter my 
 
 woe; 
 Now is there none of the living to whom I dare 
 
 to show 
 Plainly the thought of my heart; in very sooth 
 
 I know 10 
 
 Excellent is it in man that his breast he 
 
 straightly bind, 
 Shut fast his thinkings in silence, whatever he 
 
 have in his mind. 
 The man that is weary in heart, he never can 
 
 fate withstand; 
 The man that grieves in his spirit, he finds not 
 
 the helper's hand. 
 Therefore the glory-grasper full heavy of soul 
 
 may be. 15 
 
 So, far from my fatherland, and mine own 
 
 good kinsmen free, 
 I must bind my heart in fetters, for long, ah! 
 
 long ago, 
 The earth's cold darkness covered my giver of 
 
 gold brought low; 
 And I, sore stricken and humbled, and winter- 
 saddened, went 
 Far over the frost-bound waves to seek for the 
 
 dear content 20 
 
 Of the hall of the giver of rings; but far nor 
 
 near could I find 
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 11 
 
 Who felt the love of the mead-hall, or who with 
 
 comforts kind 
 Would comfort me, the friendless. 'Tis he 
 
 alone will know 
 Who knows, being desolate too, how evil a 
 
 fere* is woe; 
 For him the path of the exile, and not the 
 
 twisted gold; 25 
 
 For him the frost in his bosom, and not earth- 
 riches old. 
 * O, well he remembers the hall-men, the treasure 
 
 bestowed in the hall; 
 The feast that his gold-giver made him, the 
 
 joy at its height, at its fall; 
 He knows who must be forlorn for his dear 
 
 lord's counsels gone, 
 Where sleep and sorrow together are binding 
 
 the lonely one; 30 
 
 When himthinks he clasps and kisses his leader 
 
 of men, and lays 
 His hands and head on his knee, as when, in the 
 
 good yore-days, 
 He sat on the throne of his might, in the 
 
 strength that wins and saves. 
 But the friendless man awakes, and he sees the 
 
 yellow waves, 
 And the sea-birds dip to the sea, and broaden 
 
 their wings to the gale, 35 
 
 And he sees the dreary rime, and the snow com- 
 mingled with hail. 
 O, then are the wounds of his heart the sorer 
 
 much for this. 
 The grief for the loved and lost made new by 
 
 the dream of old bliss. 
 His kinsmen's memory comes to him as he lies 
 
 1 Date and author unknown, 
 or 9th century. 
 
 Attributed to the 8th 
 
 And he greets it with joy, with joy, and the 
 
 heart in his breast doth leap; 40 
 
 But out of his ken the shapes of his warrior- 
 comrades swim 
 To the land whence seafarers bring no dear old 
 
 saws for him; 
 Then fresh grows sorrow and new to him whose 
 
 bitter part 
 Is to send o'er the frost-bound waves full often 
 
 his weary heart. 
 For this do I look around this world, and cannot 
 
 see 45 
 
 Wherefore or why my heart should not grow 
 
 dark in me. 
 When I think of the lives of the leaders, the 
 
 clansmen mighty in mood; 
 When I think how sudden and swift they 
 
 yielded the place where they stood. 
 So droops this mid-earth and falls, and never a 
 
 man is found 
 Wise ere a many winters have girt his life 
 
 around. 50 
 
 Full patient the sage must be, and he that 
 
 would counsel teach — 
 Not over-hot in his heart, nor over-swift in his 
 
 speech; 
 Nor faint of soul nor secure, nor fain for the 
 
 fight nor afraid; 
 
 2 Companion. 
 
12 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 Nor ready to boast before he know himself well 
 
 arrayed. 
 The proud-souled man must bide when he 
 
 utters his vaunt, until 55 
 
 He know of the thoughts of the heart, and 
 
 whitherward turn they will. 
 The prudent must understand how terror and 
 
 awe shall be, 
 When the glory and weal of the world lie waste, 
 
 as now men see 
 On our mid-earth many a where, the wind- 
 swept walls arise, 
 And the ruined dwellings and void, and the 
 
 rime that on them lies. 60 
 
 The wine-halls crumble, bereft of joy the war- 
 riors lie. 
 The flower of the doughty fallen, the proud 
 
 ones fair to the eye. 
 War took off some in death, and one did a 
 
 strong bird bear 
 Over the deep; and one — his bones did the grey 
 
 wolf share; 
 And one was hid in a cave by a comrade sorrow- 
 ful-faced. 65 
 O, thus the Shaper of men hath laid the earth all 
 
 waste. 
 Till the works of the city-dwellers, the works of 
 
 the giants of earth, 
 Stood empty and lorn of the burst of the 
 
 mighty revellers' mirth. 
 'Who wisely hath mused on this wallstead, and 
 
 ponders this dark life well 
 In his heart he hath often bethought him of 
 
 slayings many and fell, 70 
 
 And these be the words he taketh, the thoughts 
 
 of his heart to tell: 
 "Where is the horse and the rider? Where is 
 
 the giver of gold? 
 Where be the seats at the banquet? Where be 
 
 the hall-joys of old? 
 Alas for the burnished cup, for the bymied' 
 
 chief to-day! 
 Alas for the strength of the prince! for the time 
 
 hath passed away — 75 
 
 Is hid 'neath the shadow of night, as it never 
 
 had been at all. 
 Behind the dear and doughty there standeth 
 
 now a wall, 
 A wall that is wondrous high, and with won- 
 drous snake-work wrought. 
 The strength of the spears hath fordone the 
 
 earls and hath made them naught. 
 The weapons greedy of slaughter, and she, the 
 
 mighty Wyrd; 80 
 
 And the tempests beat on the rocks, and the 
 
 storm-wind that maketh afeard — 
 The terrible storm that fetters the earth, the 
 
 winter-bale, 
 When the shadow of night falls wan, and wild is 
 
 the rush of the hail. 
 The cruel rush from the north, which maketh 
 
 men to quail. 
 Hardship-full is the earth, o'ertumed when the 
 
 stark Wyrds say: 85 
 
 « Byrnied chief, i. e., chief arrayed in his "byrnie," or 
 war-shirt. 
 
 Here is the passing of riches, here friends are 
 
 passing away; 
 And men and kinsfolk pass, and nothing and 
 
 none may stay; 
 And all this earth-stead here shall be empty 
 
 and void one day." . . .' 
 
 THE SEAFARERi 
 (Translated by Henry Morley) 
 "I may sing of myself now 
 A song that is true, 
 Can tell of wide travel, 
 The toil of hard days; 
 How oft through long seasons 5 
 
 I suffered and strove. 
 Abiding within my breast 
 Bitterest care; 
 
 How I sailed among sorrows 
 In many a sea; 
 The wild rise of the waves, 
 The close watch of the night 
 At the dark prow in danger 
 Of dashing on rock. 
 Folded in by the frost. 
 My feet bound by the cold 
 In chill bands, in the breast 
 The heart burning with care. 
 The soul of the sea-weary 
 Hunger assailed. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 Knows not he who finds happiest 
 Home upon earth 
 How I lived through long winter 
 In labour and care. 
 On the icy-cold ocean, 
 An exile from joy. 
 Cut off from dear kindred, 
 Encompassed with ice. 
 Hail flew in hard showers, 
 And nothing I heard 
 But the wrath of the waters, 
 The icy-cold way; 
 At times the swan's song; 
 In the scream of the gannet 
 I sought for my joy, 
 bh( 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 In the moan of the sea-whelp 
 
 For laughter of men. 
 
 In the song of the sea-mew 
 
 For drinking of mead. 
 
 Starlings answered the storm 
 
 Beating stones on the cliff, 
 
 Icy-feathered, and often 
 
 The eagle would shriek, 
 
 Wet of wing. 
 
 Not one home-friend could feel 
 
 With the desolate soul; 
 
 For he little believes 
 
 To whom life's joy belongs 
 
 In the town, lightly troubled 
 
 With dangerous tracks, 
 
 Vain with high spirit 
 
 } The date and authorship are unknown . Some scholars 
 think that the Seafarer is a dialogue between an old sailor 
 and a young man who longs to go to sea, but as this is \, 
 mere conjecture, no attempt has been made in the present ^ 
 version to indicate the respective parts. 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
THE SEAFARER 
 
 And wanton with wine, 
 How often I wearily 
 Held my sea-way. 
 
 The night shadows darkened, 
 It snowed from the north; 
 The rime bound the rocks; 
 The hail rolled upon earth, 
 Coldest of corn: 
 Therefore now is high heaving 
 In thoughts of my heart, 
 That my lot is, to learn 
 The wide joy of waters, 
 The whirl of salt spray. 
 Often desire drives 
 My soul to depart, 
 That the home of the strangers 
 Far hence I may seek. 
 
 There is no man among us 
 So proud in his mind, 
 Nor so good in his gifts. 
 Nor so gay in his youth. 
 Nor so daring in deeds. 
 Nor so dear to his lord, 
 That his soul never stirred 
 At the thought of seafaring. 
 Or what his great Master 
 Will do with him yet. 
 He hears not the harp. 
 Heeds not giving of rings. 
 Has to woman no will, 
 And no hope in the world. 
 Nor in aught there is else 
 But the wash of the waves. 
 He lives ever longing 
 Who looks to the sea. 
 
 Groves bud with green, 
 
 The hills grow fair. 
 
 Gay shine the fields. 
 
 The world's astir: 
 
 All this but warns 
 
 The willing mind 
 
 To set the sail. 
 
 For so he thinks 
 
 Far on the waves 
 
 To win his way. 
 
 With woeful note 
 
 The cuckoo warns, 
 
 The summer's warden sings, 
 
 And sorrow rules 
 
 The heart-store bitterly. 
 
 No man can know. 
 
 Nursed in soft ease. 
 
 The burden borne 
 
 By those who fare 
 
 The farthest from their friends. 
 
 65 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 75 
 
 80 
 
 85 
 
 00 
 
 95 
 
 100 
 
 105 
 
 13 
 
 116 
 
 120 
 
 125 
 
 With eager desire; 
 
 Loud cries the lone-flier. 
 
 And stirs the mind's longing 
 
 To travel the way that is trackless. 
 
 The death-way over the flood. 
 
 For my will to my Master's pleasure 
 
 Is warmer than this dead life 
 
 That is lent us on land. 
 
 I beheve not that earth-blessings 
 
 Ever abide. 
 
 Ever of three things one, 
 
 To each ere the severing hour: 
 
 Old age, sickness, or slaughter, 
 
 Will force the doomed soul to depart. 
 
 Therefore for each of the earls, 
 
 Of those who shall afterwards name them. 
 
 This is best laud from the living 130 
 
 In last words spoken about him: — 
 
 He worked ere he went his way. 
 
 When on earth, against wiles of the foe. 
 
 With brave deeds overcoming the devil. 
 
 His memory cherished 135 
 
 By children of men. 
 
 His glory grows ever 
 
 With angels of God, 
 
 In life everlasting 
 
 Of bliss with the bold. 140 
 
 Passed are the days of the pride 
 
 Of the kingdoms of earth! 
 
 Kings are no more, and kaisers. 
 
 None count out, 
 
 As once they did, their gifts of gold. 
 
 When that made them most great. 
 
 And Man judged that they Uved 
 
 As Lords most High. 
 
 That fame is all fallen, 
 
 Those joys are all fled; 
 
 The weak ones abiding 
 
 Lay hold on the world: 
 
 By their labour they win. 
 
 In the soul's secret chamber 
 
 My mind now is set, 
 
 My heart's thought, on wide waters. 
 
 The home of the whale; lio 
 
 It wanders away 
 
 Beyond hmits of land: 
 
 Comes again to me, yearning 
 
 High fortune is humbled; 
 
 Earth's haughtiness ages 
 
 And wastes, — as now withers 
 
 Each man from the world: 
 
 Old age is upon him 
 
 And bleaches his face; 
 
 He is grey-haired and grieves, 
 
 Knows he now must give up 
 
 The old friends he cherished, 
 
 Chief children of earth. 
 
 The husk of flesh. 
 
 When life is fled, 
 
 Shall taste no sweetness. 
 
 Feel no sore; 
 
 Is in its hand no touch; 
 
 Is in its brain no thought. 
 
 Though his born brother 
 
 Strew gold in the grave. 
 
 Bury him pompously 
 
 Borne to the dead, 
 
 Entomb him with treasure. 
 
 The trouble is vain: 
 
 The soul of the sinful 
 
 145 
 
 160 
 
 155 
 
 160 
 
 166 
 
 170 
 
 175 
 
14 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 His gold may not save 
 
 From the awe before God, 
 
 Though he hoarded it heedfully 
 
 While he Uved here. 180 
 
 Great awe is in presence of God. 
 The firm ground trembles before Him 
 Who strongly fixed its foundations, 
 The limits of earth and the heavens. 
 Fool is he without fear of the Lord; 185 
 To him will come death unforeseen: 
 Happy is he who is lowly of life; 
 To him will come honour from heaven: 
 The Creator will strengthen his soul 
 Because he put trust in His power. 190 
 
 Rude will should be ruled 
 
 And restrained within bound 
 
 And clean in its ways with men, 
 
 If every man 
 
 Kept measure in mind 195 
 
 With friend and with foe. . . . 
 
 More force is in fate, 198 
 
 In the Maker more might, 
 
 Than in thought of a man. 200 
 
 Let us look to the home 
 
 Where in truth we can live, 
 
 And then let us be thinking 
 
 How thither to come: 
 
 For then we too shall toil 203 
 
 That our travel may reach 
 
 To delight never ending, 
 
 When life is made free 
 
 In the love of the Lord 
 
 In the height of the heavens! 210 
 
 May we thank the All Holy 
 
 Who gave us this grace, — 
 
 The Wielder of glory, 
 
 The Lord everlasting, — 
 
 In tin^e without end! Amen." 213 
 
 BATTLE OF BRUNANBURHi 
 (Translated by Tennyson) 
 
 I 
 Athelstan King, 
 Lord among Earls, 
 Bracelet-bestower and 
 Baron of Barons, 
 
 He with his brother, 6 
 
 Edmund Atheling, 
 Gaining a lifelong 
 Glory in battle. 
 Slew with the sword-edge 
 
 jThis poem appears originally in the Anglo-Saxon 
 Chronicle under the year 937. It celebrates a battle 
 fou^t at Brunanburh, between the West Saxons led 
 by King Athelstan. grandson of Alfred the Great, and 
 iMlmund the Athhng (or prince), and a combined force 
 of Danes, Scots, and Britons led by Constantinus and 
 Aniaf. The site of Brunanburh has never been satisfac- 
 torily established. The most Ukely place seems to be 
 the old Brunne, now Bourne, in Lincolnshire. (See 
 Ramsay s Foundations of England, I. 285.) Tennyson 
 based his version of the poem upon his son's prose trans- 
 lation from the original Old EngUsh. 
 
 There by Bnmanburh, lo 
 
 Brake the shield-wall, 
 Hew'd the Undenwood, 
 Hack'd the battleshield. 
 Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands. 
 
 15 
 
 Theirs was a greatness 
 Got from their grandsires — 
 Theirs that so often in 
 Strife with their enemies 
 Struck for their hoards and their hearths and 
 their homes. 
 
 m 
 
 Bow'd the spoiler, 
 
 Bent the Scotsman, 
 
 Fell the shipcrews 
 
 Doom'd to the death. 
 All the field with blood of the fighters 
 
 Flow'd, from when first the great 
 
 Sun-star of morningtide, 
 
 Lamp of the Lord God, 
 
 Lord everlasting, 
 Glode over earth till the glorious creature 
 
 Sank to his setting. 
 
 25 
 
 There lay many a man 
 Marr'd by the javehn. 
 Men of the Northland 
 Shot over shield. 
 There was the Scotsman 
 Weary of war. 
 
 35 
 
 We the West-Saxons, 
 Long as the daylight 
 Lasted, in companies 
 Troubled the track of the host that we 
 
 hated; 40 
 
 Grimly with swords that were sharp from 
 
 the grindstone. 
 Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before us. 
 
 VI 
 
 Mighty the Mercian, 
 
 Hard was his hand-play, 
 
 Sparing not any of 45 
 
 Those that with Anlaf, 
 
 Warriors over the 
 
 Weltering waters 
 
 Borne in the bark's-bosom, 
 
 Drew to this island — 30 
 
 Doom'd to the death. 
 
 VII 
 
 Five young kings put asleep by the sword- 
 stroke. 
 Seven strong Earls of the army of Anlaf 
 Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers, 
 Shipmen and Scotsmen. 55 
 
 VIII 
 
 Then the Norse leader — 
 Dire was his need of it, 
 
THE GRAVE 
 
 15 
 
 Few were his following — 
 
 Fled to his warship; 
 Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king in it 60 
 Saving his life on the fallow flood. 
 
 IX 
 
 Also the crafty one, 
 
 Constantinus, 
 
 Crept to his North again, 
 
 Hoar-headed hero! 
 
 65 
 
 Slender warrant had 
 
 He to be proud of 
 
 The welcome of war-knives — 
 
 He that was reft of his 
 
 Folk and his friends that had 70 
 
 Fallen in conflict, 
 
 Leaving his son too 
 
 Lost in the carnage, 
 
 Mangled to morsels, 
 
 A youngster in war! 76 
 
 XI 
 
 Slender reason had 
 
 He to be glad of 
 
 The clash of the war-glaive— 
 
 Traitor and trickster 
 
 And spurner of treaties — 80 
 
 He nor had Anlaf 
 
 With armies so broken 
 
 A reason for bragging 
 
 That they had the better 
 
 In perils of battle 85 
 
 On places of slaughter — 
 
 The struggle of standards, 
 
 The rush of the javelins. 
 
 The crash of the charges, 
 
 The wielding of weapons — 00 
 
 The play that they play'd with 
 
 The children of Edward. 
 
 XII 
 
 Then with their nail'd prows 
 
 Parted the Norsmen, a 
 
 Blood-redden'd relic of 95 
 
 Javelins over 
 The jarring breaker, the deep-sea billow, 
 Shaping their way toward Dyflen* again, 
 Shamed in their souls. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Also the brethren, 100 
 
 King and Atheling, 
 Each in his glory, 
 Went to his own in his own West-Saxonland, 
 Glad of the war. 
 
 Many a carcase they left to be carrion, 103 
 
 Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin — 
 Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear it, and 
 Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to rend it, and 
 2 Dublin. Some of th? Norsemen (those under Anlaf) 
 bad come across the sea from Ireland. 
 
 Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, 
 
 and 
 That grey beast, the wolf of the weald.' lio 
 
 XV 
 
 Never had huger 
 
 Slaughter of heroes 
 
 Slain by the sword-edge — 
 
 Such as old writers 
 
 Have writ of in histories — 115 
 
 Hapt in this isle, since 
 
 Up from the East hither 
 
 Saxon and Angle from 
 
 Over the broad billow 
 
 Broke into Britain with 120 
 
 Haughty war-workers who 
 
 Harried the Welshman, when 
 
 Earls that were lured by the 
 
 Hunger of glory gat 
 
 Hold of the land. 126 
 
 THE GRAVEi 
 
 (Longfellow's translation, from The Poets 
 and Poetry of Europe.) 
 
 For thee was a house built 
 Ere thou wert born; 
 For thee was a mould meant 
 Ere thou of mother camest. ~ 
 But it is not made ready, 5 
 
 Nor its depth measured. 
 Nor is it seen 
 How long it shall be. 
 Now I bring thee 
 
 Where thou shalt be. 10 
 
 Now I shall measure thee. 
 And the mould afterwards. 
 
 Thy house is not 
 Highly timbered; 
 It is unhigh and low. 
 When thou art therein. 
 The heel-ways are low. 
 The side-way unhigh; 
 The roof is built 
 Thy breast full nigh. 
 So thou shalt in mould 
 Dwell full cold. 
 Dimly and dark. 
 
 Doorless is that house, 
 And dark it is within; 
 There thou art fast detained. 
 And Death hath the key. 
 Loathsome is that earth-house, 
 * And grim within to dwell; 
 There thou shalt dwell. 
 And worms shall divide thee. 
 
 Thus thou art laid 
 And leavest thy friends; 
 Thou hast no friend 
 Who will come to thee, 
 
 8 The forest. 
 
 16 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 1 Date and author unknown, but probably among 
 the latest poems of the Old English period. 
 
16 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST i 
 
 Who will ever see which we have hitherto professed has, as far 
 
 How that house pleaseth thee, as I can learn, no virtue in it. For none of 
 
 Who will ever open your people has apphed himself more diligently 
 
 The door for thee, to ^1^^ worship of our gods than I ; and yet there 
 
 F^aoorthou '^^la^me " « <- --/ -^o --™ 8-'- '"T " i"" 
 
 And hateful to see. yo"' «^d a^® ^^^^ preferred than I, and are 
 
 more prosperous in all their undertakings. 
 
 ^j- Now if the gods were good for anything, they 
 
 j^tw would rather forward me, who have been more 
 
 673-735 10 careful to serve them. It remains, therefore, 
 
 that if upon examination you find those new 
 KING EDWIN CONSIDERS ADOPTING doctrines, which are now preached to us, better 
 CHRISTIANITY and more efficacious, we immediately receive 
 
 (Bede's Ecclesiastical History, 731) ^^^m without any delay." 
 
 15 Another of the king's chief men, approvmg of 
 (Translated by J. A. Giles) jjig ^ords and exhortations, presently added: 
 
 King Edwin, 1 therefore, delaying to receive ''The present life of man, O king, seems to me, 
 the word of God at the preaching of Paulinus,^ in comparison of that time which is unknown to 
 and using for sometime, as has been said, to us, like to the swift flight of a sparrow through 
 sit several hours alone, and seriously to ponder 20 the room wherein you sit at supper in winter, 
 with himself what he was to do, and what with your commanders and ministers, and a 
 religion he was to follow, the man of God came good fire in the midst, whilst the storms of rain 
 to him, laid his right hand on his head, and and snow prevail abroad; the sparrow, I say, 
 asked, "Whether he knew that sign?" The flying in at one door, and immediately out at 
 king in a trembling condition, was ready to fall 25 another, whilst he is within, is safe from the 
 down at his feet, but he raised him up, and in a wintry storm; but after a short space of fair 
 familiar manner said to him, ''Behold by the weather, he immediately vanishes out of your 
 help of God you have escaped the hands of the sight, into the dark winter from which he had 
 enemies whom you feared. Behold you have of emerged. So this life of man appears for a 
 his gift obtained the kingdom which you 30 short space, but of what went before, or what is 
 desired. Take heed not to delay that which to follow, we are utterly ignorant. If, therefore, 
 you promised to perform; embrace the faith, this new doctrine contains something more 
 and keep the precepts of Him who, delivering certain, it seems justly to deserve to be fol- 
 you from temporal adversity, has raised you to lowed." The other elders and king's coun- 
 the honour of a temporal kingdom; and if , 35 sellors, by divine inspiration, spoke to the same 
 from this time forward, you shall be obedient effect. 
 
 to his will, which through me he signifies to But Coifi added, that he wished more 
 you, he will not only deliver you from the attentively to hear Paulinus discourse concern- 
 everlasting torments of the wicked, but also ing the God whom he preached; which he 
 make you a partaker with him of his eternal 40 having by the king's command performed, 
 kingdom in heaven." Coifi, hearing his words, cried out, "I have 
 
 The king, hearing these words, answered that long since been sensible that there was nothing 
 he was both willing and bound to receive the in that which we worshipped ; because the more 
 faith which he taught; but that he would diligently I sought after truth in that worship, 
 confer about it with his principal friends and 45 the less I found it. But now I freely confess, 
 counsellors, to the end that if they also were of that such truth evidently appears in this 
 his opinion, they might all together be cleansed preaching as can confer on us the gifts of life, of 
 in Christ the Fountain of Life. PauHnus ^ salvation, and of eternal happiness. For which 
 consenting, the king did as he said; for, holding reason I advise, O king, that we instantly 
 a counsel with the wise men, he asked of every 50 abjure and set fire to those temples and altars 
 one in particular what he thought of the new which we have consecrated without reaping any 
 doctrine, and the new worship that was benefit from them." In short, the king pub- 
 preached? To which the chief of his own licly gave his hcense to Paulinus to preach the 
 priests, Coifi, immediately answered, "O king, Gospel, and renouncing idolatry, declared that 
 consider what this is which is now preached to 55 he received the faith of Christ: and when he 
 us; for I verily declare to you, that the religion inquired of the high priest who should first 
 » The famous King Edwin of Northumbria, 617-733. profane the altars and temples of their idols, 
 
 2 An early English bishop, who had come to Northuni- vj\fV> fho pnolosiirps fVinf wf^rt^ ahniif fh^m ho 
 
 bria with the princoss .EtLclburh of Kent, when ahe ^^^" ine enclosures tnat were aDout tnem, ne 
 became Edwin's queen, answered, I; for who can more properly than 
 
BEDE 17 
 
 myself destroy those things which I wor- towards him, he rose up from table and returned 
 shipped through ignorance, for an example to home. 
 
 all others, through the wisdom which has Having done so at a certain time, and gone 
 been given me by the true God?" Then out of the house where the entertainment was, 
 immediately, in contempt of his former super- 5 to the stable, where he had to take care of the 
 stitions, he desired the king to furnish him with horses that night, he there composed himself 
 arms and a stallion; and mounting the same, he to rest at the proper time; a person appeared to 
 set out to destroy the idols; for it was not him in his sleep, and saluting him by his name, 
 lawful before for the high priest either to carry said, "Casdmon, sing some song to me," He 
 arms, or to ride on any but a mare. Having, 10 answered, "I cannot sing; for that was the 
 therefore, girt a sword about him, with a spear reason why I left the entertainment, and re- 
 in his hand, he mounted the king's staUion and tired to this place, because I could not sing." 
 proceeded to the idols. The multitude, be- The other who talked to him, repUed, "How- 
 holding it, concluded he was distracted; but he ever you shall sing." — "What shall I sing?" 
 lost no time, for as soon as he drew near the 15 rejoined he. "Sing the beginning of created 
 temple he profaned the same, casting into it beings," said the other. Hereupon he pres- 
 the spear which he held; and rejoicing in the ently began to sing verses to the praise of 
 knowledge of the worship of the true God, he God, which he had never heard, the purport 
 commanded his companions to destroy the whereof was thus: — We are now to praise the 
 temple, with all its enclosures, by fire. This 20 Maker of the heavenly kingdom, the power of 
 place where the idols were is still shown, not the Creator and his counsel, the deeds of the 
 far from York, to the eastward, beyond the Father of glory. How he, being the eternal 
 river Derwent, and is now called Godmunding- God, became the author of all miracles, who 
 ham,^ where the high priest, by the inspiration first, as almighty preserver of the human race, 
 of the true God, profaned and destroyed the 25 created heaven for the sons of men, as a roof of 
 altars which he himself had consecrated. the house, and next the earth.2 This is the 
 
 sease, but not the words in order as he sang 
 
 iHiL VlblON Ob Ci*.UMUJN ^gU composed, cannot be Hterally translated 
 
 (From the same) 30 out of one language into another, without losing 
 
 /"T" 1 f.^ u 1 \ n \ much of their beauty and loftiness. Awaking 
 
 Uransiatea Dy J. a. uiujs; ^^^^ ^^^ ^j^^p^ j^^ remembered all that he had 
 
 There was in this abbess's monastery^ a sung in his dream, and soon added much more 
 certain brother, particularly remarkable for to the same effect in verse worthy of the Deity, 
 the grace of God, who was wont to make pious 35 In the "morning he came to the steward, his 
 and religious verses, so that whatever was superior, and having acquainted him with the 
 interpreted to him out of Scripture, he soon gift he had received, was conducted to the 
 after put the same into poetical expressions of abbess, by whom he was ordered, in the 
 much sweetness and humility, in English, which presence of many learned men, to tell his 
 was his native language. By his verses the 40 dream, and repeat the verses, that they might 
 minds of many were often excited to despise all give their judgment what it was, and whence 
 the world, and to aspire to heaven. Others his verse proceeded. They all concluded, 
 after him attempted, in the Enghsh nation, to that heavenly grace had been conferred on him 
 compose religious poems, but none could ever by our Lord. They expounded to him a passage 
 compare with him, for he did not learn the art 45 in holy writ, either historical or doctrinal, 
 of poetry from men, but from God; for which ordering him, if he could, to put the same into 
 reason he never could compose any trivial or verse. Having undertaken it, he went away, 
 vain poem, but only those which relate to and returning the next morning, gave it to them 
 religion suited his religious tongue; for having composed in most excellent verse; whereupon 
 lived in a secular habit till he was well advanced 50 the abbess, embracing the grace of God in the 
 in years, he had never learned anything of man, instructed him to quit the secular habit, 
 versifying; for which reason being sometimes at and take upon him the monastic fife; which 
 entertainments, when it was agreed for the being accordingly done, she associated him to 
 sake of mirth that all present should sing in the rest of the brethren in her monastery, and 
 their turns, when he saw the instrument come 55 ordered that he should be taught the whole 
 
 8 Goodmanham, about twenty-three miles from York, Series of sacred history. Thus Caedmon, 
 
 was a chief seat of the old worship. It was here that keeping in mind all he heard, and as it were 
 
 the Witan had met to consider the new rehgion. 
 
 1 The monastery at Streoneshalh, now Whitby, on 2 For a translation of the Old English version of C»d- 
 
 the coast of Yorkshire. The abbess was Hild. mon's hynm, see p. 8. 
 
18 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 chewing the cud, converted the same into most sing the nocturnal praises of our Lord? They 
 harmonious verse; and sweetly repeating the answered, *'It is not far off." Then he said, 
 same, made his masters in their turn his hearers. "Well, let us wait that hour," and signing 
 He sang the creation of the world, the origin of himself with the sign of the cross, he laid his 
 man, and all the history of Genesis: and made 5 head on the pillow, and falling into a slumber, 
 many verses on the departure of the children ended his life so in silence, 
 of Israel out of Egypt, and their entering into Thus it came to pass, that as he had served 
 the land of promise, with many other histories God with a simple and pure mind, and undis- 
 from holy writ; the incarnation, passion, turbed devotion, so he now departed to His 
 resurrection of our Lord, and his ascension into lo presence, leaving the world by a quiet death; 
 heaven; the coming of the Holy Ghost, and the and that tongue, which had composed so many 
 preaching of the apostles; also the terror of holy words in praise of the Creator, uttered its 
 fv.ture judgment, the horror of the pains of hell, last words whilst he was in the act of signing 
 and the delights of heaven; besides many more himself with the cross, and recommending 
 about the Divine benefits and judgments, byishimseK into His hands, and by what has been 
 which he endeavored to turn away all men from here said, he seems to have had foreknowledge 
 the love of vice, and to excite in them the love of his death, 
 of, and apphcation to, good actions; for he 
 
 was a very religious man, humbly submissive to BEDE'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 
 
 regular discipline, but full of zeal against those 20 (From the same) 
 
 who behaved themselves otherwise; for which ,11 * /-. 
 
 reason he ended his Kfe happily. (Translated by J. A. Giles) 
 
 For when the time of his departure drew Thus much of the Ecclesiastical History of 
 near, he laboured for the space of fourteen days Britain, and more especially of the English 
 under a bodily infirmity which seemed to pre- 25 nation, as far as I could learn either from the 
 pare the way, yet so moderate that he could writings of the ancients, or the tradition of our 
 talk and walk the whole time. In his neighbor- ancestors, or of my own knowledge, has, with 
 hood was the house to which those that were the help of God, been digested by me, Bede, the 
 sick, and Hke shortly to die, were carried. He servant of God, and priest of the monastery 
 desired the person that attended him, in the 30 of the blessed apostles, Peter and Paul, which 
 evening, as the night came on in which he was is at Wearmouth and Jarrow;^ who being born 
 to depart this life, to make ready a place there in the territory of that same monastery, was 
 for him to take his rest. This person, wonder- given, at seven years of age, to be educated by 
 ing why he should desire it, because there was the most reverend Abbat Benedict, 2 and after- 
 as yet no sign of his dying soon, did what he 35 wards by Ceolfrid; and, spending all the 
 had ordered. He accordingly went there, and remaining time of my Hfe in that monastery, 
 conversing pleasantly in a joyful manner with I wholly apphed myself to the study of Scrip- 
 the rest that were in the house before, when it ture, and amidst the observance of regular 
 was past midnight, he asked them whether they discipline, and the daily care of singing in the 
 had the Eucharist there? They answered, 40 church, I always took dehght in learning, 
 ''What need of the Eucharist? for you are not teaching, and writing. In the nineteenth year 
 likely to die, since you talk so merrily with us, of my age, I received deacon's orders; in tne 
 as if you were in perfect health." — "However," thirtieth, those of the priesthood, both of them 
 said he, "bring me the Eucharist." Having by the ministry of the most reverend Bishop 
 received the same into his hand, he asked, 45 John,^ and by the order of the Abbat Ceolfrid. 
 whether they were all in charity with him, and From which time, till the fifty-ninth year of 
 without any enmity or rancour? They an- my age, I have made it my business, for the 
 swered, that they were all in perfect charity, use of me and mine, to compile out of the works 
 and free from anger; and in their turn asked of the venerable Fathers, and to interpret and 
 him, whether he was in the same mind towards 50 explain according to their meaning these 
 them? He answered, "I am in charity, my following pieces.^ 
 
 children, with all the servants of God." Then 1 Bede entered the monastery of St. Peter at Wear- 
 strengthening himself with the heavenly mouth, in Durham, in his seventh year, and the associated 
 
 . ,. V jrxu i. -J. monastery of St. Paul at Jarrow m his nineteenth year. 
 
 Viaticum, he prepared tor tne entrance into 2 The famous Benedict Biscop, Abbot of Wearmoutk. 
 
 another hfe, and asked, how near the time 55 ^^,olf rid was his successor. 
 
 , , 1 , . V X u 1 J J. John of Beverley, bishop of Hexham. 
 
 was when the brothers were to be awakened to < Here follows a list of Bede'a works. \ 
 
CUTHBERT 19 
 
 Cutljbttti And when he had come to the words "leave us 
 
 not orphans," he burst into tears and wept 
 CUTHBERT'S LETTER ON THE DEATH much. And after a while he began to repeat 
 OF BEDE what he had begun. And we, hearing these 
 
 (c. 735) ^ things, mourned with him. Now we read, and 
 
 /T^ 1 X J u T. Tr T^ CI N °o^ ^® wept; nay, we read as we wept. In 
 
 (Translated by P. V. D. Shelly) ^^^^ gladness we passed the quinquagesimal 
 
 To his most dear fellow-lector Cuthwin, days '^ until the above mentioned day, and he 
 beloved in Christ, Cuthbert, his co-disciple in rejoiced greatly and gave thanks to God 
 God, sends greeting. The httle gift you sent lO because he had been worthy of such affliction, 
 me I have received with pleasure, and with He would of ten say ," God scourgeth every son 
 great joy have I read your letter, full of a whom He receiveth," ^ and much more from 
 devout learning, in which I learn, what I so the holy scriptures. A saying of Ambrose's 
 greatly desired, that you are diligently cele- he would also repeat, " I have not hved in such 
 brating masses and prayers for our father and 15 a manner as to be ashamed to live among you; 
 master, Bede, beloved of God. Wherefore — but neither do I fear to die, because we have a 
 more on account of my love for him than be- good God." In these days also, he strove to 
 cause of any confidence in my powers — I am produce two works worthy of memory, in 
 pleased to tell you in a few words how he addition to teaching us and singing psalms, 
 departed from this Hfe, since this, I understand, 20 He translated into our tongue, for the use of 
 is what you desire and request. About two the Church, the gospel of St. John, to where it is 
 weeks before the day of the Resurrection, he said, "But what are these among so many?" ^ 
 was afflicted with great weakness and with and certain excerpts from the works of Bishop 
 shortness of breath, although he was without Isidore, saying, "I do not wish that my pupils 
 pain; and so, happy and rejoicing, giving 25 should read falsehood, or labor herein without 
 thanks to Almighty God every day and every profit after my death." When the third Tues- 
 night, indeed almost every hour, he lived until day before the Ascension of our Lord had come, 
 the day of our Lord's ascension, that is the he began to experience great difficulty in breath- 
 seventh of the Kalends of June.^ To us, his ing, and a sUght swelling developed in his feet, 
 pupils, he continued to give lessons every day, 30 But he labored all that day, and dictated 
 and the rest of the day he spent in singing happily, and among other things said, "Learn 
 psalms. Ever vigilant, he would spend the quickly, for I know not how long I shall live, or 
 whole night in rejoicing and in giving thanks, whether in a little while my Maker shall take 
 except when a little sleep prevented. Upon me." To us, however, it seemed that he knew 
 awaking, however, he would again repeat the 35 well the time of his going forth. Thus he spent 
 customary prayers and with hands upHfted the night in vigils and thanksgiving. And at 
 continue to give thanks to God. Truly I may dawn, that is on Wednesday, he commanded us 
 say that I have neither seen with my eyes nor to write diligently what we had begun; and this 
 heard with my ears any one give thanks so we did unto the third hour. From the third 
 diligently to the living God. 40 hour we walked with the relics of the saints, as 
 
 truly blessed man! He was wont to repeat the custom of the day demanded. One of us 
 the words of St. Paul the Apostle, "It is a remained with him, who said to him, "There is 
 fearful thing to faU into the hands of the yet one chapter lacking. Does it not seem hard 
 living God," ' and many other things from the that you should be questioned further?" But 
 Scriptures, by which he would admonish us to 45 he answered, "It is easy. Take pen and ink, 
 rouse ourselves from the sleep of the soul by and write quickly." He did so. At the ninth 
 thinking upon our last hour. Also he some- hour he said to me, "In my chest I have a few 
 times spoke in our tongue, the English, for he little valuables, pepper, napkins, and incense, 
 was very learned in our songs: * . . . He Go quickly and bring hither the priests of our 
 would also sing Antiphons, according to his 50 monastery, that I may distribute among them 
 usage and ours, one of which is: "O King of what gifts God has granted me. The rich men, 
 glory, Lord of Hosts, who in triumph didst in this day, may wish to give gold and silver and 
 this day ascend above all the heavens, leave us the like treasures; I, with great charity and 
 not orphans, but send upon us the promise of gladness, shall give to my brothers what God 
 the Father, the Spirit of Truth, Alleluia." 55 has bestowed." And with fear I did this. 
 
 1 r.,fi,i,..f I, * * u * J -.1, *u u .. Then addressing one and all, he besought them 
 
 1 Cuthbert, who must not be confused with the better , . 7 t.- j j. jk ,,4.i„. 
 
 known St. Cuthbert, was a pupil of Bede. to smg masses for him and to pray diligentiy, 
 
 2 May 26, 735. a Hebrews, x, 31. 
 
 * Here follows the so-called Bede' 8 Death Song, for a ^ The time between Easter and Pentecost, 
 
 translation of which see p. 8. « Hebrews, xii, 6. ^ St. John, vL 9. 
 
20 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 which they freely promised. They all con- borders they maintained their peace, their 
 tinned to weep and mourn, especially because customs, and their might, and at the same time 
 he had said that they should not see his face extended their territory beyond; how they 
 much longer in this life. But they rejoiced prospered both in war and in wisdom ; and also 
 because he said, "It is time that I return to 5 how zealous were those of the religious life in 
 Him who made me, who created me and formed teaching and in learning and in all those serv- 
 me out of nothing. I have lived long, and my ices which they owed to God; and how foreign- 
 gracious Judge has ordered my life well; the ers came hither to this land seeking wisdom and 
 time of my return is come, for I desire to die and learning, and how we must now get them from 
 to be with Christ." 10 abroad if we are to have them. So clean was 
 
 This and much else he said, passing the day learning fallen away among the English, that 
 in gladness up to vespers. And the boy men- there were very few on this side of the Humber 
 tioned above said, "One sentence, dear master, who could understand their service-book in 
 is yet to be written." He answered, "Write English, or translate a letter from Latin into 
 quickly." Afteralittle the boy said, "Now the 15 English; and I ween there were not many 
 sentence is written." "It is well; you spoke beyond the Humber. So few of them were 
 truly; it is finished. Take my head in your there that I cannot think of one south of the 
 hands, for it pleases me greatly to sit opposite Thames when I came to the throne. To God 
 my holy place where I was wont to pray, so Almighty be the thanks that we have any sup- 
 that sitting I may invoke my Father." And 20 ply of teachers now. And therefore I bid thee, 
 thus, on the floor of his cell, chanting "Gloria as I believe thou art willing, as often as thou 
 Patri, et Fiho, et Spu-itui Sancto," as he named art able, to free thyself from worldly affairs, 
 the Holy Spirit he breathed his last, and so that thou mayest apply the wisdom that 
 passed to the heavenly kingdom. God gavest thee wherever thou canst. Think 
 
 All who saw the death of the venerable 25 what punishments came upon us on account of 
 father said that they had seen no one end his this world, when we neither loved wisdom our- 
 life in such devotion and tranquillity, for, as selves nor allowed it to other men: the name 
 you have heard, while his soul was in his body, alone of being Christians we loved, and very 
 he chanted the Gloria Patri and other divine few of the practises. 
 
 songs to the glory of God, and, his hands up- 30 When I remembered all this, I also recalled 
 lifted to the living God, he uttered thanks that I saw, before it was all laid waste and 
 without ceasing. Know, dear brother, that I burnt, how the churches throughout England 
 could record many things of him, but my lack stood filled with treasures and books, and also a 
 of skill in speech makes my narrative short, great number of God's servants; but they knew 
 Nevertheless, I purpose, with God's help, to 35 very little use of those books, since they were 
 write of him more fully what I have seen with able to understand no whit of them, for they were 
 my eyes and heard with my ears. not written in their own tongue. As if they had 
 
 said, "Our elders, who held these places of old, 
 
 ^ina ^lfi!£2l loved wisdom, and through it they got wealth 
 
 HMH^ ;auiK^it 40 and left it to us. Here we can yet see their 
 
 849-901 tracks, but we know not how to follow them; 
 
 TTTT? QTATT? HI? Ti?APMT\rP TM TJ>^r and therefore we have lost both the wealth and 
 THE STATE OF LEARNING IN ENG- ^j^^ wisdom, because we would not bend our 
 
 ^^^^ minds to follow their path." 
 
 King Alfred's Preface to his Translation of 45 When I remembered all this, I wondered very 
 Gregory's Pastoral Care greatly, concerning the good wise men who were 
 
 (Translated by P. V. D. Shelly) l^^^^'l^ ,f?/^°S t^^ ^'iff.u''\^f. ^"""^ 
 
 vxiaiioiai,c^ uy x . » . ^. ^ai^uuxj learned all those books, that they had turned 
 
 AKred, the king, greets bishop Werferth,^ no part of them into their own language. But I 
 
 with his words lovingly and in friendly wise; and 50 soon answered myself and said, "They did not 
 
 I let it be known to thee that it has very often think that men would ever become so careless 
 
 come to my mind what wise men there were and that learning would so fall away; hence 
 
 formerly among the Enghsh, both of godly and they neglected it, through the desire that there 
 
 of worldly office, and what happy times were might be the more wisdom here in the land the 
 
 those throughout England; and how the kings 55 more we knew of languages. " 
 
 who had rule of the folk in those days obeyed Then I called to mind how the law was first 
 
 God and His ministers; and how within their found in Hebrew; and again, when the Greeks 
 
 ir.- v * w * Ai* J • * ^ J * A learned it, they translated all of it into their 
 
 1 Bishop of Worcester. Alfred intended to send a ^ ' ji n.vri *j 
 
 copy of this work to each of the English bishops. own tongue, and also all Other Dooks. And 
 
KING ALFRED 21 
 
 again, the Romans likewise, after they learned possession of earthly power, nor longed for this 
 them, translated the whole of them, through authority," but I desired instruments and 
 wise interpreters, into their own language, materials to carry out the work I was set to do, 
 And also all other Christian peoples turned which was that I should virtuously and fittingly 
 some part of them into their own tongue. 5 administer the authority committed unto me. 
 Therefore it seems better to me, if it seems so to Now no man, as thou knowest, can get full play 
 you, that we also translate some books that are for his natural gifts, nor conduct and administer 
 most needful for all men to know, into that government, unless he hath fit tools, and the 
 language which we are all able to understand; raw material to work upon. By material I 
 and that, as we very easily can with God's help 10 mean that which is necessary to the exercise of 
 if we have peace, we cause all the youth now in natural powers; thus a king's raw material and 
 England of the class of freemen, who are rich instruments of rule are a well peopled land, and 
 enough to be able to apply themselves to it, to he must have men of prayer, men of war, and 
 be set to learn, the while they can be put to no men of work. As thou knowest, without these 
 other employment, until they are well able to 15 tools no king may display his special talent, 
 read English writing; and afterward let those Further, for his materials he must have means 
 be taught in the Latin tongue who are to be of support for the three classes above spoken of, 
 taught further and to be put in a higher office, which are his instruments; and these means are 
 When I remembered how, before now, the land to dwell in, gifts, weapons, meat, ale, 
 knowledge of Latin had fallen away among the 20 clothing, and what else soever the three classes 
 English and yet many knew how to read Eng- need. Without these means he cannot keep 
 lish writing, I began, among other various and his tools in order, and without these tools he 
 manifold concerns of this kingdom, to translate cannot perform any of the tasks entrusted to 
 into English the book that in Latin is called him. "I have desired material for the exercise 
 "Pastoralis," and in English, "Shepherd's 25 of government that my talents and my power 
 Book," — at times word by word, and again might not be forgotten and hidden away," for 
 according to the sense, as I had learned it from every good gift and every power soon groweth 
 Plegmund my archbishop, and from Asser my old, and is no more heard of, if Wisdom be not 
 bishop, and from Grimbold my mass-priest, and in them. Without Wisdom, no faculty can be 
 from John my mass-priest. After I had learned 30 brought out, for whatsoever is done unwisely 
 it, I turned it into English as I understood it can never be accounted as skill. To be brief, 
 and could most clearly expound it; and to every I may say that it has ever been my desire to 
 bishopric in my kingdom I wish to send one; live honourably while I was alive, and after my 
 and in each there is a book-mark worth fifty death to leave to them that should come after 
 mancuses. And I command in God's name that 35 me my memory in good works.' 
 no man take the book-mark from the book, nor 
 
 the book from the minster. We know not how Fate and Providence 
 
 long there may be such learned bishops as, God "Then she began to speak in a very remote 
 
 be thanked, there now are nearly everywhere, and roundabout fashion, as though she were 
 Therefore, I would that they may always be 40 not alluding to the subject, and yet she led up 
 in their place, unless the bishop wishes to have to it, saying, ' All creatures, both the seen and 
 them with him, or they be lent anywhere, or the unseen, the motionless and the moving, 
 anyone copy them. receive from the unmoving, unchanging, and 
 
 undivided God their due order, form, and 
 
 45 proportions; and, inasmuch as it was so created, 
 
 THE CONSOLATION OF BOETHIUS He knoweth why He hath made all that He 
 
 hath made. Nothing of what He hath made is 
 
 (Selections from King Alfred's Translation) without use to Him. God ever dwelleth in the 
 
 (Translated from the Old English by W. J. high city of His unity and mercy; thence He 
 
 Sedgefield) 50dealeth out ordinances many and various to 
 
 ^ ^^ o. , all His creatures, and thence He ruleth them 
 
 The King and his Servants^ ^^ g^^ regarding that which we call God's 
 
 "When Philosophy had sung this song she providence and foresight, this exists as long as 
 
 was silent for a time. Then the Mind answered, it abides with Him in His mind, ere it be 
 
 saying, *0 Philosophy, thou knowest that I 55 brought to pass, and while it is but thought. 
 
 never greatly delighted in covetousness and the But as soon as it is accomplished we call it Fate. 
 
 From this every man may know that Prov- 
 
 » The passages in this, and in the following selection, idence and Fate are not Only two names, but 
 
 not enclosed in double quotation marks, were composed . .-w d ^,,;^^w,«^ Jo, 4-V.^ ■n;,r;«« Tfr^aann 
 
 by Alfred himself and inserted in his translation. two thmgS. PrOVldence IS the DlVine Keason, 
 
22 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 and lieth fast in the high Creator that knoweth wards. Just as the spokes have one end stick- 
 how everything shall befall ere it come to pass, ing in the felly and the other in the nave, while 
 But that which we call Fate is God's working in the middle the spoke is equally near either, 
 day by day, both that which we see, and that so the midmost men are at the middle of the 
 which is not seen of us. The divine forethought 5 spokes, the better sort nearer the nave, and the 
 holdeth up all creatures, so that they may not baser nearer the fellies, joined, however, to the 
 fall asunder from their due order. Fate there- nave, which in turn is fixed to the axle. Now, 
 fore allots to all things their forms, places, the fellies are fastened to the spokes, though 
 seasons, and proportions; but Fate comes from they roll on the ground; and so the least worthy 
 the mind and the forethought of Almighty 10 men are in touch with the middle sort, and these 
 God, who worketh whatsoever He wiU accord- with the best, and the best with God. Though 
 ing to His unspeakable providence. the worst men turn their love towards this 
 
 'Even as every craftsman thinks over and world they cannot abide therein, nor come to 
 marks out his work in his mind ere he take it in anything, if they be in no degree fastened to 
 hand, and then carries it out altogether, so this 15 God, no more than the wheel's fellies can be in 
 changing lot that we call Fate proceeds accord- motion unless they be fastened to the spokes, 
 ing to His forethought and purpose, even as and the spokes to the axle. The fellies are 
 He resolveth that it shall be done. Though it farthest from the axle, and therefore move 
 seem to us manifold, partly good, partly evil, least steadily. The nave moves nearest the 
 yet it is to Him good, pure and simple, for He 20 axle, therefore is its motion the most sure, 
 bringeth it all to a goodly conclusion, and So do the best men; the nearer to God they set 
 doeth for good all that He doeth. When it is their love, and the more they despise earthly 
 done, we call it Fate; before, it was God's things, the less care is theirs, *' and the less they 
 forethought and His purpose. Now Fate He reck how Fate veers, or what she brings." So 
 setteth in motion by means of the good angels 25 also the nave is ever sound, let the fellies 
 or the souls of men, or the Hves of other crea- strike on what they may; and nevertheless 
 tures, or through the heavenly bodies, or the the nave is in some degree severed from the 
 divers wiles of evil spirits; at one time through axle. Thereby thou mayest perceive that the 
 one of them, at another through all. But it is wagon keeps far longer whole the less its 
 manifest that the divine purpose is single and 30 distance from the axle, and so also those men 
 unchanging, and rules everything in orderly are most free from care, both in this present 
 wise, and gives unto all things their shape, life of tribulation and in the life to come, that 
 Now some things in this world are subject to are firmly fixed in God. But the farther they 
 Fate, others are in no way subject; but Fate, are sundered from God, the more sorely are they 
 and the things that are subject to her, are sub- 35 confounded and afflicted both in mind and in 
 ject to divine Providence. Concerning this I body. 
 
 can tell thee a parable, so that thou mayest the "That which we call Fate is, compared to 
 
 more clearly understand who are the men that divine Providence, what reflection and reason 
 are subject to Fate, and who are they that are are when measured against perfect knowledge, 
 not. 40 and as things temporal compared with things 
 
 'All this moving and changing creation turns eternal, or, again, like the wheel compared 
 round the unmoving, the unchanging, and the with the axle, the axle governing all the wagon, 
 undivided God, and He ruleth all creatures as So with the forethought of God; it govemeth 
 He purposed in the beginning, and still doth the firmament and the stars, and maketh the 
 purpose. The wheels of a wagon turn upon its 45 earth to be at rest, and measureth out the four 
 axle," while the axle stands still and yet bears elements, to wit, water, earth, fire, and air. 
 all the wagon and guides all its movement. These it keepeth in peace; unto these it giveth 
 The wheel turns round, and the nave next the form, and again taketh it away, changing them 
 wheel moves more firmly and securely than the to other forms and renewing them again. It 
 felly does. Now the axle is as it were the high- 50 engendereth everything that groweth, and 
 est good we call God, and the best men move hideth and preserveth it when old and withered, 
 next unto God just as the nave moves nearest and again bringeth it out and reneweth it 
 the axle. The middle sort of men are like the when it pleaseth." Some sages, however, say 
 spokes, for one end of each spoke is fast in the that Fate rules both weal and woe of every 
 nave, and the other is in the felly; and so it is 55 man. But I say, as do all Christian men, that 
 with the midmost man, at one time thinking it is the divine purpose that rules them, not 
 in his mind upon this earthly life, at another Fate; and I know that it judges all things very 
 upon the divine life, as if he looked with one rightly, though unthinking men may not 
 eye heavenwards, and with the other earth- think so. They hold that all are good that 
 
I 
 
 WULFSTAN 23 
 
 work their will, and no wonder, for they are stars showed themselves full-nigh half an hour 
 
 blinded by the darkness of their sins. "But after nine in the forenoon. 
 
 divine Providence understandeth it all most 
 
 rightly, though we in our folly think it goes A. 596. This year Pope Gregory sent Augus- 
 
 awry, being unable to discern what is right. 5 tine to Britain, with a great many monks, who 
 
 He, however, judgeth all aright, though at preached the word of God to the nation of the 
 
 times it seems to us otherwise." Angles. 
 
 aelfric 
 
 THE ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE c. 955-c. 1020 
 
 Selections THE DAILY MIRACLE 
 
 (Translated by J. A. Giles) (From the Homilies, 990-994, translated by 
 
 A. 443. This year the Britons sent over sea ^- ^- ^- Shelly) 
 
 to Rome, and begged for help against the Picts; 15 Many wonders hath God wrought, and daily 
 but they had none, because they were them- doth work; but these wonders are much weak- 
 selves warring against Attila, king of the Huns, ened in the sight of men because they are very 
 And then they sent to the Angles, and en- common. That each day Almighty God feeds 
 treated the like of the ethelings^ of the Angles. all the earth and directs the good, is a greater 
 
 A. 444. ThisyearSt. Martmdied. 20 miracle than was that of feeding five thousand 
 
 "^ men with five loaves; yet men marvelled at 
 
 A. 449. This year Martianus and Valentinus that, not because it was a greater miracle, but 
 succeeded to the empire, and reigned seven because it was uncommon. Who grants fruit 
 years. And in their days Hengist and Horsa,^ to our fields, and increases the harvest from a 
 invited by Vortigern, king of the Britons, 25 few grains, but He who multiplied the five 
 landed in Britain on the shore which is called loaves? The might was in Christ's hands, 
 Wippidsfleet;' at first in aid of the Britons,' and the five loaves were seed, as it were not 
 but afterwards they fought against them, sown in the earth, but multiplied by Him who 
 King Vortigern gave them land in the south- wrought the earth. 
 
 east of this country, on condition that they 30 This miracle is very great and deep in its 
 should fight against the Picts. Then they tokens. Often one sees fair letters written, and 
 fought against the Picts, and had the victory praises the writer and the letters, and knows 
 wheresoever they came. They then sent to the not what they mean. He who has knowledge 
 Angles; desired a larger force to be sent, and of letters, praises their fairness, and reads the 
 caused them to be told the worthlessness of the 35 letters, and understands what they mean. In 
 Britons, and the excellencies of the land. Then one way do we view a painting, but in other 
 they soon sent thither a larger force in aid of wise, letters. In the case of the painting, one 
 the others. At that time there came men from needs only to see it and praise it; but it is not 
 three tribes in Germany; from the Old-Saxons, enough that you look at letters without also 
 from the Angles, from the Jutes. From the 40 reading them and understanding the sense. 
 Jutes came the Kentish-men and the Wight- So is it with the wonder that God wrought 
 warians, that is, the tribe which now dwells in with the five loaves; it is not enough that we 
 Wight, and that race among the West-Saxons marvel at the token or praise God for it, unless 
 which is still called the race of Jutes. From we also understand its meaning, 
 the Old-Saxons came the men of Essex and 45 
 
 Sussex and Wessex. From Anglia which has ^UlKtan 
 
 ever since remained waste betwixt the Jutes and SERMON TO THE ENGLISH 
 
 the feaxons, came the men of East Anglia, _ ,,, ^ o 
 
 Middle Anglia, Mercia, and all North-humbria. ^^ the Time of Their Great Suffering. 
 Their leaders were two brothers, Hengist and 50 from the Danes, that is, m the 
 Horsa: they were the sons of Wihtgils; Wihtgils ^^""^ «^ ^^^^ Aethelred.i 
 
 son of Witta, Witta of Wecta, Wecta of Woden; (Translated by P. V. D. Shelly) 
 
 from this Woden sprang all our Royal famiUes, Beloved men, know it for sooth, that this 
 
 and those of the South-humbrians also. world is in haste and neareth the end. Hence 
 
 A. 540. This year the sun was ecHpsed on the 55 in the world is it ever the longer the worse, and 
 twelfth before the Kalends of July, and the so it must needs grow very evil from day to 
 
 ipj^jjpgg day before the coming of Antichrist, because 
 
 « Leaders of the Jutes. i This was apparently written in either 999 or 1014. 
 
 »Now, Ebbsfleet in the Isle of Thanet, on the east The writer may have been Wulfstan, Archbishop of York- 
 coast of Kent. c. 1003-1023. 
 
24 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 of the folk's sins; and indeed it will then be ished. Freemen cannot command their own 
 fearful and terrible far and wide in the world, persons, nor go where they will, nor do with 
 
 Understand also that the devil hath now for their own as they wish; nor can thralls have 
 many years led this people too far astray, that what they possess, though they toiled for it 
 there has been little faith among men, though 5 in the time that was theirs, nor that which by 
 they have spoken fair. Wrong hath reigned God's grace good men have given them as an 
 too much in the land, and of many men never almsgift for the love of God; but each alms- 
 hath one thought of the remedy as eagerly as he right which each one in God's grace ought right 
 ought; but daily have we heaped evil upon evil, gladly to perform, he decreaseth or with- 
 and reared injustice and un-law far too widely 10 holdeth, since injustice and love of un-law are 
 throughout the nation. And for this we have too common among men. In a word, God's 
 also endured many losses and insults, and if laws are loathed, and learning is despised; and 
 we are to expect any mending, then must we for this we all often suffer insults through God's 
 merit of God better than we have done ere anger, as he may understand who can; and the 
 this, for with great deserving have we earned 15 loss will be common to all this people, though 
 the miseries that sit upon us, and with very men think not so, unless God save, 
 great deserving must we obtain the remedy at Certainly it is clear and manifest to us all 
 God's hands, if things henceforth are to be that hitherto we have more often broken [the 
 better. We know full well that a mickle breach law] than bettered it, and hence this nation 
 needs much mending, and a great fire, much 20 hath had many set-backs. This long time 
 water, if that fire is at all to be quenched. And naught hath availed at home or abroad; there 
 great also is the need to every man that he have been harrying and hunger, burning and 
 willingly keep God's law henceforth better bloodshed, on every hand often and often; 
 than he did before, and carry out His justice stealing and slaughter, sedition and pestilence, 
 with uprightness. 25 cattle-plague and disease, slander and hate, and 
 
 Among heathen people no man durst hold rapine of robbers have harmed us greatly; 
 back little or much of that which by law is due unjust taxes have afflicted us sorely, and often 
 to the worship of idols; but everywhere we foul weather has spoiled our harvests; because, 
 withhold God's rights, all too often. Neither as it may seem, now for many years in this land 
 among the heathen durst man injure, within or 30 there have been much unrighteousness and 
 without, any of those things that are brought unstable faith among men everywhere. Often 
 to the idols and are appointed for sacrifice; but hath a kinsman protected his kinsman no 
 we have clean despoiled God's house within more than a foreigner, nor the father his son, 
 and without. Also, God's servants are every- nor at times the son his own father, nor one 
 where deprived of honor and protection; and 35 brother the other. Nor hath any of us ordered 
 some men say that among heathen peoples no his fife as he should, — neither those in orders, 
 man durst in any wise ill treat the servants according to their rule, nor laymen, according 
 of idols, as men now too generally do the to the law; but the lust of crime is all too often 
 servants of God, in places where Christians a law to us, and we hold not to the learning or 
 should hold to God's law and protect God's 40 law of God or of men as we should. No one 
 servants. hath thought toward the other faithfully as he 
 
 Sooth is it that I say — ^we have need of should, but for the most part each is deceitful 
 mending, for God's laws have been waning too and injures others by word and by deed; 
 long within this land on every side, and the unrighteously and from behind, each striketh 
 folk-laws have become worse, all too much 45 at his fellow with shameful calumnies and 
 since Edgar died.^ Sanctuaries are too gen- accusations; let him do more if he can. 
 erally unprotected, and God's houses are too Here in our land is much treachery toward 
 clean bereft of their old rights, and are stripped God and the world, and likewise in divers ways 
 within of all things befitting. Men of rehgion traitors too many. Of all treasons in the world 
 have now this long time been greatly despised; 50 the greatest is that a man betray his lord's 
 widows unlawfully are forced to marry, and soul; and a full great treason is that also, that a 
 too many are made poor and are greatly ill man betray his lord's life or drive him living 
 used. Poor men are sore deceived and misera- from the land; and both have been present 
 bly ensnared, and, though innocent, are sold in this realm. Edward^ was betrayed, then 
 out of the land into the power of foreigners; 55 murdered, and after that burned, and Aethel- 
 through cruel un-law children are enslaved for red" was driven from the land. Gossips^ and 
 
 petty theft; free-right is taken away, and 3 Edward the Martyr, murdered in 978. 
 
 thrall-right curtailed, and alms-right dimin- ^ Aethelred the Un-redy, or "ill advised," waa obliged 
 
 to flee to Normandy in 1014. 
 * Edgar, King of Wessex, died 975. 6 Sponsors. 
 
WULFSTAN 25 
 
 god-children too many have been slain through- crowd of Christian men from sea to sea through 
 out this people, besides others all too many, the nations, huddled together, to the shame of 
 who, without fault, have been destroyed, us all in the sight of the world, — if in earnest 
 Too many holy places, far and wide, have we knew any shame or even would rightly 
 perished, because certain men were lodged 5 understand. And all the misery that we 
 there, as they would not have been, if we had continually suffer we repay with honor to them 
 wished to know reverence for God's peace, that shame us. We pay gelds* to them con- 
 Christian folk too many have been sold all the tinually, and they abuse us daily. They harry, 
 while out of this land. All this is loathsome they burn, they spoil and plunder, and carry 
 to God, let him beUeve it who will. . . . Also 10 off to the ships; and lo, what else in these 
 we know full well whence hath come the evil troubles is clear and manifest but God's wrath 
 that a father sell his son for a price, and the son towards this people? 
 
 his mother, and one brother the other, into the No wonder misfortune is upon us, for we 
 
 power of strangers outside this nation. All know full well that now for many years men 
 these are mickle and terrible deeds, as he may 15 have seldom recked what they wrought in word 
 understand who will; and there are yet greater or deed; but this nation hath become, as it may 
 and more manifold that afflict this people, appear, very sinful, through manifold sins and 
 Many are forsworn and greatly purjured; misdeeds, through murder and evil, through 
 pledges are broken again and again; and it is greed and covetousness, rapine and robbery, 
 clear in this land that God's wrath sits heavily 20 treachery and heathen vices, through treason 
 upon us, — let him who can, understand. and deceit, through law-breaking and sedition, 
 
 Lo, how can greater shame come upon men through attacks on kinsmen, through man- 
 through God's wrath than cometh upon us, for slaughter and violation of religious vows, 
 our own deserts? Though a thrall escape from through adultery and incest and divers f orni- 
 his lord and leave Christendom to become a 25 cations. Also, as we said before, through oath- 
 Viking, and it come about afterward that breaking and pledge-breaking, and through 
 thane and thrall come together in battle, if divers falsehoods, more than should be are 
 the thrall foully slay the thane, the thane for all ruined and forsworn. Breaches of the peace 
 his relations must lie without wer-geld, and and of fasting are wrought again and again, 
 if the thane foully kill the thrall whom he 30 Also here in the land are reprobate apostates 
 formerly owned, he must pay the wer-geld of a and hostile persecutors of the Church, and 
 thane.^ Full evil laws and shameful tribute cruel tyrants, all too many; despisers of divine 
 are, through God's wrath, common to us, as he law and Christian customs; and everywhere in 
 who can may understand; and many mis- the nation foolish mockers, most often of those 
 fortunes beset this people. This long time 35 things commanded by God's ministers, and 
 nothing hath prospered within or without, but very often of those things that belong of right 
 harrying and hatred have been continual on to God's law. Therefore hath now come about 
 every side. The English have now long been the wide-spread evil custom that men are more 
 without victory, and too greatly dismayed, ashamed of good deeds than of misdeeds, for 
 through God's anger; and the ship-men^ have 40 men too often deride good deeds, and all too 
 become so strong, with God's consent, that in much revile the pious, and blame and greet with 
 battle one of them will often put to flight ten of contumely those who love right and have in 
 us, sometimes less, sometimes more, all because any measure the fear of God. Because men 
 of our sins. . . . Often a thrall bindeth fast the despise all that they ought to praise and con- 
 thane who was formerly his lord, and maketh of 45 tinually loathe what they should love, all too 
 him a thrall, through God's anger. Alas for many are brought to evil thoughts and deeds, 
 the misery, alas for the shame in the eyes of the so that they are not ashamed though they sin 
 world, that Englishmen now suffer, all by God's greatly and work in all things against God 
 wrath! Often two or three seamen will drive a himself; but because of idle calumnies they are 
 
 « ^u .V , .u u- u 1 ^ .1, *!, „ r 50 ashamed to better their misdeeds, as books 
 
 'The thane was of the higher rank, and the thrall of . , vi j.i. r i u f 4-u^;« »^>.;^^ -^riU 
 
 the lowest rank in old English society. Wer-geld, or teach, — like those fools who tor their pride WlU 
 
 Man-price, was the sum at which a man's life was valued not Save themSclvCS before that time when 
 
 according to law, the amount varying for the different ,, . . i i_ iu ^A 
 
 ranks of society. If one murdered another, the mur- they cannot though they WOUlQ. . . . 
 
 derer could atone for his crime by paying wer-geld to ^^ historian there waS in the time of the 
 
 the kinsmen of the one slain. Wulfstan's complaint is ^ ., /~im i « i u j.^ ^e i-U^;^ 
 
 that the law pertaining to wer-gelds was no longer ad- 55 Britons, Glldas^ by name, WhO wrote Ot their 
 
 ministered with justice, and that in the case described, misdeeds hoW by their sins they SO greatly 
 
 the thane who should kill his escaped thrall, or slave, ' 
 
 would have to pay the same wer-geld as if he had killed 
 
 a thane, and this in spite of the fact that the thrall had » Payments of money to buy off the Danes. 
 
 joined the enemy. » A Romanized Briton who, about 547, wrote a history 
 
 ' The Danes, or Vikings. of Britain from Roman times to his own day. 
 
26 FROM THE BEGINNING TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
 
 angered God that He very soon let the army of us do as we have need to do, turn to the right 
 
 the EngHsh win their land and entirely de- and im some measure shun and forsake un- 
 
 stroyed the flower of the Britons. This, he righteousness, and eagerly better what we have 
 
 said, came about because the clergy broke their heretofore broken. Let us seek Christ on our 
 
 vows, and laymen the law, because of plunder- 5 knees and often call upon Him with trembling 
 
 ing by the rich, extortion, evil laws of princes, heart and earn His mercy. Let us love God 
 
 false judgments; because of the sloth and and fulfill God's laws, and perform eagerly 
 
 ignorance of bishops, and the wicked cowardice what we promised when we received baptism, 
 
 of God's ministers, who all too often were si- or those promised who at baptism spoke for 
 lent concerning the truth, and mumbled within 10 us. Let us rightly order words and works, and 
 
 their jaws when they should have called out. willingly cleanse our inner thoughts, carefully 
 
 Through foul wantonness of the folk, through keep oath and pledge, and without weakness 
 
 gluttony and manifold sins, they ruined their have some faith amongst us. Let us often 
 
 land, and themselves perished. consider the great judgment we shall all come 
 But let us do, as is needful for us, — take 15 to, and eagerly save ourselves from the raging 
 
 warning by such. Sooth is it that I say, worse fire of hell's torment, and earn for us the glory 
 
 deeds we know have been among the English and the gladness that God hath prepared for 
 
 than we have heard of anywhere among the those who work His will in the world. May 
 
 Britons, and therefore have we great need to God help us. Amen, 
 reflect and to reconcile ourselves to God. Let 20 
 
II. THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 1066-c. 1350 
 
 POEMA MORALE! 
 (Before 1200) 
 
 I am now older than I was, in winters and in 
 
 lore, 
 I wield more power than I did, my wit ought 
 
 to be more. 
 Too long a child I have been, in word and eke 
 
 in deed; 
 And though I am in winters old, too young I am 
 
 in rede. 2 
 My life methinks a useless one, like that I've 
 
 ever led; 5 
 
 When I bethink me well thereon, full sore I am 
 
 adread. 
 Mere idleness and childishness seems most that 
 
 I have done; 
 Full late I have bethought myself, unless God's 
 
 grace I've won. 
 I've spoken many idle words since I to speak 
 
 knew how, 
 And many deeds I did in youth that I repent 
 
 me now, 10 
 
 All too often have I sinned in work and eke in 
 
 word; 
 All too much, alas, I've spent, too little laid in 
 
 hoard. 
 At most of that I liked of yore I now can only 
 
 grieve; 
 Who overmuch doth have his will, himself doth 
 
 but deceive. 
 I might in truth have better done, had I of joy 
 
 great wealth; 15 
 
 And now I would, and yet cannot, for age and 
 
 for unheal th. 
 Old age on me hath stolen fast, before of it I 
 
 wist; 
 Nor can I see before me now for dark smoke and 
 
 for mist. 
 Fearful are we to do good, in evil all too bold; 
 More in awe of man is man than of the Christ of 
 
 old. 20 
 
 Who doth not well the while he may, full oft it 
 
 shall him rue, 
 When men at last shall surely reap that which 
 
 they ere did strew. 
 
 tla^anton 
 
 HOW LAYAMON WROTE HIS BOOK 
 
 (From the Brut,"- c. 1205) 
 
 In the land lived a priest, who was Layamon 
 
 called, 
 He was Leovenath's son; Lord to him be 
 
 gracious, 
 
 1 This selection is taken from the opening of the Poema 
 Morale, or Moral Ode; a poem of about 400 lines. It may 
 have been written as early as the reign of Henry I. 
 (1100-1135). 2 Counsel, wisdom. 
 
 1 The BrtU ia a poem of about 30,000 lines. It is on 
 
 He abided at Arnley, at the great Church there 
 Upon Severn's side, (it seemed to him good 
 
 there) 
 
 Hard by to Radestone, where he read bookes. 5 
 It came in his mind, and he made it his purpose, 
 To tell of the Enghsh, the triumphs of old; 
 What names the men had, what lands they were 
 
 come from; 
 What folk English-land first of all owned 
 After the deluge that down from the Lord 
 
 came lo 
 
 Which quelled^ all men that quick here it 
 
 founde, 
 Except Noah and Shem, Japhet and Ham, 
 And their four wives who were in the ark with 
 
 them. 
 
 So 'gan Layamon wander wide 'mongst the 
 
 people, 
 And noble books got he for guides in his 
 
 labours. 15 
 
 That English book took he, made by Saint 
 
 Baeda; 
 Another in Latin, left by Saint Albin, 
 And the bless'd Austin, ^ who baptism brought 
 
 us; 
 A third he took likewise, and laid it among 
 
 them. 
 That a French clerk had made, — Wace was he 
 
 called, 20 
 
 This goodly writing he gave to the noble 
 Eleanor, of Henry, that high King, his Queen. 
 Layamon laid these books down, their leaves he 
 
 turned over. 
 With love he looked on them, the Lord grant 
 
 him mercy, 
 Feather* took he with fingers, and fair on the 
 
 book-skin 25 
 
 The sooth words then wrote he, and set them 
 
 together, 
 And these three writings he wrought into one. 
 
 Now Layamon prayeth for the Lord's love 
 
 Almighty, 
 Each wise man who readeth words in this book 
 
 written, 
 And heedeth this teaching, that these holy 
 
 wordes 30 
 
 He say all together: 
 For the soul of his father^ who forth him 
 
 broughte, 
 For the soul of his mother, who made him a man, 
 And for his own soul, so that better befall it. 
 Amen. 
 
 the legendary history of Britain, based largely on the 
 Bnit of the "Anglo-Norman poet Wace. Brut=Brutu3, 
 who according to the fabulous accounts of Geoffrey of 
 Monmouth and others was the grandson of jEneas, and 
 the founder of New Troy or London. 
 
 2 Killed. 
 .^Austin, i. e. St. Augustine, the first Archbishop of 
 Canterbury. 
 
 ♦Pen. 
 
 27 
 
28 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 ORMULUMi 
 (c. 1215-1220) 
 
 Now, brother Walter, brother mine 
 
 After the fleshes kind, 
 And brother mine in Christendom 
 
 Through baptism and through truth, 
 And brother mine eke in God's house, 5 
 
 Once more, in a third way, 
 Since that we two have taken both 
 
 One book of rules to follow. 
 Under the canons' rank and life 
 
 So as Saint Austin^ set; 10 
 
 I now have done even as thou bad'st, 
 
 Forwarding to thy will, 
 I now have turned into English 
 
 The Gospel's holy lore, 
 After that little wit that me 15 
 
 My Lord and God has lent. 
 Thou thoughtest how that it might well 
 
 To mickle profit turn. 
 If English folk, for love of Christ, 
 
 It readily would learn 20 
 
 And follow it, fulfilling it 
 
 With thought, with word, with deed. 
 And therefore yearnedst thou that I 
 
 This work for thee should work; 
 And I have forwarded it for thee, 25 
 
 And all through help of Christ. . . . 
 And since the holy gospel book 
 
 All this goodness shows us. 
 This sevenfold good that Christ to us 
 
 Did grant through His great love, 30 
 
 For this 'tis meet all Christian folk 
 
 Should follow gospel's lore. 
 And therefore have I rendered it 
 
 Into English speech. 
 Because I wished most earnestly 35 
 
 That all good English folk 
 With ear should hearken unto it. 
 
 With heart should truly beUeve, 
 With tongue should ever tell of it, 
 
 In deed should follow it, 40 
 
 To win through Christ in Christendom 
 
 The soul's salvation true. 
 And God almighty give us might 
 
 And wish and wit and will 
 To follow well this English book 45 
 
 That is all holy lore, 
 So that we may full worthy be 
 
 To know high heaven's bliss. 
 
 Amen. Amen. Amen. 
 I that in English this have set, 50 
 
 Englishmen to teach, 
 At the time when I was christened, 
 
 By name of Orm was called. 
 And I, Orm, full inwardly 
 
 With mouth and eke with heart, 55 
 
 1 The book of the monk Orm, an unfinished poem of 
 over 10,000 lines, giving the gospels of the ecclesiastical 
 year as arranged in the Mass-book (Cf. "The Gospel's 
 holy lore," line 14), with comments and appropriate re- 
 ligious instruction. 
 
 2 Saint Augustine (354-430) one of the greatest of the 
 Early Fathers of the Church- 
 
 Here bid all those good Christian men 
 
 Who either hear or read 
 This book, 1 bid them now that they 
 
 Will pray for me this prayer: 
 The brother who this English book 60 
 
 Both wrote and wrought the first, 
 May he as wages for his work 
 
 True bliss of heaven find. 
 
 Amen. 
 
 Gliomas? of l^alesf 
 
 A LOVE RUNEi 
 
 (Before 1226) 
 
 A maid of Christ entreateth me 
 
 That I for her a love-rune write 
 
 By which most plainly she may see 
 
 The way to choose a faithful knight; 
 
 One that to her shall loyal be 5 
 
 And guard and keep her by his might. 
 
 Never will I deny her plea, 
 
 To teach her this be my delight. 
 
 Maiden, thou may est well behold 
 
 How this world's love is but a race 10 
 
 Beset with perils manifold 
 
 Fickle and ugly, weak and base. 
 
 Those noble knights that once were bold 
 
 As breath of wind pass from their place. 
 
 Under the mold now lie they cold, 15 
 
 Wither hke grass and leave no trace. 
 
 There's none so rich, nor none so free. 
 
 But that he soon shall hence away. 
 
 Nothing may ever his warrant be. 
 
 Gold, nor silver, nor ermine gay. 20 
 
 Though swift, his end he may not flee. 
 
 Nor shield his life for a single dsiy. 
 
 Thus is this world, as thou may'st see. 
 
 Like to the shadow that gUdes away. 
 
 This world all passes as the wind, 25 
 
 When one thing comes, another flies; 
 
 What was before, is now behind; 
 
 What was held dear, we now despise. 
 
 Therefore he does as doth the blind 
 
 That in this world would claim his prize. 30 
 
 This world decays, as ye may find; 
 
 Truth is put down and wrong doth rise. 
 
 The love that may not here abide, 
 
 Thou dost great wrong to trust to now; 
 
 E'en so it soon shall from thee glide, 35 
 
 'Tis false, and brittle, and slight, I trow. 
 
 Changing and passing with every tide. 
 
 While it lasts it is sorrow enow; 
 
 At end, man wears not robe so wide 
 
 But he shall fall as leaf from bough. 40 
 
 Paris and Helen, where are they 
 That were so bright and fair of face? 
 
 1 A love poem, writing, or counsel. 
 
I 
 
 THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 Amadas, Tristram, did they stay, 
 
 Or Iseult with her winsome grace? 
 
 Could mighty Hector death delay, 45 
 
 Or Csesar, high in pride of place? 
 
 They from this earth have slipped away 
 
 As sheaf from field, and left no trace. 
 
 They are as though they never were, 
 
 Of them are many wonders said, 50 
 
 And it is pity for to hear 
 
 How these were slain with tortures dread. 
 
 And how alive they suffered here; 
 
 Their heat is turned to cold instead, 
 
 Thus doth the world but false appear, 55 
 
 The foolish trust it, — lo! 'tis sped. 
 
 For though a mighty man he were 
 As Henry, England's king by birth. 
 Though he as Absalom were fair. 
 Whose peer lived not in all the earth, 60 
 
 Yet of his pride he's soon stripped bare, 
 At last he'll fetch not a herring's worth, 
 Maid, if thou mak'st true love thy care 
 I'll show thee a love more true than earth. 
 
 Ah! maiden sweet, if thou but knew 65 
 
 All the high virtues of this knight! 
 
 He is fair and bright of hue, 
 
 Mild, with face of shining light, 
 
 Meet to be loved and trusted too. 
 
 Gracious, and wise beyond man's sight, 70 
 
 Nor through him wilt thou ever rue. 
 
 If thou but trust in his great might. 
 
 He is the strongest in the land; 
 
 As far as man can tell with mouth, 
 
 All men He beneath his hand, 75 
 
 East, and West, and North, and South; 
 
 Henry, King of Engelland, 
 
 He holds of him and to him boweth 
 
 His messenger, at his command. 
 
 His love declares, his truth avow'th. 80 
 
 Speak'st thou of buildings raised of old, 
 
 Wrought by the wise king Solomon, 
 
 Of jasper, sapphires, and fine gold. 
 
 And of many another stone? 
 
 His home is fairer by many fold 85 
 
 Than I can tell to any one; 
 
 'Tis promised, maid, to thee of old. 
 
 If thou wilt take him for thine own. 
 
 It stands upon foundations sound. 
 
 So built that they shall never fall; 90 
 
 Nor miner sap them underground, 
 
 Nor shock e'er shake the eternal wall; 
 
 Cure for each wound therein is f©und. 
 
 Bliss, joy and song, fill all that hall. 
 
 The joys that do therein abound 95 
 
 Are thine, thou may'st possess them all. 
 
 There friend from friend shall never part. 
 
 There every man shall have his right; 
 
 No hate is there, no angry heart. 
 
 Nor any envy, pride or spite; 100 
 
 But all shall with the angels play 
 
 In peace and love in heavenly light. 
 Are they not, maid, in a good way, 
 Who love and serve our Lord aright? 
 
 No man may Him ever see 
 As He is in all His might. 
 And without pure bliss may be 
 When he knows the Lord of light. 
 With Him all is joy and glee. 
 He is day without a night. 
 Will he not most happy be 
 Who may bide with such a knight? 
 
 This writing, maiden,that I send, 
 
 Open it, break seal and read; 
 
 Wide unroll, its words attend. 
 
 Learn without book each part with speed. 
 
 Then straight to other maidens wend 
 
 And teach it them to meet their need; 
 
 Whoso shall learn it to the end 
 
 In sooth 'twill stand him in good stead. 
 
 29 
 
 105 
 
 110 
 
 115 
 
 120 
 
 And when thou sittest sorrowing. 
 
 Draw forth the scroll I send thee here. 
 
 And with sweet voice its message sing. 
 
 And do its bidding with good cheer. 
 
 To thee this does His greeting bring; 125 
 
 Almighty God would have thee near; 
 
 He bids thee come to His wedding, 
 
 There where he sits in Heaven's high sphere. 
 
 THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE^ 
 
 (c. 1216-1225) 
 
 Once within a summer's dale. 
 
 In a very secret vale, 
 
 Heard I 'gainst each other rail 
 
 Hoary Owl and Nightingale. 
 
 That strife was stiff, and stark, and strong, 5 
 
 Now 'twas soft, now loud it rung. 
 
 And each bird would the other flout. 
 
 And all the evil mood let out; 
 
 And each said of the other's way 
 
 The very worst she knew to say; 10 
 
 Indeed, about each other's song 
 
 The strife they waged was very strong. 
 
 The Nightingale began the speech 
 From her corner in a beech: 
 She sat upon a pleasant bough, 15 
 
 Blossoms about there were enow. 
 Where in a thick and lonely hedge, 
 Mingled soft shoots and greenest sedge. 
 She, gladdened by the bloomy sprays. 
 Varied her song in many ways. 20 
 
 Rather it seemed the joy I heard 
 Of harp or pipe than song of bird. 
 Such strains, methought, must rather float 
 From harp or pipe than feathered throat. 
 
 1 Thia poem and the following are examples of a popu- 
 lar poetic mode in the middle ages, i. e. debates or disputes. 
 In The Owl and the Nightingale, the two birds are repre- 
 sented as disputing over their respective modes of life. 
 The poem has a broad human interest, as the two birds 
 express two opposing ideals of life: the nightingale that 
 of the refined, joyous, pleasure-lover; the owl, that of 
 the ascetic. The birds submit their case at last to the 
 judgment of Nicholas of Guildford, whom some suppose 
 to be the author of the poem. 
 
30 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 Then, from a trunk that stood hard-by, 25 
 
 The Owl in turn made her reply, 
 
 O'er it the ivy grew apace; 
 
 There made the Owl her dwelling-place. 
 
 The Nightingale, who saw her plain, 
 Surveyed the bird with high disdain, 30 
 
 Filled with contempt she viewed the Owl, 
 Whom all men loathsome deem and foul. 
 "Monster," she cried, ''take wings and flee, 
 I am the worse for sight of thee, 
 Truly, at thy black looks of yore 35 
 
 Full oft my song I've given o'er; 
 My tongue grows weak, my courage flies 
 When you appear before mine eyes, 
 I'm more inclined to spit than sing 
 At sound of thy harsh sputtering." 40 
 
 The Owl abode till it grew late. 
 Eve came, she could no longer wait; 
 Her heart began to swell and strain 
 Till scarce she could her breath contain. 
 Half choked with rage, these words she flung: 
 " What think'st thou now about my song? 46 
 Think'st thou in song I have no skill 
 Merely because I cannot trill? 
 Often to wrath thou movest me. 
 And dost abuse me shamefully. 50 
 
 If in my claws I held thee fast, — 
 And so, mayhap, I shall at last, — 
 And thou wert down from off thy spray 
 Then should'st thou sing another way." 
 
 Then made the Nightingale reply: 55 
 
 "If I avoid the open sky, 
 And shield myself in places bare. 
 Nothing for all thy threats I care; 
 While in my hedge secure I sit, 
 I reck not of your threats a whit. 60 
 
 I know you cniel to devour 
 All helpless things within your power, 
 Wreaking your wrath in evil way 
 On smaller birds where'er you may. 
 Hated of all the feathered rout, 65 
 
 The birds combine to drive you out; 
 Shrieking and scolding after you. 
 They hard upon your flight pursue. 
 The tit-mouse, if she had her will, 
 Would tease you and would work you ill. 70 
 
 Hateful to look upon thou art 
 In many ways, and every part; 
 Thy body's short, thy neck is small. 
 Thy head is greater far than all; 
 Thine eyes coal-black are staring wide 75 
 
 As though with woad they had been dyed; 
 You stare as though you'd like to bite 
 Each thing your cruel claws could smite; 
 Just like an awl that has been crooked. 
 Your bill is stiff and sharp and hooked, 80 
 
 With it you hoot both oft and long, 
 This passes with you for a song. 
 You threaten me, longing to clasp 
 My flesh and crush me in your grasp; 
 More fit for thee would be a frog, 85 
 
 That sits beneath the mill-wheel's cog, 
 Or snails, and mice, and creatures foul, — 
 Such are the sort fit for an Owl. 
 By day you sit, by night take wing, 
 Knowing you are an eerie thing; 90 
 
 That thou art loathsome and unclean 
 From thine own nest is plainly seen, 
 And also by thy foul young brood. 
 Which thou dost feed on foulest food." 
 
 [After a prolonged controversy, the Nightin- 
 gale speaks again:] 
 
 "Owl," she said, "why dost thou so? 4ii 
 
 Thou sing'st in winter welawo! 
 
 Thou sing'st as doth a hen in snow, 
 
 And all she sings is but for woe: 
 
 Thou sing'st in winter's wrath and gloom, 415 
 
 In summer thou art ever dumb. 
 
 It is but for thy foolish spite 
 
 That thou with us canst not be bright; 
 
 For thee consuming envy bums 
 
 When to the land our bliss returns. 420 
 
 Thou'rt like some cross-grained, crabbed wight. 
 
 Who turns black looks on each dehght. 
 
 Ready to grudge it, and to lower 
 
 If men are happy for an hour; 
 
 He wishes rather to espy 425 
 
 The tears of grief in each man's eye. 
 
 Let the mob fight, he does not care 
 
 Though each man pulls the other's hair. 
 
 E'en so thou dost upon thy side. 
 
 For when the snow lies thick and wide, 430 
 
 And every creature has his sorrow. 
 
 Thou sing'st from night-fall till the morrow. 
 
 But I, all bliss with me doth wake, 
 
 Each heart is gladder for my sake, 
 
 All live in joy when I am here, 435 
 
 All wait ^or me to reappear. 
 
 The blossom 'gins to spring and sprede 
 
 Upon the tree and on the mede. 
 
 The lily, with her face of snow, 
 
 Welcometh me, as well you know, 440 
 
 And bids me, with her aspect fair, 
 
 To fly to her, and greet her there. 
 
 So too, with ruddy face, the rose, 
 
 That from the thorny briar grows. 
 
 Bids me to sing in bush and grove, 445 
 
 A joyous carol for her love." 
 
 THE DEBATE OF THE BODY AND THE 
 SOULi 
 
 (13th Century) 
 
 As once I lay in winter's night. 
 Sunk deep in sleep before the day, 
 Methought I saw a wondrous sight; 
 Upon a bier a body lay. 
 
 It once had been a wilful Knight,^ 5 
 
 Scant service he to God did pay; 
 Clean lost had he his lifes light. 
 The ghost was out and must away. 
 
 When the ghost it needs must go, 
 It turned aside and near it stood; lo 
 
 Beheld the body it came fro 
 Most sorrowful in frightened mood. 
 
 1 The poem is a controversial dialogue between the 
 body and the soul, the warring parts of man's nature 
 which St. Paul speaks of as "the flesh" and "the spirit." V 
 In Prof. Kittredge's opinion this poem is incomparably 1 
 the best embodiment of the theme that can be found in ( 
 any literature. 
 
It said: ' 
 
 THE DEBATE OF THE BODY AND THE SOUL 
 
 31 
 
 said: "Woe! woe! and welawoe! 
 Woe worth thy flesh, thy foule blood, 
 Wretched body, why Uest thou so 15 
 
 That wert but now so wild and wode?^ 
 
 "Thou that once wert wont to ride 
 High on horse with head un-bowed, 
 Famed for prowess far and wide, 
 As a lion fierce and proud, ' 20 
 
 Where is all thy mighty pride, 
 And thy voice that rang so loud. 
 Why dost thou there all naked bide, 
 Stitched within that wretched shroud? 
 
 " Where is now thy broidered weed, 25 
 
 Thy sumpters,^ bearing thy rich bed? 
 Thy palfreys and thy battle-steed 
 Which at thy side thy Squire led? 
 Thy crying hawks of chosen breed. 
 And the hounds that thou hast fed? 30 
 
 Methinks, God recks not of thy need, 
 For all thy friends are from thee fled. 
 
 "Where are thy castles and thy towers, 
 Thy chambers and thy stately halls, 
 Painted with many-coloured flowers, 35 
 
 And thy riche robes all? 
 Thy downy quilts and covertures. 
 Thy sendals* and thy purple palls? 
 Wretch! full dark is now thy bower, 
 To-morrow thou therein shalt fall!" ... 40 
 
 Now when the ghost with gruesome cheer^ 49 
 Thus had made his mournful moan, 
 The corpse, stretched stark upon the bier, — 
 A ghastly thing thus left alone, — 
 Its head and neck did strait uprear; 
 As a sick thing it 'gan to groan, 
 And said: "Where art thou now, my fere,' 65 
 My ghost, that quite art from me gone? 
 
 "God shaped thee in His image fair, 
 And gave to thee both wit and skill; 
 He trusted me unto thy care 
 To guide according to thy will. 
 In witchcrafts foul I had no share, 
 Nor wist I what was good nor ill. 
 But Uke dumb beast thy yoke I Dare 
 And as thou bad'st I must fulfill. 
 
 "Placed thy pleasures to fulfill. 
 Both at even and at mom, 
 I was in thy keeping still 
 From the time that thou wast bom. 
 Thou, that knewest good and ill. 
 Surely should'st have judged befom 
 Of my pride, my foolish will; 
 Now alone thou liest forlorn." 
 
 The ghost it said: "Body, be still. 
 Where leamed'st thou this moral air? 
 Givest thou me harsh words and ill 
 And liest like swollen wine-skin there? 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 75 
 
 Thinkest thou, wretch, though thou shalt 
 
 fill 
 With thy foul flesh a noisome lair, 
 That from the deeds thou didest ill 
 Thou shalt be freed, nor judgment bear? 
 
 80 
 
 85 
 
 2 Passionate. » Pack-horses. 
 
 * Sendal was a rich silk material. ^ Expression. 
 
 • Companion. 
 
 "Thinkest now thy rest to win 
 Where thou Uest rotting in the clay? 
 Though thou be rotten bone and skin, 
 And blowen with the wind away, 
 Yet limb and joint thou shalt come in 
 Again to me on doomesday. 
 Together we shall pass within 
 To Court, to take our bitter pay. 
 
 "You to my sway did God commit, 
 But when you thought on evil deed, 90 
 
 Hard in your teeth you held the bit, 
 And did all things that I forbede. 
 Sin you obeyed, you drew to it. 
 To ease, and shame, and lust, and greed; 
 I fought you hard with strength and wit, 95 
 But aye you followed your own rede. . . . 
 
 "I bade you mind your spirit's need; 105 
 But matins, mass, and evensong 
 You put aside for other deed. 
 And called them vain, with foolish tongue. 
 To wood and field you chose to speed, 
 Or run to Court to do men wrong; lio 
 
 Except for pride or greater meed 
 Small good you did your whole life long." . . .112 
 
 The Body, answering, said its say: 137 
 
 "O Soul! thou hast done wrong in this. 
 All the blame on me to lay. 
 Now thou hast lost the highest bliss. 140 
 
 Where did I go, by wood or way. 
 Where sat, or stood, or did amiss. 
 But 'neath thine eye I went each day; 
 Well knowest thou the truth of this. ... 144 
 
 ' ' I should have been but as the sheep, 1 6 1 
 Or like the dumb and herded kine, 
 That eat, and drink, and sprawl, and sleep. 
 And passed my pain — like slaughtered swine; 
 Gold had I never cared to keep, 165 
 
 Nor known that water was not wine, 
 Nor been thrust down to hell's black deep. 
 But for thee, — Soul, — the fault was thine." 
 
 The ghost replied: "There is no doubt 
 Thy part was always me to bear: 170 
 
 Needs must this be, I was without 
 Or hand or foot wert thou not there: 
 Save as thou carriedst me about 
 I could do naught, nor least act share; 
 I must before thee bend devout, 178 
 
 To do aught else I did not dare. 
 
 "Of one woman bom and bred. 
 Body, thou and I were twain; 
 Together fostered fair and fed 
 Till thou couldst walk and speak thee plain] 180 
 
32 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 Thee gently, moved by love, I led, 
 Nor dared I ever give thee pain. 
 To lose thee was my sorest dread, 
 Knowing I'd get no more again. 
 
 " I saw you fair in flesh and blood, 185 
 
 And all my love to you I gave; 
 That you should thrive methought was good, 
 Soft ease and rest I let you have; 
 This wrought in you rebellious mood, 
 You rushed to sin as impulse drave; 190 
 
 To fight against you did no good 
 You bore me with you as your slave. . . 192 
 
 ' * Well warned wert thou of this before, 20 1 
 And told we both should judgment have; 
 All this you scorned as foolish lore. 
 Yet watched thy kin go down to grave. 
 Thou didst all that the world thee bade, 205 
 Each thing thy eager flesh might crave, 
 And I allowed it (I was mad!), 
 Thou wert the master, I the slave." 
 
 [The Body speaks] 
 
 "Thinkest thou. Ghost, thou gainest aught 
 To quit thee from thy blame withal, 210 
 
 By saying that thou, so nobly wrought, 
 Wast forced to serve me as my thrall? 
 Nothing I did and nothing sought, 
 Ne'er plundered, stole, ne'er sinned at all. 
 But first in thee arose the thought. 215 
 
 Abide it who abide it shall! 
 
 "How wist I what was wrong or right, 
 What to take, what cast away. 
 Save as thou brought'st it to my sight, 219 
 Thou o'er whom wisdom should bear sway? 
 Thus, trained by you in base delight. 
 Companion of your pleasures gay. 
 Then did I ill with all my might. 
 Once more to have my wicked way. 
 
 "But haddest thou, — Christ grant 'twere 
 true, — 225 
 
 Given me hunger, thirst, and cold, 
 And taught me good that no good knew. 
 When I in evil was so bold. 
 Then, what I learned in youth from you, 
 I had held fast when I was old; 230 
 
 You let me North and South roam through. 
 And take my pleasures uncontrolled." ... 232 
 
 Then wept the ghost most bitterly, 249 
 
 "Body, alas, alas!" (it said). 
 "That e'er of old I lov6d thee! 
 Lost was the love I on thee stayed; 
 Falsely you feigned a love for me. 
 And me a house of glass you made; 
 I gave you pleasures trustfully, 255 
 
 You, traitor, still my trust betrayed. . . . 
 
 They come to fetch me down to hell. 
 No whither may I from them flee; 
 And thou shalt come with flesh and fell 
 At doomesday to dwell with me." 
 
 Almost before the words were said. 
 That told it wist where it must go. 
 Burst in at once in sudden raid 
 A thousand devils and yet mo. 
 And when they once had on him laid 
 Their savage claws, they tare him so 
 He was in torment, sore afraid. 
 Tossed, tugged and tousled to and fro. 
 
 360 
 
 365 
 
 "No longer. Body, may I dwell. 
 No longer stand to speak with thee; 
 Now I hear the hell-hounds yell. 
 And fiendes more than man may see 
 
 352 
 
 355 
 
 For they were shaggy, shock-haired, tailed. 
 With bulgy bumps upon the back, 369 
 
 Their claws were sharp, they were long-nailed. 
 No limb there was but showed some lack. 
 The ghost was right and left assailed 
 By many a devil foul and black; 
 Crying for mercy naught availed 
 When God his vengeance due must take. . . . 375 
 
 Instead of colt for him to ride, 399 
 
 Straightway a cursed devil came. 
 That grisly grinned and yawned wide 
 Out from his throat flared tongues of flame. 
 The saddle on his back and side 
 Was stuck with pikes to pierce and maim,. 
 'Twas as a heckle to bestride,^ 405 
 
 And all a-glow with scorching flame. 
 
 Upon that saddle was he slung, 
 As though to ride in tournament; 
 A hundred devils on him hung, 
 Hither and thither him they sent; 410 
 
 He with hot spears was pierced and stung, 
 And sore with hooks of iron rent; 
 At every stroke the sparkles sprung 
 As they from blazing brand were sent. 
 
 When he the ride had ridden at last, 415 
 Fast to that fearful saddle bound, 
 As hunted fox he down was cast, 
 The worrying hell-hounds close him round. 
 They rend him, trembling and aghast. 
 And harry him towards hell's dark bound; 420 
 A man might trace the way they passed 
 By blood-stains on the trampled ground. 
 
 They bid him then his horn to blow, 
 To urge on Bauston and Bevts, 
 His hounds, well wont his call to know, 425 
 For they would shortly sound the pm.* 
 A hundred devils, in a row. 
 Drag him with ropes toward the abyss, 
 The loathly flames are seen below. 
 The mouth of hell it was, I wis. 430 
 
 When once that dread abode is won, 
 The fiends set up so loud a yell 
 
 ^ Heckle. An instrument consisting of a board in which 
 are inserted sharp spikes used for dressing flax or hemp, 
 by splitting and straightening the fibres. See Burns* \ 
 Address to the Toothache. \ 
 
 8 The note of the horn blown at the taking of the deerj / 
 used in hunting. French prendre. 
 
ROBERT MANNING OF ERUNNE 
 
 That earth it opens up anon; 
 Smother and smoke rise from that cell, 
 Both of foul pitch and of brimstone, 435 
 
 Men five miles off can smell that smell; 
 Woe grips and holds that wretched one 
 Who scents from far that scent of hell. 
 
 The foule fiends, with eager grin. 
 Seize on the soul, and, whirling it, 440 
 
 With might and main they hurl it in, 
 Down, down, into the devil's pit; 
 Then, they themselves plunge straight therein, 
 To darkness with no sunshine lit, 
 Earth closes on that house of sin, 445 
 
 The dungeon-doors shut fast on it. 
 
 When they had gone, that loathsome brood, 
 To hell's black pit, ere it was day. 
 On every hair the sweat-drops stood 
 For fright and fear as there I lay: 450 
 
 To Jesus Christ, in chastened mood. 
 Yearning I cried, — and dreaded aye 
 That those fierce fiends so foul and lewd. 
 Would come to carry me away. 
 
 Then thanked I Him who passed death's gate, 
 
 Who unto man such mercy bore, 456 
 
 My shield 'gainst many an evil fate, 
 
 And felt my sins as ne'er before. 
 
 All ye who sin, I charge you straight 
 
 To shrive you and repent you sore; 460 
 
 For sin was never sinned so great 
 
 That Christ's wide mercy was not more. 
 
 Eobm of ^louce^ter 
 
 IN PRAISE OF ENGLAND 
 
 (From Riming Chronicle,^ c. 1300) 
 
 England is a right good land, I ween of all the 
 
 best. 
 Set it is at the world's end, afar within the 
 
 west. 
 And all about it goes the sea, it standeth as an 
 
 isle. 
 Its foes it thus needs fear the less, except it be 
 
 through guile 
 On part of folk of its own land, as hath been 
 
 seen erstwhile. 5 
 
 From North to South it stretches out in length 
 
 eight hundred mile. 
 Two hundred miles from East to West in 
 
 breadth the land extends; — 
 In the mid-land, that is to say, and not as at 
 
 one end. 
 Plenty one may in Engeland of all good thinges 
 
 see; 
 If only folk will spoil them not, or other worse 
 
 years be. 10 
 
 For Engeland is full enough of fruit and eke of 
 
 treen,2 
 
 1 The Riming Chronicle is a metrical history of Eng- 
 land from the earliest and mythical period to the latter 
 part of the 13th century. Robert, who was presumably a 
 monk in the Abbey of Gloucester, probably wrote only 
 the latter part of the poem. The entire work is more 
 than 12,000 lines in length, « Trees. 
 
 Of woodes and of parkes most joyful to be seen; 
 Of fowles and of beastes, both wild and tame 
 
 als6; 
 Of salt fish and of fresh fish, of rivers fair 
 
 thereto; 
 Of wells both sweet and cold enough, of pasture 
 
 and of mead; 15 
 
 Of ore of silver and of gold, of tin and eke of 
 
 lead; 
 Of steel, of iron, and of brass, of coin in great 
 
 plenty; 
 Of wheat and eke of wool, so good none better 
 
 may there be. 
 Waters it hath enough als6; before all others 
 
 three, 
 As arms are these out of the land, and reaching 
 
 to the sea. 20 
 
 By them the ships may come from sea and out 
 
 their way may trace, 
 And bring inl&nd enough of goods, to well nigh 
 
 every place. 
 Severn, and Thames, and Humber, so these 
 
 three rivers stand; 
 And in the midst, as hath been said, there lyeth 
 
 the pure land. 
 
 NORMAN AND ENGLISH 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Thus came, lo Engeland into Normandy's 
 
 hand, 
 And the Normans could speak then naught but 
 
 their own speech. 
 And spoke French as at home, and their 
 
 children did teach. 
 So high men of this land, that of Norman blood 
 
 come, 
 Keep them all to that speech that they had at 
 
 their home. 5 
 
 If a man know not French, small store men by 
 
 him set. 
 But low men hold to English and to their own 
 
 speech yet. 
 I ween that there beeth in the world countries 
 
 none 
 That hold not to their own speech but England 
 
 alone. 
 And well do I wot to know both well it is, 1 
 For the more a man knows the more worth he 
 
 is. 
 
 Hobert ^anninst of llBmnne 
 
 IN PRAISE OF WOMAN 
 
 (From Handlyng Synne,^ c. 1303) 
 
 Nothing is to man so dear 
 As woman's love in good manure. 
 
 1 A poem of over 12,000 lines, treating of the Ten 
 Commandments, the Seven Deadly Sins, the Seven 
 Sacraments and other religious themes. The author 
 enlivens his doctrinal instructions with appropriate 
 stories, for he says he has made his poem for those who 
 love to hear stories over their ale, and who are prone t» 
 fall into sin. 
 
34 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 A good wom4n is manes bliss, 
 
 When her love right and steadfast is. 
 
 No solace is there 'neath the sky, 6 
 
 Of all that man may name or try, 
 
 That man to joy so greatly moves 
 
 As a good woman that truly loves. 
 
 Nor dearer is none in all God's herd 
 
 Than a chaste woman with lovely word. 10 
 
 CURSOR MUNDIi 
 (c. 1320-1325) 
 
 THE PROLOGUE 
 
 Man yearneth rimes for to hear, 
 
 And romances of strange mattere, 
 
 Of Alisaundere'^ the conquerour. 
 
 Of Julius Caesar the emperour, 
 
 Of Greece and Troy the strange strife 5 
 
 Where many thousand lost their life; 
 
 Of Brut, that hero bold of hand, 
 
 First conquerour of Engeland; 
 
 Of King Arthour that was so rike' 
 
 Whom no one in his time was Uke; 10 
 
 Of wonders that his knights befell 
 
 Adventures many as I've heard tell, 
 
 As Gawain, Kay, and others stable. 
 
 For they were men of the Round Table; 
 
 How Charles and Roland waged their fight, 15 
 
 With Sarcens they no troth would plight; 
 
 Of Tristrem and his dear Ysote 
 
 How he for her became a sote;* 
 
 Of Joneck and of Ysambrase, 
 
 Of Ydoine and of Amadase, 20 
 
 Stories als6 of sundry things. 
 
 Of princes, prelates, and of kings, 
 
 Many songs of storied rime, 
 
 English, Frankish, and Latine. 
 
 To read and hear each one is prest 25 
 
 Of whatsoe'er he likes the best; 
 
 The wise man will of wisdom hear. 
 
 The fool to folly draws him near; 
 
 The wrong to hear of right is loath. 
 
 And pride with buxomness^ is wroth. ... 30 
 
 But by the fruit the wise may see 33 
 
 Of what vertii is every tree. 
 
 All sorts of fruit that man shall find 35 
 
 Must draw from out the root their kind; 
 
 From goodly pear-trees come good pears. 
 
 Worse tree, the worse the fruit it bears. 
 
 That I should speak from thLs same tree 
 
 Betokens, man, both me and thee; 40 
 
 This fruit betokens all our deeds. 
 
 Both good and ill who rightly reads. 
 
 Our dedes in our hearts take root. 
 
 Whether they be for bale or boot; 
 
 For by the thing man draweth unt6 45 
 
 For good or ill men shall him know. . . . 
 
 1 The poem is named from the fact that in its stories 
 it "courses" pretty much over the world, as is indicated 
 in the Prologue. It is about 30,000 lines, and it was 
 written in EngHsh "for the love of EngHsh folk." 
 
 2 This list includes some of the most important groups 
 or cycles of romance. Those on Alexander, on Brut or 
 Brutus, the supposed founder of Britain, on Arthur and 
 his knights, on Charlemagne, and on Roland. 
 
 » Mighty. * Madman. * Humility. 
 
 All this world, ere I have done, 121 
 
 With Christ's help shall I over-run, 
 
 And tell some stories principal. 
 
 For no man may relate them all. 
 
 But since no work may long endure 12S 
 
 That stands not on foundation sure. 
 
 This same work, therefore, shall I found 
 
 Upon a wondrous, steadfast, ground; 
 
 That is the Holy Trinity 
 
 That all has wrought with His beauty. 130 
 
 Unto Him first I turn my face. 
 
 And then His handy work I'll trace: 
 
 Of the angels first that fell. 
 
 And next I will of Adam tell, 
 
 Of his offspring and of No6, 135 
 
 And somewhat of his sonnes three; 
 
 Of Abraham and of Is4aC, 
 
 That holy were withouten make;^ 
 
 After shall I tell to you 
 
 Of Jacob and of Esau too; 140 
 
 Then should there be thereafter told 
 
 How that Joseph was bought and sold; 
 
 How Moses 'midst the Jews arose. 
 
 That Goddes folk to lead them chose; 
 
 How God the law to him did give 145 
 
 By which the Jewish folk should live. 
 
 Of Saul the king, and David too 
 
 How he GoHath fought and slew; 
 
 And next of Solomon the Wise, 
 
 How craftily he did justice; 160 
 
 How Christ came down through prophecy, 
 
 And how He came His folk to buy. 
 
 [The author next goes on to enumerate 
 various other matters of which he proposes to 
 treat, such as the birth of Christ, the de- 
 struction of the innocents, the flight into 
 Egypt, and so on through the gospel story. 
 After this outline of the general plan and 
 scope of his work he concludes his prologue as 
 follows: — ] 
 
 These are the subjects put in place 221 
 
 I think within this book to trace; 
 Speaking but shortly of each deed, 
 For there are many tales to speed. 
 Useful, methinks, it were to man 225 
 
 To know himself how he began; 
 How he at first was bom and bred. 
 How o'er the earth his offspring spread; 
 Both of the first and of the last. 
 And in what course this world is past. 230 
 
 Those things that Holy Church doth state 
 In this same book I now translate. 
 In English tongue 'tis all made clear 
 For love of all the EngUsh here; 
 English folk of Engeland, 28S 
 
 For the commons to understand. 
 French rimes are there in this land 
 To be found on every hand; 
 French is wrought for Frankish man. 
 What is for him that no French can? ato 
 
 The nation of England old 
 The Englishmen in common hold; 
 The speech that man with most may speed 
 « Without an equal. 
 
RICHARD ROLLE OF HaMPOLE 
 
 35 
 
 Must be the speech that men most need. 
 
 Seldom was by any chance 245 
 
 Praised the English tongue in France; 
 
 Do we the same to their langulige 
 
 Methinks we do them no outrage. 
 
 For unlearned EngUshman I spell, 
 
 That understandeth what I tell, 250 
 
 And specially I those address 
 
 That all their lives in idleness 
 
 On trifles waste and beggars' Ues, 
 
 To them I say: "Take care, be wise. 
 
 And well unto my words attend, 255 
 
 And all your way with might amend." 
 
 Ill have they who in spending spend, 
 
 And find no fruit thereof at end. . . . 258 
 
 Now from this prologue we will blinne,' 265 
 
 And in Christ's name our book begin: 
 
 Cursor o' World men ought it call, 
 
 For almost it o'er runs it all. 
 
 Take we our beginning than* 
 
 From Him who all the world began. 270 
 
 Kictiaro MoUe of l^ampote 
 
 died 1349 
 THE INFANT 
 
 (From The Pricke of Conscience,^ c. 1340) 
 
 [When man] was bom to this world's light, 
 
 He had not either strength or might, 465 
 
 Either to walk or yet to stand, 
 
 Nor to creep with foot and hand. 
 
 Then has the man less might than beast; 
 
 When he is bom, he seems the least; 
 
 For a beast, when it is bom, may go 470 
 
 And run soon after to and fro; 
 
 But a man has no might thereto, 
 
 When he is bom, such things to do; 
 
 For then he may not stand nor creep, 
 
 But only sprawl and cry and weep. 475 
 
 For a child is scarcely bom before 
 
 It has begun to cry and roar; ^ 
 
 And by that cry men tell truly 
 
 Whether it man or woman be. 
 
 When it is born it cries such way: 480 
 
 For if it be man it says "a, a," 
 
 So that the letter is the same 
 
 As the first in Father Adam's name. 
 
 And if the child a woman be. 
 
 When it is bom it says "e, e," 485 
 
 E is the foremost letter in 
 
 Eve's name, who brought us death and sin. 
 
 Hence a clerk made in this manere, 
 
 This line in metre written here: 
 
 Dicentes E vel A quotquot nascuntur ah Eva, 490 
 
 **A11 those," he says, "that come of Eve, 
 
 Means all men that below here live, 
 
 When they are bom, what-so they be, 
 
 T Cease. « Then. 
 
 1 A Poem of about 10,000 lines is addressed to the un- 
 learned "that can ne Latyne understand," and is in- 
 tended by its dreadful pictures of death and judgment, 
 to prick the reader's conscience, so that he may "work 
 good works and flee folly." 
 
 They either say "a, a," or "e, e," 
 
 And thus here we find the starting 495 
 
 Of our weeping and life's smarting. 
 
 Unto this have sorrows brought us, 
 
 Therefore Innocent has taught us: 
 
 Omnes nasdmur eiulantes, ut nature nostre 
 
 miseriam exprimamus. 
 He says: "We all are born complaining, 500 
 We cry, and wail — man's sorrow feigning. 
 To show the misery, how great 
 The wretchedness of man's estate." 
 Thus when the time came of our birth, 
 All made sorrow and no mirth; 505 
 
 Naked we hither came, and bare, 
 And just so shall we hither fare. 
 
 THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 All joys are there in that countrie, 
 
 There Ufe from death forever free; 
 
 There youth is, ever without eld, 7815 
 
 All wealth is there forever held: 
 
 There is aye rest without travail; 
 
 There are all goods that never fail; 
 
 There peace forever, without strife: 
 
 There every kind of joyous life; 7820 
 
 There is, free from all darkness, light; 
 
 There is aye day and never night; 
 
 There aye is summer bright to see; 
 
 And never more winter in that countrie; 
 
 There are true friendships and richesse, 7825 
 
 More nobleness than man may guess; 
 
 There is more worship and honour 
 
 Than ever had king or emperour; 
 
 There is all might and power secure; 
 
 And there an endless home made sure; 7830 
 
 There too are all delights and ease, 
 
 And sure tranquility and peace; 
 
 There peaceful joy forever is. 
 
 And pleasure there and lasting bliss. . . . 7834 
 
 There always blissful certainty, 7837 
 
 And certain dwelling ever free; 
 
 There is all mirth, each pastime dear; 
 
 There laughter is, and lovely cheer; 7840 
 
 There's melody and angel's song. 
 
 And love and praise from that bright throng: 
 
 There is all friendship that may be; 
 
 And perfect love and charitie; 
 
 There is accord, and its due mede 7845 
 
 Is given aye to each good deed; 
 
 There's lowly awe and reverence, 
 
 And meekness and obedience; 
 
 There are all virtues and no sin, 
 
 All dainties and delights therein, 7850 
 
 All wisdom's there from folly free. 
 
 And honour without villany. . . . 7852 
 
 There is brightness and beautie 
 In everything that men shall see; 
 There joys are free and general. 
 But the most sovereign joy of all 
 Is the blest sight of God's bright face, 
 Beyond all joys and all solace. 
 
 7860 
 
 7865 
 
36 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 ilatorence ^inot 
 
 c. 1300-1352 
 THE BATTLE OF HALIDON HILL^ 
 
 Listen, Lordings, if you will 
 Hear of the battle of Halidon Hill. 
 
 True King that sitteth on thy throne, 
 Unto thee I tell my tale, 
 And unto thee I bid a boon. 
 For thou art balm of all my bale. 
 As thou hast made the earth and moon, 
 And beasts and foules great and smale, 
 Unto me send thy succour soon 
 Direct my deedes in this dale. 
 
 In this dale I droup^ and dare 
 For evil deeds that cost me dear. 
 For England had my heart great care. 
 When Edward went at first to were.' 
 The men of France were bold to fare 
 Against him with the shield and spere; 
 They turned again with sides sair 
 And all their pomp not worth a pere.* 
 
 A pear is more of price sometide^ 
 Than all the boast of Normandie. 
 They sent their ships on ilka side 
 With flesh and wine and wheat and rye; 
 With heart and hand, 'tis not denied. 
 For to help Scotland gan they hie. 
 They fled and durst no deed abide 
 And all their boast not worth a flye. 
 
 For all their boast they durst not fight, 
 For dint of death they had such dout,' 
 Of Scotland had they never sight 
 Although they were of wordes stout. 
 They would have magnified their might 
 And troubled were they there about. 
 Now God help Edward in his right,— 
 Amen — and all his ready rout. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 His ready rout may Jesu speed. 
 
 And save them both by night and day; 
 
 That Lord of Heaven may Edward lead, 
 
 And him maintain as well He may. 
 
 The Scotchmen now all wide will sprede^ 
 
 For they have failed of their prey, 40 
 
 Now are they daunted all for drede 
 
 That were before so stout and gay. 
 
 Gay they were and well they thought 
 On Earl Moray^ and others stout; 
 
 1 This poem is one of the famous war-songs which 
 celebrate events in the reign of Edward III. between 
 1333-1352. The battle of Halidon Hill was fought in 
 1333. The King, who was besieging Berwick, completely- 
 routed a Scotch force under Sir Archibald Douglas, 
 which had come to relieve the town. Berwick passed 
 into the hands of the English, and has remained so till 
 today. 
 
 * Pine. » War. * Pear. 
 
 « Sometimes. » Fear. "> Disperse. 
 
 "John Randolph, 3rd Earl of Moray, d. 1346, was 
 one of the strongest supporters of the young king of 
 Scotland, David II. 
 
 They said it should full dear be bought, 45 
 
 The land whence they were driven out. 
 
 Philip Valois wordes wrought, 
 
 And said he should their foeman stay; 
 
 But all these words they went for naught. 
 
 Words must be meet or weak are they. 50 
 
 More menaces they boasting cry. 
 
 In spite of might they have their meed; 
 
 And many a night awake they lie 
 
 To harm all England by their deed; 
 
 But low is now that pride so high 55 
 
 Of those that were so stout on steed; 
 
 And some of them all naked lie 
 
 Not far from Berwick upon Tweed. 
 
 A little from that selfsame town, 
 
 Halidon Hill that is the name, 60 
 
 There was cracked many a crown 
 
 Of the wild Scot and eke of tame. 
 
 Then was their banner borne all down, 
 
 To make such boasts they were to blame; 
 
 But natheless aye are they boune^ 65 
 
 To hurt Engldnd with sorrow and shame. 
 
 Shame they have as I here say; 
 At Dundee now is done their dance, 
 And wend they must another way 
 Even through Flanders into France. 
 On Philip Valois^" fast cry they. 
 There for to dwell and him advance. 
 And nothing list they now to play 
 Since them befell this sorry chance. 
 
 70 
 
 75 
 
 This sorry chance hath them o'erthrown, 
 
 For they were false and wondrous fell; 
 
 For cursed caitiffs are they known 
 
 And full of treason, sooth to tell. 
 
 Sir John Comyn^^ had they struck down, 
 
 In holy kirk they did him quell ;^2 gg 
 
 So many a Scottish bride makes moan 
 
 With dolour dight^^ there must they dwell. 
 
 There dwelled our king, the sooth to sayn, 
 
 With his menie^* a little while; 
 
 He gave good comfort on that plain 85 
 
 To all his men about a mile. 
 
 Although his men were mickle of main,^* 
 
 Ever they doubted them of guile; 
 
 They Scottish gauds^^ might nowise gain 
 
 For all they stumbled at that stile. 90 
 
 They came not from that strife alive 
 That were before so proud in prese,^' 
 J6su, for thy woundes five. 
 In England help us to have peace. 
 
 Ready. 
 
 10 Philip VI. King of France, 1328-1350, who in the 
 interests of France, became the ally of Scotland against 
 their common enemy England. 
 
 " Comyn, surnamed The Red, one of the rivals of 
 Bruce to the Throne of Scotland after Edward Balliol's 
 renunciation. He was murdered on the altar steps of 
 the Franciscan church at Dumfries by Bruce and his \ 
 followers, in 1306. \ 
 
 »* Kill. 13 Grief-stricken. ( 
 
 " Company. is Great of might. 
 
 >« Trappings, booty. " The post of danger. 
 
I 
 
 SIR ORPHEO 
 
 37 
 
 PRAYER FOR KING EDWARD 
 
 (From How Edward the King came to Brabant) 
 
 God that shaped both sea and sand, 
 
 Save Edward, King of Engeland, 
 
 Both body, soul, and hfe. 
 
 And grant him joy withouten strife; 
 
 For many men 'gainst him are wroth 5 
 
 In France and in Flanders both, 
 
 For he defendeth fast his right 
 
 And thereto J^su grant him might. 
 
 That he may do so night and day 
 
 That it may be for Goddes pay.^ 10 
 
 SIR ORPHEO* 
 
 (14th Century) 
 
 We read full oft and find y-writ 
 
 As clerkes wise make us to wit, 
 
 Those lays that have for men's harping 
 
 Been made of many a noble thing: 
 
 Some are of weal and some of Woe, 5 
 
 Some of joy and mirth als6. 
 
 Some of jest and ribaldry. 
 
 And some there are of faerie; 
 
 Of traitors some, and some of guile. 
 
 Or some mishap that chanced erstwhile: 10 
 
 Of all the things that men may see 
 
 Most fit to praise forsooth they be. 
 
 In Brittany these lays were wrought. 
 
 There first were made, and thence were brought 
 
 Of ^ventures that fell in days 15 
 
 Whereof the Britons made their lays; 
 
 So when of old they chanced to hear 
 
 Of ^ventures in days that were. 
 
 They took their harps with glee and game^ 
 
 And made a lay and did it name. 20 
 
 Of ^ventures that did befall 
 
 I can tell some but nowise all. 
 
 Harken, lordlings, that be true, 
 
 And I will tell of Sir Orphew. 
 
 Orpheo was a riche King, 25 
 
 And in his time a great lording; 
 
 A full fair man both large and tall, 
 
 And courteous and brave withal. 
 
 His father was come of King Plut6, 
 
 And his mother came of Queen Jun6, 30 
 
 Who in old times as gods were holden 
 
 For deeds they did and words they tolden. 
 
 Orpheo most of anything, 
 
 Loved the music of harping; 
 
 Certain was every good harp&ur 35 
 
 From him to have most high honour. 
 
 Right well himself he loved to harp. 
 
 And gave thereto his wittes sharp; 
 
 He learned so that there was none, 
 
 Who could harp better 'neath the sun. 40 
 
 1 Satisfaction. 
 ^The romance of Sir Orpheo belongs to that group 
 of poems known as "Breton Songs." That is to say, 
 it is one of a number of short rhymed narrative poems 
 which are chiefly of Celtic origin. The Classical story 
 of Orpheus is transformed into a medieval fairy story, and 
 the gloomy land of Pluto becomes a beautiful land of 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 Man in this world was never bom, 
 
 Who, if he Orpheo sat beforn. 
 
 And once might of his harping hear, 
 
 But he should thinke that he were 
 
 In one of the joys of Paradis, 
 
 Such music in his harping is. 
 
 Orpheo lived in Crass^ns, 
 
 A city noble in defence. 
 
 He hath a queen full fair of pris,' 
 
 That called is Dame Erodys, 
 
 The fairest woman for the nones * 
 
 That might be made of flesh and bones. 
 
 Full of all love and of goodness. 
 
 No man may tell of her fairness. 
 
 It befel in time of May, — 55 
 
 When is merry and pleasing the summer's day, 
 
 Away have gone the winter's showers, 
 
 And every field is full of flowers, 
 
 Of blossoms springing on the bough, 
 
 O'er all the land 'tis merry enow, — 
 
 That this same Queen, Dame Erodys, 
 
 Took with her maidens two of pris. 
 
 And walked in the undertide ^ 
 
 To play within her orchard-side. 
 
 To see the flowers spread and spring. 
 
 And see and hear the sweet birds sing. 
 
 Then down they seated them all three, 
 
 Fairly beneath an ympe tree,^ 
 
 And full soon that fairest queen, 
 
 Fell fast asleep upon the green. 
 
 The maidens durst not her awake, 
 
 But round her they 'gan merry make, 
 
 And let her sleep till afternoon 
 
 When the undertide was gone; 
 
 And as soon as she gan wake 
 
 She cried, and loathsome 'gan her make, 
 
 Her hands and eke her feet she tore. 
 
 And scratched her till she bled full sore; 
 
 Her clothing rich she all to-rent. 
 
 All wild out of her wittes went. 
 
 The maidens two that sat beside. 
 
 They durst no longer there abide. 
 
 But straightway sought the castle hall 
 
 And told both knights and squires all. 
 
 How that their Queen away would go. 
 
 The knights went also, and ladies too. 
 
 And demoiselles fifty and many mo,' 
 
 To fetch her as they fain would do. 
 
 Into the orchard ran they out 
 
 And took her in their armos stout, 
 
 And brought her to her bed at last 
 
 And therein held her down full fast; 
 
 But still she cried in angry mood. 
 
 And rent herself as she were wode.* 
 
 When heard the King this dread tidfng. 
 
 He was never so woe for any thing. 
 
 The King came with his knightes keen ^ 
 
 Into the chamber to his Queen, 
 
 And for her had he great pitle. 
 
 "Sweet heart," he said, "how may this be 
 
 That thou who ever wert so still, 
 
 Shouldst now cry out so loud and shrill? 
 
 Thy body that was white beforn. 
 
 Now with thy nails is rent and torn. 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 75 
 
 80 
 
 85 
 
 90 
 
 95 
 
 100 
 
 faerie. 
 
 2 Mirth. 
 
 ' Price. 
 ^ More. 
 
 * Nonce. 
 8 Mad. 
 
 5 Morning. 
 » Bold. 
 
 • Grafted tree. 
 
38 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 Alas! thy cheeks which were so red 105 
 
 Are now all wan and grey as lead, 
 And thy dainty fingers fair, 
 Pallid now and bloody are. 
 Alas! thy lovely eyen too 
 Look on me as on a foe. 110 
 
 Lady dear, I crave mercie, 
 L6t be all this rueful cry. 
 And tell to me what thing, and how, 
 If any thing, — may help thee now." 
 Still grows the lady at the last, 115 
 
 While she began to weep full fast, 
 Saying, while yet the tears would flow, 
 "Alas! my lord, Sir Orpheo, 
 Never since we two plighted troth 
 Was either with the other wroth, 120 
 
 Yet ever hast thou loved me, * 
 
 With all mine heart so have I thee; 
 And now we twain shall part in two, 
 Do thy best, yet I must go." 
 "Alas!" he said, "my life is bare, 125 
 
 Unto whom goest thou and where? 
 Where thou comest thou shalt with me, 
 Whither thou goest I will with thee." 
 "Sir," said she, "it may not be thus, 
 I'll tell thee how it is with us. 130 
 
 As I lay this undertide 
 Asleep upon the orchard-side. 
 Two gallant knights came to me there, 
 Arrayed in richest garments fair. 
 And bade me come without letting, 135 
 
 To speak unto their lord the king. 
 Right boldly then I answered there — 
 * Nor will I come, nor do I dare.' 
 At the word they did depart. 
 Then came their King so blithe of heart, 140 
 With a thousand knights and mo 
 And fifty fair ladles als6, 
 A-riding all on snow-white steeds, 
 And snow-white also were their weeds, '^'^ 
 Never, in faith, since I was bom 145 
 
 Knights so fair came me befom. 
 The King a crown had on his head, 
 'Twas not of silver, nor gold so red, 
 All it was of precious stone. 
 As bright as sun forsooth it shone. 150 
 
 He stayed for naught but straight me sought. 
 And willy, nilly, me he caught, 
 And me he made with him to ride 
 On a white palfrey by his side, 
 And brought me in to his pal^s," 155 
 
 Right well bedight it was I wis. 
 He showed me castles, halls and towers, 
 Rivers, meadows, fields and flowers, 
 And his forests every one; 
 And after, back he brought me home, 160 
 
 Back into our own orchdrd, 
 And said to me this afterward: 
 'Look tomorrow that thou be 
 Here beneath this ympe tree; 
 And if thou makest any let, 165 
 
 Where'er thou be thou shalt be fet,^* 
 And to tear thy limbes all, 
 Shall help thee naught whate'er befall. 
 And although thou be all torn 
 " Garments. " Palace. » Fetched. 
 
 Yet away shalt thou be borne.' " 170 
 
 When the King he heard this case, 
 "Out!" he said, "alace! alacei^' 
 I had rather lose my life 
 Than to lose the Queen my wife!" 
 Counsel he asked of many man 175 
 
 But of them all none help him can. 
 The hour came, the morrow's sun. 
 The King hath put his armour on. 
 Two hundred knights he takes with him, 
 Fully armed, stout and grim: 180 
 
 Out then with the Queen went he 
 Into the orchard 'neath the tree; 
 Then did they watch on every side, 
 And planned that there they would abide. 
 Resolved to suffer death and woe, 185 
 
 E'er that the Queen should from them go. 
 But shortly then did it befall. 
 As the Queen sat among them all. 
 The fairy took that lady fair 
 And she was gone — no man wist where. 190 
 Crying and weeping there was als6. 
 The King gan to his chamber go, 
 He fell adown upon the stone, 
 And made great dole and mickle moan, 
 Well nigh he had himself yschent^* 195 
 
 He saw there was no dmendement. 
 He sent for earl and for bar6un. 
 And other lords of great renown. 
 And, when they all together were, 
 "Lordes," he said, "assembled here, 200 
 
 I set mine steward of mine hall 
 To keep my landes over all. 
 Now my Queen is left forlorn. 
 The best ladle that e'er was bom; 
 No more will I woman see, 205 
 
 In wilderness now will I be. 
 And there abide in woodlands hoar 
 And in the wilds forevermore. 
 Then when ye know I have left all, 
 Ye straight a parliament shall call, 210 
 
 And ye shall chose you a new King, 
 And do your best in everything." 
 Great sorrow then was in the hall, 
 Weeping and crying 'mongst them all, 
 And there might neither old nor young 215 
 For weeping speak a word with tongue. 
 They kneeled all a-down i-fere," 
 And begged him if his will it were, 
 
 That he would never from them 
 
 W^ 
 
 220 
 
 "Away!" he said, "I will not so.' 
 
 Then all his kindred he forsook 
 
 And unto him a sclaveyn^^ took. 
 
 He would have no other hood; 
 
 Hose, nor shoe, nor other good; 
 
 Only his harp he took, and straight 
 
 He journeyed barefoot through the gate. 
 
 No man there must with him go, 
 
 Alas! there weeping was and woe. 
 
 He that was King and bare the crown. 
 
 Went out so poorly from the town. 
 
 Into the wild he takes his road, 
 
 Both through the heath and through the wood. . 
 
 Nothing he hath to give him ease, \( 
 
 225 
 
 230 
 
 " Alas! 
 » Together. 
 
 " Disgraced. 
 " Hair-shirt. 
 
But evei 
 
 SIR ORPHEO 
 
 39 
 
 ut ever lives in great malaise." 
 In the rough wood he nights must pass, 
 And cover him with herb and grass; 
 He that had a great plentfe, 
 Meat, and drink, and dignitie, 
 Now must dig and grub full sair, 
 Ere of roots he gets his fare. 
 In summer on the haws he lives, 
 That midst her leaves the hawthome gives; 
 In winter, by the root and rind. 
 For other thing he may not find. 
 He was all shrunken, shriveled, pale, 
 With beating rain, and cutting hail; 
 No man could tell the travail sore 
 He had endured ten years or more. 
 He that had castles, halls and towers, 
 Forests, rivers, fields, and flowers. 
 Nothing that likes him^^ now had he. 
 But savage beasts that from him flee. 
 His matted beard has shaggy grown, 
 Below his girdle has it gone. 
 He taketh harp and maketh glee, 
 And lies all night beneath a tree. 
 When bright and clear there dawns the day, 
 He takes his harp and makes no stay, 
 Amidst the wood he sits him down 
 And tunes his harp with a merry soun, 
 And harps all after his own will; 
 Through all the wood it ringeth shrill. 
 The savage beasts that there are found, 
 For joy about him gather round. 
 And all the little birds that were. 
 For joy they come about him there 
 To listen to that harping fine. 
 So mickle joy there was therein. 
 His harping when he laid aside. 
 Nor bird, nor beast would then abide, 
 But all together they are flown. 
 And leave him there to sit alone. 
 Often saw he him beside. 
 In the heat of summer-tide, 
 The Fairy King with all his rout, 
 Come a-hunting all about. 
 With shout and merry din they go 
 And noise of hound and horn als6; 
 And yet forsooth, no beast they slay. 
 Nor knows he where they take their way. 
 And other whiles he may espye, 
 A mighty hunt go passing by, 
 Full two hundred knights of pride 
 Armed through the forest ride. 
 Somewhile he saw other thing, 285 
 
 Knights and ladies come riding 
 With raiment bright and courtly grace, 
 Moving all with easy pace; 
 Tabors and pipes with them there be, 
 And every kind of minstrelsy . 290 
 
 And ladies too there come riding, 
 Jolie^' they were in everything. 
 Gentle and gay they were I wis. 
 Nor no man there among them is. 
 Hawk on hand did each one bear, 295 
 
 And hawking went by the riv^re. 
 Of game they found the favorite haunt. 
 Pheasant, hem, and cormorant. 
 
 Discomfort. »* Pleases him. w Pretty. 
 
 235 
 
 240 
 
 245 
 
 250 
 
 255 
 
 260 
 
 265 
 
 270 
 
 275 
 
 280 
 
 300 
 
 305 
 
 310 
 
 315 
 
 320 
 
 325 
 
 i 
 
 The birds from out the river flew. 
 
 And every hawk his quarry slew. 
 
 That Orpheo saw in merry mood. 
 
 As underneath the bough he stood; 
 
 "Parfay," he said, "there is good game. 
 
 Thither will I, in Goddes name." 
 
 Such sport was he wont to see. 
 
 So up he rose and there came he 
 
 One lady there he came unt6. 
 
 He searched her face and form als6, 
 
 Right well he knew it was, I wis, 
 
 His own ladle. Dame Erodys. 
 
 He saw her plain and she him eke. 
 
 Yet ne'er a word did either speak. 
 
 For him she did so poor espy 
 
 That sometime was so rich and high. 
 
 The tears ran down her face, I wis. 
 
 And looking on her so did his. 
 
 And then away they made her ride. 
 
 For there no longer she might bide. 
 
 "Alas!" he said, "and woe is me! 
 
 Why will not death come suddenly! 
 
 Wretch that I am! O, that I might 
 
 Die now, when I have seen this sight! 
 
 Alas! too long lasteth my life. 
 
 Since I may speak not with my wife, 
 
 Nor she with me a word may speak! 
 
 Alas! why will my heart not break! 
 
 Parfay! " he said, " whate'er betide, 
 
 I will see where those ladies ride. 
 
 And in that way I too will go — 
 
 I care not for my life a sloe." 
 
 His sclavyne put he on his back 
 
 And took his harp right as he spak. 
 
 And swiftly after them is gone. 
 
 Over stock and over stone. 
 
 In at the rock the ladies ride. 
 
 He went straight after, he would not bide. 
 
 When he was into the rock y-go^o 
 
 Full three mile and some deal mo,*! 
 
 He came unto a fair countrdy. 
 
 It was as bright as any day. 340 
 
 Neither hill nor dale was seen. 
 
 All was lawn full fair and green, 
 
 Midst it a castle met his eye. 
 
 Noble and rich, and wondrous high, 
 
 Over all the topmost wall 345 
 
 Shone as doth the clear crystal. 
 
 And the towers that were there 
 
 Were gaily set with pearles fair; 
 
 The farthest, rising from the ditch. 
 
 Was all of gold and silver rich; 350 
 
 The froift, that stood amidst them brade,** 
 
 Was all of divers metals made; 
 
 Within, a wondrous dwelling wide, 
 
 With gold and gems all glorified, 
 
 The pillars fair thereon, were dight 355 
 
 With precious stones and sapphires bright. 
 
 So fair the palace shone by night 
 
 That all the town was full of light. 
 
 Those riche stones so fairly shone 
 
 They were as bright as any sun, 360 
 
 No man might tell, nor think in thought. 
 
 The riches that therein were wrought. 
 
 The ladies at the castle light, 
 
 20 Gone. «iMor«. "Broad. 
 
 335 
 
40 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 365 
 
 370 
 
 He followed swiftly as he might; 
 
 Orpheo knocked at the gate, 
 
 Ready the porter was thereat, 
 
 And asked him "what wilt thou so?" 
 
 "Parfay! I am a minstrallo, 
 
 I bring thee solace with my glee, 
 
 That thou the merrier may be." 
 
 He then undid the castle gate, 
 
 And let him in the palace straight. 
 
 About looked Orpheo over all, 
 
 He saw folk sit beneath the wall; 
 
 And some that had been brought thereto, 375 
 
 They seemed dead yet were not so. 
 
 And there among them lay his wife. 
 
 That he loved as his own life; 
 
 She lay beneath an ympe tree. 
 
 By her look he wist 'twas she. 380 
 
 Then forth he went into the hall, 
 
 There was great joy amongst them all. 
 
 The riche King was seated there, 
 
 And Orpheo gave him greeting fair; 
 
 Beside him sate a Queene bright, 385 
 
 Hardly of her he had a sight. 
 
 When he had looked on all this thing. 
 
 He kneeled down before the King, 
 
 And asked him if his will it were 
 
 That he his minstrelsy would hear. 390 
 
 Then said the King: "And what art thou, 
 
 Who come into my presence now? 
 
 Myself nor none that is with me. 
 
 Have ever yet sent after thee. 
 
 Since I this kingdom first began 395 
 
 I have not found so brave a man 
 
 Who hither dared to come or wend, 
 
 Save that I after him should send. 
 
 "Sir," he said, "I trow full weel, 
 I hold it sooth, sir, every deal, 400 
 
 It is the custom of us all 
 To come to every lordes hall. 
 And though we may not welcome be, 
 Proffer we must our game or glee." 
 Before the King he sat him down, 405 
 
 And took his harp of merry soun. 
 And straightway as full well he can. 
 Many blithe notes he then began. 
 The King looked up and sat full still, 
 To hear his harping he had good will. 410 
 
 When he had ceased from his harping. 
 Then said to him that riche King: 
 "Minstrel, me liketh well thy glee; 
 Whatever thing thou ask of me. 
 Freely now I will thee pay, 415 
 
 Therefore, ask now, and assay." 
 "Lord," he said, "I beg of thee, 
 If that it shall your pleasure be. 
 Give me that lady bright of ble,^' 
 That Hes beneath yon ympe tree." 420 
 
 "Nay," he said, "that may I ne'er, 
 For ye would be a sorry pair; 
 Thou art all shaggy, rough, and black. 
 And she is made withouten lack. 
 A foule thing it were to see, 426 
 
 To put her in thy companle." 
 "Lord," he said, "thou riche King, 
 It were yet a fouler thing, 
 "Hue. 
 
 To hear a lying word from thee. 
 
 As though thou promised nought to me, 430 
 
 Saying thou'd give me what I would ! 
 
 A Kinges word must needs hold good." 
 
 "Thou sayest sooth," the King said than, 
 
 " Forsooth thou art a true man. 
 
 I will well that it be so, 435 
 
 Take her by the hand, and go. 
 
 I will that thou of her be blithe." 
 
 And him he thanked many a sythe.^* 
 
 He took her by the hand anon. 
 
 With right good will they out are gone, 440 
 
 And fast they hied from that paldce. 
 
 And went their way through Goddes grace; 
 
 Into the wilds they both are gone, 
 
 O'er holt and heath they journey on. 
 
 And so they take their way full fast, 445 
 
 And to Crass^ns they come at last, 
 
 That sometime was her own citie. 
 
 But no man wist that it was he. 
 
 With beggar poor of humblest life 
 
 A space he tarried with his wife. 450 
 
 He asked tidings of the land. 
 
 And who the kingdom had in hand. 
 
 The humble beggar in his cote, 
 
 Answering, told him every grote; 
 
 How that the Queen was fetched away 455 
 
 To the land of faerie on a day. 
 
 And how the King did after go. 
 
 But to what place no man can know. 
 
 The Steward, he says, the land doth hold; 
 
 So, many tidings he them told. 460 
 
 The morrow at the noone tide 
 
 Sir Orpheo bade his Queen there bide, 
 
 He took his harp and right anon 
 
 Into the town he straight is gone. 
 
 And when he came to the citle, 465 
 
 Many a man him came to see. 
 
 Men and wives and maidens fair, 
 
 Gathered fast to see him there; 
 
 And marvelled much as him they view, 
 
 How thick the moss upon him grew; 470 
 
 "His beard is grown right to his knee, 
 
 His body is withered as a tree." 
 
 Then his own Steward did he meet, 
 
 Passing in state adown the street. 
 
 And Orpheo fell upon his knee 475 
 
 And said: "Lord help, for charitle, 
 
 A minstrel I of Heathenesse, 
 
 Lord help me now in this distress." 
 
 The Steward said: "With me come home, 
 
 And of my goods thou shalt have some, 480 
 
 For Orpheo's sake once Lord to me, 
 
 All minestralles shall welcome be." 
 
 Anon they went into the hall, 
 
 The Steward and the lordes aU. 
 
 The Steward washed, and went to meat, 485 
 
 And all the lordes down were set. 
 
 Then was there music in the hall, 
 
 But Orpheo sat against the wall. 
 
 When all are still, the music done. 
 
 He took his harp of sounding tone, 490 
 
 And fast on it he played the glee; 
 
 The Steward looked, and 'gan to see, 
 
 For well he knew that harp belive;^^ \ 
 
 2« Many times. m Quickly. ' 
 
EARLY SONGS 
 
 41 
 
 "Minstrel," he said, "as thou mayst thrive. 
 
 How gottest thou that harp, and where? 495 
 
 Now for thine honor tell me fair." 
 
 "Lord, in an uncouth '^^ land," he said, 
 
 "1 found it in a forest glade; 
 
 I saw a man grown thin and pale, 
 
 It lay beside him in a dale, 500 
 
 Now it must be ten winters gone." 
 
 The Steward cried, and made great moan, 
 
 "It was my Lord, Sir Orpheo, 
 
 Ah! that he e'er did from us go." 
 
 The King beheld the Steward than, 505 
 
 And wist he was a right true man; 
 
 To him he said without lying, 
 
 "Sir, I am Orpheo, the King. 
 
 Here to the outskirts of the town, 
 
 I've brought my gentle lady down." 510 
 
 The lords all start that sit around, 
 
 Then wist they that the King was found. 
 
 With music and processi6un, 
 
 They fetched the Queen into the town. 
 
 A good life lived they afterward, 515 
 
 And after them reigned the Steward. 
 
 Thus came they out of all their care, 
 
 God give us grace as well to fare! 
 
 And all that list to this talking 
 
 In heaven's bliss be their dwelling! 520 
 
 Amen, amen, for charitle, 
 
 Lord grant us that it so may be. 
 
 EARLY SONGS 
 
 CUCKOO SONG 
 (c. 1250) 
 
 Summer is icumen^ in, 
 
 Sing loud Cuckoo! 
 Groweth seed, and bloweth mead 
 And springeth the woode noo^ 
 
 Sing Cuckoo! 6 
 
 Ewe bleateth after lamb, 
 
 Lows for her calf 6 coo; 
 Bullock sterteth,^ buck verteth,* 
 
 Merry sing Cuckoo! 
 
 Cuckoo, Cuckoo, well sing'st thou Cuckoo: lo 
 
 So cease thou never noo. 
 Sing Cuckoo, noo, sing Cuckoo! 
 
 UBI SUNT QUI ANTE NOS FUERUNT?i 
 
 (c. 1280) 
 
 Where are they that lived before. 
 Hounds they led and hawks they bore 
 And had both field and chase? 
 Ladies rich in bowers fair, 
 Nets of gold bind up the hair, 5 
 
 Rosy-bright of face. 
 
 " Unknown. 
 
 * Has come in. » Now. 
 
 » Starts, springs. « Harbors in the green. 
 
 1 Where are those who lived before us? 
 
 They ate and drank and made them glad, 
 Their life was all with pleasure led, 
 Men kneeled them befom, 
 
 They bore thernselves full proud and high, 
 And, in the twinkling of an eye, ii 
 
 Their souls were all forlorn. 
 
 Where is that laughing and that song. 
 The pride with which they passed along. 
 The hawk, and hound, and bower? 15 
 
 All that joy is gone away. 
 That weal is come to welaway. 
 To many a bitter hour. 
 
 They took their heaven while they were here. 
 And now in hell they lie in fere;^ 20 
 
 The fire it burneth ever. 
 Long is ay, and long is o, 
 Long is wy, and long is wo. 
 From thence come they never. 
 
 Endure here, then, if thou agree, 
 A little pain, I pray of thee; 
 Withdraw from pleasure oft. 
 
 Though thy pain be sore indeed. 
 And thou thinkest on thy meed. 
 It shall to thee seem soft. 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 If that fiend, that foulest thing. 
 Through wicked spell, through false luring, 
 Here and there hath thee down cast. 
 Up and be a champiodn! 
 Stand, and fall no more adoun 35 
 
 For a Httle blast! 
 
 Take thou the rood-tree' for thy staff; 
 Think thou on Him, in thy behalf 
 Who gave up life so lief! 
 
 For thee He gave it; for His sake 40 
 
 Against His foe that staff now take, 
 And Venge Him of that thief! 
 
 i 
 
 Of faith in Christ take thou the shield. 
 The while thou art within the field. 
 And e'er make strong thy hand! 
 
 Keep off the foe at thy staff's length, 
 And humble low that traitor's strength. 
 And win the blessed land! 
 
 Therein is day without a night. 
 Without an end are strength and might. 
 Chastised is every foe; 
 
 With God himself eternal life. 
 And peace and rest without all strife. 
 And weal without a woe. 
 
 Queen of heaven, mother, maid. 
 Thou may'st and canst to us be aid 
 And shield. From wrong us fend; 
 Help us from sin and shame to flee. 
 That we thy Son at last may see. 
 In joy without an end! 
 
 Amen! 
 * Together. » Cross. 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 '1 
 
 55 
 
 SO 
 
i2 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 SPRING SONG 
 
 (c. 1300) 
 
 Spring is come to town with love 
 With blossom and with bird in grove, 
 
 That all this bliss now bringeth. 
 There are daisies in the dales; 
 Notes full sweet of nightingales; 
 
 Each bird song singeth. 
 The throstlecock out-sings them all; 
 Away is fled the Winter's thrall, 
 
 W^hen woodrow^ springeth. 
 Then chanting birds in wondrous throng 
 Thrill out their joy the glades among 
 
 Till all the woodland ringeth. 
 
 The crimson rose is seen, 
 New leaves of tender green 
 
 With good-will grow, 
 The moon shines white and clear, 
 Fennel and thyme are here, 
 
 Fair lilies blow. 
 Their mates the wild drakes find. 
 Each creature seeks his kind. 
 
 As stream that trickles slow, 
 We plain when life is drear. 
 For cruel love the tear 
 
 Unchecked must flow. 
 
 The moon sends forth her light. 
 The goodly sun shines bright, 
 
 And birds sing well. 
 Dews drench the soft young grass, 
 And whispering lovers pass. 
 
 Then- tale to tell; 
 Snakes woo beneath the clod, 
 Women grow wondrous proud 
 
 On field and fell. 
 If one shall say me no 
 Spring joy I will forgo 
 
 And banished dwell. 
 
 ALYSOUN 
 
 (c. 1300) 
 
 In days of March and Averil i 
 When the spray begins to spring, 
 Each little bird hath her own mH 
 In her own speech to sing. 
 And I — I live in love longing 
 For one most fair of everytlung. 
 To me she bliss may bring: 
 To serve her is my boon. 
 A happy lot to me is sent, 
 I know from heaven 'tis to me lent, 
 From women all my love is bent 
 And fixed on Alysoun. 
 
 In hue her hair is fair to see. 
 
 Her brows are brown, her eyes are black, 
 
 With loving laugh she looked at me! — 
 
 Her waist is small, of slender make, 
 
 Unless as hers she will me take 
 
 To be her mate, my life I'll break, 
 
 My Ufe itself I will forsake 
 
 1 A spring flower; the woodruff. 
 
 1 April. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 And fey 2 I'll fall adoun. 
 
 A happy lot to me is sent, etc. 
 
 Nights I toss and watch and wake, 
 
 Until my visage waxeth wan; 
 
 Lady, all is for thy sake 
 
 Longing comes to me alone. 
 
 On earth there's none so learned grown 
 
 That he her virtues can make known. 
 
 Her neck is whiter than the swan, 
 
 Or fairest maid in town. 
 
 A happy lot to me is sent, etc. 
 
 With love I'm worn and watchings late, 
 
 Weary as water in a weir, 
 
 Lest any rob me of my mate. 
 
 I have heard it said of yore, 
 
 Better to bear awhile a sore 
 
 Than mourn forevermore. 
 
 Fairest earth e'er bore. 
 
 Hearken to my rune: 
 
 A happy lot to me is sent, 
 
 I know from heaven 'tis to me lent. 
 
 From women all my love is bent 
 
 And fixed on Alysoun. 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 4C 
 
 BLOW, NORTHERN WIND 
 (c. 1300) 
 
 I know a maid in bow^r bright, 
 
 That full seemly is to sight. 
 
 Maid of majesty and might. 
 
 Of loyal heart and hand. 
 
 'Midst many a nobler one 6 
 
 A maid of blood and bone, 
 
 I know not ever none 
 
 So fair in all the land. 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, 
 
 Send thou me my sweeting 10 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, blow, blow, blow. 
 
 With her long and lovely tresses. 
 
 Forehead and face fair for caresses. 
 
 Blest be the joy my lady blesses. 
 
 That bird so bright in bour,i 15 
 
 With lovesome eyes so large ard good 
 
 With blissful brows beneath her hood, 
 
 He that once hung upon the lUwd 
 
 Her life holds in hon6ur. 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, 20 
 
 Send thou me my sweeting 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, blow, t»k)w, blow. 
 
 Her face is full of light. 
 
 As a lantern in the night 
 
 She sheds a radiance bright, 26 
 
 So fair is she and fine. 
 
 Her neck is slender to enfold. 
 
 Her loving arms bring joy untold, 
 
 Her little hands are soft to hold. 
 
 Would God that she were mine. so 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, 
 
 Send thou me my sweeting 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, blow, blow, blow. 
 
 * Distracted, mad. 
 
 * Bower. 
 
EARLY SONGS 
 
 43 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 She is coral of goodn^sse, 
 Ruby she of rightfuln^sse, 
 She is crystal of cleann^sse, 
 Beauty's banner she. 
 She is lily of largesse, 
 Periwinkle of promesse, 
 She the sunflower of sweetnesse, 
 Lady of loyalty. 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, 
 
 Send thou me my sweeting 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, blow, blow, blow. 
 
 For her love I mourn and moan, 45 
 
 For her love I grieve and groan, 
 
 For her love my good is gone 
 
 And I wax all wan. 
 
 For her love in sleep I sigh, 
 
 For her love I wakeful lie, 50 
 
 For her love I droop and cry, 
 
 More than any man. 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, 
 
 Send thou me my sweeting 54 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind, blow, blow, blow. 
 
 WHEN THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS 
 (Early 14th Century) 
 
 When the nightingale sings, the woodes waxen 
 
 greene, 
 Leaf and grass and blossom springs, in Averil I 
 
 weene, 
 And love is to my hearte gone, with a spear so 
 
 keene. 
 Night and day my blood it drinks, mine 
 
 heartes death to teene.^ 
 
 I have loved all this year, that I can love no 
 more, 5 
 
 I have sighed many sighs, Lady, for thine ore,^ 
 
 Ne'er my love comes near to thee, and that me 
 grieveth sore. 
 
 Sweetest Lady think on me, I loved thee of yore. 
 
 Sweetest Lady, speak I pray, one word of love 
 
 to me, 
 While in this wide world I stay, I'll seek for 
 
 none but thee, 10 
 
 Your kind love might give me bliss, from pain 
 
 might set me free, 
 A sweet kiss of thy dear mouth, might my 
 
 surgeon be. 
 
 Sweetest Lady, here I pray, one boon of love 
 
 bestowe, 
 If you love me, as men say, as I, dearest, 
 
 knowe, 
 If you will it, look on me, just a look will 
 
 showe, 15 
 
 So much have I thought of thee, I all ghastly 
 
 growe 
 
 Between Linc61n and Lindesey, North-Hamp- 
 
 toun and L6ndoune, 
 I wot not of so fair a may,' by tower, dale, or 
 
 toune, 
 ■' Trouble. 2 Grace. » Maid. 
 
 Dearest one, I humbly pray, love me a Uttle 
 soone. 
 
 I now will plain my song, 20 
 
 To her to whom it doth belong. 
 
 JOAN 
 
 There's a maid in a bower, as beryl most bright, 
 
 As sapphire in silver set seemly in sight. 
 
 As jasper the gracious that gleameth with light. 
 
 As garnet in gold, and as ruby most right; 
 
 As onyx she is held up at a height; 5 
 
 As diamond the clear when in day she is dight; 
 
 She is coral, well kenned of Kaiser and Knight, 
 
 As emerald at morning this maid beareth might, 
 
 The power of the pearl hath she in her grace 
 
 For carbuncle I choose her, by form and by 
 
 face. 10 
 
 Her bloom is as red as the rose on the tree, 
 With the white of the lily most lovesome is she: 
 Than periwinkle more pleasing, or primrose of 
 
 price, 
 Alexanders, or parsley, or fragrant anice. 
 Quaint as a columbine, graceful and gay, 15 
 
 Clad in rich furs and in garment of grey; 
 Her face is a flower, she's fairest in blue. 
 As celandine or sage, — you yourself know it's 
 
 true. 
 Who looks on her beauty to bliss he is 
 
 brought. 
 He follows the sun, to tell all words are 
 
 naught. 20 
 
 She is popinjay abaiting my torment and bale. 
 True dove in a tower, I tell thee my tale; ^ 
 She is throstle so gentle that singeth in hall. 
 She is the wild laverock and the witwall; 
 She is falcon in forest, dearest in dale: 25 
 
 With every man gladdest in song and in tale : 
 She is wisest of all from Wye to Wyrhale; ^ 
 The nightingale's note tells her name to the 
 
 vale; 
 In his note is her name, nameth it none? 
 Whoso reads it aright, — let him whisper to 
 
 Joan. 30 
 
 SONG OF THE SCOTTISH MAIDENS 
 AFTER THE BATTLE OF BANNOCK- 
 BURN (1314)1 
 
 Maidens of Engelande sore may ye mourn 
 For the loss of your true-loves at Bannockes 
 burn! 
 
 With heve-a-loweP 
 
 What? Weened the King of Engelande 
 To have gotten Scotland? 5 
 
 With rumbylowe!^ 
 1 The Wirral, the land between the rivers Dee and 
 Mersey, in Cheshire. 
 
 1 This ballad is found in an old Chronicle, The Brut of 
 Engelonde, (c. 1350) where we are told that "the maid- 
 ens made a songe therefore in that cuntre of Kynge 
 Edwarde of Engelonde and in this manner thei songe." 
 Then follows the song. 
 
 2 These phrases "probably indicate the occurrence 
 of a dance movement emphasized by special gestures, 
 or the beating of musical instruments." 
 
44 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 LULLABY 
 
 (Early 14th Century) 
 
 LuUay, lullay, little child! 
 
 Why weepest thou so sore? 
 
 Needes must thou weep, 
 
 Thou wert doomed of yore 
 
 Ever to live in sorrow, 5 
 
 Ever to sigh and strive. 
 
 As thy fathers did ere this 
 
 Whilst they were alive. 
 
 Lullay, hiUay, little child? 
 
 Child lullay, lullow! 10 
 
 To this world unknown 
 
 Sadly come art thou. 
 
 Beasts and birds and cattle, 
 
 The fishes in the flood, 
 
 And each thing that liveth 16 
 
 Made of bone and blood. 
 
 When into the world they come 
 
 They do themselves some good, 
 
 All but that poor imp 
 
 That is of Adam's blood. 20 
 
 With care art thou beset; 
 
 Thou knowest naught of this world's wild 
 
 That is before thee set. 
 
 Child, if it betideth 
 
 That Time 'shall prosper thee, 23 
 
 Think how thou wert fostered 
 
 On thy mother's knee; 
 
 Ever mind thee in thine heart 
 
 Of those thinges three, — 
 
 Whence thou camest, where thou art, 30 
 
 And what shall come of thee. 
 
 Lullay, lullay, little child! 
 
 Child luUai, lullay! 
 
 With sorrow thou camest to this world. 
 
 With sorrow shalt wend away. 35 
 
 O! trust not to this world, 
 
 It is thy fell foe. 
 
 The rich it maketh poor, 
 
 The poor man sick als6. 
 
 It turneth woe to weal, 40 
 
 And also weal to woe. 
 
 Trust not man this changing world 
 
 While it tumeth so. 
 
 Lullay, lullay, httle child! 
 
 The foot is on the wheel, 45 
 
 How 'twill turn thou knowest not, 
 
 Whether to woe or weal. 
 
 Child, thou art a pilgrim 
 
 In wickedness yborn; 
 
 Thou wanderest in this false world, 50 
 
 Look thou well beforn. 
 
 Death shall come with sudden blast 
 
 Out of the darkness hoar, 
 
 Adam's children down to cast, 
 
 Adam he slew before. 55 
 
 Lullay, lullay, httle child! , 
 
 Adam did woes oppress 
 
 In the land of Paradise, 
 
 Through Satan's wickedness. 
 
 Child, thou'rt not a pilgrim, 
 But a helpless guest. 
 Thy day already told, 
 Thy lot already cast. 
 Whether thou shalt wend 
 North, or East, or West, 
 Death shall thee betide. 
 With bitter bale in breast. 
 
 Lullay, lullay, little child! 
 
 Child lullay, lullow! 
 
 To this unknown world 
 
 Sadly come art thou. 
 
 AVE MARIA 
 
 Ave maris stella,^ 
 
 The star upon the sea, 
 Dei mater alma,^ 
 
 Blessed may est thou be! 
 Aique semper virgo,^ 
 
 Pray thy son for me, 
 Felix cell porta,^ 
 
 That I may come to thee. 
 Gabriel, that archangel. 
 
 He was messenger; 
 So fair he hailed our Lady, 
 
 With an Ave so clear. 
 Hail be thou, Mary, 
 
 Be thou, Mary, 
 Full of Codes grace, 
 
 And queen of all mercy! 
 All that are to greet^ 
 
 Without deadly sin, 
 Forty dayes of pardoiin 
 
 God granteth them. 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 THE 
 
 A DESCRIPTION OF WILLIAM 
 CONQUEROR 
 
 (From the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, translated by 
 J. A. Giles) 
 
 If any would know what manner of man 
 King William was, the glory that he obtained, 
 and of how many lands he was lord; then will 
 we describe him as we have known him, we, 
 5 who have looked upon him, and who once lived 
 in his court. ^ This King William, of whom we 
 are speaking, was a very wise and a great man, 
 and more honored and more powerful than any 
 of his predecessors. He was mild to those good 
 
 10 men who loved God, but severe beyond measure 
 towards those who withstood his will. He 
 founded a noble monastery on the spot where 
 God permitted him to conquer England, and he 
 established monks in it, and he made it very 
 
 15 rich. In his days the great monastery at 
 
 1 Hail star of the sea. 2 Dear Mother of God. 
 
 3 Yet ever a virgin. * Blessed gate of heaven. 
 
 6 To supplicate, to greet Mary with an Ave. 
 The portion of the Chronicle given here is included 
 
 111 iiie eiiLry lor luo/ ; iiie year 01 tiie aeatn 01 wuiiamy 
 the Conqueror. The passage is presumably the work \, 
 of a contemporary who writes (as he declares) from per- ; 
 sonal knowledge. ' 
 
I 
 
 WILLIAM OF MALMSBURY 45 
 
 Canterbury was built, and many others also given to avarice and greedily loved gain. He 
 
 throughout England. Moreover, this land was made large forests for the deer and enacted laws 
 
 filled with monks who lived after the rule of therewith, so that whoever killed a hart or a 
 
 St. Benedict; and such was the state of religion hind should be blinded. As he forbade killing 
 
 in his days that all that would might observe 5 the deer, so also the boars; and he loved the tall 
 
 that which was prescribed by their respective stags as if he were their father. He also 
 
 orders. appointed concerning the hares, that they 
 
 King William was held in much reverence, should go free. The rich complained and the 
 
 He wore his crown three times every year when poor murmured, but he was so sturdy that he 
 he was in England: at Easter he wore it at 10 recked naught of them ; they must will all that 
 
 Winchester, at Pentecost at Westminster, and the king willed, if they would live, or would 
 
 at Christmas at Gloucester. And at these keep their lands, or would hold their possessions 
 
 times all the men of England were with him, or would be maintained in their rights. . . . 
 
 archbishops, bishops, abbots, and earls, thanes, He left three sons: Robert, the eldest, was 
 and knights. So also, was he a very stern and a 15 duke of Normandy after him; the second, 
 
 wrathful man, so that none durst do anything named WiUiam, wore the crown of England 
 
 against his will, and he kept in prison those after his father's death; and his third son was 
 
 earls who acted against his pleasure. Henry,^ to whom he bequeathed immense 
 
 He removed bishops from their sees, and treasures, 
 abbots from their offices, and he imprisoned 20 
 thanes, and at length he spared not his own 
 
 brother Odo. This Odo was a very powerful ^^^llUam Of ^PaltttfifbUt^ 
 bishop in Normandy ; his see was that of Bayeux, 
 
 and he was foremost to serve the king. He had c. 1095-c. 1142 
 an earldom in England, and when William was 25 . , . - ,/rciT^TT-oAr,ct a i-.i-.i^TTTVTrr. /^-n ttttvtot^t -c^ 
 
 in Normandy he was the first man in this MALMSBURY'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 
 
 country, and him did he cast into prison. (^j.^^ q^^^^ Regum Anglorum, c. 1120, trans- 
 
 Amongst other things the good order that lated by J. A. Giles) 
 
 William estabhshed is not to be forgotten; it 
 
 was such that any man, who was himself aught, 30 A long period has elapsed since, as well 
 might travel over the kingdom with a bosomf ul through the care of my parents as my own 
 of gold, unmolested; and no man durst kill industry, I became famiHar with books. This 
 another, however great the injury he might pleasure possessed me from my childhood: 
 have received from him. He reigned over this source of dehght has grown with my years. 
 England, and, being sharp-sighted to his own 35 Indeed I was so instructed by my father, that 
 interest, he surveyed the kingdom so thor- had I turned aside to other pursuits, I should 
 oughly that there was not a single hide of land^ have considered it as jeopardy to my soul and 
 throughout the whole, of which he knew not discredit to my character. Wherefore mindful 
 the possessor, and how much it was worth, of the adage "covet what is necessary," I 
 and this he afterwards entered in his register.' 40 constrained my early age to desire eagerly that 
 The land of the Welsh was under his sway, which it was disgraceful not to possess. I gave, 
 and he built castles therein; moreover he had indeed, my attention to various branches of 
 full dominion over the Isle of Man; Scotland literature, but in different degrees. Logic, for 
 also was subject to him, from his great strength; instance, which gives arms to eloquence, I 
 the land of Normandy was his inheritance, and 45 contented myseK with barely hearing. Med- 
 he possessed the earldom of Maine; and had he icine, which ministers to the health of the body, 
 lived two years longer he would have subdued I studied with somewhat more attention. 
 Ireland by his prowess, and that without a But now, having scrupulously examined the 
 battle. several branches of Ethics, I bow to its majesty, 
 
 Truly there was much trouble in these times, 50 because it spontaneously unveils itself to those 
 and very great distress; he caused castles to be who study it, and directs their minds to moral 
 built, and oppressed the poor. The king was practice; History more especially; which, by 
 also of great sternness, and he took from his an agreeable recapitulation of past events, 
 subjects many marks of gold and many hun- excites its readers, by example, to frame their 
 dred pounds of silver, and this either with or 55 lives to the pursuit of good, or to aversion from 
 without right, and with little need. He was evil. When, therefore, at my own expense, 
 
 I had procured some historians of foreign 
 2 The hide, or family portion, was the old unit of land, nations I proceeded during my domestic 
 
 and contained from 100 to 120 acres. ' \ j ,,«„,, or 
 
 «i. e., the famoua Doom3da,y Beok. ♦Afterward, Henry I, King of England, llOO-lldo. 
 
46 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 leisure, to inquire if anything concerning our On the other side, the Normans passed the 
 
 own country could be found worthy of handing whole night in confessing their sins, and re- 
 down to posterity. Hence it arose, that, not ceived the sacrament in the morning: their 
 content with the writings of ancient times, I infantry, with bows and arrows, formed the 
 began, myseK, to compose; not indeed to dis- 5 vanguard, while their cavalry, divided into 
 play my learning, which is comparatively wings, were thrown back. The earl, with 
 nothing, but to bring to light events lying serene countenance, declaring aloud, that God 
 concealed in a confused mass of antiquity, would favour his, as being the righteous side, 
 In consequence rejecting vague opinions, I have called for his arms; and presently, when, 
 studiously sought for chronicles far and near, 10 through the hurry of his attendants, he had 
 though I confess I have scarcely profited any- put on his hauberk the hind part before, he 
 thing by this industry. For perusing them all, corrected the mistake with a laugh; saying, 
 I still remained poor in information; though I "My dukedom shall be turned into a kingdom." 
 ceased not my researches as long as I could Then beginning the song of Roland, that the 
 find any thing to read. However, what I have 15 warlike example of that man might stimulate 
 clearly ascertained concerning the four king- the soldiers, and calling on God for assistance, 
 doms, I have inserted in my first book, in the battle commenced on both sides. They 
 which I hope truth will find no cause to blush, fought with ardour, neither giving ground, for 
 though perhaps a degree of doubt may some- great part of the day. Finding this, William 
 times arise. I shall now trace the monarchy of 20 gave a signal to his party, that, by a feigned 
 the West Saxon kingdom, through the line of flight, they should retreat. Through this 
 successive princes, down to the coming of the device, the close body of English, opening for 
 Normans: which if any person will condescend the purpose of cutting down the straggling 
 to regard with complacency, let him in broth- enemy, brought upon itself swift destruction; 
 erly love observe the following rule: "If before 25 for the Normans, facing about, attacked them 
 he knew only these things, let him not be thus disordered, and compelled them to fly. In 
 disgusted because I have inserted them; if he this manner, deceived by a stratagem, they 
 shall know more, let him not be angry that I met an honourable death in avenging their 
 have not spoken of them;" but rather let him country; nor indeed were they at all wanting 
 communicate his knowledge to me, while I yet 30 to their own revenge, as, by frequently making 
 five, that at least, those events may appear in a stand, they slaughtered their pursuers in 
 the margin of my history, which do not occur heaps: for, getting possession of an eminence, 
 in the text. they drove down the Normans, when roused 
 
 with indignation and anxiously striving to gain 
 
 THT? RATTTT? DV TT X^TIKC^ Aivin TTTT? ^^ *^® ^'^^^'" ^^^und, into the vaUey beneath, 
 
 hifhhji^T Ol? THi. CONQUl^hr down stones on them as they stood below, they 
 
 (From the same) destroyed them to a man. Besides, by a short 
 
 passage, with which they were acquainted. 
 The courageous leaders mutually prepared 40 avoiding a deep ditch, they trod under foot 
 for battle, each according to his national cus- such a multitude of their enemies in that place, 
 tom. The English, as we have heard, passed the that they made the hollow level with the plain, 
 night without sleep, in drinking, and singing, by the heaps of carcases. This vicissitude of 
 and, in the morning, proceeded without delay first one party conquering, and then the other, 
 toward the enemy; all were on foot, armed with 45 prevailed as long as the life of Harold con- 
 battle axes, and covering themselves in front tinned; but when he fell, from having his brain 
 by the junction of their shields, they formed an pierced with an arrow, the flight of the English 
 impenetrable body, which would have secured ceased not until night. The valour of both 
 their safety that day, had not the Normans, by leaders was here eminently conspicuous, 
 a feigned flight, induced them to open their 50 Harold, not merely content with the duty of 
 ranks, which till that time, according to their a general in exhorting others, diligently entered 
 custom, were closely compacted. The king into every soldier-like office; often would he 
 himself on foot, stood, with his brother, near strike the enemy so that none could approach 
 the standard; in order that, while all shared him with impunity; for immediately the same 
 equal danger, none might think of retreating. 55 blow levelled both horse and rider. Wherefore, 
 This standard Wilham sent, after the victory, as I have related, receiving the fatal arrow from v 
 to the Pope; it was sumptuously embroidered, a distance, he yielded to death. One of the \' 
 with gold and precious stones, in the form of a soldiers with a sword gashed his thigh, as he 
 man fighting. lay prostrate; fcr which shameful and cowardly 
 
WILLIAM OF MALMSBURY 47 
 
 action, he was branded with ignominy by monks mocked the rule of their order by fine 
 William, and dismissed from the service. vestments, and the use of every kind of food. 
 
 William too was equally ready to encourage The nobility, given up to luxury and wanton- 
 by his voice and by his presence; to be the ness, went not to church in the morning after 
 first to rush forward; to attack the thickest of 5 the manner of Christians, but merely, in a 
 the foe. Thus everywhere raging, everywhere careless manner, heard matins and masses from 
 furious, he lost three choice horses, which were a hurrying priest in theh- chambers, amid the 
 that day pierced under him. The dauntless blandishments of their wives. The common- 
 spirit and vigour of the intrepid general, alty, left unprotected, became a prey to the 
 however, still persisted, though often called lo most powerful, who amassed fortunes, by either 
 back by the kind remonstrance of his body- seizing on their property, or by selling their 
 guard; he still persisted, I say, till approaching persons into foreign countries; although it be 
 night crowned him with complete victory, and an innate quahty of this people, to be more 
 no doubt, the hand of God so protected him, inclined to revelling, than to the accumulation 
 that the enemy should draw no blood from his 15 of wealth. . . . 
 
 person, though they aimed so many javelins at Drinking in parties was a universal practise, 
 him. in which occupation they passed entire nights 
 
 This was a fatal day to England, a mel- as well as days. They consumed their whole 
 ancholy havoc of our dear coimtry, through its substance in mean and despicable houses; 
 change of masters. For it had long since 20 unlike the Normans and French, who, in noble 
 adopted the manners of the Angles, which had and splendid mansions, lived with frugality, 
 been very various according to the times: for The vices attendant on drunkenness, which 
 in the first years of their arrival, they were enervate the human mind, followed; hence it 
 barbarians in their look and manners, warlike arose that engaging William, more with rash- 
 in their usages, heathens in their rites; but, 25 ness and precipitate fury than miUtary skill, 
 after embracing the faith of Christ, by degrees, they doomed themselves, and their country to 
 and in process of time, from the peace they slavery, by one, and that an easy, victory, 
 enjoyed, regarding arms only in a secondary "For nothing is less effective than rashness; 
 light, they gave their whole attention to and what begins with violence, quickly ceases, 
 religion. I say nothing of the poor, the mean- 30 or is repelled." In fine, the English at that 
 ness of whose fortune often restrains them from time, wore short garments reaching to the 
 overstepping the bounds of justice; I omit men mid-knee; they had their hair cropped; their 
 of ecclesiastical rank, whom sometimes respect beards shaven; their arms laden with golden 
 to their profession, and sometimes the fear of bracelets; their skin adorned with punctured 
 shame, suffer not to deviate from the truth: 35 designs. They were accustomed to eat till 
 I speak of princes, who from the greatness of they became surfeited, and to drink till they 
 their power might have full Hberty to indulge in were sick. These latter qualities they im- 
 pleasure; some of whom, in their own country, parted to their conquerors; as to the rest, they 
 and others at Rome, changing their habit, adopted their manners. I would not, however, 
 obtained a heavenly kingdom, and a saintly 40 have these bad propensities universally as- 
 intercourse. Many during their whole Uves in cribed to the English. I know that many of 
 outward appearance only embraced the present the clergy, at that day, trod the path of sane- 
 world, in order that they might exhaust their tity, by a blameless Ufe; I know that many of 
 treasures on the poor, or divide them amongst the laity, of all ranks and conditions, in this 
 monasteries. What shall I say of the multi- 45 nation, were well-pleasing to God. Be injustice 
 tudes of bishops, hermits, and abbots? Does far from this account; the accusation does not 
 not the whole island blaze with such numerous involve the whole indiscriminately. ''But, 
 relics of its natives that you can scarcely pass a as in peace, the mercy of God often cherishes 
 village of any consequence but you hear the the bad and the good together; so, equally, does 
 name of some new saint, besides the numbers 50 His severity, sometimes, include them both in 
 of whom all notices have perished through the captivity." 
 
 want of records? Nevertheless, in process of Moreover, the Normans, that I may speak of 
 
 time, the desire after Uterature and religion had them also, were at that time, and are even now, 
 decayed, for several years before the arrival of proudly apparelled, delicate in their food, but 
 the Normans. The clergy, contented with a 55 not excessive. They are a race inured to war, 
 very slight degree of learning, could scarcely and can hardly live without it; fierce in rushing 
 stammer out the words of the sacraments; against the enemy; and where strength fails of 
 and a person who understood grammar, was success, ready to use stratagem, or to corrupt by 
 an object of wonder and astonishment. The bribery. As I have related, they live in large 
 
48 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 edifices with economy; envy their equals; wish his eyes toward the church, which stood out 
 to excell their superiors; and plunder their distinctly on the summit of a rock, he heard 
 subjects, though they defend them from others: upon all sides a sound of great sweetness; and 
 they are faithful to their lords, though a slight listening intently, the better to hear the melody 
 offense renders them perfidious. They weigh sin all its fulness, he began to sigh. He per- 
 treachery by its chance of success, and change ceived that it was the monks singing in the 
 their sentiments with money. They are, dining-hall, and chanting the hours. There- 
 however, the kindest of nations, and they upon, he requested certain ones in the boats to 
 esteem strangers worthy of equal honour with come round to him and to sing with him. Then 
 themselves. They also intermarry with their 10 the king himself, expressing with his own 
 vassals. They revived, by their arrival, the mouth the gladness of his heart, composed a 
 observances of religion, which were everywhere song in English in these words: 
 grown lifeless in England. You might see o i.i xi. ^ - 'Vi 
 
 churches riae in every village and monasteries ^^^%S:'iLr^\Z^ly, 
 
 m the towns and cities, built after a style un- 15 .. j^^^^ Knights, near the land 
 
 known before; you might behold the country And hear the monks' sweet song." 
 
 flourishing with renovated rights; so that each 
 
 wealthy man accounted that day lost to him, which, even to-day, are sung publicly in chorus 
 which he had neglected to signahze by some and are remembered in proverbs. The king 
 munificent action. But having enlarged suf- 20 beginning thus, did not cease to sing piously 
 ficiently on these points, let us pursue the and sweetly in chorus with the venerable 
 transactions of William. college, until he came to land, and, being 
 
 When his victory was complete he caused his worthily received by the brothers in procession, 
 dead to be interred with great pomp; granting as their custom is with the most distinguished 
 the enemy the liberty of doing the like, if they 25 person, was led into the church. Presently, by 
 thought proper. He sent the body of Harold his privilege and authority he confirmed in 
 to his mother, who begged it, unransomed; perpetuity the rights and benefits granted to 
 though she proffered large sums by her mes- the church by his predecessors, the kings of the 
 sengers. She buried it, when thus obtained, at English; and before the high altar, where 
 Waltham; a church which he had built at his so rests the sacred body of the virgin and spouse of 
 own expense, in honour of the Holy Cross, and Christ, Aetheldreda, he declared, in the 
 had endowed for canons. William then, by presence of the church and of the world, that 
 degrees proceeding, as became a conqueror, the rights and privileges of the place should be 
 with his army, not after an hostile, but a royal free in perpetuity, 
 manner, journeyed towards London, the 35 
 principal city of the kingdom; and shortly 
 
 after, all the citizens came out to meet him with ^tOftttV Of ^BOtttnOUtll 
 
 gratulations. t P 
 
 d. 1154? 
 
 tEI^liomaflf of €1^ dedicatory epistle 
 
 a. c. 11U7 (From Historia Regum BritaniGe, 1147, trans- 
 
 CANUTE and the monks of ELY lated by J. A. Giles) 
 
 (From Historia Eliensis, 12th century, trans- ^^ Whilst occupied on many and various studies 
 lated by P. V. D. Shelly) I happened to light upon the History of the 
 
 Kings of Britain, and wondered that in the 
 On a certain occasion, king Canute, accom- account which Gildas and Bede, in their elegant 
 panied by his queen Emma, and by magnates treatises, have given of them, I found nothing 
 of the reahn, was proceeding to Ely by boat, 50 said of those kings who lived here before the In- 
 intending there to celebrate, according to carnation of Christ, nor of Arthur, and many 
 custom, the purification of Saint Mary; for, others who succeeded after the Incarnation; 
 since the beginning of their order, the abbots of though their actions both deserved immortal 
 Ely have held the ceremony in the presence of fame, and were also celebrated by many people 
 the king's court. As they were approaching 55 in a pleasant manner and by heart, as if they 
 the bank, the king, rising in the midst of his had been written. Whilst I was intent upon 
 men, signalled to the boatmen to pull more these and such like thoughts, Walter,^ arch- \ 
 swiftly to the little gate, and commanded them , t,, ux u ^^r , ,, r^ , , i 
 
 , iu u -x 1 1 rnu T/rx' 1 Thought to be Walter Mapes, the poet and author 
 
 to pass through it slowly. 1 hereupon, lifting of several ludicrous and satirical compositions. (Gile«.) 
 
I 
 
 GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH 49 
 
 eacon of Oxford, a man of great eloquence, soever you shall make choice of, and give with 
 and learned in foreign histories, offered me a you the third part of my kingdom." Then 
 /ory ancient book in the British tongue, which, Regau, the second daughter, willing, after the 
 in a continued regular story and elegant style, example of her sister, to prevail upon her 
 related the actions of them all, from Brutus^ 5 father's good nature, answered with an oath, 
 the first king of the Britons, dovm to Cadwal- "That she could not otherwise express her 
 lader^ the son of Cadwallo. At his request, thoughts, but that she loved him above all 
 therefore, though I had not made fine language creatures." The credulous father upon this 
 my study, by collecting florid expressions from made her the same promise that he did to her 
 other authors, yet contented with my own 10 eldest sister, that is, the choice of a husband, 
 homely style, I undertook the translation of with the third part of his kingdom. But 
 that book into Latin. For if I had swelled the Cordeilla, the youngest, understanding how 
 pages with rhetorical flourishes, I must have easily he was satisfied with the flattering ex- 
 tired my readers by employing their attention pressions of her sisters, was desirous to make 
 more upon my words than upon the history. 15 trial of his affection after a different manner. 
 To you, therefore, Robert earl of Gloucester,^ "My father," said she, "is there any daughter 
 this work humbly sues for the favour of being that can love her father more than duty re- 
 so corrected by your advice, that it may not be quires? In my opinion, who ever pretends 
 thought to be the poor offspring of Geoffrey to it, must disguise her real sentiments under 
 of Monmouth, but when polished by your re- 20 the veil of flattery. I have always loved you 
 fined wit and judgment, the production of him as a father, nor do I yet depart from my pur- 
 who had Henry the glorious king of England posed duty; and if you insist to have some- 
 for his father, and whom we see an accom- thing more extorted from me, hear now the 
 plished scholar and philosopher, as well as a greatness of my affection, which I always bear 
 brave soldier and expert commander; so that 25 you, and take this for a short answer to all 
 Britain with joy acknowledges, that in you she your questions; look how much you have, so 
 possesses another Henry. much is your value, and so much do I love 
 
 you." The father, supposing that she spoke 
 
 rpTTT:! orprk-Dv- r\T? TZTXTrt T-n^TD *^^® ^^^ ^^ *^® abundance of her heart, was 
 
 THE STORY OF KING LEIR 30 highly provoked, and immediately repHed, 
 
 (From the same) " Since you have so far despised my old age as 
 
 not to thmk me worthy the love that your 
 After this unhappy fate of Bladud, Leir, his sisters express for me, you shall have from me 
 son was advanced to the throne, and nobly the like regard, and shall be excluded from any 
 governed his country sixty years. He built 35 share with your sisters in my kingdom. Not- 
 upon the river Sore a city called in the British withstanding, I do not say but that since you 
 tongue, Kaerleir, in the Saxon, Leircestre.^ are my daughter, I will marry you to some 
 He was without male issue, but had three foreigner, if fortune offers you any such hus- 
 daughters, whose names were Gonorilla, Regau, band; but will never, I do assure you, make it 
 and Cordeilla, of whom he was dotingly fond, 40 my business to procure so honourable a match 
 but especially of his youngest, Cordeilla. When for you as for your sisters; because, though 
 he began to grow old, he had thoughts of divid- I have hitherto loved you more than them, 
 ing his kingdom among them, and of bestowing you have in requital thought me less worthy 
 them on such husbands as were fit to be ad- of your affection than they." And, without 
 vanced to the government with them. But to 45 further delay, after consultation with his no- 
 make trial who was worthy to have the best bility, he bestowed his two other daughters 
 part of his kingdom, he went to each of them upon the dukes of Cornwall and Albania, with 
 to ask which of them loved him most. The half the island at present, but after his death, 
 question being proposed, Gonorilla, the eldest, the inheritance of the whole monarchy of Brit- 
 made answer, "That she called heaven to wit-50ain. 
 
 ness, she loved him more than her own soul." It happened after this, that Aganippus, 
 
 The father replied, "Since you have preferred king of the Franks, having heard of the fame 
 my declining age before your own life, I will of Cordeilla's beauty, forthwith sent his am- 
 marry you, my dearest daughter, to whom- bassadors to the king to demand her in mar- 
 2 The reputed founder of Britain according to the old leg- 55 riage. The father, retaining yet his anger 
 
 ends, was supposed to have been the descendant of iEneas. x j u j «rpu *u „ ^-,, 
 
 8 A British king, died about 664. towards her, made answer, "That he was very 
 
 * The bastard son of Henry I, who. was famous as a pa- willing tO bestoW his daughter, but without 
 tron of learning and as a leaderin the civil wars following .,, x -j. • . u u v,„^ 
 
 the death of h^ father. either money or territories; because he had 
 
 1 Leicester. already given away his kingdom with all his 
 
60 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 treasure to his eldest daughters, Gonorilla and move her commiseration, because (as related 
 Regau." When this was told Aganippus, he, above) he had treated her so unworthily, 
 being very much in love with the lady, sent However, disdaining to bear any longer such 
 again to king Leir, to tell him, "That he had base usage, he took ship for Gaul. In his pas- 
 money and territories enough, as he possessed 5 sage he observed that he had only the third 
 the third part of Gaul, and desired no more place given him among the princes that were 
 than his daughter only, that he might have with him in the ship, at which, with deep sighs 
 heirs by her." At last the match was con- and tears, he burst forth into the following 
 eluded; Cordeilla was sent to Gaul, and complaint: — 
 
 married to Aganippus. 10 "O irreversible decrees of the Fates, that 
 
 A long time after this, when Leir came to never swerve from yoiu* stated course! why 
 be infirm through old age, the two dukes, on did you ever advance me to an unstable feli- 
 whom he had bestowed Britain with his two city, since the punishment of lost happiness is 
 daughters, fostered an insurrection against greater than the sense of present misery? 
 him, and deprived him of his kingdom, and 15 The remembrance of the time when vast 
 of all regal authority, which he had hitherto numbers of men obsequiously attended me in 
 exercised with great power and glory. At the taking the cities and wasting the enemy's 
 length, by mutual agreement, Maglaunus, countries, more deeply pierces my heart than 
 duke of Albania, one of his sons-in-law, was the view of my present calamity, which has 
 to allow him maintenance at his own house, 20 exposed me to the derision of those who were 
 together with sixty soldiers, who were to be formerly prostrate at my feet. Oh! the enmity 
 kept for state. After two years' Stay with of fortune! Shall I ever again see the day when 
 his son-in-law, his daughter Gonorilla, grudged I may be able to reward those according to 
 the number of his men, who began to upbraid their deserts who have forsaken me in my 
 the ministers of the court with their scanty 25 distress? How true was thy answer, CordeiUa, 
 allowance; and, having spoken to her husband when I asked thee concerning thy love to me, 
 about it, she gave orders that the numbers of "As much as you have, so much is your value, 
 her father's followers should be reduced to and so much do I love you." While I had any- 
 thirty, and the rest discharged. The father, thing to give they valued me, being friends, 
 resetting this treatment, left Maglaunus, and 30 not to me, but to my gifts; they loved me then, 
 went to Henuinus, duke of Cornwall, to whom but they loved my gifts much more: when my 
 he had married his daughter Regau. Here he gifts ceased, my friends vanished. But with 
 met with an honourable reception, but before what face shall I presume to see you, my 
 the year was at an end, a quarrel happened dearest daughter, since in my anger I married 
 between the two families, which raised Regan's 35 you upon worse terms than your sisters, who, 
 indignation; so that he commanded her father after all the mighty favours they have received 
 to discharge all his attendants but five, and to from me, suffer me to be in banishment and 
 be contented with their service. This second poverty?" 
 
 affliction was insupportable to him, and made As he was lamenting his condition in these 
 him return again to his former daughter, with 40 and the like expressions, he arrived at Karitia,^ 
 hopes that the misery of his condition might where his daughter was, and waited before the 
 move in her some sentiments of filial piety, city while he sent a messenger to inform her 
 and that he, wiiii his family, might find a sub- of the misery he was fallen into, and to desire 
 sistence with her. But she, not forgetting her her relief for a father who suffered both hunger 
 resentment, swore by the gods he should not 45 and nakedness. Cordeilla was startled at 
 stay with her, unless he would dismiss his ret- the news, and wept bitterly, and with tears 
 inue, and be contented with the attendance of asked how mary men her father had with him. 
 one man; and with bitter reproaches she told The messenger answered, he had none but one 
 him how iU his desire of vain-glorious pomp man, who had been his armour-bearer, and was 
 suited his age and poverty. When he found 50 staying with him without the town. Then she 
 that she was by no means to be prevailed upon, took what money she thought might be suffi- 
 he was at last forced to comply, and, dismissing cient, and gave it to the messenger, with orders 
 the rest, to take up with one man only. But to carry her father to another city, and there 
 by this time he began to reflect more sensibly give out that he was sick, and to provide for 
 with himself upon the grandeur from which 55 him bathing, clothes, and all other nourish- 
 he had fallen, and the miserable state to which ment. She likewise gave orders that he should 
 he was now reduced, and to enter upon thoughts take into his service forty men, well clothedv 
 of going beyond sea to his youngest daughter, and accoutred, and when all things were thus , 
 Yet he doubted whether he should be able to 2 Calais. 
 
I 
 
 GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH 51 
 
 irepared he should notify his arrival to king quite still, that, when he parteth from you, he 
 Aganippus and his daughter. The messenger may not know either good or evil of you, nor 
 quickly returning, carried Leir to another city, know anything either to praise or to blame in 
 and there kept him concealed, till he had done you. Some one is so learned and of such wise 
 everything that Cordeilla had commanded. 5 speech, that she would have him to know it, 
 
 As soon as he was provided with his royal who sits and talks to him and gives him word 
 apparel, ornaments, and retinue, he sent word for word, and becomes a preceptor who should 
 to Aganippus and his daughter, that he was be an anchoress, and teaches him who is come 
 driven out of his kingdom of Britain by his to teach her; and would^ by her own account, 
 sons-in-law, and was come to them to procure 10 soon be celebrated and known among the wise, 
 their assistance for recovering his dominions. Known she is well; for, from the very circum- 
 Upon which they, attended with their chief stance that she thinketh herself to be reputed 
 ministers of state and the nobility of the king- wise, he understands that 'she is a fool; for she 
 dom, went out to meet him, and received him hunteth after praise and catches reproach, 
 honourably, and gave into his management the 15 For, at last, when he is gone away he will say, 
 whole power of Gaul, till such time as he should "This anchoress is a great talker." Eve, in 
 be restored to his former dignity. Paradise, held a long conversation with the 
 
 In the meantime Aganippus sent oflficers all serpent, and told him all the lesson that God 
 over Gaul to raise an army, to restore his had taught her and Adam concerning the apple;' 
 father-in-law to his kingdom of Britain. Which 20 and thus the fiend, by her talk, understood at 
 done, Leir returned to Britain with his son and once, her weakness, and found out the way to 
 daughter and the forces which they had raised, ruin her. Our lady. Saint Mary, acted in a 
 where he fought with his sons-in-law and routed quite different manner. She told the angel no 
 them. Having thus reduced the whole king- tale, but asked him briefly that which she 
 dom to his power, he died the third year after. 25 wanted to know. Do you, my dear sisters, 
 Aganippus also died; and Cordeilla obtained imitate our lady, and not the cackling Eve. 
 the government of the kingdom, buried her Wherefore, let an anchoress, whatsoever she 
 father in a certain vault, which she ordered to be, keep silence as much as ever she can and 
 be made for him under the river Sore, in Lei- may. Let her not have the hen's nature, 
 cester, and which had been built originally 30 When the hen has laid, she must needs cackle, 
 under the ground to the honour of the god And what does she get by it? Straightway 
 Janus. And here all the workmen of the city, comes the chough and robs her of her eggs and 
 upon the anniversary solemnity of that fes- devours all that of which she should have 
 tival, used to begin their yearly labours. brought forth hve birds. And just so the 
 
 35 wicked chough, the devil, beareth away from 
 
 From ANCREN RIWLE^ ^^^ cackling anchoress, and swalloweth up, 
 
 n_i ooK ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ have brought forth, and which 
 
 c. 1210-1225 ought, as birds, to bear them up toward heaven, 
 
 (Modernized by Rev. James Morton) if it had not been cackled. The poor pedler 
 
 ^ ^ 40 makes more noise to cry his soap than a rich 
 
 F PEECH mercer all his valuable wares. Of a spiritual 
 
 Speaking and tasting are both in the mouth, man in whom you place confidence, as you may 
 as sight is in the eyes; but we shall let tasting do, it is good that you ask counsel, and that he 
 alone until we speak of your food, and treat, teach you a safe remedy against temptations; 
 at pre^nt, of speaking, and thereafter of hear- 45 and in confession shew him, if he will hear you, 
 ing, of both in common, in some measure, as your greatest and vilest sins, that he may pity 
 they go together. you, and out of compassion cry internally to 
 
 First of aU, when you have to go to your Christ to have mercy upon you, and have you 
 parlour window, learn froih your maid who it is often in his mind and in his prayers. "Sed 
 that is come; for it may be some one whom you 50 multi veniunt ad vos in vestimentis ovium, 
 ought to shun; and, when you must needs go intrinsecus autem sunt lupi rapaces."^ "But 
 forth, make the sign of the cross carefuUy on be aware and on your guard," saith our Lord, 
 your mouth, ears, and eyes, and on your breast "for many come to you clothed in lambs' fleece 
 also, and go forth in the fear of God to a priest. ' and are raging wolves." Beheve secular men 
 Say first, "Confiteor," and then " Benedicite." 55 little, religious still less. Desire not too much 
 which he ought to say; hear his words and sit their acquaintance. Eve spoke with the ser- 
 
 iThe Rule of the Anchoresses, (or nuns). It has pent without fear. Our lady was afraid of 
 
 been claimed that the Ancren Riwle was the work of ar^aaVincr wi'+Vi rioViriol 
 
 Richard Poore. Bishop of Chichester, SaUsbury, and sP^aKing Wltn Uabriel. 
 Durham. a St. Matt. vii. 15. 
 
52 THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO CHAUCER 
 
 Watchfulness and Diligence any one were to offer to buy one of these 
 
 from you at the day of Judgment; that is, if 
 
 Eight things especially admonish and invite one were to offer to buy from you the reward 
 us to be watchful and diligent in some good that ariseth from it, ye would not sell it for all 
 work — the shortness of this life — the difficulty 5 the gold in the world. For this shall be your 
 of our way — the small amount of our merits — song before the Lord: "Laetati sumus pro 
 the great number of our sins — the certainty of diebus quibus nos humiliasti — annis quibus 
 death, and the uncertainty of the time — the vidimus mala;"^ that is. We are glad now, 
 severe doom of the day of judgment, which is O Lord, for the days in which thou didst hum- 
 also so strict. Oiu- Lord saith in the gospel: loble us with the wrongs we suffered from other 
 "De omniverbo otioso,"^ etc. Item "Capillus men; and, we are glad now, O Lord, for the 
 de capite vestro non peribit;"* that is, no years in which we were sick and saw pain and 
 thought shall be impunished. These are God's sorrow. Every worldly affliction is God's 
 words: that every idle word shall be there ambassador. Men will receive honourably the 
 brought forth, and idle thoughts that were not 15 messenger of a man of rank, and make him 
 previously amended. Consider now what gladly welcome; and so much the more if he is 
 Cometh of depraved affections and sinful intimately acquainted with the King of 
 works. Again, the seventh thing which warns Heaven. (And who was more intimate with 
 us to be vigilant is the pains of hell, in which the heavenly King) while He dwelt here, than 
 consider three things — the innumerable tor- 20 was this ambassador? — that is, worldly suffer- 
 ments which no tongue may tell — the eternity ing, which never left him until his life's end. 
 of each, which lasteth without end — and their This messenger that I am speaking of to you — 
 vast bitterness. The eighth thing is the great- what doth he say to you? He comforteth you 
 ness of the reward in the blessedness of heaven, in this manner. As God loved me, saith he, he 
 world without end. Whoso watcheth well here 25 sent me to his dear friend. My coming, and 
 a Uttle while — whoso hath these eight things my abiding, though it may seem bitter, is yet 
 in her heart, will shake off her sleep of vicious salutary. Must not that thing be dreadful, the 
 sloth in the still night, when nothing is to be shadow of which you could not look upon for 
 seen to hinder prayer. The heart is often at dread? And if the very shadow were so sharp 
 such a season so sincere; for there is then no wit- 30 and so hot, that ye might not feel it without 
 ness of any good that we do but God only, and pain, what would you say of the very awful 
 his angel, who is busily employed in inciting us thing itself, from which it comes? Know ye 
 to good. For then, nothing is lost, as there this for certain, that all the misery of this world 
 often is in the day. is only as a shadow in comparison with the 
 
 Hear now, my dear sisters, how evil it is to 35 misery of hell. I am the shadow, saith this 
 be vain and boast of good deeds, and how good messenger, that is, this world's suffering: ye 
 it is to conceal our good works, and to fly by must needs receive me, or that dreadful misery 
 night, like the night fowl, and to gather in the of which I am the shadow. Whoso receiveth 
 darkness, that is, privately and secretly, food me gladly, and maketh me cheerfully welcome, 
 for the soul. 40 my Lord sends her word that she is freed from 
 
 the thing of which I am the shadow. Lo! thus 
 Joy in buFFERiNG speaketh God's messenger; and therefore 
 
 Go ye now, then, along the hard and toilsome saith St. James, "Omne gaudium existimate 
 way toward the great feast of heaven, where fratres, cum in temptationes varias incider- 
 your glad friend expecteth your coming, more 45 itis."^ Count it all joy to fall into divers of 
 joyfully than foolish worldly men go by the these temptations that are called outward; and 
 green way toward the gallows-tree, and to the St. Paul saith, "Omnis disciplina in praesenti 
 death of hell. It is better to go toward heaven videtur esse non gaudii, sed moeroris; postmo- 
 sick, than in health toward hell, and to mirth dum vero," etc.* All those temptations where- 
 with want, than to woe with abundance. Not 50 with we are now beaten, seem sorrow and not 
 however, but that WTetched worldly men buy joy; but they turn afterwards to prosperity and 
 hell dearer than ye do heaven. Solomon saith, eternal blessedness. 
 "The way of sinners is planted over with 
 
 stones:"^ that is, with severe afflictions. Of Iemptations 
 
 one thing be ye well assured — that a harsh 55 Holy meditations are comprehended in a 
 word that ye bear with patience, or a single verse that was long since taught you, my dear 
 day's weariness, or a sickness of an hour — if sisters: 
 
 'St. Matt. :^. 36. «^c<8wvu.34. ^ Psl. :ic. 15. ^ St. James i. 2. 
 
 ^Eccles. xxi. 10. s Heh xxii. 11. 
 
I 
 
 MATTHEW PARIS 53 
 
 i 
 
 Mors tua, mors Domini, nota culpae, gaudia me, saith he, and cast away from me all my 
 T j-^^^}^' n X . r. 1 ,. ofifences, that I may be lightened of their 
 
 Judicu terror, figantur mente fideh. weight, and may mount up lightly to heaven 
 
 rpu 4. • by the arms of this ladder, 
 
 ihat is, 
 
 o 
 
 Think oft, with sorrow of heart, of thy sins. 90Utt^t\S} IBBXis 
 
 Think also of the pains of hell, and of the joys of j ^ « 
 
 heaven. d- 1259 
 
 Think ajso^of thine own death, and of the cross ^^ ^^ IRRUPTION OF THE TARTARS 
 
 Have oft in thy mind the fearful doom of the (From Historia Anglorum, translated by 
 judgment day. J. A. Giles) 
 
 ^"""^its^ewards^^^'^ ^^'^ ^''''^^ '"' ^""^ ^^""^ ^'^ ^^ ^^'^ y^^^" *^^* ^^^^^ j^^^ ^^g^* ^«t 
 
 Think also what thou owest God for his good- ^^^8 continue, and that the delights of thi^ 
 ness. 15 world might not last long unmixed with 
 
 lamentation, an immense horde of that detest- 
 t would require a long while to explain fully able race of Satan, the Tartars, burst forth 
 every one of these words. But, if I hasten from their mountain-bound regions, and mak- 
 quickly onward, tarry ye the longer. I say ing their way through rocks apparently im- 
 one word in regard to your sins: that when 20 penetrable, rushed forth, Uke demons loosed 
 ye think of the pains of hell and the joys of from Tartarus (so that they are well called 
 heaven, ye must understand that God designed Tartars, as it were inhabitants of Tartarus); 
 to exhibit them, in some manner, to men in and overrunning the country, covering the face 
 this world, by worldly pains and worldly joys; of the earth like locusts, they ravaged the 
 and he showed them as it were a shadow — 25 eastern countries with lamentable destruction, 
 for the hkeness to them is no greater. Ye are spreading fire and slaughter wherever they 
 above the sea of this world, upon the bridge went. Roving through the Saracen territories 
 of heaven. See that ye be not hke the horse they razed cities to the ground, burnt woods, 
 that is shy, and blencheth at a shadow upon pulled down castles, tore up the vine-trees, 
 the high bridge, and falleth down into the 30 destroyed gardens, and massacred the citizens 
 water from the high bf-idge. They are, indeed, and husbandmen; if by chance they did spare 
 too shy who flee through fear of a picture that any who begged their lives, they compelled 
 seemeth to them ghastly and terrible to behold, them, as slaves of the lowest condition, to 
 All pain and pleasure in this world is only like fight in front of them against their own kindred, 
 a shadow — it is all only as a picture. 35 And if they only pretended to fight, or perhaps 
 
 warned their countrymen to fly, the Tartars 
 The Ladder of Pain following in then- rear, slew them; and if they 
 
 "Vilitas et asperitas," contempt and ill fought bravely and conquered, they gained no 
 usage; these two things, ignominy and pain, as thanks by way of recompense, and thus these 
 St. Bernard saith, are the two arms of the 40 savages ill-treated their captives as though they 
 ladder which reach up to heaven, and between were horses. The men are inhuman and of the 
 those arms are fixed the staves (or steps) of nature of beasts, rather to be called monsters 
 all the virtues by which men climb up to the than men, thirsting after and drinking blood, 
 blessedness of heaven. And because David and tearing and devouring the flesh of dogs and 
 had the two arms of this ladder, though he 45 human beings; they clothe themselves in the 
 was king, he climbed upward, and said boldly skins of bulls, and are armed with iron lances; 
 to our Lord, "Vide humilitatem meam et la- they are short in stature and thickset, compact 
 borem meum, et dimitte universa delicta mea."^ in their bodies, and of great strength; invincible 
 "Behold," said he, "and see my humility and in battle, indefatigable in labour; they wear no 
 my labour, and forgive me all my sins." Mark 50 armour on the back part of their bodies, but 
 well these two words which David joineth are protected by it in front; they drink the 
 together — labour and humility: labour, in blood which flows from their flocks, and con- 
 pain and grief, in anxiety and sorrow; humility, sider it a delicacy; they have large and powerful 
 against the unjust ignominy which a man horses, which eat leaves and even the trees 
 endures who is despised. "Behold in me both 55 themselves, and which, owing to the shortness 
 of these," saith David the beloved of God, of their legs, they mount by three steps instead 
 "I have these two arms of the ladder." "Di- of stirrups. They have no human laws, know 
 mitte universa delicta mea:" Leave behind no mercy, and are more cruel than lions or 
 sPsL XXV. 18. li. e„1243. 
 
54 THE NORMAN CONQUEST' TO CHAUCER 
 
 bears; they have boats made of the hides of in its first quarter, there appeared a new moon 
 
 oxen, ten or twelve having one amongst them; swollen and red in appearance, as a sign of 
 
 they are skilful in sailing or swimming, hence coming tempests; according to the experimental 
 
 they cross the largest and most rapid rivers writings of the philosopher and poet : 
 
 without any delay or trouble; and when they 5^^ •.-•-. j u r> i-i.- j. 
 
 I ui J 4.U j-1 J • 1 ^- + Ur^A Promittit de more rubens nova Cynthia ventos, 
 
 have no blood they greedily drmk disturbed Caumate vel Borea valido nisi prsepediatur: 
 and even muddy water. They have swords Turgida dat nimbos, seu pallida clara serenum. 
 and daggers with one edge, they are excellent 
 
 archers, and they spare neither sex, age, or (When Cynthia yet is new, and ruddy tints 
 rank; they know no other country's language loO'erspread her face, it threatens gusts of wind, 
 except thkt of their own, and of this all other Unless excess of heat or cold prevent 
 nations are ignorant. F^r never till this time Her fa^e, if swollen, portendeth storms; but, 
 has there been any mode of access to them, nor j^^ |3j.jgjj^^ ^-^^ ^-^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^f heaven.) 
 have they themselves come forth, so as to allow 
 
 any knowledge of their customs or persons to 15 The sky then, in the first week of the increase 
 be gained through common intercourse with of the moon, was covered with a thick mist, and 
 other men; they take their herds with them, began to be much disturbed by the violence of 
 as also their wives, who are brought up to war, the winds, which tore away the branches and 
 the same as the men; and they came with the the leaves which were then dying away on the 
 force of lightning into the territories of the 20 trees, and carried them to a great distance 
 Christians, laying waste the country, com- through the air. What was more destructive, 
 mitting great slaughter, and striking inexpress- the disturbed sea transgressed its usual bounds, 
 ible terror and alarm into every one. the tide flowing twice without any ebb, and 
 
 emitted such a frightful roaring sound, that. 
 The founders of their tribes are called gods, 25 even in parts remote from it, it created amaze- 
 and they celebrate their solemnities at certain ment in those who heard it; even old men, and 
 seasons; they have many especial celebrations, indeed none of modern times, remembered ever 
 but only four regular ones. They think that to have seen the like before. In the darkness of 
 everything was made for them alone, and they the night too the sea appeared to burn like a 
 think that there is no cruelty in practising every 30 fire, and the billows seemed to crowd together, 
 kind of severity on those who rebel against as though fighting with one another, in such 
 them. They have hard and robust breasts, fury, that the skill of sailors could not save 
 lean and pale faces, stifif, high shoulders, and their sinking ships, and large and firmly-built 
 short distorted noses; their chins are sharp and vessels were sunk and lost. Not to mention 
 prominent, the upper jaw low and deep, the 35 other cases, at the port of Hertbourne alone 
 teeth long and few, their eyebrows stretch from three noble ships were swallowed up by the 
 the hair to the nose, their eyes are black and raging billows, besides small ones and others 
 restless, their countenances long and grim, of moderate size. At Winchelsea, a port on the 
 their extremities bony and nervous, their legs eastern coast, besides the salt-houses, and the 
 thick but short below the knee. In stature 40 abodes of fishermen, the bridges, and mills 
 they are equal to us, for what they lose below which were destroyed, more than three hun- 
 the knee is made up for in the greater length of dred houses in that village, with some churches, 
 their upper parts. Their native country is were thrown down by the impetuous rise of the 
 that great waste, formerly a desert, lying be- sea. Holland in England, ^ and Holland on the 
 yond the Chaldees, from which they expelled 45 continent also, as well as Flanders and other 
 the lions, bears, and other beasts, with their level countries adjoining the sea, sustained 
 bows and other warlike weapons. Out of the irreparable damage. The rivers falling into 
 tanned hides of these animals, they made for the sea were forced back and swelled to such a 
 themselves armour of a light description, but degree that they overflowed meadows, de- 
 impenetrable. 50 stroyed mills, bridges, and the houses adjacent 
 
 ^ to them, and, invading the fields, carried away 
 
 r\Tl^ A XT TTXTTTCfTT A T cfTTTTiT T TXT/-t A TVTT-w /-./-wTv /T ^^^ ^^^u whlch had not bceu stored away in the 
 
 MUilON Oh iHil. bH^A to mortals in the sea as well as on land, and the 
 
 A. D. 1250 55 punishment of sinners appeared imminent, 
 
 n?r.r.rr. +v,« oot,.«> according to the prophecy of Habakkuk: 
 
 (iTom tne same; u^^^ ^1^^^ angered in the rivers, oh Lord, or is 
 
 About the same time, namely on the first thy indignation in the sea? " 
 
 day of the month of October, the moon being i i. e. the fen-land in south-eastern Lincohishire. 
 
III. CHAUCER TO WYATT^AND SURREY 
 
 c. 1350-c. 1557 
 
 THE AGE OF CHAUCER 
 Sotjn llBarbouri 
 
 c. 131&-1396 
 
 FREEDOM 
 
 (From The Bruce,'' c. 1375) 
 
 225 
 
 Ah! Freedom is a noble thing! 
 
 Freedom makes man to have liking ;3 
 
 Freedom all solace to man giveth, 
 
 He liveth at ease that freely liveth. 
 
 A noble heart may have no ease, 229 
 
 May have naught else that may him please, 
 
 If freedom fail'th; for free liking 
 
 Is yearned for o'er all other thing. 
 
 Nay, he that aye has lived free 
 
 May not know well the propertie, 
 
 The anger, nay, the wretched doom 235 
 
 That coupled is to foul thrald6me, 
 
 But if he had assayed it 
 
 Then all perforce he should it wit;* 
 
 And should think freedom more to prize 
 
 Than all the gold in world that is. 240 
 
 Thus contrar thinges evermore 
 
 Disclosers of the other are. 
 
 THE PEARLi 
 (c. 1370) 
 
 Pearl, princes prize, and men essay 
 
 To safely close in gold most clear! 
 
 Of Orient pearls, I surely say, 
 
 Never was found its precious peer; 
 
 So round, so radiant in array, 3 
 
 So small, so smooth its surface fair. 
 
 Whenever I judged of jewels gay 
 
 I set it singly in singlere.^ 
 
 Alas! I lost it in an arb^re: ^ 
 Through grass to ground it from me got. 10 
 I droop, death-stricken by love-daungere,* 
 For my own pearl without a spot. 
 
 Since in that spot it from me sprung, 
 
 Oft have I waited, wishing that weaP 
 
 That once was wont dispel my wrong, 15 
 
 Lift up my lot, my spirit heal. 
 
 1 John Barbour, a Scottish contemporary of Chaucer, 
 was Archdeacon of Aberdeen. 
 
 ^The Bruce, a poem in twenty books, celebrates the 
 deUverance of Scotland from her foreign oppressor, 
 under the leadership of her national hero Robert Bruce. 
 
 3 His wish. i Know. 
 
 1 The Pearl was written by an unknown poet in the 
 West of England. A number of stanzas, dealing chiefly 
 with matters of reUgious doctrine, have been omitted. 
 
 2 Apart. 3 Arbor. « Bondage. 5 Bliss. 
 
 But now, struck through with sorrows strong, 
 
 Its loss my burning breast must feel. 
 
 Yet heard I ne'er so sweet a song 
 
 As the still hour let to me steal. 20 
 
 Strange thoughts their shapes but half 
 reveal, 
 
 As I muse on its colour, all clad in clay. 
 
 O mould! thou marrest a wondrous jew41. 
 
 My precious pearl that hath slipped away. 
 
 Ill 
 
 25 
 
 Lo! there sweet spices needs must spread 
 Where so much wealth to earth has run; 
 Flowers golden, blue, and red. 
 Shine full sheen against the sun. 
 Never may fruit and flower fade 
 Where my pearl sank down in the earth-mould 
 ^dun; 30 
 
 For each grass must grow from seed-grain dead, 
 No wheat were else for harvest won; 
 
 From good each good is aye begun; 
 
 So precious a seed must perish not; 
 
 Spices must spring from this chosen one, 35 
 
 From this precious pearl without a spot. 
 
 To this spot that I in speech expoun * 
 
 I entered, in that arbour gi*een, 
 
 In August, in a high ses6un, 
 
 When corn is cut with sickle keen. 40 
 
 On a mound where once my pearl rolled down 
 
 Fell shadows of flowers shining and sheen, — 
 
 Gillyfleur, ginger, and gromyloun,^ 
 
 And peonies powdered all between. 
 If it were seemly but to be seen, 
 Still sweeter the scent it gave, I wot, 
 Where dwells that blessed one I ween. 
 My precious pearl without a spot. 
 
 45 
 
 Prone in that place, wild hands 1 pressed, 
 Clutched as with freezing cold, I fought; 50 
 Grief grew to tumult in my breast, 
 Reason nor calm, nor comfort brought. 
 I plained my pearl that earth possessed. 
 And vainly strove with struggling thought. 
 Though Christ's compassion offered rest, 55 
 My wretched will against it wrought. 
 I fell upon the flowery ground. 
 Sweet odours o'er my senses streamed. 
 Till, sunk in depths of sleep profound. 
 About my spotless pearl I dreamed. 60 
 
 From thence my soul sprang far in space, 
 My body on ground abode in sweven.* 
 My ghost is gone by Goddes grace, 
 Through ways unknown and wondrous driven, 
 
 « Declare. ^ Gromwell, a small plant. 
 
 55 
 
66 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 65 
 
 I wist not in this world the place, 
 But I felt me rapt past great rocks riven: 
 Towards a forest I turned my face 
 Where splendid cliffs soared high to heaven; 
 Their light no man may well believen, 
 For a glistering glory from them gleamed; 
 The loom no silks has ever given 71 
 
 With colours so clear as from them 
 streamed. 
 
 VII 
 
 Adorned was each hilly side 
 With crystal cliffs of clearest kind. 
 The forests fair about them bide 75 
 
 With tree-bolls blue as blue of Ind; 
 Their leaves, like silver's burnished pride, 
 A-flutter in the fragrant wind 
 With glinting gleams show glorified. 
 In shimmering splendors half-defined. 80 
 
 The gravel, that each foot may grind. 
 Was precious pearl of Orient, 
 Sunlight itself seemed dull and blind 
 Beside that land of wonderment. 
 
 The splendor of those hill-sides rare 85 
 
 Made my glad heart its grief forgete; 
 
 The fruits so fresh of fragrance were 
 
 I was fed-full with odours sweet. 
 
 Birds flitted through that forest fair 
 
 Of flaming hues, both small and grete; 90 
 
 No citole's ^ string nor gitternere ^° 
 
 Their mirthful music might repeat. 
 
 For, when these birds their winges beat, 
 Then sing they all with sweet concent. 
 No man knows rapture so complete 95 
 As sight and sound together lent. 
 
 The woods are rich in radiant guise, 
 Where'er by Fortune led, I fare, 
 And shining glories glad mine eyes. 
 That no man may with tongue declare. 100 
 I wander on in happy wise. 
 For steepest cliff seems harmless there. 
 The farther I fared the fairer 'gan rise 
 Meads bright with bloom, and spice, and pear. 
 Green-bordered brooks, and river fair, 105 
 Its banks as thread of finest gold. 
 Win I at last to a water rare; — 
 Dear Lord! 'twas lovely to behold. 
 
 The margent of that wondrous deep 
 
 Was shining baak of beryl bright. 110 
 
 Sweetly the sliding waters sweep. 
 
 With a murmurous music they take their flight. 
 
 The bottom, gleaming stones doth keep. 
 
 That glow through the lucent depths like light. 
 
 Or shining stars, which, while men sleep, 1 1 5 
 
 Wink in the welkin on Winter's night. 
 
 » Citole, a small dulcimer; a stringed instrument, re- 
 sembling a zither. 
 
 10 Gitternere, a player on the gittem, or cithern (zither). 
 
 Each shining stone that shimmered to 
 
 sight 
 Was sapphire, or some jewel rare, 
 They lit the deep with living might. 
 So clear that lovely land and fair. 
 
 120 
 
 The rich array of down and dales, 
 Of wood and water and wide plains, 
 Bred in me bliss, abated bales. 
 Released my stress, destroyed my pains. 
 Along the stream that strongly hales ^^ 125 
 All rapt I roved, brimfull my brains. 
 The farther I followed those wat'ry vales 
 The greater the joy at my glad heart strains. 
 Though Fortune's gifts no force constrains. 
 Lend she solace or sorrows sore, 130 
 
 The wight who once her favour gains 
 Strives ever to win more and more. 
 
 XII 
 
 Far more of bliss glowed in such guise 
 Than I could tell if time I had; 
 For mortal heart may not suffice 135 
 
 For tenth part of that rapture glad. 
 I thought in truth that Paradise 
 Lay just beyond those bright banks brade.^^ 
 The waters, methought, as boimds arise 
 Twixt garden and garden, between them made. 
 Beyond the brook, bjTslope and shade, 141 
 Stands the Holy City, beyond the shore. 
 But the water was deep, I durst not wade. 
 And ever my longing grew more and more. 
 
 Mair and mair, and yet much mair 145 
 
 I longed beyond that stream to stand; 
 For if 'twas fair where I did fare 
 Far fairer gleamed that farther land. 
 Stumbling I strove, looked here and there 
 To find a ford, on every hand; 150 
 
 But of greater perils I grew aware 
 The longer I searched that shining strand. 
 
 And yet, it seemed I must burst the band. 
 
 So strong was the call of that distant shore. 
 
 When lo! the sight mine eyes next scan- 
 ned 155 
 
 Stirred my strained spirit more and more. 
 
 XIV 
 
 A marvel 'gan my ghost confound; 
 
 I saw, beyond that merry mere, 
 
 A cliff, from whose clear depths profound 
 
 Streamed lights that lit the golden air. 160 
 
 Beneath, a child sate on the ground, 
 
 A maid of mien full debonair; 
 
 White, shining garments girt her round; — 
 
 I knew, — I had seen her other- where. 
 
 As gold in threads that men may shear, 165 
 So sheen she shone upon that shore. 
 The longer I looked upon her there 
 The surer I knew her, more and more. 
 
 Flows. 
 
 " Broad. 
 
THE PEARL 
 
 57 
 
 XV 
 
 And as I fed on her fair face, 
 
 And searched her child-like figure o'er, 170 
 
 Pure gladness did my soul embrace, 
 
 That! had lacked so long before. 
 
 To call her would I fain find grace, 
 
 But stunned I stood, bewildered sore; 
 
 I saw her in so strange a place, 175 
 
 That dazed the sight no meaning bore. 
 
 She lifts her brow, well-known of yore, 
 
 Her face as smooth as ivory; 
 
 My wild dismay grows more and more. 
 
 My soul is stung with what 1 see. 180 
 
 Stronger than longing, fear arose; 
 
 I stood quite still and durst not call; 
 
 Wide-eyed I wait, my lips I close. 
 
 As mute as hooded hawk in hall. 
 
 That sight so strange, so spectral rose, 185 
 
 1 feared the end that might befall; 
 
 The dread lest she escape me grows. 
 
 Or vanish ere I could forestall. 
 
 Then she, whose shining lightened all, 
 So soft, so smooth, so pure, so slight, 190 
 Rose up robed in array roydl, 
 A pearl, in precious pearles dight. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Pearls that would grace a kingly power, 
 A man might there by grace have seen. 
 When fresh and fair as lily-flower, 195 
 
 Adown the shore she stepped, I ween. 
 Her linen robe, a royal dower, 
 Flowed free; its lustrous borders been 
 Purfled with pearls: before that horn- 
 Such sight mine eyes had never seen. 200 
 Her flowing sleeve-laps showed full sheen 
 With pearls, in double border dight: 
 Her kirtle, where it showed between. 
 With precious pearls gleamed pure and 
 bright. ... 204 
 
 All rich in pearls that rare one bright 229 
 
 Drew near the shore beyond the flood; 
 
 From here to Greece no gladder wight 
 
 Than I, when by the brink she stood. 
 
 Nearer than niece or aunt, of right 
 
 I found in her my joy and good. 
 
 Then low she bowed her figure slight, 235 
 
 Cast by her crown in happy mood, 
 And as I looked, I understood. 
 And heard her greet me full of grace. 
 Dear Lord! who me with life endued 
 'Twas worth it all to see her face. 240 
 
 XXI 
 
 "O Pearl," I cried, ''in pearles dight, 
 Art thou that pearl that I have plained ^^ 
 Much missed by me alone, at night? 
 What longing have I long sustained 
 
 13 Bewailed. 
 
 Since into grass you slipped from sight. 245 
 Pensive, oppressed, I pine sore pained, 
 While you, at rest in realm of light, 
 In Paradise a home have gained. 
 
 What Weird has thither my gem con- 
 strained, 
 
 And brought me this grief and great daun- 
 g^re! 250 
 
 Since we in twain were torn and twained, 
 
 I have been a joyless jeweler." 
 
 XXII 
 
 That jewel there, with jewels graced, 
 
 Lifted her face with eyes of grey. 
 
 Her crown of orient pearl replaced, 255 
 
 And grave and slow did sweetly say: — 
 
 "Sir, you mistake and speak in haste 
 
 To say your pearl is all away; 
 
 In coffer is it safely placed. 
 
 Shut safe within this garden gay, 260 
 
 To dwell forever there, and play 
 Where sin and sorrow come never near, 
 This spot were thy treasure house, parfay, 
 If thou wert a gentle jeweler. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 265 
 
 "But jeweler gentle, if thou dost give 
 Thy joy for a gem thou deemed'st dear. 
 In sooth thou dost but thyself deceive, 
 Vexed in vain with a foolish fear. 
 For you lost but a rose, you may well believe. 
 That must flower and fade with the fading year, 
 Yet so wondrous a dust did that rose receive 271 
 That it proved a pearl in this shining sphere. 
 
 Though thou called'st thy Weird a thief, 
 'tis clear 
 
 From nought it has gained the great treas- 
 ure; 
 
 To blame the hand that has helped thee 
 here 
 
 Shows thee a thankless jeweler." 276 
 
 [After the Dreamer has been urged to be 
 patient, he sees the Maiden in Heaven and is 
 filled with a great longing to join her.] 
 
 XCVII 
 
 1153 
 
 Drawn by delight of eye and ear, 
 My yearning mood to madness grows; 
 I would be with my dear one there, 1155 
 
 Though swift the severing current flows. 
 Nothing will harm me if on I fare. 
 Or lame me, methought, by baffling blows; 
 If I only the plunge in the stream can dare 
 I will swim the space though the waves oppose, 
 Or die in the deed. Yet a thought arose 1 161 
 Ere I plunged perverse in that water chill, 
 That stilled my impatience and brought re- 
 pose 
 For I knew it was not my Prmce's will. 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 It pleased Him not that I should break i I6ff 
 Through those marvellous marches unafraid, 
 
58 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 As rash and rude my course I take 
 
 My daring onset is sudden stayed: 
 
 For as to the brink my way I make 
 
 With a start I find my vision fade, 1170 
 
 And lo! in that arbour fair I wake, 
 
 My head on that selfsame hillock laid 
 
 On that spot where my pearl into earth 
 
 once strayed. 
 Awe-strucken, silent, I sate alone, 
 Then sighing deep to myself I said: 1175 
 "May the Prince's will in all be done." 
 
 THE SEASONS 
 
 (From Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight,^ 
 c. 1370) 
 
 For the Yule-tide had yielded, and the year 
 after, 500 
 
 And each several season ensued after other. 
 Thus after Christmas came crabbed Lent-time, 
 That affords fish for flesh, and food the most 
 
 simple. 
 But then the world's weather with winter is 
 warring; 504 
 
 Winter withdraws himself, white clouds uplift; 
 Soft descendeth the rain in showers full warm. 
 They fall on fair fields and the flowers are show- 
 ing* 
 Both the ground and the grove now with green 
 
 are arrayed. 
 Birds bestir them to build, and bravely are sing- 
 ing 
 For solace of summer ensuing thereafter 510 
 On bank, 
 And blossoms bud and blow 
 On hedge-rows rich and rank, 
 And noble notes enow 
 Are heard in woodlands dank. 515 
 
 Then comes the season of summer, bathed in 
 
 soft breezes. 
 Breezes that breathe themselves into seedling 
 
 and herbage, 
 Blithesome, in truth, is the blossom that bloom- 
 
 eth therefrom, 
 When the drenching dews drip down from the 
 
 leaves, 519 
 
 Biding the blissful beams of the bright sunne. 
 Next harvest hies him, and hardens the grain, 
 He warns it ere winter to wax full ripe; 
 The dust of the drought he driveth aloft. 
 From the face of the fields it flies full high; 524 
 Wild winds of the welkin war with the sunne, 
 The leaves of the woodland lie low on the 
 
 ground. 
 And all grey is the grass that all green was so 
 
 lately. 
 Then all ripens and rotteth that rose up in 
 
 flower, 528 
 
 And thus yieldeth the year to yesterdays many: 
 To know winter is nearing, now need we to tell us 
 
 » Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight, one of the many 
 romances dealing with King Arthur and his Knights, 
 is a poem of oyer 2,500 Unes. In it, as in other early 
 Arthurian Stories, Sir Gawayne is a noble and knightly 
 figure, very different from the despicable Sir Gawayne 
 of Malory's Morle d' Arthur, or Tennyson's Idylls, 
 
 No sage. 
 When Michaelmas's moon 
 Was come with winter's gage. 
 Then thought Gawayne full soon 
 Of his dread pilgrimage. 635 
 
 SIR GAWAYNE'S JOURNEY 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Now wends he his way through the wild tracts 
 
 of Logres,^ 
 Sir Gawayne on God's hest, and no game he 
 
 thought it. 
 Oft alone he alights, and lies down at night-fall 
 Where he found not before him fare to his liking. 
 O'er field and in forest, no friend but his horse, 
 No comrade but God for counsel had he, 696 
 Till at length he (Iraws near to the land of 
 
 North Wales. 
 All Anglesey's isles on the left hand he leaves, 
 And fares o'er the fording hard by the foreland, 
 Over at Holy-head, till he had journeyed 700 
 To Wirral's^ wilderness, where few are dwelling 
 Who God or man with good hearts regard. 
 Fain would he find from men that he met with 
 News of a Knight in that neighborhood dwelling 
 Who garbed him in green, or of a green chapel. " 
 All denied him with "nay," saying not in a 
 
 lifetime 706 
 
 Wist they ever a wight that was of such hues 
 Of green. 
 The Knight rode ways most strange, 
 The rocky banks between, 710 
 
 And oft his cheer^ doth change, 
 Ere he that church hath seen. 
 
 Many cliffs he climbed over in countries far 
 
 distant; 
 As out-cast, cut off from companions, he rides. 
 At each way through the water where he crossed 
 
 over, 715 
 
 He a foe found before him, — ^but phantom it 
 
 was, — 
 So foul and so fell that to fight it behoved him. 
 So many a marvel in these mountains he 
 
 findeth, 
 'Twere tedious to tell the tenth of those wonders. 
 Now with serpents he struggles, and strives 
 
 with wolves also, 720 
 
 Satyrs sometimes assail him, strange shapes 
 
 from the rocks, 
 Both with bulls and with bears, and with boars 
 
 otherwhiles. 
 Or with monsters that meet him, huge men of 
 
 the fells. 
 He was fearless, unfalt'ring and faithful to God, 
 Or he doubtless had died, for death threatened 
 
 him oft. 725 
 
 1 Logres, here= England. According to Geoffrey of 
 Monmouth, Brutus divided Britain among his three 
 sons. The portion (afterwards England) which fell to 
 the eldest son Locrine, was "called afterwards from his 
 name Loegria (or Logres)." History of Britain, Bk. II, 
 ch. I. V 
 
 2 Wirral (Wirhael) old English name of the land be- ^ * 
 tween the Dee and the Mersey. 
 
 * Expression. 
 
JOHN GOWER 
 
 59 
 
 But war he could wage, yet the winter was 
 
 worse, 
 When the cold chilling waters, from storm- 
 clouds down pouring. 
 Would freeze ere they fell on the fallow beneath. 
 Near slain with the sleet, he slept in his armour, 
 More nights than enough on the naked rocks. 
 While clattering o'er the cliff the cold brook 
 comes down, ^ 731 
 
 And high o'er his head hard icicles hang. 
 Thus in perils and pains and plights the most 
 
 hard, 
 Till Christmas eve cometh, he keepeth alone 
 
 His quest. 735 
 
 Humbly the Knight, that tide, 
 Besought of Mary Blest, 
 That she his way would guide 
 Unto some place of rest. 
 
 At morn by a mountain he merrily rideth, 740 
 Through a woodland full wild that was won- 
 drous and deep. 
 High hills on each hand, with a holt stretching 
 
 under 
 Of hoar oaks full huge, a hundred together; 
 And tangled thickets of thorn and of hazel. 
 With shaggy robes of rough ragged mosses; 745 
 Many birds sit unblithely on the bare twigs. 
 And piteously pipe for pain of the cold. 
 The rider on Gringolet rideth beneath them 
 Through mire and marshes, a man all alone, 749 
 Perturbed in his toil lest to him 'twere forbidden 
 To share in His service, who, on that same 
 
 night, 
 Was born of a maid, all our sorrows to cure. 
 Therefore sighing he said: "I beseech Thee, O 
 
 Lord, 
 And Mary, mildest mother so dear. 
 Some shelter to show me, some spot to hear 
 
 mass 755 
 
 And thy matins at mom, this meekly I beg, 
 And thus promptly I pray, my Pater, and Ave, 
 And Creedr 
 
 ) So as he rode he prayed, 
 
 I And mourned for his misdeed, 760 
 
 ' The holy sign he made, - 
 And said: "Christ's Cross me speed." 
 
 c. 1325-1408 
 THE PRAISE OF PEACE^ 
 
 Unto the Worthy and Noble Kinge Henry the 
 Fourth 
 
 (c. 1399) 
 
 O noble worthy king, Henry the ferthe. 
 In whom the gladde fortune is befalle 
 The people to gov^rne here upon erthe, » 
 God hath thee chose, in comfort of us alle; 
 
 1 The Praise of Peace (or De Pads Commendatione, 
 as Gower entitled it) was a poem of welcome to Henry IV., 
 on his accession to the throne in 1399. Gower had been 
 distressed and disappointed by the misgovernment of 
 Richard II.; in this poem he greets the new King, as 
 one who, he truats, will bring in a better time. 
 
 The worship of this land, which was doun f alle, 5 
 Now stant upright, through grace of thy good- 
 
 nesse. 
 Which every man is holde for to blesse. 
 
 The highe God, of his justice alone. 
 The right which longeth to thy regalye 
 Declared hath to stande in thy persone ; 10 
 
 And more than God may no man justify^. 
 Thy title is knowe upon thyn auncestrye; 
 The londes folk hath eek thy right affermed; 
 So stant thy regne, of God and man confirmed. 
 
 There is no man may say in other wise 15 
 
 That God him-self ne hath the right declared; 
 Whereof the land is boun to thy srvyse, 
 Which for default of help hath longe caii^ed. 
 But now there is no mannes hearte sparM 
 To love and sei-ve, and worke thy pleasaunce; 
 And all this is through Goddes purveyance. 21 
 
 In alle thing which is of God begonne 
 There followeth grace, if it be well governed; 
 Thus tellen they which olde bokes conne, 
 Whereof, my lord, I wot well thou art lerned. 25 
 Ask of thy God; so shalt thou not be werned 
 Of no request (the) which is reasonable; 
 For God unto the good is favorable. . . . 
 
 Peace is the chief of all the worldes welthe. 
 And to the heaven it leadeth eek the way ; 30 
 Peace is of soul and life the mannes helthe 
 Of pestilence, and doth the war away. 
 My liege lord, tak heed of what I say, 
 If werre may be left, tak peace on honde. 
 Which may not be withoute Goddes sonde. 35 
 
 With peace stands every creature in reste, 
 Withoute peace there may no life be glad; 
 Above all other good, peace is the beste; 
 Peace hath him-self, whan war is all bestad;^ 
 The peace is safe, the war is ever adrad. 40 
 
 Peace is of alle charitie the keye. 
 Which hath the life and soule for to weigh. 
 
 My liege lord, if that thee list to seche 
 
 The sooth ensamples, what the war hath 
 
 wrought. 
 Thou shalt well hear, of wise mennes speche, 45 
 That deadly werre tourneth in-to nought. 
 For if these olde bokes be well sought. 
 There might thou see what thing the war hath 
 
 do 
 Both of conquest and conqueror als6. 
 
 For vain hon6ur, or for the worldes good, 50 
 They that whilom the stronge werres made. 
 Where be they now? Bethink well, in thy mood. 
 The day is goon, the night is dark and fade; 
 Her cruelte, which made them thanne glade, 
 They sorrow now, and yet have naught the 
 more; 55 
 
 The blood is shed, which no man may restore. 
 > Beset. 
 
60 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 The war is mother of the wronges alle; 
 
 It sleeth the priest in holy church at masse, 
 
 Forlyth the mayde, and doth her flour to falle. 
 
 The war maketh the grete citee lasse,^ 60 
 
 And doth the law his reules overpasse. 
 
 There is nothing, whereof mischief may growe 
 
 Which is not caused of the war, I trowe. 
 
 The war bringeth in poverte at his heeles, 
 Whereof the common people is sore grieved ; 65 
 The war hath set his cart on thilke wheeles 
 Where that fortune may not be believed. 
 For when men wene best to have acheved, 
 Fulloftit isallnewe tobeginne; 69 
 
 The war hath nothing siker,* though he winne. 
 
 Therefore, my worthy prince, in Christes halve, ^ 
 
 As for a part whose faith thou hast to guide, 
 
 Lay to this olde sore a newe salve, 
 
 And do the war away, what-so betide. 
 
 Purchase peace, and set it by thy syde, 75 
 
 And suffre not thy people be devoured; 
 
 So shall thy name ever after stand hon6ured! . . . 
 
 My worthy liege lord, Henry by name. 
 
 Which Engelond hast to govern and righte, 
 
 Men oughten well thy pity to proclame, 80 
 
 Which openly, in all the worldes sighte, 
 
 Is shewed, with the help of God Almighte, 
 
 To yeve us peace, which long hath be debated, 
 
 Whereof thy prys^ shal never be abated. 
 
 My lord, in whom hath ever yet be founde 85 
 
 Pity, withoute spot of violence. 
 
 Keep thilke peace alwdy, withinne bounde. 
 
 Which God hath planted in thy conscience. 
 
 So shall the cronique of thy pacience 
 
 Among the saints be taken in-to mem6rie 90 
 
 To the loenge^ of perdurable glorie. 
 
 And to thine earthly prys, so as I can, 
 
 Which every man is holde to commende, 
 
 I Gower, which am all thy liege man. 
 
 This lettre unto thine excellence I sende, 95 
 
 As I, which ever unto my lyves ende 
 
 Will praye for the stat of thy persone. 
 
 In worship of thy sceptre and of thy throne. 
 
 Not only to my king of peace I write, 
 
 But to these othre princes Christen alle, lOO 
 
 That each of them his owne heart endite 
 
 And cease the war, or more mescheef falle. 
 
 Set eek the rightful pope upon his stalle; 
 
 Keep charite, and draw pite to honde, 104 
 
 Maintaine law; and so the peace shall stonde. 
 
 William tlanglanD 
 
 c. 1332-1400 
 PIERS THE PLOUGHMAN 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 In the season of summer, when soft was the 
 
 sunne, 
 I clad myself coarsely in a cloak as a shepherd; 
 In habit as an hermit unholy of workes, 
 Went I wide in this world wonders to heare. 
 •Less. *Sure. » Behalf. « Glory. 'Praise. 
 
 And on a May morning on Malverne hilles, 6 
 
 A marvel amazed me, of magic methought. 
 
 I was weary, for-wandered, and went me to 
 reste 
 
 Under a broad bank, by a burn-side; 
 
 And as I lay and leaned, and looked in the 
 waters, 9 
 
 I slumbered in a sleeping, it sounded so merry. 
 
 Then did I dream there a dream full of wonder; 
 
 In the wilds I was wandering, wist I not where. 
 
 As I looked to the Eastward a-lof t to the sunnC; 
 
 I saw set on a summit a seemly tower; 
 
 A deep dale beneath and a dungeon thereinne, 
 
 With deep ditches and dark, and dreadful to 
 sight. 16 
 
 A fair field full of folk found I there between 
 them. 
 
 With all manner of men the mean and the riche. 
 
 Working and wandering as the world asketh. 
 Some put them to ploughing, playing full 
 seldom, 20 
 
 In setting and sowing swinking ^ full hard, 
 
 And winning what wasters with gluttony des- 
 troy. 
 And some put to pride, appareled them there- 
 after. 
 
 In fancies of fashion finely arrayed. 
 To prayers and to penance put themselves 
 many, 25 
 
 All for love of our Lord living full strict, 
 
 In the hope for to have heavenly blisse ; 
 
 As anchorets and hermits that hold in their 
 celles. 
 
 In the world never wishing to wander about. 
 
 Or with bounteous abundance their bodies to 
 please. 30 
 
 And some chose to chaffer, their chances to 
 better, 
 
 For it seems to our sight that such men are 
 most thriving. 
 
 And some to make meny, as minstrels are able, 
 
 And get gold with their glees, guiltless I deem 
 them. 
 
 But jesters and jugglers, Judas's children, 35 
 
 Found out false fantasies and feigned them- 
 selves foolish, 
 
 Yet have wit at their will, to work were they 
 willing. 
 
 That Paul preacheth ^ of them prove now I dare 
 not; 
 
 Qui loquitur turpiloquium is Lucifer's slave. 
 There bidders and beggars right busily wan- 
 dered, 40 
 
 Their bags and their bellies with bread fully 
 crammed; 
 
 They feigned want of food, and fought o'er the 
 ale-cups, 
 
 In gluttony, God wot, go they to bedde, 
 
 And rise up with ribaldry, these Robert's men.' 
 
 So sleeping and sloth pursue them forever. 45 
 Pilgrims and palmer^ plighted them together 
 
 1 Toiling. 
 
 2 1 might prove that St. Paul's words "if a man does 
 
 not work neither shall he eat," apply to these children of t i 
 
 Judas, but I dare not, because he who speaks evil (Qui \j 
 
 turpiloquium loquiter) is Lucifer's servant. f^ 
 
 ' Vagabonds. ^i 
 
WILLIAM LANGLAND 
 
 61 
 
 To seek for Saint James* and the saintes at 
 
 Rome, 
 Went forth in their way with many wise stories, 
 And had leave for to lie, all their life after, 
 I saw some that said they had sought out the 
 
 saintes; 50 
 
 With tongues tempered to lie in each tale that 
 
 they tolde, 
 More than to say sooth it seemed by their 
 
 speech. 
 Hermits in an heap, with hooked staves 
 To Walsingham^ wended, — their wenches came 
 
 after. 
 Great lubbers and lazy that loth were to 
 
 swinke, 55 
 
 Clothed them in copes to be counted as "breth- 
 ren," 
 In habit of hermit their ease for to have. 
 ( I found there the friars of all the four 
 
 orders. 
 They preached to the people to profit them- 
 selves. 
 Glossing the Gospel as was their good pleasure. 
 For, coveting copes, they construed as they 
 
 would. 61 
 
 For many of these masters may dress as it likes 
 
 them, 
 For their money and merchandise marchen to- 
 gether, 
 For since Charity hath been chapman and chief 
 
 to shrive lordes, 
 Many ferlies^ have fallen in a few yeares. 65 
 
 If Holy Church and they hold not better to- 
 gether, 
 The most mischief on mold^ is mounting full 
 
 fast. 
 There preached a Pardoner, a priest as he 
 
 were, 
 And brought forth a Bull with the Bishopes 
 
 scales, 
 And said that himself might assoilen^ them 
 
 alle 
 Of falseness in fasting, and vows they had 
 
 broken. 71 
 
 The unlettered believed him and liked well his 
 
 wordes, 
 Coming up to him kneeling and kissing his 
 
 Bulles, 
 ,Then he banged them with his brevet and 
 I bleared their eyen,^ ... 74 
 
 I Thus they give up their gold these gluttons to 
 I help. ... 76 
 
 Were the Bishop but blessed and worth both 
 
 his eares, 78 
 
 He would send not his seal for deceiving the 
 
 people. 
 But 'tis not at the Bishop that the boy 
 
 preaches, 
 For Pardoner and priest part between them the 
 
 silver, 
 
 * The shrine of St. James the Great, at Santiago 
 (i. e. St. James) de Compostella, a town in Spain, was 
 sought for, by many pilgrims. 
 
 5 A town in Northern Suffolk, a famous resort for 
 pilgrims. 
 
 « Marvels. ^ Earth. » Pardon. 
 
 9 Blinded their eyes, i. e. Cheated them. 
 
 And the poor of the parish may have what is 
 
 left. 
 Parsons and parish-priests plained to the 
 
 Bishop, 
 As their parishes were poor since the pestilence 
 
 time, 84 
 
 To have licence and leave at London to dwelle, 
 And they sing thus for simony, — ^for silver is 
 
 sweet. 
 Bishops and bachelors both masters and 
 
 doctors. 
 That hold cures^** under Christ and have crown- 
 ings^ in token 
 And sign that they should their parishioners 
 
 shrive, 
 And preach and to pray for them, and the poor 
 
 feede, 90 
 
 Are living in London, in Lent-time and other. 
 Some are serving the King, and his silver are 
 
 taking. 
 In Exchequer and Chancery, claiming his 
 
 debtes 
 Due from wards in the wardmote, ^^ bQ^h waifs 
 
 and estrays, 
 And some serve as servants the lords and the 
 
 ladies, 95 1 
 
 And instead of stewards they sit and condemnV 
 Their mass and their matins and most of the 
 
 hours ' 
 
 Are done undevoutly ; dread is at the last 
 That Christ in His Council should curse very 
 
 many. ... 99 
 
 There hovered an hundred in hoodes of silke, 
 
 Sergeants it seemed that served at the barre, 
 
 Pleading for pennies and poundes the laws, 212 
 
 And naught for love of our Lord unloose their 
 
 lips ones. S3 
 Better measure the mist on Malverne's hilles. 
 Than get a mum from these mouthes till money 
 
 be showed. 215 
 
 Baron and burgesses and bond-men also, 
 I saw there assembled, as ye shall hear after. 
 Bakers and brewers, and butchers a-many. 
 And weavers of woolens, and weavers of linen. 
 Tailors and tanners, and toilers of earth. 220 
 Masons and miners, and many a craft. 
 Of all living labourers leaped, some of each 
 
 kind. 
 As ditchers and delvers that do their deeds ill, 
 And drag out the long day with "Dieu vous 
 
 sauve, Dame,"s4 224 
 
 Cooks and their knaves cried "hote pies, hote! 
 Good gris^^ and geese, — go now to dine, — go!" 
 And unto them Taverners tolde the same, 
 "White wine of Oseye," and red wine of Gas- 
 
 coigne 228 
 
 Of the Rhine and of Rochelle the roast to defy ! " 
 And this I saw sleeping and seven times more. 
 
 i" Parishes. 
 
 11 Tonsured crowns, 
 
 12 Each ward of London had its ward-mote, or ward 
 meeting of its citizens. 
 
 13 Once. 
 
 ""God save you, lady," apparently the refrain of 
 an old song. 
 13 Pigs. 
 i« Alsace. 
 
62 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 ^wffrrg Cijaucer 
 
 c. 1340-1400 
 
 From THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN^ 
 
 c. 1385 
 
 The Prologue 
 
 A thousande tyines I have herd men telle, 
 That there is joy in hevene, and peyne in helle, 
 And I accorde wel that it is so; 
 But, natheles, yet wot I wel also, 
 That ther is noon dwellying in this countree, 5 
 That eythir hath in hevene or in helle y-be, 
 Ne may of hit noon other weyes witen, 
 But as he hath herd seyde, or founde it writen; 
 For by assay ther may no man it preve. 
 
 But God forbede but men shulde leve^ 10 
 
 Wel more thing than men han seen with eye! 
 Men shal not wenen everything a lye 
 But-if hymseKe it seeth, or elles dooth ; 
 For, God wot, thing is never the lasse sooth, 
 Thogh every wight ne may it not y-see. 1 5 
 
 Bernarde,^ the monke, ne saugh nat al, parde! 
 
 Than mote we to bokes that we fynde, — 
 Thurgh which that olde thinges ben in mynde. 
 And to the doctrine of these olde wyse, 
 Yeve credence, in every skylful wise, 20 
 
 That tellen of these olde appreved stories, 
 Of holynesse, of regnes, of vict6ries, 
 Of love, of hate, of other sondry thynges 
 Of whiche I may not maken rehers;^nges. 
 And if that olde bokes were awey, 25 
 
 Y-lorne^ were of r^membraunce the key. 
 Wel ought us, thanne, hon6uren and beleve 
 These bokes, ther we han noon other preve. 
 
 And as for me, though that I konne but lyte. 
 On bokes for to rede I me delyte, 30 
 
 And to hem yive I f eyth and ful credence, 
 And in myn herte have hem in reverence 
 So hertely, that ther is game^ noon 
 That from my bokes maketh me to goon, 
 But it be seldom on the holyday, 35 
 
 Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May 
 Is comen, and that I here the foules^ synge, 
 And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, — 
 Farewel my boke, and my devocion! 
 
 Now have I thanne suche a condicion, 40 
 
 Th^t of alle the floures in the mede. 
 Than love I most thise floures white and rede, 
 Suche as men callen daysyes in our toim. 
 To hem have I so grete affeccioun, 
 As I seyde erst, whan comen is the May, 45 
 That in my bed ther daweth me no day, 
 That I nam up and walkyng in the mede, 
 To seen this floure agein the sonne sprede, 
 
 1 This poem (like its greater successor, The Canterbury 
 Tales), consists of a number of separate stories, intro- 
 duced by a Prologue. In the Legend, however, all the 
 stories are of women who have been victims or martyrs 
 to love. Chaucer apparently intended to tell the legends 
 of nineteen good women, but the poem is unfinished. 
 
 2 Believe 
 
 3 Bernardo/ Clairvaux (1091-1153). Even St. Bernard, 
 holy and wise as he was, did not see everything. The 
 passage is founded on a Latin proverb " Bernardus 
 monachus non videt omnia." 
 
 * Lost. » Amusement. » Birds. 
 
 Whan it uprysith erly by the morwe; 
 
 That blisful sighte softneth al my sorwe, 50 
 
 So glad am I, whan that I have presence 
 
 Of it, to doon it alle reverence. 
 
 As she that is of alle floures flour, 
 
 Fulfilled of al vertu and honour, 
 
 And evere ilike^ faire, and fresshe of hewe. 
 
 And I love it, and evere ylike newe, 56 
 
 And ever shal, til that myn herte dye; 
 
 Al swere I nat, of this I wol nat lye; 
 
 Ther loved no wight hotter in his lyve. 
 
 And whan that it is eve, I renne blyve,* 60 
 As sone as evere the sonne gynneth weste, 
 To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste. 
 For fere of nyght, so hateth she derknesse! 
 Hir chere^ is pleynly sprad in the brightnesse 
 Of the sonne, for ther it wol unclose. 65 
 
 Alias, that I ne had Englyssh, ryme or prose 
 Sdflfisant this flour to preyse aright! 
 But helpeth ye that han konnyng^'' and myght. 
 Ye lovers, that kan make^^ of sentement; 
 In this case oghte ye be diligent 70 
 
 To forthren me somewhat in my labour, 
 Whethir ye ben with the Leef or with the Flour; 
 For wel I wot, that ye han her-biforne^^ 
 Of makynge ropen,^^ and lad awey the come; 
 And I come after, glenyng here and there, 75 
 And am ful glad if I may fynde an ere 
 Of any goodly word that ye han left. 
 And thogh it happen me rehercen eft^* 
 That ye han in your fresshe songes sayede, 
 Forbereth me, and beth not evele apayede,^^ 
 Syn that ye see I do it in the hon6ur 81 
 
 Of love, and eke in service of the flour 
 Whom that I serve as I have witte or myght. 
 She is the clerenesse and the verray lyght, 
 That in this derke worlde me wynt^^ and ledyth. 
 The herte in-with my eorwful brest yow 
 
 dredith,i7 
 And loveth so sore, that ye ben verrayly 87 
 The maistresse of my witte, and nothing I. 
 My worde, my werk, is knyt so in youre bond 
 That as an harpe obeith to the hond, 90 
 
 That maketh it soune after his fyngerynge, 
 Ryght so mowe ye oute of myn herte bringe 
 Swich vois, ryght as yow lyst, to laughe or 
 
 pleyne; 
 Be ye my gide, and lady sovereyne. 
 As to my erthely god, to yowe I calle, 95 
 
 Bothe in this werke, and in my sorwes alle. 
 
 But wherfore that I spake to yive credence 
 To olde stories, and doon hem reverence, 
 And that men mosten more thyng beleve 
 Then they may seen at eye or elles preve, 100 
 That shal I seyn, whanne that I see my tyme — 
 I may nat al attones^^ speke in ryme. 
 My besy^^ gost, that thursteth alwey newe. 
 To seen this flour so yong, so fresshe of hewe, 
 Constreyned me with so gledy^o desire, 105 
 
 That in myn herte I feele yet the fire, 
 That made me to ryse er it wer day, 
 And this was now the firste morwe of May, 
 
 ^ Alike. 8 Quickly. » Face. 
 
 10 Skill. " Write or compose. " Before this. 
 
 13 Reaped poetry, i. e. cut the crop of poetry. \ 
 
 1* Again. is i\\ pleased. i» Turns. i^ Reveres. 
 
 1* At once, i' Anxious. 20 Glowing. 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 63 
 
 With dredfupi hert, and glad devocion 
 
 For to ben at the resurreccion 110 
 
 Cf this flour, whan that it shulde unclose 
 
 Agayne the sonne, that roos as rede as rose, 
 
 That in the brest was of the beste,22 that day, 
 
 That Agenores doghtre^^ ladde away. 
 
 And doun on knes anon-ryght I me sette, 115 
 
 And as I koude, this fresshe flour I grette, 
 
 Knelyng alwey, til it unclosed was, 
 
 Upon the smale, softe, swote^^ gras, 
 
 That was with floures swote enbrouded^^ al, 119 
 
 Of swich swetnesse, and swich od6ur over-al, 
 
 That for to speke of gomme,2« or herbe, or tree, 
 
 Comparisoun may noon y-maked be; 
 
 For it surmounteth pleynly alle odoures. 
 
 And of riche beaute alle floures. 
 
 Forgeten had the erthe his pore estate 125 
 
 Of wyntir, that him naked made and mate,^^ 
 
 And with his swerd of colde so sore greved; 
 
 Now hath the atempresonne^ al that releved 
 
 That naked was, and clad it new agayne. 
 
 The smale foules, of the sesoun fayne,^^ 130 
 
 That of the panter^'^ and the nette ben scaped. 
 
 Upon the foweler, that hem made a-whaped*^ 
 
 In wynter, and distroyed hadde hire broode. 
 
 In his dispite hem thoghte it did hem goode 
 
 To synge of hym, and in hir songe dispise 135 
 
 The foule cherle, that, for his coveytise, 
 
 Had hem betrayed with his sophistrye. 
 
 This was hir songe, "The foweler we deffye, 
 \nd al his crafte," And somme songen clere 
 Layes of love, that joye it was' to here, 140 
 In worshipynge and in preysing of hir make;*" 
 And, for the newe blisful somers sake. 
 Upon the braunches ful of blosmes softe, 
 In hire delyt, they turned hem ful ofte, 
 And songen, "Blessed be Seynt Valentyne! 145 
 For on his day I chees you to be myne, 
 Withouten repentyng myne herte swete!" 
 And therewithal hire bekes gonnen meete. . . . 
 
 And tho^^ that hadde don unkyndenesse, — 
 As doth the tydif,^'^ for newfangelnesse, — 
 Besoghte mercy of hir trespassynge, 155 
 
 And humblely songen hir r^pentynge, 
 And sworen on the blosmes to be trewe, 
 So that hire makes wolde upon hem rewe,*^ 
 And at the laste maden hir acorde. 
 Al f ounde they Daunger^^ for a tyme a lord, 1 60 
 Yet Pitee, thurgh his stronge gentil myght, 
 Foryaf, and made Mercy passen Ryght, 
 Thurgh Innocence, and ruled Curtesye. 
 But I ne clepe it innocence folye, 
 Ne fals pitee, for vertue is the mene;" 165 
 
 As Ethike seith, in swich maner I mene. 
 And thus thise foweles, voide of al malice, 
 Acordeden to love, and laften vice 
 Of hate, and songen alle of oon acorde, 169 
 * Welcome, Somer, oure governour and lorde.' 
 
 And Zepherus and Flora gentilly 
 Yaf to the floures, softe and tenderly. 
 
 21 Reverent. 22 Beast i. e. Taurus. 
 
 23 Europa. 24 Sweet. 
 
 25 Embroidered. 26 Gum. 27 Weak. 
 
 28 Mild temperature. 2» Glad. so Snare. 
 
 »i Frightened. 32 Mate. 33 Those. 
 
 »* Titmouse. 36 Take pity on them. 
 
 «6 Love's dominion. «7 Average. 
 
 His swoote^'^ breth, and made hem for to sprede. 
 
 As god and goddesse of the floury mede. 174 
 
 In whiche me thoght I myghte, day by day, 
 
 Dwellen alwey, the joly month of May, 
 
 Withouten slepe, withouten mete or drynke. 
 
 Adoun ful softely I gan to synke. 
 
 And lenynge on myn elbowe and my syde, 
 
 The longe day, I shoop^^ me for to abide, 180 
 
 For nothing ellis, and I shal nat lye. 
 
 But for to loke upon the dayesie. 
 
 That men by resoun wel it calle may 
 
 The dayesie, or elles the ye of day. 
 
 The emperice, and floure of floures alle. 185 
 
 I pray to God that faire mote she falle,^ 
 
 And alle that loven floures, for hire sake! 
 
 But, natheles, ne wene nat that I make*'^ 
 
 In preysing of the Flour agayn the Leef, 189 
 
 No more than of the corne agayn the sheef ; 
 
 For as to me nys lever noon, ne lother, 
 
 I nam witholden yit with never nother. 
 
 Ne I not*" who serveth Leef, ne who the Flour. 
 
 Wel browken*' they hir service or labour! 
 
 For this thing is al of another tonne,** 195 
 
 Of olde storye, er swiche thinge was begonne. 
 
 Whan that the sonne out of the southe gan 
 weste, 
 And that this flour gan close, and goon to reste, 
 For derknesse of the nyght, the which she 
 dredde, 199 
 
 Home to myn house full swiftly I me spedde 
 To goon to reste, and erly for to ryse, 
 To seen this flour to-sprede, as I devyse. 
 And in a litel herber*^ that I have, 
 That benched was on turves fressh y-grave, 
 I bad men sholde me my couche make; 205 
 For deyntee** of the newe someres sake, 
 I had hem strawen floures on my bed. 
 
 Whan I was leyde, and hadde myn eyen hed,*^ 
 I fel on slepe, in-with an houre or two. 
 Me mette*8 how I lay in the medewe tho, 210 
 To seen this flour that I love so and drede;*' 
 And from a-fer come walkyng in the mede 
 The god of Love, and in his hand a quene, 
 And she was clad in reaP° habite grene; 
 A fret^i of gold she hadde next her heer. 215 
 And upon that a white crowne she beer, 
 With flourouns^2 gmale, and I shal nat lye, 
 For al the worlde ryght as a dayesye 
 Y-c6rouned is with white leves lyte, 219 
 
 So were the flourouns of hire c6roune white; 
 For of 0^3 perle, fyne, 6rient^l, 
 Hire white c6roune was i-maked al, 
 For^which the white coroune above the grene 
 Mdde hire lyke a daysie for to sene. 
 Considered eke hir fret of golde above. 225 
 
 Y-clothed was this mighty god of Love 
 In silke enbrouded, ful of grene greves,^* 
 In-with a fret of rede rose leves. 
 The fresshest syn the worlde was first bygonne. 
 
 M Sweet. 39 Planned. « Good may befall. 
 
 *i Make poetry. ^2 Ne wot, not know. 
 
 *3 May they enjoy. ** Cask. 
 
 « Arbor, or resting place, a plot covered with grass 
 or herbage. 
 
 4* For the sake of enjoying. *l Hidden. 
 
 48 Dreamt. *^ Revere. ^o Royal. *i Ornament. 
 ''2 Small flowers. ^3 One. ^^ Groves. 
 
64 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 His gilte here was corowned with a sonne 230 
 In stede of golde, for hevynesse and wyghte; 
 Therwith me thoght his face shon so brighte 
 That wel unnethes^^ myght I him beholde; 
 And in his hande me thoght I saugh him holde 
 Two firy dartes as the gledes^ rede, 235 
 
 And aungelyke his wynges saugh I sprede. 
 And, al be that men seyn that blynd is he, 
 Algate^^ me thoghte that he myghte se; 
 For sternely on me he gan byholde, 
 So that his loking doth myn herte colde. 240 
 And by the hande he helde this noble quene, 
 Crowned with white, and clothed al in grene. 
 So womanly, so benigne, and so meke, 
 That in this world, thogh that men wolde seke, 
 Hdlf hire beute shulde men nat fynde 245 
 
 In creature that formed is by Kynde.^* 
 And therfore may I seyn, as thynketh me, 
 This song in preysyng of this lady fre. 
 Hyde Absalon, thy gilte tresses clere; 
 Ester, ley thou thy mekenesse al adoun; 250 
 Hyde, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere; 
 Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun, 
 Make of youre wifhode no comparysoun; 
 Hyde ye youre beautes, Ysoude and Eleyne; 
 My lady comith, that al this may disteyne.^^ 
 
 Thy faire body lat it nat appere, 256 
 
 Lavyne; and thou Lucresse of Rome toun 
 And Polixene, that boghten love so dere, 
 And Cloepatre, with all thy passyoun, 259 
 
 Hyde ye your trouthe of love, and your renoun. 
 And thou, Tesbe, that hast of love suche peyne; 
 My lady comith, that al this may disteyne. 
 
 Hero, Dido, Laud6mia, alle yfere,^° 
 
 And Phillis, hangying for thy Demophon, 
 
 And Canace, espied by thy chere, 265 
 
 Ysiphilie, betraysed with Jason, 
 
 Maketh of your trouthe neythir boost ne soun, 
 
 Nor Ypermystre, or Adriane, ye tweyne; 
 
 My lady cometh, that al thys may dysteyne. 
 
 This balade may ful wel y-songen be, 270 
 As I have seyde erst, by my lady free; 
 For certeynly al thise mowe nat suffice 
 To apperen wyth my lady in no wyse. 
 For as the sonne wole the fire disteyne, 
 So passeth al my lady sovereyne, 275 
 
 That is so good, so faire, so debonajT-e, 
 I prey to God that ever falle hire faire. 
 For nadde^^ comfort ben of hire presence, 
 I hadde ben dede, withouten any defence. 
 For drede of Loves wordes, and his chere, 280 
 As, when t3mae is, herafter ye shal here. 
 
 THE CANTERBURY TALES 
 
 (Begun 1386-1387) 
 
 The Prologue 
 
 Whan that AprlUe with hise shoures soote^ 
 The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 
 A.nd bathed every veyne in swich licour^ 
 
 55 Scarcely. ^ Gleeds, brands. " All the same. 
 
 68 Nature. 69 stain, dim. « Together. 
 
 «i i. e. had no. 
 1 Sweet. » Moisture. 
 
 Of which vertii engendred is the flour; 
 Whan Zephirus^ eek with his swete breeth 5 
 Inspired hath in every holt* and heeth 
 The tendre croppes^ and the yonge sonne 
 Hath in the Ram^ his halfe cours y-ronno. 
 And smale foweles maken melodye. 
 That slepen al the nyght with open eye 10 
 
 (So priketh hem Nature in hir cordges,)' 
 Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. 
 And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, 
 To feme halwes,^ kowthe^ in sondry londes; 
 And specially, from every shires ende 15 
 
 Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
 The hooly blissful i° martir for to seke, 
 That hem hath holpen whan that they were 
 seeke.^^ 
 
 Bifil that in that seson on a day, 
 In Southwerk at the Tabard^^ ^ i j^y^ 20 
 
 Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage 
 To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,^' 
 At nyght were come into that hostelrye 
 Wel nyne-and-twenty in a compaignye, 
 Of sondry folk, by aventure^* y-falle 25 
 
 In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle, 
 That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 
 The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 
 And wel we weren esed^^ atte beste. 
 And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 30 
 So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 
 That I was of hir felaweshipe anon. 
 And made forward ^^ erly for to ryse. 
 To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse. 
 
 But natheless, whil I have tyme and space, 
 Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 36 
 
 Me thynketh it accordaunt to res6un 
 To telle yow al the condicioun 
 Of ech of hem, so as it semed me. 
 And whiche they weren, and of what degree. 
 And eek in what array that they were inne; 
 And at a Knyght than wol I first begynne. 42 
 
 A KNYGHT ther was and that a worthy man, 
 That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
 To riden out, he loved chivalrie, 45 
 
 Trouthe and hon6ur, fredom and curteisie. 
 Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 
 And thereto hadde he riden, no man ferre. 
 As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse. 
 And ever honoured for his worthynesse. 50 
 At Alisaundre^^ he was whan it was wonne; 
 Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne^* 
 Aboven alle nacions in Pruce.^- 
 
 3 7>he west wind, noted for its mild and life-giving 
 influence. Cf. Eng. Zephyr. 
 
 * Wood. 6 Sprouts. 
 
 6 Aries, the first of the signs of the zodiac. The young 
 sun (i. e. the sun just beginning its annual course), passed 
 through the Ram from March 12th to April 11th. Hence, 
 during April, half the sun's course was "in the Ram." 
 To say that this half course was completed, is equivalent 
 to saying that the time was after April 11th. 
 
 ' Hearts. ^ Distant Saints. » Known. 
 
 •" Thomas a Becket. n Sick. 
 
 12 A famous Inn in Southwark, across the Thames from 
 London. 
 
 >' Heart. i* By chance. i^ Entertained. 
 
 16 Agreement. " Alexandria in Egypt. \ 
 
 i» i. e. "he had been placed at the head of the dais, or 
 
 table (bord) of state." 
 
 » Prussia. 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 65 
 
 In Lettow hadde he reysed^ and in Ruce, — ^ 
 
 No cristen man so ofte of his degree. 55 
 
 In Gernade^ at the seege eek hadde he be 
 
 Of Algezir,^ and riden in Belmarye.? 
 
 At Lyeys^ was he, and at Satalye/ 
 
 Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See 
 
 At many a noble ary^e^ hadde he be. 60 
 
 At mortal battailles hadde he been fiftene, 
 And foughten for oure feithe at Tramyssene^ 
 In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 
 This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also 
 Somtyme with the lord of Palatye^" 65 
 
 Again another hethen in Turkye; 
 And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 
 And though that he were worthy, he was wys. 
 And of his port as meeke as is a mayde. 
 He never yet no vileynye^^ ne sayde, 70 
 
 In al his lyfe, unto no maner wight. 
 He was a verray parfit, gentil knyght. 
 
 But for to tellen yow of his array, 
 His hors weren goode, but he ne was nat gay; 
 Of fustian he wered a gyp6n^2 75 
 
 Al bismotered^^ with his habergeon^* 
 For he was late y-come from his vidge, 
 And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 
 
 With hym ther was his sone, a yong SquiAr, 
 A lovyere and a lusty bacheler,^^ 80 
 
 With lokkes crulle^" as they were leyd in presse. 
 Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
 Of his stature he was of even lengthe,^'^ 
 And wonderly delyvere^^ and greet of strengths ; 
 And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie,^* 85 
 In Flaundres, in Artoys and Pycardie, 
 And born hym weel, as of so litel space, 
 In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 
 Embrouded2^> was he, as it were a meede 
 Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede; 90 
 Syngynge he was, or floytynge,^! al the day; 
 He was as fressh as is the monthe of May. 
 Short was his gowne, with sieves longe and 
 
 wyde; 
 Wei koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde; 
 He koude songes make and wel endite, 95 
 
 Juste and eek daunce and weel pui'treye^^ and 
 
 write. 
 So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale^' 
 He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. 
 Curteis he was, lowely and servysdble, 
 And carf biforn his fader at the table. 100 
 
 A Yeman hadde he and servdntz namo^* 
 At that tyme, for hym liste ride soo; 
 And he was clad in cote and hood of grene. 
 A sheef of pocock^^ arwes, bright and kene, 
 
 1 Travelled. 2 Russia. 3 Grenada. 
 
 *The Knight had been in Grenada at the siege of 
 Algezir (or AlgeQira,H). 
 
 ^ A Moorish Kingdom in Africa. 
 
 « A town in Armenia. ^ A town in Asiatic Turkey. 
 
 ** Sea-expedition. 
 
 3 A Moorish Kingdom in Africa. 
 
 1" Anatohsi, in Asia Minor. Nearly all the places here, 
 mentioned had been held by the heathen, Moors, Turks, 
 and Lithuanians. The Knight has been the champion 
 uf niiristian Europe in distant parts of the world. 
 
 ' ' Rude or abusive language. 12 Doublet. 
 
 '^ Soiled, stained. 1* Hauberk, coat of mail. 
 
 '^ Candidate for Knighthood. i« Curled. 
 
 1' Average size. i* Quick. '' Campaigns. 
 
 20 Embroidered. 21 Fluting. 22 Draw or paint. 
 
 " Night-time. 21 No more. 25 Peacock. 
 
 Under his belt he bar ful thriftily — 105 
 
 Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly ; 
 His arwes drouped noght with f etheres lowe — 
 And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe. 
 A not-heed28 hadde he, with a broun visdge. 
 Of woodecraft wel koude^^ he al the usdge. 110 
 Upon his arm he baar a gay brac^r,^^ 
 And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler. 
 And on that oother syde a gay dagg6re, 
 Harneised wel and sharpe as point of spere; 
 A Cristophere^' on his brest of silver sheene; 
 An horn he bar, the bawdryk^" was of grene. 1 16 
 A forster was he, soothly as I gesse. 
 
 Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
 That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy; 
 Hire grettest 00th was but by seinte Loy,^^ 120 
 And she was cleped^^ madame Eglentyne. 
 Ful weel she soong the service djrvyne, 
 Entuned in hir nose ful semely. 
 And Frenssh she spake ful faire and fetisly^^ 
 After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe,^* 125 
 For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
 At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle, 
 She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 
 Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe. 
 Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe, 130 
 Thdt no drope ne fille^^ upon hire breste; 
 In curteisie was set ful muchel hir leste.^^ 
 Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene, 
 That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene 
 Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 
 Ful semely after hir mete she raughte." 136 
 And sikerly^* she was of greet desport, 
 And ful plesdunt and amyable of port, 
 And peyned hire to countrefete cheere 
 Of Court,^^ and been estatlich'"^ of manure, 140 
 And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
 But for to speken of hire conscience,^^ 
 She was so charitable and so pit6us 
 She wolde wepe if that she saugh a mous 
 Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 
 Of smale houndes hadde she that she fedde 146 
 With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel breed ;*2 
 But soore wepte she if oon of hem were deed. 
 Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte;*' 
 And al was conscience and tendre herte. 150 
 
 Ful semyly hir wympul*'* pynched was; 
 Hire nose tretys,*^ hir eyen greye as glas, 
 Hir mouth ful smal and there-to softe and reed, 
 But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; 
 It was almost a spanne brood I trowe, 155 
 
 For, hardily,^ she was not undergrowe. 
 
 » Cropped head. 27 Knew. 28 Arm guard. 
 
 29 A brooch with a figure of St. Christopher. 
 
 30 Shoulder belt. 
 
 31 St. Eloy, or Eligius, patron saint of goldsmiths and 
 
 32 Called, named. 33 Skilfully, readily. 
 
 3* After the style (scole) of those in or about Stratford- 
 at-Bow; i. e. the Prioresse spoke the provincial, or Anglo- 
 Norman, and not the Parisian French. The priory over 
 which she presided is supposed to have been near Strat- 
 ford-at-Bow, then a village only a few miles from London. 
 
 36 Fell. 30 Pleasure. 37 Reached. 38 Surely. 
 
 39 Cheere of Court, imitate courtly behaviour. 
 
 40 Stately, dignified. 4i Sympathy. 
 
 42 Fine white bread. 
 
 43 Smote it sharply with a stick (yerde) . 
 
 *4 Neck cloth. 45 Shapely. 46 Surely 
 
66 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 Ful fetys^ was hir cloke, as I was war; 
 Of smal cordl aboute hire arm she bar 
 A peire of bedes,^ gauded al with grene, 
 And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheens, 
 On which ther was first write a crowned A,' 161 
 And after Amor vincet omnia. 
 
 Another Nonne with hire hadde she 
 That was hir Chapeleyne, and Preestes thre. 
 
 A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie,* 
 An outridere, that lovede venerie;^ 166 
 
 A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
 Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable. 
 And whan he rood men myghte his brydel heere 
 Gynglen in a whiatlynge wynd als cleere, 170 
 And eeke as loude as dooth the chapel belle. 
 Ther as this lord was keepere of the celle. 
 The reule of seint Maure* or of seint Beneit, 
 By-cause that it was olde and som-del streit,^ 
 This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,* 175 
 And heeld after the newe world a space. 
 He yaf nat of that text^ a pulled hen^" 
 That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men, 
 Ne that a Monk whan he is reechelees^^ 
 Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees: 180 
 
 This is to seyn, a Monk out of his cloystre. 
 But thiUce^2 text heeld he nat worth an oystre; 
 And I seyde his opinloun was good. 
 What sholde he studie and make hymselven 
 
 wood,^^ 
 Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, 185 
 Or swynken^* with his handes and lab6ure, 
 As Austyn^s bit?^^ How shal the world be 
 
 served? 
 Lat Austyn have his swynk^^ to him reserved. 
 Therfore he was a prikasour^^ aright; 
 Grehoundes he hadde; as swift as fowel in flight: 
 Of prikyng and of hunting for the hare 191 
 
 Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
 I seigh his sieves y-purfiled^^ at the hond 
 With grys,2o and that the fyneste of a lond; 
 And for to festne his hood under his chyn 195 
 He hadde of gold y-wrought a curious pyn, 
 A love knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 
 His heed was balled that shoon as any glas. 
 And eek his face as he hadde been enoynt. 
 He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt; 200 
 Hise eyen stepe^i and roUynge in his heed, 
 That stcmed as a forneys of a leed;^^ 
 His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat. 
 
 1 Neat. 
 
 2 A string of beads. Here the beads were coral, gauded 
 with green, i. e., the larger beads or gawdies, were of green. 
 
 ' "A," probably stood for Amor, or Charity, crowned 
 as the greatest of Christian virtues. 
 
 * i. e. as we should say, one well fitted to succeed. 
 
 6 Hunting. 
 
 6 St. Maur, or Maurus, a follower and successor of 
 St. Benedict who was founder of the Benedictine Order. 
 His rules of monastic discipline (nule. of Seint Beneit), 
 came to be widely followed throughout Europe. 
 
 ' Somewhat strict. s Pass. 
 
 9 Not necessarily a text from the Bible. Supposed 
 here to refer to the belief or legend that Nimrod, the 
 mighty hunter, was a bad man. 
 
 JO Plucked hen. n Cloisterless. 
 
 ' 12 That same. i3 Mad. i* Work. toil. 
 
 " St. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, and author of the 
 Confessions. 
 
 "Bid. 17 Work. is Hard rider. 
 
 "Trimmed. 20 Grey fur. 2> Protruding. 
 
 " Glowed like a fire under a cauldron. 
 
 Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat. 
 He was nat pale, as a forpyned^^ goost: 
 A fat swan loved he best of any roost; 
 His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 
 
 205 
 
 A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye, 
 A lymytour,24 a ful solempne^^ man; 
 In alle the ordres foure^^ is noon that kan 210 
 So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage; 
 He hadde maad ful many a mariage 
 Of yonge wommen at his owene cost: 
 Unto his ordre he was a noble post. 
 Ful wel biloved and famuli^r was he 215 
 
 With frankeleyns27 over al in his contree; 
 And eek with worthy wommen of the toun, 
 For he hadde power of confessioun, 
 As seyde hym-self , moore than a curdt, 
 For of his ordre he was licenciat.'^^ 220 
 
 Ful swetely herde he confessioun, 
 And pleasaunt was his absolucioun. 
 He was an esy man to yeve pendunce 
 Ther as he wiste to have a good pitaunce; 
 For unto a poure ordre for to yive 225 
 
 Is signe that a man is wel y-shryve; 
 For, if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt^^ 
 He wiste that a man was r6pentaunt: 
 For many a man so harde is of his herte 229 
 He may nat wepe al thogh hym soore smerte, 
 Therefore in stede of wepynge and prey^res 
 Men moote yeve silver to the poure freres. 
 His typet^° was ay farsed fulP^ of knyves 
 And pynnes for to yeven yonge wyves; 
 And certeinly he hadde a murey note; 235 
 
 Wel koude he synge and pleyen on a rote:'^ 
 Of yeddynges^* he baar outrely the pris; 
 His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys, 
 Ther-to^^ he strong was as a champioun. 
 He knew the tavernes well in al the toun 240 
 And everich hostiler and tappestere*^ 
 Bet than a lazar^° or a beggestere;^'' 
 For unto swich a worthy man as he 
 Acorded nat, as by his facultee. 
 To have with sike lazars dqueyntdunce; 245 
 It is nat honeste, it may nat avaunce 
 For to deelen with no swiche poraille;^^ 
 But al with riche and selleres of vitaille. 
 And over al, ther as profit sholde arise, 
 Curteis he was and lowely of servyse, 250 
 
 Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous! 
 He was the beste beggere in his hous, 
 For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho,'' 
 So plesaunt was his In -principio,^ 
 
 2' Tormented. 
 
 24 A friar allowed to beg within a certain district, or 
 limit. 
 
 25 Solemn. 
 
 26 The Dominican, Franciscan, Carmelite, and Augus- 
 tin, or Austin Friars. 
 
 27 A franklin was a free landed proprietor who held 
 directly from the crown. 
 
 . f He had been licensed by the Pope to perform certain 
 religious offices. 29 Boast. 
 
 *•> Tippet, hood or cowl, which seems to have been used 
 as a pocket. 
 
 31 Stuffed. 32 Small harp. 33 Songs. 
 
 3« Wholly or entirely. 35 Barmaid. 36 Leper. 
 
 37 Beggar. 38 Poor people. 39 Shoe. \ 
 
 *°The opening words of the Gospel of St. John, 7n^ 
 prinripio erat cerbum, were used as a salutation by the '(! 
 friars as they entered a house on their rounds of niercy. 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 67 
 
 Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente: 255 
 His purchase^ was wel bettre than his rente. 
 And rage'^ he koude, as it were right a whelpe. 
 In love-dayes' ther koude he muchel helpe. 
 For ther he was not lyk a cloysterer 
 With a thredbare cope, as is a poure scol^r, 260 
 But he was lyk a maister, or a pope; 
 Of double worstede was his semycope/ 
 That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 
 Somwhat he lipsed for. his wantownesse, 
 To make his Englissh sweet upon his tonge, 
 And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde 
 songe, 266 
 
 His eyen twynkled in his heed aryght 
 As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. 
 This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd. 
 
 A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, 
 In motteleye, and hye on horse he sat; 271 
 Upon his heed a Flaunderyssh bevere hat; 
 His bootes clasped faire and fetisly; 
 His resons he spake ful solempnely, 
 Sowynge alway thencrees of his wynn^g. 275 
 He wolde the see were kept for any things 
 Bitwixe Middelburgh^ and OrewelleJ 
 Wel koude he in eschaunge sheeldes^ sella. 
 This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette, 
 Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 280 
 So estatly was he of his governaunce 
 With his bargaynes and with his chevys- 
 
 saunce,^ 
 For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle, 
 But sooth to seyn I noot^° how men hym calle. 
 
 A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also 285 
 
 That unto logyk hadde long y-go. 
 As leene was his hors as is a rake. 
 And he nas nat right fat, I undertake, 
 But looked hoi we, and ther-to sobrely; 
 Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy;^^ 290 
 For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, 
 Ne was so worldly for to have office; 
 For hym was levere have at his beddes heed 
 Twenty bookes clad in blak or reed 
 Of Aristotle and his philosophie, 295 
 
 Than robes riche, or fithele,^^ qj. g^y gautrie:^^ 
 But al be^^ that he was a philos6phre, 
 Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; 
 But al that he myghte of his freendes hente^^ 
 On bookes and his lernynge he it spente, 300 
 And bisily gan for the soules preye 
 Of hem that yaf hym wher-with to scoleye.^* 
 Of studie took he moost cure^^ and moost 
 
 heed, 
 Noght o^^ word spak he moore than was neede, 
 
 1 His purchase (or gain from begging) was larger than 
 hia rente (or income). 
 
 2 Romp, play. 
 
 ' Days set apart for the settlement of disputes by arbi- 
 tration or amicable agreement. 
 
 * Short cloak. s At any cost. 
 
 « A port on the island of Walcheren in the Netherlands. 
 
 ^Orwell (now Harwich), a port on the English coast 
 nearly opposite Middleburgh. 
 
 8 A French coin, so called because they had a shield 
 stamped on one side. 
 
 » Loans. lo Know not. ^^ Short over-coat. 
 
 1'^ Fiddle. " Harp. » Although. 
 
 15 Get. i« To study. i' Care. is One. 
 
 And that was seyd in forme and reverence, 305 
 And short and quyk and ful of hy sentence. ^^ 
 Sownynge ^o in moral vertu was his speche. 
 And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. 
 
 A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys,2i 
 That often hadde been at the Parvys,^^ 310 
 Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
 Discreet he was, and of greet reverence; 
 He semed swich, hise wordes weren so wise. 
 Justice he was full often in Assise, ^^ 
 By patente and by pleyn commissioun. 315 
 For his science and for his heigh renoun, 
 Of fees and robes hadde he many oon; 
 So greet a purchasour^'* was nowher noon. 
 Al was fee symple to hym in effect, 
 His purchasying myghte nat been infect. 320 
 Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas, 
 And yet he semed bisier than he was. 
 In termes hadde he caas and doomes^^ alle 
 That from the tyme of kyng William were falle; 
 Ther-to he coude endite and make a thyng. 325 
 Ther koude no wight pynchen^^ at his writ;9'i^g; 
 And every statut coude he pleyn by rote.^^ 
 He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote, 
 Girt with a ceint of silk with barres^ smale; 
 Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 330 
 
 A Frankeleyn^^ was in his compaignye. 
 Whit was his berd as is a dayseye. 
 Of his complexioun he was sangw^. 
 Wel loved he by the morwe^° a sope in wyn; 
 To lyven in delit was evere his wone,'^ 335 
 
 For he was Epicurus owene sone. 
 That heeld opinioun that pleyn'^ delit 
 Was verraily felicitee parfit. 
 An householdere, and that a greet, was he: 
 Seint Julian^^ was he in his contree; 340 
 
 His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon; 
 A better envyned^^ man was nowher noon. 
 Withoute bake mete was never his hous. 
 Of fissh and flessh, and that so plenteuous 
 It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke. 345 
 Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke 
 
 19 Meaning. ^o Tending to. 
 
 21 Wary and prudent. 
 
 22 Here, the porch, or portico in front of St. Paul's 
 Cathedral, London, where the lawyers were accus- 
 tomed to meet for consultation. 
 
 23 A Session (or sitting) of the Circuit Court. About 
 forty years before Chaucer wrote his Prologue, in order 
 to provide for the administration of justice in renaote 
 places, a law was passed, providing that an assize might 
 be held, by a Judge of King's Bench, or of the Common 
 Pleas, or by a King's Sergeant sworn. Chaucer's sergeant 
 held this high office "by patent and by plejm (or full) 
 Commission." 
 
 2* A money-maker, or perhaps a buyer of land. The 
 Sergeant is so skilled in the law of real estate, that he 
 is able, by a legal process, to effect the conveyance of 
 land held under restrictions which would ordinarily 
 interfere with its sale or transfer. Hence, all land was 
 in fee simple to him i. e. as though free from such re- 
 strictions. 
 
 25 Cases and judgments. 26 Find fault. 
 
 27 Knew he fully by heart. 
 
 28 Ornaments on a girdle. 
 
 29 A free landed proprietor who held directly from the 
 Crown. 
 
 30 Morning. " Custom. '2 Full. 
 3» St. Julian Hospitator, patron saint of hospitahty. 
 34 Stored with wine. 
 
68 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 After the sondry sesons of the yeer, 
 
 So chaunged he his mete and his sop6r, 
 
 Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe ^ 
 
 And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe.^ 
 
 Wo was his cook but if his sauce were 351 
 
 Poynaunt and sharpe, and redy al his geere. 
 
 His table dormant' in his halle alway 
 
 Stood redy covered al the longe day. 
 
 At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire; 355 
 
 Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire.* 
 
 An anlaas,^ and a gipser^ al of silk, 
 
 Heeng at his girdel, whit as morne milk; 
 
 A shirreve'' hadde he been, and a countour.^ 
 
 Was nowher such a worthy vavasour.^ 360 
 
 An Haberdasshere, and a Carpenter, 
 
 A Webbe,*° a Dyere, and a Tapycer," 
 
 And they were clothed alle in o^^ lyveree 
 
 Of a solempne and greet fraternitee; ^^ 
 
 Ful fressh and newe hir geere apiked was;^* 365 
 
 Hir knyves were chaped noght with bras, 
 
 But al with silver, wroght ful clene and weel, 
 
 Hire girdles and hir pouches everydeel.^^ 
 
 Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys 
 
 To sitten in a yeldehalle,^^ on a deys." 370 
 
 Everich^^ for the wisdom that he kan^^ 
 
 Was shaply for to been^o an alderman. 
 
 For catel hadde they ynogh and rente,^! 
 
 And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente; 
 
 And elles certeyn were they to blame. 375 
 
 It is ful fair to been y-cleped^^ Madame, 
 
 And goon to vigilies al bifore,^' 
 
 And have a mantel roialliche y-bore.^* 
 
 A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones, 
 To boille the chiknes with the marybones,^^ 
 And poudr^-marchant tart and galyngale;^' 
 Wel koude he knowe a draughte of Londoun ale; 
 He koude rooste and sethe and boille and frye, 
 Mdken mortreux^^ and wel bake a pye. 
 But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 385 
 That on his shyne a mormaP^ hadde he. 
 For blankmanger, that made he with the beste. 
 
 A Shipman was ther, wonyng^s fer by weste; 
 For aught I woot he was of Dertemouthe. 
 He rood upon a rouncy'" as he kouthe, 390 
 
 In a gowne of faldyng to the knee. 
 A daggere hangyng on a laas'^ hadde he 
 Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
 The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun ; 
 And certeinly he was a good feldwe. 395 
 
 Ful many a draughte of wine hadde he y-drawe 
 Fro Burdeuxward whil that the Chapman' 2 
 
 sleepe. 
 Of nyce conscience took he no keepe.'' 
 
 1 Coop. 2 Fish pond. » Fixed. 
 
 * Representative of his shire, or county in Parliament. 
 » Dagger. « Pouch. 7 Sheriff. 
 
 * Auditor. » Land-holder. i" Weaver. 
 " Dealer in carpets and tapistry. 12 One. 
 "A guild. "Trimmed. "Wholly. 
 " Guildhall. " Dais. is Each. 
 
 " He knew. 20 Fit to be. 21 Income. 
 
 22 Be called. 23 Jn front of all. 
 
 21 Royally carried — by a servant. 
 
 2* Marrow-bones. 28 \ tart and a sweet spice. 
 
 2' Mix in a mortar. 28 An open sore. 29 Dwelling. 
 
 »0Anag. "Cord. "Merchant. " Heed. 
 
 If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond. 
 By water34 he sent hem hoom to every lond. 
 But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes, 401 
 
 His stremes and his daungers hym bisides, 
 His herberwe and his moone, his lode-menage,'^ 
 Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage. 
 Hardy he was, and wys to undertake : 405 
 
 With many a tempest hadde his berd ben shake; 
 He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were, 
 From Gootland'^ to the Cape of Fynystere, 
 And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne. 
 His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410 
 
 With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik; 
 
 In all this world ne was ther noon hym lik 
 
 To speke of phisik and of surgerye; 
 
 For he was grounded in astronomye. 
 
 He kepte" his pacient a ful greet deel 415 
 
 In houres,^ by his magyk natureel. 
 
 Wel koude he fortunen the ascendent'^ 
 
 Of his ymdges for his pacient. 
 
 He knew the cause of everich maladye, 
 
 Were it of hoot, or cold, or moyste, or drye, 420 
 
 And where they engendred and of what hum6ur; 
 
 He was a verray parfit praktisour. 
 
 The cause y-knowe and of his harm the roote, 
 
 Anon he yaf the sike man his boote.*° 
 
 Ful redy hadde he kis apothecaries 425 
 
 To send him drogges and his letuaries,^^ 
 
 For ech of hem made oother for to wynne, 
 
 Hir friendshipe nas nat newe to bigynne. 
 
 Wel knew he the olde Esculapius*^ 
 
 And Deyscorides, and eke Rufus, 430 
 
 Olde Ypocras, Haly and Galyen, 
 
 Serapion, Razis and Avycen, 
 
 Averrois, Damascien and Constantyn, 
 
 Bernard and Gatesden and Gilbertyn. 
 
 Of his di^te mesurable was he. 435 
 
 For it was of no superfluitee, 
 
 But of greet norissyng and digestible. 
 
 His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
 
 In sangwyn and in pers^' he clad was al, 
 
 Lyned with tafifata and with sendal.*^ 440 
 
 And yet he was but esy of dispence,*^ 
 
 He kepte that he wan in pestilence.'*^ 
 
 For gold in phisik is a cordial, 
 
 Therfore he lovede gold in special. 
 
 A Good Wif was ther of biside Bathe, 445 
 
 But she was som-del deef, and that was scathe." 
 Of clooth-makyng she hadde swich an haunt** 
 She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
 In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon 
 
 ** i. e. he pitched them over-board. 
 
 36 Pilotage. 36 Jutland. 
 
 3^ Watched. 38 Astrological hours. 
 
 39 He knew well how to make a fortunate horoscope 
 (fortunen the ascendent) of his patient by making images 
 or characters stamped in metals, or wax, at a time when 
 the stars were favorable. 
 
 *o Remedy. *i Syrup and powders. 
 
 <2 Aesculapius was the reputed founder of the art of 
 medicine, the following names are those of famous physi- 
 cians and medical writers of the Middle Ages. > 
 
 43 Red and blue. "Silk. \^ 
 
 *^ Moderate in spending. ,« 
 
 *« The plague known as the "Black Death," which "^ 
 devastated England in Chaucer's century. 
 
 « A pity. 48 sitiii^ 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 69 
 
 That to the offrynge^ bifore hire sholde goon; 
 
 And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she, 451 
 
 That she was out of alio charitee. 
 
 Hir coverchiefs^ ful fyne weren of ground, 
 
 I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound. 
 
 That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed. 455 
 
 Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, 
 
 Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moyste and 
 
 newe; 
 Boold was hir face, and fair, and reed of he we. 
 She was a worthy woraman al hir lyve, 459 
 
 Housbondes at chirche dore^ she hadde fyve, 
 Withouten oother compaignye in you the, — • 
 But ther-of nedeth nat to speke as nowthe,* 
 And thries hadde she been at Jerusalem; 
 She hadde passed many a straunge strem; 
 At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, 465 
 In Galice at Seint Jame, and at Coloigne, 
 She koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye. 
 Gat-tothed^ was she, soothly for to seye. 
 Upon an amblere esily she sat, 
 Y-wympled^ wel, and on hir heed an hat 470 
 As brood as is a bokeler or targe; 
 A foot mantel aboute her hipes large, 
 And on hire feet a paire of spores sharpe. 
 In felaweship wel koude she laughe and carpe;^ 
 Of remedies of love she knew per chaunce, 475 
 For she koude of that art the olde daunce.' 
 
 A goodman was ther of religioun, 
 And was a Poure Persoun of a Toun; 
 But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk; 
 He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 480 
 
 That Cristes Gospel trewely wolde preche 
 His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
 Bcnygne he was and wonder diligent, 
 And in adversitee ful pacient; 
 And swich he was y-preved^ ofte sithes^" 485 
 Ful looth were hym to cursen for his tithes, 
 But rather wolde he yeven out of doubte, 
 Unto his poure parisshens aboute. 
 Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce: 
 He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunce. 490 
 Wyd was his parisshe and houses fer asonder, 
 But he ne lafte nat for reyn ne thonder, 
 In siknesse nor in meschief to visite 
 The f erreste in his parisshe, muche and lite, 
 Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf . 495 
 
 This noble ensample to his sheepe he yaf 
 That firste he wroghte and afterward he 
 
 taughte. 
 Out of the gospel he tho ^^ wordes caughte. 
 And this figure he added eek therto, 
 That if gold ruste what shal iren doo? 500 
 
 For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, 
 No wonder is a lewed'^ man to ruste; 
 And shame it is, if a prest take keepe, 
 
 ' When the congregation came forward to the altar 
 ffith(>r to kiss the reUcs on what was known as Relic 
 Sunday, or to give alma), the Wife of Bath claimed a 
 foremost place in the line of worshippers. 
 
 2 Head-dresses. 
 
 3 The couples were married in the Church porch, after 
 which the priest celebrated mass at the altar. 
 
 * Now. _ 5 Teeth set wide apart. 
 
 * Having a wimple, or head-covering. 
 
 ^ Chatter. « The old game. ' Proved. 
 
 " Times. " Those. " Unlearned. 
 
 A shiten shepherde and a clene sheepe. 
 
 Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive 505 
 
 By his clennesse how that his sheepe sholde lyve. 
 
 He sette nat his benefice to hyre 
 
 And leet his sheepe encombred in the myre, 
 
 And ran to Londoun, unto Seint Poules, 
 
 To seken hyn a chaunterie^^ for soules; 510 
 
 Or with a bretherhed to been withholde,i^ 
 
 But dwelte at hoom and kepte wel his folde, 
 
 So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie, — 
 
 He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenarie 
 
 And though he hooly were and vertuous, 515 
 
 He was to synful man nat despitous,^^ 
 
 Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, 
 
 But in his techyng descreet and benygne, 
 
 To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse, 
 
 By good ensample, this was his bisynesse; 520 
 
 But it were any persone obstinat. 
 
 What so he were, of heigh or lough estat, 
 
 Hym wolde he snybben^^ sharply for the 
 
 nonys. 
 A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon ys; 
 He waited after no pompe and reverence, 525 
 Ne marked him a spiced ^^ conscience. 
 But Cristes loore, and his Apostles twelve, 
 He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve. 
 
 With hym ther was a Plowman, was his 
 
 brother, 
 
 529 
 
 That hadde y-lad of dong ful many a f other, ^^ 
 A trewe swynkere^^ and a good was he, 
 Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee. 
 God loved he best, with all his hoole herte. 
 At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte,^" 534 
 And thanne his neighebore right as hymselve. 
 He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve, 
 For Cristes sake, for every poure wight, 
 Withouten hire if it lay in his myght. 
 His tithes payde he ful faire and wel, 539 
 
 Bothe of his propre swynk and his catel.^^ 
 In a tabdrd22 he rood upon a mere. 
 
 Ther was also a Reve^^ and a Miller. 
 A SoMNOUR^^ and a Pardgner^^ also, 
 A Maunciple2« and myself, — ther were 
 namo. 544 
 
 The Millere was a stout carl for the nones, 
 Ful byg was he of brawn and eek of bones; 
 That proved wel, for over-al ther, he cam, 
 At wrastlynge he wolde have awey the ram.^^ 
 He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke 
 
 knarre,^^ 
 
 " Either an endowment for the payment of a priest 
 to sing or say mass for the dead; or else the church or 
 chapel in which such masses were celebrated. After 
 the plague, many parish priests deserted their parishes 
 and went to London to make money by officiating in 
 the chaunteries. 
 
 1* Supported. i^ Scornful. i« Reprove. 
 
 " Here supposed to mean "scrupulous," "over- 
 fastidious" or over-particular about non-essentials. 
 
 18 Cart-load. i' Laborer. 
 
 20 In joy or pain. ^^ Labor and property. 
 
 22 Short coat. 
 
 23 A steward, or bailiff (as sheriff or shire-reve). Here 
 the Reve of a manor. 
 
 24 An officer who summoned delinquents before the 
 ecclesiastical courts. 
 
 25 One empowered to sell indulgences, or pardons. 
 
 26 A caterer for a college or for one of the Inns of Court. 
 
 27 The Usual prize at wrestling matches. 
 2s Knot. 
 
70 
 
 CHAUCER TO WY ITT AND SURREY 
 
 Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre,^ 
 
 Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed. 
 
 His herd, as any sowe or fox, was reed, 552 
 
 And therto brood, as though it were a spade. 
 
 Upon the cope^ right of his nose he hade 
 
 A werte, and thereon stood a toft of herys, 555 
 
 Reed as the brustles of a sowes erys; 
 
 His nosethirles blake were and wyde; 
 
 A swerd and a bokeler bar he by his syde; 
 
 His mouth as wyde was as a greet f orneys, 
 
 He was a janglere and a goliardeys,^ 560 
 
 And that was moost of synne and harlotries. 
 
 Wei koude he stelen corn and tollen thries,* 
 
 And yet he hadde a thombe of golde,^ pardee, 
 
 A whit cote and a blew hood wered he. 564 
 
 A baggepipe wel koude he blowe and sowne, 
 
 And therwithal he broghte us out of towne. 
 
 A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, 
 Of which achatours^ myghte take exemple 
 For to be wise in byynge of vitaille; 569 
 
 For, wheither that he payde or took by taille,^ 
 Algate^ he wayted^ so in his achaat^° 
 That he was ay biforn^^ and in good staat. 
 Now is nat that of God a f ul fair grace 
 That swich a lewed^^ mannes wit shal pace 
 The wisdom of an heepe of lerned men? 575 
 
 Of maistres hadde hie mo than thries ten. 
 That weren of la we expert and curious, 
 Of wiche ther weren a duszeyne in that hous 
 Worthy to been stywardes of rente and lond 
 Of any lord that is in Engelond, 580 
 
 To maken hym lyve by his propre good^^ 
 In honour dettelees,^^ but he were wood,^^ 
 Or lyve as scarsly as hym list desire; 
 And able for to helpen al a shire 
 In any caas that myghte f alle or happe ; 585 
 
 And yet this Manciple sette hir aller cappe.^^ 
 
 The Reve was a sclendre colerik man 
 His berd was shave as ny as ever he kan; 
 His heer was by his erys round y-shorn, 
 His top was doked lyk a preest biforn, 590 
 
 Fill longe were his legges and ful lene, 
 Y-lyk a staf , ther was no calf y-sene. 
 Wel koude he kepe a gerner and a bynne, 
 Ther was noon auditour koude on him wynne. 
 Wel wiste he, by the droghte and by the reyn. 
 The yeldynge of his seed and of his greyn. 596 
 His lordes sheepe, his neet,^^ his dayerye, 
 His swyn, his hors, his stoor,^^ and his pultrye, 
 Was hoolly in this reves governyng. 
 And by his covenant yaf the rekenyng 600 
 
 1 Heave oft lUi liinges. 2 Tip. 
 
 3 Loud and ribald jester. 
 
 * Millers were allowed as toll a certain proportion 
 of the grain in payment for the grinding. This miller 
 tolled thrice, i. e. took three times the legal quantity of 
 grain. 
 
 *An allusion to the proverb "An honest miller has 
 a thumb of gold," The line may be ironical, — he stole 
 corn, he tolled thrice, and yet was honest enough for a 
 miller. The proverb itself is ambiguous, and the passage 
 obscure. 
 
 6 Buyers. ^ Tally, i. e. charged the goods. 
 
 8 Always. » Watched. 10 Buying. 
 
 Ji Before. i* Ignorant. 
 
 " On his own means. 1* Withoiit debts. 
 
 "Mad. '6 Outwitted them all. 
 
 " Cattl3. »8 Farm stock. 
 
 Syn that his lord was twenty yeer of age; 
 Ther koude no man brynge hym in arrerage. 
 There nas baillif, ne hierde,^^ nor oother 
 
 hyne,2o 
 That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne;^! 
 They were adrad of hym as of the deeth. 605 
 His wonyng22 was ful faire upon an heeth. 
 With grene trees y-shadwed was his place. 
 He koude bettre than his lord purchase. 
 Ful riche he was a-stored^^ pryvely. 
 His lord wel koude he plesen subtilly 610 
 
 To yeve and lene^* hym of his owene good 
 And have a thank, and yet a gowne and 
 
 hood. 
 In youthe he lerned hadde a good myster,^^ 
 He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 
 This Reve sat upon a ful good stot,^^ 615 
 
 That was al pomely^^ grey, and highte Scot; 
 A long surcote of pers^s upon he hade, 
 And by his syde he baar a rusty blade. 
 Of Northfolk was this Reve of which I telle, 
 Biside a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 620 
 
 Tukked he was as is a frere, aboute 
 And ever he rood the hyndreste^^ of oure route. 
 
 A SoMONOUR was ther with us in that place, 
 That hadde a fyr-reed eherubynnes face, 624 
 For sawcefleem^" he was, with eyen narwe. 
 As hoot he was, and lecherous, as a sparwe, 
 With scaled^^ browes blake and piled^^ berd, — 
 Of his visage children were aferd. . . . 
 Ther nas quyk-silver, lytarge,^' ne brymstoon, 
 Boras,^* ceruce, ne oille of Tartre noon, 630 
 
 Ne oynement that wolde dense and byte. 
 That hym myghte helpen of the whelkes^^ 
 
 white 
 Nor of the knobbes sittynge on his chekes. 
 Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eke lekes,634 
 And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as blood; 
 Thanne wolde he speke, and crie as he were 
 
 wood. 38 
 And whan that he wel dronken hadde the 
 
 wyn. 
 Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
 A fewe termes" hadde he, two or thre. 
 That he had lerned out of som decree, — 640 
 No wonder is, he herde it al the day, 
 And eek ye knowen wel how that a jay 
 Kan clepen Watte^s as wel as kan the pope. 
 But whoso koude in oother thyng hym grope,^^ 
 Thanne hadde he spent all his philosophie; 645 
 Ay Questio quid juris wolde he crie. 
 He was a gentil harlot*" and a kynde; 
 A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde. . . . 
 A gerland*! hadde he set upon his heed, 666 
 
 >' Herdsman. 
 
 21 Trickery and deceit. 
 
 " Stocked. 24 Give and lend. 
 
 26 Cob. 27 Dappled. 
 
 2» Hindermost. ^o Pimpled. 
 
 82 Patchv. 33 White lead. 
 
 35 Blotches. 
 
 20 Hind, servant. 
 
 22 Dwelling. 
 
 26 Craft. 
 
 28 Blue. 
 
 31 Scabby. 
 
 34 Borax. 
 
 36 Crazy. 
 
 37 Legal phrases. 38 q^ltl call Wat, or Walter. 
 
 3» Test, examine. « Fellow, knave. 
 
 ** On the ale stake, a pole projecting horizontally 
 from the front of the tavern, hung an ivy-bush ; the usual 
 sigu of an inn. A Garland, made of three hoops and\; 
 decorated with ribbons was often hung from the ale '( 
 stake, in addition to the bush. 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 71 
 
 As greet as it were for an ale stake; 
 
 A bokeleer hadde he maad him of a cake.^ 
 
 With hym ther rood a gentil Pardoner 
 Of Kouncivale,2 his freend and his compeer, 670 
 That streight was comen fro the court of 
 
 Rome. 
 Fill loud 3 he soong Com hider, love to me! 
 This Sornonour bar to hym a stif burdoun,' 
 Was never trompe of half so greet a soun. 
 This Pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex 675 
 But smothe it heeng as dooth a strike of flex;* 
 By ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde, 
 And therwith he his shuldres overspradde. 
 But thynne it lay by colpons^ oon and oon; 
 But hood, for jolitee, ne wered he noon, 680 
 
 For it was trussed up in his walet. 
 Hym though te he rood al of the newe jet;^ 
 Dischevelee, save his cappe, he rood al bare. 
 Swiche glarynge eyen hadde he as an hare, 
 A vernycle^ hadde he sowed upon his cappe; 68ft 
 His walet lay biforn hym in his lappe 
 Bret-fuP of pardon, comen from Rome al 
 
 hoot. 
 A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot; . . . 
 But of his craft, fro Berwyk unto Ware 692 
 
 Ne was ther swich another pardoner. 
 For in his male^ he hadde a pilwe-beer,^" 
 Which that, he seyde, was oure lady veyl; 695 
 He seyde he hadde a gobet^^ of the seyl 
 That Seinte Peter hadde, whan that he wente 
 Upon the see, til Jhesu Crist hym hente.^^ 
 He hadde a croys of latoun,i* ful of stones. 
 And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 
 
 But with thise relikes, whan that he fond 
 A poure person dwellynge upon lond. 
 Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye 
 Than that the person gat in monthes tweye; 
 And thus with feyned flaterye and japes^* 705 
 He made the person and the peple his apes. 
 But, trewely to tellen atte laste, 
 He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste; 
 Wei koude he rede a lessoun or a storie. 
 But alderbest he song an Off ertorie ; 710 
 
 For wel he wiste whan that song was songe, 
 He moste preche, and wel affile his tonge 
 To Wynne silver, as he ful wel koude ; 
 Therefore he song the murierly^^ and loude. 
 
 Now have I toold you shortly, in a clause, 715 
 The staat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the 
 
 cause 
 Why that assembled was this compaignye 
 In South werk, at this gentil hostelrye. 
 That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. ^« 
 But now is tyme to yow for to telle 720 
 
 How that we baren us that ilke nyght, 
 
 1 A loaf of bread. 
 
 2 Probably the hospital of the Blessed Mary of Roun- 
 cyvalle, on the outskirts of Chaucer's London. 
 
 3 Strong bass. * Hank of flax. 
 5 Shreds. * Fashion. 
 
 ' A small copy of the picture of the face of Christ, 
 the original of which, on a cloth or handkerchief, was 
 preserved for centuries at St. Peter's in Rome. 
 
 8 Brimful. « Wallet. "> Pillow-case. 
 
 " Shred. 12 Caught. 
 
 13 Pinchbeck, a cheap imitation of gold. 
 
 1* Tricks. i* The more merrily. 
 
 " Presumably the name of an Inn. 
 
 Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght; 
 
 And after wol I telle of our viage 
 
 And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. 
 
 But first, I pray yow of youre curteisye, 725 
 That ye narette it nat my vileynye,^^ 
 Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere 
 To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere,^^ 
 Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely;^^ 
 For this ye knowen al-so wel as I, 730 
 
 Whoso shal telle a tale after a man, 
 He moote reherce, as ny as ever he kan, 
 Everich a word, if it be in his charge, 
 Al speke he never so rudeliche^" or large; 
 Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, 735 
 
 Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe. 
 He may nat spare, althogh he were his brother; 
 He moot as wel seye o word as another. 
 Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ, 
 And wel ye woot no vileynye is it. 740 
 
 Eek Plato seith, whoso that kan hym rede, 
 'The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede.' 
 
 Also I prey yow to f oryeve it me 
 Al have I nat set folk in hir degree 744 
 
 Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde; 
 My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 
 
 Greet chiere made oure boost us everichon, 
 And to the soper sette he us anon, 
 And served us with vitaille at the beste: 
 Strong was the wyn and wel to drynke us 
 leste.2i 750 
 
 A semely man Our Hooste was with-alle 
 For to han been a marchal in an halle. 
 A large man he was, with eyen stepe, 
 A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe;^^ 754 
 Boold of his speche, and wys and well y-taught, 
 And of manhod hym lakkede right naught. 
 Eek therto he was right a myrie man, 
 And after soper pleyen he bigan, 
 And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges, 
 Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges; 760 
 And seyde thus: " Now, lordynges, trewely, 
 Ye been to me right welcome, hertely; 
 For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, 
 I ne saugh this yeer so myrie a compaignye 
 At ones in this herberwe^' as is now; 765 
 
 Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how. 
 And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght, 
 To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght. 
 
 " Ye goon to Canterbury — God yow speede. 
 The blisful martir quite yow youre meede!^* y70 
 And, wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, 
 Ye shapen yow to talents and to pleye; 
 For trewely confort ne myrthe is noon 
 To ride by the weye doumb as a stoon; 
 And therfore wol I maken yow disport, 77b 
 
 As I seyde erste, and doon yow som confort. 
 And if you liketh alle, by oon assent. 
 Now for to stonden at my juggement. 
 And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 
 To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weve, 780 
 
 Now, by my fader soule, that is deed, 
 But ye be myrie, smyteth of myn heed! 
 
 " Impute it not to my coarseness. i* Behavior. 
 
 19 Literally, exactly. 20 Freely. 
 
 21 Pleased. " Cheapside in London. 
 
 23 Inn. 24 Pay. 25 Prepare to tell stories. 
 
72 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 Hoold up yours hond, withouten moore speche." 
 
 Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche ; 784 
 
 Us thoghte it was noght worth to make it 
 
 wys/ 
 And graunted hym withouten moore avys,' 
 And bad him seye his verdit, as hym leste. 
 " Lordynges," quod he, " now herkneth for 
 the beste; 
 But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn ; 789 
 This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, 
 That ech of yow, to shorte with your weye, 
 In this vidge shal telle tales tweye, — 
 To Caunterbmyward, I mean it so, 
 And homward he shal tellen othere two, — 
 Of aventures that whilom han bifalle. 795 
 
 And which of yow that bereth hym beste of alle, 
 That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas 
 Tales of best sentence and most solaas,' 
 Shal have a soper at oure aller cost, 
 Heere in this place, sittynge by this post, 800 
 Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury. 
 And, for to make yow the moore mury, 
 I wol myselven gladly with yow ryde 
 Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde; 
 And whoso wole my juggement withseye 805 
 Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 
 And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so 
 Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo, 
 And 1 wol erly shape me therefore." 
 This thyng was graunted, and oure othes 
 swore 810 
 
 With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also 
 That he would vouche-sauf for to do so, 
 And that he wolde been oure governour, 
 And of our tales juge and r^portour, 
 And sette a soper at a certeyn pris, 815 
 
 And we wol reuled been at his devys 
 In heigh and lough; and thus, by oon assent. 
 We been acorded to his juggement. 
 And therupon the wyn was fet anon; 
 We dronken, and to reste wente echon, 820 
 
 W^ithouten any lenger taryynge. 
 Amorwe, whan that day gan for to sprynge, 
 Up roos oure Hoost and was oure aller cok,* 
 And gadrede us togidre alle in a flok, 824 
 
 And forth we riden, a little moore than paas,^ 
 Unto the w-arteryng of Seint Thomas;^ 
 And there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste 
 And seyde, " Lordynges, herkneth, if yow leste: 
 Ve woot youre forward^ and I it yow recorde. 
 If even-song and morwe-song accorde, 830 
 
 Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. 
 As ever mote I drynke wyn or ale, 
 \Vhoso be rebel to my juggement 
 Shal paye for all that by the wey is spent ! 834 
 Now draweth cut,^ er that we ferrer twynne.' 
 He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynne. 
 
 1 "To make it a matter of wiadom or deliberation." 
 « Advice. * Wisdom. 
 
 * Cock for us all. * A foot-pace. 
 
 • St. Thomas a- Watering; a brook where horses were 
 ■watered, which crossed the road taken by the pilgrims 
 to St. Thomas' shrine, i. e. to Canterbury. 
 
 ' Know your promise. 
 
 9i. e. draw lots; pieces of straw, paper, etc. of un- 
 equal lengths, and used for the drawing of lots, were 
 called cuts. 
 
 *> Depart. 
 
 " Sire Knyght," quod he, " my mayster and my 
 
 lord. 
 Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord. 
 Cometh neer," quod he, " my lady Prioresse, 839 
 And ye sire Clerk, lat be your shamefastnesse, 
 Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every man." 
 
 Anon to drawen every wight bigan. 
 
 And, shortly for to tellen as it w&s, 
 
 Were it by ^venture, or sort, or cas,^*' 
 
 The sothe is this, the cut fil to the knyght, 845 
 
 Of which ful blithe and glad was every wyght: 
 
 And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun," 
 
 By foreward^^ ^^d by composicioun, 
 
 As he han herd ; what nedeth wordes mo? 849 
 
 And whan this goode man saugh that it was so, 
 
 As he that wys was and obedient 
 
 To kepe his f oreward by his free assent, 
 
 He seyde, " Syn I shal bigynne the game, 
 
 What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name ! 854 
 
 Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye." 
 
 And with that word we ryden forth oure weye; 
 
 And he bigan with right a myrie cheere 
 
 His tale anon, and seyde in this manere. 
 
 The Pardoner's Tale 
 
 . . . Thise riotoures thre, of whiche I telle, 
 Longe erst er prime ^^ rong of any belle. 
 Were set hem in a taverne for to drynke; 
 And as they sat they herde a belle clynke 
 Biforn a cors, was carried to his grave. 665 
 
 That oon of hem gan callen to his knave :^* 
 ** Go bet," quod he, " and axe redily^^ 
 What cors is this that passeth heer forby, 
 And looke that thou reporte his name weel." 
 
 "Sire," quod this boy, "it nedeth never a deel, 
 It was me toold er ye cam heere two houres; 671 
 He was, pardee, an old f elawe of youres, 
 And sodeynly he was y-slayn to-nyght, 
 For-dronke, as he sat on his bench upright; 
 Ther cam a privee theef , men clepeth Deeth,675 
 That in this contree al the peple sleeth, 
 And with his spere he smoot his herte atwo, 
 And wente his wey withouten wordes mo. 
 He hath a thousand slayn this pestilence,'^ 
 And maister, er ye come in his presence, 680 
 
 Me thynketh that it were necessarie 
 For to be war of swich an adversarie; 
 Beth redy for to meete hym evermoore; 
 Thus taughte me my dame; I sey na-moore." 
 ** By Seinte Marie! " seyde this taverner, 685 
 " The child seith sooth, for he hath slayn this 
 
 yeer, 
 Henne'^ over a mile, withinne a greet village, 
 Bothe man and womman, child, and hyne,'^ 
 
 and page; 
 I trowe his habitacioun be there; 
 To been avysed'^ greet wysdom it were, 690 
 
 1" Chance, destiny or luck. i' Right. 
 
 >2 Agreement, 
 
 •3 In general the interval between 6 and 9 A. M. 
 More specifically, one of the seven stated times or hours 
 of devotion. From the ringing of the bell, it refers here 
 to the canonical hour for service. 
 
 "Boy. 15 Quickly. , 
 
 16 Probably the plague of 1348-9, the earliest of thA j 
 four great plagues in the 14th century. )] 
 
 1' Hence. i* Hind. "Forewarned. " 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 73 
 
 Er that he dide a man a dishonour." 
 
 " Ye, Goddes armes! " quod this riotour, 
 '* Is it swich peril with hym for to meete? 
 I shal hym soke by weye and eek by strete; 
 I make avow to Goddes digne^ bones 695 
 
 Horkneth, felawes, we thre been al ones, 
 Lat ech of us holde up his hand til oother, 
 And ech of us bicomen otheres brother, 
 And we wol sleen this false tray tour, Deeth; 
 I He shal be slayn, he that so manye sleeth, 700 
 I By Goddes dignitee, er it be nyght ! " 
 j Togidres han thise thre hir trouthes'^ plight 
 I To ly ve and dyen ech of hem for oother, 
 
 As though he were his owene y-bore brother; 
 j And up they stirte,^ al dronken, in this rage; 
 i And forth they goon towardes that villdge 706 
 I Of which the taverner hadde spoke biforn; 
 
 And many a grisly ooth thanne han they sworn, 
 I And Cristes blessed body they to-rente,* 
 1 Deeth shal be deed, if that they may hym 
 ' hente.s 710 
 
 Whan they han goon nat fully half a mile, 
 Right as they wolde han troden over a stile, 
 j An oold man and a poure with hem mette; 
 ! This olde man ful mekely hem grette 
 
 And seyed thus: " Now, lordes, God yow see!"« 
 I The proudeste of thise riotoures three 716 
 Answerde agayn, ''What, carl with sory grace. 
 Why artow^ al for-wrapped, save thy face? 
 Why lyvestow so ionge in so greet age? " 
 
 This olde man gan looke in his visage, 720 
 And seyde thus: " For I ne kan nat fynde 
 A man, though that I walked into Ynde, 
 Neither in citee, ne in no village, 
 That wolde chaunge his youthe for myn age; 
 And therfore moot I han myn age stille, 725 
 
 As Ionge tyme as it is Goddes wille. 
 Ne Deeth, alias! ne wol nat han my lyf ; 
 Thus waike I, lyk a resteless kaityf , 
 And on the ground which is my moodres' 
 
 gate, 
 I knokke with my staf , erly and late, 730 
 
 And seye, 'Leeve mooder,^ leet me in! 
 Lo, how I vanysshe, flessh and blood and skyn; 
 Alias! whan shul my bones been at reste? 
 Mooder, with yow wolde I chaunge my cheste 
 That in my chambre Ionge tyme hath be, 735 
 Ye, for an heyre-clowt^" to wrappe me! ' 
 But yet to me she wol nat do that grace, 
 For which ful pale and welked^^ is my face. 
 
 " But, sires, to yow it is no curteisye 
 To speken to an old man vileynye, 740 
 
 But he trespasse in word, or elles in dede. 
 In Hooly Writ ye may your self wel rede, 
 Agayns an oold man, hoor upon his heed, 
 Ye sholde arise; wherfore I yeve yow reed,'-- 
 iVe dooth unto an oold man noon harm now, 745 
 Namoore than ye wolde men did to yow 
 In age, if that ye so Ionge abyde. 
 And God be with yow, where ye go or ryde; 
 I moote go thider as I have to go." 
 
 1 Worthy. 2 Troth. 8 Started. 
 
 * Tore In pieces, i. e. by their oaths. 
 
 * Seize. 
 
 * Keep you in His sight; watch over you. 
 
 ^ Art thou. 8 Mother's. » Dear Mother. 
 
 " Hair ahirt. " Withered. 12 Advice. 
 
 '* Nay, olde cherl, by God, thou shalt nat so!" 
 Seyde this oother hasardour'^ anon ; 751 
 
 "Thou partest nat so lightly, by Seint John! 
 Thou spak right now of thilke traytour, Deeth, 
 That in this contree alle oure freendes sleeth; 
 Have heer my trouthe, as thou art his espye, 755 
 Telle where he is, or thou shalt it abye,^* 
 By God and by the hooly sacrement! 
 For soothly, thou art oon of his assent 
 To sleen us yonge folk, thou false theef ! " 759 
 " Now, sires," quod he, " if that ye so be leef 
 To fynde Deeth, turne up this croked wey. 
 For in that grove I laf te hym, by my fey, 
 Under a tree, and there he wole abyde; 
 Noght for youre boost he wole him no thyng 
 
 hyde. 
 Se ye that ook? Right there ye shal hym 
 
 fynde. 765 
 
 God save yow that boghte agayn mankynde, 
 And yow amende!" thus seyde this olde man; 
 And everich of thise riotoures ran 
 Til he cam to that tree, and ther they founde. 
 Of floryns fyne, of gold y-coyned rounae, 770 
 Wel ny a seven busshels, as hem thoughte. 
 No lenger thanne after Deeth they soughte, 
 But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte. 
 For that the floryns been so faire and brighte. 
 That doun they set hem by this precious hoord. 
 The worste of hem he spak the firste word. 776 
 " Bretheren," quod he, " taak kepe what I 
 
 seye; 
 ]\Iy wit is greet, though that I bourde^^ and 
 
 pleye. 
 This tresor hath Fortune unto us yeven 
 In myrthe and j olitee oure lyf to ly ven, 780 
 
 And lightly as it comth so wol we spende. 
 Ey, God,de3 precious dignitee! who wende^^ 
 To-day, that we sholde hav so faire a grace? 
 But myghte this gold be caried fro this place 
 Hoom to myn hous, or elles unto youres, 785 
 (For wel ye woot that al this gold is oures), 
 Thanne were we in heigh felicitee. 
 But trewely, by day it may nat bee; 
 Men wolde scyn that Vve were theves stronge, 
 And for oure owene tresor doon us honge. 790 
 This tresor moste y-caried be by nyghte 
 As wisely and as slyly as it myghte. 
 Wherfore, I rede that cut" among us all 
 Be drawe, and let se wher the cut wol falle; 
 And he that hath the cut with herte blithe 795 
 Shal renne to the towne, and that ful swythe,'^ 
 And brynge us breed and wyn ful prively. 
 And two of us shul kepen subtilly 
 This tresor wel; and if he wol nat tarie, 
 Whan it is nyght we wol this tresor carie, 800 
 By oon assent, where as us thynketh best." 
 That oon of hem the cut broghte in his fest^^ 
 And bad hem drawe and looke where it wol 
 
 falle; 
 And it fil on the yongeste of hem alle. 
 And forth toward the toun he wente anon ; 805 
 And al so soone as that he was gon. 
 That oon of hem spak thus unto that oother: 
 
 '* Gambler. 
 1* Jest. 
 " Lot. 
 
 18 Quickly. 
 
 >* Pay for. 
 
 " Weemed, know. 
 
 " Fist. 
 
74 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 " Thow knowest wel thou art my sworne brother 
 Thy profit wol I telle thee anon; 
 Thou woost wel that oure felawe is agon, 810 
 And heere is gold, and that ful greet plentee, 
 That shal departea been among us thre; 
 But natheless, if I kan shape it so 
 That it departed were among us two, 
 Hadde I nat doon a freendes torn to thee? " 815 
 That oother answerde, "I noot how that may 
 
 be; 
 
 He woot how that the gold is with us tweye; 
 
 What shal we doon, what shal we to hym seye? " 
 
 " Shal it be conseil? " seyde the firtse shrewe,^ 
 
 " And I shal tellen thee in wordes fewe 820 
 
 What we shal doon, and bryngen it wel aboute." 
 
 " I gtaunte," quod that oother, " out of doute. 
 
 That by my trouthe I shal thee nat biwreye." 
 
 " Now," quod the firste, " thou woost wel we 
 
 be tweye, 
 And two of u» shul strenger be than oon. 825 
 Looke whan that he is set, and right anoon 
 Arys, as though thou woldest with hym pleye, 
 And I shal ryve hym thurgh the sydes tweye, 
 Whil that thou strogelst with hym as in game. 
 And with thy daggere looke thou do the same; 
 And thanne shal al this gold departed be, 831 
 My deere freend, bitwixen me and thee. 
 Thanne may we bothe oure lustes all fulfiUe, 
 And pleye at dees^ right at oure owene wille." 
 And thus acorded been thise shrewes tweye, 835 
 To sleen the thridde, as ye han herd me seye. 
 This yongeste, which that wente unto the 
 
 toun, 
 Ful oft in herte he rolleth up and doun 
 The beautee of thise floryns newe and brighte; 
 "O Lord, "quod he, "if so were that I myghte 840 
 Have al this tresor to myself allone, 
 Ther is no man that lyveth under the trone^ 
 Of God, that sholde lyve so murye as I! " 
 And atte laste the feend, oure enemy, 
 Putte in his thought that he sholde poyson 
 
 beye,^ 845 
 
 With which he myghte sleen his felawes tweye; 
 For-why the feend f oond hym in swich lyvynge, 
 That he hadde leve hym to sorwe brynge. 
 For this was outrely^ his fulle entente 
 To sleen hem bothe and never to repente. 850 
 And forth he gooth, no lenger wolde he tarie. 
 Into the toun, unto a pothecarie, 
 And preyde hym that he hym wolde selle 
 Som poysoun, that he myghte his rattes 
 
 quelle;^ 
 And eek ther was a polcat in his hawe,' 855 
 
 That, as he seyde, his capouns hadde y-slawe, 
 And fayn he wolde wreke hym,^ if he myghte 
 On vermyn, that destroyed hym by nyghte. 
 The pothecarie answerde, "And thou shalt 
 
 have 
 A thyng that, al so God my soule save, 860 
 
 In al this world ther nis no creature. 
 That eten or dronken hath of this confiture, 
 Noght but the montance^ of a corn of whete, 
 That he ne shal his lif anon forlete;^" 
 
 1 Rascal. i Dice. » Throne. « Buy. 
 
 'Utterly. •Kill. ^ Hedge. 
 
 « Avenge himself. • Amoimt. lo Give up. 
 
 Ye, sterve he shal, and that in lasse while 865 
 Than thou wolt goon a-paas nat but a mile; 
 This poysoun is so strong and violent." 
 
 This cursed man hath in his bond y-hent 
 This poysoun in a box, and sith he ran 
 Into the nexte strete unto a man, 870 
 
 And borwed hym large botelles thre, 
 And in the two his poyson poured he; 
 The thridde he kepte clene for his owene drynke; 
 For al the nyght he shoope^^ hym for to 
 
 swynke 
 In cariynge of the gold out of that place. 875 
 And whan this riotour with sory grace 
 Hadde filled with wyn his grete hotels thre, 
 To his felawes agayn repaireth he. 
 
 What nedeth it to sermone of it moore? 
 For right as they hadde cast his deeth bifoore. 
 Right so they han hyiri slayn, and that anon, 881 
 And whan that this was doon thus spak that 
 
 oon; 
 "Now lat us sitte and drjrnke, and make us 
 
 merie. 
 And afterward we wol his body berie;" 
 And with that word it happed hym, par cos, 885 
 To take the hotel ther the poysoun was, 
 And drank and yaf his felawe drynke also. 
 For which anon they storven bothe two. 
 
 But certes, I suppose that Avycen^^ 
 Wroot never in no Can6n," ne in no fen 890 
 Mo wonder signes of empoisonyng 
 Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir endyng. 
 Thus ended been thise homycides two. 
 And eek the false empoysonere also. 
 
 O cursed synne of alle cursednesse ! 895 
 
 O tray torous homycide ! O wikkednesse ! 
 
 glotonye, luxdrie, and hasardrye!^* 
 Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileynye, 
 And othes grete, of usage and of pride! 
 
 Alias! mankynde, how may it bitide 900 
 
 That to thy Creatour which that thee wroghte. 
 And with his precious herte-blood thee boghte. 
 Thou art so fals and so unkynde, alias! 
 
 Now, goode men, God foryeve yow youre 
 trespas, 
 And ware yow fro the synne of avarice. 905 
 
 Myn hooly pardoun may you alle warice.^^ 
 
 THE COMPLEYNT OF CHAUCER TO HIS 
 PURSE 
 
 c. 1399 
 
 To you, my purse, and to noon other wyght 
 Compleyne I, for ye be my lady dere! 
 
 1 am so sory now that ye been light ; 
 
 For, certes, but ye make me hevy chere, 
 
 Me were as leef be leyd upon my here, 5 
 
 Forwiche unto your mercy thus I crye, — 
 Beth hevy ageyn, or alles mot I dye! 
 
 " Planned. 
 
 i2i. e., Avicenna (980-1037), a celebrated Arabian 
 physician. ^ 
 
 i» A section in The Canon, Avicenna's work on medi\ 
 cine, is called (from an Arabic word) a fen. No more^ 
 wonderful signs of poisoning are described in the Canon i 
 of Medicine, or in any fen, or part of that book; — not 
 even the fen which specifically treats of poisons. 
 
 " Gambling. u Heal. 
 
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE 75 
 
 Now voucheth sauf this day, or hit be nyght, and lady and sovereign of all other lands, and is 
 
 That I of you the bhsful soun may here, blessed and hallowed with the precious body 
 
 Or see your colour lyk the Sonne bright 10 ^^^ blood of our Lord Jesus Christ; in the 
 
 That of yelownesse hadde never pere. ^rUi^u i^^a i+ i aw ^^ ^ i n ^ ^ 
 
 Ye be my lyf ! ye be myn hertes sterel^ J^^^> ^f f^ it pleased hmi to take flesh and 
 
 Quene of comfort and of good companye! 5 blood of the Virgm Mary, to environ 2 that 
 
 Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye. ^<^ly land with his blessed feet; and there he 
 
 ^^ , , , would of his blessedness shadow him in the said 
 
 Now, purse, that be to me niy lyyes hght 15 blessed and glorious Virgin Mary, and become 
 
 And Saveour as doun m this worlde here, ^^n, and work many miracles, and preach and 
 
 Out of this toun help me thorogh your mvght, ,o+„„„u+u r vu 1 ^.i, 1 r /-«u • ^- 
 
 Syn that ye wole not been my tresor^re] ^^ teach the faith and the law of Christian men 
 
 For I am shave^ as nye as is a frere. "^^^ ^^^ children; and there it pleased hun to 
 
 But yet I pray unto your curtesye, 20 suffer many reprovings and scorns for us; 
 
 Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot 1 dye! and he that was king of heaven, of air, of earth, 
 
 of sea, and of all things that are contained in 
 
 THE BALLAD OF GOOD COUNSEL OR " ^^^^f ;^ ""l^ ^t ff 'f"/'"^ °^.mk V?°f ' 
 TRUTH wnen he said, Kex sum Judeorum," that is to 
 
 say, I am king of the Jews; and that land he 
 (After 1386) chose before all other lands, as the best and most 
 
 •c, - ,, J J 11 -xu xu f X worthy land, and the most virtuous land of all 
 
 nesse ^'^'' sothefast- ^^ the world; for it is the heart and the middle of 
 
 Suffice unto thy thyng though hit be smal; ^^ *^^ .^^^^^^ J by witness of the philosopher, 
 
 For hord hath hate and clymbyng tikelnesse, who saith thus. Virtus rerum m medio con- 
 Prees hath envye, and wele blent ^ overal; sistit;" that is to say, ''The virtue of things is 
 
 Savour 2 no more than thee bihove shal; 5 in the middle; " and in that land he would lead 
 
 Werk wel thy-self , that other folk canst rede,^ 25 his hfe, and suffer passion and death from the 
 And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede. Jews for us, to redeem and deliver us from the 
 
 Tempest thee * noght al croked to redresse P^"^^ ^^ ^^^1' , ^nd from death without end, 
 
 Intrustofhirthatturnethasabal: which was ordamed for us for the sm of our 
 
 Greet reste stant in litel besynesse; 10 first father Adam, and for our own sins 
 
 An eek be war to sporne ageyn an al; ^ 30 also: — . . . 
 
 Stryve noght, as doth the crokke •» with the wal. Wherefore every good Christian man, that is 
 Daunte ^ thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede. of power, and hath whereof, should labour with 
 And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede. all his strength to conquer our right heritage, 
 
 That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse.8 15 and drive out all the unbeUeving men. For 
 The wrastiing for this worlde axeth a fal. 35 we are called Christian men, after Christ our 
 
 Her nis non hoom, her nis but wildernesse. father. And if we be right children of Christ, 
 
 Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste," out of thy we ought to claim the heritage that our father 
 _.^ stal, , , ^ , ^ , l^ft us, and take it out of heathen men's 
 
 Know thy contree, look up, thank God of al; hands 
 
 ' there was no general passage or voyage over 
 
 the sea, and many men desiring to hear speak 
 
 of the Holy Land, and have thereof great solace 
 
 THE VOYAGES AND TRAVELS OF SIR and comfort, I, John MaundeviUe, knight, 
 
 JOHN MANDEVILLE ^ 45 albeit I be not worthy, who was born in Eng- 
 
 ^ T, land, in the town of Saint Albans, passed the 
 
 1 HE PROLOGUE ^^^ • ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^ord Jcsus Christ 1322, on 
 
 Forasmuch as the land beyond the sea, that the day of St. Michael; and hitherto have been 
 
 is to say, the Holy Land, which men call the a long time over the sea, and have seen and 
 
 land of promise or of behest, passing all other 50 gone through many divers lands, and many 
 
 lands, is the most worthy land, most excellent, provinces, and kingdoms, and isles, and have 
 
 1 Rudder. 2 Close. passed through Tartary, Persia, Ermony 
 
 J Makes blind. 2 Taste. 'Advise. (Armenia) the Little and the Great; through 
 
 *Fubdul^ ^^^^^ * ssJbmission. sBeast.^"^** Lybia, Chaldea, and a great part of Ethiopia; 
 
 1 This famous travel book and collection of marvels 55 through Amazonia, India the Less and the 
 
 was long supposed to be the composition of one, Sir Greater, a great part; and throughout many 
 
 John Mandeville, who had actually travelled m the ^, . ' ° ^ ^ ' ^ t j- i. j 11 
 
 countries he mentions. It is now known to be a trans- Other isles that are about India; Where dweU 
 
 lation of a French original supposedly by Jean de Bur- j^^^^y divers folks, and of divers manners and 
 
 gogne (d. 1372), which m turn was a compilation from "^ ' 
 
 rarious classical and medieval writers. 2 Go about in. 
 
76 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 laws, and of divers shapes of men. Of which other isle are people that go upon their hands 
 lands and isles I shall speak more plainly and feet like beasts, and are all skinned and 
 hereafter. And I shall devise you some feathered, and would leap as lightly into 
 part of things that are there, when time shall trees, and from tree to tree, as squirrels or 
 be as it may best come to my mind; and cs- 5 apes. . . . And in another isle are people 
 pecially for them that will and are in pur- that go always upon their knees, and at 
 pose to visit the holy city of Jerusalem, and every step they go it seems that they would 
 the holy places that are thereabout. And I fall; and they have eight toes on every foot, 
 shall teU the way that they shall hold thither; Many other divers people of divers natures 
 for I have ofttimes passed and ridden the 10 there are in other isles about, of the which 
 way, with good company of many lords: God it were too long to tell, 
 be thanked! 
 
 And ye shall understand that I have put this j^^^^ Alexander and the Isle op 
 
 book out of Latm mto French, and translated it Bragman 
 
 again out of French into English, that every 15 
 
 man of my nation may understand it; and that And beyond that isle is another isle, great and 
 lords and knights and other noble and worthy rich, where are good and true people, and of 
 men that know Latin but little, and have been good living after their belief, and of good faith, 
 beyond the sea, may know and understand, if I and although they are not christened, yet by 
 err from defect of memoiy, and may redress it 20 natural law they are full of all virtue, and 
 and amend it. For things passed out of long eschew all vices. . . . 
 time from a man's mind or from his sight turn 
 
 soon into forgetting; because a man's mind may And that isle is called the isle of Bragman, 
 
 not be comprehended or withheld, on account and some men call it the Land of Faith; 
 of the frailty of mankind. 25 and through it runs a great river called 
 
 Thebe. 
 Wonders op the Isles about Java ^^^ i^ general all the men of those isles, and 
 
 of all the borders thereabout, are truer than in 
 
 From that isle, in going by sea towards the any other country thereabout, and more just 
 south, is another great isle, called Dondun, in 30 than others in all things. . . . 
 which are people of wicked kinds, so that the 
 
 father eats the son, the son the father, the And because they are so true, and so just, 
 husband the wife, and the wife the hus- and so full of all good conditions, they are 
 band. never grieved with tempests, nor with thunder 
 
 The king of this isle is a great and powerful 35 and Ughtning, nor with hail, nor with pestilence, 
 lord, and has under him fifty-four great isles, nor with war, nor with famine, nor with any 
 which give tribute to him; and in every one of other tribulation, as we are many times amongst 
 these isles is a king crowned, all obedient to us for our sins; wherefore it appears evident 
 that king. In one of these isles are people of that God loveth them for their good deeds, 
 great stature, like giants, hideous to look upon; 40 They beheve well in God that made all 
 and they have but one eye, which is in the mid- things, and worship Him; and they prize no 
 die of the forehead; and they eat nothing but earthly riches; and they live full orderly, and 
 raw flesh and fish. And in another isle towards so soberly in meat and drink, that they live 
 the south dwell people of foul stature and cursed right long. And the most part of them die 
 nature, who have no heads, but their eyes are 45 without sickness, when nature f aileth them for 
 in their shoulders. old age. I 
 
 In another isle are people who have the face And it befell, in king Alexander's time, that 
 all flat, without nose and without mouth. In he purposed to conquer that isle; but when 
 another isle are people that have the lip above they of the country heard it, they sent messen- 
 the mouth so great, that when they sleep in the 50 gers to him with letters, that said thus: — 
 sun they cover all the face with that Up. And ''What may we be now to that man to v/hom 
 in another isle there are dwarfs, which have no all the world is insufficient? Thou shalfc find 
 mouth, but instead of their mouth they have a nothing in us to cause thee to war against us; 
 little round hole; and when they shall eat or for ^e have no riches, nor do we desire any; 
 drink, they take it through a pipe, or a pen, or 55 and all the goods of our country are in common, 
 such a thing, and suck it in. And in another Our meat, with which we sustain our bodies, is 
 isle are people that have ears so long that they our riches; and instead of treasure of gold and 
 hang down to their knees. And in another silver, we make our treasure of acorns and peas, 
 isle are people that have horses' feet. In an- and to love one another. ... 
 
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE 77 
 
 "Our wives are not arrayed to make any man that is towards the east, at the beginning of 
 pleased. When men labour to array the body, the earth. But this is not that east that we 
 to make it seem fairer than God made it, they call our east, on this half, where the sun rises 
 do great sin; for man should not devise nor ask to us; for when the sun is east in those parts 
 greater beauty than God hath ordained him to 5 towards Terrestrial Paradise, it is then mid- 
 have at his birth. The earth ministereth to us night in our parts on this half, on account of the 
 two things: our livelihood, that cometh of the roundness of the earth of which I have told 
 earth that we live by, and our sepulchre after you before; for our Lord God made the earth 
 our death. We have been in perpetual peace all round, in the middle of the firmament, 
 till now that thou art come to disinherit us; and 10 And there have mountains and hills been, and 
 also we have a king, not to do justice to every valleys, which arose only from Noah's flood, 
 man, for he shall find no forfeit among us; but that wasted the soft and tender gi'ound, and 
 to keep nobleness, and to show that we are fell down into valleys; and the hard earth and 
 obedient, we have a king. For justice has the rock remain mountains, when the soft 
 among us no place; for we do to no man 15 and tender earth was worn away by the water, 
 otherwise than we desire that men do to us, and fell, and became valleys, 
 so that righteousness or vengeance have Of Paradise I cannot speak properly, for 
 
 nought to do among us; so that thou mayest I was not there. It is far beyond; and I repent 
 take nothing from us but our good peace, that not going there, but I was not worthy. But 
 always hath endured among us." And when 20 as I have heard say of mse men beyond, I 
 king Alexander had ^ead these letters, he shall tell you with good-will. Terrestrial 
 thought that he should do great sin to trouble Paradise, as wise men say, is the highest place 
 them. of the earth; and it is so high that it nearly 
 
 touches the circle of the moon there, as the 
 
 The Hills op Gold and the Terrestrial 25 moon makes her turn. For it is so high that 
 
 Paradise *'^^ flood of Noah might not come to it, that 
 
 would have covered all the earth of the world 
 
 Towards the east of Prester John's land ^ is a all about, and above and beneath, except Para- 
 good and great isle called Taprobane, and it dise. And this Paradise is enclosed all about 
 is very fruitful; and the king thereof is rich, 30)^ith a wall, and men know not whereof it is; 
 and is under the obeisance of Prester John, for the wall is covered all over with moss, as 
 And there they always make their king by it seems; and it seems not that the wall is 
 election. In that isle are two summers and natural stone. And that wall stretches from 
 two winters; and men harvest the com twice the south to the north; and it has but one 
 a year; and in all seasons of the year the gar- 35 entry, which is closed with burning fire, so 
 dens are in flower. . . . that no man that is mortal dare enter. 
 
 And in the highest place of Paradise, exactly 
 
 Beside that isle, towards the east, are two in the middle, is a well that casts out the four 
 other isles, one called Grille, the other Argyte, streams, which run by divers lands, of which 
 of which all the land is mines of gold and silver. 40 the first is called Pison, or Ganges, that runs 
 And those isles are just where the Red Sea throughout India, or Emlak, in which river 
 separates from the Ocean Sea. . . . are many precious stones, and much lignum 
 
 aloes, 2 and much sand of gold. And the other 
 
 In the isle, also, of this Taprobane are river is called Nile, or Gyson, which goes 
 great hills of gold, that ants keep full dili- 45 through Ethiopia, and after through Egypt, 
 gently. And the other is called Tigris, which runs by 
 
 And beyond the land, and isles, and deserts Assyria, and by Armenia the Great, And the 
 of Prester John's lordship, in going straight other is called Euphrates, which runs through 
 towards the east, men find nothing but moun- Media, Armenia, and Persia. And men there 
 tains and great rocks; and there is the dark 50 beyond say that all the sweet waters of the 
 region, where no man may see, neither by day world, above and beneath, take their beginning 
 nor night, as they of the country say. And from the well of Paradise; and out of that well 
 that desert, and that place of darkness, lasts all waters come and go. The first river is 
 from this coast unto Terrestrial Paradise, called Pison, that is, in our language, As- 
 where Adam, our first father, and Eve were 55 sembly; for many other rivers meet there, and 
 put, who dwelt there but a little while; and go into that river. And some call it Ganges, 
 
 from an Indian king, called Gangeres because 
 
 1 Prester John was a supposed Christian king of a 
 great land in Asia, the extent and location of which were ^ Aloes-wood, a soft, aromatic wood, often burnt for a 
 
 very vague. perfume. 
 
78 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 it ran through his land. And its water is in many thousands to be lost that night, some in 
 some places clear, and in some places troubled; water, some in fire, some by sudden death, 
 in some places hot, and in some places cold, and some to be damned without end. And 
 The second river is called Nile, or Gyson, for for these goodnesses and mercies thank thy 
 it is always troubled; and Gyson, in the Ian- 5 God with all thine hea^-t, and pray him to 
 guage of Ethiopia, is to say Trouble, and in give thee grace to spend, in that day and ever- 
 the language of Egypt also. The third river, more, all the mights of thy soul, as mind, 
 called Tigris, is as much as to say. Fast Run- reason, wit, and will, and all the mights of thy 
 ning; for it i-uns faster than any of the others, body, as strength, beauty, and thy five wits, 
 The fourth river is called Euphrates, that is 10 in his service and worship; and in no thing for- 
 to say. Well Bearing; for there grow upon that feit again his commandments, but (be) ready 
 river com, fruit, and other goods, in great to perform works of mercy, and to give good 
 plenty. example of holy Ufe, both in word and in deed, 
 
 And you shall understand that no man that to all men about thee, 
 is mortal may approach to that Paradise; for 15 Look afterwards that thou be well occupied, 
 by land no man may go for wild beasts, that and in no time idle for temptation. Take meat 
 are in the deserts, and for the high mountains, and drink in measure, not too costly nor too 
 and great huge rocks, that no man may pass licorouse,^ and be not too curious ^ thereabout, 
 by for the dark places that are there; and by but such as God sendeth, with truth take it, 
 the rivers may no man go, for the water runs 20 in such measure that thou be fresher in mind 
 so roughly and so sharply, because it comes and wits to serve God, and algates ^ thank him 
 down so outrageously from the high places for his gift. Over this, look thou do right and 
 above, that it runs in so great waves that no equity to all men, both to sovereigns,^ peers,* 
 ship may row or sail against it; and the water subjects, or servants; and stir all men to love 
 roars so, and makes so huge a noise, and so 25 truth and mercy, and over these charity; and 
 great a tempest, that no man may hear an- suffer no man be at dissension, but accord 
 other in the ship, though he cried with all the them ^ if thou mayest in any good manner, 
 might he could. Many great lords have es- Also most of all things dread God and his 
 sayed with great will, many times, to pass by wrath, and most of all things love God and 
 those rivers towards Paradise, with full great 30 his law and his worship; and ask not princi- 
 companies; but they might not speed in their pally worldly meed,' but in all thine heart de- 
 voyage; and many died for weariness of rowing sire the bliss of heaven, through the mercy of 
 against the strong waves; and many of them God and thine own goodness of life. . . . And 
 became blind, and many deaf, for the noise of in the end of the day think where thou hast 
 the water; and some perished and were lost in 35 offended God, and how much and how often, 
 the waves; so that no mortal man may ap- and therefore have entire sorrow, and amend 
 proach to that place without special grace of it while thou may. ... If thou be a priest, 
 God; so that of that place I can tell you no and especially a curate, live thou holily, pass- 
 more, ing others in holy prayer and holy desire and 
 
 40 thinking, in holy speaking, counselling, and 
 
 true teaching, and ever that God's bests * and 
 
 3l0l^n ^^CUf his gospel be in thy mouth, and ever despise 
 
 1324-1384 ^^' ^^ draw men therefrom. And that thy 
 
 deeds be so rightful, that no man shall blame 
 A SHORT RULE OF LIFE 45 them with reason, but thine open deeds be a 
 
 true book to all sogettis^ and lewd men,^" to 
 A Short Rule op Life for each man in serve God and do his bests thereby. For en- 
 GENERAL, AND FOR Priests AND LoRDS AND Sample of good, and open and lasting, stirreth 
 Labourers in special, how each man shall rude men more than true preaching by the 
 be saved in his degree, if he will himself. 50 naked word. And waste not thy goods in 
 First, when thou risest or fully wakest, think great feasts of rich men, but live a mean ^^ Hfe 
 on the goodness of God; for his own goodness of poor men's alms and goods, both in meat 
 and none other need he made all things of and drink and clothes; and the remnant give 
 naught, both angels and men, and all other truly to poor men that have naught of their 
 creatures good in their kind. The second time 55 
 
 think on the great passion and wilful death \ Dainty, tempting to the appetite. 2 Fastidious. \ 
 
 , , , ^, •.«•!<• 1 • J A J Always, m all circumstances. < Superiors, 
 
 that Christ suffered for mankind. . . And & Equals. « Reconcile them. 
 
 think the third time, how God hath saved thee ', subject* i e lowl " Un^arneJ" 
 
 from death and other mischiefs, and suffered n Moderate.^* °^^' 
 
f^Wll, 
 
 ENGLISH FOLLOWERS OF CHAUCER 79 
 
 and ^ay °''!u^^^''l'^^^J feebleness or FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIX- 
 sickness, and then thou shalt be a true priest ri.-m^xTri^TT ^T^nvrrw^xT^tt^^ 
 
 both to God and man. TEENTH CENTURIES 
 
 ,./^.^^^^ ^® ^ ^^^^' ^°°^ *ho^ live a rightful ENGLISH FOLLOWERS OF CHAUCER 
 
 life m thine own person, both anent God and 5 
 
 man, keepmg the bests of God, doing the works From A PRAISE OF WOMEN 
 
 of mercy, ruUng well thy five wits, and doing p^^^ ^i,- „^ u„^ . 1, ,, u t u i- 
 
 meT The sSt^^' ^^^' '^T^ ^^f ^~^^^^^^^^^^^ 135 
 
 men. The second time, govern wdl thy wife, For in good faith I never of them sye^ 
 
 thy children, and thy homely meyne ^^ j^ jo But much worship, bounty, and gentleness 
 
 Gods law, and sujffer no sin among them, Right comyng, fair, and full of mekeness, ' 
 
 neither in word nor in deed, upon thy might. Good and glad, and lowly, I you ensure, 
 
 that they may be ensamples of holiness and ^^ ^^^^ goodly angelic creature. 140 
 
 righteousness to all others. ... The third And if it hap a man be in disease, 2 
 
 time, govern well thy tenants, and maintain 15 She doth her business and her full fain 
 
 them in right and reason, and be merciful to With all her might, him to comf6rt and please 
 
 them in their rents, and worldly merciments,^' ^^ ^^^ ^is disease she mighte him restrain; 
 
 and suffer not thy officers to do them wrong r, ^^ word nor deed^ I wis, she will not feign, 145 
 
 nor extortions, and chastise m good manner S^i^*^^ t- f"¥u^ l^^ ^9^^ ^^^ business 
 
 them that rebel against God's bests and ^i^. 20 ^° '''"'^^ ^'"^ ^^^ ^^ ^« *^^^^^^^^«- 
 
 tuous livmg, more than for rebeUion against Lo> what gentleness these women have, 
 
 thine own cause or person. ... If thou be I^ we could know it for our rudeness! 
 
 a labourer, Hve in meekness, and truly and How busy they be us to keep and save, 150 
 
 thy master be an heathen man, that by thy 25 In every manner; thus they shewe ruth, 
 meekness and wilful and true service, he have That in them is all goodnesse and truth, 
 not to gruche i^ against thee, nor slander thy a„^ „; • xt, _ ^1 . . .■, 
 
 Christian ?T^r'' h^^'/^"^ T ^' ^o^^^^^oZ^l^s"^^^^ ''' 
 
 Christian lords with gruching,i^ nor only m Let ne'er this gentylnesse through your sliuth 
 their presence, but truly and wilfully m theu-30 In her kind truth be aught forlore,' 
 absence, not only for worldly dread nor worldly That in woman is, and hath been full yore; 
 reward, but for dread of God and good con- For in reverence of the heaven's Queen, '16O 
 science, and for reward in heaven. For that We ought to worship all wom^n that been. 
 God that putteth thee in such service wots ^^ For of all creatures that e'er were born, 
 what state is best for thee, and will reward 35 This wot ye well, a woman was the iJeste: 
 thee more than all earthly lords may, if thou By her recovered was the bhss that we had 
 doest it truly and wilfully for his ordinance. . ^^^^J'* 
 
 And in all things beware of grucchyng i' ^^^ through the woman shall we come to 
 against God and his visitation, in great labour \ITil\r oo,.«^ v +1, 4. ir- 1 x . ^^^ 
 
 tfes . tl'b ^' '-'1 '''T'i ^^' -^^'^^ f '''-'- '' ^'eL^'^nti^Xir^^^^^^^ grace, 
 ties, and beware of wrath, of cursing and wary- We oughten honour women in every place. 
 ying,i9 or banning, of man or of beast. And rp, , t ^ ^u . . ,• . . 
 
 ever keep patience, and meekness, and charity, Fro ?hl ffr^^ f.^f A .r^" ^'ZT tS^^f' u 
 
 both to God and man. And thus each man in ^"^pace ' "" '^^ *^^* ""^ ^T. 
 
 these three estates oweth 20 to live, to save 45 That we have trespassed, piirsue to amend, 
 himselt and help others; and thus should good Praying our Lady, well of alle grace, 
 
 life, rest, peace, and charity be among Christian To bringe us unt6 that blissful place' 
 
 men, and they be saved, and heathen men Where she and all good women shall be infere^ 
 soon converted, and God magnified greatly in ^^ heaven above, among the angels clear. 175 
 all nations and sects, that now despise him so MFRPTTF^ RFATTTF 
 
 and his law, for the wicked living of false Mi^KClLEb BEAUTE 
 
 Christian men. Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, 
 
 I may the beaute of hem not sustene, 
 " Home-retinue, household. So woundeth hit through-out my hert^ kene. 
 
 '3 Fines, amercements. 
 
 " Willingly. And but your word wol helen hastily 
 
 ;: ggSftlll^y. My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene, 
 " Complaining, grudging. ^ <^^ ^Y^^ *wo wol slee me sodenly, 
 
 ]l Knows. I may the beaute of hem not sustene. 
 
 20Ougff'''°°'^''°''"'^- '?^^- ^Discomfort. » At all lost or diminished. 
 
 ^ «Lo8t. fi Pleases. » Togefher. 
 
80 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 Upon my trouthe I sey yow f eithf ully, 
 That he ben of my lyf and deeth the quene; 
 For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene. 10 
 Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, 
 I may the beaute of hem not sustene, 
 So woundeth hit through-out my herte 
 kene. 
 
 g)ir ®liotttas? Clanbofcoe 
 
 Fl. c. 1400 
 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 (c. 1405) 
 
 The god of love, a! henedicite! 
 
 How mighty and how great a lord is he! 
 For he can make of lowe heartes hye, 
 And of hye low, and like for to dye. 
 
 And harde heartes he can maken free. 5 
 
 And he can make, within a little stounde^ 
 Of seke^ folk full whole, fresh and sounde, 
 
 And of the whole, he can make seke; 
 
 And he can binden and unbinden eke 
 What he will have bounden or unbounde. 10 
 
 To tell his might my wit may not suffyse; 
 
 For he may do all that he will devyse 
 For he can make of wise folk full nice, 
 And eke in lyther^ folk destroyen vice; * 
 
 And proude heartes he can make agryse.* 15 
 
 Shortly, all that e'er he wills he may; 
 Ageines^ him there dare no wight say nay. 
 
 For he can glad and grieve whom him liketh; 
 
 And whom he will, he laugheth or he syketh;^ 
 And most his might he showeth ever in May. 20 
 
 For every trewe gentle hearte free 
 That with him is, or thinketh for to be, 
 
 Ageines May now shall have some stirring. 
 Either to joy, or alles to mourning. 
 In no ses6un so great, as thinketh me. 25 
 
 For when they mowe'^ hear the briddes sing, 
 And see the flowers and the leaves spring, 
 
 That bringeth into heartes r6membrd,unce 
 A kind of ease, mingled with grevdunce, 
 And lusty thoughtes fulle of longing. ... 30 
 
 31oljn ll^ogate 
 
 c. 1370-c. 1451 
 IN PRAISE OF CHAUCER 
 
 (From the Prologue to The Story of Thebes. 
 c. 1420) 
 
 . . . Him that was, if I shall not feign, 
 Flower of Poets, throughout of all Britain, 40 
 Which soothly had moost of excellence 
 In Rhetoryke and in eloquence. 
 Read his making,^ who list the truthe findo, 
 Which never shall appallen^ in my minde. 
 But always fresh been in my memorie; 45 
 
 iTime. 2 Sick. 3 Evil. < Afraid. 
 
 8 Against. « Makes laugh or sigh. ^ May. 
 
 1 Works, or poetry. 2 Grow pale, i. 0. fade. 
 
 To whom be yeve' praise, honour, and gloric. 
 Of well saying firste in our language; 
 Chief Registrer in this our pilgrimage, 
 All that he told, forgetting naught at all, 
 Not feigned tales, nor thing historical, .)i 
 
 With many proverbs, diverse and uncouth,* 
 By the rehearsing of his sugared mouth. 
 Of cache thinge keeping in substance 
 The sentence whole withoute varidnce, 
 Voiding the chafif , soothly for to sain,^ 55 
 
 Illumining the true picked grain, 
 By crafty writing of his sawes^ sweet. 
 
 THE TESTAMENT OF JOHN LYDGATE 
 
 (From Testamentum Johannis Lydgate) 
 
 Midst of a cloister, painted on a wall, 743 
 
 I saw a crucifix with wounds not small. 
 With this word VIDE, written there beside,- 
 ^' Behold my meekness, Child, and learn thy 
 pride.'" 
 
 The which word when I came to understand, 
 
 In my last age taking the sentence, 
 Thinking thereon, my pen I took in hand. 
 
 And straightway wrote with humble rever- 
 ence, 750 
 
 On this word vide with much diligence, 
 
 In memory of Christes passioun 
 
 This Uttle song, this compilatioun. ... 753 
 
 "Turn home again, thy sin do thou forsake, 867 
 Behold and see if aught be left behind; 
 
 To mercy I am ready thee to take, 869 
 
 Give me thy heart and be no more unkind; 
 Thy love and mine, together do them bind, 
 And let them never part in any wise; 
 When thou wast lost, thy soul again to find. 
 My blood I gave for thee in sacrifice. . . .874 
 
 Tarry no longer towards thine heritage : 890 
 
 Haste on thy way and be of right good cheer; 
 
 Go each day onward on thy pilgrimage, 
 
 Think how short time thou shalt abide here! 
 Thy place is built above the starres clear, 
 No earthly palace wrought in stately wise. 895 
 Come on, my friend, my brother most entere,* 
 For thee I shed my blood in sacrifice." 
 
 tEliomasf J^occlebe or ^tt\t\^t 
 
 c. 1370-c. 1450 
 
 THOMAS HOCCLEVE'S COMPLAINT 
 The Prologue 
 
 After that Harvest gathered had his sheaves, 
 And that the brown sesoun of Michaelmesse* 
 
 Was come, and gan the trees rob of their leavePi 
 That green had been and in lust;^ freshnesse,\ 
 
 Say. 
 
 Sayings. 
 
 3 Given. < Unfamiliar. 
 
 1 Entire, complete. 
 
 1 The feast of St. Michael and All Angels, or MiohaeK 
 mas, which falls on Sept. 29th. 
 
THOMAS HOCCLEVE, OR OCCLEVE 
 
 [Aind them into col6ur of yellownesse 5 
 
 Had died, and down were throwen under foot, 
 riiat change sank into mine heartes root. 
 _ „r freshly brought it to my remembrance, 
 
 That stableness in this world there is none; 
 There is no thing but change and variance; 10 
 How rich a man may be or well begun, 
 Endure it shall not, he shall it foregone. 
 Death under f oote shall him thrust a-down : 
 For that is every wight's conclusioun. 
 
 Which for to waive is in no mannes might, 15 
 How rich he be, strong, lusty, fresh, and gay. 
 
 And at November's end, upon a night, 
 Sighing most sore, as in my bed I lay. 
 For this and other thoughts, which many a 
 
 day 
 Before I had, sleep came none in mine eye, 20 
 So vexfed me the thoughtful malady. ... 
 
 The grief about my heart so sorely swal 
 And bolned ever to and fro so sore, 30 
 
 That nedes out I must then with it all: 
 I thought I could not keep it close no more, 
 Nor let it in me, being old and hoar: 
 And for to prove I came of a womdn, 
 I burst out on the morrow, and thus began. 35 
 
 Here endeth my prologue, and followeth my 
 Complaint. 
 
 The Complaint 
 
 Almighty God, as liketh His goodness, 
 Visiteth folk all-day as men may see, 
 With loss of goods and bodily sickness, 
 And among other He forgat not me; 
 Witness thereof the mad infirmitie^ 
 Which that I had, as many a man 
 
 knew. 
 And which out of myself me cast 
 threw. . . . 
 
 As said is in the Psalter,^ might I say, 
 All they that saw me fled away from me; 
 
 Forgot I was, all out of mind away, 
 Like as the dead, from heartes charitie; 
 To a lost vessel likened might I be; 
 For many a wight aboute me dwelling. 
 Heard I me blame and put in dispraising. . 
 
 81 
 
 40 
 
 well 
 and 
 
 78 
 
 80 
 
 83 
 
 Some time I thought as lite^ as any man, 106 
 
 For to have fallen in that wildernesse, 
 But God, when that Him list, may, will, and 
 can. 
 Our health withdraw and send a wight sick- 
 
 nesse, 
 Though man be well this day, no sykemesse^ 
 To him is promised that it shall endure; ill 
 God now can hurt and now can heal and 
 cure. . . . 
 
 * Hoccleve was ill and insane about 1416-1421. 
 » Psalm, xxxi. 11, 12. Cf. also Psalm, Ixxxviii. 
 
 * Little. 8 Security. 
 
 Through God's just doom and through His 
 
 judgement, 39o 
 
 And for my beste now I take and deem, 
 
 Gave that good Lord to me my punishment; 395 
 
 In wealth I took of Him no heed or yeme," 
 
 Him for to please and Him hon6ur and 
 
 queme,^ 
 And me He gave a bone^ on which to gnaw. 
 Me to correct and of Him to have awe. 
 
 He gave me wit, and wit He took away 400 
 When that He saw that I it sore misspent, 
 
 And gave again, when it was His to pay 
 And granted me my guiltes to repent. 
 And then henceforth to set all mine intent 
 Unto His Deity to do pleasaunce, 405 
 
 And to amend my sinful governaunce. 
 
 Laud and hon6ur and thanks unto Thee be. 
 Lord God that salve art to all my heaviness! 
 
 Thanks for my wealth and mine adversitie, 
 Thanks for mine age and for my sickeness, 
 And thanks be to Thine infinite goodness 411 
 For all Thy gifts and benefices all. 
 And to Thy mercy and Thy grace I call. 
 
 A LAMENT FOR CHAUCER 
 
 (From The Regimen of Princes,^ c. 1412) 
 
 But welaway! so is my hearte woe 1958 
 
 That the hon6ur of English tongue is deed, 2 
 Of whom I used to have counsel and rede.' 
 
 O master dear, and father reverent! 
 
 My master Chaucer, flower of eloquence, 
 Mirror of fructuous entendement,* 
 
 O, universal father in science! 
 
 Alas! that thou thine excellent prudence 1965 
 
 On thy bed mortal mightest not bequeathe! 
 
 What ailed death? alas! why would he slay 
 thee? 
 
 O death! thou didest not harm singular ^ 
 In slaying him, but all this land it smarteth; 
 
 But ne'ertheless, thou hast not any power 1970 
 His name to slay; his high virtue upstarteth 
 Unslain by thee, which aye us Uvely heart- 
 eth« 
 
 With bookes of his ornate Inditing, 
 That are to all this land illumining. . 
 
 Simple my spirit, scarce my letterure ' 
 Unto your excellency for to write 
 
 Mine inward love, and yet, in aventure 
 I put myself, although I can but lyte.^ 
 My deare master — (God his soul requite!) 
 And father, Chaucer, fain would have me 
 
 taught; 
 But I was dull, and little learned or naught. 
 
 6 Care. "> Appease. 
 
 8 Possibly an allusion to the proverb: "He that gives 
 thee a bone would not have thee die." 
 
 1 A long didactic poem dedicated to Prince Henry, 
 the future Henry V. The Prologue contains many 
 autobiographical confessions, as well as the familiar 
 passage on Chaucer, given above. 2 Dead. 
 
 ' Instruction. * Understanding. 
 
 s A single injury. * Heartenelh i. e. cheers. 
 
 ^ Learning. ^ Know but little. 
 
 1974 
 2073 
 
 2075 
 
82 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 Alas! my worthy master honourable, 2080 
 
 This landes very treasure and rich^sse, 
 
 Death, by thy death, hath harm irreparable 
 Done unto us; his vengeable duresse^ 
 Despoiled hath this land of the sweetn6sse 
 Of rhetoric; for unto TuUius 2085 
 
 Was never man so like amongest us. 
 
 Who was there nearer in philosophie 
 
 To Aristotle, in our tongue, but thou? 
 The foot-steps of Virgil in poesie 
 
 Thou foUowedst sure, this men know well 
 enow.^° 2090 
 
 That cumber-world," that thee, my master 
 slowi2 
 
 I would were slain! death went too hastily 
 To run on thee, and rive thy life of thee. 
 
 Death hath but small consideracioun 
 Unto the virtuous, I have espied, 2095 
 
 No more, as showeth the probacioun,^' 
 
 Than to a vicious master-scoundrel tried ;^* 
 Among a crowd, is every man maistrled;^^ 
 By him, as well the rich man as the poor; 
 Learned or unlearned, alike they stand — no 
 more. 2100 
 
 He might have held his vengeance yet awhile, 
 Till that some man might equal to thee be. 
 
 Nay, let that be! he knew well that this isle 
 Might never bring forth man like unto 
 
 thee, 
 And his office needes do must he; 2105 
 
 God bade him so, I trust as for the best; 
 O master, master, God thy soule rest! . . .2107 
 
 The firste finder ^^ of our fair language, 4978 
 Hath writ of death as many another one, 
 
 So highly well that it is my dotdge^^ 4980 
 
 To speak, I cannot reach what they have 
 
 done. 
 Alas! my father from the world is gone — 
 My worthy master Chaucer, him I mean — 
 Be thou adv6cate for him, heaven's queen! 
 
 As thou well knowest, O blessed virglne, 4985 
 With loving heart, and high devocioun 
 
 In thine honour he wrought full many a line; 
 Grant now thy help and thy promocioun! 
 To God thy Son, make thou a mocioun,^* 
 How he thy servant was, maiden Marie, 4990 
 And let his love flower and fructifie. 
 
 Although his life be quenched, the resemb- 
 launce 
 Of him hath in me s6 fresh liveliness 
 That, to put other men in remembraunce 
 
 • Revengeful compulsion. 1° Enough. 
 
 II Death, the encumberer, burden, or hindrance of the 
 world. 
 
 12 Slew. 1' Proof, as experience ahows. 
 
 i< Proved. 1* Mastered. 
 
 18 Probably the first discoverer of the full resources of 
 our language, not the first poet, as the expression is some- 
 times explained. Chaucer trusted to his native tongue, 
 while Gower, for instance, wrote in English, Latin and 
 French. 
 
 " Foolishness. " Motion. 
 
 Of his pers6n, I have here his liken^ss^^ 4995 
 
 Essayed, to this end in truthfulness. 
 
 That they who have of him least thought and 
 
 mind. 
 By this portrayal may again him find. 
 
 SCOTTISH POETS AFTER CHAUCER 
 
 Mn^ 3|ame0 tlie ifirsft of g)cotlanli 
 
 1394-1437 
 
 A BALLAD OF GOOD COUNSEL 
 
 Since through virtue increases dignity, 
 And virtue, flower and root, is of noblay,^ 
 
 Of any weal or what estate thou be, 
 
 His steps ensue and dread thou no affray; 
 Exile all vice, and follow truth alwdy; 5 
 
 Luve most thy God, who first thy luve began. 
 
 And for each inch He will thee quit a span. 
 
 Be not o'er proud in thy prosperity. 
 For as it comes, so will it pass away; 
 
 Thy time to count is short, thou may'st well 
 see, 10 
 
 For of green grass soon cometh withered hay. 
 Labour in truth while there is light of day. 
 
 Trust most in God, for He best guide thee can. 
 
 And for an inch He will thee quit a span. 
 
 Since word is thrall, and only thought is free, 15 
 Tame thou thy tongue, that power has and 
 may. 
 Shut thou thine eyes on worldly vanity; 
 Refrain thy lust and hearke^ what I say; 
 Seize lest thou slide, and creep forth on the 
 way; 
 Keep thy behest unto thy God and man, 20 
 And for each inch He will thee quit a span. 
 
 Mobert J^ent^0on 
 
 c. 1425-c. 1500 
 
 THE TALE OF THE PADDOCK AND THE 
 MOUSE 
 
 Upon a time, as ^sop could report, 
 A Uttle Mouse came to a river side; 
 
 She micht not wade, her shankes were sa short; 
 She could not swim, she had na horse to ride; 
 Of very force hehoved her to bide, 5 
 
 And to and fra beside the river deep, 
 
 Crying she ran, with mony a piteous peep. 
 
 "Help ower, help ower! " this silly Mouse gan 
 
 cry, 
 "For Goddes luve, some body o'er this 
 
 brim!"^ 
 With that a Paddock 2 in the water by, 10 
 
 Put up her heid, and on the bank gan clym;' 
 Whilk by natiire could duck, and gaily swim\^ 
 
 19 The portrait of Chaucer, which Hoccleve employedv 
 someone to paint on the margin of his manuscript (Harl. 
 Ms. 4688) opposite to this stanza. 
 
 1 Nobility. 
 
 1 Flood. « Toad. • Climb. 
 
ROBERT HENRYSON 
 
 83 
 
 With voice full rauk,^ she said in this maneir: 
 "Gude morn, Sir Mouse, what is your errand 
 here?" 
 
 "See'st thou," quoth she, "of corn yon jolie 
 flat^ 15 
 
 Of ripened oats, of barley, pease, and wheat; 
 I am hungrie, and fain would be thereat, 
 
 But I am stoppit by this water great; 
 
 And on this side I get na thing to eat 
 But hardest nuts, whilk with my teeth I bore. 20 
 Were I beyond, my feast were far the more. 
 
 " I haf na boat, here is na marin^re; 
 And though there were, I haf no freight to 
 pay." 
 
 Quoth she: "Sister, let be your heavy cheer; 
 Do my counsel, and I shall find the way 25 
 Withouten horse, brig,^ boat, or yet gallay, 
 
 To bring' you o'er safely — be not afeard — 
 
 Nor even wet the tip of your long bekrd." 
 
 "I haf great wonder," quoth the silly Mouse, 
 
 "How thou can'st float without feather or 
 
 fin! 
 
 This river is sa deep and dangerous, 31 
 
 Methinks that thou would drowned be 
 
 therein. 
 Tell me, therefore, what facultie or gin ' 
 Thou hast to bring thee o'er this water? ' 
 
 Thans 
 Thus to declare, the Paddock soon began : 35 
 
 "With my twa feet," quoth she, "webbed and 
 braid,9 
 
 Instead of oars, I row the stream full still; 
 And though the flood be perilous to wade, 
 
 Baith to and fra I row at my ain will. 
 
 I may not drown, — for why? — my open gill 40 
 'Devoidis^° aye the water I resaif , ^ ^ 
 Therefore to droun, forsooth, na dreid I half." ^^ 
 
 The Mouse looked hard upon her fronsit" face. 
 Her wrinkled cheekes, and her lippes wide; 
 
 Her hanging browes, and her voice sa hace; ^* 45 
 Her sprawling legges, and her harsky^.^ hide. 
 She ran aback, and to the Paddock cried: 
 
 "If I have ony skill in phisnomie,^^ 
 
 Thou hast some part of falsehood and envie. 
 
 " For wise men say the incUnatioun 50 
 
 Of mannes thought proceedeth commonlie 
 
 After the corporal complexioun 
 To guid or ill, as nature will applie; 
 A twisted face, a twisted phisnomie. 
 
 The auld proverb is witness of this lorum :" 55 
 
 Distortum vulium, sequitur distortio morum." 
 
 "Na," quoth the Toad, "that proverb is not 
 
 true; 
 For fairest things are oftentimes found 
 
 faikyn.^8 
 * Hoarse, raucous. * Pretty plain. 
 
 « Bridge. ^ What power or what contrivance. 
 
 8 Then. » Broad. i° Empties. 
 
 " Receive. 12 Have. >' Rough. 
 
 1* Hoarse. " Harsh. '^ Physiognomy. 
 
 " Lore, learning, " Deceitful. 
 
 The blue-berries, though they be sad of hue. 
 
 Are gathered when the primrose is forsaken . 
 The face may fail to be the heart's true takin,^* 
 Therefore I find this Scripture all in place : 62 
 Thou should not judge a man after his face. 
 
 "Though I unwholesome be to luik upon, 
 I have na cause why I should blamed be; 
 
 Were I as fair as jolie Absalom, 
 
 I am na causer of that great beautie. 
 This difference in form and quaUtie 
 
 Almighty God hath caused Dame Nattire 
 
 To print, and set in every creature. 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 "Of some the face may be full flourishing; 
 Of silken tongue and cheer richt amorous; 
 
 With mind inconstant, false, and varying. 
 With tricky ways, and full of sly deceit." 
 "Leave preaching," quoth the Mouse, who 
 longed to eat, 
 
 "And by what craft, now mak me understand. 
 
 You mean to bear me unto yonder land ! " 77 
 
 "Thou know'st," quoth she, "a body that has 
 need, 
 
 To help himself should mony methods cast;^'' 
 Therefore go tak a double twisted threid,^! so 
 
 And bind thy leg to mine with knottes fast; 
 
 I shall thee learn to swim, be not aghast." 
 "Is that thy counsel?" quoth the silly Mous, 
 To prove that play 't were over perilous! 
 
 "Should I be bound and fast where I am free, 85 
 In hope of help? Nay, then beshrew us baith 
 For I micht lose baith life and libertie! 
 
 If it were so, who might amend my skaith? 22 
 
 But wilt thou swear to me the murther-aith,^^ 
 
 To bring me ower, renouncing fraud or ill, 90 
 
 And safe from hurt?" "In faith," quoth she, 
 
 "I will." 
 
 Then up she gazed, and to the heavens gan cry; 
 * ' O Jupiter ! of Nature, god and king, 
 
 I mak an aith truly to thee, that I 
 
 This little Mouse shall o'er this water bring." 
 This aith was made. The Mouse not per- 
 ceiving 
 
 The false device of this foul trickster Taid,^* 97 
 
 Tuik threid, and bound her leg, as she her bade. 
 
 Then foot for foot they leapt baith in the brim; 
 
 But in their minds they were quite different: 
 
 The Mouse thought of na thing but for to swim. 
 
 The Paddock for to drown^^ set her intent. 
 
 When they had gained mid-stream, as on 
 
 they went, 103 
 
 With all her force the Paddock pressed down. 
 
 And thought the Mouse without mercle to 
 
 drown. 105 
 
 i» Token. " Contrive. 
 
 21 Thread. " Hurt. 
 
 23 Apparently an oath by which a person solemnly 
 binds himself not to murder or injure another, or de- 
 ceive him to his hurt. 
 
 2* Toad. ** Drown her. 
 
84 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 Perceiving this, the Mouse on her gan cry : 
 "Traitor to God, and man-sworn unto me, 
 
 Thou swore the murther-aith right now, that I 
 Sans force or harm should ferried be and 
 
 free!" 
 Jfcid when she saw there was but do or dee, no 
 
 With all her micht she forced her to swim 
 
 And struggled on the Paddock's back to clim.^^ 
 
 The dread of death then made her strength in- 
 crease; 
 Forced her to save herself with micht and 
 main. 
 The Mouse upward, the Paddock down gan 
 preis;27 
 Now to, now fra, now duck, now up again .116 
 This silly Mouse thus plunged in great pain. 
 So fought as lang as breath was in her breist, 
 Till at the last she cryed for a priest. 
 
 As thus she sighed, a Gled^s perched on a 
 
 bough, 120 
 
 And to this wretched battle tuik guid heid,^^ 
 
 And with a whisk, ere either one knew how, 
 
 He clutched his claw between them in the 
 
 threid; 
 Then to the land he bore them with guid 
 speed, 
 Glad of his prize, which shrieked for fear of 
 skaith, 125 
 
 Then loosed he them, and ruthless slew them 
 baith. . . . 
 
 CONTENT 
 
 (From The Tale of the Upland Moitse and the 
 Burgess Mouse) 
 
 Blessed be simple life, withouten dreid; 
 
 Blessed be sober feast in quietie; 
 Who has enough, of no more has he need, 
 
 Though it be little into quantitie. 215 
 
 Great abundd-nce, and blind prosperitie, 
 Ofttimes mak an ill conclusion; 
 
 The sweetest life, therefore, in this countrie, 
 Is to live safe, with small possession. 
 
 William 2r>unbar 
 
 1460-0. 1525 
 
 NO TREASURE WITHOUT GLADNESS 
 
 Be merry, man! and tak not sair* in mind 
 The wavering of this wretched world of 
 sorrow! 
 To God be humble and to thy friend be kind, 
 And with thy neighbours gladly lend and 
 
 borrow: 
 His chance to-nicht, it may be thine to- 
 morrow; 5 
 Be blithe in heart for ony adventiire; 
 
 For oft with wise men, 't has been said 
 aforrow,2 
 Without gladness availis no treasure. 
 
 » Climb. 27 Press. 28 Hawk. 2' Heed. 
 
 ^ Sore. 2 Afore, before. 
 
 Mak thee gude cheer of it that God thee sends, 
 
 For warldes wrack^ but welfare nocht avails. 
 No gude is thine, save only that thou spends; il 
 
 Remanent all thou brookis but with bales. 
 
 Seek to soMce when sadness thee assails; 
 In dolour long thy life may not endure. 
 
 Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sails; 15 
 Without gladness availis no treasure. 
 
 Follow on pity, flee trouble and debate. 
 With famous folk aye hold thy company; 
 
 Be charitable and humble in thine estate, 
 For wardly honour lastes but a cry;* 20 
 
 For trouble in earth tak no melancholy; 
 
 Be rich in patience, if thou in goods be poor; 
 Who lives merry he lives michtily; 
 
 Without gladness availis no treasiire. 
 
 Thou seest these wretches set with sorrow and 
 care 25 
 
 To gather goods in all their lives space; 
 And, when their bags are full, their selves are 
 bare. 
 And of their riches but the keeping hes;^ 
 While others come to spend it, that have 
 grace, 
 Whilk of thy winnings no labour had nor cure;^ 
 Tak thou example, and spend with merriness; 
 Without gladness availis no treasure. 32 
 
 Though all the wealth' that e'er had living wight 
 
 Were only thine, no more thy part does fall 
 But meat, drink, clothes, and of the rest a sight, 
 
 Yet, to the Judge, thou shalt give 'compt of 
 all. 36 
 
 Ane reckoning richt comes of ane ragment* 
 small. 
 Be just and joyous, and do to nane injtire. 
 
 And truth shall mak thee strong, as ony wall; 
 Without gladness availis no treasiire. 40 
 
 THE DANCE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY 
 SINS 
 
 Of Februar the fifteenth nicht. 
 Full lang before the dayes licht, 
 
 I lay in-till a trance; 
 And then I saw baith Heaven and Hell; 
 Methocht, amang the fiendes fell, 5 
 
 Mahoun^ gan cry ane dance 
 Of sinners that were never shriven. 
 Against the feast of Fastern's even,^ 
 
 To mak their observance. 
 
 3 The sense is. For (i. e. because) the world's trash, 
 refuse (wxacl^ without ("but") spiritual well-being 
 (welfare) avails nothing. 
 
 * Short time. ^ Have. « Care. 
 
 ^ The passage is thus paraphrased by Hailes:— 
 
 "What riches give us, let us then explore; 
 
 Meat, drink, and clothes; what else? a sight of more." 
 
 8 Scroll. \ 
 
 1 Mahomet, here the devil. In the Middle Ages, Ma-^' 
 hornet and other false prophets were confused or identi- (' 
 fied with Satan. 
 
 2 Fastens or fastings even, Shrove Tuesday, the even- 
 ing preceding the fast of Lient. It was a season of riotoui 
 festivity. 
 
II 
 
 WILLIAM DUNBAR 
 
 85 
 
 He bad niak ready masquers' guise, 
 To cut up capers in the skies, 
 As varlets do in France. ^ . . . 
 
 "Let see," quoth he, "now who begins," 
 With that the foul Seven Deadly Sins 
 
 Began to leap at anis.^ 
 And first of all in dance was Pride, 
 With hair thrown back, and bonnet on side, 
 
 Like to mak vastie wanis;^ 
 And round about him, as a wheel, 
 Hangs all in rumples to the heel 
 
 His cassock for the nanis;^ 
 Many a proud trompour^ with him tripped; 
 'J'hrough scalding fire aye as they skipped 
 
 They girned with hideous granis.^ 
 
 Then Ire came in with sturt^ and strife: 
 His hand was aye upon his knife. 
 
 He brandished like a bear: 
 Boasters, braggers, and bargainers, 
 After him passed in in pairs. 
 
 All clad in garb of weir;^° 
 In jacks, and mail, and bonnets of steel, 
 They were in armour to the heel, 
 
 Full fro ward was their air; 
 Some upon other with brands beft,^^ 
 Some jaggit others to the heft, 
 
 With knives that sharp could shear. 
 
 Next in the dance followed Envy, 
 Filled full with feud and felony. 
 
 Hid malice and despite; 
 For privy hatred that traitor trembled* 
 Him followed many a rogue dissembled 
 
 With feigned wordes white: 
 And flatterers unt6 men's faces; 
 And backbiters in secret places 
 
 To lie that had delight; 
 And whisperers of false leslngs,^^ 
 Alace! that courts of noble kings 
 
 Of them can never be quyte.^^ 
 
 Next him in dance came Covetice, 
 Root of all ill, and ground of vice, 
 
 That never could be content: 
 Catiffs, wretches, and usurers. 
 Misers, hoarders, gatherers, 
 
 All with that warlook went: 
 Out of their throats they shot on other 
 Hot, molten gold, me thocht, a futher^* 
 
 As fire-flaught^^ maist fervent; 
 Aye, as they emptied them of shot, 
 Fiends filled them new up to the throat. 
 
 With gold of all kind prent.^^ . . . 
 
 10 
 
 19 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 Nae minstrels played to them nae doubt, 103 
 For gleemen there were holden out. 
 
 By day and eke by nicht; 105 
 
 3 When Dunbar wrote, French fashions were in vogue 
 at the Scottish Court. 
 
 * At once. 5 Empty dwellings. 
 
 « For the nonce. ^ Cheat. ' Groans. 
 
 » Disturbance. • "> War. " Beat. 
 
 12 Lies. 13 Quit. " Load. 
 
 1* Lightning. i« Of every impress. 
 
 Except a minstrel that slew a man. 
 So to his heritage he wan. 
 
 And entered by brief of richt." 
 
 Then cried Mahoun for a Hielan' Padyane:!^ 
 Syne ran a fiend to fetch Makfadyane,^^ no 
 
 For north wast in a nook : 
 When he the coronach had done shout, 
 Erse^o men so gathered him about. 
 
 In hell great room they took. 
 
 Thae termagents, with tag and tatter, 115 
 
 Ful loud in Erse began to chatter. 
 
 And roup2^ like raven and rook. 
 The Devil sae deaved was with their yell. 
 That in the deepest pot of hell 
 
 He smorit22 them with smoke! 120 
 
 THE LAMENT FOR THE MAKERS^ 
 
 WHEN HE WAS SICK 
 
 I that in health was and gladness. 
 Am troubled now with great sickness, 
 And feeble with infirmity; 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 Our pleasunce here is all vain glory, 5 
 
 This false warld is but transitory. 
 The flesh is bruckle,'' the Fiend is slee;' 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 The state of man does change and vary. 
 Now sound, now sick, now blithe, now sary,^ 10 
 Now dancing merry, now like to dee; 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 No state on earth stands fast, I find; 
 As osiers light wave in the wind, 
 So waveth this warld's vanity; 15 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 Down unto death go all estates. 
 Prelates, and kings, and potentates, 
 Baith rich and poor of all degree; 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 20 
 
 Death strikes the knichts up ^n the field. 
 Full armoured, under helm and shield, 
 Victor in every fight is he; 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 That strong, unmerciful tyrdnd^ 25 
 
 Taks, on the mother's breast sowkand,^ 
 The babe full of benignity; 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 " Breve of Recto, a writ which in feudal Scotland es- 
 tablished a right to succession. 
 
 '8 In Dunbar's time and for long after, the Highlanders 
 were regarded with a feeling of mingled dread and con- 
 tempt by the more settled and prosperous people of the 
 South. Cf. the attitude of Baillie Nichol Jarvie in 
 Scott's Rob Roy. 
 
 1' An opponent of Wallace, the Scotch patriot. After 
 swearing allegiance to Edward 1st, Makfadyane fled to 
 a cave, where he was surprised and killed. Hence the 
 assertion that he was fetched from a "nook" in the 
 "northwest." 
 
 2" Scotch, Gaels. ^i Croak. 22 Smothered. 
 
 1 Poets. 2 Brittle. 3Sl>. 
 
 * Sorry. * Tyrant « Sucking 
 
CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 He taks the champion in the stour,^ 
 The captain closed in the tour, 30 
 
 The lady in hour ful of beautie; 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 He spares no lord for his puissdnce, 
 No clerk for his intelligence; 
 His awful stroke may no man flee; 35 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 Masters of magic and astrology, 
 Of rhetoric, logic or theology, 
 Are helped by no conclusions slee; 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 40 
 
 In medecine the best practicians, 
 Of leeches, surgeons, and physicians. 
 Themselves from death may not supplie; * 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 I see that Makers, amang the lave,^ 45 
 
 Play here their pageants, then go to grave; 
 Death does not spare their facultie; 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 He came most piteously to devour 
 The noble Chaucer, i° of Makers' flower, 50 
 The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three; 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 The gude Sir Hugh of Eglington, 
 And eke Heriot, and Wyntown, 
 He hath ta'en out of this countree; 65 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 He hath restrained (that scorpion dark) 
 Maister James Afflek and John Clerk 
 Frae ballad-making and tragedy; 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 60 
 
 Holland and Barbour he has bereft; 
 Alas, he has not with us left 
 Sir Mungo Lockhart of the Lea! 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 Clerk of Tranent eke he has ta'en, 65 
 
 That made th' adventures of Gawain, 
 Sir Gilbert Hay ended has he; 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 He has blind Harry and Sandy Traill 
 Slain with his shot of mortal hail, 70 
 
 Which Patrick Johnstoun micht not flee; 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 He has reft" Merseir his endite,* 
 That did of luve so lively write, 
 So short, so quick, of sentence hie;^' 75 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 "> Storm, stir or Ijumult of battle. 
 
 8 Defend. » Among the rest. 
 
 w Among the twenty-four poeta celebrated by Dunbar, 
 Chaucer alone remains a living power in literature. 
 Barbour, Gower, Lydgate and Henryson hold a secure and 
 honorable place; while a few others, as Blind Harry and 
 Walter Kennedy, although less known, are still nominally 
 remembered. Some of the remainder are more or less 
 securely established on the right side of oblivion, while 
 others, in Sir T. Browne's phrase, "Subsist under naked 
 nominations, without deserts and noble acts, which are 
 the bakam of our memories." 
 
 "Snatched. 12 Manuscript. "High, 
 
 He has ta'en Roull of Aberdeen, 
 And gentle Roull of Corstorphine; 
 Two better fellows did not man see; 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 80 
 
 In Dumferline he has doun roun^^ 
 Gude Maister Robert Henrysoun; 
 Sir John the Ross embraced has he; 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 And he has now ta'en, last of a', 85 
 
 Gude gentle Stobo and Quintin Schaw, 
 For whom all mortals feel pitie! 
 Timxrr Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 Gude Maister Walter Kennedy 
 At point of death lies verilly, 90 
 
 Great ruth it is that this should be; 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 Since he has all my brethren ta'en, 
 He will not let me live alane; 
 Perforce I must his next prey be; 95 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 
 
 Since then for death remeid^^ is none, 
 Best is that we for death dispone,^* 
 After our death that live may we; 
 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me. 100 
 
 ^atoain Douglas 
 
 c. 1474^1522 
 
 WELCOME TO THE SUMMER SUN 
 
 (From the Prologue to the Mneid,^ Bk. XH) 
 
 Welcome, the lord of licht, and lamp of day, 
 Welcome, fost'rer of tender herb^s green. 
 Welcome, quick'ner of blooming blossoms 
 
 sheen. 
 Welcome, support of every root and vein, 
 Welcome, comf6rt of all-kind fruit and grain, 5 
 Welcome, the birdes bield^ upon the brere,^ 
 Welcome, maister and ruler of the year, 
 Welcome, welfare* of farmers at the ploughs. 
 Welcome, repairer of woods, trees, and boughs, 
 Welcome, depainter of the blooming meads, 10 
 Welcome, the life of everything that spredes, 
 Welcome, the strength of all-kind bestial. 
 Welcome be thy bricht beam^s gladding all, 
 Welcome, celestial mirror and aspy,^ 
 Arresting all that practise shiggardy. 15 
 
 1* Has run down. is Remedy. i« Prepare. 
 
 1 The translation of the /Eneid is generally acknowl 
 edged to be Douglas's most important work. It is note- 
 worthy as the earliest attempt to reproduce a great 
 classical poem in English verse. The prologues prefaced 1 
 to the various books, contain some vivid and forcible 
 descriptions of Nature, and are intrinsically the most 
 interesting parts of the work. 
 
 2 Nest. 3 Briar. 
 
 * i. e. the one who gives success to the farmer's labors, 
 the source of his welfare. * Sentinel. 
 
JAMES WEDDERBURN 
 
 87 
 
 1490-1555 
 
 AN APOLOGY FOR 
 VULGAR AND 
 GUAGE 
 
 WRITING IN THE 
 MATERNAL LAN- 
 
 (From The Monarchy,^ 1553) 
 
 Gentle reddr, have at me na despite, 
 
 Thinking that I presumptuously pretend, 
 
 In vulgar^ tongue sa high mattere to write : 540 
 
 But, where I miss, I pray thee to amend. 
 
 By the unlearned I would the cause were kend. 
 
 Of our maist miserable travail and torm6nt, 
 
 And how in earth na place is permanent. 
 
 Howbeit that divers devoted cunning clerks,' 
 In Latin tongue have written sundry books: 546 
 Our unlearned know little of their werks; 
 Mair than they do the raving of the rooks: 
 Wherefore to colliers, carters, and to cooks, 
 To Jock and Tom, my rime shall be directet. 
 By cunning men howbeit it will be lacket.* 551 
 
 Though every common may not be a clerk, 
 And have no lore except their tongue maternal, 
 Why should of God the marvellous heavenly 
 
 werk 
 Be hid from them, I think it not fraternal: 555 
 The Father of heaven, who was and is eternal, 
 To Moses gave the law on Mount Sindy 
 Neither in Greek nor Latin, as I hear say. 
 
 He writ the law in tables hard of stone, 
 
 In their ain vulgar language of Hebrew ; 560 
 
 That all the bairns of Israel, every one, 
 
 Micht know the law, and so the same ensue. 
 
 But had he writ in Latin or in Grew,^ 
 
 It had to them been but a savourless jest. 
 
 Ye may well wist God wrought all for the best. 
 
 Aristotell, nor Plato, I hear sane,^ 
 Writ not their high philosophie natural. 
 In Danish, Dutch, nor tongue Italid-n, 
 But in the maist ornate^ tongue mdternal. 
 Whose fame and name do ring perpetual; 
 Famous VirglU, the prince of poetrie, 
 Nor Cicero, the flower of oratrie. 
 
 566 
 
 570 
 
 Writ not in Caldie language, nor in Grew; 
 Nor yet writ in the language Saracene; 
 Nor in the natural ^ language of Hebrew ; 575 
 But in the Roman tongue, as may be seen, 
 Whilk was their proper language, as I ween. 
 When Romans ranked dominators, indeed. 
 The ornate Latin was their proper leid.' . . . 579 
 
 ' The Monarchy, or Ane Dialog betunx Experience and 
 ane Courteour, Lyndsay's last poem, is a lengthy survey 
 of the history of the world, with a prophecy of the mil- 
 lenium, when all things shall be made new. 
 
 2 Lat. vulgaris, popular. 
 
 ' Learned writers. '' Dispraised. 
 
 s Greek. « Said. . 
 
 ^ Lat. ornatus, means here proper or fitting. Genius. 
 
 8 Original. » Language. i Sore. 
 
 The prophet David, King of Israel, 664 
 
 Conipiled the pleasant psalms of the Psaltair 
 
 In his ain proper tongue, as I hear tell. 
 
 And Solomon, who was his son and heir. 
 
 Did mak his buke intill the tongue vulgair, 
 
 Why should not their saying be to us shown 669 
 
 In our language, I would the cause were known. 
 
 Let doctors write their curious questi6uns, 
 
 And arguments, sown full of sophistrie; - 
 
 Their logic, and their high opini6uns. 
 
 And their dark judgments of astronomic, 
 
 Their medicine, and their philosophie; 675 
 
 Let poets show their glorious ingyne,^'' 
 
 As ever they please, in Greek, or in Latine; 
 
 But let us have the bookes necessare 
 
 To commonweal and our salvati6un, 
 
 Justly translated in our tongue vulgaire: 680 
 
 And so I mak the supplicatioun, 
 
 O gentle redar, have na indignati6un. 
 
 Thinking I meddle with so high mattair: 
 
 Now to my purpose forward will I fare. 
 
 iflamesf Wti>Dtxhum 
 
 c. 1500-1564-5 
 
 LEAVE ME NOT 
 
 (Psalm XXVII, 9) 
 
 Ah! my Lord, leave me not, 
 Leave me not, leave me not, 
 Ah! my Lord, leave me not, 
 
 Thus mine alone: 
 With ane burden on my back ff 
 
 I may not bear, I am so weak, 
 Lord, this burden from me tak, 
 
 Or else I am gone. 
 
 With sins I am laden sair,' 
 
 Leave me not, leave me not, JO 
 
 With sins I am laden sair. 
 
 Leave me not alone: 
 I pray thee. Lord, therefore, 
 Keep not my sins in store; 
 Loose me, or I am forlore,^ 15 
 
 And hear thou my moan. 
 
 With Thy hands Thou hast me wrought, 
 
 Leave me not, leave me not, 
 
 With Thy hands Thou hast me wrought. 
 
 Leave me not alone: 20 
 
 I was sold and Thou me bought. 
 With Thy blood Thou hast me coft;' 
 Now am I hither sought 
 
 To Thee, Lord, alone. 
 
 I cry and call to Thee, 25 
 
 To leave me not, to leave me not, 
 I cry and call to Thee, 
 
 To leave me not alone: 
 
 «L08t. 
 
 » Purchased. 
 
88 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 All they that laden be, 
 
 Thou bidst them come to Thee, 
 
 Then shall they saved be, 
 
 Through Thy mercy alone. 
 
 30 
 
 Thou savest all the penitent, 
 
 And leav'st them not, and leav'st them not. 
 
 Thou savest all the penitent, 35 
 
 And leav'st them not alone. 
 All that will their sins repent, 
 None of them shall be shent,* 
 Suppose Thy bow be ready bent. 
 
 Of them Thou killest none. 40 
 
 Faith, hope, and charity, 
 Leave me not, leave me not, 
 Faith, hope, and charity, 
 
 Leave me not alone. 
 1 pray Thee, Lord, grant me, 
 These godly giftes three, 
 Then shall I saved be. 
 
 Doubt have I none. 
 
 To the Father be all glore,^ 
 
 That leaves us not, that leaves us not, 
 
 To the Father be all glore. 
 
 That leaves us not alone. 
 Son and Holy Ghost e'crmore. 
 As it is and was before; 
 Through Christ our Saviour 
 
 We are safe every one. 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
 BALLADS OF UNCERTAIN DATE 
 
 ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE 
 
 When shaws^ be sheen, and shradds^ full fair, 
 
 And leaves both large and long. 
 It is merry, walking in the fair forest, 
 
 To hear the small birds' song. 
 
 The witwalP sang, and would not cease, 5 
 
 Sitting upon the spray, 
 So loud, he wakened Robin Hood, 
 
 In the greenwood where he lay. 
 
 "Now by my fay," said jolly Robin, 
 
 " A sweven* I had this night, 
 I dreamt me of two wight yeomen, 
 
 That fast with me gan fight. 
 
 "Me thought they did me beat and bind, 
 
 And took my bow me fro; 
 If I be Robin alive in this land, 
 
 I'll be wrocken^ on both them two." 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 "Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John, 
 "As the wind that blows o'er a hill: 
 
 For if it be never so loud this night, 
 Tomorrow it may be still." 20 
 
 "Busk ye, bowne ye,^ my merry men all. 
 
 For John shall go with me; 
 For I'll go seek yond wight yeomen 
 
 In greenwood where they be." 
 
 They cast on their gown of green, 
 
 A shoothing gone are they. 
 Until they came to the merry greenwood, 
 
 Where they had gladdest be; 
 There were they ware of a wight yeoman, 
 
 His body leaned to a tree. 
 
 A sword and a dagger he wore by his side. 
 Had been many a man's bane, 
 
 And he was clad in his capull-hide,^ 
 Top, and tail, and mane. 
 
 "Stand you still, master," quoth Little John, 35 
 
 " Under this trusty tree, 
 And I will go to yonder wight yeoman, 
 
 To know his meaning trul^." 
 
 24 
 
 30 
 
 "Ah, John, by me thou sett'st no store, 
 
 And that's a farley^ thing; 
 How oft send I my men before. 
 
 And tarry myself behind? 
 
 "It is no cunning a knave to ken, 
 An^ a man but hear him speak; 
 
 An it were not for bursting of my bow, 
 John, I would thy head brea^." 
 
 But often words they breed en bale,^° 
 
 That parted Robin and John; 
 John is gone to Barnesdale, 
 
 The gates^^ he knows each one. 
 
 And when he came to Barnesdale, 
 
 Great heaviness there he had; 
 He found two of his fellowes 
 
 Were slain both in a slade,^^ 
 
 And Scarlett afoot a-flying was. 
 
 Over stocks and stone, 
 For the sheriff with seven score men 
 
 Fast after him is gone. 
 
 "Yet one shot I'll shoot," says Little John, 
 "With Christ his might and main; 
 
 I'll make yond fellow that flies so fast 
 To be both glad and fain." 
 
 John bent up a good yew bow, 
 
 And fettled ^^ him to shoot; 
 The bow was made of a tender bough, 
 
 And fell down to his foot. 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 "Woe worth thee, wicked wood," said Little 
 John, 
 
 "That ere thou grew on a tree! 
 For this day thou art my bale, j 
 
 My boot'" when thou should be! " 70 X 
 
 * Shamed. 
 
 1 Glory. 
 
 ' Groves. 
 
 » The great spotted woodpecker. 
 
 * Dream. 
 
 2 Coppices. 
 6 Avenged. 
 
 * Prepare, make ready. 
 
 7 Horse's hide. » Strange. » If. 
 
 10 Breed evil. " Paths. " Valley. 
 
 " Prepared. " Remedy. 
 
ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE 
 
 89 
 
 This shot it was but loosely shot, 
 
 The arrow flew in vain, 
 And it met one of the sheriff's men; 
 
 Good William of Trent was slain. 
 
 It had been better for William of Trent 75 
 
 To hang upon a gallow 
 Than for to lie in the greenwood, ^' 
 
 There slain with an arrow. 
 
 And it is said, when men be met, 
 
 Six can do more than three : 80 
 
 And they have ta'en Little John, 
 
 And bound him fast to a tree. 
 
 ''Thou shalt be drawn by dale and down," 
 quoth the sheriff, 
 
 "And hanged high on a hill:" 
 ** But, thou may fail," quoth Little John, 85 
 
 "If it be Christ's own will." 
 
 Let us leave talking of Little John, 
 
 For he is bound fast to a tree. 
 And talk of Guy and Robin Hood 
 
 In the greenwood where they be. 90 
 
 How these two yeomen together they met. 
 
 Under the leaves of lime, 
 To see what merchandise they made 
 
 Even at that same time. 
 
 "Good morrow, good fellow," quoth Sir Guy; 95 
 "Good morrow, good fellow," quoth he; 
 
 " Methinks by this bow thou bear'st in thy hand 
 A good archer thou seems to be." 
 
 " I am wilful of my way," quoth Sir Guy, 
 
 "And of my morning tide: "^5 100 
 
 " I'll lead thee through the wood," quoth Robin, 
 "Good fellow, I'll be thy guide." 
 
 'Lead on, good fellow," said Sir Guy, 
 
 "Lead on, I do bid thee:" 
 ' Nay, by my faith," quoth Robin Hood, 
 
 "The leader thou shalt be." 
 
 120 
 
 " I seek an outlaw," quoth Sir Guy, 
 " Men call him Robin Hood; 
 
 I had rather meet with him upon a day 
 Than forty pound of gold." 
 
 105 
 
 "If you two met, it would be seen whether were 
 better 
 
 Afore ye did part away; 
 Let us some other pastime find. 
 
 Good fellow, I thee pray. 1 10 
 
 "Let us some other masteries^^ make. 
 And we will walk in the woods even; 
 
 We may chance meet with Robin Hood 
 At some unset steven."^^ 
 
 Th ey cut them down the summer shroggs^^ 115 
 
 Which grew both under a brere,i^ 
 And set them three score rods.in twain. 
 
 To shoot the pricks^" full neare. 
 
 '5 Time. '« Trials of skill. " Unappointed time. 
 
 18 Stunted shrubs. " Briar. 
 
 20 A wand or white mark used as the bull's eye of the 
 target. 
 
 The first good shot that Robin led. 
 Did not shoot an inch the prick fro; 
 
 Guy was an archer good enough, 126 
 
 But he could ne'er shoote so. 
 
 The second shot Sir Guy shot. 
 
 He shot within the garland ;2i 
 But Robin Hood shot it better than he. 
 
 For he clove the good prick-wand. 130 
 
 "God's blessing on thy heart! " says Guy, 
 "Good fellow, thy shooting is good; 
 
 For an thy heart be as good as thy hands. 
 Thou were better than Robin Hood. 
 
 *'Tell me thy name, good fellow," quoth Guy, 
 ' * Under the leaves of ly ne : " 136 
 
 "Nay, by my faith," quoth good Robin, 
 "Till thou have told me thine." 
 
 "I dwell by dale and down," quoth Guy, 
 " And I have done m any a curst turn ; 140 
 
 And he that calls me by my right name. 
 Calls me Guy of good Gisborne." 
 
 "My dwelling is in the wood," says Robin; 
 
 " By thee I set right nought; 
 My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale, 145 
 
 A fellow thou hast long sought." 
 
 He that had neither been of kith nor kin 
 
 Might have seen a full fair sight. 
 To see how together these yeomen went, 
 
 With blades both brown and bright. 150 
 
 To have seen how these yeomen together 
 fought 
 
 Two hours of a summer's day; 
 It was neither Guy nor Robin Hood 
 
 That fettled22 them to fly away. 
 
 Robin was reckless of a root, 155 
 
 And stumbled at that tide,^^ 
 And Guy was quick and nimble withal, 
 
 And hit him o'er the left side. 
 
 "Ah, dear Lady!" said Robin Hood, 
 
 "Thou art both mother and may ! ^4 leo 
 
 I think it was never man's destiny 
 To die before his day." 
 
 Robin thought on Our Lady dear. 
 
 And soon leapt up again, 
 And thus he came with an awkward^s stroke; 165 
 
 Good Sir Guy he has slain. 
 
 He took Sir Guy's head by the hair. 
 
 And stuck it on his bow's end : 
 "Thou hast been traitor all thy life, 
 
 Which thing must have an end." 170 
 
 21 The ring around the centre of the target. 
 
 22 Made ready. " Time. 
 
 24 Maid, virgin. 26 Unexpected. 
 
90 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 Robin pulled forth an Irish knife, 
 And nicked Sir Guy in the face, 
 
 That he was never of a woman born 
 Could tell who Sir Guy was. 
 
 Liethere, lie there, good Sir Guy, 175 
 And with me be not wroth; 
 If thou have had the worse strokes at my hand, 
 Thou shalt have the better cloth." 
 
 Robin did off his gown of green, 
 
 Sir Guy he did it throw ; 180 
 
 And he put on that capuU-hide 
 
 That clad him top to toe. 
 
 "The bow, the arrows, and little horn, 
 
 And with me now I'll bear; 
 For now I will go to Barnesdale, 185 
 
 To see how my men do fare." 
 
 Robin set Guy's horn to his mouth, 
 
 A loud blast in it he did blow; 
 That beheard the sheriff of Nottingham, 
 
 As he leanM under a lowe. ^^ 190 
 
 "Hearken! hearken! " said the sheriff, 
 
 "I heard no tidings but good; 
 For yonder I hear Sir Guy's horn blow, 
 
 For he hath slain Robin Hood. 
 
 ' ' For yonder I hear Sir Guy's horn blow, 195 
 
 It blows so well in tide,^^ 
 For yonder comes that wighty yeoman, 
 
 Glad in his capull-hide. 
 
 "Come hither, thou good Sir Guy, 
 
 Ask of me what thou wilt have : ' ' 200 
 
 "I'll none of thy gold," says Robin Hood, 
 
 " Nor I'll none of it have. 
 
 "But now I have slain the master," he said, 
 
 " Let me go strike the knave; 
 This is all the reward I ask, 205 
 
 Nor no other will have." 
 
 "Thou art a madman," said the sheriff, 
 "Thou should'st have had a knight's fee; 
 
 Seeing thy asking hath been so bad, 
 Well granted it shall be." 210 
 
 But Little John heard his master speak. 
 Well he knew that was his steven;^^ 
 
 "Now shall I be loosed," quoth Little John, 
 "With Christ's might in heaven." 
 
 But Robin he hied him towards Little John, 215 
 He thought he would loose him heliwe',^ 
 
 The sheriff and all his company 
 Fast after him did drive. 
 
 "Stand aback! stand aback!" said Robin; 
 
 " Why draw you me so near? 
 It was never the use in our country 
 
 One's shrift another should hear." 
 
 But Robin pulled forth an Irish knife, 
 
 And loosed John hand and foot, 
 And gave him Sir Guy's bow in his hand, 22a 
 
 And bade it be his boot.'" 
 
 But John took Guy's bow in his hand 
 (His arrows were rusty by the root) ; 
 
 The sheriff saw Little John draw a bow 
 And fettle^^ him to shoot. 230 
 
 Towards his house in Nottingham 
 
 He fled full fast away, 
 And so did all his company, 
 
 Not one behind did stay. 
 
 But he could neither so fast go, 235 
 
 Nor away so fast run, 
 But Little John, with an arrow broad, 
 
 Did cleave his heart in twinn.32 
 
 THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 
 
 The Percy out of Northumberland, 
 
 And a vow to God made he • 
 
 That he would hunt in the mountains 
 Of Cheviot within days three, 
 
 In the maugre of doughty Douglas, 5 
 
 And all that ever with him be. 
 
 The fattest harts in all Cheviot 
 
 He said he would kill, and carry them away: 
 "By my faith," said the doughty Douglas again, 
 
 " I will let^ that hunting if I may." 10 
 
 Then the Percy out of Bamboro came, 
 
 With him a mighty meyne,^ 
 With fifteen hundred archers bold of blood and 
 bone; 
 
 They were chosen out of shires three. 
 
 This began on a Monday at mom, 
 
 In Cheviot the hills so hie f 
 The child may rue that is unborn, 
 
 It was the more pitie. 
 
 The drivers through the woodes went. 
 
 For to rouse the deer; 
 Bowmen bickered^ upon the bent^ 
 
 With their broad arrows clear. 
 
 Then the wild^ through the woodes went. 
 
 On every side sheer ;^ 
 Greyhoundes through the groves glent. 
 
 For to kill their deer. 
 
 This began in Cheviot the hills aboun, 
 
 Early on a Monnyn-day;^ 
 By that it drew to the hour of noon, 
 
 A hundred fat harts dead there lay. 
 
 They blew a mort^ upon the bent. 
 
 They assembled on sides sheer; 
 To the quarry then the Percy went. 
 
 To see the brittlingi" of the deer. 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 220 30 Remedy. 
 
 » Hillock. 
 * Voice. 
 
 ^ Time. 
 » Quickly. 
 
 '' Prepare. 32 Twain. 
 
 1 Stop. - Company. s High. 
 
 * Skirmished. 6 Qpen fields. « Wild creatures. 
 
 ^ Straight, swift. 8 Monday. 
 
 » Blast of the horn indicating the taking of the deer. 
 10 Quartering, or cutting up. 
 
THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 
 
 91 
 
 He said, " It was the Douglas' promise 35 
 
 This day to meet me here; 
 But I wist he would fail, verament; "" 
 
 A great oath the Percy swear. ^^ 
 
 At the last a squire of Northumberland 
 
 Looked at his hand full nie; ^' 40 
 
 He was ware of the doughty Douglas coming, 
 With him a mighty meyne.^* 
 
 Both with spear, bill, and brand, 
 It was a mighty sight to see; 
 
 Hardier men, both of heart nor hand. 
 Were not in Christiantle. 
 
 45 
 
 They were twenty hundred spearmen good, 
 
 Withoute any fail; 
 They were born along by the water of Tweed, 
 
 In the bounds of Tividale. 50 
 
 " Leave ofT the brittling of the deer," he said, 
 " And to your bows look you take good heed; 
 
 For never since ye were of your mothers bom 
 Had ye never so mickle need." 
 
 The doughty Douglas on a steed, 65 
 
 He rode all his men beforn; 
 His armor glittered as did a glede;^^ 
 
 A bolder bairn was never born. 
 
 "Tell me whose men ye are," he says, 
 ' ' Or whose men that ye be : 60 
 
 Who gave you leave to hunt in this Cheviot 
 chase, ^^ 
 In the spite of mine and of me." 
 
 The first man that ever him an answer made, 
 
 It was the good lord Perc;^: 
 "We will not tell thee whose men we are," he 
 says, 65 
 
 " Nor whose men that we be ; 
 But we will hunt here in this chase. 
 
 In the spite of thine and of thee. 
 
 "The fattest hartes in all Cheviot 
 
 We have killed, and cast to carry them 
 
 away:" 70 
 
 "By my troth," said the doughty Douglas again, 
 
 "Therefore the one of us shall die this day." 
 
 Then said the doughty Douglas 
 
 Unto the lord Percy: 
 * * To kill all these guiltless men, 75 
 
 Alas, it were great pitie! 
 
 " But, Percy, thou art a lord of land, 
 I am an earl called within my countrie; 
 
 Let all our men upon a party ^^ stand. 
 
 And do^8 tiie battle of thee and of me." 80 
 
 "Now Christ's curse on his crown," said the 
 lord Perc^, 
 
 "Whosoever thereto says nay; 
 By my troth, doughty Douglas," he says, 
 
 "Thou shalt never see that day. 
 
 " Truly. 12 Swore. 
 1* Company, 
 w Hunting park. 
 
 1' Observed near at hand. 
 
 IS Flame, live coal. 
 
 " To one side, i* Let us do. 
 
 "Neither in England, Scotland, nor France, 85 
 
 Nor for no man of a woman born, 
 But, an^^ fortune be my chance, 
 
 I dare meet him, one man for one." 
 
 Then bespake a squire of Northumberland, 
 Richard Wy tharynton was his name : 90 
 
 "It shall never be told in South England," he 
 says, 
 "To King Harry the Fourth for shame. 
 
 "I wot you be great lordes two, 
 
 I am a poor squire of land: 
 I will never see my captain fight on a field, 95 
 
 And stand myself and look on. 
 But while I may my weapon wield, 
 
 I will not fail both heart and hand." 
 
 That day, that day, that dreadful day! 
 
 The first fit^o here I fynde;2i lOO 
 
 An you will hear any more of the himting of the 
 Cheviot, 
 
 Yet is there more behind. 
 
 The English men had their bows i-bent. 
 
 Their hearts were good enough; 
 The first of arrows that they shot off, 105 
 
 Seven score spearmen they slough.^^ 
 
 Yet bideth the earl Douglas upon the bent, 
 
 A captain good enough. 
 And that was seene verament. 
 
 For he wrought them both woe. and wough.^^ 
 
 The Douglas parted his host in three, ill 
 
 Like a chief chief tan of pride; 
 With sure spears of mighty tree, 
 
 They came in on every side: 
 
 Though our English archer^ 115 
 
 Gave many a wound full wide; 
 Many a doughty they gared to dee,^^ 
 
 Which gained them no pride. 
 
 The English men let their bowes be, 
 
 And pulled out brands that were bright; 120 
 It was a heavy sight to see 
 
 Bright swords on basnets^^ light. 
 
 Through riche mail and manople,^^ 
 
 Many stern^^ ^ey struck down straight; 
 
 Many a freke^s that was full free, 125 
 
 There under foot did light. 
 
 At last the Douglas and the Percy met, 
 Like to captains of might and of main; 
 
 They swapped ^^ together till they both sweat, 
 With swords that were of fine Millan.^o 13G 
 
 These worthy frekes for to fight, 
 
 Thereto they were full fain. 
 Till the blood out of their basnets sprent,'' 
 
 As ever did hail or rain. 
 
 19 If. 20 Division of a ballad. 21 End. " Slew. 
 
 23 Wrong. 24 Made to die. 25 Helmets. 26 Gauntlet. 
 
 27 Bold ones. 28 Man. 29 Struck. 
 
 30 Milan steel. '^ Spouted. 
 
92 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREl^ 
 
 "Yield thee, Percy," said the Douglds, 
 "And i'faith I shall thee bring 
 
 Where thou shalt have an earl's wag^s 
 Of Jamie our Scottish king. 
 
 ' Thou shalt have thy ransom free, 
 
 I hight^^ thee here this thing; 
 For the manf uUest man yet art thou 
 
 That ever I conquered in field fighting." 
 
 " Nay," said the lord Vercf, 
 
 "I told it thee beforn, 
 That I would never yielded be 
 
 To no man of a woman born." 
 
 With that there came an arrow hastily, 
 
 Forth of a mighty one; 
 It hath stricken the earl Douglds 
 
 In at the breast-bone. 
 
 135 
 
 140 
 
 145 
 
 150 
 
 An arrow, that a cloth-yard was long, 186 
 
 To the hard steel hauled he; 
 A dint that was both sad and sore 
 
 He set on Sir Hugh the Montgomery. 
 
 The dint it was both sad and sore, 
 
 That he on Montgomery set; 190 
 
 The swan-feathers that his arrow bore 
 
 With his heart-blood they were wet. 
 
 There was never a man one foot would flee. 
 
 But still in stour^^ did stand. 
 Hewing on each other, while they mighte 
 dree, 40 195 
 
 With many a baleful brand. 
 
 This battle began in Cheviot 
 
 An hour before the noon, 
 And when even-song bell was rung. 
 
 The battle was not half doon. 200 
 
 Thorough liver and lunges both 
 
 The sharp arrow is gone, 
 That never after in all his life-days 
 
 He spake more wordes but one: 
 That was, "Fight ye, my merry men, whiles ye 
 may. 
 
 For my life-days be gone." 156 
 
 The Percy leaned on his brand. 
 
 And saw the Douglas dee;^' 
 He took the dead man by the hand. 
 
 And said, ' ' Woe is me for thee ! 160 
 
 "To have saved thy life, I would have parted 
 with 
 
 My landes for years three. 
 For a better man, of heart nor of hand. 
 
 Was not in all the north countri6." 
 
 Of all that saw a Scottish knight, 165 
 
 Was called Sir Hugh the Montgomery; 
 
 He saw the Douglas to the death was dight,'* 
 He spended^^ a spear of trusty tree. 
 
 He rode upon a corsiare^^ 
 Through a hundred archer^: 
 
 He never stinted, ^^ nor never stopped, 
 Till he came to the good lord Perc^. 
 
 170 
 
 He set upon the lord Perc;^' 
 
 A dint that was full sore; 
 With a sure spear of a mighty tree 175 
 
 Clean through the body he the Percy ber,'^ 
 
 On the other side that a man might see 
 
 A large cloth-yard and mare: 
 Two better captains were not in Christianti^ 
 
 Than that day slain were there. 180 
 
 An archer of Northumberland 
 
 Saw slain was the lord Perc;^^; 
 He bare a bended bow in his hand. 
 
 Was made of trusty tree. 
 
 '* Promise. 88 Die. 
 *• Swift horse. 
 
 '* Prepared. 
 " Stopped. 
 
 '' Placed in rest. 
 38 Bore, thrust. 
 
 They took . . .^^ on either hand 
 
 By the light of the moon; 
 Many had no strength for to stand. 
 
 In Cheviot the hilles aboun.*^ 
 
 Of fifteen hundred archers of England 205 
 
 Went away but seventy and three; 
 
 Of twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland, 
 But even five and fifty. 
 
 But all were slain Cheviot within; 
 
 They had no strength to stand on hie;*' 210 
 The child may rue that is unborn, 
 
 It was the more pittie. 
 
 There was slain, with the lord Percy, 
 
 Sir John of Agerstone, 
 Sir Roger, the hinde** Hartly, 215 
 
 Sir William, the bold Hearone. 
 
 Sir Jorg, the worthy Lumley, 
 
 A knight of great renown. 
 Sir Ralph, the riche Rugby, 
 
 With dints were beaten down. 220 
 
 For Wetharryngton my heart was woe, 
 
 That ever he slain should be; 
 For when both his legs were hewn in two, 
 
 Yet he kneeled and fought on his knee. 
 
 There was slain, with the doughty Douglas, 225 
 
 Sir Hugh the Montgomery, 
 Sir Davy Lambwell, that worthy was, 
 
 His sister's son was he. 
 
 Sir Charles of Murray in that place, 
 
 That never a foot would flee ; 230 
 
 Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, 
 
 With the Douglas did he dee. 
 
 So on the morrow they made them biers 
 
 Of birch and hazel so gray; 
 Many widows, with weeping tears, 235 
 
 Came to fetch their mates away. 
 
 39 Stress of battle. «" Endure. 
 
 ^1 Omission in the Ma. *^ Above. 
 
 *3 Stand upright. "Gentle. 
 
THE TWA CORBIES 
 
 93 
 
 Tividale may carp of care, 
 
 Northumberland may make great moan, 
 For two such captains as slain were there, 
 
 On the border-side shall never be none. 240 
 
 Word is comen to Edinboro, 
 
 To Jamie the Scottish king. 
 That doughty Douglas, lieutenant of the 
 Marches,^^ 
 
 He lay slain Cheviot within. 
 
 His handes did he weaP" and wring, 245 
 
 He said, "Alas, and woe is me! 
 Such another captain Scotland within," 
 
 He said, "i'faith should never be." 
 
 Word is comen to lovely London, 
 
 To the fourth Harry our King, 250 
 
 That lord Percy, lieutenant of the Marches, 
 
 He lay slain Cheviot within. 
 
 "God have mercy on his soul," said King Harry, 
 
 "Good Lord, if thy will it be! 
 I have a hundred captains in England," he 
 said, 255 
 
 * ' As good as ever was he : 
 But, Percy, an I brook^^ my life, 
 
 Thy death well quit shall be." 
 
 As our noble king made his avow, 
 
 Like a noble prince of renown, 260 
 
 For the death of the lord Percy 
 
 He did^ the battle of Hombill-down; 
 
 Where six and thirty Scottish knights 
 
 On a day were beaten flown : 
 Glendale glittered on their armor bright, 265 
 
 Over castle, tower, and town. 
 
 This was the hunting of the Cheviot, 
 
 That there began this spurn ;^3 
 Old men that know the ground well enough 
 
 Call it the battle of Otterburn. 270 
 
 At Otterburn began this spurn 
 
 Upon a Monnyn-day; 
 There was the doughty Douglas slain. 
 
 The Percy never went away. 
 
 There was never a time on the Marches' side 
 Since the Douglas and the Percy met, 276 
 
 But it is marvel an the red blood ran not. 
 As the rain does in the stret.^ 
 
 Jesu Christ our bales bet,^^ 
 
 And to the bliss us bring! 
 Thus was the hunting of the Cheviot: 
 
 God send us all good ending! 
 
 SIR PATRICK SPENS 
 
 The king sits in Dumferling town. 
 Drinking the blude-red wine : 
 
 "O whare will I get guid sailor. 
 To sail this ship of mine?" 
 
 280 
 
 ' Borders. 
 Trouble. 
 
 « Clench. 
 60 Street. 
 
 « Keep. 
 
 61 Better our ills. 
 
 Fought. 
 
 Up and spak an eldem knight, 5 
 
 Sat at the king's right knee: 
 "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, 
 
 That sails upon the sea." 
 
 The king has written a braid^ letter, 
 
 And signed it wi his hand, lo 
 
 And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
 Was walking on the sand. 
 
 The first line that Sir Patrick read, 
 
 A loud laugh laughed he; 
 The next line that Sir Patrick read, 15 
 
 The tear bUnded his ee. 
 
 "O wha is this has done this deed. 
 
 This ill deed done to me, 
 To send me out this time o' the year, 
 
 To sail upon the sea ! 20 
 
 "Mak haste, mak haste, my merry men all, 
 
 Our guid ship sails the mom:" 
 "O say na sae, my master dear. 
 
 For I fear a deadlie storm. 
 
 ' * Late late yestreen I saw the new moon, 25 
 
 Wi the auld moon in her arm, 
 And I fear, I fear, my dear master. 
 
 That we will come to harm." 
 
 O our Scots nobles were right loth, 
 
 To wet their cork-heeled shoon ; 30 
 
 But lang or a' the play were played. 
 
 Their hats they swam aboon. 
 
 O lang, lang may the ladies sit, 
 
 Wi their fans into their hand. 
 Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spens 35 
 
 Come sailing to the land. 
 
 lang, lang may the ladies stand, 
 Wi their gold kems in their hair, 
 
 Waiting for their ain dear lords, 
 
 For they'll see them na mair. 40 
 
 Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour, 
 
 Its fifty fathom deep. 
 And there lies guid Sir Patrick Spens, 
 
 Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 
 
 THE TWA CORBIES » 
 
 As I was walking all alane, 
 
 1 heard twa corbies making a mane:^ 
 The tane unto the tither did say, 
 
 " Whar sail we gang and dine the day?" 
 
 ' ' In behint yon auld f aiP dyke, 5 
 
 I wot there lies a new-slain knight; 
 
 And naebody kens that he lies there 
 
 But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. 
 
 "His hound is to the hunting gane. 
 
 His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 10 
 
 His lady's ta'en anither mate, 
 
 Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. 
 
 ' Open, patent. 
 
 Ravens. 
 
 2 Moan. 
 
 » Turf, Bod. 
 
94 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 " Ye'U sit on his white hause-bane,* 
 And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en; 
 Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 
 We'll theek^ our nest when it grows bare. 
 
 15 
 
 "Mony's the one for him makes mane, 
 But nane sail ken whar he is gane. 
 O'er his white banes, when they are bare, 
 The wind sail blaw for evermair." 20 
 
 Out then cam' the miller's son 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 And saw the fair maid soummin' in, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 "O father, father, draw your dam!" 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 "There's either a mermaid or a swan," 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 45 
 
 THE TWA SISTERS O' BINNORIE 
 
 There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r; 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 A knight cam' there, a noble wooer. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 He courted the eldest wi' glove and ring, 5 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 But he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 The eldest she was vexed sair, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 10 
 
 And sair envied her sister fair, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Upon a morning fair and clear, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 She cried upon her sister dear, 15 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 "O sister, sister, tak' my hand," 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 "And let's go down to the river-strand," 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 20 
 
 She's ta'en her by the lily hand, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 And down they went to the river-strand 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 The youngest stood upon a stane, 25 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 The eldest cam' and pushed her in, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 "O sister, sister, reach your hand!" 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 30 
 
 "And ye sail be heir o' half my land" — 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 "O sister, reach me but your glove!" 
 I (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 "And sweet William sail be your love" — 35 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 Till she cam' to the mouth o' yon mill-dam, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 40 
 
 The miller quickly drew the dam, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 And there he found a drown'd womdn, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Round about her middle sma' 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 There went a gouden girdle bra' 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 All amang her yellow hair 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 A string o' pearls was twisted rare, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 On her fingers lily-white, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 The jewel-rings were shining bright. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 And by there cam' a harper fine, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 Harped to nobles when they dine. 
 
 By the bonny mill-4ams o' Binnorie. 
 
 And when he looked that lady on, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 He sigh'd and made a heavy moan. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 And wi' mem strung his harp sae rare. 
 
 By the bonny miU-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 He went into her father's hall, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 And played his harp before them all. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 And sune the harp sang loud and clear, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 "Fareweel, my father and mither dear!" 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 75 
 
 80 
 
 85 
 
 And neist when the harp began to sing, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 'Twas "Fareweel, sweetheart!" said the string, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Neck-bone. 
 
 'Thatch. 
 
 And then as plain as plain could be, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
 "There sits my sister wha drownM me! 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie." 
 
 90 
 
THE NUT-BROWN MAID 
 
 % 
 
 BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL 
 
 (From Motherwell's Minstrelsy, 1827. Date of 
 ballad uncertain) 
 
 Hie upon Hielands, 
 
 And low upon Tay, 
 Bonnie George Campbell 
 
 Rade out on a day. 
 Saddled and bridled S 
 
 And gallant rade he; 
 Hame cam his gude horse, 
 
 But never cam he! 
 
 Out cam his auld mither 
 
 Greeting fu' sair, 10 
 
 And out cam his bonnie bride 
 
 Rivin' her hair. 
 Saddled and bridled 
 
 And booted rade he; 
 Toom^ hame cam the saddle 15 
 
 But never cam he! 
 
 "My meadow lies green, 
 
 And my corn is unshorn; 
 My barn is to big, 
 
 And my babie's unborn." 20 
 
 Saddled and bridled 
 
 And booted rade he; 
 Toom hame cam the saddle, 
 
 But never cam he. 
 
 THE NUT-BROWN MAID 
 
 (c. 1500) 
 
 Be it right or wrong, these men among 
 
 On women do complain; 
 Affirming this, how that it is 
 
 A labour spent in vain 
 To love them wele ; for never a dele 5 
 
 They love a man again: 
 For let a man do what he can 
 
 Their favour to attain. 
 Yet if a new to them pursue. 
 
 Their first true lover than 10 
 
 Laboureth for naught; for from her 
 thought 
 
 He is a banished man, 
 
 I say not nay, but that all day 
 
 It is both written and said 
 That woman's faith is, as who saith, 15 
 
 All utterly decayed: 
 But nevertheless, right good witness 
 
 In this case might be laid 
 That they love true and continiie: 
 
 Record the Nut-brown Maid, 20 
 
 Which, when her love came her to prove, 
 
 To her to make his moan, 
 Would not depart; for in her heart 
 
 She loved but him alone. 
 
 He. 
 
 She. 
 
 He. 
 
 She. 
 
 He. 
 
 She. 
 
 He. 
 
 Then between us let us discuss 
 
 What was all the manere 
 Between them two: we will also 
 Tell all the pain in fere^ 
 1 Empty. 
 1 In company together. 
 
 25 
 
 She. 
 
 That she was in. Now I begin^ 
 
 So that ye me answere: 30 
 
 Wherefore all ye that present be, 
 
 I pray you give an ear. 
 I am the Knight. I come by night. 
 
 As secret as I can, 
 Sajdng, Alas ! thus standeth the case, 35 
 
 I am a banished man. 
 
 And I your will for to fulfil 
 
 In this will not refuse; 
 Trusting to show, in wordes few. 
 
 That men have an ill use — 40 
 
 To their own shame — women to blame. 
 
 And causeless them accuse. 
 Therefore to you I answer now, 
 
 All women to excuse — 
 Mine own heart dear, with you what 
 cheer? 45 
 
 I pray you, tell anone; 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 It standeth so: a deed is do 
 
 Whereof great harm shall grow: 50 
 My destiny is for to die 
 
 A shameful death, I trow; 
 Or else to flee. The t' one must be. 
 
 None other way I know 
 But to withdraw as an outlaw, 55 
 
 And take me to my bow. 
 Wherefore adieu, mine own heart true! 
 
 None other rede^ I can.' 
 For I must to the green-wood go. 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 60 
 
 Lord, what is this worldis bliss, 
 That change th as the moon! 
 
 My summer's day in lusty May 
 Is darked before the noon. 
 
 1 hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay, 65 
 We depart not so soon. 
 
 Why say ye so? Whither will ye go? 
 
 Alas! what have ye done? 
 All my welfare to sorrow and care 
 
 Should change, if ye were gone: 70 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 I can believe it shall you grieve. 
 
 And somewhat you distrain; 
 But afterward, your paines hard 
 
 Within a day or twain 
 Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take 
 
 Comfort to you again. 
 Why should ye ought? for, to make 
 thought. 
 
 Your labour were in vain. 
 And thus I do; and pray you to. 
 
 As heartily as I can: 
 For I must to the green-wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 75 
 
 80 
 
 Now, sith that ye have showed to me 
 The secret of your mind, 
 
 « Counsel. ' Know, 
 
 85 
 
96 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 I shall be plain to you again, 
 
 Like as ye shall me find. 
 Sith it is so that ye will go, 
 
 I will not live behind. 90 
 
 Shall never be said the Nut-brown Maid 
 
 Was to her love unkind. 
 Make you ready, for so am I, 
 
 Although it were anone; 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 95 
 
 I love but you alone. She. 
 
 He. Yet I you rede to make good heed 
 . What men will think and say: 
 Of young, of old, it shall be told 
 
 That ye be gone away 100 
 
 Your wanton will for to fulfil. 
 
 In green-wood you to play; 
 And that ye might for your delight 
 
 No longer make delay. 
 Rather than ye should thus for me 105 
 
 Be called an ill womdn 
 Yet would I to the green-wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. jje. 
 
 She. Though it be sung of old and young 
 
 That I should be to blame, 110 
 
 Theirs be the charge that speak so large 
 
 In hurting of my name: 
 For I will prove that faithful love 
 
 It is devoid of shame: 
 In your distress and heaviness 113 
 
 To part with you the same; 
 And sure all tho^ that do not so 
 
 True lovers are they none: 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 120 
 
 He. I counsel you. Remember how 
 
 It is no maiden's law 
 Nothing to doubt, but to run out 
 
 To wood with an outldw. 
 For ye must there in your hand bear 125 
 
 A bow ready to draw; 
 And as a thief thus must you live 
 
 Ever in dread and awe; 
 Whereby to you great harm might grow: 
 
 Yet had I liever than 130 
 
 That I had to the green-wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 She. I think not nay but as ye say; 
 
 It is no maiden's lore; 
 But love may make me for your sake, 135 
 
 As I have said before, 
 To come on foot, to hunt and shoot, 
 
 To get us meat and store; 
 For so that I your company 
 
 May have, I ask no more. 140 
 
 From which to part it maketh my heart 
 
 As cold as any stone; 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 He. For an outlaw this is the law, 145 She. 
 
 That men him take and bind: 
 Without pitie, hanged to be, 
 And waver with the wind. 
 « Those. 
 
 He. 
 
 If I had need (as God forbede!) 
 
 What socours could ye find? 150 
 
 Forsooth I trow, you and your bow 
 
 For fear would draw behind. 
 And no mervail; for little avail 
 
 Were in your counsel than: 
 Wherefore I'll to the green-wood go, 155 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 Right well know ye that women be 
 
 But feeble for to fight; 
 No womanhede it is, indeed, 
 
 To be bold as a knight; 160 
 
 Yet in such fear if that ye were 
 
 With enemies day and night, 
 I would withstand, with bow in hand. 
 
 To grieve them as I might, 
 And you to save; as women have 165 
 
 From death men many one: 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 Yet take good hede; for ever I drede 
 
 That ye could not sustain 170 
 
 The thorny ways, the deep valleys. 
 
 The snow, the frost, the rain. 
 The cold, the heat; for dry or wete, 
 
 We must lodge on the plain; 
 And, us above, no other roof 175 
 
 But a brake bush or twain: 
 Which soon should grieve you, I believe; 
 
 And ye would gladly than 
 That I had to the green-wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 180 
 
 She. Sith I have here been partynere 
 
 With you of joy and bliss, 
 I must als6 part of your woe 
 
 Endure, as reason is: 
 Yet I am sure of one pleasure, 185 
 
 And shortly it is this — 
 That where ye be, me seemeth, pard6, 
 
 I could not fare amiss. 
 Without more speech I you beseech 
 
 That we were shortly gone; 190 
 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 If ye go thyder,5 ye must consider, 
 
 When ye have lust to dine, 
 There shall no meat be for to gete, 195 
 
 Neither beer, ale, nor wine, 
 No sheetes clean, to lie between. 
 
 Made of thread and twine; 
 None other house, Sut leaves and boughs 
 
 To cover your head and mine. 200 
 
 Lo, mine heart sweet, this ill di^te 
 
 Should make you pale and wan: 
 Wherefore I'll to the green-wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 Among the wild deer such an arch^re 205 ^ 
 
 As men say that ye be, 
 Ne may not fail of such vitayle 
 
 Where is so great plenty : 
 ' Thither. 
 
THE NUT-BROWN MAID 
 
 97 
 
 He. 
 
 And water clear of the rivere 
 
 Shall be full sweet to me; 210 
 
 With which in hele^ I shall right wele 
 
 Endure, as ye^shall see; 
 And, or we go, a bed or two 
 
 I can provide anone; 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 215 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 He. Lo yet, before, ye must do more, 
 
 If ye wilLgo with me: She. 
 
 As, cut your hair up by your ear, 
 
 Your kirtle by the knee; 220 
 
 With bow in hand for to withstand 
 
 Your enemies, if need be: 
 And this same night, before daylight, 
 
 To woodward will I flee. 
 If that ye will all this fulfil, 225 
 
 Do it shortly as ye can: 
 ■ Else will I to the green-wood go. 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 She. I shall as now do more for you 
 
 Than 'longeth to womanhede; 230 
 To short my hair, a bow to bear. 
 
 To shoot in time of need. 
 O my sweet mother! before all other 
 
 For you I have most drede! 
 But now, adieu! I must ensue 235 
 
 Where fortune doth me lead. 
 All this make ye: Now let us flee; 
 
 The day cometh fast upon: 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 240 
 
 He. Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, g^^ 
 
 And I shall tell you why — 
 Your appetite is to be light 
 
 Of love, I well espy: 
 For, right as ye have said to me, 245 
 
 In likewise hardily 
 Ye would answere whosoever It were, 
 
 In way of company: 
 It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold; 
 
 And so is a womdn: 250 
 
 Wheref orQ I to the wood will go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 She. If ye take heed, it is no need He. 
 
 Such words to say to me; 254 
 
 For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, 
 
 Or I loved you, parde: 
 And though that I of ancestry 
 
 A baron's daughter be, 
 Yet have you proved how I you loved, 
 
 A squire of low degree; 260 
 
 And ever shall, whatso befall. 
 
 To die therefore anone; 
 For, ill my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 Yet better were the poor squyere 
 
 Alone to forest yede^ 270 
 
 Than ye shall say another day 
 
 That by my cursed rede 
 Ye were betrayed. Wherefore, good 
 maid. 
 
 The best rede that I can, 
 Is, that I to the green-wood go, 275 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 Whatever befall, I never shall 
 
 Of this thing be upbraid: 
 But if ye go, and leave me so. 
 
 Then have ye me betrayed. 280 
 
 Remember you wele, how that ye dele; 
 
 For if ye, as ye said. 
 Be so unkind to leave behind 
 
 Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, 
 Trust me trul;^ that I shall die 285 
 
 Soon after ye be gone: 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 If that ye went, ye should repent; 
 
 For in the forest now 290 
 
 I have purveyed me of a maid 
 
 Whom I love more than you: 
 Another more fair than ever ye were 
 
 I dare it well avow; 294 
 
 And of you both each would be wroth 
 
 With other, as I trow: 
 It were mine ease to live in peace; 
 
 So will I, if I can: 
 Wherefore I to the wood will go. 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 300 
 
 Though in the wood I understood 
 
 Ye had a paramour, 
 All this may nought remove my thought, 
 
 But that I will be your' : 
 And she shall find me soft and kind 305 
 
 And courteous every hour; 
 Glad to fulfil all that she will 
 
 Command me, to my power: 
 For had ye, lo, an hundred mo. 
 
 Yet would I be that one: 310 
 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I Icve but you alone. 
 
 Mine own dear love, I see the prove^ 
 
 That ye be kind and true; 
 Of maid, of wife, in all my life 315 
 
 The best that ever I knew; 
 Be merry and glad; be no more sad; 
 
 The case is changed new; 
 For it were ruth that for your truth 
 
 \ e should have cause to rue. 320 
 
 Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said 
 
 To you when I began : 
 I will not to the green- wood go; 
 
 I am no banished man. 
 
 He. a baron's child to be beguiled, 
 It were a cursed deed! 
 To be fel^w with an outlaw — 
 Almighty God forbede! 
 
 e Health. 
 
 265 She. These tidings be more glad to me 325 
 Than to be made a queen, 
 If I were sure they should endure; 
 But it is often seen 
 7 Went. 8 Proof 
 
98 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 When men will break promise thoy 
 speak 
 
 The wordis on the splene. 330 
 
 Ye shape some wile me to beguile, 
 
 And steal from me, I ween: 
 Then were the case worse than it was. 
 
 And I more woe-begone: 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 335 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 He. Ye shall not need further to drede: 
 
 I will not disparage 
 You (God defend), sith you descend 
 
 Of so great a linage. 340 
 
 Now understand: to Westmoreland, 
 
 Which is my heritage, 
 I will you bring; and with a ring, 
 
 By way of marridge 
 I will you take, and lady make, 345 
 
 As shortly as I can: 
 Thus have you won an Earles son, 
 
 And not a banished man. 
 
 Here may ye see that women be 
 
 In love meek, kind, and stable; 350 
 Let never man reprove them than. 
 
 Or call them variable; 
 But rather pray God that we may 
 
 To them be comfortable; 
 Which sometime proveth such as He 
 loveth, 355 
 
 If they be charitable. 
 For sith men would that women should 
 
 Be meek to them each one; 
 Much more ought they to God obey. 
 
 And serve but Him alone. 360 
 
 HELEN OF KIRCONNELL 
 
 Part Second 
 
 (From Scott's Bcrrder Minstrelsy, 1802-3) 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies! 
 Night and day on me she cries; 
 O that I were where Helen lies, 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee! 
 
 Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 5 
 And curst the hand that fired the shot. 
 When in my arms burd Helen^ dropt. 
 And died to succour me! 
 
 O think na ye my heart was sair. 
 When my love dropt down and spak nae mair! 
 There did she swoon wi' mickle care 11 
 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 As I went down the water-side, 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 None but my foe to be my guide, 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee! 
 
 I lighted down, my sword did draw, 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 I hacked him in pieces sma'. 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 I Maid Helen. 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 O, Helen fair, beyond compare! 
 I'll make a garland of thy hair, 
 Shall bind my heart for evermair, 
 Until the day I die. 
 
 O that I were where Helen lies! 23 
 
 Night and day on me she cries; 
 Out of my bed she bids me rise, 
 Says, "Haste, and come to me!" 
 
 Helen fair! O Helen chaste! 
 
 If I were with thee, I were blest, 30 
 
 Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 1 wish my grave were growing green, 
 A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, 
 
 And I in Helen's arms lying, 35 
 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies! 
 Night and day on me she cries; 
 And I am weary of the skies. 
 
 For her sake that died for me. 40 
 
 POEMS, SONGS AND CAROLS OF 
 THE EARLY TUDOR PERIOD 
 
 A LYKE-WAKE E>IRGEi 
 
 This ae night, this ae night. 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 Fire, and sleet, ^ and candle-light. 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule. 
 
 When thou from hence away art past, 5 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 To Whinny-muir^ thou comest at last, 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule. 
 
 If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, 
 
 ^ Every night and alle, 
 Sit thee down and put them on. 
 
 And Christ receive thy savle. 
 
 10 
 
 If hosen and shoon thou gavest nane. 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 The Whinnes shall prick thee to the bare bane, 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule. 16 
 
 From Whinny-muir when thou mayst pass. 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at last, 
 
 A nd Christ receive thy saule. ... 20 
 
 1 A lyke-wake is the watnh or vigil over a corpse. (O. E. 
 lie, a dead body). The dirge here given ia said to have 
 been sung at funerals in Yorkshire "down to 1624." 
 
 2 Probably a corruption of salt, which, through a pop- 
 ular superstition, was often placed on the breast of a 
 corpse. 
 
 3 The whin is a furze or gorse, the moor-whin grows on 
 bleak heaths, and has sharp spines or needles. "Whinny- 
 muir" therefore suggests a great plain full of prickles, and 
 most painful to traverse. 
 
THE HUNT IS UP 
 
 99 
 
 From Brigg o' Dread* when thou mayst pass, 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 To Purgatory Fire thou comest at last, 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule. 
 
 If ever thou gavest meat or drink, 25 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 The fire shall never make thee shrink. 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule. 
 
 If meat or drink thou gavest nane. 
 
 Every night and alle, 30 
 
 The fire will bum thee to the bare bane, 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule. 
 
 This ae night, this ae night, 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 Fire, and sleet, and candle-light, 35 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule. 
 
 CAROL 
 
 Make we merry in hall and hour. 
 This time was bom our Saviour. 
 
 In this time God hath sent 
 His own Son, to be present, 
 To dwell with us in verament, 6 
 
 God that is our Saviour. 
 
 In this time that is befall, 
 A child was born in an ox stall. 
 And after, He died for us all, 
 God that is our Saviour. lo 
 
 In this time an angel bright 
 Met three shepherds on a night, 
 He bade them go full quickly, right 
 God that is our Saviour. 
 
 In this time now prscy we 15 
 
 To Him that died for us on tree. 
 Upon us all to have pitee, 
 God that is our Saviour. 
 
 THE JOLLY SHEPHERD 
 
 Can I not sing but hoy, 
 
 When the jolly shepherd made so much joyf 
 
 The shepherd upon a hill he sat, 
 
 He had on him his tabard^ and hat, 
 
 His tar-box, his pipe, and his flagat;^ 5 
 
 His name was called jolly, jolly Wat; 
 
 For he was a good herdes boy, 
 
 Uthoy! 
 For in his pipe he made so much joy, 
 
 Can I not sing but hoy 10 
 
 When the jolly shepherd made so much joy? 
 
 '^Bridge of Dread, a bar, or bridge of red-hot iron over 
 which, according to the Mahometan belief, the dead must 
 pass to judgment. The feet of the true believer will be 
 
 Erotected by his good works, when he comes to cross this 
 ridge, but the wicked, without this protection, must fall 
 into a bottomless abyss below. 
 
 i Rough cloak. 2 Bottle. 
 
 The shepherd upon a hill was laid, 
 
 Unto his girdle his dog was tayed;^ 
 
 He had not slept but a little brayd,* 
 
 But "Gloria in excelsis" was to him said. 15 
 
 Ut hoy! 
 For in his pipe he made so much joy. 
 
 Can I not sing but hoy, 
 
 When the jolly shepherd made so much joy? 
 
 The shepherd on a hill he stode, 20 
 
 Round about him his sheep they yode;^ 
 He put his hand under his hode,* 
 He saw a star as red as blode: 
 
 Ut hoy! 
 For in his pipe he made so much joy, 25 
 
 Can I not sing but hoy, 
 
 When the jolly shepherd made so much joy? 
 
 "Now farewell Mall, and also Will, 
 
 For my love go ye all still 
 
 Unto I come again you till, 30 
 
 And evermore, Will, ring thy bell." 
 
 Ut hoy! 
 For in his pipe he made so much joy, 
 
 Can I not sing but hoy. 
 
 When the jolly shepherd made so much joy? 
 
 "Now must I go where Christ was bom; 36 
 Farewell, I come again at morn. 
 Dog, keep my sheep well fro the corn. 
 And warn well, Warrock, when I blow my 
 horn." 
 
 Uthoy! 40 
 
 For in his pipe he made so much joy. 
 Can I not sing but hoy, 
 When the jolly shepherd made so much joy? 
 
 THE HUNT IS UPi 
 (In the Time of Henry VIII) 
 
 The hunt is up, the hunt is up, 
 
 And it is well nigh day : 
 And Harry our King, is gone hunting, 
 
 To bring his deer to bay. 
 
 The east is bright with morning light, 5 
 
 And darkness it is fled, 
 And the merry horn wakes up the mom 
 
 To leave his idle bed. . . . 
 
 The horses snort to be at the sport. 
 
 The dogs are running free, 10 
 
 The woods rejoice at the merry noise 
 Of hey tantara tee reel 
 
 The sun is glad to see us clad 
 
 All in our lusty green, 
 And smiles in the sky as he riseth high, 15 
 
 To see and to be seen. 
 
 3 Tied. *Time. 6 Strayed. « Hood. 
 
 1 This opening "The Hunt is Up." appears to have been 
 so common in old songs, that the tune or song played to 
 arouse hunters in the morning was called a hunts-up, and 
 this expression was afterwards extended to include "any 
 song intended to arouse in the morning." 
 
100 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 Awake, all men, I say again. 
 
 Be merry as you may, 
 For Harry our King is gone hunting, 
 
 To bring his deer to bay. 20 
 
 MY HEART IS HIGH ABOVE 
 
 (16th Century) 
 
 My heart is high above, my body is full of bliss, 
 For I am set in luve as well as I would wiss; 
 I luve my lady pure and she luves me again, 
 I am her serviture, she is my soverane; 
 She is my very heart, I am her hope and heill, 5 
 She is my joy inward, I am her luvar leal; 
 I am her bond and thrall; she is at my com- 
 mand; 
 I am perpetual her man, both foot and hand; 
 The thing that may her please my body shall 
 
 fulfil; 
 WTiatever her disease, it does my body ill. 10 
 My bird, my bonny ane, my tender babe 
 
 venust,^ 
 My luve, my life alane, my hking and my 
 
 lust! ... 
 Luvers in pain, I pray God send you sic remeid 
 Af I have nicht and day, you to defend from 
 
 deid. 
 1 herefore be ever true unto your ladies free, 15 
 And they will on you rue as mine has done on 
 me. 
 
 DEATHS 
 
 Death, rock me to sleep, 
 Bring me to quiet rest, 
 
 Let pass my weary guiltless ghost 
 
 Out of my careful breast. 
 
 Toll on the passing bell; 6 
 
 Ring out my doleful knell; 
 
 Thy sound my death abroad will tell, 
 
 For I must die. 
 
 There is no remedy. 
 
 My pains who can express? 10 
 
 Alas, they are so strong; 
 
 My dolours will not suffer strength 
 
 My life for to prolong. 
 
 Toll on the passing bell; 
 
 Ring out my doleful knell; 15 
 
 Thy sound my death abroad will tell, 
 
 For I must die. 
 
 There is no remedy. 
 
 Alone in prison strong 
 
 1 wail my destiny. 20 
 Woe worth this cruel hap that I 
 
 Must taste this misery. 
 Toll on the passing bell; 
 Ring out my doleful knell; 
 Thy sound my death abroad will tell, 25 
 For I must die. 
 There is no remedy. 
 Delightful. 
 1 This poem is supposed to date from "about the time of 
 Henry VIII." It has been suggested that "the verses 
 were written either by or in the person of Anne Boleyn" — 
 but this — while possible — is a pure conjecture. 
 
 Farewell, my pleasures past, 
 
 Welcome my present pain. 
 
 I feel my torment so increase Z(* 
 
 That life cannot remain. 
 
 Toll on the passing bell; 
 
 Ring out my doleful knell; 
 
 Thy sound my death abroad will tell, 
 
 For I must die, 35 
 
 There is no remedy. 
 
 Cease now the passing beU; 
 
 Ring out my doleful knell. 
 
 For thou my death dost tell; 
 
 Lord pity thou my soul. 40 
 
 Death doth draw nigh. 
 
 Sound dolefully; 
 
 For now I die, 
 
 I die, I die. 
 
 William Comi0t|i 
 
 d. 1524? 
 
 GOD'S CARE FOR MAN 
 
 Pleasure it is 
 To hear, iwis,^ 
 
 The birdes sing. 
 The deer in the dale. 
 The sheep in the vale, 5 
 
 The corn springing; 
 God's purveyance 
 For sustenance 
 
 It is for man. 
 Then we always 10 
 
 To Him give praise. 
 
 And thank Him than,' 
 
 And thank Him than. 
 
 31olm g)Mton 
 
 c. 1460-1529 
 
 A DIRGE FOR PHILIP SPARROW^ 
 
 Pla ce bo, 
 
 Who is there, who? 
 
 LH le XI, 
 
 Dame Marjery; 
 
 Fa re my my, 5> 
 
 Wherefore and why, why? 
 
 ' Cornish or Comysshe, was a Court musician in the 
 reigns of Henry VII and Henry VIII. He was connected 
 with the court as early as 1493, and in 1509 he was made 
 Master of the children of the Chapel Royal. 
 
 2 Certainly, truly. »Then. 
 
 1 This is an Elegy addressed to Jane 8croupe, a pupil of 
 the Black nuns at Carrow near Norwich, on the death of 
 her pet sparrow. Dirge is a name given to the church 
 service for the repose of the dead, and the poem is not 
 merely an elegy but a lament in which the solemn words 
 of the Church's requiem for the departed are heard at 
 intervals, and the echoes of distant chants mingle with 
 little Jane Scroupe's childish distress. Thus Placebo, 
 1. 1, is the initial word of the opening Antiphon (Placebo 
 Domino in regione vivorum) . Dilexi, 1. 3, is the first word of 
 the Psalm which follows the placebo {Dilexi quoniam 
 exaudit Dominus vocem orationis meam) and Ad Dominum, 
 (1.66) is the opening of the second antiphon Ad Dominum, 
 cum tribularer clamavi. 
 
JOHN SKELTON 
 
 }i:;m: 
 
 For the ooul of Philip Sparrow 
 
 That; was late slain at Carow, 
 
 Amoug the nunnes blake,^ 
 
 For that sweet sours sake, 10 
 
 And for all sparrows' souls 
 
 Set in our bead roules, 
 
 Pater noster qui 
 
 With an Ave Maria, 
 
 And with the corner of a creed 15 
 
 The more shall be your meed. 
 
 When I remember again 
 How my Philip was slain, 
 Never half the pain 
 
 Was between you twain, 20 
 
 Pyramus and Thisbe, 
 As then befell to me; 
 I wept and I wailed, 
 The tears down hailed, 
 But nothing it availed 25 
 
 To call Philip again 
 Whom Gib our cat hath slain. 
 
 Gib, I say, our cat, 
 Worrowed^ her on that 
 Which I loved best; 30 
 
 It cannot be expressed. 
 My sorrowful heaviness, 
 But all without redress; 
 For within that stound,* 
 Half slumbering in a swounde,** 33 
 
 I fell down to the ground. 
 
 Scarcely I rast mine eyes 
 Toward the cloudy skies. 
 But when I did behold 
 My Sparrow dead and cold, 40 
 
 No creature but that wold^ 
 Have pitied upon me 
 To behold and see 
 What heaviness did me pange'^ 
 Wherewith my hands I wrange, 45 
 
 That my sinews cracked 
 As though I had been racked, 
 So pained and so strained, 
 That no life well remained. 
 
 I sighed, and I sobbed, 50 
 
 For that I was robbed 
 Of my Sparrow's life; 
 O maiden, widow, and wife, ^ 
 
 Of what estate ye be 
 Of high or low degree, 55 
 
 Great sorrow then ye might see, 
 And learn to weep at me; 
 Such pains did me freat^ 
 That mine heart did beat. 
 My visage pale and dead, 60 
 
 Wan, and blue as lead, 
 The pangs of hateful death 
 Well-nigh stopped my breaTf> 
 
 Heu, heUf me, 
 
 That I am woe for thee! g^ 
 
 Ad dominum cum tribularer clamavi, 
 Of God nothing else crave I. . . . 
 
 From COLIN CLOUT^ 
 
 And if ye stand in doubt 
 
 Wlio brought this rime about- 
 
 My name is Colin Clout. 
 
 I purpose to shake out 
 
 All my cunning bag, 
 
 Like a clerkly hag; 
 
 For though my rime be ragged, 
 
 Tattered and jagged. 
 
 Rudely rain beaten. 
 
 Rusty and moth eaten. 
 
 If ye talk well therewith 
 
 It hath in it some pith. 
 
 For as far as I can see, 
 
 It is wrong with each degree; 
 
 For the temporalty 
 
 Accuseth the spiritualty; 
 
 The spiritual again 
 
 Doth grudge and complain 
 
 Upon temp6ral men; 
 
 Thus each of other blother,^ 
 
 The one against the other: 
 
 Alas they make me shudder! 
 
 For in hugger mugger 
 
 The church is put at fault; 
 
 The prelates be so haut^ 
 
 They say, and look so high, 
 
 As though they would fly 
 
 Above the starry sky. 
 
 Laymen say indeed 
 How they take no heed 
 Their silly sheep to feed, 
 But pluck away and pull 
 The fleeces of their wool; 
 Unnethes^ they leave a lock 
 Of wool among their flock. 
 And as for their cunning 
 A glumming and a mumming. 
 And make thereof a jape,^ 
 They gaspe and they gape 
 All to have promotion; 
 There is their whole devotion, 
 With money, if it will hap^ 
 To catch the forked cap. 
 Forsooth they are too lewd^ 
 To say so all be shrewd. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 2S 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 •Black nuns. 
 ' Swoon. 
 ^ Oppress. 
 
 ' <:'hoked. 
 
 * Moment. 
 6 Would. 
 8 Damage. 
 
 1 In this poem Skelton voices the popular discontent, 
 blames the clergy for the wrongs which the people suffer, 
 and attacks Cardinal Wolsey. The arraignment is put 
 into the mouth of one Colin Clout. Colin suggests a 
 shepherd, or countryman: Clout may mean ragged or 
 patched, hence we may assume that Colin Clout (the 
 
 Eatched rustic cr s'/icpherd) was intended to st ind for tho 
 umbler, or lower classes. 
 
 2 Chatter. 
 
 3 Proud. 
 
 * Scarcely. 
 
 5 Jest. 
 
 6 Chance. 
 
 ^ Ignorant. 
 
10^^ ,;; //:• ; .CJHAUCER to WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 ^it 3l0l)n jfOtttSiCUt if it be 'a poor coat under their outermost 
 
 , - . ^^ garment, made of great* canvas, and call it a 
 
 frock. Their hose be of like canvas, and pass 
 
 TTTT? POVAT POWFP TM TTP AMPT? AMFk ^^* *^®^^ ^^®®' wherefore they be gartered and 
 THE ROYAL POWER IN FRANCE AND 5 their thighs bare. Their wives and children go 
 
 barefoot; they may in no otherwise hve. For 
 
 (From The Difference Between an Absolute and a some of them, that was wont to pay to his lord 
 
 lAmited Monarchy, 1450?) for his tenement, which he hh-eth by the year, 
 
 a scute, ^ payeth now to the King, over that 
 
 There be two kinds of Kingdoms, of the 10 scute, five scutes. Through wnich they be 
 which that one is a Lordship, called in Latin, forced by necessity, so to watch, labor, and 
 Dominium Regale, and that other is called, grub in the ground, for their sustenance, that 
 Dominium Politicum et Regale. And they their nature is much wasted, and the kind^ of 
 differ, in that the first may rule his people by them brought to naught. They are gone 
 such laws as he maketh himself; and therefore 15 crooked, and are feeble, not able to fight, nor 
 he may set upon them Talys,^ and other to defend the realm; nor have they weapons, 
 impositions, such as he will himself, without nor money to buy them weapons withal; 
 their assent. The second may not rule his but verily they live in the most extreme poverty 
 people, by other laws than such as they assent and misery, and yet they dwell in one of the 
 unto; and therefore he may set upon them no 20 most fertile realms of the world; wherefore the 
 Impositions without their own assent. French King hath not men of his own realm to 
 
 defend it, except his nobles, which bear no 
 
 [After treating of the origin and nature of such Impositions; and therefore they are right 
 royal power, and considering why one King rules likely of their bodies, by which cause the said 
 as an absolute and another as a limited monarch, 25 King is compelled to make his armies, and 
 the author passes on to consider the effects of retenue for the defence of the land, of strangers, 
 absolute monarchy {" The fruits of Jus Regale") as Scots, Spaniards, Arragonars, men of 
 in France.] Almaigne, and of other nations, or else his 
 
 And howso be it, that the French King reigneth enemies might over-run him. For he hath no 
 upon his people Dominio Regali: yet St. Lewis 2 30 defense of his own, except his castles and 
 sometime King there, nor any of his progenitors fortresses. Lo, this is the fruit of his Jus 
 set never Talys or other Impositions, upon the Regale. If the realm of England, which is an 
 people of that land, without the assent of the isle, and therefore may not lightly get succours 
 three Estates, which when they be assembled from other lands, were ruled under such a law, 
 are like to the Court of Parlement in England. 35 and under such a Prince, it would be then a 
 And this order kept many of his successors until prey to all other nations that would conquer, 
 late days, that Enghshmen made such a war in rob, and devour it; which was well proved in 
 France, that the three Estates durst not come the time of the Britons, when the Scots and the 
 together. And then for that cause and for Picts so beat and oppressed this land, that the 
 great necessity which the French king had of 40 people thereof sought help of the Romans, to 
 goods, for the defence of that land, he took whom they had been tributary, 
 upon him to set Talys and other Impositions 
 
 upon the Commons, without the assent of the But blessed be God, this land is ruled under a 
 three Estates; but yet he would not set any better law, and therefore the people thereof be 
 such charges, nor hath set, upon the nobles, 45 not in such penury, nor thereby hurt in their 
 for fear of rebellion. And because the Com- persons, but they be wealthy and have all 
 mons, though they have grudged, have not things necessary to the sustenance of nature, 
 rebelled or be hardy to rebel, the French Kings Wherefore they be mighty, and able to resist 
 have yearly since set such charges upon them, the adversaries of the realm, and to beat other 
 and so augmented the same charges, as the 50 realms, that do or will do them wrong, Lo, 
 same Commons be so impoverished and this is the fruit of the Jus Politicum et Regale 
 destroyed, that they may scarcely live. They under which we live. Somewhat now I have 
 drink water, they eat apples, with bread right showed you of the fruits of both laws, Ut ex 
 brown made of rye. They eat no flesh, but if' fructibus eorum cognoscatis eos.'' 
 it be seldom, a little lard, or of the entrails, or 55 
 heads of beasts slain for the nobles and mer- * Coarse, thick. , u u ,. ^. 
 
 , J , , , ' An old French coin said to have been worth three 
 
 chants of the land. They wear no woolen, but shillings and sixpence or about eighty cents. See scute, 
 
 and scudi in Cent. Diet. 
 
 « i. e. The class or order of the common people. 
 1 Taxes. 2 Louis IX, 1215-1270. » Unless. ^ That by their fruits ye may know them. 
 
SIR THOMAS MALORY 103 
 
 ^it ®I^Onta0 ^alor^ to behold the stone and the sword. And when 
 
 lA'^n- iA7n *^®^ ^^^ *^^ scripture, some assayed, such as' 
 
 c. i^ciu c. i4/u would have been king. But none might stir 
 
 THE DRAWING OF THE SWORD 5 Archbishop, that shall achieve the sword, but 
 
 (From the Morte d' Arthur, c. 1470) ^^^b* ^o* ^^^ will make him known. But this 
 
 is my counsel, said the Archbishop, that we 
 
 So on the morn all the barons with MerUn let purvey^ ten knights, men of good fame, and 
 came before the king; then Merlin said aloud they to keep this sword. So it was ordained, 
 unto king Uther, Sire, shall your son Arthur 10 and then there was made a cry, that every man 
 be king after your days, of this realm with all should assay that would, for to win the sword, 
 the appurtance? Then Uther Pendragon And upon New Year's Day the barons let 
 turned him and said in hearing of them all, make a joust and a tournament, that all 
 I give him God's blessing and mine, and bid knights that would joust or tourney there 
 him 'pray for my soul, and righteously and 15 might play, and all this was ordained for to 
 worshipfully that he claim the crown upon for- keep the lords together, and the commons, 
 feiture of my blessing, and therewith he for the Archbishop trusted that God would 
 yielded up the ghost, and then was he interred make him known that should win the sword, 
 as longed^ to a king. Wherefore the queen, fair So upon New Year's Day, when the service was 
 Igraine, made great sorrow, and all the barons. 20 done, the barons rode unto the field, some to 
 
 Then stood the realm in great jeopardy long joust and some to tourney, and so it happened 
 while, for every lord that was mighty of men that Sir Ector, that had great Uvelihood about 
 made him strong, and many weened to have London, rode unto the jousts, and with him 
 been king. Then Merhn went to the Arch- rode Sir Kay his son, and young Arthur that 
 bishop of Canterbury, and councilled him for 25 was his nourished brother ;3 and Sir Kay was 
 to send for all the lords of the realm, and all made knight at All Hallowmass afore. So as 
 the gentlemen of arms, that they should to they rode to the jousts-ward. Sir Kay lost his 
 London come by Christmas, upon pain of sword, for he had left it at his father's lodging, 
 cursing; and for this cause, that Jesus, that was and so he prayed young Arthur for to ride for 
 born on that night, that He would of His 30 his sword. I will well, said Arthur, and rode 
 great mercy show some miracle, as He was come fast after the sword, and when he came home, 
 to be king of mankind, for to show some the lady and all were out to see the jousting, 
 miracle who should be right-wise king of this Then was Arthur wroth, and said to himself, 
 realm. So the Archbishop, by the advice of I will ride to the churchyard, and take the 
 Merlin, sent for all the lords and gentlemen of 35 sword with me that sticketh in the stone, for 
 arms that they should come by Christmas even my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a 
 unto London. And many of them made them sword this day. So when he came to the 
 clean of their hfe, that their prayer might be churchyard. Sir Arthur alit and tied his horse 
 the more acceptable unto God. So in the to the stile, and so he went to the tent, and 
 greatest church of London, whether it were 40 found no knights there, for they were at 
 Paul's or not, the French book maketh no men- jousting; and so he handled the sword by the 
 tion, all the estates were long ere day in the handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out 
 church for to pray. And when matins and the of the stone, and took his horse and rode his 
 first mass was done, there was seen in the way until he came to his brother Sir Kay, and 
 churchyard, against the high altar, a great 45 delivered him the sword. And as soon as 
 stone four square, Uke unto a marble stone, and Sir Kay saw the sword, he wist well it was the 
 in midst thereof was like an anvil of steel a sword of the stone, and so he rode to his father 
 foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword Sir Ector, and said: Sir, lo here is the sword of 
 naked by the point, and letters there were the stone, wherefore I must be king of this land, 
 written in gold about the sword that said 50 When Sir Ector beheld the sword, he returned 
 thus: — Whoso puUeth out this sword of this again and came to the church, and there they 
 stone and anvil, is rightwise king bom of all aUt all three, and went into the church. And 
 England. Then the people marvelled, and anon he made Sir Kay swear upon a book how 
 told it to the Archbishop. I command, said the he came to that sword. Sir, said Sir Kay, by 
 Archbishop, that ye keep you within your 55 my brother Arthur, for he brought it to me. 
 church, and pray unto God still; that no man How gat ye this sword? said Sir Ector to 
 touch the sword till the high mass be all done. Arthur. Sir, I will tell you. When I came 
 So when all masses were done all the lords went home for my brother's sword, I found nobody at 
 1 Belonged. 2 Cause to be provided. » Foster brother. 
 
104 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 home to deliver me his sword, and so I thought spears. I have enow, said the knight; bo 
 my brother Sir Kay should not be swordless, there came a squire and brought in good 
 and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it out spears, and Arthur chose one and he another; 
 of the stone without any pain. Found ye any so they spurred their horses and came together 
 knights about this sword, said Sir Ector. 5 with all their mights, that either brake their 
 Nay, said Arthur. Now, said Sir Ector to spears to their hands. Then Arthur set hand 
 Arthur, I understand ye must be king of this on his sword. Nay, said the knight, ye shall 
 land. Wherefore I, said Arthur, and for what do better; ye are a passing good jouster as ever 
 cause? Sir, said Ector, for God will have it so, I met withal; and once for the love of the high 
 for there should never man have drawn out lO order of knighthood let us joust once again, 
 this sword, but he shall be rightwise king of this I assent me, said Arthur. Anon there were 
 land. Now let me see whether ye can put the brought two great spears, and every knight 
 sword there as it was, and pull it out again. , gat a spear, and therewith they ran together, 
 That is no mastery, said Arthur, and so he put that Arthur's spear all to-shivered. But the 
 it in the stone. Wherewith Sir Ector assayed 15 other knight hit him so hard in midst of the 
 to pull out the sword and failed. shield, that horse and man fell to the earth, and 
 
 Now assay, said Sir Ector unto Sir Kay. therewith Arthur was eager, and pulled out his 
 And anon he pulled at the sword with aU his sword, and said, I will assay thee, sir knight, 
 might, but it would not be. Now shall ye on foot, for I have lost the honour on horse- 
 assay, said Sir Ector to Arthur. I will well, 20 back. I will be on horseback, said the knight, 
 said Arthur, and pulled it out easily. And Then was Arthur wroth, and dressed his 
 therewithal Sir Ector knelt down to the earth, shield toward him with his sword di-awn. When 
 and Sir Kay. the knight saw that, he alit, for him thought no 
 
 worship to have a knight at such avail,^ he to 
 
 ARTHUR'S ENCOUNTER WITH PELL- ^^ ^® ^^ horseback and he on foot; and so he alit 
 
 INORE ^^^ dressed his shield unto Arthur. And there 
 
 began a strong battle with many great strokes, 
 
 And so Arthur rode a soft pace till it was and so hewed with their swords that the 
 day, and then was he aware of three churls cantels* flew in the fields, and much blood they 
 chasing Merlin, and would have slain him. 30 bled both, that aU the place there as they 
 Then the king rode unto them, and bade them : fought was overbled with blood. And thus 
 Flee, churls! then were they af eared when they they fought long and rested them, and then 
 saw a knight, and fled. O Merhn, said Arthur, they went to the battle again, and so hurtled 
 here hadst thou been slain for all thy crafts had together hke two rams that either fell to the 
 I not been. Nay, said Merlin, not so, for I 35 earth. So at the last they smote together that 
 could save myself an I would; and thou art both their swords met even together. But the 
 more near thy death than I am, for thou goest sword of the knight smote King Arthur's sword 
 to the deathward, an God be not thy friend, in two pieces, wherefor he was heavy. Then 
 So as they went thus talking they came to said the knight unto Arthur, Thou art in my 
 the fountain, and the rich pavilion there by it. 40 danger whether me hst to save thee or slay 
 Then King Arthur was ware where sat a knight thee, and but thou yield thee as overcome and 
 armed in a chair. Sir knight, said Arthur, for recreant, thou shalt die. As for death, said 
 what cause abidest thou here, that there may King Arthur, welcome be it when it cometh. 
 no knight ride this Way but if he joust with But to yield me unto thee as recreant I had 
 thee? said the king. I rede thee leave that45hefer die than to be so shamed. And there- 
 custom, said Arthur. This custom, said the withal the king leapt unto Pelhnore, and took 
 knight, have I used and will use maugre who him by the middle and threw him down, and 
 saith nay, and who is grieved with my custom rased off his helm.^ When the knight felt that, 
 let him amend it that will. I will amend it, he was adread, for he was passing big man of 
 said Arthur. I shall defend^ thee, said the 50 might, and anon he brought Arthiu- under him, 
 knight. Anon he took his horse and dressed and rased off his helm and would have smitten 
 his shield and took a spear, and they met so off his head. 
 
 hard either in other's shields, that all to- Therewithal came Merlin and said. Knight, 
 shivered^ their spears. Therewith anon hold thy hand, for an thou slay that knight 
 Arthur pulled out his sword. Nay, not so, said 55 thou puttest this realm in the greatest damage 
 the knight; it is fairer, said the knight, that we that ever was realm; for this knight is a man of 
 twain run more together with sharp spears, more worship than thou wotest of. Why, who 
 I will well, said Arthur, an I had any more is he? said the knight. It is King Arthur. 
 
 1 Prevent. * Broke to pieces. s Advantage. 'Pieces. 6 Helmet. 
 
SIR THOMAS MALORY 105 
 
 Then would he have slain him^ for dread of his ship, and when they came to the sword that 
 wrath, and heaved up his sword, and therewith the hand held, Sir Arthur took it up by the 
 Merlin cast an enchantment to the knight, that handles, and took it with him, and the arm and 
 he fell to the earth in a great sleep. Then the hand went under the water. And so they 
 Merlin took up King Arthur, and rode forth on 5 came unto the land and rode forth, and then 
 the Knight's horse. Alas! said Arthur, what Sir Arthur saw a rich pavilion. What signi- 
 hast thou done, Merlin? hast thou slain this fieth yonder pavilion? That is the knight's 
 good knight by thy crafts? There liveth not so pavilion, said Merhn, that ye fought with last, 
 worshipful a knight as he was; I had liefer than Sir Pellinore; but he is out, he is not there, 
 the stint^ of my land a year that he were alive. 10 He hath ado with a knight of yours that hight 
 Care ye not, said Merlin, for he is whoUer than Egglame, and they have foughten together, but 
 ye; for he is but asleep, and will awake within at the last Egglame fled, and else he had been 
 three hours. I told you, said Merlin, what a dead, and he hath chased him even to Carleon, 
 knight he was; here had ye been slain had I not and we shall meet with him anon in the high- 
 been. Also there liveth not a bigger knight 15 way. That is well said, said Arthur, now have 
 than he is one, and he shall hereafter do you I a sword, now will I wage battle with him, and 
 right good service; and his name is Pellinore. be avenged on him. Sir, ye shall not so, 
 
 said Merlin, for the knight is weary of fighting 
 
 HOW ARTHUR GOT THE SWORD FROM ^^^ chasing, so that ye shall have no worship 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE 20 to have ado with him; also he will not be 
 
 lightly matched of one knight living, and 
 Right so the king and he departed, and went therefore it is my counsel, let him pass, for he 
 unto an hermit that was a good man and a shall do you good service in short time, and his 
 great leech. So the hermit searched all his sons after his days. Also ye shall see that day 
 wounds and gave him good salves; so the king 25 in short space, ye shall be right glad to give him 
 was there three days, and then were his wounds your sister to wed. When I see him, I will do 
 well amended that he might ride and go, and as ye advise, said Arthur. Then Sir Arthur 
 so departed. And as they rode, Arthur said, looked on the sword, and liked it passing well. 
 I have no sword. No force, ^ said Merlin, Whether liketh you better, said Merhn, the 
 hereby is a sword that shall be yours, an I may. 30 sword or the scabbard? Me hketh better the 
 So they rode till they came to a lake, the which sword, said Arthur. Ye are more unwise, said 
 was a fair water and broad. And in the midst Merlin, for the scabbard is worth ten of the 
 of the lake Arthur was ware of an arm clothed swords, for whiles ye have the scabbard upon 
 in white samite, ^ that held a fair sword in that you, ye shall never lose no blood, be ye never 
 hand. Lo! said Merlin, yonder is that sword 35 so sore wounded; therefore keep well the scab- 
 that I spake of. With that they saw a damosel bard always with you. So they rode unto 
 going upon the lake. What damosel is that? Carleon, and by the way they met with Sir 
 said Arthur. That is the Lady of the lake, said Pellinore; but Merlin had done such a craft, 
 Merhn; and within that lake is a rock, and that Pellinore saw not Arthur, and he passed 
 therein is as fair a place as any on earth, and 40 by without any words. I marvel, said Arthur, 
 richly besene;^ and this damosel will come to that the knight would not speak. Sir, said 
 you anon, and then speak ye fair to her that Merhn, he saw you not, for an he had seen you, 
 she will give you that sword. Anon withal came ye had not hghtly departed. So they came 
 the damosel unto Arthur, and saluted him, and unto Carleon, whereof his knights were passing 
 he her again. Damosel, said Arthur, what 45 glad. And when they heard of his adventures, 
 sword is that, that yonder the arm holdeth they marvelled that he would jeopard his per- 
 above the water? I would it were mine, for son so alone. But all men of worship said it 
 1 have no sword. Sir Arthur, king, said the was merry to be under such a chieftan, that 
 damosel, that sword is mine, and if ye will give would put his person in adventure as other 
 me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall have it. 50 poor knights did. 
 By my faith, said Arthur, I will give you what 
 
 gift ye will ask. Well! said the damosel, go ye gjj^ LAUNCELOT DEPARTS OUT OF 
 into yonder barge, and row yourself to the ENGLAND 
 
 sword, and take it and the scabbard with you, 
 
 and I will ask my gift when I see my time. So 55 My fair fellows, said Sir Launcelot, I must 
 Sir Arthur and Merlin aht and tied their depart out of this most noble realm, and now 
 horses to two trees, and so they went into the I shall depart it grieveth me sore, for I shall 
 6 Himself. T Income. depart with no worship, for a flemyd^ man 
 
 1 It matters not. * Rich silk. ' i. e. Beautiful to be seen. ^ Banished. 
 
106 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 departed never out of a realm with no worship; vengenace of Sir Gawaine, all that they might 
 and that is my heaviness, for ever I fear after overrun. 
 my daj''s that men shall chronicle upon me that 
 
 I was flemyd out of this land; and else my fair TIDINGS MAKE ARTHUR RETURN TO 
 lords be ye sure, an I had not dread shame, my 5 ENGLAND 
 
 lady Oueen Guenever and I should never have 
 
 departed. Then spake many noble knights, as Alas, said the King, that ever this unhappy 
 
 Sir Palomides, Sir Safere his brother, and Sir war was begun; for ever Sir Launcelot for- 
 Bellangere le Beuse, and Sir Urre, with Sir beareth me in all places, and in likewise my kin, 
 Lavaine, with many others. Sir, an ye be so 10 and that is seen well this day by my nephew 
 disposed to abide in this land, we will never Sir Gawaine. Then King Arthur fell sick for 
 fail you; and if ye list not to abide in this land sorrow of Sir Gawaine, that he was so sore hurt, 
 there is none of the good knights that here be and by cause of the war betwixt him and Sir 
 will fail you, for many causes. One is, All we Launcelot. So then they on King Arthur's 
 that be not of your blood shall never be wel- 15 party^ kept the siege with little war without- 
 come to the court. And sithen^ it liked us to forth; and they withinforth kept their walls, and 
 take a part with you in your distress and defended them when need was. . . . 
 heaviness in this realm, wit you well it shall Thus as this siege endured, and as Sir 
 like us as well to go in other countries with you, Gawaine lay sick near a month; and when he 
 and there to take such part as ye do. My fair 20 was well recovered and ready within three 
 lords, said Sir Launcelot, I well understand you days to do battle again with Sir Launcelot, 
 and as I can, thank you: and ye shall under- right so came tidings unto Arthur from England 
 stand, such hvelihood as I am bom unto I that made King Arthur and all his host to 
 shall depart with you in this manner of wise, remove. 
 
 that is for to say; I shall depart all my liveli-25 As Sir Mordred was ruler of all England, he 
 hood and all my lands freely among you, and I did so make letters as though that they came 
 myself will have as little as any of you, for have from beyond the sea and the letters specified 
 I sufficient that may long to my person, I will that King Arthur was slain in battle with Sir 
 ask none other rich array; and I trust to God to Launcelot. Wherefore Sir Mordred made a 
 maintain you on my lands as well as ever were 30 parliament, and called the lords together, and 
 maintained any knights. Then spake all the there he made them to choose him King; and 
 knights at once. He have shame that will leave so was he crowned at Canterbury, and held a 
 you; for we all understand, in this realm will be feast there fifteen days. 
 
 now no quiet, but ever strife and debate; now Then came word to Sir Mordred that King 
 the fellowship of the Round Table is broken; 35 Arthur had araised the siege for Sir Launcelot, 
 for by the noble fellowship of the Round Table and he was coming homeward with a great host, 
 was King Arthur upborne, and by their noblesse to be avenged upon Sir Mordred; wherefore 
 the King and all his realm was in quiet and rest, Sir Mordred made write writs to all the barony 
 and a great part they said all was by cause of of this land, and much people drew to him. 
 your noblesse. 40 For then was the common voice among them 
 
 that with Arthur was none other fife but war 
 
 KING ARTHUR MAKES MORDRED ^^^ ^^^'^^\ ^^^ ^^^ ^i^ Mordred was great 
 
 CHIEF RULER ^^^ ^^^ bliss. Thus was Sir Arthur depraved" 
 
 and evil said of. And many there were that 
 So leave we Sir Launcelot in his lands, and 45 King Arthur had made up of naught, and 
 his noble knights with him, and return we again given them lands, might not then say him a 
 unto King Arthur and to Sir Gawaine, that good word. Lo ye all Englishmen, see ye not 
 made a great host ready, to the number of what a mischief here was, for he that was the 
 threescore thousand; and all thing was made most king and knight of the world, and most 
 ready for their shipping to pass over the sea, 50 loved the fellowship of noble knights, and by 
 and so they shipped at Cardiff. And there him they were all upholden, now might not 
 King Arthur made Sir Mordred chief ruler of these EngUshmen hold them content with 
 all England, and also he put Queen Guenever him. Lo thus was the old custom and usage of 
 under his governance; by cause Sir Mordred this land; and also men say that we of this land 
 was King Arthur's son, he gave him the rule of 55 have not yet lost nor forgotten that custom andv 
 his land and of his wife; and so the king passed usage. Alas, this is a great default of us -, 
 the sea and landed upon Sir Laimcelot's lands. Englishmen, for there may no thing please us 
 and there he brent and wasted, through the now term. And so fared the people at that 
 
 1 Side. * Denounc«d. 
 
SIR THOMAS MALORY 107 
 
 time, they were better pleased with Sir Mor- field. And when Arthur should depart, he 
 dred than they were with King Arthur; and warned all his host that an they see any sword 
 much people drew unto Sir Mordred, and said drawn, Look ye come on fiercely, and slay that 
 they would abide with him for better and for traitor Sir Mordred, for I in no wise trust him. 
 worse. And so Sir Mordred drew with a 5 In hkewise Sir Mordred warned his host that, 
 great host to Dover, for there he heard say that An ye see any sword drawn, look that ye come 
 Sir Arthur would arrive, and so he thought to on fiercely, and so slay all that ever before you 
 beat his own father from his lands; and the standeth; for in no wise I will not trust for this 
 most party of all England held with Sir Mor- treatise, for I know well my father will be 
 dred, the people were so new fangle. 10 avenged on me. And so they met as their 
 
 And so as Sir Mordred was at Dover with appointment was, and so they were agreed and 
 his host, there came King Arthur with a great accorded thoroughly; and wine was fetched, and 
 navy of ships, and galleys, and carracks.' they drank. Right soon came an adder out of a 
 And there was Sir Mordred ready awaiting little heath bush and it stung a knight on the 
 upon his landing, to let* his own father to land 15 foot. And when the knight felt him stung, he 
 upon the land that he was King over. Then looked down and saw the adder, and then he 
 there was launching of great boats and small, drew his sword to slay the adder, and thought 
 and full of noble men of arms; and there was of none other harm. And when the host on 
 much slaughter of gentle knights, and many a both parties saw that sword drawn, then they 
 full bold baron was laid full low, on both 20 blew beamous,' trumpets, and horns, and 
 parties. But King Arthur was so courageous shouted grimly. And so both hosts dressed 
 that there might no manner of knights let him them together. And King Arthur took his 
 to land, and his knights fiercely followed him; horse and said, Alas this unhappy day, and 
 and so they landed maugre Sir Mordred and so rode to his party. And Sir Mordred in like 
 all his power, and put Sir Mordred aback, that 25 wise. And never was there seen a more dole- 
 he fled and all his people. fuller battle in no Christian land; for there was 
 
 but rushing and riding, feigning and striking, 
 THE DEATH OF ARTHUR ^^^ many a grim word was there spoken either 
 
 to other, and many a deadly stroke. But ever 
 
 Then was it told the King that Sir Mordred 30 King Arthur rode throughout the battle* of 
 had pyghte^ a new field upon Barham Down. Sir Mordred many times, and did full nobly as a 
 And upon the morn the King rode thither to noble knight should, and at all times he fainted 
 him, and there was a great battle betwixt them, never; and Sir Mordred that day put him in 
 and much people was slain on both parties; but devoir,^ and in great peril. And thus they 
 at the last Sir Arthur's party stood best, and 35 fought all the long day, and never stinted till 
 Sir Mordred and his party fled unto Canter- the noble knights were laid to the cold earth; 
 bury. . . . and ever they fought still till it was near night, 
 
 Then the King commanded Sir Lucan the and by that time was there an hundred thou- 
 Butler and his brother Sir Bedivere, with two sand laid dead upon the ground. Then was 
 bishops with them, and charged them in any 40 Arthur wood^ wroth out of measure, when he 
 wise, an they might, take a treaty for a month saw his people so slain from him. Then the 
 day^ with Sir Mordred, and spare not, proffer king looked about him, and then was he ware, of 
 him lands and goods as much as ye think best, all his host and of all his good knights, were 
 So then they departed, and came to Sir Mor- left no more alive but two knights; that one 
 dred, where he had a grim host of an hundred 45 was Sir Lucan the Butler, and his brother Sir 
 thousand men. And there they entreated Bedivere, and they were full sore wounded. 
 Sir Mordred long time; and at the last Sir Jesu mercy, said the king, where are all my 
 Mordred was agreed for to have Cornwall and noble knights become? Alas that ever I should 
 Kent, by Arthur's days: after, all England, see this doleful day, for now, said Arthur, I am 
 after the days of King Arthur. 50 come to mine end. But would to God that 1 
 
 Then were they condescended that King wist where were that traitor Sir Mordred, that 
 Arthur and Sir Mordred should meet betwixt hath caused all this mischief. Then was 
 ])oth their hosts, and each of them should King Arthur ware where Sir Mordred leaned 
 bring fourteen persons; and they came with upon his sword among a great heap of dead 
 this word unto Arthur. Then said he, I am 55 men. Now give me my spear, said Arthur unto 
 glad that this is done: and so he went into the Sir Lucan, for yonder I have espied the traitor 
 
 3 Large merchant ships. * Prohibit. 3 a kind of trumpet. 
 
 1 Prepared. * The line in battle array. 
 
 2 " A stipulated or allowed period, of a month's dura- ' i- e. compelled him to do his utmost duty, 
 tion. " • M adJy angiy . 
 
103 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 that all this woe hath wrought. Sir, let him be, But I may not stand, mine head works sa 
 said Sir Lucan, for he is unhappy; and if ye Ah Sir Launcelot, said King Arthur, this day 
 pass this unhappy day ye shall be right well have I sore missed thee; alas that ever I was 
 revenged upon him. Good lord remember ye against thee, for now have I my death, whereof 
 of your night's dream, and what the spirit of 5 Sir Gawaine me warned in my dream. Then 
 Sir Gawaine told you this night, yet God of Sir Lucan took up the king, the one part, and 
 His great goodness hath preserved you hitherto. Sir Bedivere the other part, and in the lifting 
 Therefore, for God's sake, leave off by this, for the king swooned; and Sir Lucan fell in a 
 blessed be God ye have won the field, for here swoon with the lift, . . . and therewith the 
 we be three alive, and with Sir Mordred is lO noble knight's heart brast.^^ ^^^ when the 
 none alive; and if ye leave off now, this wicked king awoke, he beheld Sir Lucan, how he lay 
 day of destiny is past. Tide me death, betide foaming at the mouth. . . . Alas, said the king, 
 me life,'' said the kinp;, now I see him yonder this is to me a full heavy sight, to see this 
 alone, he shall never escape mine hands, for noble duke so die for my sake, for he would 
 at a better avail shall I never have him. God 15 have holpen me that had more need of help 
 speed you well, said Sir Bedivere. Then the than I. Alas he would not complain him, his 
 King gat his spear in both his hands, and ran heart was so set to help me; now Jesu have 
 towards Sir Mordred, crying. Traitor, now is mercy upon his soul. Then Sir Bedivere wept 
 thy death day come. And when Sir Mordred for the death of his brother. Leave this mourn- 
 heard Sir Arthur, he ran unto him with his20ing and weeping, said the king, for all this will 
 sword drawn in his hand. And there King not avail me, for wit thou well that an I might 
 Arthur smote Sir Mordred under the shield, hve myself, the death of Sir Lucan would 
 with a foin^ of his spear, throughout the body, grieve me evermore; but my time hieth fast, 
 more than a fathom; and when Sir Mordred said the king. Therefore, said Arthur unto 
 felt that he had his death's wound he thrust 25 Sir Bedivere, take thou Excahbur my good 
 himself with the might that he had up to the sword, and go with it to yonder water side, and 
 bur^ of King Arthur's spear; and right so he when thou comest there I charge thee throw 
 smote his father Arthur, with his sword holdeu my sword in that water, and come again and 
 in both his hands, on the side of the head, that tell me what thou there seest. My lord, said 
 the sword pierced the helmet and the brain 30 Bedivere, your commandment shall be done, 
 pan, and therewithal Sir Mordred fell stark and lightly bring you word again. So Sir 
 dead to the earth; and the noble Arthur fell Bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld 
 in a swoon to the earth, and there he swooned that noble sword, that the pommel and the 
 ofttimes. And Sir Lucan the Butler and Sir haft was all of precious stones; and then he 
 Bedivere ofttimes heave him up. And so 35 said to himself, if I throw this rich sword in the 
 weakly they led him betwixt them both, to a water, thereof shall never come good, but 
 Uttle chapel not far from the sea side. And harm and loss. And then Sir Bedivere hid 
 when the king was there he thought him well Excahbur under a tree. And so, as soon as he 
 eased. Then heard they people cry in the might, he came again unto the king, and said 
 field. Now go thou Sir Lucan, said the King, 40 he had been at the water, and had thrown the 
 and do me to wit what betokens that noise in sword into the water. What saw thou there? 
 the field. So Sir Lucan departed, for he was said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but 
 grieveously wounded in many places. And so waves and wind. That is untruly said of thee, 
 as he went he saw and hearkened by the said the king, therefore go thou hghtly again, 
 moonhght, how that pillers^° and robbers were 45 and do my commandment; as thou art to me 
 come into the field, to pill and rob many a full lief and dear, spare not but throw it in. Then 
 noble knight of brooches, and beads, and many Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the 
 a good ring, and of many a rich jewel; and who sword in his hand; and then him thought sin 
 that were not dead all out, they slew them for and shame to throw away that noble sword,i 
 their harness and their riches. When Sir 50 and so eft^^ he hid the sword, and returned 
 Lucan understood this work, he came to the again, and told to the king that he had been at 
 king as soon as he might and told him all what the water, and done his commandment. What 
 he had heard and seen. Thereforeby my rede,^^ saw thou there? said the king. Sir, he said, I 
 said Sir Lucan, it is best that we bring you to saw nothing but the waters wappe^^ and the 
 some town. I would it were so, said the king, 55 waves wanne. Ah, traitor untrue, said King 
 , ^ , ^, ,., 8 T-K * Arthur, now hast thou betrayed me twice. \ 
 
 » Come death, or come hfe. » Thrust. ,^^, , i i i , i , , i .i , ^ ^ , 
 
 • "A moveable ring adjusted to the staff of a lance, Who would have weened that thou that hast i 
 covered with minute projections to afford a grip to the ^ggn to me SO Hef and dear, and thou art named 
 
 gaimtlet. Cent. Did. ' 
 
 10 Robbers. ^^ Counsel. 12 Burst. i' Again. 1* Lap and wane. 
 
SIR THOMAS MALORY 109 
 
 a noble knight, and would betray me for the Sir Bedivere, what man is there interred that 
 riches of the sword. But now go again lightly, ye pray so fast for? Fair son, said the hermit, 
 for thy long tarrying putteth me in great I wot not verily, but by my deeming, ^s g^^ 
 jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold, this night, at midnight, here came a number of 
 And but if ^^ thou do now as I bid thee, if ever I 5 ladies, and brought hither a dead corpse, and 
 may see thee, I shall slay thee with mine own prayed me to bury him; and here they offered 
 hands; for thou wouldst for my rich sword see an hundred tapers, and they gave me an hun- 
 me dead. Then Sir Bedivere departed, and dred besants.^^ Alas, said Sir Bedivere, that 
 went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and was my lord King Arthur, that here lieth buried 
 went to the water side; and there he bound the 10 in this chapel. Then Sir Bedivere swooned; 
 girdle about the hilts, and then he threw the and when he awoke he prayed the hermit he 
 sword as far into the water as he might; and might abide with him still there, to live with 
 there came an arm and an hand above the water fasting and prayers. For from hence will I 
 and met it, and caught it, and shook it thrice never go, said Sir Bedivere, by my will, but all 
 and brandished, and then vanished away the 15 the days of my hfe here to pray for my lord 
 hand with the sword in the water. So Sir Arthur. Ye are welcome to me, said the her- 
 Bedivere came again to the King, and told him mit, for I know you better than ye ween that I 
 what he saw. Alas, said the king, help me do. Ye are the bold Bedivere, and the full 
 hence, for I dread me I have tarried over long, noble duke Sir Lucan the Butler was your 
 Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his 20 brother. . . . 
 
 back, and so went with him to that water side. More of the death of King Arthur could I 
 
 And when they were at the water side, even never find, but that ladies brought him to his 
 fast by the bank hoved a little barge with burial; and such one was buried there, that the 
 many fair ladies in it, and among them all was hermit bare witness that sometime was Bishop 
 a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all 25 of Canterbury, but yet the hermit knew not in 
 they wept and shrieked when they saw King certain that he was verily the body of King 
 Arthur. Now put me into the barge, said the Arthur: for this tale Sir Bedivere, knight of the 
 king. And so he did softly; and there received Table Round, made it to be written. Yet some 
 him three queens with great mourning; and so men say in many parts of England that King 
 they set them down, and in one of their laps 30 Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our 
 King Arthur laid his head. And then that Lord Jesu into another place; and men say that 
 queen said, Ah, dear brother, why have ye he shall come again, and he shall win the Holy 
 tarried so long from me? A|as, this wound Cross. I will not say it shall be so, but rather 
 on your head hath caught over much cold. I will say, here in this world he changed his 
 And so then they rowed from the land, and Sir 35 life. But many men say that there is written 
 Bedivere beheld all those ladies go from him. upon histomb this verse: 
 
 Then Sir Bedivere cried. Ah, my lord Arthur, Hie jacet Arthurus Rex, quondam Rex que 
 
 what shall become of me, now ye go from me futurus.^** 
 
 and leave me here alone among mine enemies? 
 
 Comfort thyseK, said the king, and do as well 40 gjj^ LAUNCELOT 
 
 as thou mayest, for in me is no trust for to 
 
 trust in, for I will into the vale of Avalon to And when Sir Ector heard such noise and 
 
 heal me of my grievous wounds: and if thou light in the choir of Joyous Gard, he alit and 
 hear never more of me, pray for my soul, put his horse from him, and came into the 
 But ever the queens and ladies wept and 45 choir, and there he saw men sing and weep, 
 shrieked, that it was pity to hear. And as And all they knew Sir Ector, but he knew not 
 soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight of the them. Then went Sir Bors unto Sir Ector, and 
 barge, he wept and wailed, and so took the told him how there lay his brother Sir Launce- 
 forest; and so he went all that night, and in lot dead; and then Sir Ector threw his shield, 
 the morning he was ware betwixt two holts 50 sword, and helm from him. And when he 
 hoar, 18 of a chapel and an hermitage. beheld Sir Launcelot's visage, he fell down in a 
 
 Then was Sir Bedivere glad, and thither he swoon. And when he waked it were hard any 
 went; and when he came into the chapel, he tongue to tell the doleful complaints that he 
 saw where lay an hermit grovelling on all four, made for his brother. Ah, Launcelot, he said, 
 there fast by a tomb was new graven. When 55 thou wert head of all christian knights. And 
 the hermit saw Sir Bedivere he knew him well, now I dare say, said Sir Ector, thou Sir Launce- 
 for he was but little tofore Bishop of Canter- 
 bury, that Sir Mordred flemed." Sir, said » gi^dging.^L e. I know not certainly, but I j^^^^ 
 
 " Unleas. " Hoary woods or groves. " Banished. 20 Here lies King Arthur, one time King, and King to be. 
 
110 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 lot, there thou liest, that thou were never work, neither to reply against the saying of the 
 matched of earthly knight's hands. And matters touched in this book,'' though it 
 thou were the courteoust knight that ever bare accord not unto the translation of others which 
 shield. And thou were the truest friend to thy have written it. For divers men have made 
 lover that ever bestrad horse, and thou were 5 divers books, which in all points accord not, as 
 the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved Dictes,^ Dares,^ and Homer. For Dictes and 
 woman. And thou were the kindest man that Homer, as Greeks, say and write favourably 
 ever strake with sword. And thou were the for the Greeks, and give to them more worship 
 goodliest person that ever came among the than to the Trojans; and Dares writeth other- 
 press of knights. And thou was the meekest lO wise than they do. And also as for the proper 
 man and the gentlest that ever ate in hall names, it is no wonder that they accord not, 
 among ladies. And thou were the sternest for some one name in these days has divers 
 knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear equivocations, ^° after the countries that they 
 in the breast. Then there was weeping and dwell in; but all accord in conclusion the general 
 dolour out of measure. Thus they kept Sir 15 destruction of that noble city of Troy, and the 
 Launcelot's corpse on loft fifteen days, and death of so many noble princes, as Kings, 
 then they buried it with great devotion. Dukes, Earls, Barons, Knights and common 
 
 people, and the ruin irreparable of that city 
 
 that never since was reedified,^^ which may be 
 William CaPtOn 20en8ample to all men during the world how 
 
 ^^^^^^^^ ^^^ jeopardous it is to begin a war, 
 
 1422-1491 ^jj(j ^jj^^ harms, losses, and death foUoweth. 
 
 _ _ ^.„„r -.^^^r^^^rr.-r^^^ ^-r. -,^-r. -r^^r^^^^^ Thcrefore the Apostlei2 saith, "All that is 
 
 THE NEW INVENTION OF PRINTING ^j^ten is written to our doctrine," which 
 
 (From The RecuyeW of the Histories of Troi/e, ^^ doctrine for the common weal I beseech God 
 
 Epilogue to Book III 1475?) ^^^ "® taken m such place and time as shall be 
 
 most needful in increasing of peace, love, and 
 Thus end I this book, which I have trans- charity; which grant us He that suffered for 
 lated after mine author as nigh as God hath the same to be crucified on the rood tree. And 
 given me cunning, ^ to whom be given the laud 30 say we all Amen, for charity, 
 and praising. And for as much as in the 
 
 writing of the same, my pen is worn, mine trr^r a-rt-ttttr 
 
 hand weary, and not steadfast, mine eyen^ HIJNU AKiMUK 
 
 dimmed with overmuch looking on the white (prom Caxton's Prologue to his edition of 
 paper, and my courage not so prone and ready 35 Malory's Morte d' Arthur, 1485) 
 
 to labour as it hath been, and that age creepeth 
 
 on me daily and feebleth all the body, and also . After that I had accomplished and finished 
 because I have promised to divers gentlemen divers histories, as well of contemplation as of 
 and to my friends to address to them as hastily other historical and worldly acts of great 
 as I might this said book; therefore I have 40 conquerors and princes, and also certain books 
 practised and learned, at my great charge and of ensamples and doctrine, many noble and 
 dispense,* to ordain^ this said book in print, divers gentlemen of this realm of England 
 after the manner and form as ye may here see; came and demanded me many and ofttimes, 
 and (it) is not written with pen and ink, as wherefore that I have not done made and 
 other books be, to the end that every man may 45 imprinted the noble history of the Sangrael, 
 have them attones.^ For all the books of this and of the most renowned Christian king, first 
 story, named the recule of the histories of and chief of the three best Christian and 
 Troye, thus imprinted as ye here see, were worthy. King Arthur, which ought most to be 
 begun in one day, and also finished in one day : remembered among us English men tofore all 
 which book I have presented to my said re- 50 other Christian kings. For it is notoriously 
 doubted lady as afore is said. And she hath 
 
 weU accepted it and hath largely rewarded me, YieJr'sid Sin^*'^^*''''' *° *^^ ^^^^''''' "touched." or re- 
 wherefore I beseech Almighty God, to reward s a Cretan, said to have taken part in the Trojan War 
 her everlasting bliss after this life, praying her ^^^ to have written a history of the contest. A book 
 
 . , ~ 1 11 .1 .1 i 1 11 1,1 • was put forth m the time of Nero, which purported to 
 
 said Grace, and all them that shall read this 55 be a translation of Dictes' work. 
 
 book, not to disdain the simple and rude 'A priest, mentioned in the /Ziod He was believed 
 
 ' ^ to have wntten a work on the fall of Troy. A book pre- 
 
 1 Collection; binding, or bringing together. (Fr. Re- tending to be a translation of Dares' work into Latin, 
 yueil.) was formerly believed to be genuine. 
 
 2 Knowledge; skill. ' Eyes. * Expense. i" Meanings. ^i RebuUt (Lat. re find OBdificare). 
 6 Prepare; make ready. ^ At the same time; at once. i^ St. Paul, Rom. xv. 4. 
 
WILLIAM CAXTON HI 
 
 known through the universal world that there of Boccaccio, in his book De Casu Principum, 
 be nine worthy and the best that ever were; part of his noble acts, and also of his fall, 
 that is to wit three Paynims, three Jews, and Also Galfridus in his British book recounteth 
 three Christian men. As for the Paynims his life; and in divers places of England many 
 they were tofore the Incarnation of Christ, 5 remembrances be yet of him and shall remain 
 which were named, — the first. Hector of Troy, perpetually, and also of his knights. First in 
 of whom the history is come both in ballad and the Abbey of Westminster, at Saint Edward's 
 in prose; the second, Alexander the Great; and shrine, remaineth the print of his seal in red 
 the third, Julius Caesar, Emperor of Rome, of wax closed in beryl, in which is written Patri- 
 whom the histories be well-known and had. lo cius Arthurus, Britanniae, Galliae, Germaniae, 
 And as for the three Jews which also were Dadae, Imperator. Item, in the castle of Dover 
 tofore the Incarnation of our Lord, of whom the ye may see Gawain's skull and Craddock's 
 first was Duke Joshua, which brought the mantle: at Winchester the Round Table: in 
 children of Israel into the land of behest; other places Launcelot's sword and many other 
 the second, David, King of Jerusalem; and the 15 things. Then all these things considered, there 
 third Judas Maccabaeus: of these three the can no man reasonably gainsay but here was a 
 Bible rehearseth all their noble histories and king of this land named Arthur. For in all 
 acts. . And sith the said Incarnation, have been places. Christian and heathen, he is reputed 
 three noble Christian men stalled and admitted and taken for one of the nine worthy, and the 
 through the universal world into the number 20 first of the three Christian men. And also he is 
 of the nine best and worthy, of whom was more spoken of beyond the sea, more books 
 first the noble Arthur, whose noble acts I made of his noble acts than there be in England, 
 purpose to write in this present book here as well in Dutch, Italian, Spanish, and Greek, 
 following. The second was Charlemagne, or as in French. And yet of record remain in 
 Charles the Great, of whom the history is had 25 witness of him in Wales, in the town of Camelot 
 in many places both in French and English; the great stones and marvellous works of iron, 
 and the third and last was Godfrey of Boulogne, lying under the ground, and royal vaults, which 
 of whose acts and life I made a book unto the divers now living hath seen. Wherefore it is a 
 excellent prince and king of noble memory, marvel why he is no more renowned in his own 
 King Edward the Fourth. The said noble 30 country, save only it accordeth to the word of 
 gentlemen instantly required me to imprint God, which saith that no man is accept for a 
 the history of the said noble king and con- prophet in his own country. Then all these 
 queror. King Arthur, and of his knights, with things aforesaid alleged, I could not well deny 
 the history of the Sangrael, and of the death but that there was such a noble king named 
 and ending of the said Arthur; affirming that 35 Arthur, and reputed one of the nine worthy, 
 I ought rather to imprint his acts and noble and first and chief of the Christian men; and 
 feats, than of Godfrey of Boulogne, or any of many noble volumes be made of him and of his 
 the other eight, considering that he was a man noble knights in French, which I have seen and 
 born within this realm, and king and emperor of read beyond the sea, which be not had in our 
 the same; and that there be in French divers 40 maternal tongue, but in Welsh be many and 
 and many noble volumes of his acts, and also also in French, and some in Enghsh, but no- 
 of his knights. To whom I answered, that where nigh all. Wherefore, such as have late 
 divers men hold opinion that there was no been drawn out briefly into EngUsh I have, 
 such Arthur, and that all such books as be made after the simple cunning that God hath sent to 
 of him be but feigned and fables, by cause that 45 me, under the favour and correction of all 
 some chronicles make of him no mention, nor noble lords and gentlemen, emprised to im- 
 remember him nothing, nor of his knights, print a book of the noble histories of the said 
 Whereto they answered, and one in special King Arthur, and of certain of his knights, 
 said, that in him that should say or think that after a copy unto me deHvered, which copy Sir 
 there was never such a king called Arthur, 60 Thomas Malory did take out of certain books 
 might well be credited great folly and blind- of French, and reduced it into English. And I, 
 ness;forhesaid that there were many evidences according to my copy, have done set it in 
 of the contrary; first ye may see his sepulture imprint, to the intent that noble men may see 
 in the Monastery of Glastonbury. And also and learn the noble acts of chivalry, the gentle 
 in "Polychronicon," in the fifth book, the sixth 55 and virtuous deeds that some knights used in 
 chapter, and in the seventh book, the twenty- those days, by which they came to honour; and 
 third chapter, where his body was buried, and how they that were vicious were punished and 
 after found and translated into the said oft put to shame and rebuke; humbly beseech- 
 monastery. Ye shall see also in the history ing all noble lords and ladies, with all othei 
 
112 
 
 CHAUCER TO WYATT AND SURREY 
 
 estates, of what estate or degree they be of, 
 that shall see and read in this said book and 
 work, that they take the good and honest acts 
 in their remembrance, and to follow the same. 
 Wherein they shall find many joyous and 
 pleasant histories, and noble and renowned 
 acts of humanity, gentleness, and chivalry. 
 For herein may be seen noble chivalry, courtesy, 
 humanity, friendliness, hardiness, love, friend- 
 ship, cowardice, murder, hate, virtue, and sin. 
 Do after the good and leave the evil, and it 
 shall bring you to good fame and renown. And 
 
 for to pass the time this book shall be pleasant 
 to read in; but for to give faith and beHeve that 
 all is true that is contained herein, ye be at 
 your liberty; but all is written for our doctrine, 
 5 and for to beware that we f aU not to vice nor 
 sin, but to exercise and follow virtue; by which 
 we may come and attain to good fame and 
 renown in this life, and after this short and 
 transitory life, to come unto everlasting bhss in 
 10 heaven, the which He grant us that reigneth in 
 heaven, the Blessed Trinity. Amen. 
 
 Nll^ 
 
 r^ 
 
 f 
 
IV. WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF 
 
 BEN JONSON 
 
 c. 1525-1637 
 
 WYATT AND SURREY AND THE 
 EARLY ELIZABETHANS 
 
 c. 1525-1579 
 
 ^ir Gliomas? W^^tt 
 
 1503-1542 
 
 THE LOVER'S LIFE COMPARED TO THE 
 ALPS 
 
 (From TotteVs Miscellany, 1557) 
 
 Like unto these unmeasurable mountains 
 So is my painful life, the burden of ire; 
 For high be they, and high is my desire; 
 And I of tears, and they be full of fountains: 
 Under craggy rocks they have barren plains; 5 
 Hard thoughts in me my woful mind doth 
 
 tire: 
 Small fruit and many leaves their tops do 
 attire: 
 With small effect great trust in me remains: 
 The boisterous winds oft their high boughs do 
 blast; 
 Hot sighs in me continually be shed : i o 
 
 Wild beasts in them, fierce love in me is fed; 
 Unmovable am I, and they steadfast. 
 
 Of singing birds they have the tune and 
 
 note; 
 And I always plaints passing through my 
 throat. 
 
 And have no more pity, 20 
 
 Of him that loveth thee? 
 
 Alas! thy cruelty! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 
 Say nay! say nay! 
 
 J^enr^ l^otDarD^ €ml of ^urrei^ 
 
 c. 1517-1547 
 DESCRIPTION OF SPRING 
 
 (From TotteVs Miscellany, 1557) 
 
 The soote^ season that bud and bloom forth 
 brings, 
 With green hath clad the hill, and eke the 
 vale. 
 The nightingale with feathers new she sings; 
 The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. 
 Summer is come, for every spray now springs, 5 
 The hart hath hung his old head on the 
 pale; 
 The buck in brake his winter coat he slings; 
 The fishes fleet with new repaired scale; 
 The adder all her slough away she slings; 
 
 The swift swall6w pursueth the flies smale;^ 
 
 The busy bee her honey now she mings f 11 
 
 Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. 
 
 And thus I see among these pleasant things 
 
 Each care decays, and yet my sorrow 
 
 springs! 
 
 AND WILT THOU LEAVE ME THUS? 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 Say nay! say nay! for shame! 
 To save thee from the blame 
 Of all my grief and grame.^ 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 5 
 
 Say nay! say nay! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 That hath lov'd thee so long? 
 In wealth and woe among: 
 And is thy heart so strong 10 
 
 As for to leave me thus? 
 Say nay! say nay! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 That hath given thee my heart 
 Never for to depart; 15 
 
 Neither for pain nor smart: 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 Say nay! say nay! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 
 I Sorrow. 
 
 THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY 
 
 (From TotteVs Miscellany, 1557) 
 
 Brittle beauty, that Nature made so frail. 
 Whereof the gift is small, and short the sea- 
 son; 
 Flowering to-day, tomorrow apt to fail; 
 
 Tickle treasure, abhorred of reason : 
 Dangerous to deal with, vain, of no avail; 5 
 
 Costly in keeping, past not worth two pea- 
 son ;i 
 Slipper 2 in sliding, as is an eel's tail; 
 
 Hard to obtain, once gotten, not geason:' 
 Jewel of jeopardy, that peril doth assail; 
 
 False and untrue, enticed oft to treason ; 10 
 Enemy to youth, that most may I bewail; 
 Ah! bitter sweet, infecting as the poison, 
 Thou farest as fruit that with the frost is 
 
 taken; 
 To-day ready ripe, tomorrow all to shaken. 
 
 1 Sweet. 2 Small. « Mingles. 
 
 1 Two peas. ^ Slippery. ' Extraordinary, uncommon. 
 
 113 
 
114 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 THE MEANS TO ATTAIN A HAPPY LIFE 
 (From TotteVs Miscellany, 1557) 
 
 Martial, the things that do attain 
 The happy life, be these, I find: 
 
 The riches left, not got with pain; 
 The fruitful ground, the quiet mind: 
 
 The equal friend, no grudge, no strife; 6 
 ' No charge of rule, nor governance; 
 
 Without disease, the healthful life; 
 The household of continuance: 
 
 The mean diet, no delicate fare; 
 
 True wisdom join'd with simpleness; 10 
 The night discharged of all care; 
 
 Where wine the wit may not oppress: 
 
 The faithful wife, without debate; 
 
 Such sleeps as may beguile the night. 
 Contented with thine own estate; 15 
 
 Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM TRANSLATION OF 
 AENEID 
 
 (1557) 
 
 THE DEATH OP LAOCOON 
 
 Us caitiffs then a far more dreadful chance 
 Befel, that troubled our unarmed breasts. 
 While Laocoon, that chosen was by lot 
 Neptunus' priest, did sacrifice a bull 
 Before the holy altar; suddenly 5 
 
 From Tenedon, behold ! in circles great 
 By the calm seas came floating adders twain, 
 Which plied towards the shore (I loath to teU) 
 With reared breast lift up above the seas; 
 Whose bloody crests aloft the waves were 
 
 seen; 10 
 
 The hinder part swam hidden in the flood. 
 Their grisly backs were linked manifold. 
 With sound of broken waves they gat the 
 
 strand, 
 With glowing eyen, tainted with blood and fire; 
 Whose welt'ring tongues did hck their hissing 
 
 mouths. 15 
 
 We fled away; our face the blood forsook: 
 But they with gait direct to Lacon ran. 
 And first of all each serpent doth enwrap 
 The bodies small of his two tender sons; 
 Whose wretched limbs they bit, and fed 
 
 thereon. 20 
 
 Then raught^ they him, who had his weapon 
 
 caught 
 To rescue them; twice winding him about. 
 With folded knots and circled tails, his waist: 
 Their scaled backs did compass twice his neck, 
 With reared heads aloft and stretched throats. 
 He with his hands strave to unloose the knotSj26 
 (Whose sacred fillets all-besprinkled were 
 With filth of gory blood, and venom rank) 
 And to the stars such dreadful shout he sent. 
 Like to the sound the roaring bull forth lows, 30 
 Which from the altar wounded doth astart, 
 » Reached. 
 
 The swerving axe when he shakes from his neck. 
 The serpents twain, with hasted trail they ghde 
 To Pallas' temple, and her towers of height: 
 Under the feet of the which Goddess stem, 35 
 Hidden behind her target's boss they crept. 
 
 It was then night; the sound and quiet sleep 
 Had through the earth the wearied bodies 
 
 caught; 
 The woods, the raging seas were fallen to rest; 
 When that the stars had half their course de- 
 clined. 
 The fields whist, beasts, and fowls of divers hue, 
 And whatso that in the broad lakes remained, 6 
 Or yet among the bushy thicks of brier. 
 Laid down to sleep by silence of the night 
 'Gan swage their cares, mindless of travails 
 past. 
 
 George ^a^cotgne 
 
 c. 1536-1577 
 
 THE LULLABY OF A LOVER 
 
 (From The Posies, 1575) 
 
 Sing lullaby, as women do, 
 
 Wherewikh they bring their babes to rest, 
 
 And lullaby can I sing too, 
 
 As womanly as can the best. 
 
 With lullaby they still the child, 
 
 And if I be not much beguiled. 
 
 Full many wanton babes have I, 
 
 Which must be stilled with lullaby. 
 
 First lullaby my youthful years, 
 It is now time to go to bed, 10 
 
 For crooked age and hoary hairs, 
 Have won the haven within my head: 
 With lullaby then youth be still. 
 With lullaby content thy will, 
 Since courage quails and comes behind, 15 
 Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind. 
 
 Next lullaby my gazing eyes. 
 Which wonted were to gaze apace; 
 For every glass may now suffice. 
 To shew the furrows in my face: 20 
 
 With lullaby then wink awhile. 
 With lullaby your looks beguile: 
 Let no fair face, nor beauty bright, 
 Entice you eft^ with vain delight. 
 
 And lullaby my wanton will, 23 
 
 Let Reason's rule now reign thy thought, 
 Since all too late I find by skill. 
 How dear I have thy fancies bought. 
 With lullaby now take thine ease, 
 With lullaby thy doubts appease: 30 
 
 For trust to this, if thou be still, 
 My body shall obey thy will. . . • 
 1 Afterward. 
 
THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET 115 
 
 Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes, 
 My will, my ware, and all that was, 
 I can no more delays devise, 35 
 
 But welcome pain, let pleasure pass: 
 With lullaby now take your leave, 
 With lullaby your dreams deceive, 
 And when you rise with waking eye. 
 Remember then this lullaby. 40 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 From depth of dole wherein my soul doth dwell, 
 From heavy heart which harbours in my breast, 
 From troubled spirit which seldom taketh rest. 
 From hope of heaven, from dread of darksome 
 
 hell, 
 O gracious God, to thee I cry and yell. 5 
 
 My God, my Lord, my lovely Lord alone, 
 To thee I call, to thee I make my moan. 
 And thou (good God) vouchsafe in gree^ to 
 
 take. 
 This woeful plaint 
 
 Wherein I faint. 10 
 
 Oh hear me then for thy great mercies' sake. . . . 
 
 If thou, good Lord, should'st take thy rod in 
 hand, 
 If thou regard what sins are daily done, 
 If thou take hold where we our works begun. 
 If thou decree in judgement for to stand, 15 
 
 And be extreme to see our excuses scanned. 
 If thou take note of everything amiss. 
 And write in rolls how frail our nature is, 
 O glorious God, O King, O Prince of power. 
 What mortal wight 20 
 
 May then have light 
 To feel thy frown, if thou have list to lower? 
 
 But thou art good and hast of mercy store, 
 Thou not delight'st to see a sinner fall. 
 Thou hearknest first, before we come to call. 25 
 Thine ears are set wide open evermore. 
 Before we knock thou comest to the door. 
 Thou art more pressed to hear a sinner cry, 
 Than he is quick to climb to thee on high. 
 Thy mighty name be praised then alway, 30 
 Let faith and fear 
 True witness bear, 
 
 How fast they stand which on thy mercy 
 stay. . . . 
 
 Before the break or dawning of the day, 
 Before the light be seen in lofty skies, 35 
 
 Before the Sun appear in pleasant wise, 
 Before the watch (before the watch I say) 
 Before the ward that waits therefore alway: 
 My soul, my sense, my secret thought, my 
 
 sprite, 
 My will, my wish, my joy, and my delight ; 40 
 Unto the Lord that sits in Heaven on high. 
 With hasty wing 
 From me doth fling, 
 And striveth still unto the Lord to fly. . . . 
 
 1 Good will. 
 
 He will redeem our deadly drooping state, 45 
 He will bring home the sheep that go astray, 
 He will help them that hope in him alway: 
 He will appease our discord and debate. 
 He will soon save though we repent us late. 
 He will be ours if we continue his, 60 
 
 He will bring bale to joy and perfect bUss^ 
 He will redeem the flock of his elect, 
 From all that is. 
 Or was amiss. 
 Since Abraham's heirs did first his laws reject. 65 
 
 ®tioma0 §)ackt)illet iloru llBucfelium 
 ano Carl of moxsitt 
 
 1536-1608 
 
 INDUCTION TO A MIRROUR FOR MAG- 
 ISTRATES 
 
 (1559) 
 
 The wrathful winter, 'proching on apace 
 With blustering blasts had all ybared the treen,* 
 And old Saturnus, with his frosty face, 
 With chilling cold had pierced the tender 
 
 green; 
 The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been 5 
 The gladsome groves that now lay overthrowen, 
 The tapets'' torn, and every bloom down 
 
 blowen. 
 
 The soil that erst so seemly was to seen. 
 
 Was all despoiled of her beauty's hue; 
 
 And sweet fresh flowers (where with the sum- 
 mer's queen 10 
 
 Had clad the earth) now Boreas' blasts down 
 blew, 
 
 And small fowles flocking, in their song did rue 
 
 The winter's wrath, where with each thing 
 defaste^ 
 
 In woeful wise bewailed the summer past. 
 
 Hawthorne had lost his motley livery, 15 
 
 The naked twigs were shivering all for cold. 
 And dropping down the tears abundantly; 
 Each thing (me thought) with weeping eye me 
 
 told 
 The cruel season, bidding me withhold 
 Myselfe within, for I was gotten out 20 
 
 Into the fields, whereas" I walked about. 
 
 When, lo, the night with misty mantles spread, 
 Gan dark the day, and dim the azure skies. 
 And Venus in her message Hermes sped 
 To bloody Mars, to will him not to rise, 25 
 While she herself approached in speedy wise; 
 And Virgo hiding her disdainful breast, 
 With Thetis now had lain her down to rest. 
 
 Whiles Scorpio dreading Sagittarius' dart, 
 Whose bow prest^ bent in fight, the string had 
 slipt, 30 
 
 1 Trees. 
 • Where. 
 
 2 Tapestry, foliage. 
 
 s Defaced, 
 s Ready. 
 
116 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Down slid into the ocean flood apart, 
 
 The Bear, that in the Irish seas had dipt 
 
 His grisly feet, with speed from thence he 
 
 whipt; 
 For Thetis, hasting from the Virgin's bed 
 Pursued the Bear, that ere she came was fled. 35 
 
 And Phaeton now reaching to his race 
 
 With glistering beams, gold streaming where 
 
 they bent, 
 Was prest to enter in his resting place. 
 Erythius that in the cart first went, 
 Had even now attained his journey's stent :" 40 
 And fast declining hid away his head, 
 While Titan couched him in his purple bed. 
 
 And pale Cynthia with her borrowed light. 
 Beginning to supply her brother's place, 
 Was past the noonstead six degrees in sight, 45 
 When sparkling stars amid the heaven's face, 
 With twinkling light shone on the earth apace, 
 That while they brought about the nightes 
 
 chare,^ 
 The dark had dimmed the day ere I was ware. 
 
 And sorrowing I to see the summer flowers, 50 
 The lively green, the lusty leas forlorne. 
 The sturdy trees so shattered with the showers, 
 The fields so fade that flourished so befome; 
 It taught me well all earthly things be borne 
 To die the death, for nought long time may last; 
 The summer's beauty yields to winter's blast.56 
 
 Then looking upward to the heaven's leames,' 
 With nightes stars thick powdered everywhere, 
 Which erst so glistened with the golden streams 
 That cheerf ull Phoebus spread down from his 
 sphere, 60 
 
 Beholding dark oppressing day so near; 
 The sudden sight reduced^ to my mind, 
 The sundry changes that in earth we find. 
 
 That musing on this worldly wealth in thought. 
 Which comes and goes more faster than we see. 
 The flickering flame that with the fire is 
 
 wrought, 66 
 
 My busy mind presented unto me 
 Such fall of peers as in this realm had be; 
 That oft I wisht some would their woes de- 
 
 scryve,^° 
 To warn the rest whom fortune left alive. 70 
 
 And straight forth stalking with redoubled pace 
 For that I saw the night drew on so fast. 
 In black all clad there fell before my face 
 A piteous wight, whom woe had all forwaste. 
 Forth from her eyen the crystal tears outbrast,^^ 
 And sighing sore, her hands she wrong and 
 fold, 76 
 
 Tare all her hair, that ruth was to behold. 
 
 Her body small forewithered and f orespent, 
 As is the stalk that summer's drought opprest. 
 Her wealked^^ f^gQ ^j^^jj woeful tears besprent, 
 
 " Limit, end. 
 9 Brought back. 
 
 7 Car. 
 
 10 Describe. 
 "Withered. 
 
 B Gleams, lights. 
 11 Out-burst. 
 
 Her colour pale, and (as it seemed her best) 81 
 In woe and plaint reposed was her rest. 
 And as the stone that drops of water wears; 
 So dented were her cheeks with fall of tears. 
 
 Her eyes swollen with flowing streams afloat, 85 
 Wherewith her looks throwen up full piteously, 
 Her forceless hands together oft she smote. 
 With doleful shrieks, that echoed in the sky; 
 Whose plaint such sighs did straight accompany, 
 That in my doom^^ was never man did see 90 
 A wight but half so woebegone as she. 
 
 I stood aghast, beholding all her plight, 
 Tween dread and dolour so distraind in heart. 
 That while my hairs upstarted with the sight, 
 The tears out-streamed for sorrow of her 
 smart: 95 
 
 But when I saw no end that could apart 
 The deadly dole, which she so sore did make. 
 With doleful voice then thus to her I spake. 
 
 "Unwrap thy woes whatever wight thou be, 
 And stint^^ in time to spill thyself with plaint; 
 Tell what thou art, and whence, for well I 
 see 101 
 
 Thou canst not dure with sorrow thus attaint." 
 And with that word of sorrow all forfaint. 
 She looked up, and, prostrate as she lay, 
 With piteous sound, lo, thus she gan to say, 105 
 
 "Alas, I wretch whom thus thou seest dis- 
 trained 
 With wasting woes, that never shall aslake. 
 Sorrow I am, in endless torments pained 
 Among the Furies in the infernal lake; 
 Where Pluto, god of hell, so grisly black 110 
 
 Doth hold his throne and Letheus deadly taste 
 Doth reave remembrance of each thing forepast. 
 
 "Whence come I am, the dreary destiny 
 And luckless lot for to bemoan of those. 
 Whom Fortune in this maze of misery, 115 
 
 Of wretched chance, most woeful mirrours chose 
 That when thou seest how lightly they did lose 
 Their pope, their power, and that they thought 
 
 most sure. 
 Thou may est soon deem no earthly joy may 
 
 dure." 
 
 Whose rueful voice no sooner had out brayed 
 Those woeful words, wherewith she sorrowed 
 
 so, 121 
 
 But out, alas, she shrieked and never stayed. 
 Fell down, and all to-dashed herself for woe. 
 The cold pale dread my limbs gan overgo. 
 And so I sorrowed at her sorrows eft, ^^ 125 
 
 That, what with grief and fear, my wits were 
 
 reft. 
 
 I stretched myseK, and straight my heart re- 
 vives. 
 That dread and dolour erst did so appale;^' 
 Like him that with the fervent fever strives, 
 
 13 Judgment. 
 1* Again, oft. 
 
 " Stop. 
 » AppaU. 
 
IIOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET 117 
 
 When sickness seeks his castle's health to 
 scale: 130 
 
 With gathered spirits so forced I fear to avail; 
 And, rearing^^ her with anguish all fordone, 
 My spirits return'd, and then I thus begonne. 
 
 "O Sorrow, alas, sith sorrow is thy name, 
 
 And that to thee this drere'^ doth well pertain. 
 
 In vain it were to seek to cease the same : 136 
 
 But as a man himself with sorrow slain, 
 
 So I, alas, do comfort thee in pain, 
 
 That here in sorrow art forsunk so deep, 
 
 That at thy sight I can but sigh and weep." 140 
 
 I had no sooner spoken of a stike,^' 
 
 But that the storm so rumbled in her breast, 
 
 As -/Eolus could never roar the like. 
 
 And showers down rained from her eyen so 
 
 fast. 
 That all bedreynt-° the place, till at the last 145 
 Well eased they the dolour of her mind, 
 As rage of rain doth swage the stormy wind. 
 
 For forth she paced in her fearful tale: 
 "Come! come!" quoth she, "and see what I 
 
 shall shewe. 
 Come hear the plaining and the bitter bale 150 
 Of worthy men, by fortune overthrowe. 
 Come thou and see them ruing all in rowe, 
 They were but shades that erst in mind thou 
 
 rolde.2i 
 Come, come, with me, thine eyes shall them 
 
 behold.'^ 
 
 What could these words but make me more 
 aghast: 155 
 
 To hear her tell whereon I mused while ere '.^^ 
 Musing upon her words and what they were, 
 All suddenly well lessened was my fear: 
 For to my mind returned how she tclde 160 
 
 Both what she was, and where her wim^' she 
 helde. 
 
 Whereby I knew that she a goddess was, 
 And, therewithall, resorted to my mind 
 My thought that late presented me the glass 
 Of brittle state, of cares that here we find, 165 
 Of thousand woes to silly men assigned : 
 And how she now bid me come and behold, 
 To see with eye that erst in thought I rolde. 
 
 Flat down I fell, and with all reverence 
 Adored her, perceiving now that she, 170 
 
 A goddess sent by godly providence 
 In earthly shape thus showed herself to me. 
 To wail and rue this world's uncertainty: 
 And while I honoured thus her godhead's might 
 With plaining voice these words to me she 
 shright:^* 175 
 
 " Raising. is Gloom. 
 
 19 Some connect stike with stick (Cr. stikos) a verse, 
 and suppose the speaker to mean tliat he has barely 
 completed his speech (which fills a stike, or stanza) 
 wlien "the storm" etc. Others connecting stike with the 
 Scotch steigh, take it to mean a sigh, ami think that the 
 reference is to the word sigh in the preceding line. 
 
 20 Bedrenched. 21 Considered. " Shortly before. 
 23 Dwelling. 24 Shrieked, cried. 
 
 "I shall thee guide first to the grisly lake, 
 And thence unto the blissful place of rest. 
 Where thou shalt see and hear the plaint they 
 
 make, 
 That whilom here bare swingers among the 
 
 best. 
 This shalt thou see, but great is the unrest 180 
 That thou must bide, before thou canst attain 
 Unto the dreadful place where these remain." 
 
 And with these words as I upraised stood, 
 And gan to follow her that straight forth paced, 
 Ere I was ware, into a desert wood 185 
 
 We now were come: where hand in hand em- 
 braced. 
 She led the way and through the thicke^^ so 
 
 traced, 
 As but I had been guided by her might, 
 It was no way for any mortal wight. 
 
 But lo, while thus amid the desert dark, 190 
 
 We passed on with steps and pace unmeet: 
 A rumbling roar, confused with howl and bark 
 Of dogs, shook all the ground under our feet. 
 And struck the din within our ears so deep 
 As, half distraught, unto the ground I fell, 195 
 Besought return, and not to visit hell. 
 
 But she, forthwith, uplifting me apace, 
 Removed my dread, and with a steadfast mind 
 Bade me come on, for here was now the place, 
 The place where we our travail's end should 
 find. 200 
 
 Wherewith I arose, and to the place assigned 
 Astoynde^^ I stalk, when straight we ap- 
 proached near 
 The dreadful place, that you will dread to hear. 
 
 An hideous hole all vast, withouten shape, 
 Of endless depth, o'erwhelmed with ragged 
 stone, 205 
 
 With ugly mouth, and grisly jaws doth gape. 
 And to our sight confounds itseK in one. 
 Here entered we, and yeding^s forth, anone 
 An horrible loathly lake we might discern 
 As black as pitch, that cleped^^ is Averne . 210 
 
 A deadly guK where nought but rubbish grows, 
 With foul black swelth in thickened lumpes^" 
 
 lies. 
 Which up in the an* such stinking vapours 
 
 throws. 
 That over there may fly no fowl but dies. 
 Choked with the pestilent savours that arise. 215 
 Hither we came, whence forth we still did pace. 
 In dreadful fear amid the dreadful place. 
 
 And first within the porch and jaws of hell. 
 Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent 
 With tears: and to her self oft would she tell 220 
 Her wretchedness, and cursing, never stent^^ 
 To sob and sigh : but ever thus lament, 
 With thoughtful care, as she that, all in vain, 
 Would wear and waste continually in pain. 
 
 25 Sway. 26 Thicket. 27 Astonished. 28 Going. 
 28 Called. '" Swollen masses. 'i Cease. 
 
118 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, 225 
 Whirled on each place, as place that vengeance 
 
 brought. 
 So was her mind continually in fear, 
 Tossed and tormented with the tedious thought 
 Of those detested crimes which she had 
 
 wrought: 
 With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the 
 
 sky, 230 
 
 Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. 
 
 Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook. 
 With foot uncertain proffered here and there: 
 Benumbed of speech, and with a ghastly look 
 Searched every place, all pale and (^ad for fear. 
 His cap borne up with starting of his heare,32 
 'Stoin'd^s and amazed at his own shade for 
 dread, 237 
 
 And fearing greater dangers than was need. 
 
 And next, within the entry of this lake, 
 
 Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire, 240 
 
 Devising means how she may vengeance take. 
 
 Never in rest till she have her desire: 
 
 But frets within so far forth^* with the fire 
 
 Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 
 
 To die by death, or 'venged by death to be. 245 
 
 When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence 
 
 Had shewed herself, as next in order set. 
 
 With trembling limbs we softly parted thence. 
 
 Till in our eyes another sight we met: 
 
 When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,^^ 250 
 
 Rueing, alas, upon the woful plight 
 
 Of Misery, that next appeared in sight. 
 
 His face was lean, and somedeaP* pined away, 
 And eke his hands consumed to the bone. 
 But what his body was I cannot say, 255 
 
 For on his carcass raiment had he none, 
 Save cloutes and patches pieced one by one. 
 With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, 
 His chief defence against the winter's blast. 
 
 His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree. 
 Unless sometimes some crumbs fell to his share. 
 Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, 262 
 As on the which full daint'ly would he fare. 
 His drink the running stream: his cup the bare 
 Of his palm closed: his bed the hard cold 
 ground: 265 
 
 To this poor life was Misery ybound. 
 
 Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, 
 
 With tender ruth on him and on his fears. 
 
 In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we 
 
 held; 
 And by and by another shape appears, 270 
 
 Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breres," 
 His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dented in. 
 With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin. 
 
 ** Hair. »« Astonished. '< Exceedingly. 
 
 »» Fetched. » Somewhat. 
 
 " Cutting or trimming the briars. Care is always busy 
 trimming the roughest, most thankless growths; his 
 tawed (hardened) hands are the horny, battered hands of 
 the laborer. 
 
 The morrow gray no sooner had begun 
 
 To spread his light, even peeping in our eyes, 275 
 
 When he is up and to his work yrun: 
 
 But let the night's black misty mantles rise, 
 
 And with the foul dark never so much disguise 
 
 The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, 
 
 But hath his candles to prolong his toil. 280 
 
 By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, 
 Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, 
 A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath. 
 Small keep took he whom Fortune frowned on, 
 Or whom she lifted up into the throne 285 
 
 Of high renown, but as a living death. 
 So dead alive, of life he drew the breath. 
 
 The body's rest, the quiet of the heart. 
 
 The travail's ease, the still night's fere^s was he. 
 
 And of our life in earth the better part; 290 
 
 Reaver of sight, and yet in whom we see 
 
 Things oft that tide,^^ and oft that never be. 
 
 Without respect, esteeming equally 
 
 King Croesus' pomp, and Irus' poverty. 
 
 And, next in order, sad Old Age we found, 295 
 His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind, 
 With drooping cheer still poring on the ground. 
 As on the place where nature him assigned 
 To rest, when that the Sisters had untwined 
 His vital thread, and ended with their knife 300 
 The fleeting course of fast declining life. 
 
 There heard we him with broken and hollow 
 
 plaint 
 Rue with himself his end approaching fast. 
 And all for naught his wretched mind torment 
 With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past, 
 And fresh delights of lusty youth f orwaste ; 306 
 Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek 
 And to be young again of Jove beseek. 
 
 But, and the cruel fates so fixed be. 
 
 That time f orpast can not return again, 310 
 
 This one request of Jove yet prayed he: 
 
 That in such withered plight and wretched pain 
 
 As eld (accompanied with his loathsome train) 
 
 Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief, 
 
 He might a while yet finger forth his lief, *° 315 
 
 And not so soon descend into the pit. 
 
 Where death, when he the mortal corpse hath 
 
 slain. 
 With reckless hand in grave doth cover it; 
 Thereafter never to enjoy again 
 The gladsome light, but in the ground ylain, 320 
 In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought, 
 As he had never into the world been brought. 
 
 But who had seen him sobbing, how he stood 
 
 Unto himself, and how he would bemoan 
 
 His youth forpast, as though it wrought him 
 
 good 325 
 
 To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone. 
 He would have mused and marvelled much ^ 
 
 whereon 
 This wretched Age should life desire so fain. 
 And knows full well life does but length his pain. 
 » Companion. » Happen. *• Life. 
 
THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET 119 
 
 Crook backt he was, toothshaken, and blear 
 
 eyed, 330 
 
 Went on three feet, and sometimes crept on 
 
 fower *^ 
 With old lame bones that rattled by his side. 
 His scalp all pilde,*^ an^ j^^ ^jth eld forlore: 
 His withered fist still knocking at Death's door, 
 Fumbling and drivelling as he draws his 
 breath, 335 
 
 For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. 
 
 And fast by him pale Malady was placed. 
 Sore sick in bed, her colour all forgone, 
 Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, 339 
 
 Ne could she brook no meat, but broth alone: 
 Her breath corrupt, her keepers every one 
 Abhorring her, her sickness past recure,*' 
 Detesting physick, and all physick's cure. 
 
 But oh! the doleful sight that then we see; 
 
 We turned our look and on the other side 345 
 
 A grisly shape of Famine might we see. 
 
 With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that 
 
 cried 
 And roar'd for meat, as she should there have 
 
 died; 
 Her body thin and bare as any bone. 
 Whereto was left nought but the case alone. 350 
 
 And, that, alas, was gnawen on every where. 
 All full of holes, that I ne might refrain 
 From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, 
 And with her teeth gnash on the bones in 
 
 vain: 
 When all for nought she fain would all sustain 
 Her starven corpse, that rather seemed a 
 
 shade, 356 
 
 Than any substance of a creature made. 
 
 Great was her force, whom stone wall could not 
 
 stay, 
 Her tearing nails scratching at all she saw; 
 With gaping jaws that by no means ymay 360 
 Be satisfied from hunger of her maw, 
 But eats herself as she that hath no law: 
 Gnawing, alas, her carcass all in vain, 
 Where you may count each sinew, bone, and 
 
 vein. 
 
 On her while we thus firmly fixed our eyes, 365 
 That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, 
 Lo, suddenly, she shrieked in so huge wise 
 As made hell gates to shiver with the might. 
 Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light 
 Right on her breast, and therewithal pale Death 
 Enthrilling** it, to reave*^ her of her breath. 371 
 
 And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw, 
 Heavy and cold, the shape of Death aright, 
 That daunts all earthly creatures to his law; 
 Against whose force in vain it is to fight : 375 
 Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight, 
 Ne towns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower. 
 But all perforce must yield unto his power. 
 
 *i Four. 
 
 M Transfixing. 
 
 ««Bald. 
 
 *' Recovery. 
 ** Deprive. 
 
 His dart anon out of the corpse he took. 
 
 And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) 380 
 
 With great tridmph eftsoons^ the same he 
 
 shook. 
 That most of all my fears affrayed me: 
 His body dight with nought but bones, pard6. 
 The naked shape of man there saw I plain, 
 All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein. 385 
 
 Lastly stood War in glittering arms yclad. 
 With visage grim, stern looks, and blackly 
 
 hued; 
 In his right hand a naked sword he had. 
 That to the hilts was all with blood embrued; 
 And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) 
 Famine and fire he held, and therewithal 391 
 He razed towns, and threw down towers and 
 
 all. 
 
 Cities he sacked, and realms (that whilom 
 
 flowered 
 In honour, glory, and rule above the best) 394 
 He overwhelmed, and all their fame devoured, 
 Consumed, destroyed, wasted, and never ceased. 
 Till he their wealth, their name, and all op- 
 pressed: 
 His face forehewed*^ with wounds, and by his 
 
 side 
 There hung his targe with gashes deep and 
 wide. 
 
 In midst of which, depainted there, we found 
 Deadly Debate, all full of snaky hair, 401 
 
 That with a bloody fillet was ybound. 
 Out breathing nought but discord everywhere: 
 And round about were portrayed here and there 
 The hugie hosts, Darius and his power, 405 
 
 His kings, princes, his peers, and all his flower; 
 
 Whom great Macedo vanquished there in fight, 
 With deep slaughter, dispoiling all his pride, 
 Pierc'd through his realms, and daunted all his 
 
 might. 
 Duke Hannibal beheld I there beside, 410 
 
 In Canna's field, victor how he did ride, 
 And woeful Romans that in vain withstood. 
 And Consul Paulus covered all with blood. 
 
 Yet saw I more, the fight at Trasimene, 
 
 And Treby field , and eke when Hannibal 415 
 
 And worthy Scipio last in arms were seen 
 
 Before Carthago gate, to try for all 
 
 The world's empire, to whom it should befall. 
 
 There saw I Pompey and Caesar clad in arms 
 
 Their hosts allied, and all their civil harms :*8. 
 
 With conquerors* hands forbathed in their own 
 blood, 421 
 
 And Caesar weeping over Pompey 's head. 
 Yet saw I Scilla and Marius where they stood. 
 Their great cruelty, and the deep bloodshed 
 Of friends : Cyrus I saw and his host dead, 425 
 And how the queen with great despight hath 
 
 flung 
 His head in blood of them she overcome. 
 «6 Straightway. « Cut in front. « Broils, evils. 
 
120 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Xerxes, the Persian king, yet saw I there, 
 With his huge host that drank the rivers dry. 
 Dismounted hills and made the vales uprear,430 
 His host and all yet saw I slain, pard6. 
 Thebes I saw all razed how it did lie 
 In heaps of stones, and Tyrus put to spoil. 
 With walls and towers flat evened with the soil. 
 
 But Troy, alas (me thought) above them all, 435 
 It made mine eyes in very tears consume, 
 When I beheld the woeful wierd^^ befall, 
 That by the wrathful will of gods was come: 
 And Jove's unmoved sentence and foredome*" 
 On Priam king, and on his town so bent, 440 
 I could not lin,5i ^^^ j must there lament. 
 
 And that the more, sith Destiny was so stem 
 As, force perforce, there might no force avail 
 But she must fall: and, by her fall, we learn 
 That cities, towers, wealth, world, and all 
 
 shall quail; 52 445 
 
 No manhood, might, nor nothing might prevail. 
 All were there prest,^^ full many a prince and 
 
 peer; 
 And many a knight that sold his death full dear. 
 
 Not worthy Hector, worthiest of them all, 
 
 Her hope, her joy; his force is now for nought. 
 
 Troy, Troy, Troy, there is no boot but bale; 
 The hugy horse within thy walls is brought: 452 
 Thy turrets fall, thy knights that whilom 
 
 fought 
 In arms amid the field, are slain in bed; 
 Thy gods defiled, and all thy honour dead. 455 
 
 The flames upspring, and cruelly they creep 
 From wall to roof, till all to cinders waste: 
 Some fire the houses where the wretches sleep, 
 Some rush in here, some run in there as fast; 
 In every where or sword or fire they taste. 460 
 The walls are torn, the towers whirled to the 
 
 ground; 
 There is no mischief but may there be found. 
 
 Cassandra saw I yet there how they haled 
 From Pallas' house with spercled^* tress un- 
 done. 
 Her wrists fastbound, and with Greeks' rout 
 empaled : 465 
 
 And Priam eke, in vain how he did run 
 To arms, when Pyrrhus with despite hath done 
 To cruel death, and bathed him in the baigne^^ 
 Of his son's blood, before the altar slain. 
 
 But how can I describe the doleful sight, 470 
 That in the shield so lifelike fair did shine! 
 Sith in this world, I think was never wight 
 Could have set forth the half, nor haK so fine. 
 
 1 can no more but tell how there is seen 
 
 Fair Ilium fall in burning red gledes^^ down, 475 
 And, from the soil, great Troy, Neptunus' 
 town. 
 
 <• Fate. so Predestined judgment. *' Cease. 
 8* Die: pasa away. *» At hand. "* Scattered. 
 
 »6 Bath. 8« Glowing fragments. 
 
 Herefrom when scarce I could mine eyes with- 
 draw. 
 That filled with tears as doth the springing well, 
 We passed on so far forth till we saw 
 Rude Acheron, a loathsome lake to tell, 480 
 
 That boils and bubs up swelth" as black as hell, 
 Where grisly Charon at their fixed tide 
 Still ferries ghosts unto the farther side. 
 
 The aged god no sooner Sorrow spied. 
 
 But hasting straight unto the bank apace, 485 
 
 With hollow call unto the rout he cried 
 
 To swerve apart and give the goddess place. 
 
 Straight it was done, when to the shore we pace, 
 
 Where hand in hand as we then linked fast, 
 
 Within the boat we are together plaste.^^ 490 
 
 And forth we launch full freighted to the brink, 
 When, with the unwonted weight, the rusty 
 
 keel 
 Began to crack as if the same should sink. 
 We hoist up mast and sail, that in a while 
 We fetched the shore, where scarcely we had 
 
 while 495 
 
 For to arrive, but that we heard anone 
 A three-sound bark confounded all in one. 
 
 We had not long forth past, but that we saw 
 Black Cerberus, the hideous hound of hell. 
 With bristles reared, and with a three-mouthed 
 
 jaw, 500 
 
 Foredinning the air with his horrible yell. 
 Out of the deep dark cave where he did dwell. 
 The goddess straight he knew, and by and by. 
 He peaste*^ and couched while that we passed 
 
 by. 
 
 Thence came we to the horrour and the hell, 505 
 The large great kingdoms and the dreadful 
 
 reign 
 Of Pluto in his throne where he did dwell, 
 The wide waste places, and the hugy plain : 
 The wailings, shrieks, and sundry sorts of pain, 
 The sighs, the sobs, the deep and deadly groan. 
 Earth, air, and all, resounding plaint and 
 
 moan. 5ii 
 
 Here puled the babes, and here the maids un- 
 wed 
 
 With folded hands their sorry chance be- 
 wailed; 
 
 Here wept the guiltless slain, and lovers dead. 
 
 That slew themselves when nothing else 
 availed; 515 
 
 A thousand sorts of sorrows here that wailed 
 
 With sighs and tears, sobs, shrieks, and all 
 yfere,^° 
 
 That (oh, alas!) it was a hell to hear. 
 
 We stayed us straight, and with a rueful fear > 
 Beheld this heavy sight, while from mine eyes > 
 The vapored tears downstilled^^ here and 
 there, 521 
 
 " Casts up lumps of putrid matter. ** Placed. 
 
 6» Became silent. s" Together mixed. s* Distilled. 
 
JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD BERNERS 121 
 
 And Sorrow eke in far more woeful wise, have ensample to encourage them in their well 
 
 Took on with p^lamt, upheaving to the skies doing, I, Sir John Froissart, will treat and 
 
 Her wretched hands, that with her cry the rout record an history of great louage3 and praise 
 
 Gan all m heaps to swarm us round about. 525 rj , 4tu • t ■ lil o • '^ ^ t'^f'^^- 
 
 ^ But, or^ I begin, I require the Saviour of all the 
 
 "Lo here," said Sorrow, "princes of renown, ^ ^orld, who of nothing created aU things, that 
 
 That whilom sat on top of Fortune's wheel ^^ will give me such grace and understanding, 
 
 Now laid full low; like wretches whirled down that I may continue and persevere in such wise, 
 
 Even with one frown that stayed but with a that whoso this process readeth or heareth may 
 
 smilej 529 take pastance,'^ pleasure and ensample. It is 
 And now behold the thmg that thou erewhile iq said of truth that all buildings are masoned and 
 
 Saw on^y in thought, and what thou now shalt wrought of divers stones, and all great rivers 
 
 Recount the same to Kesax, King, and Peer." a^^.g^g^f and assembled of divers surges and 
 
 springs of water; in Ukewise all sciences are 
 Then first came Henry, Duke of Buckingham, extraught^ and compiled of divers clerks; of 
 His cloak of black all pilled^^ and quite forworn, 15 that one writeth, another peradventure is 
 Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth ignorant; but by the famous writing of ancient 
 blame, 535 authors all things ben known in one place or 
 
 Which of a duke hath made him now her scorn, other. Then to attain to the matter that I have 
 With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn, enterprised, I will begin first by the grace of 
 
 Oft spread his arms, stretched hands he ]oms as ^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^ blessed Virgin our Lady Saint 
 
 With rueful cheer, and vapored eyes upcast, ^^^y* \^^^ "^^^^ ^^^ comfort and consolation 
 
 proceedeth, and will take my foundation out of 
 His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat, 540 the true chronicles sometime compiled by the 
 His hair all torn about the place it lay, right reverend, discreet and sage master John 
 
 My heart so molt^^ ^q ^^q jjjg gj-igf so great 25 le Bel,^ sometime canon in Saint Lambert's of 
 
 As feelingly, me thought, it dropped away: Liege, who with good heart and due diligence 
 His eyes they whirled about withouten stay, did his true devoir^ in writing this noble 
 
 in following the truth as near as he might, to 
 Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale. 30 his great charge and cost in seeking to have the 
 
 And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice, perfect knowledge thereof. He was also in his 
 At each of which he shrieked so withal, life's days well beloved and of the secret 
 
 As through the heavens rived with the noise; council with the lord Sir John of Hainault, who 
 
 Till at the last recovering his voice, 551 is often remembered, as reason requireth, here- 
 
 Siippmg the tears that all his breast berained,«4 35 af^gj. -^^ ^.j^jg ^ook, for of many fair and noble 
 On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plained. adventures he was chief causer, and by whose 
 
 means the said Sir John le Bel might well know 
 
 3l0l)n ^OUtCl)iet^ ilOrtl 115^nerfi> i ^^-4 ^^^^ ^^ "^^^y divers and noble deeds, the 
 
 which hereafter shall be declared. Truth it is 
 1467-1533 40 that I, who have enterprised this book to ordain 
 
 for pleasure and pastance, to the which always 
 
 SELECTION I have been inclined, and for that intent I have 
 
 From The Chronicles of Sir John Froissart, followed and frequented the company of divers 
 
 1360-c. 1390 noble and great lords, as well in France, Eng- 
 
 , . 45 land, and Scotland, as in divers other countries, 
 
 (Berner s translation, 1524-5) ^^^ 1^^^^ j^^^ knowledge by them, and always 
 
 To the intent that the honourable and noble to my power justly have enquired for the 
 adventures of feats of arms, done and achieved truth of the deeds of war and adventures that 
 by the wars of France and England, should have fallen, and especially sith the great battle 
 notably be en registered and put in perpetual 50 of Poitiers, ^'^ whereas the noble king John of 
 memory, whereby the prewe^ and hardy may France was taken prisoner, as before that time 
 
 I was but of a young age or understanding. 
 
 62 Threadbare. 63 Melted. 64 Rained down upon. 
 
 I Chancellor of Exchequer under Henry VIII. He ' Glory. * Ere. ^ Pastime, 
 
 enjoyed the King's favor for an unusually long time. He 6 Turned into whirlpools, 
 
 made his translation of Froissart (a notable work of ^ Extracted. 
 
 Early Tudor prose) at the command of the King. Frois- ^ Flourished in the early 14th century. While living 
 
 sart was a contemporary of Chaucer, who enjoyed the with Sir John of Hainault, in France, he compiled two 
 
 patronage of Philippa, queen of Edward III. He wrote volumes of Chronicles on contemporary history, 
 his Chronicles of the wars of his age in France, England, * Duty, service. 
 
 Scotland and Spain, between 1360 and 1390 in the French i" Fought in France, 1356, a famous victory of the 
 
 tongue. 2 Gallant. English over the French. 
 
122 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Howbeit, I took on me, as soon as I came from case to do any great deed of arms: we have more 
 school, to write and recite the said book, and need of rest." These words came to the earl of 
 bare the same compiled into England, and Alengon, who said: "A man is well at ease to be 
 presented the volume thereof to my lady charged with such a sort of rascals, to be faint 
 Philippa of Hainault,^^ noble Queen of Eng- 5 and fail now at most need." Also the same 
 land, who right amiably received it to my great season there fell a great rain and a clipse^ with a 
 profit and advancement. And it may be so terrible thunder, and before the rain there 
 that the same book is not as yet examined or came flying over both battles a great number of 
 corrected so justly as such a case requireth; for crows for fear of the tempest coming. Then 
 feats of arms dearly bought and achieved, the 10 anon the air began to wax clear, and the sun to 
 honour thereof ought to be given and truly shine fair and bright, the which was right in the 
 divided to them that by prowess and hard Frenchmen's eyen, and on the Englishmen's 
 travail have deserved it. Therefore to acquit backs. When the Genoways were assembled 
 me in that behalf, and in following the truth as together and began to approach, they made a 
 near as I can, I, John Froissart, have enter- 15 great leap and cry to abash the Englishmen, but 
 prised this history on the foresaid ordinance and they stood still and stirred not for all that; then 
 true foundation, at the instance and request of a the Genoways again the second time made 
 true lord of mine, Robert of Namur, Knight, another leap and a fell cry, and stept forward a 
 lord of Beaufort, to whom entirely I owe love little, and the Englishmen removed not one 
 and obeisance, and God grant me to do that 20 foot: thirdly, again they leapt and cried, and 
 thing that may be to his pleasure. Amen. went forth till they came within shot; then 
 
 they shot fiercely with their cross-bows. 
 
 Oh IHH. BAllLH. Ub (^Ki^bbY and let fly their arrows so wholly [together] and 
 
 Between the king of England and the French 25 so thick, that it seemed snow. When the 
 
 l^jjg Genoways felt the arrows piercmg through 
 
 heads, arms and breasts, many of them cast 
 
 The Englishmen, who were in three battles down their cross-bows and did cut their strings 
 lying on the ground to rest them, as soon as they and returned discomfited. When the French 
 saw the Frenchmen approach, they rose upon 30 king saw them fly away, he said: "Slay these 
 their feet fair and easily without any haste and rascals, for they shall let® and trouble us with- 
 arranged their battles. ^ The first, which was out reason." Then ye should have seen the 
 the prince's battle, the archers there stood in men of arms dash in among them and killed a 
 the manner of a herse^ and the men of arms in great number of them: and ever stiU the 
 the bottom of the battle. The earl of North- 35 Englishmen shot whereas they saw thickest 
 ampton and the earl of Arundel with the second press; the sharp arrows ran into the men of 
 battle were on a wing in good order, ready to arms and into their horses, and many fell, 
 comfort the prince's battle, if need were. horse and men, among the Genoways, and when 
 
 The lords and knights of France came not to they were down, they could not relieve'' again, 
 the assembly together in good order, for some 40 the press was so thick that one overthrew 
 came before and some came after in such haste another. And also among the Englishmen 
 and evil order, that one of them did trouble there were certain rascals that went afoot with 
 another. When the French King saw the great knives, and they went in among the 
 Englishmen, his blood changed, and said to his men of arms, and slew and murdered many as 
 marshals: "Make the Genoways* go on before 45 they lay on the ground, both earls, barons, 
 and begin the battle in the name of God and knights, and squires, whereof the king of 
 Saint Denis." There were of the Genoways England was after displeased, for he had rather 
 cross-bows about a fifteen-thousand, but they they had been taken prisoners, 
 were so weary of going afoot that day a six The valiant king of Bohemia called Charles of 
 leagues armed with their cross-bows, that 50 Luxembourg, for all that he was nigh blind, 
 they said to their constables: "We be notweU when he understood the order of the battle, 
 ordered to fight this day, for we be not in the he said to them about him: "Where is the lord 
 
 Ji Queen of Edward III, and mother of the Black Charles my SOU? " His men said: "Sir, wecan- 
 
 ^1n^' n •.. ^ r^u ^ *.i t ^.. ■ not tell; we think he be fighting." Then he 
 
 1 Generally wntten Crecy. The Battle was fought in • i ,,o.. ^ =* . 
 
 1346. 55 said: Sirs, ye are my men, my companions and 
 
 2 Lines in battle array. 
 
 ' Probably a wedge-formation of archers shaped like a ^A mistranslation for "une esclistre," or flash of 
 
 triangular narrow herse (or harrow), back of which and on lightning. — Macaulay. 
 
 the flanks of which were the men-of-arms. Cf . Oman in 6 Hinder. 
 
 Social England, Vol. II, pp. 174-5. ^ Rise. Relieve is a mistranslation of "releves," for 
 
 * Genoese. "se relever." 
 
JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD BERNERS 123 
 
 friends in this journey: I require you bring me archers of the prince's battle and came and 
 so far forward, that I may strike one stroke fought with the men of arms hand to hand, 
 with my sword." They said they would do Then the second battle of the Englishmen came 
 his commandment, and to the intent that they to succor the prince's battle, the which was 
 should not lose him in the press, they tied all 5 time, for they had as then much ado; and they 
 their reins of their bridles each to other and with the prince sent a messenger to the king, 
 set the king before to accomplish his desire, who was on a little windmill hill. Then the 
 and so they went on their enemies. The lord knight said to the king: "Sir, the earl of War- 
 Charles of Bohemia his son, who wrote himself wick and the earl of Oxford, Sir Raynold 
 king of Almaine and bare the arms, he came in 10 Cobham and other, such as be about the 
 good order to the battle; but when he saw that prince your son, are fiercely fought withal and 
 the matter went awry on their party, he de- are sore handled; wherefore they desire you 
 parted, I cannot tell you which way. The that you and your battle will come and aid 
 king his father was so far forward that he them; for if the Frenchmen increase, as they 
 strake a stroke with his sword, yea and more 15 doubt they will, your son and they shall have 
 than four, and fought valiantly and so did his much ado." Then the king said: "Is my son 
 company; and they adventured themselves dead or hurt or on the earth felled? " "No sir," 
 so forward, that they were there all slain, and quoth the knight, "but he is hardly matched; 
 the next day they were found in the place wherefore he hath need of your aid." "Well," 
 about the king, and all their horses tied each to 20 said the king, "return to him and to them that 
 other. sent you hither, and say to them that they send 
 
 The earl of Alengon came to the battle right no more to me for any adventure that falleth, 
 ordinately and fought with the Englishmen, as long as my son is alive: and also say to them 
 and the earl of Flanders also on his part. These that they suffer him this day to win his spurs; 
 two lords with their companies coasted^ the 25 for if God be pleased, I will this journey^" be his 
 English archers and came to the prince's and the honour thereof, and to them that be 
 battle, and there fought valiantly long. The about him." Then the knight returned again 
 French king would fain have come thither, to them and shewed the king's words, the which 
 when he saw their banners, but there was a greatly encouraged them, and repoined" in that 
 great hedge of archers before him. The same 30 they had sent to the king as they did. 
 day the French king had given a great black Sir Godfrey of Harcourt would gladly that 
 courser to Sir John of Hainault, and he made the earl of Harcourt his brother might have 
 the lord Thierry of Senzeille to ride on him and been saved; for he heard say by them that saw 
 to bear his banner. The same horse took the his banner how that he was there in the field 
 bridle in his teeth and brought him through all 35 on the French party; but Sir Godfrey could not 
 the currours^ of the Englishmen, and as he come to him betimes, for he was slain or he 
 would have returned again, he fell in a great could come at him, and so was also the earl of 
 dike and was sore hurt, and had been there Aumale his nephew. In another place the earl 
 dead, an his page had not been, who foUowed of Alengon and the earl of Flanders fought 
 him through all the battles and saw where his 40 valiantly, every lord under his own banner; 
 master lay in the dike, and had none other let but finally they could not resist against the 
 but for his horse, for the Englishmen would puissance of the Englishmen, and so there they 
 not issue of their battle for taking of any were also slain, and divers other knights and 
 prisoner. Then the page alighted and relieved squires. Also the earl Louis of Blois, nephew to 
 his master: then he went not back again the 45 the French king, and the duke of Lorraine 
 same way that they came, there was too many fought under their banners, but at last they 
 in his way. were closed in among a company of Englishmen 
 
 This battle between Broye and Cressy this and Welshmen, and there were slain for all 
 Saturday was right cruel and fell, and many a their prowess. Also there was slain the earl of 
 feat of arms done that came not to my knowl- 50 Auxerre, the earl of Saint-Pol and many other, 
 edge. In the night divers knights and squires In the evening the French king, who had 
 
 lost their masters, and sometime came on the left about him no more than a three-score 
 Englishmen, who received them in such wise persons, one and other, whereof Sir John of 
 that they were ever nigh slain; for there was Hainault was one, who had remounted once 
 none taken to mercy nor to ransom, for so the 65 the king, for his horse was slain with an arrow, 
 Englishmen were determined. then he said to the king: "Sir, depart hence, for 
 
 In the morning the day of the battle certain it is time; lose not yourself wilfully: if ye have 
 Frenchmen and Almains perforce opened the loss at this time, ye shall recover it again an- 
 
 8 Marched on the flank of. ' Couriers. i° Day's work, day's battle. " Repented. 
 
124 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 other season." And so he took the king's horse and Bedford. These unhappy people of these 
 
 by the bridle and led him away in a manner said countries began to stir, because they said 
 
 perforce. Then the king rode till he came to the they were kept in great servage, and in the 
 
 castle of Broye. The gate was closed, because beginning of the world, they said, there were 
 
 it was by that time dark: then the king called 5 no bondmen, wherefore they maintained that 
 
 the captain, who came to the walls and said: none ought to be bond, without he did treason 
 
 "Who is that calleth there this time of night?" to his lord, as Lucifer did to God; but they said 
 
 Then the king said: "Open your gate quickly, they could have no such battle, for they were 
 
 for this is the fortune of France." The captain neither angels nor spirits, but men formed to 
 knew then it was the king, and opened the 10 the similitude of their lords, saying why should 
 
 gate and let down the bridge. Then the king they then be kept so under like beasts; the 
 
 entered, and he had with him but five barons, which they said they would no longer suffer, for 
 
 Sir John of Hainault, Sir Charles of Mont- they would be all one, and if they laboured or 
 
 morency, the lord of Beaujeu, the lord d'Aubi- did anything for their lords, they would have 
 gny and the lord of Montsault. The king would 15 wages therefor as well as other. And of this 
 
 not tarry there, but drank and departed thence imagination was a foolish priest in the country 
 
 about midnight, and so rode by such guides as of Kent called John Ball, for the which foolish 
 
 knew the country till he came in the morning to words he had been three times in the Bishop of 
 
 Amiens, and there he rested. Canterbury's prison: for this priest used often- 
 This Saturday the Englishmen never de- 20 times on the Sundays after mass, when the 
 
 parted from their battles for chasing of any man, people were going out of the minster, to go 
 
 but kept still their field, and ever defended into the cloister and preach, and made the 
 
 themselves against all such as came to assail people to assemble about him, and would say 
 
 them. This battle ended about evensong time, thus: "Ah, ye good people, the matters goeth 
 
 TTTF qPFFPTT OF TOTTM "RATH ^^^^^ ^^^^ *^ P^^^ ^^ England, nor shall not do 
 IHE bFEECH UJ^ JUHJN BALL until everything be common, and that there be 
 
 In the mean season while this treaty was, no villains nor gentlemen, but that we may be 
 there fell in England great mischief and all unied^ together, and that the lords be no 
 rebellion of moving of the common people, by greater masters than we be. What have we 
 which deed England was at a point to have 30 deserved, or why should we be kept thus in 
 been lost without recovery. There was never servage? We be all come from one father and 
 realm nor country in so great adventure as it one mother, Adam and Eve: whereby can they 
 was in that time, and all because of the ease say or shew that they be greater lords than we 
 and riches that the common people were of, be, saving by that they cause us to win and 
 which moved them to this rebellion, as some- 35 labour for that they dispend. They are clothed 
 time they did in France, the which did much in velvet and camlet^ furred with grise, and we 
 hurt, for by such incidents the realm of France be vestured with poor cloth: they have their 
 hath been greatly grieved. wines, spices and good bread, and we have the 
 
 It was a marvellous thing and of poor drawing out of the chaff and drink water: they 
 foundation that this mischief began in England, 40 dwell in fair houses, and we have the pain and 
 and to give ensample to all manner of people travail, rain and wind in the fields; and by 
 I will speak thereof as it was done, as I was that that cometh of our labours they keep 
 informed, and of the incidents thereof. There and maintain their estates: we be called their 
 was an usage in England, and yet is in divers bondmen, and without we do readily them 
 countries, that the noblemen hath great 45 service, we be beaten ; and we have no sovereign 
 franchise over the commons and keepeth them to whom we may complain, nor that will hear 
 in servage, that is to say, their tenants ought us nor do us right. Let us go to the king, he is 
 by custom to labour the lord's lands, to gather young, and shew him what servage we be in, 
 and bring home their corns, and some to and shew him how we will have it otherwise, or 
 thresh and to fan, and by servage to make 50 else we will provide us of some remedy; and if 
 their hay and to hew their wood and bring it we go together, all manner of people that be 
 home. All these things they ought to do by now in any bondage will follow us to the intent 
 servage, and there be more of these people in to be made free; and when the king seeth us, we 
 England than in any other realm. Thus the shall have some remedy, either by fairness, or 
 noblemen and prelates are served by them, and 55 otherwise." Thus John Ball said on Sundays, 
 specially in the county of Kent, Essex, Sussex when the people issued out of the churches in \ , 
 
 1 A social reformer known as "the mad Priest of Kent." '' 
 
 One of the leaders in the Peasants' Revolt in England in ^ United. 
 
 1381. He was executed at St. Alban's for preaching in- ^ A costly Eastern fabric, but applied to the imitations 
 
 surrection. of it. Grise was a kind of grey fur. 
 
SIR THOMAS MORE 125 
 
 the villages; wherefore many of the mean they differ, yet they be true. I was in the city 
 people loved him, and such as intended to no of Bordeaux and sitting at the table when 
 goodness said how he said truth; and so they king Richard was born, the which was on a 
 would murmur one with another in the fields Tuesday about ten of the clock. The same time 
 and in the ways as they went together, affirm- 5 there came thereas I was. Sir Richard Pout- 
 ing how John Ball said truth. chardon, marshal as then of Acquitaine, and he 
 
 TTTF RTTPTAT OF T?TPWAT?n TT said to me: "Froissart, write and put in memory 
 
 IHiL BURIAL (Jb RICHARD 11 ^j^^^ as now my lady princess is brought abed 
 
 It was not long after that true tidings ran with a fair son on this Twelfth day, that is the 
 through London, how Richard of Bordeaux^ 10 day of the three kings, and he is son to a king's 
 was dead; but how he died and by what means, son and shall be a king." This gentle knight 
 I could not tell when I wrote this chronicle, said truth, for he was king of England twenty- 
 But this King Richard dead was laid in a two year; but when this knight said these 
 litter and set in a chare^ covered with black words, he knew full little what should be his 
 baudkin,^ and four horses all black in the 15 conclusion. And the same time that king 
 chare, and two men in black leading the chare, Richard was born, his father the prince was in 
 and four knights all in black following. Thus Galice,^ the which king Don Peter had given 
 the chare departed from the Tower of London him, and he was there to conquer the realm, 
 and was brought along through London fair Upon these things I have greatly imagined 
 and softly, till they came into Cheapside, 20 sith;^ for the first year that I came into Eng- 
 whereas the chief assembly of London was, and land into the service of queen Philippa, king 
 there the chare rested the space of two hours. Edward and the queen and all their children 
 Thither came in and out more than twenty were as then at Berkhamstead, a manor of the 
 thousand persons men and women, to see him prince of Wales beyond London. The king and 
 whereas he lay, his head on a black cushion, 25 the queen were come thither to take leave of 
 and his visage^ open. Some had on him pity their son the prince and princess, who were 
 and some none, but said he had long deserved going into Acquitaine, and there I heard an 
 death. Now consider well, ye great lords, ancient knight devise' among the ladies and 
 kings, dukes, earls, barons and prelates, and all said: "There is a book which is called le Brut, 
 men of great lineage and puissance; see and 30 and it deviseth that the prince of Wales, eldest 
 behold how the fortunes of this world are son to the king, nor the duke of Gloucester, 
 marvellous and turn diversely. This king should never be king of England, but the realm 
 Richard reigned king of England twenty two and crown should return to the house of 
 year in great prosperity, holding great estate Lancaster." There I, John Froissart, author of 
 and seignory. There was never before any 35 this chronicle, considering all these things, 
 king of England that spent so much in his house I say these two knights. Sir Richard Pont- 
 as he did, by a hundred thousand florins every chardon and Sir Bartholomew of Burghersh, 
 year; for I, Sir John Froissart, canon and said both truth; for I saw, and so did all the 
 treasurer of Chimay, knew it well, for I was in world, Richard of Bordeaux twenty two year 
 his court more than a quarter of a year together, 40 king of England, and after the crown returned 
 ind he made me good cheer, because that in to the house of Lancaster, and that was when 
 my youth I was clerk and servant to the noble King Henry was king, the which he had never 
 king Edward III, his grandfather, and with my been if Richard of Bordeaux had dealt amiably 
 lady Philippa of Hainault, queen of England his with him; for the Londoners made him king 
 grandam; and when I departed from him, it 45 because they had pity on him and on his 
 was at Windsor, and at my departing the king children. 
 
 sent me by a knight of his called Sir John g^jj. ^fiojjxg[0 9^0tt 
 
 Golofre a goblet of silver and gilt weighing two "^^ 
 
 mark of silver, and within it a hundred nobles, 1478-1535 
 
 by the which I am as yet the better, and shall 50 -pHE PEOPLE ARE URGED TO CHOOSE 
 be as long as I live; wherefore I am bound to RICHARD FOR THEIR KING 
 
 pray to God for his soul, and with much sorrow ,_ ^^ . ___ . 
 
 I write of his death; but because I have con- (^rom History of Richard III, written c. 1513) 
 tinned this history, therefore I write thereof to When the Duke had said, and looked that^- 
 
 follow it. 55 the people whom he hoped that the Mayor 
 
 In my time I have seen two things: though had framed^ before, should after this flattering 
 
 proposition made, have cried King Richard, 
 
 i Richard II. (1367-1400) son of the Black Prince, was . ^ ,• • . o- 7 t^- 
 
 born at Bordeaux. Gahcia, « Since. ^ Discourse, converse. 
 
 ^Gftr, cart. ' Rich black material. * Visor. 1 Prepared; fitted for the part they were to play. 
 
126 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 King Richard, all was still and mute, and not the nobles of the realm be, to have this noble 
 one word answered thereunto. Wherewith the Prince, now Protector, to be your King." At 
 Duke was marvellously abashed, and taking these words the people began to whisper among 
 the Mayor nearer to him, with other that themselves secretly, that the voice was neither 
 were about him privy to that matter, said unto 5 loud nor distinct, but as it were the sound of a 
 them softly; "What meaneth this, that the swarm of bees, till at the last at the nether end 
 people be so still?" "Sir," quoth the Mayor, of the hall, a bushment^ of the Duke's servants 
 "parcase^ they perceive you not well." "That and one Nashfield, and others longing^ to the 
 shall we amend," quoth he, "if that will help." Protector, with some prentices and lads that 
 And by and by somewhat louder, he rehearsed 10 thrust into the hall among the press, began 
 them the same matter again in other order and suddenly at men's backs to cry out as loud as 
 other words, so well and ornately, and natheles their throats would give: King Richard^ 
 so evidently and plain, with voice, gesture, and King Richard, and threw up their caps in token 
 countenance so comely and convenient, tiiat of joy. And they that stood before, cast back 
 every man much marvelled that heard him, and 15 their heads marvelling thereat, but nothing 
 thought that they never had in their lives heard they said. And when the Duke and the mayor 
 so evil a tale so well told. But were it for saw this manner, they wisely turned it to their 
 wonder or fear, (or) that each looked that purpose. And said it was a goodly cry and a 
 other should speak first; not one word more was joyful, to hear every man with one voice, and 
 there answered of all the people that stood 20 no man saying nay. "Wherefore friends," 
 before, but all were as still as the midnight, not quoth the Duke, "since we perceive that it is 
 so much as rowning^ among them, by which your whole minds to have this nobleman for 
 they might seem to commune what was best to your King, whereof we shall make his Grace so 
 do. When the Mayor saw this, he with other effectual report, that we doubt not but it shall 
 partners of the Council, drew about the Duke, 25 redound unto your great weal and commonal- 
 and said that the people had not been accus- ity.^ We therefore require you that tomorrow 
 tomed thus to be spoken unto but by the ye go with us, and we with you, unto his noble 
 Recorder, which is the mouth of the city, and Grace, to make your humble request unto him 
 haply to him they will answer. With that the in manner before remembered." And therefore 
 Recorder, called Thomas Fitz William, a sad^so with,^° the lords came down, and the company 
 man and an honest, which was so new come into dissolved and departed, the most part all sad, 
 that office that he never had spoken to the some with glad semblance that were not very 
 people before, and loath he was with that merry, and some of those that came hither with 
 matter to begin, notwithstanding being there- the Duke, not able to dissemble their sorrow, 
 unto commanded by the Mayor, made a re- 35 were fain, at his back, to turn their face to the 
 hearsal to the commons of that the Duke had wall, while the dolour of their hearts burst out 
 twice rehearsed them himself. But the Re- of their eyes, 
 corder so tempered his tale, that he showed 
 
 everything as the Duke's words were, and no ^ TTTIPOPF POTSTTT? A «5TTrn 
 
 part his own. But aU this made no change in 40 UTOPIA AND EUROPE CONTRAbTIi.D 
 
 the people, which, alway after one, ^ stood as (^^.^jj^ Uto-pia, 1516, Ralph Robinson's transla- 
 they had been men amazed. Whereupon the ^^ gg^ond and revised ed. 1556) 
 
 Duke rowned® unto the Mayor and said: 
 
 "This is a marvellous obstinate silence." And Now^ I have declared and described unto 
 therewith he turned unto the people again with 45 you, as truly as I could, the form and order of 
 these words: "Dear friends, we come to move that Commonwealth, which verily in my judg- 
 you to that thing which, peradventiu'e we ment is not only the best, but also that which 
 greatly needed not, but that the lords of this alone of good right may claim and take upon it 
 realm and the commons of other parties, the name of a common wealth, or public weal.^ 
 might have sufficed, saving such love we bear 50 7 a body of men in hiding, or in ambush, 
 you, and so much set by you, that we would not J Belonging, 
 gladly do without you, that thing in which to i^FortSdtht thereupon. 
 
 %(^be partners is your weal and honour, which, as 1 The speaker is a fictitious character, one Raphael 
 
 to us seemeth, you see not or weigh not. Hythloday, whom More introduces in the early part of 
 
 „,, - ' "^ . , . ° the narrative as a Portuguese scholar and explorer. 
 
 Wherefore, we reqmre you to give us an answer 55 Hythloday is supposed to have visited Utopia m the V 
 
 one way or other, whether ye be minded as all r^^^^'se qf his travels, and he is represented as relating his ^; 
 
 ^ ' -^ impressions of the strange land to More. Ihe greater I 
 
 2 Perhaps; perchance. (Lat. per casum.) part of Mora's book consists of Hythloday's narrative, 
 
 « Whispering. * Discreet, reliable. and his reflections on the Utopian Commonwealth. 
 
 « All the time in the same manner. 2 Weal, primarily wealth, riches, and hence prosperity, 
 
 • Whispered. success. 
 
SIR THOMAS MORE 127 
 
 For in other places they speak still of the much pleasanter, taking no thought in the 
 Commonwealth, but every man procureth his mean season for the time to come. But these 
 own private gain. Here, where nothing is seely^ poor wretches be presently tormented 
 private, the common affairs be earnestly looked with barren and unfruitful labour. And the 
 upon. And truly on both parts they have 5 remembrance of their poor, indigent, and 
 good cause so to do as they do. For in other beggarly old age, killeth them up. For their 
 countries who knoweth not that he shall daily wages is so little, that it will not suffice for 
 starve for hunger, unless he make some severaP the same day, much less it yieldeth any over- 
 provision for himself, though the Common- plus, that may daily be laid up for the relief of 
 wealth flourish never so much in riches? And 10 old age. Is not this an unjust and unkind 
 therefore he is compelled, even of very neces- public weal, which giveth great fees and re- 
 sity, to have regard to himself, rather than to wards to gentlemen, as they call them, and to 
 the people, that is to say, to others. Contrary- goldsmiths, and to such other, which be either 
 wise there, where all things be common to idle persons, or else only flatterers, and de- 
 every man, it is not to be doubted that anyisvisers of vain pleasures; and of the contrary 
 man shall lack anything necessary for his part, maketh no gentle^ provision for poor 
 private uses; so that the common store-houses plowmen, colliers, labourers, carters, iron- 
 and barns be sufficiently stored. For there smiths, and carpenters; without whom no 
 nothing is distributed after a niggish sort,* Commonwealth can continue? But after it 
 neither is there any poor man or beggar. An 20 hath abused the labourers of their lusty and 
 though no man have anything, yet every man is flowering age, at the last, when they be op- 
 rich. For what can be more rich than to live pressed with old age and sickness, — being 
 joyfully and merrily, without all grief and needy, poor, and indigent of all things, — then 
 pensiveness: not caring for his own living, nor forgetting their so many painful watchings, not 
 vexed or troubled with his wife's importunate 25 remembering their so many and so great 
 complaints, nor dreading poverty to his son, nor benefits, recompenseth and aquitteth'^ them 
 sorrowing for his daughter's dowry? Yea, they most unkindly with miserable death. And 
 take no care at all for the living and wealth of yet, besides this, the rich men, not only by 
 themselves and all theirs, of their wives, their private fraud, but also by common laws, do 
 children, their nephews, their children's chil- 30 every day pluck and snatch away from the 
 dren, and all the succession that ever shall poor some part of their daily living. So, 
 follow in their posterity. And yet, besides this, whereas it seemed before unjust to recompense 
 there is no less provision for them that were with unkindness their pains that have been 
 once labourers, and be now weak and impotent, beneficial to the public weal, now they have to 
 than for them that do now labour and take 35 this their wrong and imjust dealing (which is 
 pain. Here now would I see if any man dare be yet a much worse point) given the name of 
 so bold as to <iiompare with this equity, the justice, yea, and that by force of a law. There- 
 justice of othe^i' nations; among whom, I forsake fore, when I consider and weigh in my mind all 
 God, if I car find any sign or token of equity these Commonwealths, which nowadays any- 
 and justice For what justice is this, that a 40 where do flourish, so God help me, I can per- 
 rich goldsT*"'ith, or an usurer, or, to be short, ceive nothing but a certain conspiracy of rich 
 any of tb *m which either do nothing at all, or men procuring their own commodities under the 
 else the^V which they do is such that it is not name and title of the Commonwealth. They 
 very r^/"pessary to the commonwealth, should invent and devise aU means and crafts, first how 
 have V-. pleasant and a wealthy living, either by 45 to keep safely, without fear of losing, that they 
 idleness, or by unnecessary business; when in have imjustly gathered together, and next how 
 "^le meantime poor labourers, carters, iron- to hire and abuse the work and labour of the 
 smiths, carpenters, and plowmen, by so great poor for as little money as may be. These 
 and continual toil, as drawing and bearing devices, when the rich men have decreed (them) 
 beasts be scant able to sustain, and again so 50 to be kept and observed under colour of the 
 necessary toil, that without it no common- commonalty,* that is to say, also of the poor 
 wealth were able to continue and endure one people, then they be made laws. But these 
 year, should yet get so hard and poor a living, most wicked and vicious men, when they have 
 and live so wretched and miserable a life, that by their unsatiable covetessness divided among 
 the state and condition of the labouring beasts 55 themselves all those things, which would have 
 naay seem much better and wealthier? For s Happy; innocent; simple. 
 
 they be not put to so continual labour, nor « Suitable; adequate. (See Cent. Diet, genteel.) 
 
 their living is not much worse, yea to them ^ gXr^h?''p"ret'e'nse that they are for the benefit ol 
 
 « Separate, personal. * Niggardly fashion. the common people. 
 
128 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 sufficed all men, yet how far be they from the poverty she might vex, torment, a»d increase, 
 wealth and felicity of the Utopian Common- by gorgeously setting forth her riches. This 
 wealth? Out of the which, in that all the desire hell hound creepeth into men's hearts; and 
 of money with the use thereof is utterly se- plucketh them back from entering the right 
 eluded and banished, how great a heap of cares 5 path of life, and is so deeply rooted in men's 
 is cut away ! How great an occasion of wicked- breasts, that she cannot be plucked out. 
 ness and mischief is plucked up by the roots! This form and fashion of a weal pubUc, which 
 
 For who knoweth not, that fraud, theft, I would gladly wish unto all nations, I am glad 
 rapine, brawling, quarrelling, brabbling,^ strife, yet that it hath chanced to the Utopians, 
 chiding, contention, murder, treason, poison- lo which have followed those institutions of life, 
 ing, which by daily punishments are rather whereby they have laid such foundations of 
 revenged than refrained, do die when money their Commonwealth, as shall continue and 
 dieth? And also that fear, grief, care, labours, last not only wealthily, but also as far as man's 
 and watchings do perish even the very same wit may judge and conjecture, shall endure 
 moment that money perisheth? Yea, poverty 15 forever. For, seeing the chief causes of ambi- 
 itself, which only seemed to lack money, if tion and sedition with other vices be plucked 
 money were gone, it also would decrease and up by the roots and abandoned at home, there 
 vanish away. And that you may perceive this can be no jeopardy of domestical dissension, 
 more plainly, consider with yourselves some which alone hath cast under foot and brought 
 barren and unfruitful year, wherein many 20 to nought the well-fortified and strongly 
 thousands of people have starved for hunger: defenced wealth and riches of many cities. 
 I dare be bold to say, that in the end of that But forasmuch as perfect concord remaineth, 
 penury so much corn or grain might have been and wholesome laws be executed at home, the 
 found in the rich men's barns, if they had been envy of all foreign princes be not able to shake 
 searched, as being divided among them whom 25 or move the Empire, though they have many 
 famine and pestilence then consumed, no man times long ago gone about to do it, being ever- 
 at all should have felt that plague and penury, more driven back. 
 
 So easily might men get their living, if that Thus when RaphaeP' had made an end of 
 
 same worthy Princess, Lady Money, did not his tale, though many things came to my mind, 
 alone stop up the way between us and our 30 which in the manners and laws of that people 
 living, which, a God's name,^° was very ex- seemed to be instituted and founded of no good 
 cellently devised and invented, that by her the reason, not only in the fashion of their chivalry, 
 way thereto should be opened. I am sure the and in their sacrifices and religions, and in other 
 rich men perceive this, nor they be not too of their laws, but also, yea, and chiefly, in that 
 ignorant how much better it were to lack no 35 which is the principal foundation of all their 
 necessary thing, than to abound with over- ordinances, that is to say, in the community 
 much superfluity; to be rid out^^ of innumerable of their life and living, without any occupying^* 
 cares and troubles, than to be besieged and of money, by the which things only are nobility, 
 encumbered with great riches. And I doubt magnificence, worship, honour, and majesty, 
 not that either the respect of every man's 40 the true ornaments and honours, as the com- 
 private commodity, or else the authority of our mon opinion is, of a Commonwealth, utterly 
 Saviour Christ (which for his great wisdom be overthrown and destroyed: yet because I 
 could not but know what were best, and for his knew he was weary of talking, and was not 
 inestimable goodness could not but counsel to sure whether he could abide that anything 
 that which he knew to be best) would have 45 should be said against his mind, especially 
 brought all the world long ago into the laws of remembering that he had reprehended this 
 this weal public, if it were not that one only fault in others, which be afeard lest they 
 beast, the princess and mother of all mischief, should seem not to be wise enough unless they 
 Pride, doth withstand and let^^ {^ g^^ meas- could find some fault in other men's inventions; 
 ureth not wealth and prosperity by her own 50 therefore I, praising both their institutions and 
 commodities, but by the miseries and incom- his communication, took him by the hand, and 
 modities of others; she would not by her good led him in to supper; saying that we would 
 will be made a goddess, if there were no choose another time to weigh and examine the 
 wretches left, over whom she might like a same matters, and to talk with him more at 
 scornful lady rule and triumph; over whose 55 large therein. Which would God it might once 
 miseries her feUcities might shine; whose come to pass. In the mean time, as I cannot \, 
 
 9 Wrangling. agree and conseut to all things that he Said, — ' 
 
 10 In God's name. Ci. Taming of the Shrew, I, 2, 195. hpino- pUp wifhnnf Hniiht n mart «intrnl«rlv 
 
 11 Delivered; rescued. Rid out of =released from. "^^^^ ^^^^ WlUlOUt QOUDt a man smguiariy 
 
 12 Prevent; stop. (See Hamlet, I, 4, 85.) " Raphael Hythloday. " Holding; iising. 
 
WILLIAM ROPER 129 
 
 well learned, and also in all worldly matters seen, to my wife, his dearly beloved daughter, 
 exactly and profoundly experienced, — so must and a letter written with a coal, contained in 
 I needs confess and grant that many things be the aforesaid book of his works, plainly ex- 
 in the Utopian weal public, which in our cities pressing the fervent desire he had to suffer 
 I may rather wish for than hope after. son the morrow, in these words: "I cumber 
 
 Thus endeth the afternoon's talk of Raphael you, good Margaret, much, but would be sorry 
 Hythloday concerning the laws and institu- if it should be longer than tomorrow. For 
 tions of the Island of Utopia. tomorrow is St. Thomas' even, and the Utas^ of 
 
 St. Peter, and therefore tomorrow I long to 
 
 logo to God, it were a day very meet and con- 
 
 '^tlUdiUt l^Opft venient for me. Dear Megg, I never liked your 
 
 ^^^'^^^ better towards me than when you 
 
 149d-1o75 kissed me last. For I hke when daughterly 
 
 _ „ ^,,-r.«^^,„-r^^-r ^^ r.TT^ rw^TT^, , . o. lovc aud dcar charity hath no leisure to look to 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS ,5 worldly courtesy." And so upon the next 
 
 MUKii. morrow, being Tuesday, St. Thomas his even, 
 
 (From Life of Sir Thomas More, first printed, J^^ ,*he Utas of St. Peter, in the year of our 
 
 IQ2Q) Lord 1535, accordmg as he m his letter the day 
 
 before had wished, early in the morning came 
 When Sir Thomas More came from West- 20 to him Sir Thomas Pope, his singular good 
 minster to the Tower-ward^ again, his daughter, friend, on message from the King and his 
 my wife, desirous to see her father, whom she Council, that he should before nine of the clock 
 thought she^ would never see in this world after, of the same morning suffer death; and that 
 and also to have his final blessing, gave attend- therefore he should forthwith prepare himself 
 ance about the Tower Wharf, where she knew 25 thereto. "Master Pope," saith he, "for your 
 he should pass by, before he could enter good tidings I heartily thank you. I have been 
 into the Tower. Where tarrying his coming as always much bounden to the King's Highness 
 soon as she saw him, after his blessing upon for the benefits and honours that he hath still 
 her knees reverently received, she, hasting from time to time most bountifull heaped upon 
 towards him, without consideration or care of 30 me, and yet more bounden am I to His Grace 
 herself, pressing in amongst the midst of the for putting me into this place, where I have had 
 throng and company of the guard, that with convenient time and space to have remem- 
 halberds and bills were round about him, brance of my end. And so help me God, most 
 hastily ran to him, and there openly in sight of of all, Master Pope, am I bounden to his 
 them all embraced him and took him about the 35 Highness, that it pleaseth him so shortly to 
 neck and kissed him. Who well liking her most rid me out of the miseries of this wretched 
 natural and dear daughterly affection towards world, and therefore will I not fail earnestly to 
 him, gave her his fatherly blessing, and many pray for his Grace, both here, and also in the 
 godly words of comfort besides. From whom world to come." "The King's pleasure is 
 after she was departed, she not satisfied with 40 further," quoth Master Pope, "that at your 
 the former sight of her dear father, and like execution you shall not use many words." 
 one that had forgotten herself, being all rav- "Master Pope" quoth he, "you do well to give 
 ished with the entire love of her dear father, me warning of his Grace's pleasure, for other- 
 having respect neither to herself, nor to the wise, at that time had I purposed somewhat 
 press of people and multitude that were about 45 to have spoken; but of no matter wherewith his 
 him, suddenly turned back again, and ran to Grace or any other should have had cause to be 
 him as before, took him about the neck, and offended. Nevertheless, whatsoever I had in- 
 divers times kissed him most lovingly; and at tended I am ready obediently to conform my- 
 last with a full heavy heart, was fain to depart self to his Grace's commandment; and I be- 
 from him; the beholding whereof was to many 50 seech you, good Master Pope, to be a mean to 
 of them that were present thereat so lamentable his Highness, that my daughter Margaret may 
 that it made them for very sorrow thereof to be at my burial." "The King is content al- 
 weep and mourn. ready," quoth Master Pope, "that your wife. 
 
 So remained Sir Thomas More in the Tower, children, and other friends shall have liberty 
 more than a seven-night after his judgment. 55 to be present thereat." "O how much beholden 
 From whence the day before he suffered, he then," said Sir Thomas More, "am I unto his 
 sent his shirt of hair, not willing to have it Grace, that unto my poor burial vouchsafeth 
 
 1 More had been tried and condemned in Westminster * The eighth day after St. Peter's day, i. e., the 6th of 
 
 Hall, after which he was taken back to the Tower. July. 
 
130 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 to have so gracious consideration!" Where- of whose doings ourselves have had these many 
 withal Master Pope taking his leave of him, years no small experience, we would rather have 
 could not refrain from weeping. Which Sir lost the best city of our dominions, than have 
 Thomas More perceiving, comforted him in lost such a worthy Counsellor." Which matter 
 this wise, "Quiet yourself, good Master Pope, 5 was by the same Sir Thomas Eliott to myself, 
 and be not discomforted, for I trust that we to my wife, to Mr. Clement and his wife, to 
 shall once in heaven see each other full merrily, Mr. John Heywood and his wife, and unto 
 where we shall be sure to live and love together, divers others his friends accordingly reported, 
 in joyful bliss eternally." Upon whose de- 
 parture Sir Thomas More, as one that has been 10 
 
 invited to some solemn feast, changed himself J&Uglj flStlUt^t 
 
 into his best apparel. Which Master Lieuten- 
 ant espying, advised him to put it off, saying, ^- 1491-1555 
 that he who should have it was but a javill.' 
 
 ''What, Master Lieutenant?" quoth he, "shaU 15 THE PLOWERS 
 
 I account him a javiU that shall do me this ^^rom a Sermon preached at St. Paul's, 18th 
 day so singular a benefit? Nay, I assure you, January 1548) 
 
 were it cloth of gold, I should think it well ' 
 
 bestowed on him, as St. Cyprian did, who gave I told you in my first sermon, honourable 
 
 his executioner thirty pieces of gold." And 20 audience, that I purposed to declare unto you 
 albeit at length, through Master Lieutenant's two things. 'The one, what seed should be 
 importunate persuasion, he altered his apparel, sown in God's field, in God's plough land, 
 yet, after the example of the holy martyr St. And the other, who should be the sowers. 
 Cyprian, did he, of that little money that was That is to say, what doctrine is to be taught in 
 left him, send an angeP of gold to his execu- 25 Christ's church and congregation, and what 
 tioner. And so was he brought by Master men should be the teachers and preachers of 
 Lieutenant out of the Tower, and from thence it. The first part I have told you in the three 
 led towards the place of execution. Where, sermons past, in which I have assayed to set 
 going up the scaffold, which was so weak that forth my plough, to prove what I could do. 
 it was ready to fall, he said merrily to theso And now I shall tell you who be the ploughers: 
 Lieutenant, "I pray you. Master Lieutenant, for God's word is a seed to be sown in God's 
 see me safe up, and for my coming down let field, that is, the faithful congregation, and the 
 me shift for myself." And then desired he all preacher is the sower. And it is in the gospel: 
 the people thereabout to pray for him, and to Exivit qui seminal seminare semen suum: "He 
 bear witness with him, that he should now 35 that soweth, the husbandman, the ploughman, 
 there suffer death in and for the faith of the went forth to sow his seed." So that a preacher 
 holy Catholic Church. Which done, he kneeled is resembled to a ploughman, as it is in another 
 down, and, after his prayers said, turned to the place: Nemo admota arato manu, et a tergo 
 executioner with a cheerful countenance, and respiciens, aptus est regno Dei. "No man that 
 said unto him, "Pluck up thy spirits, man, and 40putteth his hand to the plough, and looketh 
 be not afraid to do thine office: my neck is very back, is apt for the kingdom of God." That is 
 short, take heed, therefore, thou strike not to say, let no preacher be negligent in doing his 
 awry for saving of thine honesty." So passed office. . . . For preaching of the gospel is one 
 Sir Thomas More out of this world to God, of God's ploughworks, and the preacher is 
 upon the very same day which he most desired. 45 one of God's ploughmen. Ye may not be 
 Soon after his death came intelligence thereof offended with my similitude, in that I compare 
 to the Emperor Charles.^ Whereupon he preaching to the labour and work of ploughing, 
 sent for Sir Thomas Eliott, our English am- and the preacher to a ploughman. Ye may not 
 bassador, and said to him, "My Lord ambas- be offended with this my similitude; for I have 
 sador, we understand that the King, your 50 been slandered of some persons for such 
 master, hath put his faithful servant and grave things. ... A prelate is that man whatsoever 
 wise counsellor. Sir Thomas More, to death." he be, that hath a flock to be taught of him; 
 Whereupon Sir Thomas Eliott answered that whosoever hath any spiritual charge in the 
 he understood nothing thereof. "Well," said faithful congregation, and whosoever he be that 
 the Emperor, "it is too true: and this will we 55 hath cure of souls. . . . And how few of them\, 
 say, that had we been master of such a servant, there be throughout this realm that give meat r 
 » A low worthless fellow, a scoundrel. to their flock as they should do, the visitors can 
 
 * A gold coin firet struck in the reign of Edward IV. [5^3^ ^ell. Too few, too few; the more is the 
 
 'Charles I., King of Spam, who became rloly Uoman ., , . ' ' 
 
 Emperor as Charles V. in 1519, pity, and never SO few as now. 
 
HUGH LATIMER 131 
 
 By this, then, it appeareth that a prelate, or butterfly gldrieth not ir her own deeds, nor 
 any that hath cure of souls, must diligently and preferreth the traditions of men before God's 
 substantially work and labour. Therefore word; it committeth not idolatry, nor wor- 
 saith Paul to Timothy, Qui episcopatum shippeth false gods. But London cannot abide 
 desiderat, hie bonum opus desiderat: "He that 5 to be rebulced; such is the nature of man. If 
 desireth to have the office of a bishop, or a they be pricked, they will kick; if they be 
 prelate, that man desireth a good work." Then rubbed on the gall, they will wince; but yet they 
 if it be a good work, it is work: ye can make but will not amend their faults, they will not be ill 
 a work of it. It is God's work, God's plough, spoken of. But how shall I speak well of them? 
 and that plough God would have still going, lo If you could be content to receive and follow 
 Such then as loiter and hve idly, are not good the word of God, and favour good preachers, if 
 prelates, or ministers. . . . How many such you could bear to be told of your faults, if you 
 prelates, how many such bishops. Lord, for could amend when you hear of them, if you 
 thy mercy, are there now in England? And would be glad to reform that is amiss; if I 
 what shall we in this case do? shaU we company 15 might see any such inclination in you, that 
 with them? O Lord, for thy mercy! shall we leave to be merciless, and begin to be charitable, 
 not company with them? O Lord, whither I would then hope well of you. But London 
 shall we flee from them? But "cursed be he was never so iU as it is now. In times past 
 that doth the work of God negligently or men were full of pity and compassion, but now 
 guilefully." A sore word for them that are 20 there is no pity; for in London their brother 
 negligent in discharging their office, or have shall die in the streets for cold, he shall lie sick 
 done it fraudulently; for that is the thing that at the door between stock and stock, ^ I cannot 
 maketh the people ill. tell what to call it, and perish there for hunger; 
 
 But true it must be that Christ saith, MuUi was there any more unmercifulness in Nebo? 
 sunt vocati, paud vero elecli: "Many are called, 25 1 think not. In times past, when any rich man 
 but few are chosen," . . . Now what shall we died in London, they were wont to help the 
 say of these rich citizens of London? What poor scholars of the university with exhibition, 
 shall I say of them? Shall I call them proud When any man died, they would bequeath 
 men of London, maUcious men of London, great sums of money toward the relief of the 
 merciless men of London? No, no, I may not 30 poor. When I was a scholar in Cambridge 
 say so; they will be offended with me then, myself , I heard very good report of London, and 
 Yet must I speak. For is there not reigning in knew many that had relief of the rich men of 
 London as much pride, as much covetousness, London, but now I can hear no such good 
 as much cruelty, as much oppression, as much report, and yet I enquire of it, and hearken for 
 superstition, as was in Nebo?i Yes, I think, 35 it; but now charity is waxen cold, none helpeth 
 and much more too. Therefore I say, repent, the scholar, nor yet the poor. And in those 
 
 London; repent, repent. Thou hearest thy days, what did they when they helped the 
 faults told thee, amend them, amend them, scholars? Marry, they maintained and gave 
 
 1 think if Nebo had had the preaching that them livings that were very papists, and pro- 
 thou hast, they would have converted. And, 40 fessed the pope's doctrine; and now that the 
 you rulers and officers, be wise and circumspect, knowledge of God's word is brought to light, 
 look to your charge, and see you do your duties; and many earnestly study and labour to set it 
 and rather be glad to amend your ill living than forth, now almost no man helpeth to maintain 
 to be angry when you are warned or told of them. 
 
 your fault. What ado was there made in 45 Oh London, London! repent, repent; for I 
 London at a certain man, because he said (and think God is more displeased with London than 
 indeed at that time on a just cause), "Bur- ever He was with the city of Nebo. Repent 
 gesses!" quoth he, "nay. Butterflies." Lord, therefore, repent, London, and remember that 
 what ado there was for that word! And yet the same God liveth now that punished Nebo, 
 would God they were no worse than butter-50even the same God, and none other; and He will 
 flies! Butterflies do but their nature: the punish sin as well now as He did then: and He 
 butterfly is not covetous, is not greedy of other will punish the iniquity of London, as well as He 
 men's goods; is not full of envy and hatred, is did then of Nebo. Amend therefore. And ye 
 not malicious, is not cruel, is not merciless. The that be prelates, look well to your office: for 
 1 1 city on the east side of the Jordan, which was 55 right prelating, is busy labouring, and not 
 taken from the Israelites by the Moabites. Latimer lording. Therefore preach and teach, and 
 
 says m a foregomg passage: Among (the cities of Moab) , ^ , , , , • -cr , , t j^-i i. 
 
 there was one called Nebo, which was much reproved for let yOUr plough be domg. Ye lordS, i Say, that 
 
 idolatry, superstition, pride, avarice, cruelty, tyranny jj^g yj^g loiterers, look well to yOUr office: 
 
 and for hardness of heart; and for these sins was plagued ^ ^ "^ ^ ^^ ^^ ^ , j 
 
 of God and destroyed." 2 Post and post. 
 
132 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 the plough is your office and charge. If you live body, so must we also have the other for the 
 idle and loiter, you do not your duty, you satisfaction of the soul, or else we cannot live 
 follow not your vocation: let your plough there- long ghostly.* For as the body wasteth and 
 fore be going, and not cease, that the ground consumeth away for lack of bodily meat, so 
 may bring forth fruit. 5 doth the soul pine away for default of ghostly 
 
 But now methinketh I hear one say unto me: meat. But there be two kinds of inclosing, 
 Wot ye what you say? Is it a work? Is it a to let or hinder both these kinds of ploughing; 
 labour? How then hath it happened that we the one is an inclosing to let or hinder the 
 have had so many hundred years so many bodily ploughing, and the other to let or hinder 
 unpreaching prelates, lording loiterers, and idle 10 the holiday-ploughing, the church plough- 
 ministers? Ye would have me here to make ing. . . . And as diligently as the husbandman 
 answer, and to shew the cause thereof. Nay, plougheth for the sustentation of the body, so 
 this land is not for me to plough; it is too diligently must the prelates and ministers 
 stony, too thorny, too hard for me to plough, labour for the feeding of the soul: both the 
 They have so many things that make for them, 15 ploughs must still be going, as most necessary 
 many things to lay for themselves, that it is for man. And wherefore are magistrates or- 
 not for my weak team to plough them. They dained, but that the tranquility of the corn- 
 have to lay for themselves long customs, monweal may be confirmed, limiting both 
 ceremonies and authority, placing in parlia- ploughs. 
 
 ment, and many things more. And I fear me 20 But now for the default of unpreaching 
 this land is not yet ripe to be ploughed : for, prelates, methinks I could guess what might be 
 as the saying is, it lacketh weathering :3 this said for excusing of them. They are so troubled 
 gear lacketh weathering; at least way it is not with lordly living, they be so placed in palaces, 
 for me to plough. For what shaU I look for couched in courts, ruffling in their rents,* 
 among thorns, but pricking and scratching? 25 dancing in their dominions, burdened with 
 What among stones, but stumbling? What embassages, pampering of their paunches, like a 
 (I had almost said) among serpents, but sting- monk that maketh his jubilee; munching in 
 ing? But this much I dare say, that since their mangers, and moiling in their gay manors 
 lording and loitering hath come up, preaching and mansions, and so troubled with loitering 
 hath come down, contrary to the apostles' 30 in their lordships, that they cannot attend it. 
 times: for they preached and lorded not, and They are otherwise occupied, some in the king's 
 now they lord and preach not. For they that matters, some are ambassadors, some of the 
 be lords will ill go to plough: it is no meet privy council, some to furnish the court, 
 office for them; it is not seeming for their state, some are Lords of the Parliament, some 
 Thus came up lording loiterers: thus crept in 35 are presidents, and some comptrollers of 
 unpreaching prelates; and so have they long mints. . . . 
 
 continued. For how many unlearned prelates And now I would ask a strange question: 
 have we now at this day? And no marvel: for who is the most diligent bishop and prelate in 
 if the ploughmen that now be were made all England, that passeth all the rest in doing 
 lords, they would clean give over ploughing; 40 his office? I can tell, for I know him, who it is: 
 they would leave off their labour, and fall to I know him well. But now I think I see you 
 lording outright, and let the plough stand: and listening and hearkening that I should name 
 then both ploughs not walking, nothing should him. There is one that passeth all the other, 
 be in the commonweal but hunger. For ever and is the most diligent prelate and preacher in 
 since the prelates were made lords and nobles, 45 all England. And will ye know who it is? 
 the plough standeth, there is no work done, I will tell you: it is the Devil. He is the most 
 the people starve. They hawk, they hunt, they diligent preacher of all other; he is never out 
 card, they dice; they pastime in their prelacies of his diocese; he is never from his cure; ye 
 with gallant gentlemen, with their dancing shall never find him unoccupied; he is ever in 
 minions, and with their fresh companions, so 50 his parish; he keepeth residence at all times; 
 that ploughing is set aside: and by the lording ye shall never find him out of the way, call for 
 and loitering, preaching and ploughing is clean him when you will he is ever at home; the 
 gone. And thus if the ploughmen of the diligentest preacher in all the realm; he is ever 
 country were as negligent in their office as at his plough: no lording nor loitering , can 
 prelates be, we should not long live, for lack of 55 hinder him; he is ever applying his business,\ 
 sustenance. And as it is necessary for to have ye shall never find him idle, I warrant you. ... 
 this ploughing for the sustentation of the 
 
 * Spiritually, 
 
 * Putting on airs, or swaggering, because of their riches 
 » Exposure to the air for drying purposes. or rents. 
 
ROGER ASCHAM 133 
 
 Oh that our prelates would be as diligent to Mogft ^0Cl)3nt 
 
 sow the corn of good doctrine, as Satan is to 
 
 sow cockle and darnel! . . . 1515-1568 
 
 but the devil is diligent at his plough. He is no ^^^ 13UUK 
 
 unpreaching prelate: he is no lordly loiterer (prom the Preface to The Schoolmaster, pub. 
 from his cure,^ but a busy ploughman; so that 1570) 
 
 among all the prelates, and among all the pack 
 
 of them that have cure, the devil shall go for 10 Yet some men, friendly enough of nature, 
 my money ,^ for he still applieth his business, but of small judgment in learning, do think I 
 Therefore ye unpreaching prelates, learn of the take too much pains and spend too much time 
 devil: to be diligent in doing of your office, in setting forth these children's affairs. But 
 learn of the devil: and if you will not learn of those good men were never brought up in 
 God nor of good men for shame learn of the 15 Socrates' school, who saith plainly, that no 
 devil. Howbeit there is now very good hope man goeth about a more goodly purpose, than 
 that the king's majesty, being by the help of he that is mindful of the good bringing up both 
 good governance of his most honourable of his own and other men's children, 
 counsellors, he is trained and brought up in Therefore, I trust, good and wise men will 
 
 learning, and knowledge of God's word, will 20 think well of this my doing. And of other, 
 shortly provide a remedy, and set an order that think otherwise, I will think myself, they 
 herein; which thing that it may so be, let us are but men to be pardoned for their folly and 
 pray for him. Pray for him, good people: pitied for their ignorance, 
 pray for him. Ye have great cause and need to In writing this book, I have had earnest 
 pray for him. 25 respect to three special points, truth of religion, 
 
 honesty in Uving, right order in learning. In 
 
 which three ways, I pray God, my poor children 
 
 may diligently walk; for whose sake, as nature 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF HIS FATHER would and reason required and necessity also 
 
 30 somewhat comf>elled, I was the willinger to 
 (From First Sermon preached before King take these pains, 
 
 Edward Vlth, March 8th, 1549) For, seeing at my death I am not like to 
 
 leave them any great store of living, therefore 
 My Father was a yeoman, and had no lands in my lifetime I thought good to bequeath unto 
 of his own, only he had a farm of three or four 35 them in this little book, as in my Will and 
 pounds by year at the uttermost, and hereupon Testament, the right way to good learning: 
 he tilled so much as kept half a dozen men. which if they follow with the fear of God, they 
 He had walk^ for a hundred sheep; and my shall very well come to sufficiency of living, 
 mother milked thirty kine. He was able and I wish also, with all my heart, that young 
 
 did find the king a harness, with himself and 40 Mr. Rob. Sackville^ may take that fruit of this 
 his horse, while he came to the place that he labour, that his worthy grandfather purposed 
 should receive the king's wages. I can remem- he should have done; and if any other do take 
 ber that I buckled his harness when he went either profit or pleasure hereby, they have 
 unto Blackheath field. He kept me to school, cause to thank Mr. Robert Sackville, for whom 
 or else I had not been able to have preached 45 specially this my Schoolmaster was provided, 
 before the king's majesty now. He married my 
 
 sisters with five pounds, or twenty nobles rpTri^ rpT. AiMTMr nw PTTTT r»PT?M 
 
 apiece; so that he brought them up in godliness ^HE TRAINING OF CHILDREN 
 
 and fear of God. He kept hospitality for his (From the same) 
 
 poor neighbors, and some alms he gave to the 50 
 
 poor. And all this did he of the said farm, Yet, some will say, that children of nature^ 
 
 where he that now hath it payeth sixteen love pastime, and mislike learning: because, in 
 pounds by year, or more, and is not able to do their kind, the one is easy and pleasant, the 
 anything for his prince, for himself, nor for other hard and wearisome, which is an opinion 
 his children, or give a cup of drink to the 55 not so true as some men ween: for, the matter 
 poor. lieth not so much in the disposition of them 
 
 I Second Earl of Dorset (1561-1609), whose education 
 6 Parish. was entrusted to Ascham by his grandjfather, Sir Richard 
 
 ^ i. e. 1 11 stake my money on the devil. Sackville. 
 
 1 A sheep-walk in a pasture. i Naturally. 
 
 / 
 
134 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 that be young, as in the order and manner of allured from innoeency, delighted -in vain 
 bringing up, by them that be old, nor yet in sights, filled with foul talk, crooked with 
 the difference of learning and pastime. For, wilfulness, hardened with stubbornness, and 
 beat a child, if he dance not well, and cherish let loose to disobedience, surely it is hard with 
 him though he learn not well, ye shall have him 5 gentleness, but unpossible with severe cruelty, 
 unwilling to go to dance, and glad to go to his to call them back to good frame again. For, 
 book. Knock him always, when he draweth where the one perchance may bend it, the other; 
 his shaft^ ill, and favour him again, though he shall surely break it; and so instead of some' 
 fault at his book, ye shall have him very loth to hope, leave an assured desperation, and shame- 
 be in the field, and very willing to be in the 10 less contempt of all goodness, the farthest 
 school. Yea, I say more, and not of myself, point in all mischief, as Xenophon doth most 
 but by the judgment of those, from whom few truely and most wittily mark, 
 wise men will gladly dissent, that if ever the Therefore, to love or to hate, to like or con- 
 nature of man be given at any time, more than temn, to ply this way or that way to good or to 
 other, to receive goodness, it is in innoeency of 15 bad, ye shall have as ye use a child in his youth, 
 young years, before that experience of evil have And one example, whether love or fear doth 
 taken root in him. For, the pure clean wit of a work more in a child, for virtue and learning, I 
 sweet young babe is like the newest wax, most will gladly report : which may be heard with 
 able to receive the best and fairest printing: some pleasure, and followed with more profit, 
 and like a new bright silver dish never occupied, 20 Before I went into Germany, I came to Brode- 
 to receive and keep clean any good thing that gate in Leicestershire, to take my leave of that 
 is put into it. noble Lady Jane Grey,* to whom I was exceed- 
 
 And thus, will in children, wisely wrought ing much beholden. Her parents, the Duke and 
 withal, may easily be won to be very well Duchess, with all the household. Gentlemen 
 willing to learn. And wit in children, by 25 and Gentlewomen, were hunting in the Park: 
 nature, namely memory, the only key and I found her, in her chamber, reading Phcedon 
 keeper of all learning, is readiest to receive, Platonis^ in Greek, and that with as much 
 and surest to keep any manner of thing, that is delight, as some gentlemen would read a merry 
 learned in youth: this, lewd^ and learned, by tale in Bocace.^ After salutation, and duty 
 common experience, know to be most true. 30 done, with some other talk, I asked her why she 
 For we remember nothing so well when we be would lose such pastime in the Park? Smiling 
 old, as those things which we learned when we she answered me: I wisse,'^ all their sport in the 
 were young: and this is not strange, but com- Park is but a shadow to that pleasure, that I 
 mon in all nature's works. Every man sees find in Plato: Alas good folk, they never felt 
 (as I said before) new wax is best for printing: 35 what true pleasure meant. And how came you 
 new clay, fittest for working: new shorn wool, Madame, quoth I, to this deep knowledge of 
 aptest for soon and surest dying: new fresh pleasure, and what did chiefly allure you unto 
 flesh, for good and durable salting. And this it: seeing, not many women, but very few 
 similitude is not rude, nor borrowed of the men have attained thereunto? I will tell you, 
 larder house, but out of his schoolhouse, of 40 quoth she, and tell you a truth, which per- 
 whom the wisest of England need not be chance ye will marvel at. One of the greatest 
 ashamed to learn. Young grafts grow not only benefits, that ever God gave me, is that he 
 soonest, but also fairest, and bring always forth sent me so sharp and severe parents, and so 
 the best and sweetest fruit: young whelps learn gentle a schoolmaster. For when I am in 
 easily to carry: young poppin jays learn quickly 45 presence either of father or mother, whether 
 to speak: and so, to be short, if in all other I speak, keep silence, sit, stand, or go, eat, 
 things, though they lack reason, sense, and drink, be merry, or sad, be sewing, playing, 
 life, the similitude of youth is fittest to all dancing, or doing anything else, I must do it, as 
 goodness, surely nature, in mankind, is most it were, in such weight, measure, and number, 
 beneficial and effectual in this behalf . 50 even so perfectly as God made the world, or 
 
 Therefore, if to the goodness of nature be else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threat- 
 joined the wisdom of the teacher, in leading ened, yea presently sometimes with pinches, 
 young wits into a right and plain way of nips, and bobs, and other ways, which I will not 
 learning, surely, children, kept up in God's name, for the honour I bear them, so without 
 fear, and governed by His grace, may most 55 measure misordered, that I think myself in \ 
 easily be brought well to serve God and country .x j t n r mo-r ikka\ * j j u. 
 
 1 , , , • . J • 1 * Lady Jane Grey (e. 1537-1554), great grand-daughter 
 
 both by virtue and wisdom. of Henry VITth was made queen at 17, by ambitious 
 
 But if will and wit, by farther age, be once ^"^ self-seeking men. She reigned for nine days and 
 
 ' "^ ° ' was then beheaded m the tower. 
 
 2 Arrow. 3 Unlearned. & The Phosdo of Plato. 6 Boccaccio. ^ Indeed. 
 
JOHN FOXE 135 
 
 hell, till time come, that I must go to M. Elmer, ^ honoured: because time was, when Italy and 
 who teacheth me so gently, so pleasantly, with Rome have been, to the great good of us that 
 such fair allurements to learning, that I think now live, the best breeders and bringers up of 
 all the time nothing, whiles 1 am with him. the worthiest men, not only for wise speaking 
 And when I am called from him, I fall on 5 but also for well doing, in all Civil affairs, that 
 weeping, because, whatsoever I do else but ever was in the world. But now, that the time 
 learning, is full of grief, trouble, fear, and is gone, and though the place remain, yet the 
 whole niisliking unto me: and thus my book old and present manners do differ as far, as 
 hath been so much my pleasure, and bringeth black and white, as virtue and vice. Virtue 
 daily to me more pleasure and more, that in 10 once made that country mistress over all the 
 respect of it, all other pleasures, in very deed, be world. Vice now maketh that country slave to 
 but trifles and troubles unto me. I remember them that before were glad to serve it. All 
 this talk gladly, both because it is so worthy of men seeth it: they themselves confess it, 
 memory, and because also, it was the last talk namely such as be best and wisest amongst 
 that ever 1 had, and the last time that ever 1 15 them. For sin, by lust and vanity, hath and 
 saw that noble and worthy Lady. doth breed up everywhere common contempt 
 
 of God's word, private contention in many 
 
 TTTF FVTT FNrTTANTMFNT HV TTATV ^^"^^^^^S' ^P^^ factions in every city: and so, 
 IHE EVIL ENCHANTMENT OF ITALY making themselves bond to vanity and vice at 
 
 (From the same) ^^ home, they are content to bear the yoke of 
 
 serving strangers abroad. Italy now, is not 
 Sir Richard Sackville,^ that worthy gentle- that Italy that it was wont to be and therefore 
 
 , man of worthy memory, as I said in the begin- now not so fit a place, as some do count it, for 
 ning, in the Queen's privy Chamber at Windsor, young men to fetch either wisdom or honesty 
 after he had talked with me for the right choice 25 from thence. For surely they will make other 
 ' of a good wit in a child for learning, and of the but bad scholars, that be so ill masters to them- 
 true difference betwixt quick and hard wits, of selves. Yet, if a gentleman will needs travel 
 alluring young children by gentleness to love into Italy, he shall do well to look on the life 
 
 ^ learning, and of the special care that was to be of the wisest traveller that ever travelled thither, 
 had to keep young men from licentious living, 30 set out by the wisest writer that ever spake with 
 he was most earnest with me to have me say tongue, God's doctrine only excepted: and that 
 my mind also, what I thought concerning the is Ulysses in Homer. Ulysses and his travel I 
 fancy that many young gentlemen of England wish our travelers to look upon, not so much to 
 liave to travel abroad, and namely to lead a fear them with the great dangers that he many 
 long life in Italy. His request, both for his 35 times suffered, as to instruct them with his 
 authority and good will toward me, was a excellent wisdom which he always and every- 
 
 ' sufficient commandment unto me to satisfy his where used. Yea even those that be learned 
 pleasure with uttering plainly my opinion in and witty travellers, when they be disposed to 
 that matter. Sir, quoth I, I take going thither praise travelling, as a great commendation 
 and living there, for a young gentleman, that 40 and the best Scripture they have for it, they 
 doth not go under the keep and guard of such a gladly recite the third verse of Homer in his 
 
 I man as both by wisdom can and authority dare first book of Odyssey, containing a great praise 
 
 i rule him, to be marvelous dangerous. And of Ulysses for the wit he gathered and wisdom 
 why I said so then, I will declare at large now, he used in travelling, 
 which I said then privately and write now 45 
 openly, not because I do contemn, either the 
 
 knowledge of strange and diverse tongues, and 3i0l)n JfO]l^^ 
 
 namely the Italian tongue, which next the ^ 
 
 Greek and Latin tongue I like and love above lolo-1587 
 
 all other: or else because I do despise the learn- 50 . ^^^ ^ , ^-.tt, ^-o-nTT-t 
 
 ing that is gotten, or the experience that is THE EXECUTION OF LADY JANE GREYi 
 gathered in strange countries : or for any private .^^^^ ^^^^ . Martyrs, 1563) 
 
 malice that I bear to Italy: which country 
 and in it namely Rome, I have always specially When she first mounted the scaffold, she 
 
 .T u * . ,,.o. ,^n.N . . . T J T 55 spake to the spectators in this manner: Good 
 
 ^^^John Aylmer (1521-1594). was a tutor to Lady Jane ^^^^^^^ ^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^.^^ ^^^ ^^ ^ j^^ 
 
 1 Under treasurer of the Exchequer, and who occupied I am condemned tO the same. The fact 
 
 many high places, was a most influential man of his time, against the Quecn's highness was unlawful, and 
 
 It was he who encouraged Ascham to write The School- "■fe"!^"^^" ^"^^^ H"^ t> ' 
 
 master. ^ See p. 134, note 4. 
 
136 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 the consenting thereunto by me: but, touching 
 the procurement and desire thereof by me, or 
 on my behalf, I do wash my hands thereof in 
 innocency before God, and the face of you, 
 good christian people, this day: and therewith 
 she wrung her hands, wherein she had her 
 book. .Then she said, I pray you all, good 
 christian people, to bear me witness that I die a 
 good christian woman, and that I do look to be 
 
 day the Lord Guildford,^ her husband, one of 
 the Duke of Northumberland's sons, was like- 
 wise beheaded, two innocents in comparison 
 of them that sat upon them. For they were 
 5 both very young, and ignorantly accepted that 
 which others had contrived, and by open proc- 
 lamation consented to take from others, and 
 give to them. 
 
 Touching the condemnation of this pious 
 
 saved by no other means, but only by the 10 lady, it is to be noted, that Judge Morgan^ who 
 mercy of God in the blood of his only Son gave sentence against her, soon after he had 
 Jesus Christ: and I confess, that when I did condemned her, fell mad, and in his raving 
 know the word of God, I neglected the same, cried out continually, to have the lady Jane 
 loved myself and the world, and therefore this taken away from him, and so he ended his life, 
 plague and punishment is happily and worthily 15 
 happened unto me for my sins: and yet I 
 thank God, that of his goodness he hath thus 
 given me a time and a respite to repent: and 
 now, good people, while I am alive, I pray you 
 assist me with your prayers. And then, 20 
 kneeling down, she turned to Feckenham,^ 
 saying, Shall I say this psalm? and he said. Yea. 
 Then she said the Psalm of Miserere mei 
 Deus,' in English, in a most devout manner 
 throughout to the end; and then she stood up, 25 
 and gave to her maid, Mrs. Ellen, her gloves 
 and handkerchief, and her book to Mr. Bruges; 
 and then she untied her gown, and the execu- 
 tioner pressed upon her to help her off with it: 
 but she, desiring him to let her alone, turned so 
 toward her two gentlewomen, who helped her 
 off therewith, and also with her frowcs,^ paste, ^ 
 and neckerchief, giving to her a fair handker- 
 chief to put about her eyes. 
 
 Then the executioner kneeled down, and 35 
 asked her forgiveness, whom she forgave most 
 willingly. Then he desired her to stand upon 
 the straw; which doing, she saw the block. 
 Then she said, I pray you despatch me quickly. 
 Then she kneeled down, saying. Will you take it 40 
 off before I lay me down? And the executioner 
 said, No, madam. Then she tied the handker- 
 chief about her eyes, and feeling for the block, 
 she said. What shall I do? Where is it? Where 
 is it? One of the standers-by guiding her 45 
 thereunto, she laid her head down upon the 
 block, and then stretched forth her body, and 
 said. Lord, into thy hands I commend my 
 spirit: and so finished her life, in the year of our 
 Lord 1554, the 12th day of February, about 50 
 the seventeenth year of her age. 
 
 THE AGE OF ELIZABETH 
 
 c. 1579-1637 
 
 CDmunti ^pmutt 
 
 1552-1599 
 
 THE FAERIE QUEENE 
 
 (1590) 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 Lo! I, the mani whose Muse whylome did 
 
 maske. 
 As time her taught, in lowly Shephards 
 
 weeds. 
 Am now enforst, a farre unfitter taske. 
 For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine oaten 
 
 reeds. 
 And sing of knights and ladies gentle deeds; 5 
 Whose praises having slept in silence long. 
 Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds^ 
 To blazon broade emongst her learned 
 
 throng: , ^ . 
 
 Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralize 
 
 my song. 
 
 Thus died the Lady Jane: and on the same 
 
 * John of Feckenham (15187-1585), private Chaplain 
 and Confessor to Queen Mary. He was sent to Lady 
 Jane Grey before her execution, to attempt her conver- 
 sion to the Romish faith. He acknowledged he felt him- 
 self htter to be her disciple than her teacher. 
 
 » Psalm 51, "Have mercy upon me, O God." 
 
 * Possibly a false wig, 
 
 * Some kind of headdress apparently made on a paste- 
 board foundation. 
 
 Helpe then, O holy vu-gin,^ chiefe of nyne, 10 
 Thy weaker ndvice to performe thy will; 
 Lay forth out of thine everlS,sting scryne* 
 The antique roUes, which there lye hidden 
 
 still. 
 Of Faerie knights, and fayrest Tanaquill,^ 
 
 « The fourth son of the Duke of Northumberland. He 
 was executed immediately after his wife. 
 
 ^ Sir Richard Morgan Cd. 1556) was a member of the 
 commission for the trial of Lady Jane Grey, and was the 
 one to pass sentence upon her. 
 
 » An allusion to Spenser's first important work, The 
 Shepherd's Calendar, a pastoral, 1579. 
 
 ! Y^I^^H' ^"^insels. 3 The muse Clio. 
 
 * A box for keepmg books. See Lat. scrinium. 
 
 6 Spenser evidently refers to Queen Elizabeth under 
 this name. Kitchm and others assert that Tanaquill 
 was a British princess. Spenser may have had Tanaquill, \ 
 the wife of Tarquinius Priscus, ia mind. ^ 
 
EDMUND SPENSER 
 
 137 
 
 Whom that most noble Briton Prince so 
 long 15 
 
 Sought through the world, and suffered so 
 much ill, 
 
 That 1 must rue his undeserved wrong: 
 O, helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my 
 dull tong! 
 
 Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, 50 
 For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he 
 
 had, 
 Right, faithfull, true he was in deede and 
 
 word; 
 But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad; 
 Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.^" 
 
 And thou, most dreaded impe^ of highest Jove, 
 Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell 
 
 dart 20 
 
 At that good knight so cunningly didst rove. 
 That glorious fire it kindled in his hart; 
 Lay now thy deadly heben^ bo we apart, 
 And with thy mother mylde come to mine 
 
 ayde; 
 Come, both; and with you bring triumphant 
 
 Mart,8 25 
 
 In loves and gentle jollities arraid. 
 After his murderous spoyles and bloudie rage 
 
 allay d. 
 
 IV 
 
 And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly 
 
 bright, 
 Mirrour of grace, and maiestie divine, 
 Great ladie of the greatest Isle, whose light 30 
 Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world 
 
 doth shine. 
 Shfed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne, 
 And raise my thoughtes, too humble and too 
 
 vile. 
 To thinke of that true glorious type of thine,^ 
 The argument of mine afflicted stile: 35 
 
 The which to heare vouchsafe, O dearest 
 
 Dread, a while. 
 
 Canto I 
 The patron of true Holinesse, 
 
 Foule Errour doth defeate; 
 Hypocrisie, him to entrappe. 
 
 Doth to his home entreate. 
 
 A gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, 
 Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, 
 Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did 
 remain e, 39 
 
 The cruell markes of manx a bloody fielde; 
 Yet armes till that time did ne never wield: 
 His angry steede did chide his foming bitt. 
 As much disdayning to the curbe to yield: 
 Full iolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, 
 As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters 
 
 fitt. 45 
 
 And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, 
 The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
 For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he 
 
 wore. 
 And dead, as living ever, him ador'd : 
 
 •Cupid or Eros. Imp was formerly used in a good 
 !nse, and meant simply child, or scion. 
 ^ Ebony. ' Mars. 
 
 » Una, the type of his "Goddess heavenly bright," 
 Queen Elizabeth, aa well as of Truth, 
 
 Upon a great adventure he was bond, 55 
 
 That greatest Gloriana^^ to him gave. 
 That greatest glorious Queene of Faery lond. 
 To winne him worshippe, and her grace to 
 
 have, 
 Which of all earthly thinges, he most did 
 
 crave: 
 
 And ever as he rode, his hart did earne,^^ 
 
 To prove his puissance in battell brave 61 
 
 Upon his foe, and his new force to learne; 
 
 Upon his foe, a Dragon^^ horrible and stearne. 
 
 A lovely Ladie^^ rode him faire beside, 
 Upon a lowly asse more white then snow; 65 
 Yet she much whiter; but the same did hide 
 Under a vele, that wimpled was full low; 
 And over all a blacke stole shee did throw: 
 As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, 
 And heavie sate upon her palfry slow; 70 
 
 Seemed in heart some hidden care she had; 
 And by her in a line a milke-white lambe she 
 
 lad. 
 
 v 
 So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, 
 She was in life and every vertuous lore; 
 And by descent from royall lynage came 75 
 Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of 
 
 yore 
 Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne 
 
 shore. 
 And all the world in their subiection held; 
 Till that infernall feend with foule uprore 
 Forwasted all their land, and them expeld; 
 Whom to avenge she had this Knight from far 
 
 compeld. 81 
 
 VI 
 
 Behind her farre away a Dwarfe^^ ^[^ lag. 
 That lasie seemd, in being ever last. 
 Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
 Of needments at his backe. Thus as they 
 past, , 85 
 
 The day with cloudes was suddeine over- 
 cast, 
 And angry love an hideous storme of raine 
 Did poure into his lemans lap so fast. 
 That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain; 
 And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves 
 were fain. 90 
 
 10 Dreaded. " Queen Elizabeth. ^J Yearn. 
 
 13 Error, or more particularly the false doctrines of the 
 Romish church, which the Red Cross Knight, or Re- 
 formed England, must combat. 
 
 '< Una, or Truth, which is one, in contrast to Duessa, 
 Falsehood, or Doubleness. Una is also, in a more de- 
 finite sense. Truth as embodied in the true Church. 
 
 !!> Supposed by some to represent Common sense, or 
 Prudence. 
 
138 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 VII 
 
 Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
 A shadie grove" not farr away they spide, 
 That promist ayde the tempest to withstand; 
 Whose lof tie trees, yclad with sommers pride. 
 Did spred so broad, that heavens hght did 
 
 hide. 95 
 
 Not perceable with power of any starr : 
 
 And all within were pathes and alleles wide, 
 
 With footing worne, and leading inward farr: 
 
 Faire harbour that them seemes; so in they 
 
 entred ar. 
 
 VIII 
 
 And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward 
 
 led, 100 
 
 loying to heare the birdes sweete harmony. 
 Which, therein shrouded from the tempest 
 
 dred, 
 Seemed in their song to scome the cruell sky. 
 Much can they praise the trees so straight 
 
 andhy, j J?^ 
 
 The sayhng pine; the cedar proud and tall; 
 The vine-prop ehne; the poplar never dry: 
 The builder oake, sole king of forrests all; 
 The aspine good for staves; the cypresse 
 
 funerall; 
 
 IX 
 
 The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours 
 And poets sage; the firre that weepeth still; 
 The willow, worne of f orlorne paramours ; 1 1 1 
 The eugh, obedient to the benders will; 
 The birch for shaftes; the sallow for the 
 
 mill;i7 . u- 
 
 The mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter 
 
 wound; 
 The warlike beech ; the ash for nothing ill ; 1 1 5 
 The fruitfull olive; and the platane round; 
 The carver holme ;*» the maple seeldom inward 
 
 sound. 
 
 X 
 
 Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, 
 Untill the blustring storme is overblowne; 
 When, weening to retume whence they did 
 
 stray, 120 
 
 They cannot finde that path, which first was 
 
 showne 
 But wander too and fro in waies unknowne, 
 Furthest from end then, when they neerest 
 
 weene, 
 That makes them doubt their wits be not 
 
 their owne; 
 So many pathes, so many turnings scene, 125 
 That which of them to take, in diverse doubt 
 
 they been. 
 
 XI 
 
 At last resolving forward still to fare, 
 Till that some end they finde, or in or out, 
 That path they take, that beaten seemd most 
 
 bare. 
 And like to lead the labyrinth about; 130 
 
 ••The thick wood of Error, into which the heavenly 
 light of the stars cannot penetrate. 
 
 " The wood of the sallow, or voillow, made the best 
 charcoal for the manufacture of Gunpowder; the bark 
 of the willow is also used for tanning. 
 
 u Holly, which is especially fit for carving. 
 
 Which when by tract they hunted had 
 
 throughout. 
 At length it brought them to a hoUowe cave, 
 Amid the thickest woods. The Champion 
 
 stout 
 Ef tsoones dismounted from his courser brave, 
 And to the Dwarfe a while his needlesse spere 
 
 he gave. 135 
 
 "Be well aware," quoth then that Ladie 
 
 milde, 
 "Least suddaine mischief e ye too rash pro- 
 voke: 
 The danger hid, the place unknowne and 
 
 wilde, 
 Breedes dreadfull doubts: oft fire is without 
 
 smoke. 
 And perill without show: therefore your 
 
 stroke, 140 
 
 Sir Knight, withhold, till further tryall 
 
 made." 
 "Ah, Ladie," sayd he, "shame were to revoke 
 The forward footing for an hidden shade: 
 Vertue gives her selfe light through darknesse 
 
 for to wade." 
 
 XIII 
 
 "Yea, but," quoth she, "the perill of this 
 place 145 
 
 I better wot then you: though nowe too late 
 
 To wish you backe retume with foule dis- 
 grace. 
 
 Yet wisedome warnes, whilst foot is in the 
 gate, 
 
 To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. 
 
 This is the wandring wood, this Errours den, 
 
 A monster vile, whom God and man does 
 hate: 151 
 
 Therefore I read^^ beware." "Fly, fly," 
 quoth then 
 The fearful Dwarfe; "This is no place for living 
 men." 
 
 XIV 
 
 But, full of fire and greedy hardiment, 
 
 The youthfuU Knight could not for ought be 
 
 staide; 155 
 
 But forth unto the darksom hole he went. 
 And looked in : his glistring armor made 
 A litle glooming light, much like a shade; 
 By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, 
 Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide, 160 
 But th'other halfe did womans shape re- 
 
 taine. 
 Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile 
 
 disdaine. 
 
 [The Red Cross Knight, assisted by Una, 
 does battle with the dragon. Error. As the 
 combat progresses, the hideous serpent-brood 
 of Error, "deformed monsters, foul and black 
 as ink," swarming about the Knight sorely 
 encumber him. The poet thus compares them 
 to a cloud of gnats.] 
 
 ^* Counsel 
 
EDMUND SPENSER 
 
 139 
 
 XXIII 
 
 / As gentle shepheard in sweete eventide, 244 
 I When ruddy Phebus gins to welke^o in west, 
 High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide, 
 Markes which doe byte their hasty supper ^ 
 
 best; 
 A cloud of cumbrous gnattes doe him molest, 
 All striving to infixe their feeble stinges, 
 That from their noyance he no where can 
 rest; 250 
 
 But with his clownish hands their tender 
 wings 
 He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their mur- 
 murings. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Thus ill bestedd, and fearefull»more of shame 
 
 Then of the certeine perill he stood in, 
 
 Halfe furious unto his foe he came, 255 
 
 Resolved in minde all suddenly to win. 
 
 Or soone to lose, before he once would lin;" 
 
 And stroke at her with more then manly 
 
 force. 
 That from her body, full of filthie sin, 259 
 He raft her hatefull heade without remorse; 
 A streame of cole-black blood forth gushed 
 
 from her corse. . . . 
 
 XXVII 
 
 His Lady seeing all that chaunst, from farre, 
 Approcht in hast to greet his victorie ; 290 
 And saide, "Faire Knight, borne under 
 
 happie starre, 
 Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye; 
 Well worthie be you of that armory. 
 Wherein ye have great glory wonne this 
 
 day, . . 
 
 And proov'd your strength on a strong enimie; 
 Your first adventure : Many such I pray, 296 
 And henceforth ever wish that hke succeed it 
 may!" 
 [Having re-mounted his steed, the Red- 
 Cross Knight and Una at length meet in the 
 forest an "aged sire" clad in black, having a 
 gray beard and a sober aspect. The Knight, 
 having saluted him, is conducted to a hermitage 
 on the skirts of the forest, where the old man 
 tells him in pleasing words about Saints and 
 popes: so they pass the evening in discourse.l 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 The drouping night thus creepeth on them 
 
 fast; . 
 
 And the sad humor loading their eyehddes, 
 As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast 381 
 Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep 
 
 them biddes. 
 Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes 
 Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he 
 
 findes. 
 He to his studie goes; and there amiddes 385 
 His magick bookes, and artes of sundrie 
 
 kindes, 
 He seeks out mighty charmes to trouble sleepy 
 
 minds. 
 M To fade. ' " Cease. 
 
 Then choosing out few words most horrible, 
 (Let none them read!) thereof did verses 
 
 frame; 
 With which, and other spelles like terrible, 390 
 He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly dame;^^ 
 And cursed heven; and spake reprochful 
 
 shame 
 Of highest God, the Lord of life and light. 
 A bold bad man! that dar'd to call by name 
 Great Gorgon, ^^ prince of darknes and dead 
 
 night; 395 
 
 At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to 
 
 flight. 
 
 XXXVIIl 
 
 And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd 
 Legions of sprights, the which, like litle flyes, 
 Fluttring about his ever-damned hedd, 
 Awaite whereto their service he applyes, 400 
 To aide his friendes, or fray his enimies: 
 Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo. 
 And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes; 
 The one of them he gave a message too. 
 The other by him selfe staide other worke to 
 doo. 405 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 He, making speedy way through spersed ayre 
 And through the world of waters wide and 
 
 deepe. 
 To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. 
 Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe. 
 And low, where dawning day doth never 
 
 peepe, ^i^ 
 
 His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed 
 Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe 
 In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, 
 Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black 
 
 doth spred. 
 
 Whose double gates^* he findeth locked 
 fast' 4^5 
 
 The one faire fram'd of burnisht yvory, 
 The other all with silver overcast ; 
 And wakeful dogges before them farre doe 
 
 IVG 
 
 Watching to banish Care their enimy, 
 Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. 420 
 By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly. 
 And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned 
 
 deepe , . , ^ , 
 
 In drowsie fit he findes; of nothing he takes 
 
 keepe. 
 
 22 Proserpina had both a creative and a destroying 
 power. As the daughter of Demeter we think of her 
 m the first, and as the wife of Pluto and queen of 
 Erebus, in the second capacity. She is here called griesly, 
 or terrible, because the poet has the dark and death- 
 dealing side of her function in mind. • x j -^u 
 
 23 Demogorgon, a mysterious divinity, associated witn 
 darkness and the underworld. 
 
 24 Spenser here follows Homer and Vergil. According 
 to these poets, true dreams were supposed to pass through 
 a gate of horn, false dreams through one of ivory, ine 
 second gate is here spoken of as "overcast with sUver. 
 
140 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 XLI 
 
 And, more to luUe him in his slumber soft, 
 A trickling streame from high rock tumbling 
 
 downe, 425 
 
 And ever-drizling raine upon/,he loft, 
 Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the 
 
 sowne 
 Of swarming bees, did caste him in a swowne. 
 No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes. 
 As still are wont t' annoy the walled towne, 
 Might there be heard; but carelesse Quiet 
 
 lyes, 431 
 
 Wrapt in eternsill silence farre from enimyes. 
 
 The ^messenger approching to hini spake; 
 But his waste words retournd to him in vaine. 
 So sound he slept, that nought mought him 
 
 awake. 435 
 
 Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with 
 
 paine, 
 Whereat he gan to stretch: but he againe 
 Shooke him so hard, that forced him to 
 
 speake. 
 As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine 
 Is tost with troubled sights and fancies 
 
 weake, 440 
 
 He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence 
 
 breake. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 The Sprite then gan more boldly him to wake 
 And threatned unto him the dreaded name 
 Of Hecate :2s whereat he gan to quake. 
 And, hfting up his lompish head, with 
 
 blame 445 
 
 Halfe angrie asked him, for what he came. 
 "Hether," quoth he, "me Archimago^^ sent. 
 He that the stubborne sprites can wisely 
 
 tame; 
 He bids thee to him send for his intent 
 A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers 
 
 sent." 450 
 
 And fram'd of liquid ayre her tender partes, 
 
 So lively, and so hke in all mens sight, 
 
 That weaker sence it could have ravisht 
 
 quight: 
 The maker selfe, for all his wondrous witt, 465 
 Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight. 
 Her all in white he clad, and over it 
 Cast a black stole, most like to seeme for Una 
 fit. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 Now when that ydle Dreame was to him 
 
 brought, 
 Unto that Elfin Knight he bad him fly, 470 
 Where he slept soundly, void of evil thought, 
 And with false shewes abuse his fantasy. 
 In sort as he him schooled privily. 
 And that riew creatiu-e, borne without her 
 
 dew, 27 
 Full of the makers guyle, with usage sly, 475 
 He taught to imitate that Lady trew, 
 WTiose semblance she did carrie under feigned 
 
 hew. 
 
 [This phantom, in the outward semblance of 
 Una, conducts herself with such lightness that 
 the Knight is perplexed with doubts of her 
 goodness and truthfulness. At last, restless 
 and tormented by evil delusions conjured up 
 by Archimago, the Knight mounts his steed and 
 flies with the dwarf. Thus parted from Una, 
 or Truth, by the wiles of the Enchanter, the 
 deluded Knight falls into peril in a meeting 
 with Duessa, or Falsehood. 
 
 Meanwhile the heavenly Una, his true bride, 
 missing her Knight, sets out in search of him, 
 alone and sorrowful. The poet then tells how 
 the lion comes to guard her in her need.J 
 
 Canto III 
 Forsaken Truth long seeks her love, 
 
 and makes the Lyon mylde; 
 Marres blind Devotions mart, andfals 
 
 in hand of treachour vylde. 
 
 The god obayde; and, calling forth straight 
 
 way 
 A diverse dreame out of his prison darke, 
 Delivered it to him, and downe did lay 
 His heavie head, devoide of careful carke; 
 Whose sences all were straight benumbd and 
 
 starke. 455 
 
 He, backe returning by the yvorie dore. 
 Remounted up as light as chearefull larke; 
 And on his litle winges the dreame he bore 
 In hast unto his lord, where he him left afore. 
 
 XLV 
 
 Who all this while, with charmes and hidden 
 artes, 460 
 
 Had made a lady of that other spright, 
 
 '« A powerful female divinity, supposed to have been 
 introduced into the Greek from an earlier mythology. 
 Like Demogorgon, she is associated with darkness and 
 the nether world. 
 
 M Personifies Hypocrisy. His name indicates that he 
 is the chief of those who assume various bing, or unusual 
 shapes, in order to deceive. 
 
 Nought is there under heav'ns wide hollow- 
 
 nesse. 
 That moves more cleare compassion of mind, 
 Then28 beautie brought t' imworthie wretch- 
 
 ednesse 
 Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes 
 
 unkind. 
 I, whether lately through her brightnes 
 
 blynd, 5 
 
 Or through alleageance and fast fealty. 
 Which I do owe unto all woman kynd, 
 Feele my hart perst with so great agony, 
 When such I see, that all for pitty I could 
 
 dy. 
 
 II 
 And now it is empassioned so deepe, 1 
 
 For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, 
 That my fraile eyes these Hues with teares do 
 
 steepe, 
 To thmke how she through guileful handeling, \ 
 ^ Made in an unnatural manner. » Than. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER 
 
 141 
 
 Though true as touch, 2« though daughter of a 
 
 king, 
 Though faire as ever living wight was fayre. 
 Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting, 16 
 Is from her Knight devorced in despayre, 
 And her dew loves deryv'd to that vile witches 
 shayre. 
 
 Ill 
 Yet she, most faithfull ladie, all this while 
 Forsaken, wofull, solitairie mayd, 20 
 
 Far from all peoples preace,^° as in exile. 
 In wildernesse and wastfuU deserts strayd, 
 To seeke her Knight; who subtily betrayd 
 Through that late vision, which th' en- 
 chanter wrought, 24 
 Had her abandoned. She of naught affrayd. 
 Through woods and wastness wide him daily 
 sought" 
 Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her 
 brought. 
 
 IV 
 
 One day, nigh wearie of the yrksome way. 
 From her unhastie beast she did alight ; 29 
 And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay 
 In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight; 
 From her fayre head her fillet she undight; 
 And layd her stole aside. Her angels face. 
 As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place; 35 
 
 Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly 
 grace. 
 
 v 
 It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
 A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly. 
 Hunting full greedy after salvage blood; 
 Soone as the royall Virgin he did spy, 40 
 
 With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, 
 To have attonce devoured her tender corse. 
 But to the pray when as he drew more ny, 
 His bloody rage aswaged with remorse, 
 
 And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious 
 forse. 45 
 
 VI 
 
 Instead thereof he kist her wearie feet. 
 
 And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong; 
 
 As he her wronged innocence did weet. 
 
 O how can beautie maister the mo^t strong. 
 
 And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! 50 
 
 Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, 
 
 Still dreading death, when she had marked 
 
 long, 
 Her hart gan melt in great compassion ; 
 And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. 
 
 " The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," 55 
 Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth 
 
 abate, 
 And mightie proud to humble weake does 
 
 yield, 
 Forgetf ull of the hungry rage, which late 
 
 29 Touch here probably used for touchstone. The 
 touchstone, used to test the purity of precious metals, 
 came to symbolize the power of telling the false from the 
 true. 
 
 30 Press, a throng. 
 
 Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate: — 
 But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, 60 
 
 How does he find in cruell hart to hate 
 Her that him lov'd, and ever most adord. 
 As the God of my life? why hath he me abhord?" 
 
 VIII 
 
 Redounding teares did choke \h' end of her 
 
 plaint, 
 Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour 
 
 wood; 65 
 
 And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, 
 The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; 
 With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood. 
 At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, 
 Arose the Virgin borne of heavenly brood, 70 
 And to her snowy palfrey got agayne 
 To seeke her strayed champion, if she might 
 
 attayne. 
 
 IX 
 
 The lyon would not leave her desolate. 
 But with her went along, as a strong gard 
 Of her chast person, and a fay thfull mate 75 
 Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: 
 Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and 
 
 ward; 
 And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, . 
 With humble service to her will prepard: 
 From her fayre eyes he took commande- 
 
 ment, ^ 
 
 And ever by her lookes conceived her intent. 
 
 [Archimago, learning of the whereabouts of 
 Una, assumes the arms and appearance of the 
 Red Cross Knight, and, — being too fearful of 
 the lion to join her, — approaches near enough 
 to her to be seen. Una seeing, as she supposes, 
 him whom she has sought through wide deserts, 
 and with great toil and peril, goes up to him in 
 joy and humbleness, while Archimago, feigning 
 to be her Knight, greets her with wordo of 
 welcome and vows of faithful service.] . 
 
 His lovely words her seemd due recompence 
 Of all her passed paines; one loving howre 
 For many yeares of sorrow can dispence; 
 A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre. 
 Shee has forgott how many woful stowre 275 
 For him she late endurd; she speakes no more 
 Of past: true is, that true love hath no powTe 
 To looken backe; his eies be fixt before. 
 Before her stands her Knight, for whom she 
 toy Id so sore. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Much like, as when the beaten marinere, 280 
 That long hath wandred in the ocean wide, 
 Ofte soust in swelling Tethys saltish teare; 
 And long time having tand his tawney hide 
 With blustring breath of heaven, that none 
 
 can bide. 
 And scorching flames of fierce Orions hound; 
 Soone as the port from far he has espide, 286 
 His chearfull whistle merily doth sound. 
 And Nereus crownes with cups; his mates him 
 
 pledge around. 
 
142 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Such icy made Una, when her Knight she 
 
 found; 
 And eke th' Enchanter ioyous seemde no 
 
 lesse 290 
 
 Then the glad marchant, that does vew from 
 
 ground ' 
 His ship far come from watrie wildernesse; 
 He hurles out vowes, and Neptune oft doth 
 
 So forth they past; and all the way they 
 
 spent . 294 
 
 Discoursing of her dreadful late distresse, 
 
 In which he askt her, what the lyon ment; 
 
 Who told her all that fell, in iourney as she 
 
 went. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 They had not ridden far, when they might 
 
 see 
 One pricking towards them with hastie 
 
 heat, 
 Full strongly armd, and on a courser free 300 
 That through his fiersenesse fomed all with 
 
 sweat, 
 And the sharpe yron did for anger eat. 
 When his hot ryder spurd his chauffed side; 
 His looke was sterne, and seemed still to 
 
 threat 304 
 
 Cruell revenge, which he in hart did hyde; 
 
 And on his shield Sans lay in bloody lines was 
 
 dyde. 
 
 [Archimago, in the guise of the Red Cross 
 Knight, thus journeying with Una meets a 
 Paynim, or Saracen, named Sansloy. Sansloy 
 attacks Archimago, who is overthrown. When 
 he is unhelmed, Una sees to her surprise the 
 face of Archimago instead of that of the Red 
 Cross Knight. The Paynim, leaving Arch- 
 imago dying, rudely approaches Una and drags 
 her from her palfrey. The poet then describes 
 th(^ combat of the Paynim with the lion.] 
 
 But her fiers servant, full of kingly aw 
 
 And high disdaine, whenas his soveraine 
 
 Dame 380 
 
 So rudely handled by her foe he saw, 
 With gaping iawes full greedy at him came, 
 And, ramping in his shield, did weene the 
 
 same 
 Have reft away with his sharp rending 
 
 clawes: ^ 384 
 
 But he was stout, and lust did now inflame 
 His corage more, that from Ms griping pawes 
 He hath his shield redeemd; and forth his 
 
 sword he drawes. 
 
 XLII 
 
 O then, too weake and feeble was the forse 
 Of salvage beast, his puissance to withstand! 
 For he was strong, and of so mightie 
 corse, 390 
 
 As ever wielded speare in warlike hand ; 
 And feates of armes did wisely understand. 
 
 Eftsoones he perced through his chaufed 
 
 chest 
 With thrilling point of deadly yron brand, 
 And launcht his lordly hart: with death 
 opprest 395 
 
 He ror'd aloud, whiles life forsooke his stub- 
 borne brest. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Who now is left to keepe the forlorne Maid 
 From raging spoile of lawlesse victors will? 
 Her faithful gard remov'd; her hope dis- 
 
 maid; 
 Her selfe a yielded pray to save or spill! 400 
 He now, lord of the field, his pride to fill, 
 With foule reproches and disdaineful spright 
 Her vildly entertaines; and, will or nill 
 Beares her away upon his courser light: 
 Her prayers naught prevaile; his rage is more of 
 
 might. 405 
 
 XLIV 
 
 And all the way, with great lamenting paine. 
 And piteous plaintes she filleth his dull eares. 
 That stony hart could riven have in twaine; 
 And all the way she wetts with flowing teares; 
 But he, enrag'd with rancor, nothing heares. 
 Her servile beast yet would not leave her so, 
 But foUowes her far of, ne ought he f eares 412 
 To be partaker of her wandring woe. 
 More mild in beastly kind, then that her 
 beastly foe. 
 
 [After many mishaps and adventures the 
 Book ends with the happy union of the Red 
 Cross Knight and Una; — the marriage of 
 HoUness and Truth.] 
 
 BOOK II 
 Canto VI 
 
 THE STORY OF SIR GXTYON, OR THE KNIGHT OP 
 TEMPERANCE 
 
 Guyon is of immodest Merth 
 Led into loose desyre; 
 
 Fights with Cymochles, whiles Ms bro- 
 ther burnes in furious fyre. 
 
 A harder lesson to learne Continence 
 In ioyous pleasure then in grievous paine; 
 For sweetnesse doth allure the weaker sence 
 So strongly, that uneathes it can refraine 
 From that which feeble nature covets faine; 
 But griefe and wrath, that be her enemies, 
 And foes of life, she bettef can abstaine : 7 
 Yet Vertue vauntes in both her victories; 
 And Guyon in them aU shewes goodly mysteries. 
 
 [Cymochles having met a damsel who rap- 
 resents intemperate pleasure, is tempted by 
 her to neglect duty in inglorious idleness and 
 self-indulgence. He falls under the spell of her 
 blandishments and his coming under her 
 allurements to the Idle Lake, the home of \ 
 pleasure, is thus described:] 
 
EDMUND SPENSER 
 
 143 
 
 Whiles thus she talked, and whiles thus she 
 
 toyd, 100 
 
 They were far past the passage which he 
 
 spake, 
 And come unto an island waste and voyd, 
 That floted in the midst of that great lake; 
 There her small gondelay^^ her port did make 
 And that gay payre, issewing on the shore, 105 
 Disburdened her. Their way they forward 
 
 take 
 Into the land that lay them faire before, 
 \\'hose pleasaunce she him shewde, and plenti- 
 ful! great store. 
 
 It was a chosen plott of fertile land, 
 Emongst wide waves sett, like a Uttle nest, 
 As if it had by Nature's cunning hand ill 
 Bene choycely picked out from all the rest. 
 And laid forth for ensample of the best: 
 No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on 
 
 grownd, 
 No arborett with painted blossomes drest 
 And smelling sweete, but there it might be 
 
 fownd 116 
 
 To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete emels 
 
 al around. 
 
 XIII 
 
 No tree whose braunches did not bravely 
 
 spring; 
 No braunch, whereon a fine bird did not sitt; 
 No bird, but did her shrill notes sweetly sing; 
 No song but did containe a lovely ditt. 121 
 Trees, braunches, birds, and songs, were 
 
 framed fitt 
 For to allure fraile mind to careless ease: 
 Carelesse the man soone woxe, and his 
 
 weake witt 
 Was overcome of thing that did him please; 
 So pleased did his wrathfull purpose faire 
 
 appease. 126 
 
 XIV 
 
 Thus when shee had his eyes and sences fed 
 With false delights, and fild with pleasures 
 
 vayn. 
 Into a shady dale she soft him led. 
 And layd him downe upon a grassy playn; 
 And her sweete selfe without dread or dis- 
 
 dayn 131 
 
 She sett beside, laying his head disarmd 
 In her loose lap, it softly to sustayii, 
 Where soone he slumbred fearing not be 
 
 harm'd, 
 The whiles with a love lay she thus him sweetly 
 
 charmd: 135 
 
 XV 
 
 "Behold,3»0 man! that toilsome paines doest 
 
 take, 
 The flowrs, the fields, and all that pleasaunt 
 
 growes, 
 
 31 Gondola. 
 
 32 This song is apparently suggested by Tasso's Jerusa- 
 lem Delivered, Bk. XIV. 62. Cf. Tennyson's Lotus Eaters. 
 stanzas II and HI. 
 
 How they themselves doe thine ensample 
 
 make. 
 Whiles nothing envious nature them forth 
 
 throwes 
 Out of her fruitful! lap* how, no man knowes. 
 They spring, they bud, they blossome fresh 
 
 and faire, 141 
 
 And decke the world with their rich pompous 
 
 showes; 
 Yet no man for them taketh paines or care, 
 Yet no man to them can his careful! paines 
 
 compare. 
 
 XVI 
 
 "The lilly, lady of the flowring field, 145 
 
 The flowre-de-luce, her lovely paramoure. 
 Bid thee to them thy fruitlesse labors yield. 
 And soone leave off this toylsome weary 
 
 stoure: 
 Loe! loe! how brave she decks her bounteous 
 
 boure. 
 With silkin curtens, and gold coverlet ts, 150 
 Therein to shrowd her sumptuous belamoure! 
 Yet neither spinnes nor cards, ne cares nor 
 
 fretts. 
 But to her mother Nature all her care she letts. 
 
 "Why then doest thou, O man, that of them 
 all 
 
 Art lord, and eke of nature soveraine, 155 
 WiKuUy make thyselfe a wretched thrall. 
 And waste thy ioyous howres in needelesse 
 
 paine, 
 - Seeking for daunger and adventures vaine? 
 What bootes it al to have, and nothing use? 
 Who shall him rew that swimming in the 
 
 maine I60 
 
 Will die for thrist, and water doth refuse? 
 
 Refuse such fruitlesse toile, and present 
 
 pleasures chuse." 
 
 By this she had him lulled fast asleepe, 
 Tbat of no worldly thing he care did take : 
 Then she with liquors strong his eies did 
 
 steepe, 165 
 
 That nothing should him hastily awake. 
 So she him lef te, and did herselfe betake 
 Unto her boat again, with which she clefte 
 The slouthfull wave of that great griesy lake: 
 Soone shee that Island far behind her lefte. 
 And now is come to that same place where first 
 
 she wefte. 171 
 
 [Sir Guyon, who has also been assailed by the 
 temptations of Pleasure, next encounters 
 Mammon, or the temptations of Avarice.] 
 
 Canto VII 
 Guyon findes Mamon^^ in a delve 
 
 sunning his threasure hore; 
 Is hy him tempted, and led downe 
 
 To see his secret store. 
 
 33 Mammon was not a heathen divinity but, as in the 
 New Testament, a simple personification of money or 
 worldly ambition, from the Syriac word for riches. 
 
144 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 So Guyon, having lost his trustie guyde, i o 
 Late left beyond that Ydle Lake, proceedes 
 Yet on his way, of none accompanyde; 
 And evermore himselfe with comfort feedes 
 Of his own vertues and praise-worthie deedes. 
 So, long he yode, yet no adventure found, 1 5 
 Which Fame of her shrill trompet worthy 
 
 reedes: 
 For still he traveild through wide wastfull 
 
 ground, 
 That nought but desert wildernesse shewed all 
 
 around. 
 
 At last he came unto a gloomy glade, 
 Cover'd with boughes and shrubs from 
 
 heavens light, 20 
 
 Whereas he sitting found in secret shade 
 An uncouth, salvage, and uncivile wight. 
 Of griesly hew and fowle ill-favour'd sight; 
 Plis face with smoke was tand, and eies were 
 
 bleard. 
 His head and beard with sout were ill bedight, 
 His cole-blacke hands did seeme to have ben 
 
 seard 26 
 
 In symthes fire-spitting forge, and nayles like 
 
 clawes appeard. 
 
 IV 
 
 His yron cote, all overgrowne with rust. 
 Was underneath enveloped with gold; 
 Whose glistering glosse darkened with 
 filthy dust, 30 
 
 Well yet appeared to have beene of old 
 A worke of rich entayle and curious mould. 
 Woven with antickes and wyld ymagery; 
 And in his lap a masse of coyne he told , 
 And turned upside downe, to feede his eye 
 And covetous desire with his huge threasury. 36 
 
 And round about him lay on every side 
 Great heapes of gold that never could be 
 
 spent; 
 Of which some were rude owre, not purifide 
 Of Mulcibers^^ devouring element; 40 
 
 Some others were new driven, and distent 
 Into great Ingowes and to wedges square; 
 Some in round plates withouten moniment; 
 But most were stampt, and in their metal 
 
 bare 
 The antique shapes of kings and kesars stroung 
 
 and rare. 45 
 
 VI 
 
 Soone as he Guyon saw, in great affright 
 
 And haste he rose for to remove aside 
 
 Those pretious hils from straungers envious 
 
 sight, 
 And downe them poured through an hole full 
 
 wide 
 
 3< The name given to Vuloan (Lat. mulceo, to soften) , 
 as the smoother of metals by fire. Of is here used in the 
 sense of bjf- 
 
 Into the hollow earth, them there to hide; 50 
 But Guyon, lightly to him leaping, stayd 
 His hand that trembled as one terrifyde; 
 And though himselfe were at the sight dis- 
 mayd, 
 Yet him perforce restraynd, and to him doubt- 
 full sayd: 
 
 VII 
 
 "What art thou, Man (if man at aill thou art), 
 That here in desert hast thine habitaunce, 56 
 And these rich hils of welth doest hide apart 
 From the worldes eye, and from her right 
 
 usaunce?" 
 Thereat, with staring eyes fixed askaunce, 
 In great disdaine he answerd: "Hardy Elfe, 
 That darest vew my direful countenaunce! 61 
 I read thee rash and heedlesse of thy self, 
 To trouble my still seate, and heapes of pretious 
 
 pelfe. 
 
 VIII 
 
 "God of the world and worldlings I me call, 
 Great Mammon, greatest god below the skye, 
 That of my plenty poure out unto all, 66 
 
 And unto none my graces do envye: 
 Riches, renowme, and principality, 
 Honour, estate, and all this worldes good. 
 For which men swinck ^5 and sweat inces- 
 santly, _ 70 
 Fro me do flow into an ample flood. 
 And in the hollow earth have their eternall 
 brood. 
 
 "Wherefore, if me thou deigne to serve and 
 
 sew, 
 At thy commaund lo! all these mountaines 
 
 bee; 
 Or if to thy great mind, or greedy vew, 75 
 All these may not suffise, there shall to thee 
 Ten times so much be nombred francke and 
 
 free." 
 "Mammon," said he, "thy godheads vaunt 
 
 is vaine, 
 And idle offers of thy golden fee; 
 To them that covet such eye-glutting gaine 
 Proffer thy giftes, and fitter servaunte enter- 
 
 taine. 81 
 
 "Me ill besits, that in derdoing armes 
 
 And honours suit my vowed daies do spend, 
 
 Unto thy bounteous baytes, and pleasing 
 
 ch armes, 
 With which weake men thou witchest, to 
 
 attend; 85 
 
 Regard of worldly mucke doth fowly blend, 
 And low abase the high heroicke spright. 
 That ioyes for crownes and kingdomes to 
 
 contend; 
 Faire shields, gay steedes, bright arme;?, be 
 
 my delight; 
 Those be the riches fit for an advent'rous 
 
 knight." 90 V 
 
 wToiL 
 
EDMUND SPENSER 
 
 145 
 
 XI 
 
 "Vaine glorious Elfe," saide he, "doest not 
 
 thou weet,^* 
 That money can thy wantes at will supply? 
 Shields, steeds, and armes, and all things for 
 
 thee meet, 
 It can purvay in twinckling of an eye; 94 
 And crownes and kingdomes to thee multiply. 
 Doe not 1 kings create, and throw the crowne 
 Sometimes to him that low in dust doth ly. 
 And him that raignd into his rowme thrust 
 
 downe, 
 I id whom I lust do heape with glory and re- 
 
 nowne?" 
 
 XII 
 
 "All otherwise," said he, ''I riches read, 100 
 And deeme them roote of all disquietnesse; 
 First got with guile, and then preserved with 
 
 dread. 
 And after spent with pride and lavishnesse, 
 Leaving behind them grief e and heavinesse: 
 Infinite mischief es of them doe arize; 105 
 Strife and debate, bloodshed and bitternesse, 
 Outrageous wrong and hellish covetize. 
 That noble heart, in great dishonour, doth des- 
 pize. 
 
 XIII 
 
 "Ne thine be Kingdomes, ne the scepters 
 
 thine ; 
 But realmes and rules thou doest both con- 
 found, no 
 And loyall truth to treason doest incline: 
 Witnesse the guiltlesse blood pourd oft on 
 
 ground ; 
 The crowned often slaine; the slayer cround; 
 The sacred diademe in peeces rent. 114 
 
 And purple robe gored with many a wound, 
 Castles surprizd, great cities sackt and brent: 
 So mak'st thou kings, and gaynest wrongful 
 government! 
 
 XIV 
 
 "Long were to tell the troublous stormes that 
 
 tosse 
 The private state, and make the life unsweet: 
 Who swelling sayles in Caspian sea doth 
 
 crosse, 120 
 
 And in frayle wood on Adrian gulf doth fleet, 
 Doth not, I weene, so many evils meet." 
 Then Mammon wexing wroth: "And why 
 
 then," sayd, 
 "Are mortall men so fond and undiscreet 
 So evill thing to seeke unto their ayd; 
 And having not, complaine, and having it, up- 
 
 brayd?" . . . 
 
 XIX 
 
 "Me list not," said the Elfin Knight, "re- 
 
 ceave 
 Thing offred, till I know it well be gott; 
 Ne wote I but thou didst these goods bereave 
 From rightfuU owner by unrighteous lott, 175 
 Or that blood-guiltinesse or guile them blott." 
 
 "Perdy," quoth he, "yet never eie did vew, 
 Ne tong did tell, ne hand these handled not; 
 But safe I have them kept in secret mew 
 From hevens sight and powre of al which them 
 poursew." iso 
 
 XX 
 
 "What secret place," quoth he, "can safely 
 
 hold 
 So huge a masse, and hide from heavens eie? 
 Or where hast thou thy wonne, that so much 
 
 gold 
 Thou canst preserve from wrong and rob- 
 bery?" " 184 
 "Come thou," quoth he, "and see." So by 
 
 and by 
 Through that thick covert he him led, and 
 
 fowned 
 A darksome way, which no man could descry. 
 That deep descended through the hollow 
 
 grownd. 
 And was with dread and horror compassed 
 
 arownd. 
 
 At length they came into a larger space, 190 
 That strecht itself e into an ample playne; 
 Through which a beaten broad high way did 
 
 trace 
 That streight did lead to Plutoes griesly 
 
 rayne: 
 By that wayes side there sate infernall 
 
 Payne, 3^ 
 And fast beside him sat tumultuous Strife; 
 The one in hand an yron whip did strayne, 196 
 The other brandished a bloody knife; 
 And both did gnash their teeth, and both did 
 
 threten Life. 
 
 On th'other side in one cons6rt there sate 
 Cruell Revenge, and rancorous Despight, 200 
 Disloyall Treason, and hart-burning Hate; 
 But gnawing Gealosy, out of their sight 
 Sitting alone, his bitter lips did bight; 
 And trembling Feare still to and fro did fly. 
 And found no place wher safe he shroud him 
 
 might: 205 
 
 Lamenting Sorrow did in darknes lye; 
 And Shame his ugly face did hide from living 
 
 eye. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 And over them sad Horror with grirn hew 
 Did alwaies sore, beating his yron wings; 
 And after him owles and night-ravens flew, 210 
 The hatefuU messengers of heavy things, 
 Of death and dolor telling sad tidings; 
 Whiles sad Celeno,^^ sitting on a clifte, 
 A song of bale and bitter sorrow sings. 
 That hart of flint a sonder could have rifte; 
 Which having ended, after him she flyeth 
 swifte. 216 
 
 - 37 Not pain in the sense of suffering, but Poena, the 
 avenging, punishing deity. 
 
 38 One of the Harpies; tilthy, vulture-like creatures, with 
 bead aad breast of a woman. 
 
146 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 All these before the gates of Pluto lay; 
 
 By whom they passing spake unto them 
 
 nought; 
 But th' Elfin Knight with wonder all the 
 
 way 
 Did feed his eyes, and fild his inner thought. 
 At last him to a litle dore he brought, 221 
 
 That to the gate of hell, which gaped wide, 
 Was next adiogning, ne them parted ought: 
 Betwixt them both was but a litle stride, 
 That did the house of Richesse from hell- 
 mouth divide. 225 
 
 XXV 
 
 Before the dore sat selfe-consuming Care, 
 Day and night keeping wary watch and 
 
 ward, 
 For feare least Force or Fraud should un- 
 aware 
 Breake in, and spoile the treasure there in 
 
 gard: 
 Ne would he suffer Sleepe once thether-ward 
 Approch, albe his drowsy den were next; 231 
 For next to Death is Sleepe to be compard; 
 Therefore his house is unto his annext: 
 Here Sleepe, there Richesse, and Hel-gate them 
 both betwext. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 So soone as Mammon there arrivd, the dore 
 To him did open, and affoorded way : 236 
 
 Him followed eke Sir Guyon evermore; 
 Ne darknesse him, ne daunger might dismay. 
 Soone as he entred was, the dore streight way 
 Did shutt, and from behind it forth there 
 
 lept 240 
 
 An ugly feend, more fowle than dismall day; 
 The which with monstrous stalke behind him 
 
 stept, 
 And ever as he went dew watch upon him 
 
 kept. . . . 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 That houses forme within was rude and 
 
 strong, 
 Lyke an huge cave hewne out of rocky clifte. 
 From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches^^ 
 
 hong 
 Embost with massy gold of glorious guifte. 
 And with rich metall loaded every rifte, 266 
 That heavy ruine they did seeme to threatt; 
 And over them Arachne*" high did lif te 
 Her cunning web, and spred her subtile nett. 
 Enwrapped in fowle smoke and clouds more 
 
 black then iett. 270 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Both roofe, and floore, and walls, were all of 
 
 gold, 
 But overgrown with dust and old decay. 
 And hid in darknes, that none could behold 
 The hew thereof : for vew of cheref ull day 
 Did never in that house it selfe display, 275 
 
 39 Stalactites. 
 
 'o Spider, Arachne was a skilful needlewoman changed 
 into a soider by Minerva. 
 
 But a faint shadow of uncertein light; 
 Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away; 
 Or as the moone, cloathed with clowdy night, 
 Does shew to him that walks in feare, and sad 
 affright. 
 
 XXX 
 
 In all that rowme was nothing to be scene 
 But huge great yron chests, and coffers 
 
 strong, 281 
 
 All bard with double bends, that none could 
 
 weene 
 Them to efforce by violence or wrong; 
 On every side they placed were along. 
 But all the grownd with sculs was scattered 
 And dead mens bones, which round about 
 
 were flong; 286 
 
 Whose lives, it seemed, whilome there were 
 
 shed. 
 And their vile carcases now left unburied. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 They forward passe; ne Guyon yet spoke 
 
 word. 
 Till that they came unto an yron dore, 290 
 Which to them opened of his owne accord, 
 And shewd of richesse such exceeding store, 
 As eie of man did never see before, 
 Ne ever could within one place be fownd, 
 Though all the wealth which is, or was of yore 
 Could gathered be through all the world 
 
 arownd, 296 
 
 And that above were added to that under 
 
 grownd. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 The charge thereof unto a covetous spright 
 Commaunded was, who thereby did attend. 
 And warily awaited day and night, 300 
 
 From other covetous feends it to defend, 
 Who it to rob and ransacke did intend. 
 Then Mammon, turning to that warriour, 
 
 said: 
 "Loe, here the worldes blis! loe, here the 
 
 end, 304 
 
 To which al men doe ayme, rich to be made! 
 
 Such grace now to be happy is before thee laid." 
 
 "Certes," said he, ''I n' ill thine offred grace, 
 Ne to be made so happy doe intend! 
 Another blis before mine eyes I place. 
 Another happines, another end. 310 
 
 To them that list, these base regardes I lend: 
 But I in armes, and in atchievements brave, 
 Do rather choose my flitting houres to 
 
 spend. 
 And to be lord of those that riches havo, 
 Then them to have myself e, and be theii eerrilc 
 
 sclave." 315 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Thereat the Feend his gnashing teeth did 
 
 grate. 
 And griev'd, so long to lacke his greedie pray; 
 For well he weened that so glorious bayte v 
 
 Would tempt his guest to take thereof assays 
 
EDMUND SPENSER 
 
 147 
 
 Had he so doen, he had him snatcht away 320 
 More light then culver^^ in the faulcons fist: 
 Eternall God thee save from such decay! 
 But, whenas Mammon saw his purpose mist, 
 Him to entrap unwares another way he wist. 
 
 [The poet then goes on to tell of the further 
 temptations to which Guyon is subjected, and 
 of how the Knight withstands them. At length, 
 after three days have passed, according to 
 men's reckoning, Guyon begs to be taken back 
 into the world, and Mammon, though loth, is 
 constrained to comply with the request. But 
 as soon as Guyon reaches the vital air he 
 swoons, and lies as one dead. The next Canto 
 (which ends with the Knight's recovery and re- 
 union with the Palmer, his appointed guide), 
 begins with the following stanzas on the care of 
 God for man, thus leading us to anticipate the 
 happy ending.] 
 
 (From Canto VIII) 
 I 
 
 And is there care in heaven? And is there 
 
 love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creatures bace, 
 That may compassion of their evils move? 
 There is: else much more wretched were the 
 
 cace 
 Of men then beasts. But 01 th' exceeding 
 
 grace 5 
 
 Of highest God that loves his creatures so. 
 
 And all his workes with mercy doth embrace. 
 
 That blessed Angels he sends to and fro, 
 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe. 
 
 II 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave, lo 
 To come to succour us that succour want! 
 How oft do they with golden pineons cleave 
 The flitting skyes, like flying Pursuivant, 
 Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! 
 They for us fight, they watch and dewly 
 
 ward, 15 
 
 And their bright sqadrons round about us 
 
 plant; 
 And all for love, and nothing for reward. 
 O ! why should hevenly God to men have such 
 
 regard? 
 
 THE COURTIERi 
 
 (From Mother Hubberd's Tale, 1591) 
 Most miserable man, whom wicked fate 
 Hath brought to court, to sue for had ywist, 
 That few have found, and manie one hath mist! 
 Full little knowest thou that hast not tride, 
 What hell it is in suing long to bide : 5 
 
 " Dove. 
 
 1 The poem from which this extract is taken first ap- 
 peared in a miscellaneous collection entitled Complaints 
 (1591). It was in this year that Spenser returned to 
 his home in Ireland, after a stay in London of some two 
 years. This visit to England had been made under the 
 encouragement of Raleigh, who, Spenser tells us, secured 
 his admission to the queen. The poet gives us an ac- 
 count of this visit in his Colin Clout's Come Home Again 
 (pub. 159G), but in the lines here given we have probably 
 an insight into the real mood in which he left the court. 
 
 To loose good dayes, that might be better spent; 
 To wast long nights in pensive discontent; 
 To speed to day, to be put back tomorrow; 
 To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow; 
 To have thy Princes grace, yet want her 
 
 Peeres; lo 
 
 To have thy asking, yet waite manie yeeres; 
 To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares; 
 To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dis- 
 
 paires; 
 To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to 
 
 ronne. 
 To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne. 15 
 Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end. 
 That doth his life in so long tendance spend! 
 Who ever leaves sweete home, where meane 
 
 estate 
 In safe assurance, without strife or hate, 
 Findes all things needfuU for contentment 
 
 meeke, 20 
 
 And will to court for shadowes vaine to seeke. 
 Or hope to gaine, himselfe will one dale crie, 
 That curse God send unto mine enemiel 
 
 PROTHALAMION i 
 
 (1596) 
 
 Calm was the day, and through the trembling 
 
 air 
 Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play, 
 A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
 Hot Titans beams, which then did glisten fair. 
 When I (whom sullen care, 5 
 
 Through discontent of my long fruitless stay 
 In Princes Court, and expectation vain 
 Of idle hopes, which still do fly away. 
 Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain,) 
 Walked forth to ease my pain 10 
 
 Along the shore of silver streaming Thames; 
 Whose rutty ^ bank, the which his river hems. 
 Was painted all with variable flowers. 
 And all the meads adorned with dainty gems 
 Fit to deck maidens bowers 15 
 
 And crown their paramours 
 Against the bridal day,^ which is not long. 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 There, in a meadow by the river's side 
 
 A flock of Nymphs I chanced to spy 20 
 
 All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, 
 
 With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied, 
 
 As each had been a Bride; 
 
 And each one had a little wicker basket. 
 
 Made of fine twigs entrayled curiously, 23 
 
 In which they gathered flowers to fill their 
 
 flasket, 4 
 And with fine fingers cropt full feateously ^ 
 The tender stalks on high. 
 
 1 Prothalamion (or Prothalamium), a marriage song: 
 or as Spenser himself defines it, "A Spousal Verse." 
 This song, the last complete poem of Spenser extant, 
 was written in 1596, to celebrate the approaching mar- 
 riage of "two honourable and vertuous ladies, the Lady 
 Elizabeth and the Lady Catherine Somerset." 
 
 2 Rooty. 
 
 3 In provision for the bridal-day, which ia not far off. 
 ^ Little basket. * Nimbly, dextroualy. 
 
148 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, 
 They gathered some, the Violet pallid blue, 30 
 The little Daisy that at evening closes, 
 The Virgin Lily, and the Primrose true, 
 With store of vermeil^ Roses, 
 To deck their Bridegroomes posies 
 Against the bridal day, which was not long. 35 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 With that I saw two swans of goodly hue 
 
 Come softly swimming down along the Lee;^ 
 
 Two fairer birds I yet did never see; 
 
 The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew, 
 
 Did never whiter shew; 41 
 
 Nor Jove himself, when he a Swan would be. 
 
 For Love of Leda, whiter did appear; 
 
 Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he. 
 
 Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; 45 
 
 So purely white they were, 
 
 That e'en the gentle stream, the which them 
 
 bare, 
 Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare 
 To wet their silken feathers, lest they might 
 Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, 50 
 And mar their beauties bright. 
 That shone as heaven's light, 
 Against their bridal day, which was not long. 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 Ef tsoons^ the Nymphs, which now had flowers 
 their fill, 55 
 
 Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, 
 As they came floating on the crystal flood; 
 Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still 
 Their wondering eyes to fill; 
 Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair, 60 
 Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem 
 Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair 
 Which through the sky draw Venus' silver 
 
 team; 
 For sure they did not seem 
 To be begot of any earthly seed, 65 
 
 But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed; 
 Yet were they bred of Somers-heat^ they say. 
 In sweetest season when each flower and 
 
 weed 
 The earth did fresh array; 
 So fresh they seem'd as day, 70 
 
 E'en as their bridal day, which was not long. 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 
 Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, 
 That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, 75 
 All which upon those goodly birds they threw 
 And all the waves did strew. 
 That hke old Peneus waters they did seem. 
 When down along by pleasant Tempes shore. 
 Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly they 
 stream, 80 
 
 « Vermilion-colored, red. 
 
 ' Apparently the river Lee, which flows into the Thames 
 by Blackwall, opposite Greenwich. 
 
 * Soon after, thereupon. 
 
 •A pun on Somerset, the name of the prospective 
 brides. 
 
 That they appear through lilUes pleanteoi; 
 store, 
 
 Like a bride's chamber floor. 
 
 Two of those Nymphs, meanwhile, two gar- 
 lands boimd 
 
 Of freshest flowers which in that mead they 
 found. 
 
 The which presenting all in trim array, 85 
 
 Their snowy foreheads therewithal they 
 crowned, 
 
 Whil'st one did sing this lay, 
 
 Prepar'd against that day. 
 
 Against their bridal day which was not long. 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my 
 song. 90 
 
 "Ye gentle Birds! the world's fair ornament. 
 And heaven's glory, whom this happy hour 
 Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, 
 Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content 
 Of your love's couplement; 95 
 
 And let fair Venus, that is Queen of Love, 
 With her heart-quelling son upon you smile. 
 Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove 
 All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile 
 For ever to assoil;^" 100 
 
 Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord. 
 And blessM plenty wait upon your board; 
 And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound. 
 That fruitful issue may to you afford. 
 Which may your foes confound, 105 
 
 And make your joys redound 
 Upon your bridal day, which is not long:" 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 So ended she; and all the rest around 
 To her redoubled that her undersong, " 110 
 
 Which said their bridal day should not be long: 
 And gentle Echo from the neighbour-ground 
 Their accents did resound. 
 So forth those joyous birds did pass along, 
 Adown the Lee, that to them murmured low. 
 As he would speak, but that he lacked a tongue. 
 Yet did by signs his glad affection show, 117 
 Making his stream run slow. 
 And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 
 'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 120 
 The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend 
 The lesser stars. So they enranged well, 
 Did on those two attend. 
 And did their best service lend 
 Against their wedding day, which was not 
 long: 125 
 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 At length they all to merry London came. 
 To merry London, my most kindly nurse. 
 That to me gave this life's first native source; 
 Though from another place I take my name. 
 An house^2 of ancient fame: 131 
 
 "> Absolve. 
 
 11 The refrain of her song, the purport of which is given 
 in the following line. 
 
 12 Spenser claimed kinship with the Spencers of Al- 
 thorpe,;"the ancestors of the Spencers and Churchills of V 
 modem days." ^ 
 
p 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH 
 
 149 
 
 There when they came, whereas those bricky 
 
 towers 
 The which on Thames' broad, aged back to 
 
 ride. 
 Where now the studious lawyers have their 
 
 bowers, 
 There whilom wont the Templar Knights to 
 
 bide, 135 
 
 Till they decayed through pride: 
 ' Next whereunto there stands a stately place, i' 
 Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace 
 Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell. 
 Whose want too well now feels my friendless 
 
 case; 14 o 
 
 But ah! here fits not well 
 Old woes, but joys, to tell 
 Against the bridal day, which is not long: 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, 145 
 Great England's glory, and all the world's wide 
 
 wonder, 
 Whose dreadful name late through all Spain 
 
 did thunder. 
 And Hercules' two pillars standing near 
 Did make to quake and fear: 
 Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry! 150 
 That fillest England with thy triumph's fame, 
 Joy have thou of thy noble victory, ^^ 
 And endless happiness of thy own name, 
 That promise th the same; 
 That through thy prowess, and victorious 
 
 arms, 155 
 
 Thy country may be freed from foreign harms; 
 And great Eliza's glorious name may ring 
 Through all the world, filled with thy wide 
 
 alarms, ^^ 
 Which some brave muse may sing 
 To ages following, 160 
 
 Upon the bridal day, which is not long: 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 From those high towers this noble lord issuing, 
 Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair 
 In the Ocean's billows he hath bathed fair, 165 
 Descended to the river's open viewing. 
 With a great train ensuing. 
 Above the rest were goodly to be seen 
 Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature 
 Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 170 
 . ii gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, 
 Fit for so goodly stature, 
 
 That like'the twins of Jove they seemed in sight, 
 Which deck the baldrick of the heavens bright; 
 They two, forth pacing to the river's side, 175 
 Received those two fair brides, their love's de- 
 light; 
 Which, at the appointed tide. 
 Each one did make his bride 
 Against their bridal day, which is not long: 179 
 Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 ^' A palace adjoining the Temple, formerly occupied 
 by Elizabeth's favorite, the Earl of Leicester (the "gentle 
 lord" here referred to) and afterwards by the Earl of 
 Essex, the "noble peer" alluded to in the next stanza. 
 
 " The capture of Cadiz, June 1596, by Raleigh, Lord 
 Howard of Effingham, and Essex. 
 
 ^* i. e. The alarm you excite. 
 
 SONNETS 
 (From Amoretii, 1595) 
 
 XLl 
 
 Mark when she smiles with amiable cheare, 
 And tell me whereto can ye lyken it; 
 When on each eyelid sweetly doe appeare 
 An hundred Graces as in shade to sit. 
 Lykest it seemeth, in my simple wit, 5 
 
 Unto the fayre sunshine in somers day; 
 That, when a dreadfuU storm away is flit, 
 Thrugh the broad world doth spred his goodly 
 
 ray: 
 At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray. 
 And every beast that to his den was fled, 10 
 
 Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay. 
 And to thy light lift up their drouping hed. 
 So my storme-beaten hart likewise is cheared 
 With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are 
 cleared. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 One day I wrote her name upon the strand; 
 But came the waves and washed it away: 
 Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand; 
 And came the tyde, and made my paynes his 
 
 pray. 
 "Vayne man," sayd she, "that doest in vayne 
 
 assay 5 
 
 A mortal! thing so to immortalize; 
 For I myselve shall lyke to this decay, 
 And eek my name bee wyped out lykewize." 
 "Not so" (quod I); "let baser things devize 
 To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame : 10 
 My verse your vertues rare shall eternize. 
 And in the hevens wryte your glorious name; 
 Where, when as death shall all the world 
 
 subdew. 
 Our love shall live, and later life renew." 
 
 &iv falter Maleiglft 
 
 1552-1618 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PAS- 
 SIONATE SHEPHERD 
 
 (From England's Helicon, 1600) 
 
 If all the world and Love were young, 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
 These pleasures might my passion move. 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 But time drives flocks from field to fold, 5 
 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; 
 And Philomel becometh dumb. 
 The rest complains of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields; 10 
 A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
 Is fancies spring but sorrows fall. 
 
 1 XL and LXXV. These are from a series of eighty- 
 eight sonnets entitled Amoretti, published together with 
 the splendid Epithalamion, or marriage hymn, in 1595. 
 The sonnets commemorate Spenser's courtship of, and 
 the Epithalamion his marriage to, a certain Irish country 
 girl whose Christian name was certainly Elizabeth, and 
 whose last name (according to Grosart) was Boyle. 
 
150 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, 
 Thy coral clasps and amber studs. 
 All these in me no means can move. 
 To come to thee, and be thy love. 
 
 But could youth last, could love still breed. 
 Had joys no date, had age no need; 
 Then those delights my mind might move 
 To live with thee and be thy love. 
 
 PILGRIM TO PILGRIM 
 
 As you came from the holy land 
 
 Of Walsinghame, 
 Met you not with my true love 
 
 By the way as you came? 
 
 How shall I know your true love, 
 
 That have met many one. 
 As I went to the holy land. 
 
 That have come, that have gone? 
 
 She is neither white nor brown, 
 
 But as the heavens fair; 
 There is none hath a form so divine 
 
 In the earth or the air. 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 Such a one did I meet, good sir, 
 
 Such an angel-like face. 
 Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear, 15 
 
 By her gait, by her grace. 
 
 She hath left me here all alone, 
 
 All alone, as unknown, 
 Who sometimes did me lead with herself. 
 
 And me loved as her own. 20 
 
 What's the cause that she leaves you alone, 
 
 And a new way doth take, 
 Who loved you once as her own, 
 
 And her joy did you make? 
 
 I have loved her all my youth, 
 
 And now old, as you see. 
 Love Ukes not the falling fruit 
 
 From the withered tree. 
 
 Know that love is a careless child. 
 
 And forgets promise past; 
 He is blind, he is deaf when he list. 
 
 And in faith never fast. 
 
 His desire is a dureless content. 
 
 And a trustless joy; 
 He is won with a world of despair 
 
 And is lost with a toy. 
 
 Of womankind such indeed is the love. 
 
 Or the word love abused. 
 Under which many childish desires 
 
 And conceits are excused. 40 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 But true love is a durable fire. 
 In the mind ever burning, 
 
 Never sick, never old, never dead. 
 From itself never turning. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE 
 HIS DEATH! 
 Even such is time, that takes on trust 
 Our youth, our joys, our all we have. 
 And pays us but with (Earth) and dust; 
 Who, in the dark and silent grave, 
 (When we have wandered all our ways), 5 
 Shuts up the story of our days: 
 But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 
 My God shall raise me up, I trust! 
 
 1553-1606 
 APELLES' SONG 
 
 (From Alexander and Camj>aspe, 1584; acted 
 
 1581) 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe played 
 
 At cards for kisses, — Cupid paid; 
 
 He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows. 
 
 His mother's doves, and team of sparrows: 
 
 Loses them too; then down he throws 5 
 
 The coral of his lip, the rose 
 
 Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how); 
 
 With these the crystal of his brow. 
 
 And then the dimple of his chin: 
 
 All these did my Campaspe win. 10 
 
 At last he set her both his eyes; 
 
 She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
 
 O Love, has she done this to thee? 
 
 What shall, alas! become of me? 
 
 1554-1586 
 
 SONNETS 
 (From Astrophel and Stella, c. 1591) 
 
 XXXI 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the 
 
 skies! 
 How silently, and with how wan a face! 
 What, may it be that even in heavenly place 
 That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? 
 Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eye 5 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; 
 I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace, 
 To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
 Then ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me. 
 Is constant love deemed there but want of 
 
 wit? 10 
 
 Are beauties there as proud as here they be? 
 Do they above love to be loved, and yet 
 Those lovers scorn whom that love doth pos- 
 
 Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 
 
 1 Raleigh was executed Oct. 29th, 1618. These lines 
 are said to have been found in Raleigh's Bible. 
 
XXXIX — ON SLEEP 
 
 f Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
 The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
 The indifferent judge between the high and 
 
 low; 
 With shield of proof, shield me from out the 
 
 prease 5 
 
 Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: 
 
 make in me those civil wars to cease; 
 
 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 
 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed; 
 A chamber deaf of noise, and blind of light; 10 
 A rosy garland and a weary head : 
 And if these things, as being thine in right, 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
 Liveher than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 
 
 A FAREWELL 
 
 Leave me, O Love! which reachest but to dust; 
 And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things: 
 Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; 
 What ever fades, but fading pleasure brings. 
 Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might 5 
 To that sweet yoke, where lasting freedoms be. 
 Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the 
 
 light. 
 That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. 
 
 O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide. 
 
 In this small course, which birth draws out to 
 
 death, in 
 
 And think how ill becometh him to slide, 
 Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly 
 
 breath. 
 Then farewell. World, thy uttermost I see, 
 Eternal Love, maintain thy life in Me! 
 
 Splendidis Longum Valedico Nugis^ 
 
 1558-1625 
 
 A PROTESTATION 
 (From Rosalind, 1590) 
 
 First shall the heavens want starry light. 
 The seas be robbed of their waves ; 
 
 The day want sun, and sun want bright. 
 
 The night want shade, the dead men graves; 
 
 The April flowers and leaf and tree, 5 
 
 Before I false my faith to thee. 
 
 First shall the tops of highest hills 
 
 By humble plains be overpried;i 
 And poets scorn the Muses' quills. 
 
 And fish forsake the water glide : 10 
 
 And Iris loose her colored weed. 
 Before I fail thee at thy need. 
 
 1 A long farewell to shining baubles. 
 ^ Overlooked. 
 
 GEORGE PEELE 
 
 151 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 First direful hate shall turn to peace. 
 And love relent in deep disdain; 
 
 And death his fatal stroke shall cease. 
 And envy pity every pain; 
 
 And pleasure mourn, and sorrow smile. 
 
 Before I talk of any guile. 
 
 First Time shall stay his stayless race. 
 And winter bless his brows with corn; 
 
 And snow bemoisten July's face. 
 
 And winter spring, and summer mourn; 
 
 Before my pen by help of fame. 
 
 Cease to recite thy sacred name. 
 
 PHILLIS 
 
 (From Phillis Honoured with Pastoral Sonnets, 
 1593) 
 
 My Phillis hath the morning sun 
 
 At first to look upon her. 
 And Phillis hath morn-waking birds 
 
 Her risings for to honour. 
 My Phillis hath prime-feathered flowers 5 
 
 That smile when she treads on them; 
 And Phillis hath a gallant flock 
 
 That leaps since she doth own them. 
 But Phillis hath so hard a heart 
 
 (Alas that she should have it), 
 As yields no mercy to desert 
 
 Nor grace to those that crave it: 
 
 Sweet sun, when thou lookest on 
 
 Pray her regard my moan. 
 
 Sweet birds, when you sing to her 
 
 To yield some pity woo her. 
 
 Sweet flowers, when as she treads on 
 
 Tell her her beauty deads one 
 And if in life her love she nill agree me,^ 
 Pray her before I die she will come see me. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 George l^ttlt 
 
 c. 1558-c. 1598 
 
 SONG 
 
 (From The Arraignment of Paris, printed, 1584) 
 
 (Enone. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 
 ay" 
 The fairest shepherd c 
 A love for any lady. 
 
 As fair as any may be; 
 
 ' " ' on our green. 
 
 Paris. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 5 
 As fair as any may be; 
 Thy love is fair for thee alone, 
 And for no other lady. 
 
 (Enone. My love is fair, my love is gay, 
 
 As fresh as bin the flowers in May, 
 
 And of my love my roundelay, li 
 
 My merry, merry, merry roundelay. 
 
 Concludes with Cupid's curse, — 
 
 They that do change old love for new. 
 
 Pray gods they change for worse! 15 
 
 1 Will not (nill) bring in agreement with me. 
 
152 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Both. Fair and fair, etc. (repeated) 
 
 (Enone. My love can pipe, my love can sing, 
 My love can many a pretty thing, 
 And of his lovely praises ring 
 My merry, merry roundelays, 
 Amen to Cupid's curse, 20 
 
 They that do change old love for new, 
 Pray gods they change for worse! 
 
 HIS GOLDEN LOCKS TIME HATH TO 
 SILVER TURNED 
 
 (From Polyhymnia, 1590) 
 
 His golden locks Time hath to silver turned — 
 
 time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! 
 His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever 
 
 spurned. 
 But spurned in vain; youth waneth by in- 
 creasing! 
 
 Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading 
 seen ; 5 
 
 Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. 
 
 His helmet now shall make a hive for bees. 
 And lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, 
 
 A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees. 
 
 And feed on prayers, which are Old Age his 
 
 alms: lo 
 
 But, though from' court to cottage he depart. 
 
 His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 
 
 And when he saddest sits in homely cell. 
 
 He'll teach his swains this carol for a song: — 
 "Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign 
 well, 15 
 
 Cursed be souls that think here any wrong!" 
 Goddess, allow this aged man his right, 
 To be your bedesman^ now that was your 
 knight. 
 
 ILLUSTRIOUS ENGLAND, ANCIENT 
 SEAT OF KINGS 
 
 (From Edward 1st, 1593) 
 
 Illustrious England, ancient seat of kings. 
 Whose chivalry hath royalized thy fame. 
 That sounding bravely through terrestrial vale. 
 Proclaiming conquests, spoils, and victories. 
 Rings glorious echoes through the farthest 
 
 world; 5 
 
 What warlike nation, trained in feats of arms. 
 What barbarous people, stubborn, or untamed, 
 What climate under the meridian signs, ^ 
 Or frozen zone under his brumal plage, ^ 
 Erst have not quaked and trembled at the 
 
 name 10 
 
 Of Britain and her mighty conquerors? 
 Her neighbour realms, as Scotland, Denmark, 
 
 France, 
 
 1 Bedesman or beadsman, one who prays, for himself 
 or, more especially, for another. 
 
 1 Under the signs of the Zodiac, i. e. under the heaven. 
 
 ' The firmament was <iivided into four quarters, each 
 
 f which was called a plage, or region; the brumal (or 
 
 intry) plage, was the wintry quarter above the frozen 
 
 X)ne. 
 
 Awed with her deeds and jealous of her arms, 
 Have begged offensive and defensive leagues. 
 Thus Europe, rich and mighty in her kings, 15 
 Hath feared brave England, dreadful in her 
 
 kings. 
 And now, t' eternise Albion's champions 
 Equivalent with Trojans' ancient fame, 
 Comes lovely Edward from Jerusalem, 
 Veering before the wind, ploughing the sea; 20 
 His stretched sails filled with the breath of men 
 That through the world admires his manliness. 
 And, lo, at last arrived in Dover-road, 
 Longshanks,^ your king, your glory, and our 
 
 son, 
 With troops of conquering lords, and warlike 
 
 knights, 25 
 
 Like bloody-crested Mars, o'erlooks his host, 
 Higher than all his army by the head, 
 Marching along as bright as Phoebus eyes! 
 And we, his mother, shall behold our son. 
 And England's peers shall see their sovereign.SG 
 
 George Cliapman 
 
 c. 1559-1634 
 
 HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE 
 
 (From translation of Homer's Iliad, Bk. VI. 
 
 1610) 
 
 He answer'd: "Helen, do not seek to make 
 
 me sit with thee; 
 I must not stay, though well I know thy 
 
 honour'd love of me. 
 ... I myself will now go home, and see 
 My household, my dear wife and son, that little 
 
 hope of me; 
 For, sister, 'tis without my skill, if I shall ever- 
 more 5 
 Return, and see them, or to earth, her right in 
 
 me, restore. 
 The Gods may stoop me by the Greeks." This 
 
 said, he went to see 
 The virtuous princess, his true wife, white- 
 
 arm'd Andromache. 
 She, with her infant son and maid, was climb'd 
 
 the tow'r, about 
 The sight of him that sought for her, weeping 
 
 and crying out. lo 
 
 Hector, not finding her at home, was going 
 
 forth; retir'd; 
 Stood in the gate; her woman call'd, and 
 
 curiously inquir'd 
 Where she was gone; bade tell him true, if she 
 
 were gone to see 
 His sisters, or his brothers' wives; or whether 
 
 she should be 
 At temple with the other dames, t' implore 
 
 Minerva's ruth. is 
 
 Her woman answer'd: Since he ask'd, and 
 urg'd so much the truth, 
 The truth was she was neither gone, to see his. 
 brothers' wives, 
 
 3 Longshanks: Edward Ist was given this surname 
 on account of his unusual height. \ 
 
GEORGE CHAPMAN 
 
 153 
 
 His sisters, nor t' implore the ruth of Pallas on 
 
 their lives; 
 But she (adv§rtis'd of the bane Troy sufifer'd, 
 
 and how vast 
 Conquest herself had made for Greece) like 
 
 one distraught, made haste 20 
 
 To ample Ilion with her son, and nurse, and all 
 
 the way 
 Moiirn'd, and dissolved in tears for him. Then 
 
 Hector made no stay, 
 But trod her path, and through the streets, 
 
 magnificently built, 
 All the great city pass'd, and came where, 
 
 seeing how blood was spilt, 
 Andromache might see him come; who made as 
 
 he would pass 25 
 
 The ports without saluting her, not knowing 
 
 where she was. 
 She, with his sight, made breathless haste, to 
 
 meet him; she, whose grace 
 Brought him withal so great a dow'r; she that 
 
 of all the race 
 Of King Action only lived: Action, whose house 
 
 stood 
 Beneath the mountain Placius, environ'd with 
 
 the wood 30 
 
 Of Theban Hypoplace, being court to the 
 
 Cicilian land. 
 She ran to Hector, and with her, tender of 
 
 heart and hand, 
 Her son, borne in his nurse's arms; when, like a 
 
 heav'nly sign, 
 Compact of many golden stars, the princely 
 
 child did shine, 
 Whom Hector call'd Scamandrius; but whom 
 
 the town did name 35 
 
 Astyanax, because his sire did only prop the 
 
 same. 
 Hector, though grief bereft his speech, yet 
 
 smil'd upon his joy. 
 Andromache cried out, mix'd hands, and to the 
 
 . strength of Troy 
 Thus wept forth her affection: "0 noblest in 
 
 desire, 
 Thy mind, inflam'd with others' good, will set 
 
 thyself on fire: 40 
 
 Nor pitiest thou thy son, nor wife, who must 
 
 thy widow be. 
 If now thou issue; all the field will only run on 
 
 thee. 
 Better my shoulders underwent the earth, than 
 
 thy decease: 
 For then would earth bear joys no more; then 
 
 comes the black increase 
 Of griefs (like Greeks on Ilion). Alas! what one 
 
 survives 45 
 
 To be my refuge? One black day bereft seven 
 
 brothers' lives, 
 By stern Achilles; by his hand my father 
 
 breathed his last, 
 His high-wall'd rich Cicilian Thebes sack'd by 
 
 him, and laid waste; 
 The royal body yet he left unspoil'd; religion 
 
 charm'd 
 That act of spoil; and all in fire he bum'd him 
 
 c6mplete arm'd; 60 
 
 Built over him a royal tomb; and to the monu- 
 ment 
 He left of him, th' Oreades (that are the high 
 
 descent 
 Of iEgis-bearing Jupiter) another of their 
 
 own 
 Did add to it, and set it round with elms; by 
 
 which is shown, * 
 
 In theirs, the barrenness of death; yet might it 
 
 serve beside 55 
 
 To shelter the sad monument from all the 
 
 ruffinous pride 
 Of storms and tempests, us'd to hurt things of 
 
 that noble kind. 
 The short life yet my mother liv'd he sav'd, and 
 
 serv'd his mind 
 With all the riches of the realm; which not 
 
 enough esteem'd. 
 He kept her pris'ner; whom small time, but 
 
 much more wealth, redeem'd ; 60 
 
 And she, in sylvan Hypoplace, Cicilia rul'd 
 
 again. 
 But soon was over-rul'd by death; Diana's 
 
 chaste disdain 
 Gave her a lance, and took her life. Yet, all 
 
 these gone from me, 
 Thou amply render'st all; thy life makes still 
 
 my father be. 
 My mother, brothers; and besides thou art my 
 
 husband too, 65 
 
 Most lov'd, most worthy. Pity then, dear love, 
 
 and do not go. 
 For thou gone, all these go again; pity our com- 
 mon joy, 
 Lest, of a father's patronage, the bulwark of all 
 
 Troy, 
 Thou leav'st him a poor widow's charge. Stay, 
 
 stay then, in this tow'r. 
 And call up to the wild fig-tree all thy retir'd 
 
 pow'r; 70 
 
 For there the wall is easiest scal'd, and fittest 
 
 for siu-prise. 
 And there, th' A j aces, Idomen, th' Atrides, 
 
 Diomed, thrice 
 Have both survey 'd and made attempt; I 
 
 know not if induc'd 
 By some wise augur, or the fact was naturally 
 
 infus'd 
 Into their wits, or courages." To this, great 
 
 Hector said: 75 
 
 "Be well assur'd, wife, all these things in my 
 
 kind cares are weigh'd. 
 But what a shame, and fear, it is to think how 
 
 Troy would scorn 
 (Both in her husbands, and her wives, whom 
 
 long-train'd gowns adorn) 
 That I should cowardly fly off! The spirit I 
 
 first did breath 
 Did never teach me that; much less, since the 
 
 contempt of death 80 
 
 Was settled in me, and my mind knew what a 
 
 worthy was, 
 Whose office is to lead in fight, and give no 
 
 danger pass 
 Without improvement. In this fire must 
 
 Hector's trial shine; 
 
154 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Here must his country, father, friends, be, in 
 
 him, made divine. 
 And such a stormy day shall come (in mind and 
 
 soul I know) 85 
 
 When sacred Troy shall shed her tow'rs, for 
 
 tears of overthrow^ 
 When Priam, all his birth and pow'r, shall in 
 
 those tears be drown'd. 
 But neither Troy's posterity so much my soul 
 
 doth wound. 
 Priam, nor Hecuba herself, nor all my brothers' 
 
 woes, 
 (Who though so many, and so good, must all be 
 
 food for foes) • 90 
 
 As thy sad state; when some rude Greek shall 
 
 lead thee weeping hence. 
 These free days clouded, and a night of captive 
 
 violence 
 Loading thy temples, out of which thine eyes 
 
 must never see, 
 But spin the Greek wives* webs of task, and 
 
 their fetch-water be 
 To Argo35 from Messeides, or clear Hyperia's 
 
 spring: 95 
 
 Which howsoever thou abhorr'st. Fate's such a 
 
 shrewish thing 
 She will be mistress; whose curs'd hands, when 
 
 they shall crush out cries 
 From thy oppressions (being beheld by other 
 
 enemies) 
 Thus they will nourish thy extremes: *This 
 
 dame was Hector's wife, 
 A man that, at the wars of Troy, did breathe 
 
 the worthiest life 100 
 
 Of all their army.' This again will rub thy 
 
 fruitful wounds, 
 To miss the man that to thy bands could give 
 
 such narrow bounds. 
 But that day shall not wound mine eyes; the 
 
 solid heap of night 
 Shall interpose, shall stop mine ears against 
 
 thy plaints, and plight." 
 
 This said, he reach'd to take his son; who, of 
 
 his arms afraid, ^ _ 105 
 
 And then the horse-hair plume, with which he 
 
 was so overlaid, 
 Nodded so horribly, he cling'd back to his nurse, 
 
 and cried. 
 Laughter affected his great sire, who doff'd, and 
 
 laid aside 
 His fearful helm, that on the earth cast roimd 
 
 about it light; 
 Then took and kiss'd his loving son, and 
 
 (balancing his weight ^ no 
 
 In dancing him) these loving vows to living 
 
 Jove he us'd, 
 And all the other bench of Gods: "O you that 
 
 have infus'd 
 Soul to this infant, now set down this blessing 
 
 on his star: — 
 Let his renown be clear as mine; equal his 
 
 strength in war; 
 And make his reign so strong in Troy, that 
 
 years to come may yield lis 
 
 His facts this fame, when, rich in spoils, he 
 
 leaves the conquer'd field 
 Sown with his slaughters: 'These high deeds 
 
 exceed his father's worth!' 
 And let this echo'd praise supply the comforts 
 
 to come forth 
 Of his kind mother with my life." This said, 
 
 th' heroic sire 
 Gave him his mother; whose fair eyes fresh 
 
 streams of love's salt fire 120 
 
 Billow'd on her soft cheeks, to hear the last of 
 
 Hector's speech, 
 In which his vows compris'd the sum of all he 
 
 did beseech 
 In her wish'd comfort. So she took into her 
 
 od'rous breast 
 Her husband's gift; who, mov'd to see her 
 
 heart so much oppress'd. 
 He dried her tears, and thus desir'd: "Afflict 
 
 me not, dear wife, 125 
 
 With these vain griefs. He doth not Uve, that 
 
 can disjoin my life 
 And this firm bosom, but my fate; and Fate, 
 
 whose wings can fly? 
 Noble, ignoble, Fate controls. Once born, the 
 
 best must die. 
 Go home, and set thy housewif'ry on these 
 
 extremes of thought; 
 And drive war from them with thy maids; keep 
 
 them from doing nought. 130 
 
 These will be nothing; leave the cares of war to 
 
 men, and me 
 In whom, of all the Ilion race, they take their 
 
 high'st degree." 
 
 On went his helm; his princess home, half 
 cold with kindly fears; 
 When every fear turn'd back her looks, and 
 every look shed tears. 
 
 ZEUS SENDS HERMES TO CALYPSO 
 
 (Prom translation of Homer's Odyssey, Bk. V. 
 1614) 
 
 Thus charged he ; nor Argicides denied, 
 But to his feet his fair wing'd shoes he tied, 
 Ambrosian, golden; that in his command 
 Put either sea, or the unmeasured land, 
 With pace as speedy as a puft of wind. 5 
 
 Then up his rod went, with which he declined 
 The eyes of any waker, when he pleased, 
 And any sleeper, when he wish'd, diseased. 
 
 This took; he stoop'd Pieria, and thence 
 Glid through the air, and Neptune's confluence, 
 Kiss'd as he flew, and check'd the waves as 
 light ... 11 
 
 As any sea-mew in her fishing flight 
 Her thick wings sousing in the savoury seas. 
 Like her, he pass'd a world of wilderness; 
 But when the far-off isle he touch'd, he went 15 
 Up from the blue sea to the continent, 
 And reach'd the ample cavern of the Queen, 
 Whom he within found; without seldom seen. 
 A sun-like fire upon the hearth did flame; 
 The matter precious, and divine the frame; 20 ^ 
 
SAMUEL DANIEL 
 
 155 
 
 Of cedar cleft and incense was the pile, 
 
 That breathed an odour round about the isle. 
 
 HerseK was seated in an inner room, 
 
 Whom sweetly sing he heard, and at her loom. 
 
 About a curious web, whose yarn she threw 25 
 
 In with a golden shittle.^ A grove grew 
 
 In endless spring about her cavern round. 
 
 With odorous cypress, pines, and poplars, 
 
 crown'd. 
 Where hawks, sea-owls, and long-tongued 
 
 bittours^ bred. 
 And other birds their shady pinions spread ; 30 
 All fowls maritimal; none roosted there. 
 But those whose labours in the waters were. 
 A vine did all the hollow cave embrace, 
 Still green, yet still ripe bunches gave it brace. 
 Four fountains, one against another, pour'd 35 
 Their silver streams; and meadows all enflour'd 
 With sweet balm-gentle, and blue violets hid. 
 That deck'd the soft breasts of each fragrant 
 
 mead. 
 Should any one, though he immortal were, 
 Arrive and see the sacred objects there, 40 
 
 He would admire them, and be over-joy'd; 
 And so stood Hermes' ravish'd powers em- 
 
 ploy'd. 
 
 l^obert (3ttmt 
 
 1560-1592 
 
 CONTENT 
 
 (From Farewell to Folly, 1591) 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content, 
 
 The quiet mind is richer than a crown. 
 Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent. 
 The poor estate scorns fortune's angry 
 frown: 
 Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
 such bliss, 5 
 
 Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss, 
 
 The homely^ house that harbours quiet rest, 
 The cottage that affords no pride nor care, 
 
 The mean that grees^ with country music best. 
 The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare. 
 
 Obscurdd life sets down a type of bliss: 1 1 
 
 A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 
 
 Samuel SDaniel 
 
 1562-1619 
 
 SONNET LI 
 
 (From Delia, Containing certain Sonnets, 1592) 
 
 Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 
 Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: 
 Relieve my languish and restore the light; 
 With dark forgetting of my care, return. 
 And let the day be time enough to mourn 5 
 
 The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: 
 
 i Shuttle. ^ Bitterns. 
 
 1 Homelike. 
 
 2 The middle state, or modest circumstances. That 
 best agrees, etc. 
 
 Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn 
 Without the torment of the night's untruth. 
 Cease dreams, the images of day desires. 
 To model forth the passions of the morrow; lo 
 Never let rising sun approve you liars. 
 To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. 
 Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
 And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 
 
 PROPHECY OF LITERATURE IN 
 AMERICA 
 
 (From Musophilus, 1599) 
 
 Pow'r above powers! O heavenly Eloquence! 
 That with the strong rein of commanding 
 
 words 
 Dost manage, guide, and master th' eminence 
 Of men's affections, more than all their swords! 
 Shall we not offer to thy excellence, 5 
 
 The richest treasure that our wit affords? 
 
 Thou that canst do much more with one poor 
 
 pen. 
 Than all the pow'rs of princes can effect; 
 And draw, divert, dispose and fashion men, 
 Better than force or rigour can direct! 10 
 
 Should we this ornament of glory then. 
 As th' unmaterial fruit of shades, neglect? 
 
 Or should we careless come behind the rest 
 In power of words, that go before in worth; 
 When as our accent 's equal to the best, 15 
 
 Is able greater wonders to bring forth? 
 When all that ever hotter spir'ts expressed. 
 Comes better'd by the patience of the north. 
 
 And who (in time) knows whither we may vent 
 The treasure of our tongue? To what strange 
 
 shores 20 
 
 This gain of our best glory shall be sent, 
 T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores? 
 What worlds in th' unformM Occident, 
 May come refin'd with th' accents that are 
 
 ours? 
 
 Or who can tell for what great work in hand 25 
 The greatness of our style is now ordain'd? 
 What pow'rs it shall bring in, what spir'ts 
 
 command? 
 What thoughts let out; what humours keep 
 
 restrain' d? 
 What mischief it may pow'rfuUy withstand; 
 And what fair ends may thereby be attain'd? 30 
 
 TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS 
 OF CUMBERLAND 
 
 He that of such a height hath built his mind. 
 And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so 
 
 strong. 
 As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame 
 Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind 
 Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 5 
 
 His settled peace, or to disturb the same: 
 What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may 
 The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey! 
 
156 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 And with how free an eye doth he look down 
 Upon these lower regions of turmoU? 10 
 
 Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
 On flesh and blood: where honour, power, 
 
 renown, 
 Are only gay afflictions, golden toil; 
 Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 
 As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 1 5 
 To little minds, who do it so esteem. 
 
 He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars 
 But only as on stately robberies; 
 Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
 Must be the right : the ill-succeeding mars 20 
 The fairest and the best-f ac'd enterprise. 
 Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails: 
 Justice, he sees (as if seduced) still 
 Conspires with power, whose cause must not be 
 ill. 
 
 He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold 25 
 
 As are the passions of uncertain man; 
 
 Who puts it in all colours, all attires, 
 
 To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 
 
 He sees, that let deceit work what it can, 
 
 Plot and contrive base ways to high desires; 30 
 
 That the all-guiding Providence doth yet 
 
 All disappoint, and mocks the smoke of wit. 
 
 Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder-cracks 
 Of tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow 
 Of Pow'r, that proudly sits on others' crimes: 35 
 Charg'd with more crying sins than those he 
 
 checks. 
 The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
 Up in the present for the coming times, 
 Appal not him; that hath no side at all. 
 But of himself, and knows the worst can 40 
 
 faU. ... 
 
 And whereas none rejoice more in revenge; 
 Than women use to do; yet you well know, 
 That wrong is better check'd by being con- 
 
 temn'd. 
 Than being pursu'd ; leaving him t' avenge. 
 To whom it appertains. Wherein you show 45 
 How worthily your clearness hath condemn'd 
 Base malediction, living in the dark, 
 That at the rays of goodness still doth bark. 
 
 Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
 The centre of this world, about the which 50 
 These revolutions of disturbances 
 Still roll; where all th' aspects of misery 
 Predominate: whose strong effects are such, 
 As he must bear, being pow'rless to redress: 
 And that unless above himself he can 55 
 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 
 
 And how turmoil'd they are that level lie 
 With earth, and cannot lift themselves from 
 
 thence; 
 That never are at peace with their desires. 
 But work beyond their years ; and ev'n deny 60 
 Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense 
 With death. That when ability expires, 
 Desire lives still — So much delight they have, 
 To carry toil and travel to the grave. 
 
 TO HENRY WRIOTHESLY, EARL OF 
 SOUTHAMPTON 
 
 NonfercU uUum ictum illcesa felicitas^ 
 
 He who hath never war'd with misery, 
 Nor ever tugg'd with fortune and distress, 
 Hath had n' occasion, nor no field to try 
 The strength and forces of his worthiness. 
 Those parts of judgment which felicity 5 
 
 Keeps as conceal'd, affliction must express; 
 And only men show their abilities. 
 And what they are, in their extremities. 
 
 The world had never taken so full note 
 
 Of what thou art, had'st thou not been un- 
 done; 10 
 
 And only thy affliction hath begot 
 
 More fame, than thy best fortunes could have 
 done: 
 
 For ever by adversity are wrought 
 
 The greatest works of admiration; 
 
 And all the fair examples of renown, 15 
 
 Out of distress and misery are grown. 
 
 Mutius the fire, the tortures Regulus, 
 Did make the miracles of faith and zeal; 
 Exile renown'd and grac'd Rutilius: 
 Imprisonment and poison did reveal 20 
 
 The worth of Socrates. Fabritius' 
 Poverty did grace that commonweal. 
 More than all Sylla's riches got with strife; 
 And Cato's death did vie with Caesar's life. 
 
 Not to b' unhappy is unhappiness, 25 
 
 And mis'ry not to have known misery: 
 For the best way unto discretion is 
 The way that leads us by adversity, 
 And men are better show'd what is amiss, 
 By th' expert finger of calamity, 30 
 
 Than they can be with all that fortune brings. 
 Who never shows them the true face of things. 
 
 How could we know that thou couldst have 
 
 endur'd, 
 With a repos'd cheer, wrong, and disgrace; 
 And with a heart and countenance assur'd, 35 
 Have look'd stem Death and horror in the face! 
 How should we know thy soul had been secur'd, 
 In honest counsels, and in way unbase; 
 Had'st thou not stood to show us what thou 
 
 wer't, 
 By thy affliction that descry'd thy heart ! 40 
 
 It is not but the tempest that doth show 
 The seaman's cunning; but the field that tries 
 The captain's courage: and we come to know 
 Best what men are, in their worst jeopardies. 
 For lo ! how many have we seen to grow 45 
 
 To high renown from lowest miseries. 
 Out of the hands of Death? And many a one 
 T' have been imdone, had they not been un- 
 done? 
 
 1 Unbroken prosperity is unable to bear any evil stroka 
 Seneca, De Providentia. 
 
MICHAEL DRAYTON 
 
 157 
 
 He that endures for what his conscience knows 
 Not to be ill, doth from a patience high 50 
 
 Look only on the cause whereto he owes 
 Those sufferings, not on his misery : 
 The more he 'endures, the more his glory grows, 
 Which never grows from imbecility: 
 Only the best compos'd, and worthiest hearts, 55 
 God sets to act the hard'st and constant'st 
 Darts. 
 
 1563-1631 
 
 SONNET LXI 
 
 (From Idea's Mirror, 1594) 
 
 Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, 
 Nay I have done, you get no more of me; 
 And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart. 
 That thus so cleanly I myself can free; 
 Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, 5 
 
 And when we meet at any time again. 
 Be it not seen in either of our brows 
 That we one jot of former love retain. 
 Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 
 When his pulse failing. Passion speechless lies, 10 
 When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 
 And Innocence is closing up his eyes: 
 
 Now if thou would'st, when all have given 
 him over. 
 
 From death to life thou might'st him yet re- 
 cover. 
 
 AND 
 
 AGINCOURT 
 
 TO MY FRIENDS THE CAMBER-BRITONS^ 
 THEIR HARP 
 
 (From Poems, Lyrics and Pastorals, 1605?) 
 
 Fair stood the wind for France, 
 When we our sails advance. 
 And now to prove our chance 
 
 Longer not tarry. 
 But put unto the .main, 5 
 
 At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
 With all his warlike train. 
 
 Landed King Harry. 
 
 And taking many a fort, 
 
 Furnished in warlike sort, 10 
 
 Coming toward Agincourt 
 
 In happy hour, 
 Skirmishing day by day 
 With those oppose his way. 
 Where as the gen'ral lay 15 - 
 
 With all his power: 
 
 Which in his height of pride. 
 As Henry to deride, 
 His ransom to provide 
 
 Unto him sending; 20 
 
 iThe Britons of Cambria, or Wales, aa distinguished 
 from the Britons of Cornwall and Armorica. The harp 
 was intimately associated with the Welsh poetry as it 
 was with that of Celtic Ireland. 
 
 Which he neglects the while. 
 As from a nation vile, 
 Yet with an angry smile. 
 Their fall portending; 
 
 And, turning to his men, 26 
 
 Quoth famous Henry then, 
 ''Though they to one be ten, 
 
 Be not amazed; 
 Yet have we well begun, ^ 
 
 Battles so bravely won 30 
 
 Ever more to the sun 
 
 By fame are raised. 
 
 "And for myself," quoth he, 
 "This my full rest shall be, 
 England ne'er mourn for me, 35 
 
 Nor more esteem me. 
 Victor I will remain, 
 Or on this earth be slain. 
 Never shall she sustain 
 
 Loss to redeem me. 40 
 
 "Poyters and Cressy tell, 
 When most their pride did swell. 
 Under our swords they fell. 
 
 No less our skill is 
 Than when our grandsire great, 45 
 Claiming the regal seat. 
 In many a warlike feat 
 
 Lopp'd the French lilies." 
 
 The Duke of York^ so dread. 
 
 The eager vaward led; 50 
 
 With the main Henry sped, 
 
 Amongst his henchmen.* 
 Excester had the rear, 
 A braver man not there, 
 And now preparing were 55 
 
 For the false Frenchman, 
 
 And ready to be gone. 
 Armor on armor shone, 
 Drum unto drum did groan. 
 
 To hear was wonder; 60 
 
 That with the cries they make 
 The very earth did shake. 
 Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
 
 Thunder to thunder. 
 
 Well it thine age became, 65 
 
 O noble Erpingham," 
 Thou did'st the signal frame 
 
 Unto the forces; 
 When from a meadow by. 
 Like a storm suddenly, 70 
 
 The English archery 
 
 Stuck the French horses. 
 
 The Spanish yew so strong. 
 Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
 That like to serpents stong, 
 Piercing the wether; 
 
 2 Edward, second Duke of York, and grandson 
 Edward III. 
 
 2 Followers. 
 
 * Sir Thomas Erpingham, "who threw up his truncheon 
 as a signal to the English forces, who lay in ambush, 
 to advance." 
 
 75 
 
 of 
 
158 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 None from his death now starts, 
 But playing manly parts, 
 And like true English hearts 
 
 Stuck close together. 80 
 
 When down their bows they threw, 
 And forth their bilbows^ drew, 
 And on the French they flew: 
 
 No man was tardy; 
 Arms from the shoulders sent, 85 
 
 Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
 Down the French peasants went, 
 
 These were men hardy. 
 
 When now that noble king, 
 
 His broad sword brandishing, 90 
 
 Into the host did fling, 
 
 As to overwhelm it; 
 Who many a deep wound lent, 
 His arms with blood besprent. 
 And many a cruel dent 95 
 
 Bruised his helmet. 
 
 Gloster,^ that duke so good. 
 Next of the royal blood, 
 For famous England stood. 
 
 With his brave brother, 100 
 
 Clarence, in steel most bright, 
 That yet a maiden knight. 
 Yet in this furious fight 
 
 Scarce such another. 
 
 Warwick in blood did wade, 105 
 
 Oxford the foes invade. 
 And cruel slaughter made. 
 
 Still as they ran up; 
 Suffolk h*" axe did ply, 
 Beaumon ■ and Willoughby 110 
 
 Bear them right doughtily, 
 
 Ferrers and Fanhope. 
 
 On happy Crispin day' 
 
 Fought WPS this noble fray, 
 
 Which fame did not delay 115 
 
 To England to carry; 
 O when shall Englishmen, 
 With such acts fill a pen? 
 Or England breed again 
 
 Such a King Harry? 120 
 
 FROM THE "VIRGINIAN VOYAGE" 
 
 You brave heroic minds, 
 Worthy your countries name. 
 That honour still pursue, 
 Go, and subdue, » 
 
 Whilst loit' ring hinds 5 
 
 Lurke here at home with shame. 
 
 8 Swords. From Bilboa in Spain, a town famous for 
 :ts blades. 
 
 « Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, younger brother of 
 the king. Thomas, Duke of Clarence, alluded to here as 
 Clarence, was also the King's brother. 
 
 "> The Feast of Crispin, Saint and martyr, which falls 
 on Oct. 25th. 
 
 Britons, you stay too long, 
 Quickly aboard bestow you, 
 
 And with a merry gale 
 
 Swell your stretch'd sail, ifl 
 
 With vowes as strong 
 As the winds that blow you. 
 
 Your course securely steer. 
 West and by south forth keep, 
 
 Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals, 15 
 
 When Eolus scowls, 
 You need not fear. 
 So absolute the deep. 
 
 And cheerfully at sea, 
 
 Success you still intice, 20 
 
 To get the pearl and gold. 
 
 And ours to hold, 
 Virginia, 
 Earth's only paradise. . . . 
 
 When as the luscious smell 
 
 Of that delicious land. 
 
 Above the seas that flows. 
 
 The clear wind throws, 45 
 
 Your hearts to swell 
 
 Approaching the dear strand; 
 
 In kenningi of the shore 
 (Thanks to God first given), 
 
 O you the happy 'st men, 60 
 
 Be frolic then. 
 Let cannons roar. 
 Frighting the wide heaven. 
 
 And in regions far 
 
 Such heroes bring ye forth, 65 
 
 As those from whom we came. 
 
 And plant our name 
 Under that starre 
 Not known unto our North. 
 
 1564-1593 
 
 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO 
 HIS LOVE 
 
 (In The Passionate Pilgrim, 1599, enlarged 
 form in England's Helicon, 1600) 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love, 
 And we will all the pleasures prove, 
 That valleys, groves,^ hills and fields. 
 Woods or steepy mountains yields. 
 
 And we will sit upon the rocks, 5 
 
 Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 
 And I will make thee beds of roses, 
 And a thousand fragrant posies, 
 A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
 Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; 
 
 1 In sight, or view. 
 
 ^ Groves is here a dissylable. 
 
 10 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
 
 159 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
 Fair-Hned slippers for the cold, 15 
 
 With buckles of the purest gold; 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy-buds, 
 
 With coral clasps and amber studs: 
 
 An if these pictures may thee move, 
 
 Come live with me and be my love. 20 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
 For thy delight each May morning i^ 
 If these delights thy mind may move, 
 Then live with me and be my love. 
 
 PASSAGES FROM THE DRAMAS 
 
 AMBITION 
 
 (From Tamburlaine^ the Great, Ft. II. Pub. 
 1590) 
 
 Nature that framed us of four elements. 
 Warring within our breasts for regiment,^ 
 Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds : 
 Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend 
 The wondrous architecture of the world, 5 
 
 And measure every wandering planet's course, 
 Still climbing after knowledge infinite, 
 And always moving as the restless spheres, 
 Will us to wear ourselves, and never rest. 
 Until we reach the ripest fruit of all, 10 
 
 That perfect bliss and sole felicity, 
 The sweet fruition of an earthly crown. 
 
 TAMBIIRLAINE TO THE SUBJECT 
 KINGS 1 
 
 (From the same. Act IV. iii.) 
 
 Holla, ye pampered jades of Asia! 
 What! can ye draw but twenty miles a day, 
 And have so proud a chariot at your heels. 
 And such a coachman as great Tamburlaine, 
 But from Asphaltis, where I conquered you, 5 
 To Byron here, where thus I honour you? 
 The horse that guide the golden eye of Heaven, 
 And blow the morning from their nosterils. 
 Making their fiery gait above the clouds, 
 Are not so honoured in their governor, 10 
 
 As you, ye slaves, in mighty Tamburlaine. 
 The headstrong jades of Thrace Alcides tamed, 
 That King Egeus fed with human flesh, 
 And made so wanton, that they knew their 
 strengths, 
 
 1 Tamburlaine, or Tamerlaine, i. e. the Tartar con- 
 queror Timur or Timour (1333-1405), who subdued 
 Persia, central Asia, and finally a great part of India. 
 The first part of Marlowe's Tamburlaine was acted in 
 1587. 
 
 2 Rule. 
 
 1 We must imagine Tamburlaine, in this scene, stand- 
 ing in his chariot, which is drawn by the conquered Kings 
 of Trebizond and Syria. The Kings have bits in their 
 mouths, and Tamburlaine drives them before him, lash- 
 ing them with his whip. 
 
 Were not subdued with valour more divine 15 
 Than you by this unconquered arm of mine. 
 To make you fierce, and fit my appetite. 
 You shall be fed with flesh as raw as blood. 
 And drink in pails the strongest muscadel; 
 If you can live with it, then live, and draw 20 
 My chariot swifter than the racking clouds; 
 If not, then die like beasts, and fit for naught 
 But perches for the black and fatal ravens, 
 Thus am I right the highest scourge of Jove; 
 And see the figure of my dignity 25 
 
 By which I hold my name and majesty! 
 
 FAUSTUS' VISION OF HELEN 
 
 (From Doctor Faustus, Pub. 1604) 
 
 Was this the face that launched a thousand 
 ships. 
 And burnt the topless towers of Ilium! 
 Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. 
 Her lips suck forth my soul! see where it flies; 
 Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. 5 
 Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips. 
 And all is dross that is not Helena. 
 I will be Paris, and for love of thee. 
 Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sacked; 
 And I will combat with weak Menelaus, 10 
 And wear thy colours on my plumed crest: 
 Yea I will wound Achilles in the heel, 
 And then return to Helen for a kiss. 
 Oh! thou art fairer than the evening air 
 Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; 15 
 
 Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter, 
 When he appeared to hapless Semele; 
 More lovely than the monarch of the sky , 
 
 In wanton Arethusa's azure arms; 
 And none but thou shalt be my paramour! 20 
 
 FAUSTUS FULFILS HIS COMPACT 
 WITH THE DEVIL 
 
 (From the same. Act V. sc. IV.) 
 
 Oh, Faustus! 
 
 Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 
 And then thou must be damned perpetually. 
 Stand still you ever-moving spheres of heaven,* 
 That time may cease, and midnight never 
 come. 5 
 
 Fair nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
 Perpetual day; or let this hour be but 
 A year, a month, a week, a natural day. 
 That Faustus may repent and save his soul. 
 hnte^ lente currite noctis equi! 10 
 
 The stars move still, time runs, the clock will 
 
 The devil' will come, and Faustus must be 
 damned. 
 
 Oh, I'll leap up to heaven!— Who pulls me 
 down? 
 
 See where Christ's blood streams in the firma- 
 ment: 
 
 1 The transparent spheres which, according to the 
 Ptolomaic system of astronomy envelope and mov« 
 about the earth. . 
 
 2 O run slowly, slowly, ye coursers of night. 
 
160 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 One drop of blood will save me: oh, my Christ! 
 Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ; 
 Yet will I call on him. Oh, spare me Lucifer! — 
 Where is it now? — 'tis gone! 
 And see, a threatening arm, an angry brow! 19 
 Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me, 
 And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven! 
 No! 
 
 Then will I headlong run into the earth: 
 Gape, earth! — O no, it will not harbour me. 
 You stars that reigned at my nativity, 25 
 
 Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, 
 Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist. 
 Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud; 
 That, when ye vomit forth into the air 
 My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths; 
 But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven. 31 
 (The clock strikes the half hour.) 
 Oh, half the hour is past, 'till all be past anon. 
 Oh! if my soul must suffer for my sin. 
 Impose some end to my incessant pain. 
 
 Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years — 35 
 A hundred thousand — and at last be saved: 
 No end is limited to damnM souls. 
 Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? 
 Or why is this immortal that thou hast? 
 Oh! Pythagorus'^ Metemps;^chosis! 40 
 
 Were that (but) true; this soul should fly from 
 
 me. 
 And I be changed into some brutish beast. 
 All beasts are happy, for when they die 
 Their souls are soon dissolved in elements; 
 But mine must live still to be plagued in hell. 45 
 Cursed be the parents that engendered me! 
 No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer, 
 
 /That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. 
 (The clock strikes twelve.) 
 It strikes, it strikes! now body, turn to air, 
 Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. 50 
 
 (Thunder and rain.) 
 O soul! be changed into small water-drops, 
 
 ^ And fall into the ocean; ne'er be found. 
 Enter the Devils 
 Oh! mercy, heaven, look not so fierce on me! 
 Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile! — 
 Ugly hell, gape not! — Come not, Lucifer! 55 
 I'll burn my books! — Oh, Mephistophilis! 
 
 LEANDER SEES HERO AT THE FEAST 
 AT SESTOS 
 
 (From Hero and Leander) 
 
 The men of wealthy Sestos every year, 9 1 
 
 For his sake whom their goddess held so dear, 
 Rose-cheeked Adonis, kept a solemn feast; 
 Thither resorted many a wandering guest 
 To meet their loves : such as had none at all, 95 
 Came lovers home from this great festival; 
 For every street, like to a firmament, 
 Glistered with breathing stars, who, where they 
 went, 
 
 » According to the doctrine of Metempsychosis, taught 
 by the Greek philosopher Pythagoras and others, souls 
 passed after death, either into the body of an animal, or 
 of some human being, in reincarnation. This is some- 
 tiznes called "the transmigration of souls." 
 
 Frighted the melancholy earth, which deemed 
 
 Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seemed, 100 
 
 As if another Phaeton had got 
 
 The guidance of the sun's rich chariot. 
 
 But, far above the loveliest, Hero shined. 
 
 And stole away the enchanted gazer's mind; 
 
 For the sea-nymph's inveigling harmony, 105 
 
 So was her beauty to the standers by; 
 
 Not that night-wandering, pale, and watery 
 
 star 
 (When yawning dragons draw her thirling^ car 
 From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky, 
 Where, crowned with blazing light and maj- 
 esty, 110 
 She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood 
 Than she the hearts of those that near her stood. 
 Even as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase, 
 Wretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race. 
 Incensed with savage heat, gallop amain 115 
 From steep pine-bearing mountains to the 
 
 plain. 
 So ran the people forth to gaze upon her. 
 And all that viewed her were enamoured on ker: 
 And as in fury of a dreadful fight. 
 Their fellows being slain or put to flight, 120 
 Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dread- 
 
 strooken. 
 So at her presence all surprised and tooken,* 
 Await the sentence of her scornful eyes; 
 He whom she favours lives; the other dies: 
 There might you see one sigh; another rage; 125 
 And some, their violent passions to assuage, 
 Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late! 
 For faithful love will never turn to hate ; 
 And many, seeing great princes were denied, 
 Pined as they went, and thinking on her 
 died. 130 
 
 On this feast-day — oh, cursM day and hour! — 
 Went Hero, thorough Sestos, from her tower 
 To Venus' temple, where unhappily. 
 As after chanced, they did each other spy. 
 So fair a church as this had Venus none : 135 
 The walls were of discoloured jaspar-stone. 
 Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head 
 A lively vine of green sea-agate spread, 
 Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung. 
 And with the other wine from grapes out- 
 wrung. 140 
 Of crystal shining fair the pavement was; 
 The town of Sestos called it Venus' glass. . . . 
 
 There Hero sacrificing turtles' blood, 158 
 
 Veiled to the ground, veiling her eyelids close; 
 And modestly they opened as she rose : 1 60 
 
 Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head; 
 And thus Leander was enamoured. 
 Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed, 
 Till with the fire, that from his countenance 
 
 blazed, 
 Relenting gentle Hero's heart was strook : 165 
 Such force and virtue hath an amorous look. 
 It lies not in our power to love or hate, 
 For will in us is over-ruled by fate, 
 When two are stript, long ere the course begin, 
 We wish that one should lose, the other win; 170 \ 
 * Quivering. * Captttred, taken captive. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 161 
 
 And one especially do we affect 
 
 Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: 
 
 The reason no man knows; let it suffice, 
 
 What we behold is censured^ by our eyes. 
 
 Where both deliberate, the love is slight : 1 75 
 
 Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? 
 
 William ^Ijafee^peare 
 
 1564-1616 
 SONGS 
 
 SILVIA 
 
 (From The Two Gentlemen of Verona, 
 1592-93) 
 
 acted 
 
 Who is Silvia? what is she. 
 
 That all our swains commend her? 
 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she, 
 
 The heaven such grace did lend her, 
 
 That she might admu-ed be. 5 
 
 Is she kind as she is fair? 
 
 For beauty lives with kindness: 
 Love doth to her eyes repair, 
 
 To help him of his blindness; 
 And, being help'd, inhabits there. 
 
 Then to Silvia let us sing. 
 That Silvia is excelling: 
 
 She excels each mortal thing. 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling: 
 
 To her let us garlands bring. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 FAIRY SONG 
 (From A Midsummer Night's Dream, 1593-4) 
 
 Over hill, over dale, 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough briar, 
 Over park, over pale. 
 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 I do wander everywhere, 5 
 
 Swifter than the moon's sphere; 
 And I serve the fairy queen. 
 To dew her orbs upon the green: 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be; 
 In their gold coats spots you see; 10 
 
 Those be rubies, fairy favours. 
 In those freckles live their savours: 
 I must go seek some dew-drops here. 
 And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 
 
 YOU SPOTTED SNAKES, WITH DOUBLE 
 TONGUE 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 You spotted snakes, with double tongue. 
 Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 
 
 Newts, and blind-worms do no wrong; 
 Come not near our fairy queen : 
 ' Judged, estimated. 
 
 Chorus 
 Philomel, with melody 5 
 
 Sing in our sweet lullaby; 
 LuUa, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; 
 Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 
 Come our lovely lady nigh; 
 So, good night, with lullaby. 10 
 
 Weaving spiders, come not here: 
 
 Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence: 
 
 Beetles black, approach not near; 
 Worm, nor snail, do no offence. 
 
 Chorus 
 Philomel, with melody, etc. 
 
 FAIRIES SONG 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Now the hungry lion roars, 
 
 And the wolf behowls the moon; 
 Whilst the heavy ploughman snores. 
 
 All with weary task fordone. 
 Now the wasted brands do glow, 
 
 Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud. 
 Puts the wretch, that lies in woe. 
 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 Now it is the time of night, 
 
 That the graves, all gaping wide. 
 Every one lets forth his sprite. 
 
 In the church-way paths to glide: 
 And we fairies, that do run 
 
 By the triple Hecate's team. 
 From the presence of the sun. 
 
 Following darkness like a dream, 
 Now are frolic; not a mouse 
 Shall disturb this hallow'd house: 
 I am sent with broom before. 
 To sweep the dust behind the door. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 Through the house give glimmering hght, 
 
 By the dead and drowsy fire; 
 Every elf, and fairy sprite, 
 
 Hop as light as bird from briar; 
 And this ditty, after me, 25 
 
 Sing and dance it trippingly. 
 First, rehearse this song by rote: 
 To each word a warbling note. 
 Hand in hand, with fairy grace. 
 Will we sing, and bless this place. 30 
 
 UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE 
 
 (From As You Like It, acted 1599) 
 
 Under the greenwood tree 
 
 Who loves to lie with me. 
 
 And turn his merry note 
 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither: 
 Here shall he see 6 
 
 No enemy 
 
162 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 Who doth ambition shun 
 And loves to live i' the sun, 10 
 
 Seeking the food he eats 
 And pleas'd with what he gets, 
 CJome hither, come hither, come hither: 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy 16 
 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE 
 YOU ROAMING 
 
 (From Twelfth Night, c. 1601) 
 
 O mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
 O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, 
 
 That can sing both high and low: 
 Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 5 
 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 
 What is love? 'Tis not hereafter: 
 Present mirth hath present laughter; 
 
 What's to come is still unsure: 
 In delay there lies no plenty; 10 
 
 Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 
 
 Youth's a stuff will not endure. 
 
 TAKE, OH, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY 
 
 (From Measure for Measure, 1603) 
 
 Take, oh take those lips away, 
 
 . That so sweetly were forsworn; 
 And those eyes, the break of day. 
 
 Lights that do mislead the mom; 
 But my kisses bring again, bring again. 6 
 
 Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, seal'd in vain. 
 
 HARK, HARK, THE LARK 
 
 (From Cymheline, 1609) , 
 
 Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chalic'd flowers that lies; 
 And winking Mary-buds ^ begin to ope their 
 golden eyes; ^ 5 
 
 With everything that pretty is — My lady sweet, 
 arise: Arise, arise. 
 
 DIRGE 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Fear no more the heat of the sun 
 Nor the furious winter's rages; 
 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done. 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: 
 
 Golden lads and girls all must. 
 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 1 Marigold. 
 
 Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
 Thou art past the tyrants' stroke; 
 
 Care no more to clothe, and eat; 
 
 To thee the reed is as the oak: lo 
 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the light'ning flash; 
 
 Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; 
 
 Fear not slander, censure rash; 
 
 Thou hast finished joy and moan: 16 
 
 All lovers young, all lovers must 
 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 No exorciser harm thee! 
 
 Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 20 
 
 Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 
 
 Nothing ill come near thee! 
 
 Quiet consummation have; 
 
 And renowned be thy grave! 
 
 A SEA DIRGE 
 (From The Tempest, 1610) 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies; 
 Of his bones are coral made; 
 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes: 
 Nothing of him that doth fade, 
 But doth suffer a sea-change t 
 
 Into something rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
 Ding-dong. 
 Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong bell. 
 
 ARIEL'S SONG 
 (From the same) 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I: 
 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie; 
 
 There I couch when owls do cry. 
 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 
 After summer merrily. 5 
 
 Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 
 CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH 
 
 (From The Passionate Pilgrim, pub. 1599) 
 
 Crabbed age and youth 
 
 Cannot live together; 
 Youth is full of pleasance; 
 
 Age is full of care; 
 Youth like summer morn, 5 
 
 Age like winter weather; 
 Youth like summer brave; 
 
 Age like winter bare. 
 Youth is full of sport. 
 Age's breath is short, ^ IC 
 
 Youth is nimble; age is lame. 
 Youth is hot and bold, 
 Age is weak and cold; 
 
 Youth is wild, and age is tame. 
 Age, I do abhor thee, 15 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 163 
 
 Youth, I do adore thee, 
 
 O, my love, my love is young! 
 
 Age, I do defy thee; 
 
 O sweet shepherd, hie thee, 
 
 For methinks thou stay'st too long! 20 
 
 SONNETS 
 (From Sonnets, pub. 1609) 
 
 XV 
 
 When I, consider everything that grows 
 Holds in perfection but a little moment, 
 That this huge stage presenteth naught but 
 
 shows 
 Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; 
 When I perceive that men as plants increase, 5 
 Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky, 
 Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, 
 And wear their brave state out of memory; _^^ 
 Then the conceit of this inconstant stay 
 Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, 10 
 Where wasteful Time debateth with Dec?ay, 
 To change your day of youth to sullied night;*' 
 And all in war with Time for love of you, 
 As he takes from you, I engraft you new. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
 Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
 Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
 And summer's lease hath all too short a date: 
 Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, 5 
 And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; 
 And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
 By chance or nature's changing course un- 
 
 trimm'd: 
 But thy, eternal summer shall not fade, 
 Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest, 10 
 Nor shall death brag thou wander' st in his 
 
 shade. 
 When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st; 
 So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see 
 So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 
 
 V 
 
 XXIX 
 
 When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
 
 I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
 
 And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless 
 
 cries, 
 And look upon myself, and curse my fate. 
 Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 5 
 
 Featured like him, like him with friends pos- 
 
 sess'd, 
 Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
 With what I most enjoy contented least; 
 Yet, in these thoughts myself almost despising. 
 Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 10 
 Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's 
 
 gate: 
 For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth 
 
 brings 
 That then I scorn to change my state with 
 
 kings. 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 I summon up remembrance of things past, 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
 And with old woes new wail my dear time's 
 
 waste: 
 Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 5 
 
 For precious friends hid in death's dateless 
 
 night, 
 And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe. 
 And moan the expense of many a vanish'd 
 
 sight: 
 Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
 And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 10 
 
 The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
 x" Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
 
 But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
 All losses are restored and sorrows end. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
 Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, 
 Kissing with golden face the meadows green. 
 Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; 
 Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 5 
 
 With ugly rack on his celestial face. 
 And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
 Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: 
 Even so my sun one early morn did shine 
 With all-triumphant splendour on my brow; 10 
 But, out, alack! he was but one hour mine. 
 The region cloud hath mask'd him from me 
 now. 
 
 Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; 
 
 Suns of the world may stain when heaven's 
 sun staineth. 
 
 LV 
 
 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
 Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rime; 
 But you shall shine more bright in these con- 
 tents 
 Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish 
 
 time. 
 When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 5 
 And broils root out the work of masonry, 
 Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall 
 
 burn 
 The living record of your memory. 
 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity 
 Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find 
 room 10 
 
 Even in the eyes of all posterity 
 That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
 So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
 You Uve in this, and dwell in lover's eyes. 
 
 LX 
 
 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled 
 
 shore, 
 So do our minutes hasten to their end; 
 Each changing place with that which goes 
 
 before, 
 In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 
 
164 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Nativity, once in the main of light, 5 
 
 Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd. 
 Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight. 
 And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. 
 Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth 
 And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, 10 
 Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, 
 And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: 
 And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, 
 Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 
 
 LXV 
 
 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless 
 
 sea, 
 But sad mortality o'ersways their power, 
 How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea. 
 Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 
 O , how shall summer' s honey breath hold out 5 
 Against the wreckful siege of battering days. 
 When rocks impregnable are not so stout. 
 Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? 
 O fearful meditation! where, alack, 
 Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie 
 
 hid? 10 
 
 Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot 
 
 back? 
 Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? 
 O, none, unless this miracle have might, 
 That in black ink my love may still shine 
 
 bright. 
 
 LXVT 
 
 Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, 
 
 As, to behold desert a beggar born, 
 
 And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity. 
 
 And purest faith unhappily forsworn. 
 
 And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, 5 
 
 And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, ■ 
 
 And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, 
 
 And strength by limping sway disabled, 
 
 And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
 
 And f9lly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 10 
 
 And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, 
 
 And captive good attending captain ill: 
 
 Tired with all these, from these would I be 
 gone. 
 
 Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 That time of year thou may'st in me behold 
 When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. 
 Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds 
 
 sang. 
 In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 5 
 
 As after sunset fadeth in the west; 
 Which by and by black night doth take away, 
 Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
 In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire. 
 That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 10 
 
 As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
 Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. 
 This thou perceivest, which makes thy love 
 
 more strong. 
 To love that well which thou must leave ere 
 
 long. 
 
 CXI 
 
 O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, ^<:^ 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, ^-^ 
 That did not better for my life provide ^ 
 Than pubhc means which public manners 
 
 breeds,-^ 
 Thence comes it that my name receives a 
 brand,^ , 5 
 
 And almost thence my nature is subdued ^' 
 To what it works in, like the dyer's hand: ^ 
 Pity me then and wish I were renew'd; ^^ 
 Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drinks 
 Potions of eisel, 'gainst my strong infection; 
 No bitterness that I will bitter think,-^ 
 Nor double penance, to correct correction. 
 Pity me then, dear friend, and I assui 
 Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 
 
 ex VI 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
 
 Admit impediments. Love is not love 
 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 
 Or bends with the remover to remove: 
 
 O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, 5 
 
 That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 
 
 It is the star to every wandering bark. 
 
 Whose worth's unlaiown, although his height 
 
 be taken. 
 Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 
 
 cheeks 
 Within his bending sickle's compass come ; i o 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. 
 But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
 If this be error and upon me proved, 
 I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 
 
 Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
 (Press'd by) these rebel powers that thee array. 
 Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth. 
 Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 
 Why so large cost, having so short a lease,' 5 
 Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
 Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. 
 Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? 
 Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 
 And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 10 
 
 Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 
 Within be fed, without be rich no more: 
 
 So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on 
 men. 
 
 And Death once dead, there's no more dying 
 then. 
 
 FROM UHE DRAMAS 
 THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE 
 
 HENRY VI. '3 SOLILOQUY AT THE BATTLE OP 
 TOWTON 
 
 (From 77/ Henry VT., Act II. v., 1590-92) 
 
 This battle fares like to the morning's war, 
 When dying clouds contend with growing light; 
 What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails. 
 Can neither call it perfect day nor night. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 165 
 
 Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea, 5 
 Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind; 
 Now sways it that way, hke the self-same sea 
 Forc'd to retire by the fury of the wind: 
 Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the 
 
 wind: 
 Now, one the better, then, another best; 10 
 Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, 
 Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered: 
 So is the equal poise of this fell war. 
 Here on this molehill will I sit me down. 
 To whom God will, there be the victory! 15 
 For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, 
 Have chid me from the battle; swearing both 
 They prosper best of all when I am thence. 
 Would I were dead! if God's good will were so: 
 For what is in this world but grief and woe? 20 
 O God! methinks it were a happy life. 
 To be no better than a homely swain: 
 To sit upon a hill, as I do now. 
 To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, 
 Thereby to see the minutes how they run : 25 
 How many make the hour full complete; 
 How many hours bring about the day, 
 How many days will finish up the year. 
 How many years a mortal man may live. 
 When this is known, then to divide the times: 30 
 So many hours must I tend my flock; 
 So many hours must I take my rest; 
 So many hours must I contemplate; 
 So many hours must I sport myself; 
 So many days my ewes have been with young; 
 So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean; 36 
 So many years ere I shall shear the fleece; 
 So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and 
 
 years, 
 Pass'd over to the end they were created. 
 Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 40 
 Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! 
 Gives not the hawthome bush a sweeter shade 
 To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep. 
 Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy 
 To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery? 45 
 O, yes it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. 
 And to conclude, — the shepherd's homely 
 
 curds, 
 His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, 
 His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade. 
 All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, 50 
 
 Is far beyond a prince's delicates. 
 His viands sparkling in a golden cup/ 
 His body couched in a curious bed. 
 When, care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. 
 
 ENGLAND 
 
 (From Richard II., Act II., i., 1594) 
 
 This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, 40 
 This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
 This other Eden, demi-paradise; 
 This fortress, built by nature for herself. 
 Against infection and the hand of war; 
 This happy breed of men, this little world; 45 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea, 
 Which serves it in the office of a wall. 
 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
 Against the envy of less happier lands; 
 This blessed plot, this earth, this reahn, 
 England. 
 
 this 
 
 50 
 
 SLEEP 
 
 (From // Henry IV., Act III., i., 1597-98) 
 
 How many thousand of my poorest subjects 4 
 Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, 
 Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted the«, 6 
 That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down. 
 And steep my senses in forgetfulness? 
 Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs. 
 Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, ' lo 
 
 And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy 
 
 slumber, 
 Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, 
 Under the canopies of costly state, 
 And luU'd with sounds of sweetest melody? 
 O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, 15 
 In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly 
 
 couch, 
 A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell? 
 Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
 Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
 In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 20 
 
 And in the visitation of the winds. 
 Who take the ruffian billows by the top. 
 Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging 
 
 them 
 With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds. 
 That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? 25 
 Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose 
 To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; 
 And, in the calmest and most stillest night. 
 With all appliances and means to boot. 
 Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! 
 Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 31 
 
 HENRY V'S ADDRESS TO HIS 
 SOLDIERS BEFORE HARFLEUR 
 
 (From Henry V., Act III., i., 1599) 
 
 Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once 
 
 more; 
 Or close the wall up with our English dead! 
 In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man 
 As modest stillness and humility: 
 But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 5 
 Then imitate the action of the tiger; 
 Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
 Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage: 
 Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; 
 Let it pry tlirough the portage of the head, 10 
 Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'er whelm 
 
 it, 
 As fearfully as does a galled rock 
 O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
 Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
 Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide; 
 Hold hard the breath, and bend up every 
 spirit 16 
 
 To his full height! On, on, you nobless Eng- 
 lish, 
 
166 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! 
 Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 
 Have in these parts from mom tiU even fought, 
 And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument. 
 Dishonour not your mothers; now attest 22 
 That those whom you call'd fathers did beget 
 
 you! 
 Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
 And teach them how to war! — ^And you, good 
 
 yeomen, 25 
 
 Whose limbs were made in England, show us 
 
 here 
 The mettle of your pasture; let us swear 
 That you are worth your breeding; which I 
 
 doubt not; 
 For there is none of you so mean and base 
 That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 30 
 I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips. 
 Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; 
 Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge. 
 Cry — God for Harry! England! and Saint 
 
 George! 
 
 DEATH AND HEREAFTER 
 
 (From Measure for Measure, Act III., i., 1603) 
 
 Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; 
 
 To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; 
 
 This sensible warm motion to become 120 
 
 A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit 
 
 To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
 
 In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; 
 
 To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, 124 
 
 And blown with restless violence round about 
 
 The pendant world; or to be worse than worst 
 
 Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts 
 
 Imagine howling! — 'tis too horrible! 
 
 The weariest and most loathed worldly life. 
 
 That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment 130 
 
 Can lay on nature, is a paradise 
 
 To what we fear of death. 
 
 ISABELLA'S PLEA FOS. MERCY 
 
 (From the same, Act IL, ii.) 
 
 He's sentenc'd; 'tis too late.^ 
 Too late? why, no, I, that do speak a word, 
 May call it back again: Well beheve this. 
 No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
 Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 60 
 The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe. 
 Become them with one haK so good a grace 
 As mercy does. 
 
 If he had been as you, and you as he. 
 You would have slipp'd like him; but he, like 
 you, 65 
 
 Would not have been so stem. . . . 
 
 Alas! Alas! 72 
 Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; 
 And He that might the vantage best have took 
 Found out the remedy; How would you be. 
 If He, which is the top of judgment, ahoula 
 
 But judge you as you are? O, think on that; 
 And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
 Like a man new made. 79 
 
 PROSPERO'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 (From The Tempest, Act IV., i., 1610) 
 
 Our revels now are ended: these our actors, 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 Are melted into air, into thin air; 150 
 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 165 
 Leave not a wrack behind: We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep. 
 
 c. 1567-1601 
 
 DEATH'S SUMMONS 
 
 (From Summer's Last Will and Testament, 1600) 
 
 Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss. 
 This world uncertain is: 
 Fond 1 are life's lustful joys, 
 Death proves them all but toys. 
 None from his darts can fly: 5 
 
 I am sick, I must die. 
 Lord, have mercy on us! 
 
 Rich men, trust not in wealth. 
 Gold cannot buy you health; 
 Physic himself must fade; 10 
 
 All things to end are made; 
 The plague ^ full swift goes by: 
 I am sick, I must die. 
 Lord, have mercy on us! 
 
 Beauty is but a flower, 15 
 
 Which wrinkles will devour: 
 Brightness falls from the air: 
 Queens have died young and fair; 
 Dust hath closed Helen's eye: 
 I am sick, I must die. 20 
 
 Lord, have mercy on us! 
 
 Strength stoops unto the grave; 
 Worms feed on Hector brave; 
 Swords may not fight with fate; 
 Earth still holds ope her gate; 23 
 
 Come, come, the bells do cry. 
 I am sick, I must die! 
 Lord, have mercy on us! 
 
 Wit with his wantonness, 
 
 Tasteth death's bitterness; 3C 
 
 Hell's executioner 
 
 Hath no ears for to hear 
 > Foolish. ^ ( 
 
 * London was suffering from the plague in 1598, wher 
 the play from which this song is taken was produced. 
 
JOHN DONNE 
 
 167 
 
 What vain art can reply; 
 I am sick, I must die: 
 
 Lord, have mercy on us! 35 
 
 Haste therefore each degree 
 To welcome destiny ! 
 Heaven is our heritage, 
 Earth but a player's stage; 
 Mount we unto the sky: 40 
 
 . I am sick, I must die. 
 Lord, have mercy on us I 
 
 THE COMING OF WINTER 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure; 
 Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure! 
 Short days, sharp days, long nights come on 
 
 apace: 
 Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face? 
 Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, 5 
 And here we lie, God knows, with little ease. 
 From winter, plague and pestilence, good 
 
 Lord, deliver us! 
 
 London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn! 
 Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were 
 
 born! 
 The want of term is town and city's harm ;^ 10 
 Close chambers we do want to keep us warm. 
 Long banished must we live from our friends.^ 
 This low-built house will bring us to our ends. 
 From winter, plague and pestilence, good 
 
 Lord, deUver us! 
 
 c. 1570-c. 1637 
 
 O SWEET CONTENT 
 (From The Patient Grissell, acted 1599) 
 
 Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? 
 
 O sweet content! 
 Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexM? 
 
 O punishment! 
 Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex^d 5 
 To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? 
 O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! 
 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 
 Honest labor bears a lovely face; 
 Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonnyl 10 
 
 Canst drink the waters of the crispM spring? 
 
 O sweet content! 
 Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink^st in thine own 
 tears? 
 
 O punishment! 
 Then he that patiently want's burden bears 15 
 No burden bears, but is a king, a king! 
 O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! 
 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 
 Honest labor bears a lovely face; 
 Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! 20 
 
 1 In thi3 year, 1598, the Michaelmas (autumn) Term, 
 or session of the Law Court, was held in St. Albana in- 
 stead of Loadon, in consequence of the plague. 
 
 SAINT HUGH! 
 
 (From The Shoemaker^ s Holiday, 1594) 
 
 Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, 
 
 Saint Hugh be our good speed! 
 Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, 
 
 Nor helps good hearts in need. 
 
 Troll the bowl, ^ the j oily nut-brown bowl, 6 
 
 And here kind mate to thee! 
 Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, 
 
 And down it merrily. 
 
 Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down. 
 
 Hey derry derry down-a-down. 10 
 
 Ho! well done, to me let come, 
 
 Ring compass, gentle joy!^ 
 Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, 
 
 And here kind mate to thee! 
 
 Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, 16 
 
 Saint Hugh! be our good speed; 
 111 is the weather that bringeth no gain, 
 
 Nor helps good hearts in need. 
 
 3]ol)n Wonnt 
 
 1573-1631 
 
 AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF THE 
 LADY MARKHAM 
 
 (First published 1633) 
 
 Man is the world, and death the ocean 
 To which God gives the lower parts of man. 
 This sea environs all, and though as yet 
 God hath set marks and bounds 'twixt us and it, 
 Yet doth it roar and gnaw, and still pretend 5 
 To break our bank, whene'er it takes a friend: 
 Then our land-waters (tears of passion) vent; 
 Our waters then above our firmament — 
 Tears, which our soul doth for her sin let fall, — • 
 Take all a brackish taste, and funeral. 10 
 
 And even those tears, which should wash sin, 
 
 are sin. 
 We, after God, new drown our world again. 
 Nothing but man of all envenom'd things. 
 Doth work upon itself with inborn stings. 
 Tears are false spectacles ; we cannot see 16 
 
 Through passion's mist, what we are, or what 
 
 she. 
 In her this sea of death hath made no breach; 
 But as the tide doth wash the shining beach. 
 And leaves embroider'd works upon the sand. 
 So is her flesh refin'd by Death's cold hand. 20 
 As men of China, after an age's stay, 
 Do take up porcelain, where they buried clay,. 
 So at this grave, her limbec (which refines 
 The diamonds, rubies, sapphires, pearls and 
 
 mines, 
 Of which this flesh was) her soul shall inspire 25 
 Flesh of such stuff, as God, when His last fire 
 
 ^ Pass round the wine, or drink. 
 
 2 Let the bowl, (the gentle joy) come to me; let it circle 
 or ring the compass, or circle, formed by those about the 
 table. To ring compass, was therefore equivalent to let 
 the bowl go round, or circulate freely. 
 
168 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Annuls this world, to recompense it, shall 
 Make and name them th' elixir of this all. 
 They say the sea, when th' earth it gains, loseth 
 too: 
 
 If carnal I>eath, the younger brother, do 30 
 Usurp the body; our soul, which subject is 
 To th* elder Dt-ath by sin, is free by this; 
 They prrLsh both, when they attempt the just; 
 For Vraves our trophies are, and both Death's 
 
 dust. 
 So, unobnoxious now, she hath buried both; 35 
 For none to death sins, that to sin is loath. 
 Nor do they die, which are not loath to die; 
 So she hath this and that virginity. 
 Grace was in her extremely diligent, 
 That kept her from sin, yet made her repent. 40 
 Of what small spots pure white complains! 
 
 Alas! 
 How little poison cracks a crystal glass! 
 She sinn'd, but just enough to let us see 
 That God's woiti must be true, — all sinners be. 
 So much did seal her conscience rarify, 45 
 
 That extreme truth lack'd little of a lie, 
 Making omissions acts; laying the touch 
 Of sin on things, that sometimes may be such. 
 As Moses' cherubims, whose natures do 
 Surpass all speed, by him are wingM too, 50 
 So would her soul, already in heaven, seem then 
 To climb by tears the common stairs of men. 
 How fit she was for God, I am content 
 To speak, that Death his vain haste may 
 
 repent; 
 How fit for us, how even and how sweet, 55 
 How good in all her titles, and how meet 
 To have reform 'd this forward heresy. 
 That women can no parts of friendship be; 
 How moral, how divine, shall not be told. 
 Lest they, that hear her virtues, think her old: 
 And lest we take Death's part, and make him 
 
 glad 61 
 
 Of such a prey, and to his triumphs add. 
 
 A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING 
 MOURNING 
 
 (Sometimes called "Upon Parting from his 
 Mistris," written, 1612?) 
 
 As virtuous men pass mildly away. 
 
 And whisper to their souls to go, 
 Whilst some of their sad friends do say, 
 
 •' Now his breath goes," and some say, " No; " 
 
 So let us melt, and make no noise, 5 
 
 No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 
 
 *Twere profanation of our joys, 
 To tell the laity our love. 
 
 Moving of th' earth brings harm and fears, 
 Men reckon what it did. and meant; 
 
 But trepidations of the spneres. 
 Though greater far, are innocent. 
 
 Dull sublunarv Lovers' love, 
 
 (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit 
 
 Absence; for that it doth remove 
 Those things which elemented it. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 But we, by a love so far refin'd 
 That ourselves know now what it is, 
 
 Inter-assur^d of the mind 
 Careless eyes, lips, and hands, to misa. 20 
 
 Our two souls therefore, which are one, 
 Though I must go, endure not yet 
 
 A breach, but an expansion, 
 Like gold to airy thinness beat. 
 
 If they be two, they are two so 23 
 
 As stiff twin compasses are two; 
 Thy soul, the fixt foot^ makes no show, 
 
 To move, but doth if th' other do. 
 
 And though it in the centre sit. 
 
 Yet when the other far doth roam, 30 
 
 It leans and barkens after it, 
 
 And grows erect, as that comes home. 
 
 Such wilt thou be to me, who must 
 Like th' other foot, obliquely run; 
 
 Thy firmness makes my circle just, 35 
 
 And makes me end where 1 begun. 
 
 SONG 
 
 (From Poems, with Elegies on the Author^s 
 Death, 1633) 
 
 Sweetest Love, I do not |o 
 
 For weariness of thee, 
 Nor in hope the world can show 
 
 A fitter Love for me; 
 
 But since that I 5 
 
 Must die at last, 'tis best 
 Thus to use myself in jest. 
 
 Thus by feigned death to die. 
 
 Yesternight the sun went hence, 
 
 And yet is here to-day; 10 
 
 He hath no desire nor sense. 
 
 Nor half so short a way. 
 
 Then fear not me; 
 But believe that I shall make 
 Hastier journeys, since I take 15 
 
 More wings and spurs than he. 
 
 O how feeble is man's power, 
 
 That, if good fortune fall, 
 Cannot add another hour. 
 
 Nor a lost hour recall. 20 
 
 But come bad chance, 
 And we join to it our strength, 
 And we teach it art and length, 
 
 Itself o'er us t' advance. 
 
 When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st no wind, 25 
 
 But sigh'st my soul away; 
 When thou weep'st, unkindly kind, 
 
 My hfe's-blood doth decay. 
 
BEN JONSON 
 
 169 
 
 40 
 
 It cannot be 
 That thou lov'st me as thou say'st, 30 
 If in thine my Ufe thou waste 
 
 That art the best of me. 
 
 Let not thy divining heart 
 
 Forethink me any ill; 
 Destiny may take thy part 
 
 And may thy fears fulfil; 
 
 But think that we 
 Are but turned aside to sleep: 
 They, who one another keep 
 
 Alive, ne'er parted be. 
 
 SONNET X.— ON DEATH 
 (From Holy Sonnets, written before 1607) 
 
 Death, be not proud, though some have called 
 
 thee 
 Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 
 For those whom thou think'st thou dost over- 
 throw 
 Die not, poor Death; nor yet cans't thou kill 
 
 me. 
 From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 5 
 Much pleasure, then from thee much more 
 
 must flow: 
 And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
 Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
 Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and 
 
 desperate men, 9 
 
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 
 And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, 
 And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou, 
 
 then? 
 One short sleep pass, we wake eternally. 
 And Death shall be no more; Death, thou 
 
 shalt die. 
 
 215m Klonsfon 
 
 1573-1637 
 
 A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER 
 
 CFu-st published 1631) 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 
 "IVhich was my sin, though it were done be- 
 fore? 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through whicn I 
 run 
 And do run still, though still I do deplore? 
 When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; 
 
 For I have more. 6 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won 
 Others to sin, and made my sins their door? 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
 A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score? 10 
 
 When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; 
 For I have more. 
 
 I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun 
 
 My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; 
 But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy 
 Son 15 
 
 Shall shine, as He shines now and heretofore: 
 And having done that. Thou hast done; 
 I feaff no more. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WIL- 
 LIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH 
 LEFT US 
 
 35 (From First Folio edition of Shakespeare, 1623) 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, 
 Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; 
 While I confess thy writings to be such, 
 As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much. 
 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these 
 
 ways 5 
 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; 
 For silliest ignorance on these may light. 
 Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; 
 Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 
 The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; 
 Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, u 
 And think to ruin where it seemed to raise. . . . 
 But thou art proof against them and, indeed, 15 
 Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. 
 I therefore will begin: Soul of the age! 
 The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! 
 My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by^ 
 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 
 A little further, to make thee a room : 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb, 
 Thou art alive still while thy book doth live, 
 And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 That I not mix thee so my brain excuses, — 25 
 I mean with great but disproportioned Muses; 
 For if I thought my judgment were of years, ^ 
 I should commit thee surely with thy peers. 
 And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, 
 Or sporting Kyd,^ or Marlowe's mighty line. 30 
 And though thou hadst small Latin and less 
 
 Greek, 
 From thence to honour thee I would not seek 
 For names, but call forth thund'ring Jjlschy- 
 
 lus,4 
 Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35 
 To life again, to hear thy buskin ^ tread, 
 And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on. 
 Leave thee cAone for a comparison 
 Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 
 Sent forth, or since did froia their ashes come. 
 Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 41 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
 
 1 Chaucer, Spenser and Beaumont are buried near 
 each other in the Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey. 
 Proximity to the tomb of Chaucer, the first great Eng- 
 lish poet, was considered as a great honor. Spenser bad 
 been granted this in 1599, and Beaumont in 1616. 
 
 2 One that would last, or go down to posterity. 
 
 8 A satirical play upon the dramatist's name, since 
 Thomas Kyd was anything but " Sporting, being chiefly 
 known as the author of tragedies. 017 1 
 
 « The three great poets, Aeschylus, bophocles, and 
 Euripides, represent three stages in the development 
 of the Greek tragic drama; so Pacumus, Acaus, and 
 "him of Cordova" {Seneca) stand in a similar manner for 
 Roman tragedy-writing at successive epochs. 
 
 5 The ancients are summoned to hear Shakespeare botn 
 as a tragic and a comic writer; the buskin, or shoe worn 
 by Greek and Roman actors in tragedy, stands foT 
 tragedy; as the sock worn for ccmedy, meanj. comedy. 
 
170 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 He WM not of an age, but for all time! 
 And idl the Muses still were in their prime, 
 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 45 
 Our eara, or like a Mercury to charm! 
 Nature beraelf was proud of his designs. 
 And K>yed to wear the dressing of his lines. 
 Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
 As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 50 
 The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
 Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; 
 But antiquated and deserted lie, 
 As they were not of Nature's family. 
 Yet must I not give Nature all; thy Art, 55 
 My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. 
 For though the poet's matter nature be. 
 His art doth give the fashion; and that he 
 Who casts to write a living line, must sweat 
 ^uch as thine are) and strike the second heat 
 tJpcm the Muses' anvil, turn the same, 61 
 
 And himself with it, that he thinks to frame; 
 Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn; 
 For a good poet's made, as well as bom. 
 And such wert thou! Look, how the father's 
 face 65 
 
 Lives in his issue, even so the race 
 Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly 
 
 shines 
 In his well turnM and true filM lines, 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
 As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70 
 
 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
 To see thee in our waters yet appear. 
 And make those flights upon the banks of 
 
 Thames, 
 That so did take Eliza and our James! 
 But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 75 
 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there! 
 Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage 
 Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage, 
 Which, since thy flight from hence, hath 
 
 mourned like night. 
 And despairs day but for thy volume's light. 80 
 
 SONG.— TO CYNTHIA 
 
 (From Cynthia's Revels, 1600) 
 
 Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 
 Now the sun is laid to sleep; 
 Seated in thy silver chair. 
 State in wonted manner keep: 
 
 Hesperus entreats thy light, 5 
 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Earthy let not thy envious shade 
 
 Dare itself to interpose; 
 
 Cynthia's shining orb was made 
 
 Hea^^n to clear, when day did close; 10 
 
 Blew us then with wished sight. 
 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 
 And thy crystal-shining quiver: 
 Give unto the flying hart 
 P*%^ breathe, how short soever: 
 Thou that makest a day of night, 
 GoddesB excellently bright. 
 
 15 
 
 SIMPLEX MUNDITIISi 
 
 (From Epiccme; or, The Silent Woman, 
 1609-10) 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest. 
 
 As you were going to a feast; 
 
 Still to be powdered, still perfumed: 
 
 Lady, it is to be presumed, 
 
 Though art's hid causes are not found . 3 
 
 All is not sweet, all is not sound. 
 
 Give me a look, give me a face, 
 
 That makes simplicity a grace; 
 
 Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: 
 
 Such sweet neglect more taketh me 10 
 
 Than all the adulteries of art; 
 
 They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 
 
 SONG TO CELIA 
 (From The Forest, 1616) 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes. 
 
 And I will pledge with mine; 
 Or leave a kiss within the cup, 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise 3 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine; 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 10 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much honouring thee 
 As giving it a hope, that there 
 
 It could not withered be. 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe. 
 
 And sent'st it back to me. 
 Since when it grows, and smells, I sweiir, 15 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
 (From 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS 
 
 A Celebration of Charis" iii Under- 
 woods,^ 1616) 
 
 See the chariot at hand here of Love, 
 
 Wherein my Lady rideth! 
 Each that draws is a swan or a dove. 
 
 And well the car Love guideth. 
 As she goes, all hearts do duty g 
 
 Unto her beauty; 
 And enamoured do wish, so they might 
 
 But enjoy such a sight, 
 ^at they still were to run by her side, 
 Ihrough swords, through seas, whither she 
 would ride. jg 
 
 ^°An"l^*^^^ °° ^^^ ®y®s, they do light 
 All that Love's world compriseth! 
 
 Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
 As Love's star when it riseth! 
 
 » Plain, or unadorned, in thy neatness the nhrase ia 
 from Horace's ode to Pyrrha (oL.Sb I Can ^). 
 
 consfcf .*onlL.tP'*T *^® *^*^^ Underwoods, which 
 Various «nhto?!-*r°*u^ comparatively short poems on 
 various subjects: As the multitude called Timber-trepa 
 promiscuously growing, a Wood, or Forest- so I fm 
 
THOMAS CAMPION 
 
 171 
 
 Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 15 
 
 Than words that soothe her; 
 And from her arched brows, such a grace 
 
 Sheds itself through the face, 
 As alone there triumphs to the life 
 
 All the gain, all the good of the elements' 
 strife. 20 
 
 i Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
 i Before rude hands have touched it? 
 ' Have you marked but the fall o' the snow 
 Before the soil hath smutched it? 
 Have you felt the wool of beaver? 25 
 
 Or swan's down ever? . 
 Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? 
 
 Or the nard in the fire? 
 Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 
 O so white, — O so soft, — O so sweet is she! 30 
 
 LIFE'S TRUE MEASURE 
 
 (From A Pindaric Ode in the same) 
 
 To the immortal memory of that noble pair, Sir 
 Lucius Gary and Sir H. M orison 
 
 For what is life, if measur'd by the space, 
 
 Not by the act? 
 Or masked man, if valued by his face, 
 Above his fact? 
 Here's one outliv'd his peers, 5 
 
 And told forth fourscore years: 
 He vexed time, and busied the whole state; 
 Troubled both foes and friends; 
 But ever to no ends; 
 What did this stirrer but die late? 10 
 
 How well at twenty had he fallen or stood! 
 For three of his fourscore he did no good. 
 
 He enter'd well by virtuous parts. 
 Got up, and thrived with honest arts; 
 He purchased friends, and fame, and honours 
 then, 15 
 
 And had his noble name advanc'd with men: 
 But weary of that flight. 
 He stooped in all men's sight 
 To sordid flatteries, acts of strife, 
 And sunk in that dead sea of life, 20 
 
 So deep, as he did then death's waters sup, 
 But that the cork of title buoy'd him up. 
 
 Alas! But Morison fell young: 
 
 He never fell, — thou falls't my tongue, 
 
 He stood a soldier to the last right end, 25 
 
 A perfect patriot and a noble friend; 
 But most a virtuous son. 
 All offices were done 
 By him, so ample, full, and round. 
 In weight, in measure, number, sound, 30 
 
 As, though his age imperfect might appear, 
 
 His life was of humanity the sphere. 
 
 It is not growing like a tree 
 In bulk, doth make men better be. 
 Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 35 
 To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: 
 A lily of a day. 
 Is fairer far, in May, 
 
 Although it fall and die that night; 
 
 It was the plant and flower of light. 40 
 
 In small proportions we just beauties see; 
 And in short measures, life may perfect be. 
 
 ®lioma0 Campion 
 
 c. 1575-1620? 
 TO LESBIAi 
 
 (In Rosseter's Book of Airs, 1601) 
 
 My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love. 
 And though the sager sort our deeds reprove 
 Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps 
 
 do dive 
 Into their west, and straight again revive; 
 But soon as once set is our little light, 5 
 
 Then must we sleep one ever-during night. 
 
 If all would lead their lives in love like me. 
 Then bloody swords and armour should not be; 
 No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should 
 
 move. 
 Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love: lo 
 But fools do live and waste their little light. 
 And seek with pain their ever-during night. 
 
 When timely death my life and fortunes ends, 
 Let not my hearse be vext with mourning 
 
 friends; 
 But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come 15 
 
 And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb; 
 And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light 
 And crown with love my ever-during night. 
 
 THE ARMOUR OF INNOCENCE^ 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 The man of life upright. 
 Whose guiltless heart is free 
 
 From all dishonest deeds, 
 Or thought of vanity; 
 
 The man whose silent days 5 
 
 In harmless joys are spent. 
 
 Whom hopes cannot delude 
 Nor sorrow discontent: 
 
 That man needs neither towers 
 
 Nor armour for defence, 10 
 
 Nor secret vaults to fly 
 From thunder's violence: 
 
 He only can behold 
 
 With unaffrighted eyes 
 The horrors of the deep 13 
 
 And terrors of the skies. 
 
 Thus scorning all the cares 
 That fate or fortune brings. 
 
 He makes the heaven his book; 
 
 His wisdom heavenly things; 20 
 
 1 A paraphrase of an ode of Catullus, Vivamus mea Lea- 
 bia, atque amemus. (Car. V.). 
 
 1 One of the many variations of the noble theme of 
 Horace's Integer Vitce. (Odes, Bk. I, Car. XXII.). 
 
> x.viT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Qoud th> ' ' ' i- only friends, 
 Hi8%v< U-npentagc, 
 
 The earth ^j- r inn 
 
 And quiet pilgrimage. 
 
 FORTUXATI NIMIUM» 
 
 Jack and Joan, they think no ill. 
 
 But loving live, ana merry still; 
 
 Do th«r week-da v's work, and pray 
 
 Devoutiv on the nolv-day: 
 
 Skin and trip it on the green, 5 
 
 Ana help to choose the Summer Queen; 
 
 Lash out at a country (eixst 
 
 Their silver penny with the best. 
 
 Well can they judge of nappy ale, 
 
 And U'll at large a winter tale; 10 
 
 Climb up to the apple loft, 
 
 And turn the crabs till they be soft. 
 
 Tib is all the father's joy, 
 
 And Uttle Tom the mother's boy: — 
 
 All their pleasure is, Content, 15 
 
 And care, to pay their yearly rent. 
 
 Joan can call by name her cows 
 
 And deck her windows with green boughs; 
 
 She can vsTt^Aths and tutties make, 
 
 And trim with plums a bridal cake. 20 
 
 Jack knows what brings gain or loss. 
 
 And his long flail can stoutly toss: 
 
 Makes the hedge which others break. 
 
 And ever thinks what he doth speak. 
 
 Now, you courtly dames and knights, 25 
 That study only strange delights, 
 Though you scorn the homespun gray. 
 And revel in your rich array; 
 Though your tongues dissemble deep 
 And can your hea^ from danger keep; 30 
 Yet, for all your pomp and train. 
 Securer hves the silly swain! 
 
 c. 1581-1640 (?) 
 
 GOOD MORROW 
 (From The Rape of Lucrece, acted c. 1605) 
 
 Pack, clouds, awav, and welcome day. 
 
 With night we banish sorrow; 
 Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft, 
 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind, 6 
 
 Notes from the lark I'll borrow; 
 Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, 
 
 To give my love good-morrow, 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 Notes from them both I'll borrow. lo 
 
 W.nUf. frr.TM fliy rest, robin redbreast, 
 
 ^': 1 every furrow; 
 
 An<i ii bill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair love goo<l-morrow. 
 ^^ Happy beyond measure. See VergU, Georgica, Bk. u.. 
 
 Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 13 
 
 Stare, ^ linnet, and cock-sparrow, 
 You pretty elves, amongst yourselves 
 Sing my fair love good-morrow; 
 To give my love good-morrow 
 Sing birds in every furrow. 20 
 
 3ol)n iFletclier 
 
 1579-1625 
 
 WEEP NO MORE 
 
 (From Queen of Corinth) 
 
 Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, 
 
 Sorrow calls no time that's gone: 
 
 Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain 
 
 Makes not fresh nor grow again. 
 
 Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; 5 
 
 Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. 
 
 Joys as winged dreams fly fast. 
 
 Why should sadness longer last? 
 
 Grief is but a wound to woe; 
 
 Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.* 10 
 
 THE PRAISES OF PAN 
 
 (From The Faithful Shepherdess, acted 1610) 
 
 Sing his praises that doth keep 
 Our flocks from harm, 
 Pan, the father of our sheep; 
 And arm in arm 
 Tread we softly in a round, ^ 5 
 
 Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground 
 Fills the music with her sound. 
 
 Pan, O great god Pan, to thee 
 
 Thus do we sing! 
 Thou that keep'st us chaste and free 10 
 
 As the young spring; 
 Ever be thy honour spoke, 
 From that place the Morn is broke 
 To that place Day doth unyoke! 
 
 SONG OF THE PRIEST OF PAN 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Shepherds all, and maidens fair 
 
 Fold your flocks up, for the au* 
 
 'Gins to thicken, and the sun 
 
 Already his great course hath run. 
 
 See the dew-drops how they kiss 5 
 
 Every little flower that is; 
 
 Hanging on their velvet heads, 
 
 Like a rope of crystal beads; 
 
 See the heavy clouds low falling. 
 
 And bright Hesperus down calling 10 
 
 The dead night from under ground; 
 
 At whose rising mists unsound, 
 
 Damps and vapours fly apace. 
 
 Hovering o'er the wanton face 
 
 Of these pastures, where they come 13 
 
 Striking dead both bud and "bloom: 
 
 * Starling. 
 
 1 Round-dance. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER 
 
 173 
 
 Therefore from such danger lock 
 
 Every one his lovM flock; 
 
 And let your dogs lie loose without, 
 
 Lest the wolf come as a scout 20 
 
 From the mountain, and, ere day, 
 
 Bear a lamb or kid away; 
 
 Or the crafty thievish fox 
 
 Break upon your simple flocks. 
 
 To secure yourselves from these 25 
 
 Be not too secure in ease; 
 
 Let one eye his watches peep 
 
 While the other eye doth sleep; 
 
 So you shall good shepherds prove, 
 
 And for ever hold the love 30 
 
 Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers. 
 
 And soft silence, fall in numbers^ 
 
 On your eyelids! So, farewell! 
 
 Thus I end my evening's knell. 
 
 SONG TO PAN 
 (From the same) 
 
 All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, 
 All ye virtues and ye powers 
 That inhabit in the lakes, 
 In the pleasant springs or brakes, 
 
 Move your feet 5 
 
 To our sound, 
 
 Whilst we greet 
 All this ground 
 With his honour and his name 
 That defends oar flocks from blame. 10 
 
 He is great, and he is just. 
 He is ever good, and must 
 Thus be honoured. Daffodillies, 
 Roses, pinks, and lov^d lilies, 
 
 Let us fling 15 
 
 Whilst we sing 
 
 Ever holy, 
 
 Ever holy. 
 Ever honoured, ever young! 
 Thus great Pan is ever sung! 20 
 
 MELANCHOLY 
 
 (From "Nice Valour") 
 
 Hence all you vain delights, 
 As short as are the nights 
 
 Wherein you spend your folly! 
 There's naught in this life sweet. 
 If man were wise to see 't, 5 
 
 But only melancholy; 
 
 O sweetest melancholy! 
 
 Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
 A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
 A look that's fastened to the ground, 10 
 -1 tongue chained up, without a sound! 
 
 1 Fall with a musical or rhythmical cadence. 
 
 Fountain heads, and pathless groves. 
 Places which pale passion loves! 
 Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
 Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! 15 
 A midnight bell, a parting groan! 
 These are the sounds we feed upon; 
 Then stretch your bones in a still gloomy valley: 
 Nothing's so dainty-sweet as lovely melancholy. 
 
 iFrancisf llBeaumont 
 
 1586 (?)-1616 
 
 ON THE LIFE OF MAN^ 
 
 (From Poems, 1640) 
 
 Like to the falling of a star. 
 Or as the flights of eagles are, 
 Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
 Or silver drops of morning dew. 
 Or like the wind that chafes the flood, 5 
 Or bubbles which on water stood; 
 Even such is man, whose borrowed light 
 Is straight called in and paid to-night. 
 The wind blows out, the bubble dies. 
 The spring entombed in autumn lies, 10 
 The dew's dried up, the star is shot. 
 The flight is past, and man forgot. 
 
 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER 
 ABBEY 
 
 (From Poems, 1653) 
 
 Mortality, behold and fear! 
 
 What a change of flesh is here! 
 
 Think how many royal bones 
 
 Sleep within this heap of stones; 
 
 Here they lie, had realms and lands, 5 
 
 Who now want strength to stir their hands; 
 
 Where from their pulpits sealed with dust 
 
 They preach, "In greatness is no trust." 
 
 Here's an acre sown indeed 
 
 With the richest, roj^all'st seed 10 
 
 That the earth did e'er suck in 
 
 Since the first man died for sin: 
 
 Here the bones of birth^ have cried, 
 
 "Though gods they were, as men they died!'' 
 
 Fl. 1602-1624 
 
 A DIRGE 
 
 (From The White Devil; or, Vittoria Coromhona, 
 1612) 
 
 Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 
 Since o'er shady groves they hover, 
 And with leaves and flowers do cover 
 The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
 
 1 Sometimes attributed to Henry King (1592-1669). 
 1 The ashes or remains of those of high or royal lineage. 
 
174 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Call iintc his funeral dole^ 5 
 
 The ant, the field-mouse and the mole, 
 To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm. 
 And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no 
 
 harm; 
 But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men. 
 For with his nails he'll dig them up again. lo 
 
 DIRGE BEFORE DEATH 
 (From The Duchess ofMalfy, 1623) 
 Hark, now everything is still, 
 The screech-owl, and the whistler^ shrill, 
 Call upon our dame aloud, 
 And bid her quickly don her shroud! 
 Much you had of land and rent; 5 
 
 Your length in clay's now competent: 
 A long war disturbed your mind; 
 Here your perfect peace is signed. 
 Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? 
 Since their conception, their birth weeping, 10 
 Their life a general mist of error. 
 Their death, a hideous storm of terror. 
 Strew your hair with powders sweet, 
 Don clean linen, bathe your feet. 
 And (the foul fiend more to check), 15 
 
 A crucifix let bless your neck: 
 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; 
 End your groan, and come away. 
 
 SONG: "ALL THE FLOWERS OF THE 
 SPRING" 
 
 (From The Devil's Law Case) 
 All the flowers of the spring 
 Meet to perfiime our burying; 
 These have but their growing prime, 
 And man does flourish but his time: 
 Survey our progress from our birth — 5 
 We are set, we grow, we turn to earth. 
 Courts adieu, and all delights. 
 All bewitching appetites! 
 Sweetest breath and clearest eye 
 Like perf limes go out and die; 10 
 
 And consequently this is done 
 As shadows wait upon the sun. 
 Vain the ambition of kings 
 Who seek by trophies and dead things 
 To leave a living name behind, 15 
 
 And weave but nets to catch the wind. 
 
 Lo, by thy charming rod, all breathing things 5 
 Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd, 
 And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
 Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest. 
 Since I am thine, O come, but with that face 
 To inward light, which thou are wont to shew,io 
 With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe; 
 Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace. 
 
 Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt be- 
 queath, 
 
 I long to kiss the image of my death. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays. 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought 
 In time's great periods shall return to naught; 
 That fairest states have fatal nights and days. 
 I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays, 5 
 
 With toil of sprite, which are so dearly bought. 
 As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought, 
 That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. 
 I know frail beauty's like the purple flow'r. 
 To which one morn oft birth and death affords, 
 That love a jarring is of mind's accords, i i 
 
 Where sense and will bring under reason's 
 power: 
 Know what I list, this all cannot me move. 
 But that, alas, I both must write and love. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Of this fair volume which we world do name. 
 If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care. 
 Of him who it corrects, and did it frame. 
 We clear might read the art and wisdom rare, 
 Find out his power which wildest powers doth 
 tame, 5 
 
 His providence extending everywhere. 
 His justice, which proud rebels doth not spare. 
 In every page, no period of the same: 
 But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
 Well pleas'd with colour'd vellum, leaves of 
 gold, 10 
 
 Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, 
 On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold: 
 Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught. 
 It is some picture on the margin wrought. 
 
 William DmmmonD 
 
 1585-1649 
 
 ON SLEEP 
 
 (From Poems, Amorous, Funeral, etc., 1616) 
 
 Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, 
 
 Prince whose approach peace to all mortals 
 
 brings, 
 Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, 
 Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd; 
 
 1 Gifts of food or money and the like, were sometimes 
 distributed at funerals for the benefit of the soul of the 
 deceased. 
 
 1 Green plover or lapwing. 
 
 MADRIGAL 
 
 This life, which seems so fair, 
 
 Is like a bubble blown up in the air, 
 
 By sporting children's breath. 
 
 Who chase it every where. 
 
 And strive who can most motion it bequeath. 5 
 
 And though it sometime seem of its own might 
 
 Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there, 
 
 And firm to hover in that emptj'' height, 
 
 That only is because it is so light. 
 
 But in that pomp it doth not long appear; 10 
 
 For when 'tis most admired, in a thought. 
 
 Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought. 
 
I 
 
 JOHN STOW 175 
 
 MADRIGAL arms, some their legs, but youth desirous of 
 
 This world a hunting is, g^o^y i^ ^his sort exerciseth itself against the 
 The prey poor man, the Nimrod fierce is Death; time of war. Many of the citizens do delight 
 
 His speedy greyhounds are themselves in hawks and hounds; for they have 
 
 Lust, sickness, envy, care, 5 liberty of hunting in Middlesex, Hertfordshire, 
 
 Strife that ne'er falls amiss, , ., ^ all Chiltern, and in Kent to the water of the 
 
 With all those ills which haunt us while we ^ray." Thus far Fitzstephen of sports. 
 
 Now, ifby chance we fly ,. ^^f%T *^'r ^^ '"""''T' ^^^l ^"''^ r""" 
 
 Of these the eager chase, " *^?"^d }''^^ «^^ *^°^®' ^^"^^1^' i^ stage plays, 
 
 Old age with stealing pace 10 whereof ye may read m anno 1391, a play by 
 
 Casts up his nets, and there we panting die. 10 the parish clerks of London at the Skinner's 
 
 Well besides Smithfield, which continued three 
 
 "^rthn &>fflhl ^^^^ together, the king, queen, and nobles of 
 
 JlOyiX ^COm ^}jg realm being present. And of another, in 
 
 1525-1605 15 the year 1419, which lasted eight days, and 
 
 was of matter from the creation of the world, 
 
 SPORTS AND PASTIMES OF OLD LON- whereat was present most part of the nobility 
 
 ^O^ and gentry of England. Of late time, in place 
 
 (From A Survey of London, 1598) of those stage plays, hath been used comedies 
 
 "Let us now," saith Fitzstephen, i "come to 20 tragedies, interludes, and histories, both true 
 the sports and pastimes, seeing that it is fit and feigned; for the acting whereof certain 
 that a city should not only be commodious and public places, as the Theatre, the Curtain,^ etc., 
 serious, but also merry and sportful. . . . have been erected. Also cocks of the game are 
 
 "But London, for the shows upon theatres, yet cherished by divers men for their pleasures 
 and comical pastimes, hath holy plays, repre- 25 much money being laid on their heads, when 
 sentations of miracles, which holy confessors they fight in pits, whereof some be costly made 
 have wrought, or representations of torments for that purpose. The ball is used by noblemen 
 wherein the constancy of martyrs appeared, and gentlemen in tennis courts, and by people of 
 Every year also at Shrove Tuesday,^ that we meaner sort in the open fields and streets. . . . 
 may begin with children's sports, seeing we all 30 Thus much for sportful shows in triumphs 
 have been children, the schoolboys do bring may suffice. Now for sports and pastimes 
 cocks of the game to their master, and all the yearly used. 
 
 forenoon they delight themselves in cock- First, in the feast of Christmas, there was in 
 fighting: after dinner all the youths go into the the King's house, wheresoever he was lodged, a 
 fields to play at the ball. 35 lord of misrule, or master of merry disports, and 
 
 "The scholars of every school have their ball, the Uke had ye in the house of every nobleman 
 or baton, in their hands; the ancient and wealthy of honor or good worship, were he spiritual or 
 men of the city come forth on horseback to see temporal. Amongst the which the mayor of 
 the sport of the young men, and to take part of London, and either of the sheriffs, had their 
 the pleasure in beholding their agility. ... 40 several lords of misrule, ever contending, 
 
 "When the great fen, or moor, which water- without quarrel or offence, who should make 
 eth the walls of the city on the north side, is the rarest pastimes to delight the beholders, 
 frozen, many young men play upon the ice; These lords beginning their rule on Alhollon 
 some striding as wide as they may, do slide eve, * continued the same until the morrow after 
 swiftly; others make themselves seats of ice, as 45 the Feast of the Purification, commonly called 
 great as millstones; one sits down, many hand Candlemas Day.^ In all which space there 
 in hand to draw him, and one slipping on a were fine and subtle disguisings, masks, and 
 sudden, all fall together; some tie bones to their mummeries, with playing at cards for counters, 
 feet and under their heels; and shoving them- nails, and points, in every house more for 
 selves by a little picked staff, do slide as swiftly 50 pastime than for gain. 
 
 as a bird flieth in the air, or an arrow out of a Against the feast of Christmas every man's 
 cross-bow. Sometime two run together with house, as also the parish churches, were decked 
 poles, and hitting one the other, either one or with hohn, ivy, bays, and whatsoever the 
 
 both do fall, not without hurt; some break their 3 y,^^ Theatre (1576) and The Curtain, the earliest 
 
 1 William Fitzstephen (d. 1191), a monk of Canter- English play-houses, were situated in the fields, not far 
 bury, and biographer and friend of Thomas k Becket. beyond the London walls. . , ^ 
 The passage here quoted by Stow, and given by him in * All-hallows Eve, 1. e., the eve of November 1st, or 
 translation, is from Fitzstephen's description of London All-Samts Day r r-u • + •», ♦>,« +orv,r^l*. 
 in his life of Becket ^ The feast of the presentation of Christ in the temple, 
 
 2 i e shriving Tuesday. The Tuesday before Ash February 2d. It takes its name from the custom of carry- 
 Wednesday, the first day of Lent. ing lighted candles in the procession at the service. 
 
176 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 season of the year afforded to be green. The I find also, that in the month of May, the 
 conduits and standards in the streets were citizens of London of all estates, lightly^ in 
 likewise garnished; amongst the which I read, every parish, or sometimes two or three 
 in the year 1444, that by tempest of thunder parishes joining together, had their several 
 and lightning, on the 1st of February, at night, 5 mayings, and did fetch in maypoles, with 
 Paule's Steeple was fired, but with great labor divers warlike shows, with good archers, morris 
 quenched; and towards the morning of Candle- dancers, and other devices, for pastime all the 
 mas Day, at the Leadenhall in Cornhill, a day long; and toward the evening they had 
 standard of tree being set up in midst of the stage plays, and bonfires in the streets. Of 
 pavement, fast in the ground, nailed full of 10 these mayings we read, in the reign of Henry VI. 
 holm and ivy, for disport of Christmas to the that the aldermen and sheriffs of London, 
 people, was torn up, and cast down by the being on May^day at the Bishop of London's 
 malignant spirit (as was thought), and the woods, in the parish of Stebunheath, and hav- 
 stones of the pavement all about were cast in ing there a worshipful dinner for themselves 
 the streets, and into divers houses, so that the 15 and other commoners, Lydgate the poet, that 
 people were sore aghast of the great tempests, was a monk of Bury, sent to them, by a pur- 
 
 In the week before Easter, had ye great suivant, a joyful commendation of that season, 
 shows made for the fetching in of a twisted containing sixteen staves of meter royal, 
 tree, or with,^ as they termed it, out of the beginning thus: — 
 
 woods into the king's house; and the like into20,,^ .^j,^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^j^^ _„^^^ 
 
 every man s house of honor or worship. 
 
 In the month of May, namely, on May-day These great mayings, and May games, made 
 in the morning, every man except impediment, by the governors and masters of this city, with 
 would walk into the sweet meadows and green the triumphant setting up of the great shaft 
 woods, there to rejoice their spirits with the 25 (a principal maypole in Cornhill, before the 
 beauty and savor of sweet flowers, and with parish church of St. Andrew therefore called 
 the harmony of birds, praising God in their Undershaft)^ by means of an insurrection of 
 kind; and for example hereof, Edward Hall^ youths against aliens on May-day, 1517, the 
 hath noted, that King Henry VIII, as in the 9th of Henry VIII., have not been so freely 
 3rd of his reign, and divers other years, so 30 used as afore, and therefore I leave them, 
 namely in the 7th of his reign, on May-day in 
 
 the morning, with Queen Katherine his wife, . , nrhf^r^t^o: jTSrifffi 
 
 accompanied with many lords and ladies, rode ^*^ Vll/ljumas Jl'iOtCIJ 
 
 a-maying from Greenwich to the high ground of 1535-1601 
 
 Shooter's HiU, where, as they passed by the 35 mrArrTT ni? n;i?QAT? 
 
 way, they espied a company of tall yeomen, THE DEAIH OJ^ CiiLbAK 
 
 clothed all in green, with green hoods, and (From translation of Plutarch's Lives, 1597) 
 bows and arrows, to the number of two hun- Now a day being appointed for the meeting 
 
 dred; one being their chief tan, was called of the Senate, at what time they hoped Ccesar 
 Robin Hood, who required the king and his 40 would not fail to come: the conspirators deter- 
 company to stay and see his men shoot; where- mined then to put their enterprise in execution, 
 unto the king granting, Robin Hood whistled, because they might meet safely at that time 
 and all the two hundred archers shot off, loosing without suspicion; and the rather, for that all 
 all at once; and when he whistled again they the noblest and chief est men of the city would 
 likewise shot again; their arrows whistled by 45 be there. Who, when they should see such a 
 craft of the head, so that the noise was strange great matter executed, would every man then 
 and loud, which greatly deHghted the king, set to their hands, for the defence of their 
 queen, and their company. Moreover, this liberty. Furthermore, they thought also, that 
 Robin Hood desii*ed the king and queen, with the appointment of the place where the council 
 their retinue, to enter the greenwood, where in 50 should be kept, was chosen of purpose by divine 
 harbors made of boughs, and decked with providence, and made all for them. For it 
 flowers, they were set and served plentifully was one of the porches about the Theatre, in 
 with venison and wine by Robin Hood and his 
 men, to their great contentment, and had other l ^f^^i^y; . rr ^ ^ /, • t ^ i, n . * 
 
 ' ,° . ' J . 9 St. Andrews' Under shaft was in Leadenhall street. 
 
 pageants and pastimes, as ye may read m my 55 The shaft (or May pole) which was higher than the church 
 said author steeple, was set up before it for the last time in 1517, 
 
 after which it was hung on iron hooks over the doors in a 
 
 •Withe, or withy. neighboring alley. In 1550, a young curate declared 
 
 'Edward Hall (1499-1547), author of The Union of that this shaft had been made an idol, and to show the 
 
 the Two Noble Families of Lancaster and Yorke, com- superstitious subjection of the parish to the old relic, 
 
 monly known as "Hall's Chronicle." spoke of the church as St. Andrew's " Under-that- shaft." 
 
RAPHAEL HOLINSHED 177 
 
 the which there was a certain place full of seats where the Senate sat, and held him with a long 
 for men to sit in, where also was set up the talk without. When Ccesar was come into the 
 image of Pompey, which the city had made and house, all the Senate rose to honor him at his 
 consecrated in honor of him: when he did coming in. So when he was set, the conspira- 
 boautify that part of the city with the Theatre 5 tors flocked about him, and amongst them they 
 lie built, with divers porches about it. In this presented one Tullius Cimber, who made hum- 
 place was the assembly of the Senate appointed ble suit for the calling home again of his 
 to be; just on the fifteenth day of the month of brother that was banished. They all made as 
 March, which the Romans call, Idus Martias: they were intercessors for him, and took him by 
 so that it seemed some god of purpose had 10 the hands, and kissed his head and breast, 
 brought CcBsar thither to be slain, for revenge of Ccesar at the first simply refused their kindness 
 Pompey's death. So when the day was come, and entreaties: but afterwards, perceiving they 
 Brutus went out of his house with a dagger by still pressed on him, he violently thrust them 
 his side under his long gown, that nobody saw from him. Then Cimber with both his hands 
 nor knew, but his wife only. The other con- 15 plucked Ccesar' s gown over his shoulders, and 
 spirators were all assembled at Cassius' house, Casca that stood behind him, drew his dagger 
 to bring his son into the market place, who on first, and struck Ccesar upon the shoulder, but 
 that day did put on the man's gown, called gave him no great wound. Ccesar feeling him- 
 Toga Virilis, and from thence they came all in a self hurt, took him straight by the hand he 
 troop together unto Pompey's porch, looking 20 held his dagger in, and cried out in Latin: O 
 that Ccesar would straight come thither. . . . traitor Casca, what doest thou? Casca on the 
 When Ccesar came out of his litter: Popilius other side cried in Greek, and called his brother 
 Loena, that had talked before with Brutus and to help him. So divers running on a heap 
 Cassius, and had prayed the gods they might together to fly upon Ccesar, he looking about 
 bring this enterprise to pass: went unto Ccesar 25h\m to have fled, saw Brutus with a sword 
 and kept him a long time with a talk. Ccesar drawn in his hand ready to strike at him: then 
 gave good ear unto him. Wherefore the con- he let Casca' s hand go, and casting his gown 
 spirators (if so they should be called) not hear- over his face, suffered every man to strike at 
 ing what he said to Caesar, but conjecturing by him that would. Then the conspirators 
 that he had told them a little before, that his 30 thronging one upon another because every 
 talk was none other but the very discovery of man was desirous to have a cut at him, so many 
 their conspiracy: they were afraid every man of swords and daggers lighting upon one body, one 
 them; and one looking in another's face, it was of them hurt another, and among them Brutus 
 easy to see they all were of a mind, that it was caught a blow on his hand, because he would 
 no tarrying for them till they were apprehended, 35 make one in murdering of him, and all the rest 
 but rather that they should kill themselves also were every man of them bloodied. Ccesar 
 with their own hands. And when Cassius being slain in this manner, Brutus standing 
 and certain other clapped their hands on their in the midst of the house, would have spoken, 
 swords under their gowns to draw them : and stayed the other Senators that were not of 
 Brutus marking the countenance and gesture of 40 the conspiracy, to have told them the reason 
 Lcena, and considering that he did use himself why they had done this fact. But they as men 
 rather like an humble and earnest suitor than both afraid and amazed, fled one upon another's 
 like an accuser: he said nothing to his com- neck in haste to get out at the door, and no man 
 panion (because there were many amongst them followed them. For it was set down and 
 that were not of the conspiracy), but with a 45 agreed between them, that they should kill no 
 pleasant countenance encouraged Cassius. man but Ccesar only, and should entreat all the 
 And immediately after, Loena went from rest to look to defend their liberty. 
 Ccesar, and kissed his hand: which showed 
 
 plainly that it was for some matter concerning l^arifirr^T *hrtltntfln>n 
 
 himself that he had held him so long in talk. 50 mapijan t^OUHS^^O 
 
 Now all the Senators being entered first into d. 1580 
 
 this place or chapter house where the council j^^cBETH'S MEETING WITH THE 
 should be kept, all the other conspirators WEIRD SISTERS 
 
 straight stood about Cwsar's chair, as if they rr^Tj jo.tj 
 
 had had something to have said unto him. And 55 (From A Chronicle of England and Scotland, 
 some say that Cassius casting his eyes upon 1578) 
 
 Pompey's image, made his prayer unto it, as if Shortly after happened a strange and un- 
 
 it had been alive. Trebonius on the other side, couth wonder, which afterward was the cause of 
 drew Antonius aside, as he came into the house much trouble in the realm of Scotland, as ye 
 
178 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 shall after hear. It fortuned as Makbeth and Westminster, ^ that fruitful nursery, it was my 
 Banquho journeyed towards Fores, where the hap to visit the chamber of Mr, Richard 
 king then lay, they went sporting by the way Hakluyt, my cousin, a gentleman of the Middle 
 together without other company save only Temple,^ well known unto you, at a time when 
 themselves, passing through the woods and 5 1 found lying open on his board certain books 
 fields, when suddenly in the midst of a land, of cosmography, with a universal map. He, 
 there met them three women in strange and seeing me somewhat curious in the view thereof , 
 wild apparel, resembling creatures of the elder began to instruct my ignorance by showing me 
 world, whom when they attentively beheld, the division of the earth into three parts after 
 wondering much at the sight, the first of them 10 the old account, and then according to the 
 spake and said : — latter, and better distribution, into more. He 
 
 "All haU Makbeth, thane of Glammis!" pointed with his wand to all the known seas, 
 
 gulfs, bays, straits, capes, rivers, empires, 
 (for he had lately entered into that ofl&ce by kingdoms, dukedoms, and territories of each 
 the death of his father SineU). The second then 15 part with declaration also of their special com- 
 said: modities, and particular wants, which, by the 
 
 "Hail Makbeth, thane of Cawder!" benefit of traffic and intercourse of merchants, 
 
 But the third said: — are plentifully supplied. From the map he 
 
 « An 1- -1 TVT 1 u xu xu 4. t. fi. I, n u brought me to the Bible, and turning to the 
 
 IQ fl^^f^' *^* heveaftev shall be ^^ ^07^1^ p^^l^^ ^i^^^^^^ ^^'^^ ^1^^ 23rd and 24th 
 ng o CO an . verses, where I read, that they which go down 
 
 Then Banquho: "What manner of women to the sea in ships and occupy by the great 
 (saith he) are you that seem so little favorable waters, they see the works of the Lord, and his 
 unto me, whereas to my fellow here, besides wonders in the deep, etc. Which words of the 
 high offices, ye assign also the kingdom, ap- 25 prophet, together with my cousin's discourse 
 pointing forth nothing for me at all?" "Yes," (things of high and rare delight to my young 
 (saith the first of them), "we promise greater nature), took in me so deep an impression that 
 benefits unto thee than unto him; for he shall I constantly resolved, if ever I were preferred 
 reign indeed, but with an unlucky end; neither to the university, where better time and more 
 shall he leave any issue behind him to succeed 30 convenient place might be ministered for these 
 in his place, when certainly thou indeed shalt studies, I would by God's assistance prosecute 
 not reign at all, but of thee those shall be bom that knowledge and kind of literature, the 
 which shall govern the Scottish kingdom by doors whereof, after a sort, were so happily 
 long order of continual descent." Herewith opened before me. 
 
 the foresaid women vanished immediately out 35 According to which my resolution, when, not 
 of their sight. This was reputed at the first long after, I was removed to Christ Church in 
 but some vain fantastical illusion by Makbeth Oxford, my exercises of duty first performed, I 
 and Banquho, insomuch that Banquho would fell to my intended course, and by degrees read 
 call Makbeth in jest. King of Scotland; and over whatsoever printed or written discoveries 
 Makbeth again would call him in sport likewise, 40 and voyages I found extant either in the Greek, 
 father of many kings. But afterwards the Latin, Italian, Spanish, Portugal, French, or 
 common opinion was, that these women were English languages, and in my public lectures* 
 either the weird sisters, that is (as ye would was the first that produced and showed both 
 say) the goddesses of destiny, or else some the old imperfectly composed, and the new 
 nymphs or fairies, indued with knowledge of 45 lately reformed maps, globes, spheres, and 
 prophecy by their necromantical science, be- other instruments of this art for demonstration 
 cause everything came to pass as they had in the common schools, to the singular pleasure 
 SDoken 
 
 *^ * ployed on various diplomatic missions, and was one 
 
 l^icliatD J^afelu^t r!pp^^72?°S'^^'°°^'"^ *° ^"^ ^^^' *^"^^'' °^ ^''°*^' 
 
 1 KKQ i«i A ^ ^^^ °^ *^® oldest and best of the London "Grammar 
 
 lOOO-lOlO Schools." Founded by Henry VIII., it was so reorgan- 
 
 ized by Queen Elizabeth in 1560, that its revenues were 
 DEDICATION TO SIR FRANCIS WAL- sufficient to provide for some 40 "free," or "Queen's 
 QTMPTTAMi scholars." Besides Hakluyt, George Herbert, Dryden, 
 
 oliN VjllAiVl ^jj(j Warren Hastings were among its free, or foundation, 
 
 (From Voyages and Discoveries, 1589) 55 ^'^"^^^^ ;^p,i^3 ,^^^ ^^ belonged to the legal profession. 
 
 Right honorable, I do remember that being a ffondon'^*'^''^^ Temple was one of the legal societies of 
 
 youth, and one of her Majesty's scholars at 4 Hakluyt is believed to have lectured at Oxford, V 
 
 shortly after taking his degree of M. A. in 1577. These ,^ 
 ^Francis Walsingham (1536-1590), one of the most were probably the first public lectures on geography i' 
 eminent statesmen of Elizabeth's reign. He was em- ever given at an Englbh University. 
 
RICHARD HAKLUYT 179 
 
 and general contentment of my auditory. In which our nation do indeed deserve: it cannot 
 continuance of time, and by reason principally be denied, but as in all former ages they have 
 of my insight in this study, I grew familiarly been men full of activity, stirrers abroad, and 
 acquainted with the chiefest captains at sea, searchers of the remote parts of the world, so 
 the greatest merchants, and the best mariners 5 in this most famous and peerless government of 
 of our nation; by which means having gotten her most excellent Majesty, her subjects, 
 somewhat more than common knowledge, I through the special assistance and blessing of 
 passed at length the narrow seas into France God, in searching the most opposite comers and 
 with Sir Edward Stafford, her Majesty's care- quarters of the world, and to speak plainly, in 
 ful and discreet Ligier,^ where during my five lo compassing the vast globe of the earth more 
 years' abode with him in his dangerous and than once, have excelled all the nations and 
 changeable residence in her Highness' service, people of the earth. For which of the kings of 
 I both heard in speech, and read in books other this land before her Majesty had their banners 
 nations miraculously extolled for their dis- ever seen in the Caspian sea? Which of them 
 coveries and notable enterprises by sea, but the 15 hath ever dealt with the emperor of Persia as 
 English of all others for their sluggish security, her Majesty hath done, and obtained for her 
 and continual neglect of the like attempts, merchants large and loving privileges? who 
 expecially in so long and happy a time of peace, ever saw, before this regiment, an English 
 either ignominiously reported, or exceedingly Ligier in the stately porch of the Grand Signor 
 condemned; which singular opportunity, if 20 at Constantinople? who ever found English 
 some other people, our neighbors, had been consuls and agents at Tripolis in Syria, at 
 blessed with, their protestations are often and Aleppo,^ at Babylon, at Balsara, and which is 
 vehement, they would far otherwise have more, who ever heard of Englishmen at Goa^ 
 used. . . . before now? what English ships did heretofore 
 
 Thus both hearing and reading the obloquy 25 ever anchor in the mighty river of Plate? pass 
 of our nation, and finding few or none of our and repass the unpassable (in former opinion) 
 own men to reply herein; and further, not see- Strait of Magellan, range along the coast of 
 ing any man to have care to recommend to the Chili, Peru, and all the backside of Nova 
 world the industrious labors and painful Hispania,' further than any Christian ever 
 travels of our countrymen: for stopping the 30 passed, traverse the mighty breadth of the 
 mouths of the reproachers, myself being the South Sea, land upon the Luzones in despite 
 last winter returned from France with the of the enemy, enter into alliance, amity, and 
 honorable the Lady Sheffield, for her passing traflSc with the princes of the Moluccas and the 
 good behavior highly esteemed in all the isle of Java, double the famous cape of Bona 
 French court, determined notwithstanding all 35 Speranza,^" arrive at the isle of St. Helena, and 
 difficulties to undertake the burden of that last of all return home most richly laden with 
 work wherein all others pretended either the commodities of China, as the subjects of 
 ignorance or lack of leisure, or want of sufficient this now flourishing monarchy have done? 
 argument, whereas (to speak truly) the huge 
 toil and the small profit to ensue were the 40 
 
 chief causes of the refusal. I call the work a THE LOSS OF SIR HUMPHREY 
 
 burden in consideration that these voyages lay GILBERT^ 
 
 so dispersed, scattered, and hidden in several 
 
 hucksters' hands, that I now wonder at myseK (From a report of the voyage and success 
 
 to see how I was able to endure the delays, 45 thereof , attempted m the year of our Lord, 
 curiosity, and backwardness of many from 1583, by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, knight, with 
 whom I was to receive my originals, so that I other gentlemen assisting him m that action, 
 have just cause to make that complaint of the 7 in Asiatic Turkey, 
 maliciousness of divers in our time, which ^ On the west coast of India. 
 
 „,. J /? xu r u- .A* ^^„ r« 9 The regions governed by the Viceroys of New Spain. 
 
 Pliny made 01 the men of his age. At nos 50 it included originally Mexico, the West Indies, and 
 
 elaborata iis abscondere atque supprimere various adjacent Si^nish possessions. 
 
 cupimus et fraudare vitam etiam aliensis bonis, \°^rlium^hr^ GUb^t (1539-1583) was one of the 
 
 etc.^ great English navigators in the age of Drake, Hawkins, 
 
 Tn havn Tin Inno-pr nnnn fViis qfrinff and to and Frobisher. He was half-brother of Sir Walter Ra- 
 
 io Harp no longer upon tnis stnng, ana to j^.^^^ ^^^ j.j^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^j. ^^.^^^^ ^^ ^j^^ ^i^^^ j^^ ^^^ 
 
 speak a word of that just commendation 55 bom in Devon. He started from Plymouth on what 
 
 proved to be his last voyage of discover^', June 11th, 
 
 5 (The same as leiger, and ledger, q. v.) A resident 1583. After landing in Newfoundland, which he took 
 agent, or ambassador. possession of in the name of the Queen, he lost his largest 
 
 6 But we are anxious to steal away from them and ship, and was forced to return home, with the only two 
 suppress the result of their labors, and even to beguile vessels left him, the Golden Hind and the Squirrel or- 
 the very life from the goods of others. as it is called in the text the Frigate. 
 
180 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 intended to discover and to plant christian This Monday the general came aboard the 
 inhabitants in place convenient, upon those Hind to have the surgeon of the Hind to dress 
 large and ample countries extended northward his foot, which he hurt by treading upon a 
 from the cape of Florida, lying under very nail. At what time we comforted each other 
 temperate climes, esteemed fertile and rich 5 with the hope of hard success to be all past, and 
 in minerals, yet not in the actual possession of of the good to come. So agreeing to carry 
 any christian prince, written by Mr. Edward out hghts always by night, that we might keep 
 Haie, gentleman, and principal actor in the together, he departed into his frigate, being 
 same voyage, who alone continued to the by no means to be entreated to tarry in the 
 end, and by God's special assistance returned lo Hind, which had been more for his security, 
 home with his retinue safe and entire.) Immediately after followed a sharp storm 
 
 So upon Saturday in the afternoon, the 31st which we overpassed for that time. Praised 
 of August, we changed our course and returned be God. 
 
 back for England, at which very instant, even The weather fair, the general came aboard 
 in winding about, there passed along between 15 the Hind again to make merry together with 
 us and towards the land which we now for- the captain, master, and company, which was 
 sook, a very Hon to our seeming, in shape, hair, the last meeting, and continued there from 
 and color, not swimming after the manner morning until night. During which time there 
 of a beast, by moving of his feet, but rather passed sundry discourses, touching affairs 
 sliding upon the water with his whole body 20 past and to come, lamenting greatly the loss 
 (excepting the legs) in sight; neither yet diving of his great ship, more of the men, but most of 
 under, and again rising above the water, as all his books and notes, and what else I know 
 the manner is of whales, dolphins, tunnies, not; for which he was out of measure grieved, 
 porpoises, and all other fish, but confidently the same doubtless being of some matter of 
 showing himself above water without hiding, 25 more importance than his books, which I 
 Notwithstanding, we presented ourselves in could not draw from him, yet by circumstance 
 open view and gesture to amaze him, as all I gathered the same to be the ore which Daniel 
 creatures will be commonly at a sudden gaze the Saxon had brought unto him in the New- 
 and sight of men. Thus he passed along turn- found-land. Whatsoever it was, the remem- 
 ing his head to and fro, yawning and gaping 30 brance touched him so deep as not able to 
 wide, with ugly demonstration of long teeth contain himself, he beat his boy in great rage, 
 and glaring eyes, and to bid us a farewell even at the same time, so long after the mis- 
 (coming right against the HindY he sent forth carrying of the great ship, because upon a fair 
 a horrible voice, roaring or bellowing as doth day, when we were becalmed upon the coast 
 a lion, which spectacle we all beheld so far as 35 of the New-found-land, near unto Cape Race, 
 we were able to discern the same, as me prone he sent his boy aboard the Admiral to fetch 
 to wonder at every strange thing, as this doubt- certain things, amongst which, this being 
 less was, to see a lion in the ocean sea, or fish chief, was yet forgotten, and left behind, 
 in shape of a lion. What opinion others had After which time he could never conveniently 
 thereof, and chiefly the general himself, 1 40 send again aboard the great ship; much less he 
 forbear to deliver. But he took it for bonum doubted her ruin so near at hand. 
 omen,^ rejoicing that he was to war against Herein my opinion was better confirmed 
 such an enemy, if it were the devil. The wind diversely, and by sundry conjectures, which 
 was large for England at our return, but very maketh me have the greater hope of this rich 
 high, and the sea rough, insomuch as the frigate 45 mine. For whereas the general had never be- 
 wherein the general went was almost swallowed fore good conceit of these north parts of the 
 up. world, now his mind was wholly fixed upon the 
 
 Monday in the afternoon (Sept. 2), we passed New-found-land. And as before he refused 
 in the sight of Cape Race, having made as not to grant assignments liberally to them that 
 much way in little more than two days and 50 required the same into these north parts, now 
 I nights back again, as before we had done in he became contrarily affected, refusing to 
 eight days from Cape Race unto the place make any so large grants, especially of St. 
 where our ship perished, which hindrance John's which certain English merchants made 
 thitherward and speed back again, is to be im- suit for, offering to employ their money and 
 puted unto the swift current, as well as to the 55 travel upon the same. Yet neither by their 
 winds, which we had more large in our re- own suit, nor of others of his own company, 
 turn. whom he seemed willing to pleasure, it could 
 
 2 i. e. the GoZde?^ ZTind, the name of Gilbert's vessel. ai ^ •' j i-'ji. • j.' -ii. 
 
 3 Good omen. Also laying down his determination in the 
 
RICHARD HAKLUYT 181 
 
 spring following, for disposing of his voyage wanting aboard his frigate. And so we corn- 
 then to be re-attempted, he assigned the cap- mitted him to God's protection, and set him 
 tain and master of the Golden Hind unto the aboard his pinnace, we being more than 300 
 south discovery, and reserved unto himself leagues onward of our way home, 
 the north, affirming that this voyage had won 5 By that time we had brought the islands of 
 his heart from the south, and that he was now Azores south of us; yet we then much keeping 
 become a northern man altogether. to the north, until we had got into the height 
 
 Last, being demanded what means he had and elevation of England, we met with very 
 at his arrival in England to compass the charges foul weather and terrible seas, breaking short 
 of so great preparation as he intended to make 10 and high, pyramid wise. The reason whereof 
 the next spring, having determined upon seemed to proceed either of hilly grounds, 
 two fleets, one for the south, another for the high and low, within the sea, (as we see hills 
 north: Leave that to me (he repUed), I will and dales upon the land), upon which the seas 
 ask a penny of no man. I will bring good tid- do mount and fall; or else the cause proceedeth 
 ings unto her Majesty, who will be so gracious 15 of diversity of winds, shifting often in sundry 
 to lend me 10,000 pounds, willing as before points, all which having power to move the 
 to be of good cheer, for he did thank God (he great ocean, which again is not presently 
 said) with all his heart for that he had seen, settled, so many seas do encounter together 
 the same being enough for us all, and that we as there had been diversity of winds. How- 
 needed not to seek any further. And these 20 soever it cometh to pass, men which all their 
 last words he would oft repeat with demonstra- lifetime had occupied the sea, never saw more 
 tion of great fervency of mind, being himself outrageous seas. We had also upon our main- 
 very confident and settled in belief of inesti- yard, an apparition of a little fire by night, 
 mable good by this voyage, which the greater which seamen do call Castor and Pollux. But 
 number of his followers nevertheless mistrusted 25 we had only one; which they take an evil 
 altogether, not being made partakers of those sign of more tempest; the same is usual in 
 secrets, which the general kept unto himself, storms. 
 
 Yet all of them that are living may be wit- Monday the ninth of September, in the 
 
 nesses of his words and protestations, which afternoon, the frigate was near cast away, 
 sparingly I have delivered. 30 oppressed by waves; yet at that time recov- 
 
 Leaving the issue •f this good hope unto God, ered; and giving forth signs of joy, the general 
 who knoweth the truth only, and can at his sitting abaft with a book in his hand cried out 
 good pleasure bring the same to light, I will unto us in the Hind (so oft as we did approach 
 hasten to the end of this tragedy, which must within hearing) : We are as near to heaven by 
 be knit up in the person of our general. And 35 sea as by land. Reiterating the same speech, 
 as it was God's ordinance upon him, even so well beseeming a soldier, resolute in Jesus 
 the vehement persuasion and entreaty of his Christ, as I can testify he was. 
 friends could nothing avail to divert him from The same Monday night, about twelve of 
 
 a wilful resolution of going through in his the clock, or not long after, the frigate being 
 frigate; which was overcharged upon their 40 ahead of us in the Golden Hind, suddenly her 
 decks, with fights, nettings, and small artillery, lights were out, whereof, as it were in a mo- 
 too cumbersome for so small a boat that was ment, we lost the sight, and withal our watch 
 to pass through the ocean sea at that season of cried, the general was cast away, which was 
 the year, when by course we might expect too true. For in that moment, the frigate 
 much storm of foul weather, whereof indeed 45 was devoured and swallowed up of the sea. 
 we had enough. Yet still we looked out all that night and ever 
 
 But when he was entreated by the captain, after, until we arrived upon the coast of Eng- 
 master, and other his well-willers of the Hind, land, omitting no small sail at sea, unto which 
 not to venture in the frigate, this was his we gave not the tokens between us agreed 
 answer: I will not forsake my little company 50 upon, to have perfect knowledge of each other, 
 going homeward, with whom I have passed so if we should at any time be separated, 
 many storms and perils. And in very truth. In great torment of weather, and peril of 
 
 he was urged to be so over hard, by hard re- drowning, it pleased God to send safe home 
 ports given of him, that he v/as afraid of the the Golden Hind, which arrived in Falmouth, 
 sea, albeit this was rather rashness than ad- 55 the 22nd day of September, being Sunday, 
 vised resolution, to prefer the wind of a vain not without as great danger escaped in a flaw, 
 report to the weight of his own life. coming from the south-east, with such thick 
 
 Seeing that he would not bend to reason, mist that we could not discern land, to put 
 he had provision out of the Hind, such as was in right with the haven. 
 
182 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 &it Mldlttt Haleigl^ out offense given: led thereunto by uncertain 
 
 report only; which His Majesty truly ac- 
 1552-1618 knowledgeth for the author of all Hes. Blame 
 
 no man (eaith Siracides^) before thou have 
 RALEIGH'S ACCOUNT OF HIS BOOK 5 enquired the matter; understand first, and then 
 
 reform righteously. Rumor, res sine teste, sine 
 
 (From the Preface to The History of the World, judice, maligna, fallax; Rumor is without wit- 
 
 1614) ness, without judge, malicious, and deceivable. 
 
 This vanity of vulgar opinion it was, that gave 
 How unfit, and how unworthy a choice I lO Saint Augustine argument to affirm, that he 
 have made of myself, to undertake a work of feared the praise of good men, and detested 
 this mixture; mine own reason, though exceed- that of the evil. And herein no man hath given 
 mg weak, hath sufficiently resolved me. For a better rule, than this of Seneca; Conscientice 
 had It been begotten then with my first dawn satisfaciamus: nihil in famam laboremus, sequa- 
 of day, when the light of common knowledge 15 iur vel mala, dum bene merearis. Let us satisfy 
 began to open itself to my younger years; and our own consciences, and not trouble ourselves 
 before any wound received, either from For- with fame: be it never so ill, it is to be despised 
 tune or Time: I might yet well have doubted so we deserve well. 
 
 that the darkness of age and death would have For myself, if I have in anything served my 
 covered over both it and me, long before the 20 country, and prized it before my private: the 
 performance. For beginning with the creation, general acceptation can yield me no other 
 I have proceeded with the History of the World ; profit at this time than doth a fair sunshine day 
 and lastly purposed (some few sallies excepted) to a seaman after shipwrack: and the contrary, 
 to confine my discourse within this our re- no other harm than an outrageous tempest 
 nowned Island of Great Britain. I confess that 25 after the port attained. . . . 
 it had better sorted with my disability, the However, I know that it will be said by many, 
 
 better part of whose times are run out in other that I might have been more pleasing to the 
 travails; to have set together (as I could) the reader, if I had written the story of mine own 
 unjointed and scattered frame of our English times, having been permitted to draw water as 
 affairs, than of the Universal; in whom, had 30 near the well-head as another. To this I 
 there been no other defect (who am all defect) answer, that whosoever in writing a modern 
 than the time of the day, it were enough; the history, shall follow truth too near the heels, it 
 day of a tempestuous life, drawn on to the very may haply strike out his teeth. There is no 
 evening ere I began, i But those inmost, and mistress or guide, that hath led her followers 
 soul-piercing wounds, which are ever aching 35 and servants into greater miseries. He that 
 while uncured; with the desire to satisfy those goes after her too far off, loseth her sight, and 
 few fnends, which I have tried by the fire of loseth himself: and he that walks after her at a 
 adversity, the former enforcing, the latter middle distance; I know not whether I should 
 persuading; have caused me to make my call that kind of course temper or baseness 
 thoughts legible, and myself the subject of 40 It is true, that I never travailed after men's 
 every opmion wise or weak opinions, when I might have made the best use 
 
 To the world I present them, to which I am of them: and I have now too few days re- 
 nothmg indebted: neither have authors that maining, to imitate those, that either out of 
 were (Fortune changing), sped much better in extreme ambition, or extreme cowardice, or 
 any age. For, prosperity and adversity have 45 both, do yet (when death hath them on his 
 evermore tied and untied vulgar affections, shoulders) flatter the world, between the bed 
 And as we see it m experience, that dogs do and the grave. It is enough for me (being in 
 always bark at those they know not, and that that state I am) to write of the eldest times: 
 It is their nature to accompany one another wherein also why may it not be said, that in 
 in those clamours: so it is with the inconsiderate 50 speaking of the past, I point at the present, and 
 multitude; who, wanting that virtue which we tax the vices of those that are yet living in 
 call honesty m all men and that especial gift their persons that are long since dead; and have 
 ot C^od which we call charity in Christian men; it laid to my charge? But this I cannot help, 
 condemn without hearing; and wound, with- though innocent. And certainly if there be 
 
 1 n^uicfh «,-a „«„j J * J .,. r . ^^ ^°y' *^^* finding themselves spotted like the 
 
 iKaleigh was condemned to death for treason in 1603, f.rrf^ra nf r^lrl +,-t«o cV^oll fi«^ f u -^i, r 
 
 but the sentence was commuted by James I to imprison- ^^S^^S Ot Old time, shall find fault With me for 
 
 ™®i^^- ^u '"jF®' '^^^ History of the World (which he left 
 
 Tower so that iT"mS t^lS^'^ imprisonment in the ^i. e. The son of Sirach, the author of the apocryphal 
 
 oveT fiftj yews old ^^"^ ^^"^ ^^^"^ ^^ "^^ ^^^'^ Ecclesiasticus Raleigh's quotation is. apparStly 
 
 * years oia. ^ paraphrase of Ecclesiasticus. si. 7. 
 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH 183 
 
 painting them over anew, they shall therein had; the storms of ambition shall beat her 
 accuse themselves justly, and me falsely. great boughs and branches one against another; 
 
 And if we could afford ourselves but so her leaves shall fall off, her limbs wither, and 
 much leisure as to consider, that he which a rabble of barbarous nations enter the field, 
 hath most in the world hath, in respect of the 5 and cut her down. 
 
 world, nothing: and that he which hath the Now these great Kings, and conquering na- 
 longest time lent him to live in it, hath yet no tions, have been the subject of those ancient 
 proportion at all therein, setting it either by histories, which have been perused, and yet 
 that which is past, when we were not, or by remain among us; and withal of so many trag- 
 that time which is to come, in which we shall 10 ical poets, as in the persons of powerful princes, 
 abide forever: I say, if both, to wit, our propor- and other mighty men have complained against 
 tion in the world, and our time in the world, infidelity, time, destiny, and most of all against 
 differ not much from that which is nothing; it is the variable success of worldly things, and 
 not out of any excellency of understanding, instability of fortune. To these undertakings, 
 that we so much prize the one, which hath 15 these great lords of the world have been stirred 
 (in effect) no being: and so much neglect the up, rather by the desire of fame, which. ploweth 
 other, which hath no ending: coveting those up the air, and soweth in the*^nd; than by 
 mortal things of the world, as if our souls were the affection of bearing rule, which drawethN 
 therein immortal, and neglecting those things after it so much vexation and so many cares, 
 which are immortal, as if ourselves after the 20 And that this is true, the good advice of Cineas 
 world were but mortal. to Pyrrus^ proves. And certainly, as fame 
 
 But let every man value his own wisdom as hath often been dangerous to the living, so is 
 he pleaseth. Let the rich man think all fools, it to the dead of no use at all, because separate 
 that cannot equal his abundance; the revenger from knowledge. Which were it otherwise, 
 esteem all negligent, that have not trod down 25 and the extreme ill bargain of buying this 
 their opposites; the poUtician, all gross, that lasting discourse, understood by them which 
 cannot merchandise their faith: yet when we are dissolved; they themselves would then 
 come in sight of the port of death, to which all rather have wished, to have stolen out of the 
 winds drive us; and when by letting fall that world without noise; than to be put in mind, 
 fatal anchor, which can never be weighed again, 30 that they have purchased the report of their 
 the navigation of this hfe takes end : then it is, actions in the world, by rapine, oppression, and 
 I say, that our own cogitations (those sad and cruelty; by giving in spoil the innocent and 
 severe cogitations, formerly beaten from us by labouring soul to the idle and insolent, and by 
 our health and feHcity) return again, and pay having emptied the cities of the world of their 
 us to the uttermost for all the pleasing passages 35 ancient inhabitants, and filled them again 
 of our lives past. It is then that we cry out to with so many and so variable sorts of sor- 
 God for mercy; then, when ourselves can no rows. . . . 
 
 longer exercise cruelty to others; and it is For the rest, if we seek a reason of the sue- 
 only then, that we are strucken through the cession and continuance of this boundless am- 
 soul with this terrible sentence, that God will i^Qhition in mortal man, we may add to that 
 not he mocked.* which hath been already said; that the kings 
 
 and princes of the world have always laid 
 
 before them, the actions, but not the ends of 
 
 FAME AND DEATH those great ones which preceded them. They 
 
 rra^ m rrw r *i. nr jj i«i/i\ 45 are always transported with the glory of the 
 (From The History of the World, 1614) ^^^^ ^^^^^^ J^^^ ^.^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ 
 
 By this which we have already set down, is other, till they find the experience in them- 
 seen the beginning and end of the first three selves. They neglect the advice of God, while 
 Monarchies of the world;i whereof the founders they enjoy life, or hope it; but they follow the 
 and erectors thought, that they could never 50 counsel of death, upon his first approach. It 
 have ended. That of Rome which made the is he that puts into man all the wisdom of the 
 fourth, was also at this time almost at the world without speaking a word; which God 
 highest. We have left it flourishing in the with all the words of His law, promises, or 
 middle of the field; having rooted up, or cut threats, doth infuse. Death, which hateth and 
 down, all that kept it from the eyes and ad- 55 destroyeth man, is believed; God, which hath 
 miration of the world. But after some .con- made him, is always deferred. / have con- 
 tinuance, it shall begin to lose the beauty it ^Pyrrhus (c. 318-272 B. C.) was King rf Epirus and 
 
 ' °. an antagonist of Rome. He had dreams of world empire, 
 
 * V. Gal. vi. 7. but Cineas (his Chief Minister) advised him to be con- 
 
 1 Assyria, Persia, Greece. tent with what he already possessed. 
 
184 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 sidered (saith Solomon) all the works that are That ye have been earnest in speaking or 
 under the sun and behold, all is vanity, and vexa- writing again and again the contrary way 
 lion of spirit; but who beheves it, till death should be no blemish or discredit at all unto 
 tells it us? It was death, which opening the you. Amongst so many so huge volumes as 
 conscience of Charles the fifth, made him 5 the infinite pains of St. Augustine have brought 
 enjoin his son Philip to restore Navarre; and forth, what one hath gotten him greater love, 
 king Francis the first of France, to command commendation and honour than the book 
 that justice should be done upon the murderers wherein he carefully coUecteth his own over- 
 of the Protestants in Merindol and Cahrieres, sights and sincerely condemneth them? Many 
 which till then he neglected. It is therefore 10 speeches there are of Job, whereby his wisdom 
 death alone that can suddenly make man to and other virtues may appear, but the glory 
 know himself. He tells the proud and insolent, of an ingenuous mind he hath purchased by 
 that they are but abjects, and humbles them these words only, ''Behold I will lay mine 
 at the instant; makes them cry, complain, hand on my mouth; I have spoken once, yet 
 and repent, yea, even to hate their forepast 15 will I not therefore maintain argument; yea, 
 happiness. He takes the account of the rich, twice, howbeit for that cause further I will 
 and proves him a beggar; a naked beggar, not proceed. "^ Far more comfort it were for 
 which hath interest in nothing, but in the us, so small is the joy we take in these strifes, 
 gravel that fills his mouth. He holds a glass to labour under the same yoke, as men that 
 before the eyes of the most beautiful, and 20 look for the same eternal reward of their la- 
 makes them see therein, their deformity and hours, to be enjoyed with you in bands of 
 rottenness; and they acknowledge it. indissoluble love and amity, to live as if our 
 
 O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom persons being many our souls were but one, 
 none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what rather in such dismembered sort to spend our 
 none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom 25 few and wretched days in a tedious prosecuting 
 all the world hath flattered, thou only hath of wearisome contentions, the end whereof, if 
 cast out of the world and despised; thou hast they have not some speedy end, will be heavy 
 drawn together all the star-stretched greatness, even on both sides. Brought already we are 
 all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man even to that estate which Gregory Nazianzen 
 and covered it all over with these two narrow 30 mournfully describeth, saying: 
 words, Hie jacet. "My mind leadeth me (since there is no 
 
 other remedy) to fly and to convey myself 
 
 into some corner out of sight, where I may 
 
 MitilStD £)00k£t escape from this cloudy tempest of malicious- 
 
 •^ ^ 35ness, whereby all parts are entered into a 
 
 1553-1600 deadly war amongst themselves, and that little 
 
 remnant of love which was is now consumed to 
 
 A PLEA FOR CHARITY IN CONTRO- nothing. The only godliness we glory in is to 
 
 VERSIES, AND FOR SINCERITY find out somewhat whereby we may judge 
 
 40 others to be ungodly. Each other's faults we 
 (From the Preface to Ecclesiastical Polity, 1594) observe as matter of exprobation^ and not of 
 
 grief. By these means we are grown hateful 
 
 The best and safest way for you, therefore, in the eyes of the heathens themselves, and 
 
 my dear brethren, is to do all your deeds past (which woundeth thus the more deeply) able 
 
 to a new reckoning, to re-examine the cause 45 we are not to deny but that we have deserved 
 
 ye have taken in hand, and to try it even their hatred. With the better sort of our own 
 
 point by point, argument by argument, with our fame and credit is clean lost. The less we 
 
 all the legal exactness ye can, to lay aside the are to marvel if they judge vilely of us, who al- 
 
 gall of that bitterness wherein your minds have though we did well would hardly allow thereof. 
 
 hitherto over-abounded, and with meekness 50 On our backs they also build that are lewd,^ 
 
 to search the truth. Think, ye are men, deem and what we object one against another the 
 
 it not impossible for you to err; sift impartially same they use to the utter scorn and disgrace 
 
 your own hearts whether it be force of reason of us all. This we have gained by our mutual 
 
 or vehemence of affection which hath bred, home dissentions. This we are worthily re- 
 
 and still doth feed these opinions in you. If 55 warded with, which are more forward to strive 
 
 truth do anywhere manifest itself seek not to than Lecometh men of virtuous and mild dis- 
 
 smother it with glossing delusion, acknowledge position." But our trust in the Almighty is, 
 
 the greatness thereof, and think it your best , r r i ^ , t^ i. 
 
 . , , ., T J 1 •! * "Job, xl. 5. 2 Reproach, accusation. 
 
 Victory when the same doth prevail over you. » Ignorant, uneducated. 
 
JOHN LYLY 185 
 
 that with us contentions are now at their children at the withered breasts of their mother, 
 highest float, and that the day will come (for no longer able to yield them relief — what 
 what cause of despair is there) when the pas- would become of man himself whom these 
 sions of former enmity being allayed, we shall things now do all serve? See we not plainly 
 with ten times redoubled tokens of our un- 5 that obedience of creatures unto the law of 
 feignedly reconciled love, show ourselves each nature is the stay of the whole world? . . . 
 toward the other the same, which Joseph and Thus far, therefore, we have endeavoured in 
 the brethren of Joseph were at the time of their part to open of what nature and force laws 
 interview in Egypt. Our comfortable expec- are, according unto their several kinds: the 
 tation and most thirsty desire, whereof what 10 law which God with Himself hath eternally 
 man soever amongst you shall anyway help set down to follow in His own works; the law 
 to satisfy (as we truly hope there is no one which He hath made for His creatures to keep, 
 amongst you but some way or other will) the the law of natural and necessary agents; the 
 blessings of the God of peace, both in this world law which angels in heaven obey; the law 
 and in the world to come, be upon him more 15 whereunto, by the light of reason, men find 
 than the stars of the firmament in number. themselves bound in that they are men; the 
 
 law which they make, by composition, for 
 
 multitudes and politic societies of men to be 
 
 guided by; the law which belongeth unto each 
 
 THE DIVINE SOURCE OF LAW 20 nation, the law that concerneth the fellowship 
 
 (From the same) ?^ f' ^^^ lastly the law which God Himself 
 
 hath supernaturally revealed. . . . 
 This world's first creation, and the preserva- Wherefore that here we may briefly end, of 
 
 tion since of things created, whc,t is it but only law there can be no less acknowledged, than 
 so far forth a manifestation by execution what 25 that her seat is in the bosom of God, her voice 
 the eternal law of God is concerning things the harmony of the world, all things in heaven 
 natural? And as it cometh to pass in a king- and earth do her homage, the very least as 
 dom rightly ordered, that after a law is once feeling her care, and the greatest as not ex- 
 published it presently takes effect far and empted from her power, both angels and men 
 wide, all states framing themselves thereunto, 30 and creatures of what condition soever though 
 even so let us think it fareth in the natural each in a different sort and manner, yet all 
 course of the world. Since the time that God with uniform consent, admirmg her as the 
 did first proclaim the edicts of His law upon mother of their peace and joy. 
 it, heaven and earth have barkened unto His 
 voice, and their labour hath been to do His 35 
 
 will. He made a law for the rain. He gave '^lOfaU iLplV 
 
 His decree unto the sea that the waters should 
 
 not pass his commandment. Now if nature 1553-1606 
 
 should intermit her course, and leave alto- 
 gether, though it were but for awhile, the 40 A GOOD SCHOOLMASTER 
 observation of her own laws; if those principal 
 
 and mother elements of the world whereof all (From Euphues, 1579) 
 
 things in this lower world are made should 
 
 lose the qualities which now they have; if the A good and discreet schoohnaster should 
 frame of that heavenly arch erected over our 45 be such an one as Phcenix was the instructor of 
 heads should loosen and dissolve itself; if Achilles, whom Pelleus (as Homer reporteth) 
 celestial spheres should forget their wonted appointed to that end that he should be unto 
 motions and by irregular volubiHty turn them- Achilles not only a teacher of learning,^ but an 
 selvesany way as it might happen; if the prince ensample of good living. But that is most 
 of the lights of heaven, which now as a giant 50 principally to be looked for, and most dili- 
 doth run his unwearied course, should, as it gently to be forseen, that such tutors be sought 
 were, through a languishing faintness, begin out for the education of a young child, whose 
 to stand and to rest himself; if the moon should life hath never been stained with dishonesty, 
 wander from her beaten way, the times and whose good name hath never been called into 
 seasons of the year blend themselves by dis- 55 question, whose manners hath been irrepre- 
 ordered and confused mixture, the winds hensible before the world. As husbandmen 
 breathe out their last gasp, the clouds yield no hedge in their trees, so should good school- 
 rain, the earth be defeated of heavenly in- masters with good manners hedge in the wit 
 fiuence, the fruits of the earth pine away as and disposition of the scholar, whereby the 
 
186 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 blossoms of learning may the sooner increase It is good nurture that leadeth to virtue, 
 to a bud. and discreet demeanour that plaineth the 
 
 Many parents are m this to be misUked, path to fehcity. If one have either the gifts 
 which having neither trial of his honesty, nor of Fortune, as great riches, or of Nature, as 
 experience of his learmng to whom they com- 5 seemly personage, he is to be despised in re- 
 mit the child to be taught, without any deep spect of learning. To be a noble man it is 
 or due consideration, put them to one either most excellent, but that is our ancestors, as 
 ignorant 01 obstinate, the which if they them- Uhjsses said to Ajax, as for our nobility, our 
 selves shall do of ignorance the foUy cannot be stock, our kmdred, and whatsoever we our- 
 excused, if of obstinacy their lewdness^ is to 10 selves have not done, I scarcely account ours, 
 be abhoired. Riches are precious, but Fortune ruleth the 
 
 borne fathers are overcome with the flattery roost, which oftentimes taketh away all from 
 of those fools who profess outwardly great them that have much, and giveth them more 
 knowledge, and show a certain kind of dis- that had nothing, glory is a thing worthy to 
 sembhng sincerity in their Hfe, others at the 15 be foUowed, but as it is gotten with great tra- 
 entreatmg of their f amiUar friends are content vaile, so is it lost m a small time, 
 to commit their sons to one, without either Beauty is such a thing as we commonly pre- 
 substance of honesty or shadow of learning, fer before all things, yet it fadeth before we 
 By which their undiscreet deaUng, they are perceive it to flourish: health is that which all 
 hke those sick men which reject the expert 20 men desire, yet ever subject to any disease; 
 and cunning physician, and at the request of strength is to be wished for, yet is it either 
 their friends admit the heedless practiser, abated with an ague, or taken away with age- 
 which dangereth the patient, and bringeth the whosoever therefore boasteth of force, is too 
 body to his bane:2 or not unUke unto those, beastly, seemg he is in that quality not to be 
 which at the instant and importunate suit of 25 compared with beasts, as the Uon, the bull 
 their acquaintance refuse a cunning pilot, and the elephant. ' 
 
 choose an unskilful mariner, which hazard- It is vutue, yea virtue, Gentlemen, that 
 eth the ship and themselves in the calmest maketh gentlemen; that maketh the poor rich, 
 ^^^ , ^ , , , the base bom noble, the subject a sovereign, 
 
 C^ood God, can there be any that hath the 30 the deformed beautiful, the sick whole, the 
 name of a father that will esteem more the weak strong, the most miserable, the most 
 fancy of his friend than the nurture of his son? happy. There are two principal and peculiar 
 It was not in vain that Crates would often say, gifts in the nature of man, knowledge and 
 that if It were lawful even in the market place reason: the one commandeth, the other obey- 
 he would cry out: Whether run you fathers, 35 eth; these things neither the whirling wheel of 
 which have aU your cark and care to multiply fortune can change, neither the deceitful call- 
 your wealth, nothing regarding your children ing of worldlings separate, neither sickness 
 unto whom you must leave all. .In this they abate, neither age abolish, 
 resemble hun which is verj- curious about the It is only knowledge, which worn with years 
 
 shoe and hath no care for the foot. Besides 40 waxeth young, and when all things are cut 
 this there be many fathers so inflamed with away with the sickle of Time, knowledge 
 the love of wealth, that they be as it were in- flourisheth so high that Time cannot reach it 
 censed with hate against theh- children; which War taketh all thmgs with it even as the whirl- 
 Ansippm seemg in an old miser did partly pool, yet must it leave learning behind it, 
 note It, this old miser asking of Arisippus 45 wherefore it was wisely answered in my opin- 
 what he would take to teach and bring up his ion, of Stilpo the Philosopher, for when Deme- 
 son, he answered a thousand groats: a thousand irius won the City, and made it even to the 
 groats, God shield, answered this old huddle, ground leaving nothing standing, he demanded 
 I can have two servants at that price. Unto of Stilpo whether he had lost anything of his 
 whom he made answer, thou shalt have two 50 m this great spoil; unto whom he answered 
 servants and one son, and whether wilt thou no verily, for war getteth no spoil of vk- 
 sell? Is it not absurd to have so great a tue. 
 
 care of the right hand of the child to cut his Unto the hke sense may the answer of Soc- 
 mea^, that if he handle his knife in the left rates be applied, when Gorgias asked him 
 hand we rebuke him severely, and to be 55 whether he thought the Persian king happy or 
 sure of his nurture m disciphne and learn- not; I know not, said he, how much virtue or 
 ^^^^ • • • disciphne he hath, for happiness doth not con- 
 
 sist in the gifts of fortune, but m the grace of 
 » Ignorance. « Destruction. virtue. 
 
JOHN LYLY 187 
 
 EUPHUES GLASS FOR EUROPE study and enquiry, not meaning to write a 
 
 „ , 7 rr- r. 7 J ^ ro.^^ chromclc, but. to sct down in a word what I 
 
 (From Euphues and His England, 1580) heard by conference. 
 
 TO THE LADIES AND GENTLEWOMEN OF ITALY: ^T^^l^ .^}^ ^^ ^^.^^ wholesomc and pleasant, 
 EUPHUES wiSHETH HEALTH AND HONOUR ^^'^^^^ civility not mferior to those that deserve 
 
 best, their wits very sharp and quick, although 
 If I had brought (ladies) little dogs from I have heard that the Italian and French- 
 Malta, or strange stones from India, or fine men have accounted them but gross and dull 
 carpets from Turkey, I am sure that you would pated, which I think came not to pass by the 
 have either wooed me to have them, or wished lo proof they made of their wits, but by the Eng- 
 to see them. lishman's report. 
 
 But I am come out of England with a glass, But this is strange (and yet how true it is, 
 
 wherein you shall behold the things which there is none that ever travelled thither but 
 you never saw, and marvel at the sights when can report) that it is always incident to an 
 you have seen. Not a glass to make you beau- 15 Englishman, to think worst of his own nation, 
 tiful, but to make you blush, yet not at your either in learning, experience, common reason, 
 vices, but at others' virtues, not a glass to dress or wit, preferring always a stranger rather 
 your hairs but to redress your harms, by the for the name, than for the wisdom. I for mine 
 which if you every morning correct your man- own part think, that in all Europe there are 
 ners, being as careful to amend faults in your 20 not lawyers more learned, divines more pro- 
 hearts, as you are curious to find faults in found, physicians more expert, than are in 
 your heads, you shall in short time be as much England. 
 
 commended for virtue of the wise, as for beauty But that which most allureth a stranger is 
 of the wanton. their courtesy, their civiUty and good enter- 
 
 Thus, fair ladies, hoping you will be as willing 25 tainment. I speak this by experience, that I 
 to pry in this glass for amendment of manners, found more courtesy in England among those 
 as you are to prank yourselves in a looking- I never knew, in one year, than I have done in 
 glass, for commendation of men, I wish you as Athens or Italy among those I ever loved, 
 much beauty as you would have, so as you in twenty. 
 
 would endeavour to have as much virtue as 30 But having entreated of the country and 
 you should have. And so farewell. their conditions, let me come to the glass I 
 
 EuPHUES. promised, being the court. ^ . . . 
 
 Is not this a glass, fair ladies, for all other 
 There is an isle lying in the ocean sea, directly countries to behold, where there is not only 
 against that part of France, which containeth 35 an agreement in faith, rehgion, and counsel, 
 Picardy and Normandy, called now England, but in friendship, brotherhood, and hving? 
 heretofore named Britain, it hath Ireland upon By whose good endeavours vice is punished, 
 the west side, on the north the main sea, on the virtue rewarded, peace established, foreign 
 east side the German Ocean. This Island broils repressed, domestical cares appeased? 
 is in circuit 1720 miles, in form like unto a 40 what nation can of counsellors desire more? 
 triangle, being broadest in the south part, and what dominion, yet excepted hath so much? 
 gathering narrower and narrower till it come when neither courage can prevail against their 
 to the farthest point of Caithness, northward counsel, nor both joined in one be of force to 
 where it is narrowest, and there endeth in undermine their country, when you have daz- 
 manner of a promontory. To repeat the an-45zled your eyes with this glass, behold here is 
 cient manner of this island or what sundry another. It was my fortune to be acquainted 
 nations have inhabited there, to set down the with certain English gentlemen, which brought 
 giants, which in bigness of bone have passed the me to the court, where when I came, I was 
 ordinary size, and almost common credit, to driven into a maze to behold the lusty and 
 rehearse what diversity of languages have 50 brave gallants, the beautiful and chaste ladies, 
 been used, into how many kingdoms it hath the rare and godly orders, so as I could not 
 been divided, what religions have been fol- tell whether I should most commend virtue 
 lowed before the coming of Christ, although it or bravery. At the last coming oftener thither, 
 would breed great delight to your ears, yet than it beseemed one of my degree, yet not 
 might it happily seem tedious: for that honey 55 so often as they desired my company, I began 
 taken excessively cloyeth the stomach though to pry after their manners, natures, and lives, 
 it be honey. and that which followeth I saw, whereof whoso 
 
 But my mind is briefly to touch such things doubteth, I will swear, 
 as at my being there I gathered by mine own 1 1. e. the glass in which he will picture the court. 
 
188 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 The ladies spend the morning in devout the street, which although they are nothing so 
 prayer, not resembling the gentlewomen in noble, yet are they much more necessary. Let 
 Greece and Italy, who begin their morning at not your robes hinder your devotion, learn of 
 mid-noon, and make their evening at midnight, the English ladies, that God is worthy to be 
 sing sonnets for psalms, and pastimes for 5 worshipped with the most price, to whom you 
 prayers, reading the Epistle of a Lover, when ought to give all praise, then shall ye be like 
 they should peruse the Gospel of our Lord, stars to the wise, who now are but staring stocks 
 drawing wanton lines when death is before to the foolish, then shall you be praised of 
 their face, as Archimedes did triangles and cir- most, who are now pointed at of all, then shall 
 cles when the enemy was at his back.^ Be- 10 God bear with your folly, who now abhorreth 
 hold, ladies, in this glass, that the service of your pride. 
 God is to be preferred before all things, imitate 
 the English damoseUes who have their books 
 
 tied to their girdles, not feathers; who are as fe.£„ i»j»£l£j) fe\«t|n^v 
 
 cunning in the scriptures, as you are in Ariosto 15 ^*'*' Tr V**'**' ^a'j^uui^i^ 
 
 or Petrarch or any book that liketh you best, 1554-1586 
 
 and becometh you most. 
 
 For bravery I cannot say that you exceed THE PREEMINENCE OF POETRY 
 
 them, for certainly it is the most gorgeous 
 
 court that ever I have seen, read, or heard of, 20 (From The Defense of Poesy, c. 1581) 
 
 but yet do they not use their apparel so nicely 
 
 as you in Italy, who think scorn to kneel at Now therein of all sciences — I speak still of 
 
 service, for fear of wrinkles in your silks, who human, and according to the human conceit — 
 dare not lift up your head to heaven, for fear is our poet the monarch. For he doth not only 
 of rumpling the ruff in your neck, yet your 25 show the way, but giveth so sweet a prospect 
 hands I confess are holden up, rather I think, into the way as will entice any man to enter 
 to show your rings, than to manifest your into it. Nay, he doth, as if your journey should 
 righteousness. The bravery they use is for lie through a fair vineyard, at the very first 
 the honour of their Prince, the attire you wear give you a cluster of grapes, that full of that 
 for the alluring of your prey, the rich apparel 30 taste you may long to pass further. He be- 
 maketh their beauty more seen, your disguis- ginneth not with obscure definitions, which 
 ing causeth your faces to be more suspected, must blur the margent^ with interpretations, 
 they resemble in their raiment the Ostrich and load the memory with doubtfulness. But 
 who being gazed on, closeth her wings and he cometh to you with words set in dehghtful 
 hideth her feathers, you in your robes are not 35 proportion, either accompanied with, or pre- 
 unlike the peacock, who being praised spread- pared for, the well-enchanting skill of music; 
 eth her tail, and betrayeth her pride. Velvets and with a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you, 
 and silks in them are like gold about a pure with a tale which holdeth children from play, 
 diamond, in you like a green hedge, about a and old men from the chimney corner, and, 
 filthy dunghill. Think not, ladies, that be- 40 pretending no more, doth intend the winning 
 cause you are decked with gold, you are endued of the mind from wickedness to virtue; even 
 with grace, imagine not that shining like the as the child is often brought to take most 
 sun in earth, ye shall climb the sun in heaven, wholesome things, by hiding them in such other 
 look diligently into this Enghsh glass, and then as have a pleasant taste, — which, if one should 
 shall you see that the, more costly your ap- 45 begin to tell them the nature of the aloes or 
 parel is, the greater your courtesy should be, rhubarb they should receive, would sooner 
 that you ought to be as far from pride, as you take their physic at their ears than at their 
 are from poverty, and as near to princes in mouth- So it is in men, most of which are 
 beauty, as you are in brightness. Because you childish in the best things, till they be cradled 
 are brave, disdain not those that are base, 50 in their graves, — glad they will be to hear the 
 think with yourselves that russet coats have tales of Hercules, Cyrus, ^neas; and, hearing 
 their Christendom, that the sun when he is at them, must needs hear the right description of 
 his height shineth as well upon coarse kersey, wisdom, valor, and justice; which, if they had 
 as cloth of tissue, though you have pearls in been barely, that is to say philosophically, 
 your ears, jewels in your breasts, precious stones 55 set out, they would swear they be brought to 
 on your fingers, yet disdain not the stones in school again. 
 
 s When the Romans surprised and captured Syracuse, That imitation whereof poetry is, hath the 
 
 the nat've city of Archimedes, the great mathematician jj^Qg^^ COnveniency to nature of all Other; inso 
 IS said to nave been found m the pubhc square, ponng "^^^^ wuvcuxcxiv^j uv/ x a,i>ui<^ vji «.ix ^J^Jl±^x, x^x^ 
 
 over geometrical figures which he had drawn in the sand. * Margin. \ 
 
SIR PHILIP SYDNEY 189 
 
 much that, as Aristotle saith, those things in such sort think, I say, that our poor eyes 
 which in themselves are horrible, as cruel bat- were so enriched as to behold; and our low 
 ties, unnatural monsters, are made in poetical hearts so exalted as to love, a maid, who is 
 imitation delightful. Truly, I have known such, that as the greatest thing the world 
 men, that even with reading Amadis de Gaule,^ 5 can show, is her beauty, so the least thing 
 which, God knoweth, wanteth much of a per- that may be praised in her, is her beauty. Cer- 
 fect poesy, have found their hearts moved to tainly as her eyelids are more pleasant to be- 
 the exercise of courtesy, liberality, and es- hold, than two white kids climbing up a fair 
 pecially courage. Who readeth ^neas carrying tree, and browsing on his tenderest branches, 
 old Anchises on his back, that wisheth not it lo and yet are nothing compared to the day- 
 were his fortune to perform so excellent an shining stars contained in them; and as her 
 act? Whom do not those words of Tumus breath is more sweet than a gentle South-west 
 move, the tale of Tumus having planted his wind, which comes creeping over flowery fields 
 image in his imagination? and shadowed waters in the extreme heat of 
 
 15 the summer, and yet is nothing, compared to 
 Fugientem haec terra videbit? the honey-flowing speech that breath doth 
 
 Usque adeone mori miserum est?' carry: no more all that our eyes can see of her 
 
 (though when they have seen her, what else 
 Where* the philosophers, as they scorn to de- they shall ever see is but dry stubble after 
 light, so must they be content little to move — 20 clover's grass) is to be matched with the flock 
 saving wrangling whether virtue be the chief of unspeakable virtues laid up dehghtfully in 
 or the only good, whether the contemplative that best builded fold. But indeed as we can 
 or the active life do excel — which Plato and best consider the sun's beauty, by marking how 
 Boethius well knew, and therefore made Mis- he gilds these waters and mountains, than by 
 tress Philosophy very often borrow the mask- 25 looking upon his own face, too glorious for our 
 ing raiment of Poesy. For even those hard weak eyes: so it may be our conceits (not able 
 hearted evil men who think virtue a school- to bear her sun staining excellency) will better 
 name, and know no other good but indulgere weigh it by her works upon some meaner sub- 
 genio,^ and therefore despise the austere admo- ject employed. And alas, who can better 
 nitions of the philosopher, and feel not the 30 witness that than we, whose experience is 
 inward reason they stand upon, yet will be con- grounded upon feeling? Hath not the only 
 tent to be delighted, which is all the good- love of her made us (being silly ignorant shep- 
 fellow poet seemeth to promise; and so steal herds) raise up our thoughts above the ordinary 
 to see the form of goodness — which, seen, level of the world, so as great clerks do not dis- 
 they cannot but love — ere themselves bessdain our conference? Hath not the desire to 
 aware, as if they took a medicine of cherries. seem worthy in her eyes, made us, when others 
 
 were sleeping, to sit viewing the course of 
 
 the heavens? When others were running at 
 
 nr ATTTQ ■rk-i?ar«-DTr>T?a ttdatmta Base,i to run over learned writings? When 
 
 CLAlUb Di.be.KlBii.fe UKAJNIA 40 others mark their sheep, we to mark ourselves? 
 
 (From The Arcadia, 1590) Hath not she thrown reason upon our desires, 
 
 and, as it were, given eyes unto Cupid? Hath 
 Who can choose that saw her but think where in any, but in her, love-fellowship maintained 
 she stayed, where she walked, where she turned, friendship between rivals, and beauty taught 
 where she spoke? But what is all this? Truly 45 the beholders chastity? 
 no more, but as this place served us to think 
 
 of those things, so those things serve as places ^^^^^^^rr^^^^r ^-r^ *t^^*tata 
 
 to call to memory more exceUent matters. No, A DESCRIPTION OF ARCADIA 
 
 no, let us think with consideration, and con- (From the same) 
 
 sider with acknowledging, and acknowledge 50 
 
 with admiration, and admire with love, and There were hills which garnished their proud 
 love with joy in the midst of all woes; let us heights with stately trees: humble valleys, 
 
 2 Amadis of Gaul, like Arthur and Charlemagne, was whose base estate seemed comforted with the 
 
 a famous hero of medieval romance. ^ French version refreshing of silver rivers: meadows, enamelled 
 
 of the story (which had been previously told m bpamsh) ■^^^*'^^'"'=""^& '-'* " . j.i • i x 
 
 appeared in 1540 and became widely popular. 55 with all SOrts of eye-pleasmg tlowers; thlCketS, 
 
 3 "Shall this land see [Turnus] flying? j^- j^ j^ • jj gd with most pleasant shade 
 
 Is it always so bitter a thing to die? ' (^neid, All. *»"^v-" _ & , , ^, l r i j- 
 
 245-46. were witnessed so to, by the cheerful disposi- 
 
 6 "Indulge your natural inclinationa [let us grasp i An exercise much used by the country people called 
 
 pleasuresj." Peraius, 8at. 5, 151. Pnson-base. 
 
190 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 tion of many well tuned birds: each pasture the tenor of thy father's testament, and thy 
 stored with sheep, feeding with sober security, heart fired with the hope of present prefer- 
 while the pretty lambs with bleating oratory ment? By the one thou art counseled to con- 
 c*«craved the dams' comfort, here a shepherd's tent thee with thy fortunes, by the other, 
 boy piping, as though he should never be old: 5 persuaded to aspire to higher wealth. Riches, 
 there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal Saladin, is a great royalty, and there is no 
 singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted sweeter physic than store. Avicen^ like a fool 
 her hands to work, and her hands kept time forgot in his aphorisms to say that gold was 
 to her voice-music. As for the houses of the the most precious restorative, and that treasure 
 country (for many houses came under my eye) 10 was the most excellent medicine of the mind, 
 they were all scattered, no two being one by Oh Saladin! what, were thy father's precepts 
 the other, and yet not so far off as that it breathed into the wind? hast thou so soon for- 
 barred mutual succour: a show, as it were of gotten his principles? did he not warn thee from 
 an accompanable solitariness, and of a civil coveting without honor, and climbing without 
 wildness. I pray you (said Musidorus, then 15 virtue? did he not forbid thee to aim at any 
 first unsealing his long silent Hps) what coun- action that should not be honorable? and what 
 tries be these we pass through, which are so will be more prejudicial to thy credit, than 
 divers in show, the one wanting no store, the the careless ruin of thy brothers' prosperity? 
 other having no store but of want? and wilt thou become the subversion of their 
 
 The country (answered Claius) where you 20 fortunes? Is there any sweeter thing than 
 were cast ashore, and now are passed through, concord, or a more precious jewel than amity? 
 is Laconia, not so poor by the barrenness of are you not sons of one father, scions of one 
 the soil (though in itself not passing fertile) tree, birds of one nest? and wilt thou become 
 as by a civil war, which being these two years so unnatural as to rob them w^hom thou 
 within the bowels of that estate, between the 23 shouldst relieve? No, Saladin, entreat them 
 gentlemen and the peasants (by them named with favors, and entertain them with love. 
 Helots) hath in this sort as it were disfigured the so shalt thou have thy conscience clear and 
 face of nature, and made it so unhospitable thy renown excellent. Tush, what words are 
 as now you have found it: the towns neither these, base fool, far unfit (if thou be wise) for 
 of the one side, nor the other, wiUingly opening 30 thy honor. What though thy father at his 
 their gates to strangers, nor strangers willingly death talked of many frivolous matters, as 
 entering for fear of being mistaken. one that doated for age and raved in his sick- 
 
 But this country (where now you set your ness, shall his words be axioms, and his talk 
 foot) is Arcadia: and even hard by is the house be so authentical, that thou wilt (to observe 
 of Kalander, whither we lead you. This coim- 35 them) prejudice thyself? No, no, Saladin, 
 try being thus decked with peace, and (the sick men's wills that are parole, and have 
 child of peace) good husbandry, these houses neither hand nor seal, are like the laws of a 
 you see so scattered, are of men, as we two are, city written in dust, which are broken with 
 that live upon the commodity of their sheep: the blast of every wind. What, man! thy 
 and therefore in the division of the Arcadian 40 father is dead, and he can neither help thy 
 estate are termed shepherds; a happy people, fortunes nor measure thy actions; therefore 
 wanting little, because they desire not much. bury his words with his carcase, and be wise 
 
 for thyself. What, 'tis not so old as true: 
 
 m^xms JLoDge 45 " N°" ^'^P''- 1"' ""'' ""^ ^P''-'" 
 
 Thy brother is young, keep him now in 
 c. 1558-1625 g^^g^ jjj^jj-g j^jjj^ j^Q|. checkmate with thyself: for 
 
 SALADIN AND ROSADER* "Nimia familiaritas contemptum parit/''» 
 
 (From Rosalind 1590) ^ -^^ ^"^ know little, so shall he not be able 
 
 to execute much; suppress his wits with a base 
 
 Saladin, how art thou disquieted in thy estate, and though he be a gentleman by na- 
 
 thoughts, and perplexed with a world of rest- ture yet form him anew, and make him a 
 
 less passions, having thy mind troubled with peasant by nurture; so shalt thou keep him 
 
 1 Sir John of Bordeaux divided his estate among his 55 as a slave, and reign thyself Sole lord OVer all 
 
 hl"?aEJ atsa^XtaT'dS^nSSStbei^: thy father's possessions. As for Fernandine, 
 
 although he was the eldest, he considered that he had ^Avicenna (980-1037) a celebrated Arabian physi- 
 
 inherited less than either of his brothers. At the begin- cian and philosopher. 
 
 ning of the selection, we find Saladin brooding over his ^ He knows nothing, who is not wise for himself, 
 
 supposed wrongs. * Too much familiarity breeds contempt. 
 
THOMAS LODGE 191 
 
 thy middle brother, he is a scholar, and hath for such office; I am thine equal by nature, 
 no mind but on Aristotle; let him read on though not by birth, and though thou hast 
 Galen^ while thou riflest with gold, and pore more cards in the bunch, have as many 
 on his book till thou dost purchase lands: wit trumps in my hand as thyseK. Let me 
 is great wealth; if he have learning it is enough, 5 question with thee, why thou hast felled my 
 and so let all rest. woods, spoiled my manor houses, and made 
 
 In this humor was Saladin, making his havoc with such utensils as my father be- 
 brother Rosader his foot-boy for the space of queathed unto me? I tell thee, Saladin, either 
 two or three years, keeping him in such servile answer me as a brother, or I will trouble thee 
 subjection, as if he had been the son of any 10 as an enemy." 
 
 country vassal. The young gentleman bore At this reply of Rosader's, Saladin smiled as 
 all with patience, till on a day wallcing in the laughing at his presumption, and frowned as 
 garden by himself, he began to consider how checking his folly: he therefore took him up 
 he was the son of John of Bordeaux, a knight thus shortly: "What, sir! well I see early pricks 
 renowned for many victories, and a gentleman 15 the tree that will prove a thorn: hath my 
 famous for his virtues; how, contrary to the familiar conversing wi^h you made you coy,' 
 testament of his father, he was not only kept or my good looks drawn you to be thus con- 
 from his land, and entreated as a servant, but temptuous? I can quickly remedy such a 
 smothered in such secret slavery, as he might fault, and I will bend the tree while it is a 
 not attain to any honorable actions. Alas, 20 wand. In faith, sir boy, I have a snaffle for 
 quoth he to himself (nature working these such a headstrong colt. You, sirs, lay hold 
 effectual passions), why should I, that am a on him and bind him, and then I will give him 
 gentleman bom, pass my time in such un- a cooling card for his choler." This made 
 natural drudgery?^ were it not better either in Rosader half mad, that stepping to a great 
 Paris to become a scholar, or in the court a 25 rake that stood in the garden, he laid such 
 courtier, or in the field a soldier, than to live load upon his brother's men that he hurt some 
 a^oot-boy to my own brother? Nature hath of them, and made the rest of them run away, 
 lent me wit to conceive, but my brother denied Saladin seeing Rosader so resolute, and with 
 me art to contemplate: I have strength to his resolution so valiant, thought his heels 
 perform any honorable exploit, but no liberty 30 his best safety, and took him to a loft adjoining 
 to accomplish my virtuous endeavors: those the garden, whither Rosader pursued him 
 good parts that God hath bestowed upon me, hotly. Saladin, afraid of his brother's fury, 
 the envy of my brother doth smother in ob- cried out to him thus, '* Rosader, be not so 
 scurity; the harder is my fortune, and the more rash, I am thy brother, and thy elder, and 
 his frowardness. With that casting up his 35 if I have done thee wrong, I'll make thee 
 hand he felt hair on his face, and perceiving amends: revenge not anger in blood, for so 
 his beard to bud, for choler he began to blush, shalt thou stain the virtue of old Sir John of 
 and swore to himself he would be no more Bordeaux: say wherein thou art discontent 
 subject to such slavery. As thus he was rumi- and thou shalt be satisfied. Brothers' frowns 
 nating of his melancholy passions, in came 40 ought not to be periods of wrath: what, man, 
 Saladin with his men, and seeing his brother look not so sourly; I know we shall be friends, 
 in a brown study, and to forget his wonted and better friends than we have been; for, 
 reverence, thought to shake him out of his Amantium ira amoris redintegratio est."^ 
 dumps thus: ''Sir," quoth he, ''what, is your These words appeased the choler of Rosader, 
 heart on your halfpenny, or are you saying a 45 for he was of a mild and courteous nature, so 
 dirge for your father's soul? what, is my dinner that he laid down his weapons, and upon the 
 ready?" At this question — Rosader turning faith of a gentleman assured his brother he 
 his head askance, and bending his brows as would offer him no prejudice: whereupon Sala- 
 if ahger there had ploughed the furrows of din came down, and after a little parley, they 
 her wrath, with his eyes full of fire — he made 50 embraced each other and became friends, and 
 this reply, "Dost thou ask me, Saladin, -for Saladin promising Rosader the restitution of 
 thy cates? ask some of thy churls who are fit all his lands, and what favor else, quoth he, 
 
 anyways my ability or the nature of a brother 
 
 5 A Greek physician and philosopher of the second may perform. 
 century; author of numerous works on medicine, logic, "^ ^ 
 
 etc. 
 
 6 Rosader's soliloquy, and the interview with his ^ Disdainful, contemptuous. The word is used in this 
 brother which follows, should be compared with the sense by Shakespeare. (Tarn. Shr. II, 245.) 
 
 opening scene of As You Like It. That comedy appeared » The anger of lovers is the restoration of love. This 
 
 some eight or nine years after the publication of Lodge's saying is the theme of a well-known poem, the Amaiitium 
 
 romance, and Shakespeare's indebtedness to Lodge is irae of Richard Edwards, which appeared in 1576. Id 
 
 self-evident. this poem the proverb recurs as a kind of refrain. 
 
192 WYATl^ AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 Uofarrt Arttne ill as Julian:* and wilt thou, my friend, be his 
 
 *^ Disciple? Look unto me, by him persuaded 
 
 1560-1592 to that liberty, and thou shalt find it an in- 
 
 fernal bondage. I know the least of my de- 
 GREENE'S FAREWELL TO HIS 5 merits merit this miserable death, but wilful 
 
 FKLLOW-PLAYWRIGUTS striving against known truth, exceedeth all 
 
 (From A Oroar, worth of Wit, bought wUh a the terrors of my soul Defernot (with me) 
 ^ fnaiion of RepJtance, 1592) till this last pomt of extremity; for httle know- 
 
 est thou how m the end thou shalt be visited. 
 To Hum Gentlemen his quofulatn acquaintances, j^ ^j^j^ ^y^^^ j j^j^ young Juvenal,' that biting 
 that tpend their wits in making Plays R. G. gatyrist, that lastly with me together writ a 
 wiaheth a better exercise, and wisdom to prevent ^.omedy. Sweet boy, might I advise thee, be 
 his extremities. advised, and get not many enemies by bitter 
 
 If woeful experience may move you (Gentle- words: inveigh against vain men, for thou 
 roon) to beware, or unheard of wretchedness 15 canst do it, no man better, no man so well: 
 entreat >'ou to take heed: I doubt not but you thou hast a liberty to reprove all and none 
 will look back with sorrow on your time past, more; for one being spoken to, all are offended, 
 and endeavor with repentance to spend that none being blamed no man is injured. Stop 
 which w to come. Wonder not, (for with thee shallow water still running, it will rage, tread 
 will i 6r8t be^in, thou famous gracer of trage-20on a worm and it will turn: then blame not 
 riians.' that Greene, who hath said with thee scholars vexed with sharp lines, if they reprove 
 like the fool in his heart "there is no God," thy too much liberty of reproof . 
 nhouUl now give glory unto his gre-atness: for And thou no less deserving than the other 
 penetrating is his power, his hand lies heavy two,^ in some things rarer, in nothing inferior; 
 upon me, he hath spoken unto me with a voice 25 driven (as myself) to extreme shifts, a little 
 of thunder, and I have felt he is a God that can have I to say to thee; and were it not an idola- 
 punish enemies. Why should thy excellent trous oath, I would swear by sweet St. George, 
 \v\t, his gift, be so blinded, that thou shouldst thou art unworthy better hap, sith thou de- 
 give no glory to the giver? Is it pestilent pended on so mean a stay. Base minded men 
 Machiavellian poUcy* that thou hast studied? 30 all three of you, if by my misery ye be not 
 O punish folly! What are his rules but mere warned: for unto none of you (like me) sought 
 confused mockeries, able to extirpate in some those burrs to cleave, those Puppets (I mean) 
 «mall time the generation of mankind. For that speech from our mouths, those anticks' 
 if Sic volo, sicjubeo,^ hold in those that are able garnished in our colors. Is it not strange that 
 to command: and if it be lawful Fas el ncfas^35l, to whom they all have been beholding :^° is 
 to do anything that is beneficial, only Tyrants it not like that you, to whom they all have 
 8hould possess the earth, and they striving to been beholding, shall (were ye in that case that 
 exceed in tyranny, should each to other be a I am now) be both at once of them forsaken? 
 slaughter man; till the mightiest outliving all. Yes, trust them not: for there is an upstart 
 one stroke were left for Death, that in one age 40 Crow, ^^ beautiful with our feathers that with 
 man's life should end. The brother of this his Tigers heart wrapt in a Players hide, sup- 
 Diabolical atheism is dead, and in his life poses he is as well able to bumbast out a blank 
 had never the felicity he aimed at; but as he verse as the best of you! and being an absolute 
 began in craft, Uved in fear, and ended in Johannes fac totem,^"^ is in his own conceit the 
 despair. Quam inscrutahilia sunt Dei judicial^ ^5 only Shake-scene in a county. O that I might 
 This murderer of many brethren, had his entreat your rare wit to be employed in more 
 conscience seared like Cain: this betrayer of profitable courses; and let those Apes imitate 
 him that gave his life for him, inherited the your past excellence, and never more acquaint 
 portion of Judas: thi:* Aposluta perished as them with your admired inventions. I know 
 
 • C»»f«toph«r Marlowe. CharRPs against Marlowe ^° ^^^ ^^^^ husband^^ of you all will never prOVe 
 
 r? iIT'''''"'^'"'" ■""• 'worn'Tpf Ood'8 word had been an Usurer, and the kindest of them all will 
 
 laid bcfor. - council, hut further procedure ^--^^^ "ix yy^x 
 
 by nol.acAl oxpwliency. He was opposed by the Chun-h Satirist '^^'^"'^^ *» ^^ ^ follower of the great Latin 
 
 : JE£r£i- ' ~™-^°^- ''Pe.Tci?-;;f-Kade:.^^^°'^^- '' «^^^-p-- 
 
 •How u-cruuSfc ar, the iudgment. of God. hr^ir^ itVe'molt'carlly^*^^' ^"^^ "' ^^ °""' ^^^^ 
 
FRANCIS BACON 193 
 
 never prove a kind nurse: Yet whilst you may, wages of sin, and passage to another world, is 
 seek you better masters; for it is a pity men holy and religious; but the fear of it, as a 
 of such rare wits should be subject to the tribute due unto nature, is weak. Yet in reli- 
 pleasures of such rude grooms. gious meditations there is sometimes mixture 
 
 In this I might insert two more, that both 5 of vanity and of superstition. You shall read 
 have writ against these buckram Gentlemen: in some of the friars' books of mortification, 
 but let their own works serve to witness against that a man should think with himself what the 
 their own wickedness, if they persevere to pain is, if he have but his finger's end pressed, 
 maintain any such peasants. For other new or tortured, and thereby imagine what the 
 comers, I leave them to the mercy of these 10 pains of death are when the whole body is 
 painted monsters, who (I doubt not) will drive corrupted and dissolved; when many times 
 the best minded to despise them, for the rest, death passeth with less pain than the torture 
 it skills not though they make a jest at them. of a limb — for the most vital parts are not the 
 
 But now return I again to you three, know- quickest of sense: and by him that spake only 
 ing ray misery is to you no news; and let me 15 as a philosopher and natural man, it was well 
 heartily entreat you to be warned by my said, "Pompa mortis magis terret quam mors 
 harms. Delight not (as I have done) in irre- ipsa."^ Groans, and convulsions, and a discol- 
 ligious oaths; for from the blasphemers house, oured face, and friends weeping, and blacks, ^ 
 a curse shall not depart. Despise drunkenness, and obsequies, and the like, show death ter- 
 which wasteth the wit, and maketh men all20rible. It is worthy the observing, that there 
 equal unto beasts. Fly lust, as the deaths- is no passion in the mind of man so weak, but 
 man of the soul, and defile not the Temple of it mates and masters the fear of death; and 
 the Holy Ghost. Abhor thou Epicurus, whose therefore death is no such terrible enemy when 
 loose life hath made religion loathsome to your a man hath so many attendants about him, 
 ears; and when they soothe you with terms 25 that can win the combat of him. Revenge 
 of mastership, remember Robert Greene, whom triumphs over death; love slights it; honour 
 they have so often flattered, perishes now for aspireth to it, grief flieth to it; fear pre-occu- 
 want of comfort. Remember, Gentlemen, your pateth it; nay, we read, after Otho* the em- 
 lives are like so many lighted Tapers, that are peror had slain himself, pity (which is the 
 with care delivered to all of you to maintain; 30 tenderest of affections) provoked many to die 
 these with wind-puffed wrath may be extin- out of mere compassion to their sovereign, and 
 guished, which drunkenness put out, which as the truest sort of followers. Nay, Seneca 
 negligence let fall: for man's time of itself is adds, niceness and satiety: "Cogita quamdiu 
 not so short, but it is more shortened by sin. eadem feceris; mori velle, non tantum fortis, 
 The fire of my life is now at its last snuff, and 35aut miser, sed etiam fastidiosus potest." "A 
 the want of wherewith to sustain it, there man would die, though he were neither vahant 
 is no substance left for life to feed on. Trust nor miserable, only upon a weariness to do the 
 not then (I beseech ye) to such weak stays; for same thing so oft over and over." It is no less 
 they are as changeable in mind, as in many worthy to observe, how little alteration in good 
 attires. Well, my hand is tired, and I am forced 40 spirits the approaches of death make; for they 
 to leave when I would fain begin ; for a whole appear to be the same men till the last instant, 
 book cannot contain these wrongs, which I Augustus Caesar died in a compliment :" Livia, 
 am forced to knit up in some few lines of words, conjugii nostri memor vive, et vale."* Tiberius 
 Desirous that you should live, though in dissimulation, as Tacitus saith of him, "Jam 
 
 himself be dying, 45 Tiberium vires et corpus, non dissimulatio, 
 
 Robert Greene. deserebant:"^ . . . Galba with a sentemce, 
 " Feri, si ex re sit populi Romani,"^ holding forth 
 his neck : Septimus Severus in despatch, * 'Adeste 
 iFtattCi^ 115aC0tt ®^ ^^^^ ^^^^ restat agendum,"' and the like. 
 
 Certainly the Stoics bestowed too much cost 
 1561-1626 
 
 iThe trappings of death terrify more than death it- 
 
 Uh DiiiAlH 2 Hired mourners, or mutes, who were dressed in 
 
 (Essays, 1597, 1612, 1625) 3 Marcus Salvius Otho. Emperor of Rome, who com- 
 
 mitted suicide A. D. 69, after his overthrow by Vitelhus, 
 
 Men fear death as children fear to go into ^^.\l!;S.'min1l?urof our wedlock, live, and farewell. 
 
 the dark ; and as that natural fear in children 5 Already the mental powers and bodily strength were 
 
 is increased with tales, so is the other. Cer- »-.-^?gk^;^f 7rbeYor ?he K^^^^ 
 
 tainly, the contemplation of death, as the 7 Dispatch, if there is anything left for me to do. 
 
194 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 death, and by their great preparations benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's 
 it appear more fearful. Better, saith favour. Yet even in the Old Testament, if 
 he, "qui fincm vit» extremum inter munora you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as 
 pooat natUTB."* It is as natural to die as to many hearse-like airs as carols; and the pencil 
 be bom; and to a little infant, perhaps, the 5 of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more in de- 
 one ie ts painful as the other. He that dies scribing the afflictions of Job than the felicities 
 m an earnest pursuit is like one that is wounded of Solomon. Prosperity is not without many 
 in hot blood; who, for the time, scarce feels fears and distastes; and adversity is not with- 
 the hurt; and therefore a mind fixed and bent out comforts and hopes. We see in needle- 
 upon somewhat that is good, doth avert the lo works and embroideries, it is more pleasing to 
 ddoun of death: but, above all, believe it, the have a Uvely work upon a sad^ and solemn 
 sweetest canticle is, Nunc dimUtis* when a ground, than to have a dark and melancholy 
 man hath obtained worthy ends and expect a- work upon a lightsome ground: judge, there- 
 tkms. Death hath this also, that it opencth fore, of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure 
 the gate to good fame, and extinguisheth 15 of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious 
 eoty: "Extinctus amabitur idem."'" odours, most fragrant where they are incensed, 
 
 or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover 
 OF ADVERSITY ^^^^' ^^^ adversity doth best discover virtue. 
 
 (From the same) OF WISDOM FOR A MAN'S SELF 
 
 It was a high speech of Seneca (after the /r^ xi. % 
 
 manner of the Stoics), that the "good things ^^'^'"'^ ^^^ ^^"^^^ 
 
 which belong to prosperity are to be wished, An ant is a wise creature for itself, but it is 
 but the good t^ngs that belong to adversity 25 a shrewd^ thing in an orchard or garden; and 
 are to be admired — Bona rerum secundarum certainly men that are great lovers of them- 
 optabiha, adversarum mirabilia." Certainly, selves waste the public. Divide with reason 
 If miracles be the command over nature, they between self-love and society; and be so true 
 appear most in adversity. It is yet a higher to thyself as thou be not false to others, es- 
 
 fAr • K~.»K««> "T* ;= ♦- « * I r "•»" ''^ P^^i^^A^ ^^ i^ny Kmg aiiu country, it is a poor 
 nrl thfri^? f ^^^^^u"" ^"^ ^^"^^ ^" ^^°t^^ «f a "^a^'s a<^tions, himself. It is right 
 
 a ^" ^Lrr^J^T' Ti ^^^^T;'^ "^ '^''^'^ ^^' '^^' «^ly «t-^ds fast^ upon his own 
 t,S^"se^at3C" ThU ^'^^^T"^ ^^-t-r; wherea. all things that have affinity 
 dTeTt^^v whPrP f^' / ^^"^x ^'^^ '^" ^^^^^^« ^^^^ ^P«^ ^he center of an- 
 a^mo^ Xwed^^d tt Ltl ^.7^"^' '' °'^"'' ^^^^^ '^'^ ^^^^^^^ ^he referring of aU 
 bL biL \StTit^^^^ *^ ^ "^^^'^ «^^^ ^« ^«^^ t^l^rable in a sovereign 
 
 wttd, ^6^17 W H^naf ^^^^^^ ' l^'?^ P"^'"' ^^^^^^^ themselves are not only them- 
 
 iS^t^p^ttr^mTnft foTjth fu? :f re oubVf ^^^^Vf.^.^^^ ^. '' ^^^ ""^^ 
 OMUsty' nay and to havp snmo „n^j!. r. ■ ™® P"*"''" f^tuie: but it is a desperate evil 
 
 he irant to unbind Prometheus (by whom P""'"! '"^ ^'^^tf<'«f'-,f''i^« Pass such a man's 
 
 hunimiUitureiB represented), saUcd the llnS wtf^' ''%'"-°°k<=th them to his own ends, 
 
 ortl«.giwtoceantoaneartL3orDitcher j* ff-' """^^ ^^ °"™ eccentric, to the 
 IMy describing Christian ^utionth.;..'"^' ^ '"^•*' ^ ^''''<=- therefore, let 
 
 -neth in the fraU bark of the fl^ thmugh *e LT?? " ®',f'^ chuse such servants as have 
 
 W.W. of the worid. But to speak in a mean > T tl '°"'^' l'""'P.' ''""^ '"""'^ ^^"''^ ^^"'"^ 
 
 the virtue of prosperity is tempemn " Z *°"'i''«™'«l« b"' the accessary. That which 
 
 jrtae o* «lveraty is fortitude, whEn mo4ls n "'^ *' f ?' ,'"°^" P«™<''°"^ ^' that all 
 b«h.inoi«heroical virtue. ProspXfaThe 50 FoThl ™ "^ '''f " ^t were disproportion enough 
 
 btaAig of the Old Testament, adversity U the !h f™u' «'""' *° ''^ pvetened before 
 
 Wa-ingof the New, which ca^rieth the^ater S? ^rf f' '"''/^' '^ ^ "^ S'-'^^ter extreme, 
 
 .^ , ^"■*''' !rh<=" ^ httle good of the servant shall carr^ 
 
 J^ l>h«i th. Snml «Ki ot Uf. among the gift, „, things against a great good of the master's- 
 
 V^^^^..^.^^.,,..,..", '^- ^"««. ambassadors, generals, and other false 
 
 .1 . -. '"»*"'"" b« 'ovod when dead. 4 no.u u 
 
 ui^L^nsr.--- ' « •" -'"• - --. .w «. -te^^a^'s-.^^-- ,-u^reXi^^^^ ^, 
 
FRANCIS BACON 195 
 
 and corrupt servants, which set a bias' upon But then, you will say, they may be of use to 
 their bowl, of their own petty ends and envies, buy men out of dangers or troubles; as Solomon 
 to the overthrow of their master's great and saith, "Riches are as a stronghold in the im- 
 important affairs. And for the most part, the agination of the rich man;"^ but this is excel- 
 good such servants receive is after the model of 5 lently expressed, that it is in imagination, and 
 their own fortune, but the hurt they sell for not always in fact; for, certainly great riches 
 that good is after the model of their master's have sold more men than they have bought 
 fortune. And certainly it is the nature of out. Seek not proud riches, but such as thou 
 extreme self -lovers, as they will set a house on mayest get justly, use soberly, distribute 
 fire and it were but to roast their eggs; and 10 cheerfully, and leave contentedly: yet have no 
 yet these men many times hold credit with abstract or friarly contempt of them, but dis- 
 their masters, because their study is but to tinguish, as Cicero saith well of Rabirius Post- 
 please them, and profit themselves; and for humus, "In studio rei ampUficandse, appare- 
 either respect they will abandon the good of bat, non avaritiae prsedam, sed instrumentum 
 their affairs. 15 bonitati quseri."' Hearken also to Solomon, 
 
 Wisdom for a man's self is, in many branches and beware of hasty gathering of riches: 
 thereof, a depraved thing: it is the wisdom of "Qui festinat ad divitias, non erit insons."^ 
 rats, that will be sure to leave a house some The poets feign that when Plutus (which is 
 time before its fall: it is the wisdom of the fox, riches) is sent from Jupiter, he limps, and goes 
 that thrusts out the badger, who digged and 20 slowly, but when he is sent from Pluto, he 
 made room for him: it is the wisdom of croco- runs, and is swift of foot; meaning, that riches 
 diles, that shed tears when they would devour, gotten by good means and just labour pace 
 But that which is specially to be noted is, that slowly, but when they come by the death of 
 those which (as Cicero says of Pompey) are others (as by the course of inheritance, testa- 
 "sui amantes sine rivaU"* are many times un-2oments, and the hke) they come tumbhng upon 
 fortunate: and whereas they have all their a man: but it might be applied likewise to 
 time sacrificed to themselves, they become in Pluto taking him for the devil: for when riches 
 the end themselves sacrifices to the incon- come from the Devil (as by fraud, and oppres- 
 stancy of fortune, whose wings they thought sion, and unjust means) they come upon speed, 
 by their self-wisdom to have pinioned. 30 The ways to enrich are many, and most of 
 
 them foul: parsimony is one of the best, and 
 OF RICHES yet it is not innocent, for it withholdeth men 
 
 /•c , t s from works of liberahty and charity. The im- 
 
 (From the same) 4-r+u a ■ ^.u ^- 4. ^ 
 
 ^ ' provement of the ground is the most natural 
 
 I cannot call riches better than the baggage 35 obtaining of riches, for it is our great mother's 
 of virtue: the Roman word is better — im-pedi- blessing, the earth; but it is slow: and yet, 
 menta; for as the baggage is to an army, so is where men of great wealth do stoop to hus- 
 riches to virtue — it cannot be spared nor left bandry, it multiplieth riches exceedingly. I 
 behind, but it hindereth the march; yea, and knew a nobleman of England that had the 
 the care of it sometimes loseth or disturbeth the 40 greatest audits^ of any man in my time, — a 
 victory. Of great riches there is no real use, great grazier, a great sheep master, a great 
 except it be in the distribution; the rest is but timber man, a great coUier, a great corn mas- 
 conceit; so saith Solomon, "Where much is, ter, a great lead man, and so of iron, and a 
 there are many to consume it; and what hath number of the hke points of husbandry; so 
 the owner but the sight of it with his eyes? "M5 as the earth seemed a sea to him in respect 
 The personal fruition in any man cannot reach of the perpetual importation. It was truly ob- 
 to feel great riches: there is a custody of them, served by one, "that himself came very hardly 
 or a power of dole, and a donative of them, to little riches, and very easily to great riches:" 
 or a fame of them, but no soUd use to the owner, for when a man's stock is come to that, that 
 Do you not see what feigned prices are set upon 50 he can expect the prime of markets,* and over- 
 little stones or rarities — and what works of 
 ostentation are undertaken, because there I f^9^: ^•' \^: . . • r ^ -x -j x *u * 
 
 , , ^ , ' , . • 1 o ' In his zeal to increase his fortune, it was evident that 
 
 might seem to be some use of great riches.'' not the gain of avarice was sought, but the means of 
 
 bcnGficGricG 
 
 3 In the game of bowls, the bowl (or ball) was not per- 4 "He thkt maketh haste to be rich, shall not be in- 
 
 fectly round, but disproportionately swelled out on one nocent " Prov xxviii 20 
 
 side to prevent it from running in a straight course; this 5 i. e*., xMoney receipts as shown by his accounts, 
 
 irregularity in shape was called the bias. Sometimes « i. e., afford to wait until the market-price has risen 
 
 the same end was gained by weighting one side of the ^o its highest point before he sells. By this means he 
 
 t' r l 1 xi. i • I can, through hia wealth, capture (overcome) those bar- 
 
 * Lovers of themselves without rivals. g^^^^ ^j^j^h few men can afford to take advantage of 
 
 1 Eccles. v., 11. and thus share in the industries of younger men. 
 
196 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 come those bargains, which for their great- Believe not much them that seem to despise 
 nesa are few men's money, and the partner in riches, for they despise them that despair of 
 the industries of younger men, he cannot but them; and none worse when they come to them. 
 increase mainly.' The gains of ordinary trades Be not penny-wise; riches have wings, and 
 and vocations are honest, and furthered by 5 sometimes they fly away of themselves, some- 
 two things, chiefly, by diligence, and by a good times they must be set flying to bring in more. 
 name for good and fair dealing; but the gains Men leave their riches either to their kindred, 
 of bargains are of a more doubtful nature, or to the Public; and moderate portions prosper 
 when men shall wait upon others' necessity;' best in both. A great estate left to an heir, 
 broke by servants," and instruments to draw 10 is as a lure to all the birds of prey round about 
 them on; put off others cunningly that would to seize on him, if he be not the better estab- 
 be better chapmen,^" and the like practices, lished in years and judgment: likewise, glorious 
 which are crafty and naughty. As for the gifts and foundations are like sacrifices with- 
 chopping of bargains," when a man buys not out salt;^^ and but the painted sepulchres of 
 to hold, but to sell over again, that commonly 15 alms, which soon will putrify and corrupt in- 
 grindeth double, both upon the seller and wardly. Therefore measure not thine ad- 
 upon the buyer. Sharings do greatly enrich, vancements^^ by quantity, but frame them by 
 if the hands be well chosen that are trusted, measure: and defer not charities till death: 
 Usury^2 ig f}^Q certainest means of gain, though for, certainly, if a man weigh it rightly, he 
 one of the worst, as that whereby a man doth 20 that doth so is rather Uberal of another man's 
 eat his bread, "in sudore vultus aUeni,"i' and than his own. 
 besides, doth plough upon Sundays; but yet 
 certain though it be, it hath flaws; for that 
 the scriveners and brokers do value imsound ^^ STUDIES 
 
 men to serve their own turn. The fortune in 25 /T?r.r.^ +i,« o„ ^^ 
 
 1 .,,£.. . . ,. . . . (i^rom the same) 
 
 bemg the first in an invention, or m a pnvi- 
 
 lege, doth cause sometimes a wonderful over- Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and 
 growth in riches; as it was with the first sugar for abiUty. Theu- chief use for delight is in 
 man in the Canaries: therefore, if a man can privateness, and retiring; for ornament, is in 
 play the true logician, to have as well judgment 30 discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment 
 as invention, he may do great matters, espe- and disposition of business; for expert men can 
 cially if the tunes be fit. He that resteth upon execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one 
 gams certain, shall hardly grow to great riches; by one; but the general counsel, and the 
 and he that puts aU upon adventures, doth plots and marshalhng of affairs, come best 
 oftentimes break and come to poverty: it is 35 from those that are learned. To spend too 
 good, therefore, to guard adventures with cer- much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too 
 tamties that may uphold losses. MonopoHes, much for ornament, is affectation; to make 
 and coemption of wares for re-sale, where they judgment wholly by theu- rules, is the humour 
 are not restrained, are great means to enrich; of a scholar;^ they perfect nature, and are per- 
 especially if the party have mtelligence what40fected by experience-for natural abilities are 
 things are hke to come mto request, and so like natural plants, that need pruning by study; 
 store himself beforehand. Riches gotten by and studies themselves do give forth directions 
 service, though It be of the b^t,nse; yet when too much at large, except they be bounded 
 they are gotten by flattery feedmg humours, in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, 
 and other servile conditions, hey may be placed 45 simple men admire them, and wise men use 
 among the worst. As for "fishing for testa- them, for they teach not their own use; but 
 ?rif«^?T''r'''!^'^'; (as Tacitus saith of that is a wisdom without them, and above 
 d^^W P«nT"^uT f orbos tanquam in- them, won by observation. Read not to con- 
 me? submit KhLlZ'^ T""' ^^ ^""^ "'^'^ ''^^''' ^^^ ^«^^t^' ^^' *« believe and take 
 Sa^i^^^ce °''^'''' persons 50 for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, 
 
 but to weigh and consider. Some books are 
 
 ! S'^**.^; ^ to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some 
 
 vanSgl^'f [rby'dVv!SThVib°ir^^^^^^^^ " '' ^^'^ ^^- [^^*° ^e chewed and digested: that is, some 
 
 • "When men shall" transact business (broke) through books are to be read only in parts; others to be 
 
 apents, who are used as tools to draw on the buyer to ^ i- > 
 
 *"lo mSo^?*^^:i . /'Among the Greeks, Romans, and other ancient p'eo\ 
 
 u ^^^^",^'^^8. dealers. pies, salt was an mdispensable element in the sacrificial, 
 
 no«^l ^"»"8'n8 of investments, or business ventures: offering, at least when it was partly or wholly cereal. 
 
 n TnfJ^-f"'' ^ ^''^[''1" ^u® expression. '« Here, probably, = ff,:/-/s. whether by will or otherwise. 
 
 "Wirand childless paren^sTal^^^^^^ JI^« ^^^-^ P--'-'" *« '^^ -^^o'-tic tempera- 
 
■ rftft 
 
 BEN JONSON 197 
 
 read, but not curiously ;2 and some few to be honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing, 
 read wholly, and with diligence and attention. whatsoever he penned, he never blotted out a 
 Some books also may be read by deputy, and line. My answer hath been, "Would he had 
 extracts made of them by others; but that blotted a thousand," which they thought a 
 would be only in the less important arguments, 5 malevolent speech. I had not told posterity 
 and the meaner sort of books; else distilled this but for their ignorance, who chose that 
 books are, like common distilled waters, flashy circumstance to commend their friend by 
 things. Reading maketh a full man, confer- wherein he most faulted; and to justify mine 
 ence a ready man, and writing an exact man; own candour, for I loved the man, and do 
 and, therefore, if a man write little, he had 10 honour his memory on this side idolatry as 
 need have a great memory; if he confer httle, much as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of 
 he had need have a present wit; and if he read an open and free nature; had an excellent 
 little, he had need have much cunning, to seem fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, 
 to know that he doth not. Histories make wherein he flowed with that facility that some- 
 men wise; poets witty; the mathematics subtle; 15 time it was necessary he should be stopped, 
 natural philosophy deep; moral, grave; logic " Sujfflaminadics erat,''^ as Augustus said of 
 and rhetoric, able to contend: "Abeunt studia Haterius. His wit was in his own power; 
 in mores "3 — nay, there is no stond norimpedi- would the rule of it had been so too. Many 
 ment in the wit, but may be wrought out by times he fell into those things, could not escape 
 fit studies, Uke as diseases of the body may 20 laughter, as when he said in the person of 
 have appropriate exercises — bowling is good Caesar, one speaking to him: "Ca;sar, thou 
 for the stone and reins, shooting for the lungs dost me wrong." He rephed: "Ciesar did 
 and breast, gentle walking for the stomach, never wrong but with just cause; "^ and such 
 riding for the head, and the Uke; so, if a man's like, which were ridiculous. But he redeemed 
 wits be wandering, let him study the mathe- 25 his vices with his virtues. There was ever 
 matics, for in demonstrations, if his wit be more in him to be praised than to be pardoned, 
 called away never so Uttle, he must begin De piis et proUs.^ — Good men are the stars, 
 
 again; if his wit be not apt to distinguish or the planets of the ages wherein they Uve and 
 find differences, let him study the schoolmen, illustrate* the times. God never let them be 
 for they are "cymini sectores;"* if he be not 30 wanting to the world: as Abel, for an example 
 apt to beat over matters, and to call upon of innocency, Enoch of purity, Noah of trust 
 one thing to prove and illustrate another, let in God's mercies, Abraham of faith, and so 
 him study the lawyers' cases — so every defect of the rest. These, sensual men thought mad 
 of the mind may have a special receipt. because they would not be partakers or prac- 
 
 35 tisers of their madness. But they, placed high 
 315nt ^OltfiiOU ^^ ^^® ^^P ^^ ^^ virtue, looked down on the 
 
 stage of the world and contemned the play of 
 1573-1637 fortune. For though the most be players, 
 
 FROM TIMBER, OR DISCOVERIESi some must be spectators. 
 
 (P h lfi4.n ^° Amor nummi? — Money never made any 
 
 \ '^ • ^ ) man rich, but his mind. He that can order 
 
 De Shakespeare nostrat [i].^— I remember himself to the law of Nature is not only with- 
 the players have often mentioned it as an out the sense but the fear of poverty. O, but 
 
 2 Not with minute care. ^o strike blind the people with our wealth and 
 
 3 Studies pass into character. 45 pomp is the thing! What a wretchedness is 
 
 ^jSp]iUers of cuminin seed, in our phrase, "hair spUt- ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^.^j^^^ OUtward, and be 
 
 iThe character and scope of this work of Jonson, is beggars . within ; to Contemplate nothing but 
 
 indicated in its title: Timber, or Discoveries made upon the Uttle, vile, and sordid things of the WOrld; 
 Men or Matter, as they nave flowed out of nts daily reading; . ,^ . i i j • i ttt- 
 
 or had their reflux to his peculiar noUons of the time. The not the great, noble, and preClOUS! We 
 
 book,inotherwords, is a reflection upon men and things, 50 serve our avarice, and, not Content with the 
 
 suggested by Jonson s daily reading. It is similar i /• ,i ii ,i , • «• i r 
 
 to Bacon's Essays, but Jonson's thoughts are jotted good of the earth that IS otiered US, we search, 
 down as they occur to him, with little regard to logical ^nd dig for the evil that is hidden. God offered 
 
 order or grouping. 1 he unsystematic, miscellaneous ,1.1. 11 i^i , 1 j i 
 character of the book is indicated by its main title,— US those thmgS, and placed them at hand, and 
 Timber Jonson uses Timber (ie a iovest) as the English near US, that He knew WCre profitable for US, 
 equivalent of the Latin word Suva (a wood, a crowded ' 
 mass), which as Jonson explains, was applied by the an- 
 cients "to those of their books in which were collected ^He ought to have been clogged. Haterius was sena= 
 random articles upon diverse and various topics." Tim- tor under the Emperors Augustus and Tiberius. 
 ber, the crude wood of the forest is thus "the raw ma- ^Julius Caesar, III. i. 47. 
 terial of facts and thoughts:" the "promiscuous" » Of devout and honorable men. 
 growth, undeveloped by art. « Illuminate, make glorious. 
 2 Of Shakespeare, our fellow-coxmtiyman. ^ The love of money. 
 
198 WYATT AND SURREY TO THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON 
 
 but the hurtful He laid deep and hid. Yet all away in a day? And shall that which could 
 
 do we seek only the things whereby we may not fill the expectation of few hours, entertai) 
 
 perish, and bring them forth, when God and and take up our whole lives, when even it ai> 
 
 Nature hath buried them. We covet super- peared as superfluous to the possessors as U 
 
 fluous things, when it were more honour for 5 me that was a spectator? The bravery was 
 
 us if we could contemn necessary. What need shown, it was not possessed; while it boasted 
 
 hath Nature of silver dishes, multitudes of itself it perished. It is vile, and a poor thing 
 
 waiters, delicate pages, perfumed napkins? to place our happiness on these desires. Say 
 
 She requires meat only, and hunger is not we wanted them all, famine ends famine, 
 ambitious. Can we think no wealth enough 10 De stuUitia.^'^ — What petty things they are 
 
 but such a state for which a man may be we wonder at, hke children that esteem every 
 
 brought into a prcemunire,^ begged,^ proscribed, trifle, and prefer a fairing^^ before their fathers! 
 
 or poisoned? O! if a man could restrain the What difference is between us £^d them but 
 
 fury of his gullet and groin, and think how that we are dearer fools, coxcombs at a higher 
 many fires, how many kitchens, cooks, pastures, 15 rate? They are pleased with cockleshells, 
 
 and ploughed lands; what orchards, stews, ^"^ whistles, hobbyhorses, and such like; we with 
 
 ponds and parks, coops and garners, he could statues, marble pillars, pictures, gilded roofs, 
 
 spare; what velvets, tissues, ^^ embroideries, where underneath is lath and lime, perhaps 
 
 laces, he could lack; and then how short and loam. Yet we take pleasure in the lie, and 
 uncertain his life is; he were in a better way 20 are glad we can cozen ourselves. Nor is it 
 
 to happiness than to live the emperor of these only in our walls and ceilings, but all that we 
 
 delights, and be the dictator of fashions. But call happiness is mere painting and gilt, and 
 
 we make ourselves slaves to our pleasures, and all for money. What a thin membrane^* of 
 
 we serve fame and ambition, which is an equal honour that is, and how hath all true reputation 
 slavery. Have not I seen the pomp of a whole 25 fallen, since money began to have any! Yet 
 
 kingdom, and what a foreign king could bring the great herd, the multitude, that in all other 
 
 hither also to make himself gazed and wondered things are divided, in this alone conspire and 
 
 at, laid forth, as it were, to the show, and vanish agree — to love money. They wish for it, they 
 
 «• « 4^ :„„.,- *K«. ^«„„u /■ • 1 * iu .X- embrace it, they adore it, while yet it is pos- 
 
 »i. e., to incur the penalty (viz. loss of the protection , . ' "^ . j, .i« 
 
 of the Crown, forfeiture of goods, etc.) provided in one 30 sessed With greater stir and torment than it 
 
 or more of the laws known as the Stahdes of Praemunire. jo rotten 
 
 These statutes obtained their name from the first words 6«-'»'i'C . 
 
 of a writ issued under them; Praemunire facias A. B., 
 
 etc. — you shall cause A. B. to be forewarned that he ap- " Of Folly. 
 
 pear before us etc. 13 An article purchased at a fair, a present brought 
 
 » Beggared. from a fair. 
 
 '0 Pools or tanks in which fish are kept for the table. 35 n Covering, tissue. The deceitful outward show, the 
 
 »i Tissue, a nchly ornamented material, often inter- (lath and lime, the painting and gilt) is but a thin and su- 
 
 woven with gold or silver threads. p«rficial layer of honor. 
 
V. THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 c. 1625-1660 
 
 L 
 
 |Dl|inea0 iFUtclier 
 
 1582-1650 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE 
 
 (From The Purple Island, 1633) 
 
 Canto I 
 
 Let others trust the seas, darejieath and Hell, 
 
 Search either Ind', vaunt of "their scars and 
 
 wounds: 
 
 Let others their dear breath (nay, silence) sell 
 
 To fools, and (swol'n, not rich) stretch out 
 
 their bounds, 160 
 
 By spoiling those that live, and wronging 
 
 dead; 
 That they may drink in pearl, and couch 
 their head 
 In soft, but sleepless down: in rich, but restless 
 bed. 
 
 O, let them in their gold quaff dropsies down! 
 
 O, let them surfeits feast in silver bright ! 1 65 
 
 Whilst sugar hires the taste the brain to drown, 
 
 And bribes of sauce corrupt false appetite. 
 
 His master's rest, health, heart, life, soul, 
 
 to sell; 
 Thus plenty, fulness, sickness, ring their 
 knell. 
 Death weds, and beds them; first in grave, and 
 then in Hell. 170 
 
 But ah! let me, under some Kentish hill. 
 Near rolling Medway, 'mong my shepherd 
 peers. 
 With fearless merry-make, and piping still. 
 Securely pass my few and slow-pac'd years: 
 While yet the great Augustus of our nation, 
 Shuts up old Janus^ in this long cessation, 
 Strength'ning our pleasing ease, and gives us 
 sure vacation. 
 
 There may I, master of a little flock, 
 
 Feed my poor lambs, and often change their 
 
 fare: 179 
 
 My lovely mate shall tend my sparing stock, 
 
 And nurse my little ones with pleasing care; 
 
 Whose love, and look, shall speak their 
 
 father plain. 
 Health be my feast. Heaven hope, content 
 ^ my gain; 
 So m my little house my lesser heart shall reign. 
 
 The beech shall yield a cool safe canopy, 185 
 While down I sit, and chant to th' echoing 
 wood: 
 Ah, singing might I live, and singing die! 
 
 So by fair Thames, or silver Medway's flood, 
 
 1 The Roman god, the doors of whose temple at Rome 
 were shut only in a time of universal peace. In 1642, 
 Jess than ten years after this tribute was written, the 
 Civil War began, and in 1649, Charles I, the "great 
 Augustus," was beheaded. 
 
 The dying swan, when years her temples 
 
 pierce, 
 In music's strains breathes out her life and 
 
 verse, 190 
 
 And chanting her own dirge tides on her wat'ry 
 
 hearse. 
 
 What, shall I then need seek a patron out; 
 Or beg a favour from a mistress' eyes, 
 To fence my song uniainst the vulgar rout: 
 Or shine upon me with her geminies?^ 
 
 What care 1, if they praise my slender 
 song? 196 
 
 Or reck I, if they do me right or wrong? 
 A shepherd's bliss nor stands, nor falls, to every 
 tongue. . . . 
 
 Canto XII 
 
 Thrice, oh, thrice happy shepherd's life and 
 
 state! 
 When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns! 
 His cottage low, and safely humble gate, 10 
 
 Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and 
 fawns: 
 No fearM treason breaks his quiet sleep: 
 Singing all day, his flocks he learns to 
 keep; 
 Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 
 
 No Serian worms' he knows, that with their 
 
 thread 15 
 
 Draw out their silken lives: — nor silken 
 
 pride! 
 
 His lanabs' warm fleece well fits his little need. 
 
 Not in that proud Sidonian tincture* dy'd: 
 
 No empty hopes, no courtly fears him 
 
 fright; 
 Nor begging wants his middle fortune 
 bite: 20 
 
 But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 
 
 Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, 
 Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise; 
 The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, 
 And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his 
 eyes. 25 
 
 In country plays is all the strife he uses; 
 Or sing, or dance, unto the rural Muses; 
 And but in music's sports, all differences re- 
 fuses. 
 
 His certain life, that never can deceive him, 
 Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content :30 
 
 ^Gemini, twins, here "a pair of eyes," i. e. both her 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Silk worms, Serian means pertaining to the Seres, 
 an Asiatic people from whom the Greeks and Romans 
 got their first silk. 
 
 * The Royal purple. This color (tincture) is more 
 generally associated with Tyre, than with Sidon, as i: 
 the corresponding expression Tyrian dye. 
 
 199 
 
200 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 The smooth-leav'd beeches, in the fields receive 
 him 
 With coolest shades, till noon-tide's rage is 
 spent: 
 His life is neither tost in boist'rous seas 
 Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful 
 ease; 
 Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God 
 can please. 35 
 
 His bed of wool, yields safe and quiet sleeps, 
 While by his side his faithful spouse hath 
 place: 
 His little son into his bosom creeps, 
 The lively picture of his father's face: 
 
 Never his humble house or state torment 
 
 him; 40 
 
 Less he could like, if less his God had sent 
 
 him; 
 
 And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy 
 
 tomb, content him. 
 
 Mlt& iFletcljet 
 
 1588-1623 
 
 CHRIST'S VICTORY AND TRIUMPH, 
 
 1610 
 
 (Christ's Victory in Heaven) 
 
 What hath man done, that man shall not 
 undo, 600 
 
 Since God to him is grown so near a-kin? 
 Did his foe slay him? he shall slay his foe: 
 Hath he lost all? he all again shall win: 
 Is sin his master? he shall master sin: 
 Too hardy soul, with sin the field to try: 605 
 The only way to conquer, was to fly: 
 But thus long death hath liv'd, and now death's 
 self shall die. 
 
 Ho is a path, if any be misled; 
 
 He is a robe, if any naked be; 
 
 If any chance to hunger, he is bread; 610 
 
 If any be a bondman, he is free; 
 
 If any be but weak, how strong is he? 
 To dead men life he is, to sick men health: 
 To blind men sight, and to the needy wealth; 
 
 A pleasure without loss, a treasure without 
 stealth. 615 
 
 Who can forget, never to be forgot, 
 The time, that all the world in slumbei- lies: 
 WTion, hke the stars, the singing angels shot 
 To Earth, and Heav'n awaked all his eyes. 
 To see another Sun at midnight rise 620 
 
 On Earth? was never sight of pareiP fame: 
 For God before, man like himself did frame, 
 BuLfc God himself now like a man became. 
 
 ^ A child he was, and had not learn't to speak, 
 
 That with his word the world before did make: 
 
 His mother's arms him bore, he was so weak, 626 
 
 That with one hand the vaults of Heav'n could 
 
 shake. 
 
 ^Eqvial. 
 
 See how small room my infant Lord doth take, 
 Whom all the world is not enough to hold. 
 Who of his years, or of his age hath told? 63C 
 
 Never such age so young, never a child so old. 
 
 1588-1667 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A 
 SONNET 
 
 (From Fidelia, 1615) 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despaire 
 
 Dye, because a woman's fair? 
 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care 
 
 Cause anothers Rosie arc? 
 Be she fairer than the Day 
 Or the flowry Meads in May, 
 If she think not well of me, 
 What care I how fair she be? 
 
 Shall my seely^ heart be pin'd 
 Cause I see a woman kind? 
 Or a well disposed Nature 
 Joyned with a lovely feature? 
 
 Be she Meeker, Kinder than 
 
 Turtle-dove or Pellican: 
 
 If she be not so to me. 
 
 What care I how kind she be? 
 
 Shall a woman's Vertues move 
 Me to perish for her Love? 
 Or her well deservings known 
 Make me qu'te forget mine own? 
 Be she with that Goodness blest 
 Which may merit name of best: 
 If she be not such to me, 
 What care I how Good she be? 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 2d 
 
 25 
 
 35 
 
 Cause her Fortune seems too high 
 
 Shall I play the fool and die? 
 
 She that beares a Noble mind. 
 
 If not outward helpes she find, 
 
 Thinks what with them he would do, 
 That without them dares her woo. 30 
 And unlesse that Minde I see 
 What care I how great she be? 
 
 Great, or Good, or Kind, or Faire 
 I will ne're the more despaire: 
 If she love me (this believe) 
 I will Die ere she shall grieve. 
 
 If she slight me when I woo, 
 
 I can scorn and let her go, 
 
 For if she be not for me 
 
 What care I for whom she be? 40 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 So now is come our joyful feast, 
 
 Let every man be jolly; 
 Each room with ivy leaves is drest, 
 
 And every post with holly. \ 
 
 ^Used here in the sense of "simple," "artless," ot-f 
 •foolish." 
 
WILLIAM BROWNE 
 
 201 
 
 i'hough some churls at our mirth repine, 5 
 Round your foreheads garlands twine, 
 Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, 
 A.nd let us all be merry. 
 
 Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke, 
 
 And Christmas blocks are burning; 10 
 
 ] heir ovens they with bak'd meats choke. 
 And all their spits are turning. 
 Without the door let sorrow lie. 
 And if for cold it hap could die. 
 We'll bury it in a Christmas pie; 15 
 
 \nd evermore be merry. 
 
 Now every lad is wondrous trim, 
 And no man minds his labour; 
 
 Our lasses have provided them 
 I' A bag-pipe and a tabor. 20 
 
 It Young men and maids, and girls and boys 
 1 Give life to one another's joys; 
 f And you anon shall by their noise 
 **erceive that they are merry. 
 
 Rank misers now do sparing shun, 25 
 
 Their hall of music soundeth ; 
 And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, 
 So all things there aboundeth. 
 
 The country-folk themselves advance, 
 For Crowdy-Mutton's^ come out of France; 
 And Jack shall pipe and Jyll shall dance, 30 
 And all the town be merry. 
 
 \( d Swash hath fetch'd his bands from pawn, 
 
 And all his best apparel; 
 Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn 35 
 
 With droppings of the barrel. 
 
 And those, that hardly all the year 
 Had bread to eat or rags to wear, 
 Will have both clothes and dainty fare. 
 And all the day be merry. ... 40 
 
 The client now his suit forbears, 
 The prisoner's heart is easM; 
 The debtor drinks away his cares. 
 And for the time is pleased. 
 
 Though other's purses be more fat, 45 
 
 Why should we pine or grieve at that; 
 Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat. 
 And therefore let us be merry. 
 
 Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have. 
 And mate with every body; 50 
 
 The honest now may play the knave 
 And wise men play at noddy. ^ 
 
 Some youths will now a-mumming go, 
 Some others play at rowland-hoe;^ 
 And twenty other gameboys^ moe; 55 
 
 1 Because they will be merry. 
 
 Then wherefore in these merry days 
 
 Should we I pray be duller? 
 No, let us sing some roundelays 
 
 To make our mirth the fuller. 60 
 
 1 Crowd is an old name for fiddle, so some think a 
 • Qrowdy- Mutton may mean a fiddler. Possibly it is the 
 name of some game of the French peasants, which in- 
 volved music and dancing. 
 
 - A game of cards resembling cribbage. As noddy also 
 , means fool, it may suggest play the fool, 
 
 » Evidently a Christmas game. * Gambols. 
 
 And whilst thus inspir'd we sing. 
 And all the streets with echoes ring; 
 Woods, and hills, and every thing 
 Bear witness we are merry. 
 
 William Brotone 
 
 1590-1645 
 
 BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS, 1613-16 
 
 (Book I. SongV) 
 
 Now as an angler melancholy standing, 
 Upon a green bank yielding room for landing, 
 A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook, 640 
 Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook: 
 Here pulls his line, there throws it in again. 
 Mending his crook and bait, but all in vain, 
 He long stands viewing of the curled stream; 
 At last a hungry pike, or well-grown breame, 645 
 Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away 
 He, knowing it a fish of stubborn sway. 
 Pulls up his rod, but soft; (as having skill) 
 Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill. 
 Then all his line he freely yieldeth him, 650 
 
 Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim 
 Th' ensnared fish, here on the top doth scud. 
 There, underneath the banks, then in the mud; 
 And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal. 
 That each one takes his hide or starting hole; 655 
 By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath 
 A willow lies, and pants (if fishes breathe) ; 
 Wherewith the angler gently pulls him to him, 
 And, lest his haste might happen to undo him. 
 Lays down his rod, then takes his line in hand. 
 And by degrees getting the fish to land, 661 
 
 Walks to another pool: at length is winner 
 Of such a dish as serves him for his dinner: 
 So when the climber half the way had got. 
 Musing he stood, and busily 'gan plot, 665 
 
 How (since the mount did always steeper 
 
 tend) 
 He might with steps secure his journey end. . . . 
 
 Then, as a nimble squirrel from the wood. 
 Ranging the hedges for his filbert-food. 
 Sits partly on a bough his brown nuts crack- 
 ing, 
 And from the shell the sweet white kernel 
 taking, 695 
 
 Till (with their crooks and bags) a sort of boys 
 (To share with him) come with so great a noise. 
 That he is forc'd to leave a nut nigh broke, 
 And for his life leap to a neighbor oak; 
 Thence to a beech, thence to a row of ashes; 700 
 Whilst thro' the quagmires and red water 
 
 plashes, 
 The boys run dabbling through thick and thin, 
 One tears his hose, another breaks his shin; 
 This, torn and tatter'd, hath with much ado 704 
 Got by the briars; and that hath lost his shoe; 
 This drops his band; that head-long falls f 
 
 haste; 
 Another cries behind for being last : 
 With sticks and stones, and mary a sounding 
 hollow, 
 
202 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 The little fool, with no wnall sport, they fol- 
 
 low 
 Whilst te, from tree to tree, from spray to 
 
 spray, 
 
 710 
 
 Gets to the wood, and hides him in his dray: 
 Such flhift made Riot, ere he could get up. 
 And so from bough to bough he won the 
 
 Thougn'hind'rances from ever coming there, 
 Were often thrust upon him by Despair. 715 
 
 iFrancifif €iuarto 
 
 1592-1644 
 
 MORS TUA 
 
 (From A Feast for Wormes, 1620) 
 
 Can he be fair that withers at a blast? 
 Or he be stronR that every breath can cast? 
 Or he be wise that knows not how to live? 
 Or he be rich that nothing hath to give? 
 Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan? 
 So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man. 
 So fair is man, that Death (a parting blast) 7 
 Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at 
 
 last; 
 So strong is man. that with a gasping breath 
 He totters, ana bequeathes his strength to 
 
 Death; lo 
 
 So wise is man, that if with Death he strive, 
 His wisdom cannot teach him how to live; 
 So rich is man, that (all his debts being paid) 
 His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's 
 
 laid; 
 So young is man, that, broke with care and 
 
 sorrow, 15 
 
 He's old enough today to die tomorrow: 
 Why brag'st thou, then, thou worm of five foot 
 
 long? 
 Th' art neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor 
 
 rich, nor young. 
 
 INVIDIOSA SENECTUS 
 (From Hieroglyphics of the Life of Man, 1638) 
 
 Envious old age obscures thy feeble light, 
 
 •\nd gives thee warning of approaching night. 
 
 St. John XII. 35 
 
 Yet a little while the light is with you. 
 
 The days grow old, the low-pitch'd lamp hath 
 made 
 
 No less than treble shade, 
 And the descend ing damp doth now prepare 5 
 
 To uncurl bright Titan's hair; 
 vVTiose western wardrobe now begins to unfold 
 
 Her purples, fring'd with gold, 
 To clothe his ev'ning glory, when th' alarms 
 Uf rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' 
 arms. lo 
 
 Nature now calls to supper, to refresh 
 
 The spirits of all flesh; 
 The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams 
 
 To taste the slipp'ry streams: 
 
 30 
 
 The droilingi swineherd knocks away,^ and 
 
 feasts 15 
 
 His hungry whining guests: 
 
 The box-bill ouzel, and the dappled thrush, 
 
 Like hungry rivals, meet at their beloved bush. 
 
 And now the cold autumnal dews are seen 
 
 To cobweb ev'ry green ; 20 
 
 And by the low-shorn rowens doth appear 
 The fast-declining year: 
 
 The sapless branches doff their summer suits, 
 And wane their winter fruits; 
 
 And stormy blasts have forc'd the quaking 
 trees 25 
 
 To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy 
 frieze. 
 
 Our wasted taper now has brought her light 
 
 To the next door to-night; 
 Her spriteless flame, grown great with snuff, 
 doth turn 
 
 Sad as her neighb'ring urn : 
 Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains. 
 
 Lights but to further pains; 
 And, in a silent language, bids her guest 
 Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest. 
 
 Now careful age hath pitch'd her painful 
 plough 35 
 
 Upon the furrow'd brow; 
 And snowy blasts of discontented care 
 
 Have blanch'd the falling hair: 
 Suspicious envy, mix'd with jealous spite. 
 
 Disturbs his weary night : 40 
 
 He threatens youth with age; and now, alas! 
 He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he 
 was. 
 
 Grey hairs, peruse thy days; and let thy past 
 
 Read lectures to thy last: 
 Those hasty wings that hurried them away, 45 
 
 Will give these days no day: 
 The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire 
 
 Until her works expire: 
 That blast that nipp'd thy youth, will ruin thee; 
 That hand that shook the branch, will quickly 
 strike the tree. 50 
 
 EPIGRAMME 3 
 
 Art thou consum'd with soul-afflicting crosses? 
 Disturb'd with grief? annoy'd with worldly 
 
 losses? 
 Hold up thy head: the taper, lifted high. 
 Will brook the wind, when lower tapers die. 
 
 1593-1633 
 
 VERTUE 
 
 (From The Temple, 1631) 
 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, \ 
 
 The bridall of the earth and skie: 
 The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 
 
 For thou must die. 
 1 Plodding, sluggish. « Knocka-off, stops work. 
 
' Sweet rose, 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT 
 
 203 
 
 jweet rose, whose hue angrie^ and brave 5 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
 Thy root is ever in its grave, 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
 A box where sweets compacted lie, 10 
 
 My musick shows ye have your closes, 
 And all must die. 
 
 Only a sweet and vertuous soul, 
 Like season'd timber, never gives; 
 But though the whole world turn to coal, 15 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 THE PULLEY 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 When God at first made man, 
 Having a glasse of blessings standing by, 
 " Let us," said He, " poure on him all we can; 
 Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie. 
 
 Contract into a span." 5 
 
 So strength first made a way; 
 Then beautie flow'd, then wisdome, honour, 
 
 pleasure; 
 When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
 Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, 
 
 Rest in the bottome lay. 10 
 
 "For if I should," said He, 
 ** Bestow this Jewell also on My creature, 
 He would adore My gifts in stead of Me, 
 And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: 
 
 So both should losers be. 15 
 
 Yet let him keep the rest. 
 But keep them with repining restlessnesse: 
 Let him be rich and wearie, that at least. 
 If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse 
 
 May tosse him to my breast." 20 
 
 THE ELIXIRi 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Teach me, my God and King, 
 In all things Thee to see. 
 And what I do in anything 
 To do it as for Thee: 
 
 Not rudely, as a beast. 
 To runne into an action; 
 But still to make Thee prepossest. 
 And give it his perfection. 
 
 . A man that looks on glasse. 
 On it may stay his eye; 
 Or if he pleaseth, through it passe, 
 And then the heav'n espie. 
 
 10 
 
 All may of Thee partake: 
 Nothing can be so mean, 
 Which with his tincture^ " for Thy sake," 15 
 Will not grow bright and clean. 
 
 A servant with this clause 
 Makes drudgerie divine; 
 Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, 
 
 Makes that and th' action fine. 20 
 
 This is the famous stone 
 That turneth all to gold; 
 For that which God doth touch and own 
 Cannot for lesse be told.^ 
 
 THE COLLAR 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 I struck the board, and cry'd, " No more; 
 
 I will abroad." 
 What, shall I ever sigh and pine? 
 My lines and life are free; free as the road. 
 Loose as the winde, as large as store. 5 
 
 Shall I be still in suit? 
 Have I no harvest but a thorn 
 To let me blood and not restore 
 What I have lost with cordiall fruit? 
 
 Sure there was wine, 10 
 
 Before my sighr, did drie it; there was corn 
 
 Before my tears did drown it; 
 Is the yeare onely lost to me? 
 Have I no bayes to crown it, 
 No flowers, no garlands gav? all blasted, 15 
 All wasted? 
 Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, 
 And thou hast hands. 
 Recover all thy sigh-blown age 
 On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute 20 
 Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage, 
 
 Thy rope of sands 
 Which pettie thoughts have made; and made to 
 thee 
 Good cable, to enforce and draw, 
 
 And be thy law, 25 
 
 While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. 
 Away! take heed; 
 I will abroad. 
 Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears; 
 He that forbears 30 
 
 To suit and serve his need 
 
 Deserves his load. 
 But as I raved and grew more fierce and 
 wilde 
 At every word, 
 Methought I heard one calling, "Childe"; 
 And I reply'd, " My Lord." 3^ 
 
 ' Red (angrie) and gorgeous, or splendid. 
 
 1 An Elixir was in alchemy a substance supposed to 
 possess the power of transmuting the baser metals into 
 gold. The Oreat Elixir (or Philosopher's Stone) was also 
 called the red tincture. 
 
 2 Tincture being here, the same as the Elixir, the sense 
 is, that there is no action however mean which, imbued 
 or purified by his (i. 
 not grow bright. 
 
 e. its) tincture for Thy sake, will 
 ^ „..,,„-. To do a thing as for Thee is to trans- 
 mute the action from base metal to fine gold, and the 
 talisman for Thy sake is the magic tincture or Elixir which 
 can efifect the change. 
 
 » Counted. Cannot be counted less. 
 
204 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 1596-1667 
 
 A DIRGE 
 
 (From The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, 
 1659) 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 
 
 Are shadows, not substantial things; 
 There is no armour against fate; 
 Death lays his icy hand on kings: 
 Sceptre and crown 5 
 
 Must tumble down, 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field, 
 
 And plant fresh laurels where they kill; 10 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
 They tame but one another still: 
 Early or late 
 They stoop to fate, 
 And must give up their murmuring breath, 15 
 When they, poor captives, creep to death. 
 
 The garlands wither on your brow. 
 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 
 Upon Death's purple altar now 
 
 See, where the victor- victim bleeds : 20 
 
 Your heads must come 
 To the cold tomb. 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. 
 
 li^ilUam l^abington 
 
 1605-1654 
 
 NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTAM^ 
 
 When I survey the bright 
 Celestial sphere: 
 So rich with jewels hung, that night 
 Doth like an Ethiop bride appear; 
 
 My soul her wings doth spread, 
 And heaven-ward flies. 
 The Almighty's mysteries to read 
 In the large volume of the skies. 
 
 10 
 
 For the bright firmament 
 Shoots forth no flame 
 So silent, but is eloquent 
 In speaking the Creator's name. 
 
 No unregarded star 
 Contracts its light 
 Into so small a character, 
 Remov'd far from our human sight: 
 
 But if we steadfast look 
 We shall discern 
 In it, as in some holy book, 
 How man may heavenly knowledge learn. 20 
 
 1 "Night to night sheweth knowledge." Psalm sax. 2. 
 Vulgate. 
 
 It tells the conqueror, 
 
 That far-stretched power, 
 Which his proud dangers traffick for, 
 Is but the triumph of an hour. 
 
 That from the farthest North, 25 
 
 Some nation may 
 Yet undiscovered issue forth. 
 And o'er his new-got conquest sway. 
 
 Some nation, yet shut in 
 
 With hills of ice, 30 
 
 May be let out to scourge his sin, 
 Till they shall equal him in vice. 
 
 And then they likewise shall 
 Their ruin have; 
 For as your selves your empires fall, 35 
 And every kingdom hath a grave. 
 
 Thus those celestial fires, 
 Though seeming mute. 
 The fallacy of our desires 
 And all the pride of life confute. 40 
 
 For they have watched since first 
 The world had birth; 
 And found sin in itseK accurst, 
 And nothing permanent on earth. 
 
 l^ic^arti Cra^liatD 
 
 c. 1613-1649 
 
 AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND 
 WIFE, WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED 
 TOGETHER 
 
 To these whom death again did wed. 
 
 This grave's the second marriage-bed. 
 
 For though the hand of Fate could force 
 
 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, 
 
 It could not sever man and wife, 5 
 
 Because they both lived but one life. 
 
 Peace, good reader, do not weep; 
 
 Peace, the lovers are asleep. 
 
 They, sweet turtles, folded lie 
 
 In the last knot that love could tie. 10 
 
 Let them sleep, let them sleep on, 
 
 Till the stormy night be gone. 
 
 And the eternal morrow dawn; 
 
 Then the curtains will be drawn, 
 
 And they wake into a light lo 
 
 Whose day shall never die in night. 
 
 15 WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS 
 
 Whoe'er she be, 
 
 That not impossible she, 
 
 That shall command my heart and me: 
 
 Where'er she lie 
 
 Lock'd up from mortal eye, 
 
 In shady leaves of destiny: 
 
HENRY VAUGHAN 
 
 205 
 
 Till that ripe birth 
 
 Of studied fate, stand forth, 
 
 And teach her fair steps to our earth: 
 
 Till that divine 
 
 Idea take a shrine 
 
 Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: 
 
 Meet you her, my Wishes, 
 Bespeak her to my blisses, 
 ^\nd be ye call'd my absent kisses. 
 
 I wish her beauty. 
 
 That owes not all its duty 
 
 To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie. 
 
 Something more than 
 Taffata^ or tissue can, 
 Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 
 
 More than the spoil 
 
 Of shop, or silkworm's toil, 
 
 Or a bought blush, or a set smile. 
 
 A face that's best 
 
 By its own beauty dress'd, 
 
 And can alone command the rest. . . . 
 
 A cheek, where youth 
 
 And blood, with pen of truth, 
 
 Write what the reader sweetly rueth. . . 
 
 Eyes, that displace 
 
 The neighbour diamond, and out-face 
 
 That sunshine by their own sweet grace. 
 
 Tresses, that wear 
 
 Jewels, but to declare 
 
 How much themselves more precious are. 
 
 A well-tamed heart. 
 
 For whose more noble smart 
 
 Love may be long choosing a dart. 
 
 Eyes, that bestow 
 
 Full quivers on love's bow. 
 
 Yet pay less arrows than they owe. . . . 
 
 Days, that need borrow 
 
 No part of their good morrow. 
 
 From a fore-spent night of sorrow. 
 
 Days, that in spite 
 
 Of darkness, by the light 
 
 Of a clear mind, are day all night. . . . 
 
 Life, that dares send 
 
 A challenge to his end. 
 
 And when it comes, say, Welcome friend. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 I wish her store 
 
 Of worth may leave her poor 
 
 Of wishes: and I wish — no more. 
 
 1 Silk, in Crashaw's time applied to a soft, thin, silken 
 fabric. 
 
 Now, if Time knows 55 
 
 That her, whose radiant brows 
 Weave them a garland of my vows; 
 
 Her, whose just bays 
 
 My future hopes can raise, 
 
 A trophy to her present praise; 60 
 
 Her, that dares be 
 
 What these lines wish to see: 
 
 I seek no further, it is she. . . , 
 
 1621-1695 
 
 THE RETREATE 
 
 (From Silex Scintillans, Part L, 1^0) 
 
 Happy those early dayes, when I 
 
 Shin'd in my Angell-infancy! 
 
 Before I understood this place 
 
 Appointed for my second race. 
 
 Or taught my soul to fancy ought^ 6 
 
 But a white, celestiall thought; 
 
 When yet I had not walkt above 
 
 A mile or two from my first Love, 
 
 And looking back, at that short space, 
 
 Could see a glimpse of his bright face; 10 
 
 When on some gilded Cloud or Flowre 
 
 My gazing soul would dwell an houre. 
 
 And in those weaker glories spy 
 
 Some shadows of eternity; 
 
 Before I taught my tongue to wound 15 
 
 My conscience with a sinfuU sound. 
 
 Or had the black art to dispence 
 
 A sev'rall sinne to ev'ry sense. 
 
 But felt through all this fleshly dresse 
 
 Bright Shootes of everlastingnesse. 20 
 
 O how I long to travel 1 back. 
 And tread again that ancient track! 
 That I might once more reach that plaine, 
 Where first I left my glorious traine; 
 From whence th' inlightened spirit sees 25 
 
 That shady City of Palme trees. 
 But ah! my soul with too much stay 
 Is drunk, and staggers in the way! 
 Some men a forward motion love, 
 But I by backward steps would move; 30 
 
 And, when this dust falls to the urn, 
 In that state I came, return. 
 
 DEPARTED FRIENDS 
 (From the same. Part 11. , 1655) 
 
 They are all gone into the world of light! 
 
 And I alone sit ling'ring here! 
 Their very memory is fair and bright. 
 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy brest 5 
 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
 
 Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
 After the Sun's remove. 
 1 Aught. 
 
206 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 I sec them walking in an air of glory 
 
 Whose light doth trample on my days; 10 
 
 My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 
 Meer ghmmerings and decays. 
 
 O holy Hope! and high Humihty! 
 
 High as the Heavens above; 
 These are your walks, and you have shew'd 
 them me 15 
 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
 Dear, beauteous Death; the Jewel of the Just! 
 
 Shining nowhere but in the dark; 
 WTiat mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. 
 
 Could man outlook that mark ! 20 
 
 THE WORLD 
 (From the same. Part I) 
 
 1 
 I saw Eternity the other night, 
 Like a great ring of pure and endless light. 
 
 All calm, as it was bright; 
 And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, 
 years, 
 
 Driv'n by the spheres, 5 
 
 Like a vast shadow mov'd, in which the world 
 
 And all her train were hurl'd. 
 The doting Lover in his quaintest strain 
 
 Did there complain; 
 Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, 10 
 
 Wit's four delights; 
 With gloves, and knots the silly snares of 
 pleasure. 
 
 Yet his dear Treasure, 
 All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour 
 
 Upon a flower. 15 
 
 The darksome Statesman, hung with weights 
 
 and woe, 
 Like a thick midnight fog, mov'd there so slow. 
 
 He did not stay, nor go; 
 Condenming thoughts (like sad eclipses) scowl 
 
 Upon his soul, 20 
 
 And crowds of crying witnesses without 
 
 Pursued him with one shout. 
 Yet digged the Mole, and, lest his ways be 
 found 
 
 Worked under ground, 
 Where he did clutch his prey. But one did see 
 
 That policy; 26 
 
 Churches and altars fed him* perjuries 
 
 Were gnats and fhes; 
 It rain'd about him blood and tears; but he 
 
 Drank them as free. 30 
 
 The fear full miser on a heap of rust 
 
 Sate pining all his hfe there, did scarce trust 
 
 His own hands with the dust, 
 Yet would not place one piece above, but lives 
 
 In fear of thieves. 35 
 
 Thousands there were as frantic as himself, 
 
 And hugg'd each one his pelf ; 
 
 The down-right epicure plac'd heav'd in sense,* 
 
 And scorn'd pretense; 
 While others, slipped into a wide excess, 40 
 
 Said little less; 
 The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave. 
 
 Who think them brave, 
 And poor, despised truth sate counting by 
 
 Their victory. 45 
 
 Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, 
 And sing and weep, soar'd up into the Ring: 
 
 But most would use no wing. 
 O fools, said I, thus to prefer dark night 
 
 Before true light! 50 
 
 To live in grots and caves, and hate the day 
 
 Because it shows the way, 
 The way, which from this dead and dark abode 
 
 Leads up to God, 
 A way where you might tread the Sun, and be 
 
 More bright than he! 56 
 
 But, as I did their madness so discuss, 
 
 One whisper'd thus 
 This Ring the Bride-groom did for none provide, 
 
 But for his Bride. 60 
 
 1634 ?-1674 
 THE APPROACH 
 
 That childish thoughts such joy inspire, 
 Doth make my wonder and His glory higher: 
 
 His bounty and my wealth more great, 
 It shows His Kingdom and His work complete: 
 
 In which there is not anything 5 
 
 Not meet to be the joy of Cherubim. 
 
 II 
 
 He in our childhood with us walks, 
 And with our thoughts mysteriously he talks; 
 
 He often visiteth our minds. 
 But cold acceptance in us ever finds : i o 
 
 We send Him often grieved away; 
 Else would He show us all His Kingdom's joy. 
 
 Ill 
 
 O Lord, I wonder at Thy Love, 
 Which did my Infancy so early move: 
 
 But more at that which did forbear, 15 
 
 And move so long, tho' slighted many a year: 
 
 But most of all, at last that Thou 
 Thyself shouldst me convert I scarce know how. 
 
 Thy Gracious motions oft in vain 
 Assaulted me : my heart did hard remain 20 
 
 Long time: I sent my God away. 
 Grieved much that He could not impart His 
 joy. , ^ 
 
 I careless was, nor did regard 
 The end for which He all those thoughts pre- 
 par'd; 
 
 1 Swollen, with the pleasures of sense. 
 
EDMUND WALLER 
 
 207 
 
 But now with new and open eyes, 25 
 
 I see beneath as if above the skies; 
 
 And as I backward look again, 
 See all His thoughts and mine most clear and 
 plain. 
 
 He did approach, He me did woo; 
 I wonder that my God this thing would do. 30 
 
 From nothing taken first I was; 
 What wondrous things His glory brought to 
 pass! 
 Now in this world I Him behold, 
 
 And me enveloped in more than gold; 
 
 In deep abysses of delights, 
 In present hidden precious benefits. 
 
 35 
 
 Those thoughts His goodness long before 
 Prepared as precious and celestial store; 
 
 With curious art in me inlaid, 
 That Childhood might itself alone be said 40 
 
 My tutor, teacher, guide to be. 
 Instructed then even by the Deity. 
 
 WONDER 
 I 
 How like an Angel came I down! 
 How bright are all things here! 
 When first among His works I did appear 
 
 how their Glory me did crown! 
 
 The world resembled His Eternity, 5 
 
 In which my soul did walk; 
 And everything that I did see: 
 
 Did with me talk. 
 
 II 
 The skies in their magnificence, 
 
 The lively, lovely air; 10 
 
 Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair! 
 
 The stars did entertain my sense, 
 And all the works of God, so bright and pure, 
 
 So rich and great did seem. 
 As if they ever must endure 15 
 
 In my esteem. 
 
 in 
 A native health and innocence 
 
 Within my bones did grow. 
 And while my God did all His Glories show, 
 
 1 felt a vigour in my sense 20 
 That was all Spirit. I within did flow 
 
 With seas of life, like wine; 
 I nothing in the world did know 
 But 'twas divine. 
 
 IV 
 
 Harsh ragged objects were concealed, 25 
 
 Oppressions, tears and cries. 
 Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping 
 eyes 
 
 Were hid, and only things revealed 
 Which heavenly Spirits and the Angels prize. 
 
 The state of Innocence 30 
 
 And bliss, not trades and poverties. 
 
 Did fill my sense. 
 
 The streets were paved with golden stones, 
 
 The boys and girls were mine. 
 Oh how did all their lovely faces shine! 35 
 
 The sons of men were holy ones. 
 In joy and beauty they appeared to me. 
 
 And everything which here I found, 
 While like an angel I did see, 
 
 Adorned the ground. 40 
 
 VI 
 
 Rich diamond and pearl and gold 
 
 In every place was seen; 
 Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and 
 green, 
 
 Mine eyes did everywhere behold. 
 Great Wonders clothed with glory did appear ,45 
 
 Amazement was my bliss, 
 That and my wealth was everjr^vhere; 
 
 No joy to this! 
 
 VII 
 
 Cursed and devised proprieties, 
 
 With envy, avarice 50 
 
 And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Para- 
 dise, 
 
 Flew from the splendour of mine eyes. 
 And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds, 
 
 I dreamed not aught of those, 
 But wandered over all men's grounds, 55 
 
 And found repose. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Proprieties themselves were mine 
 
 And hedges ornaments, 
 Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents 
 
 Did not divide my joys, but all combine. 60 
 Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed 
 
 My joys by others worn: 
 For me they all to wear them seemed 
 
 When I was born. 
 
 CtimunD WMtt 
 
 1605-1687 
 
 ON A GIRDLE 
 
 (From Poems, 1645) 
 
 That which her slender waist confin'd, 
 Shall now my joyful temples bind; 
 No monarch but would give his crown. 
 His arms might do what this has done.. 
 
 It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 5 
 
 The pale which held that lovely deer,"- 
 My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
 Did all within this circle move.- 
 
 A narrow compass, and yet there 
 Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: 10 
 Give me but what this riband bound. 
 Take all the rest the sun goes round. 
 
 1 This well-worn pun is characteristically Elizabethan. 
 PaZe= that which encompasses (i.e., the girdle) as well aa 
 the fence of the deer-park. 
 
208 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 SONG 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Go, lovely Rose, 
 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
 
 That now she knows 
 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 5 
 
 Tell her that's young, 
 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That had'st thou sprung 
 
 In deserts where no men abide, 
 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 10 
 
 Small is the worth 
 
 Of beauty from the light retired; 
 
 Bid her come forth, 
 
 Suffer herself to be desired, 
 
 And not blush so to be admired. 15 
 
 Then die, that she 
 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee; 
 
 How small a part of time they share, 
 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 20 
 
 ON THE FOREGOING DIVINE POEMS 
 
 (1686?) 
 
 When we for age could neither read nor write. 
 The subject made us able to indite. 
 The soul, with nobler resolutions deckt. 
 The body stooping, does herself erect: 
 No mortal parts are requisite to raise 5 
 
 Her, that unbody'd can her Maker praise. 
 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er: 
 So, calm are we, when passions are no more: 
 For, then we know how vain it was to boast 
 Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. 10 
 
 Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
 Conceal that emptiness, which age descries, 
 The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and de- 
 
 cay'd, 
 Lets in new light, thro' chinks, that time has 
 
 made: 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become, 15 
 As they draw near to their eternal home. 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
 That stand upon the threshold of the new. 
 
 3Iol)n ©ilton 
 
 1608-1674 
 
 L'ALLEGRO 
 
 (1634) 
 
 Hence, loathM Melancholy, B- ^ . 
 
 Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born ^ 
 In Stygian cave forlorn, .^<:' 
 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights 
 unholy! (^ 
 
 Find out some uncouth* cell, ^ ^ ^ S I 
 
 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous 
 wings, ^ n 
 
 And the night-raven sings; K 
 There, under ebon shades and low-browed, 
 rocks, e. 
 
 As ragged as thy locks,dlL . 
 
 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.-+^ iO 
 But come, thou Goddess fair and free, ^ 
 
 In heaven ycleped^ Euphrosyne, 1 
 
 And by men heart-easing Mirth; 
 
 Whom lovely Venus, at a birth. 
 
 With two sister Graces more; IS 
 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus^bore: 
 
 Or whether (as some sager sing) 
 
 The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
 
 Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 
 
 As he met her once a-Maying, 20 
 
 There, on beds of violets blue. 
 
 And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
 
 Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 
 
 So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 
 
 Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 25 
 
 Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
 
 Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 
 
 Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, 
 
 Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
 
 And love to live in dimple sleek; 30 
 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
 
 And Laughter holding both his sides. 
 
 Come, and trip it, as you go. 
 
 On the light fantastic toe; 
 
 And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 
 
 The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; 
 
 And, if I give thee honour due. 
 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 
 
 To live with her, and live with thee. 
 
 In unreprovM pleasures free; 40 
 
 To hear the lark begin his flight, 
 
 And, singing, startle the dull night, 
 
 From his watch-tower in the skies. 
 
 Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
 
 Then to come in spite of sorrow, 45 
 
 And at my window bid good-morrow. 
 
 Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, 
 
 Or the twisted eglantine; 
 
 While the cock, with lively din. 
 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin; SO 
 
 And to the stack, or the barn-door. 
 
 Stoutly struts his dames before: 
 
 Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
 
 Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
 
 From the side of some hoar hill, £3 
 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill: 
 
 Some time walking, not unseen, 
 
 By hedgerow elms, on hillocks 'green, 
 
 Right against the eastei^n gate 
 
 Where the great Sun beg;ins his state 60 
 
 Robed in flames and amber light. 
 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
 
 Whjle the ploughman, near at hand, V 
 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed land, \ 
 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 63 '' 
 
 And the mower whets his scythe, 
 
 1 Uncouth means here unknown, strange, remote. 
 
 2 Named. 
 
JOHN MILTON 
 
 209 
 
 id every shepherd tells his tale^ 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleas- 
 ures, 
 Whilst the landskip round it measures: 70 
 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 The labouring clouds do often rest; 
 Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 75 
 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; ^ 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 Bosomed high in tufted trees, 
 Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
 The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 80 
 
 Hard by a cottage chimney smokes 
 From betwixt two aged oaks, 
 W^here Corydon and Thyrsis met, 
 Are at their savoury dinner set 
 Of herbb, and other country messes, 85 
 
 Which the neat-handed Phlllis dresses; 
 And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
 With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
 Or, if the earlier season lead. 
 To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 
 
 Sometimes, with secure delight, 
 The upland hamlets will invite, 
 When the merry TdcIIs ring round, 
 And the jocund rebecks* sound 
 To many a youth and many a maid 95 
 
 Dancing in the checkered shade, 
 And young and old come forth to play 
 On a sunshine holyday, 
 Till the livelong daylight fail: 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 
 
 With stories told of many a feat, 
 How Faery Mab the junkets^ eat. 
 She was pinched and pulled, she said; 
 And he, by Friar's lantern led. 
 Tells how the drudging goblin^ sweat 105 
 
 To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 
 When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
 liis shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
 That ten day-labourers could not end; 
 Then lies him down the lubber^ fiend, no 
 
 And, stretched out all the chimney's length. 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
 And crop-full out of doors he flings, 
 Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 
 By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 
 
 Towered cities pjease us then. 
 And the busy hum' of men, 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold. 
 In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 120 
 
 ' This ambiguous expression has been frequently dis- 
 cussed; it may mean that every shepherd tells his tale 
 of love; or that the shepherds tell stories to each other; 
 or that each shepherd counts his sheep. Tell may mean 
 either relate or count, as to "tell a story," or to "tell one's 
 beads," or "to tell one's money." U this last interpre- 
 tation is adopted taZe=simply to count the sheep. 
 
 * An early form of violin. 
 
 * A kind of cream cheese, here =deIicious sweetmeats. 
 Eat is the old form of the past tense. 
 
 8 Robin Goodfellow, a serviceable fairy refined and 
 etherealized by Shakespeare into Puck in the Midsum- 
 mer Night's Dream. 
 
 '' Clvaas^t sluggtah. 
 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 
 Rain influence,^ and judge the prize 
 
 Of wit or arms, while both contend 
 
 To win her grace whom all commend. 
 
 There let Hymen oft appear 12s 
 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
 
 With mask and antique pageantry; 
 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 
 On summer eyes by haunted stream. i30 
 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
 
 Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 
 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
 
 And ever, against' eating cares, OU 135 
 
 Lap me in soft Lydian^ airs, <=L/ 
 Married to immortal verse, -6^ 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce, "^ 
 In notes with many a winding bout <S. 
 Of linkM sweetness, long drawn out,^ 140 
 
 With wanton heed and giddy cunning, dl 
 The melting voice through mazes running, dl 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie ^ 
 The hidden soul of harmony; ^ 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his head y> 145 
 From golden slumber on a bed ^ b 
 
 Of heaped Elysian flowers, and fear ^ 
 Such strains as would have won the ear '^ 
 Of Pluto to have quite set free 
 His half-regained Eurydice. 160 
 
 These delights if thou canst give, 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 
 
 IL PENSEROSO 
 (1634) 
 
 Hence, vain deluding Joys, 
 
 The brood of Folly without father bred! 
 How little you bested, ^ 
 
 Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! 
 Dwell in some idle-brain, ' 5 
 
 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 
 As thick and numberless 
 
 As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, 
 Or likest hovering dreams, 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 10 
 But, hail! thou Goddess sage and holy, 
 Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
 Whose saintly visage is too bright 
 To hit the sense of human sight, 
 And therefore to our weaker view 15 
 
 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue' 
 Black, but such as in esteem 
 Prince Memnon's sister^ might beseem, 
 Or that starred Ethiop^ queen that strove 
 To set her beauty's praise above 20 
 
 8 Used here in its astrological sense. The ladies' eyes 
 influence the contests, as the stars (according to astrology) 
 influenced human events and destinies. 
 
 » The music of the Lydians, a people of Asia Minor, 
 was soft and voluptuous. 
 
 1 Profit, avail. 
 
 ' Memnon was an Ethiopian Prince famous for hia 
 dusky beau^; in this his sister presumably resembled 
 him. 
 
 ' Cassiope, who was starred, i. e., turned into the con* 
 atellatioD Cassiopeia^ 
 
-10 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended. 
 
 Yet thou art higher far descended: 
 
 Thee bright-haired Vesta'' long of yore 
 
 To solitary Saturn bore; 
 
 His daughter she^ in Saturn's reign 25 
 
 Such mixtui-e was not held a stain. 
 
 Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
 
 He met her, and in secret shades 
 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 
 Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 
 
 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
 All in a robe of darkest grain, 
 Flowing with majestic train, 
 And sable stole of cypress lawn 35 
 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 Come; but keep thy wonted state, 
 With even step, and musing gait. 
 And looks commercing with the skies. 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 40 
 
 There, held in holy passion still. 
 Forget thyself to marble, till 
 With a sad leaden downward cast 
 Thou fix them on the earth as fast. 
 And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 45 
 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 
 And hears the Muses in a ring 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 
 And add to these retired Leisure, 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 50 
 But, first and chiefest, with thee bring 
 Him that yon soars on golden wing. 
 Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 
 The Cherub Contemplation") 
 And the mute Silence hist^ along, 55 
 
 'Less Philomel will deign a song. 
 In her sweetest saddest plight, 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
 Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 60 
 
 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. 
 Most musical, most mela'ficholy! 
 Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 
 I woo, to hear thy even-song; 
 And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 
 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
 To behold the wandering moon, 
 Riding near her highest noon, 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70 
 And oft, as if her head she bowed. 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
 I hear the far-off curfew sound, 
 Over some wide-watered shore, 75 
 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar; 
 Or, if the air will not permit. 
 Some still removed place will fit. 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth. 
 Save the cricket on the hearth. 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
 
 * Goddess of the fire-side. 
 
 'Apparently an imperative, "bring silently along." 
 
 Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 85 
 
 Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
 Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,^ 
 With thrice great Hermes,^ or unsphere 
 The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
 What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 
 
 The immortal mind that hath forsook 
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook; 
 And of those demons^ that are found 
 In fire, air, flood, or underground, 
 Whose power hath a true consent^ 95 
 
 With planet or with element. 
 Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
 In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
 Presenting Thebes, ^° or Pelops' line, 
 Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 
 
 Or what (though rare) of later age 
 Ennobled hath the buskined stage. ^^ 
 
 But, O sad Virgin ! that thy power 
 Might raise Musaeus^^ from his bower; 
 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing • 105 
 
 Such notes as^ warbled to the string. 
 Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
 And made Hell grant what love did seek; 
 Or call up him that left half-told 
 The story of Cambuscan^^ bold, 110 
 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
 And who had Canace to wife. 
 That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 
 And of the wondrous horse of brass 
 On which the Tartar king did ride; 115 
 
 And if aught else great bards beside 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 
 Of tumeys, and of trophies hung. 
 Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 
 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
 Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
 Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont 
 With the Attic boy^^ to hunt. 
 But kercheft in a comely cloud, 125 
 
 While rocking winds are piping loud. 
 Or ushered with a shower still, 
 When the gust hath blown his fill, 
 Ending on the rustling leaves, 
 With minute-drops from off the eaves. 180 
 
 And, when the sun begins to fling 
 His flaring beams, me. Goddess, bring 
 To arched walks of twilight groves. 
 And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
 
 ' The constellation of Ursa Major, which never 
 sets. 
 
 ^ Hermes Trismegistus (i. e., superlatively or thrice 
 great), an Egyptian god to whom many mystical books 
 were ascribed. 
 
 8 Indwelling spirits. 
 
 » Agreement, accord. 
 
 10 Thebes. Pelops. Themes of some of the greatest of 
 the Greek tragedies. 
 
 " The stage of tragedy, or the tragic drama. The 
 buskin was the boot worn by the actor in tragedy. 
 
 12 A legendary Greek poet. 
 
 1' Cambuscan (said to be a corruption of Cambus, or 
 Genghis Khan): A Tartar king in Chaucer's unfinished V 
 Squire's Tale, who had various magical articles; — a ring, V 
 a mirror, a sword, and a brazen horse. Camball, Algarsife, i' 
 and Canace, were his children. 
 
 1* Cephalus, who (according to Greek legend) was 
 carried away by Eos, the goddess of the Dawn, whib he 
 was hunting in the mountains. 
 
JOHN MILTON 
 
 211 
 
 3f pine, or monumental oak, 135 
 
 Where the rude axe with heavdd stroke 
 
 Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 
 
 Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
 
 There, in close covert, by some brook, 
 
 Where no profaner eye may look, 140 
 
 Hide me from day's garish eye. 
 
 While the bee with honied thigh. 
 
 That at her flowry work doth sing, 
 
 And the waters murmuring. 
 
 With such consort^^ as they keep, 145 
 
 Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep. 
 
 And let some strange mysterious dream 
 
 Wave at his wings, in airy stream 
 
 Of lively portraiture displayed, 
 
 Softly on my eyelids laid; 150 
 
 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
 
 Above, about, or underneath, 
 
 Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 
 
 Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 155 
 
 To walk the studious cloister's pale, 
 And love the high embowM roof. 
 With antique pillars massy-proof, 
 And storied windows ^^ richly dight, 
 Casting a dim religious light. 160 
 
 There let the pealing organ blow 
 To the full-voiced quire below. 
 In service high and anthems clear, 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
 Dissolve me into esctasies, 165 
 
 And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 And may at last my weary age 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
 The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
 Where I may sit and rightly spell 170 
 
 Of every star that heaven doth shew, 
 And every herb that sips the dew, 
 Till old experience do attain 
 To something like prophetic strain. 
 
 These pleasures. Melancholy, give; 175 
 
 And I with thee will choose to live. 
 
 SONG. SWEET ECHO 
 
 (From Comus, acted 1634) 
 
 Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st un- 
 seen 230 
 Within thy airy shell. 
 By slow Meander's^ margent green. 
 And in the violet-embroidered vale 
 
 Where the love-lorn nightingale 
 Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well: 235 
 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair^ 
 That likest thy Narcissus are? 
 
 O, if thou have 
 Hid them in some flowery cave, 
 
 Tell me but where, 240 
 
 15 Concert, agreement. 
 
 J« Stained glass windows with scenes illustrative of 
 sacred story. 
 
 1 A river celebrated for its winding course (hence our 
 verb to meander) . 
 
 2 The two brothers of the singer, from whom she has 
 been accidentally separated. 
 
 Sweet Queen of Parley, Daughter of the 
 Sphere! 
 
 So may'st thou be translated to the skies. 
 And give resounding grace to all heaven's har- 
 monies. 
 
 SONG. SABRINA FAIR 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 859 
 
 Sabrina^ fair. 
 
 Listen where thou art sitting 
 Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 
 
 In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
 The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; 
 
 Listen for dear honour's sake. 
 
 Goddess of the silver lake, 865 
 
 Listen and save! 
 Listen, and appear to us. 
 In name of great Oceanus. 
 By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, 
 And Tethys' grave majestic pace; 870 
 
 By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look. 
 And the Carpathian wizard's^ hook; 
 By scaly Triton's winding shell, 
 And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell; 
 By Leucothea's lovely hands, 875 
 
 And her son that rules the strands; 
 By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet. 
 And the songs of Sirens sweet; 
 By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, 
 And fair Ligea's golden comb, 880 
 
 Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks 
 Sleeking her soft alluring locks; 
 By all the Nymphs that nightly dance 
 Upon thy streams with wily glance; 
 Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head 885 
 
 From thy coral-paven bed. 
 And bridle in thy headlong wave. 
 Till thou our summons answered have. 
 
 Listen and save! 
 
 LYCIDASi 
 
 (1638) 
 
 Yet once more,^ O ye laurels, and once more. 
 
 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
 
 I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. 
 
 And with forced fingers rude 
 
 Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year, 5 
 
 Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 
 
 Compels me to disturb your season due; 
 
 For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
 
 Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
 
 Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew 10 
 
 1 A legendary British princess, who became the goddess 
 of the river Severn. 
 
 2 Proteus, a sea-god, who had the power of changing 
 his shape. He had a hook (i. e. shepherd's crook) "be- 
 cause he was the shepherd of the sea-calves." 
 
 1 Lycidas is a lament for the death of Edward King, a 
 young man of much promise who had been a fellow- 
 student of Milton at Cambridge some five years before. 
 King was drowned while on his way to Ireland, — the ship 
 striking a hidden rock off the Welsh coast and going down 
 in a calm sea. 
 
 2 Milton had probably written no poetry smce ComtiS, 
 produced three years earlier (1634). 
 
212 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
 He must not float upon his watery bier 
 Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Begin, then. Sisters of the sacred well 15 
 
 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 
 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
 Hence with denial vain and coy excuse: 
 So may some gentle Muse 
 With lucky words^ favour my destined urn, 20 
 And as he passes turn, 
 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ! 
 
 For we were nursed^ upon the self-same hill, 
 Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; 
 Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 25 
 Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, 
 We drove a-field, and both together heard 
 What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 
 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of 
 
 night, 
 Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 30 
 Toward heaven's descent had sloped his 
 
 westering wheel. 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute; 
 Tempered to the oaten flute, 
 Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven 
 
 heel 
 From the glad sound would not be absent long; 
 And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 
 But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art 
 
 gone. 
 Now thou art gone and never must return! 
 Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert 
 
 caves. 
 With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er- 
 
 grown, 40 
 
 And all their echoes, mourn. 
 The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
 Shall now no more be seen 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
 As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 
 
 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
 Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear 
 When first the white-thorn blows; 
 Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
 Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorse- 
 less deep 50 
 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep^ 
 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
 Nor on the shaggy top of Mona^ high. 
 Nor yet where Deva'^ spreads her wizard 
 
 stream. 55 
 
 Ay me! I fondly dream 
 
 ' Words favorable to the repose of the departed. Such, 
 according to the Roman rite, were the words sit tibi terra 
 levis, uttered by the mourner as he sprinkled the earth 
 three times over the dead. 
 
 * Milton now shadows forth the early companionship of 
 King and himself at Cambridge. Thus the "Satyrs" and 
 "Fauns" (34) are supposed to represent the under- 
 graduates, and "Old Damcetus (36) one of the tutors of 
 Christ's College. 
 
 * One of the mountainous heights on the Welsh coast. 
 
 * Anglesey, a great center of Druidic religion. 
 
 ' The Dee, down which King sailed on his way from 
 Chester. As many memories of Arthur and of the old 
 Druidic faith were associated with the "holy Dee," it 
 is called the "wizard," i. e. the enchanted, or magic 
 Jtream. 
 
 "Had ye been there," ... for what could 
 
 that have done? 
 What could the Muse herself ^ that Orpheus 
 
 bore. 
 The Muse herself, for her enchanting son. 
 Whom universal nature did lament, 60 
 
 When, by the rout that made the hideous 
 
 roar. 
 His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
 Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 
 
 Alas! what boots it with uncessant care 
 To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade, 
 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 66 
 Were it not better done, as others use. 
 To sport with Amaryllis^ in the shade. 
 Or with the tangles of Neaera's^ hair? 
 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 
 
 raise 70 
 
 (That last infirmity of noble mind) 
 To scorn delights and live laborious days; 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 
 Comes the blind Fury^° with the abhorrM 
 
 shears, 75 
 
 And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the 
 
 praise," 
 Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling 
 
 ears: 
 "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies, 80 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove: 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
 Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 
 O fountain Arethuse,^^ and thou honoured 
 
 flood, 85 
 
 Smooth-sliding Mincius,!* crowned with vocal 
 
 reeds. 
 That strain I heard was of a higher mood. 
 But now my oat proceeds. 
 And listens to the Herald of the Sea,^^ 
 That came in Neptune's plea. 90 
 
 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, 
 What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle 
 
 swain? 
 And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
 That blows from off each bleaked promontory. 
 They knew not of his story; ^ 95 
 
 And sage Hippotades^^ their answer brings, 
 That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: 
 The air was calm, and on the level brine 
 Sleek Panope^^ with all her sisters played. 
 It was that fatal and perfidious bark, loo 
 
 8 The Muse herself = Calliope. Orpheus was torn in 
 
 Eieces by the Thracian women at a Bacchanalian festival, 
 is limbs strewn upon the plain, and his head cast into 
 the river Hebrus. 
 
 9 A tnaryllis — Necera. These names borrowed from the 
 classic pastorals, simply stand for young and beautiful 
 maidens. 
 
 10 Atropos, who cut the thread of life, was one of the v 
 Fates. Milton did not hesitate to add to or modify y 
 classic myths, when it suited his purpose. /jij 
 
 11 Arethusa — Mincius. Rivers suggestive respectively 
 of Greek and Latin pastoral poetry. 
 
 12 Triton. 
 
 i« Hippotades, the son of Hippotag, L e. .^Jolua. 
 1* Panope, or Panopea; wa^Ctafet/rftie Ner^da* 
 
IT 
 
 Built in the 
 
 JOHN MILTON 
 
 213 
 
 Juilt in the eclipse, ^^ QXi6. rigged with curses 
 
 dark, 
 That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
 Next, Camus, ^^ reverend sire, went footing 
 
 slow, 
 His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 104 
 
 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
 , Lilie to that sanguine flower" inscribed with 
 
 woe. 
 "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest 
 p-^ pledge?" 
 jLast came, and last did go, 
 jThe Pilot of the Galilean Lake;« 
 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain no 
 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain.) ^^ 
 He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:— 
 "How well could 1 have spared for thee, young 
 
 swain. 
 Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake, 
 Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 115 
 Of other care they little reckoning make 
 Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
 And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
 Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how 
 
 to hold 
 A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the 
 
 least 120 
 
 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 
 What recks it them? What need they? They 
 
 are sped;^" 
 And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
 Grate on their scranneP^ pipes of wretched 
 
 straw; 
 The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125 
 But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they 
 
 draw. 
 Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; 
 Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw, 
 Daily devours apace, and nothing said. 
 But that two-handed engine^^ at the door 130 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 
 Return, Alpheus,23 the dread voice is past 
 
 " Eclipses were considered by the ancients as out of the 
 order of nature, and were supposed to exert a mysterious 
 and disastrous influence. 
 
 '6 The god or genius of the Cam, the stream on which 
 Cambridge is situated. " He comes attired in a mantle of 
 the hairy river weed that floats on the Cam; his bonnet 
 is of the sedge of that river, which exhibits peculiar 
 markings, something like the dt cll (alas! alas!) which the 
 Greek detected on the leaves of the hyacinth, in token of 
 the sad death of the Spartan youth from whose blood 
 the flower had sprung" (Masson). 
 
 " Bloody flower, i. e. the hyacinth, which Apollo caused 
 to spring up from the blood of the beautiful youth Hya- 
 cinthus. 
 
 18 St. Peter. 
 
 19 Forcibly, with power. 
 
 20 They are sped, i. e. they are advanced in worldly 
 prosperity. 
 
 21 Lean, thin, or harsh sounding. 
 
 22 An obscure expression. Masson supposes that it 
 referred to the two Houses of Parliament; Newton, to 
 the "axe that is laid unto the root of the tree." St. Matt, iii, 
 10. The essential meaning is, that the end is at hand, 
 and the avenger, with his weapon of destruction, is at 
 the door. 
 
 23 A youthful hunter, who, changed into a river, pur- 
 sued the nymph Arethusa by a channel under the sea. 
 He overtook her, and the pursuer and pursued were 
 united in a fountain on an island off the coast of Sicily. 
 Alpheus being thus related to Sicily, to invoke him is to 
 invoke the "Sicilian Muse," the muse of pastoral poetry. 
 
 That shrunk thy streams; return Sicilian Muse 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 135 
 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing 
 
 brooks, 
 On whose fresh lap the swart star^* sparely 
 
 looks, 
 Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes^ 
 That on the green turf suck the honeyed 
 
 showers, i40 
 
 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 Bring the rathe" primrose that forsaken dies, 
 The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
 The white pink, and the pansy freaked^^ with 
 
 jet, 
 The glowing violet, 145 
 
 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. 
 With cowslips wan that hang the pensive 
 
 head. 
 And every flower that sad embroidery^^ wears; 
 Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. 
 And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 150 
 To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 
 For so, to interpose a httle ease. 
 Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise, ^^ 
 Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding 
 
 Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; 
 Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 156 
 
 Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
 Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world i^^ 
 Or whether thou, to our moist Vows denied, 
 Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus*" old, 1 60 
 
 Where the great Vision of the guarded mount^^ 
 Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold. 
 Look homewardj^Angel, now, and melt with 
 '^ rtfthi 
 
 And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 
 Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no 
 
 more, 165 
 
 For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. 
 Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. 
 So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
 And yet anon repairs his drooping head. 
 And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled 
 
 ore 170 
 
 24 Sirius, or the Dog-star, was anciently associated with 
 sultry weather. Here called "swart," i. e., dark, or 
 swarthy, because of the tanning effect of the summer 
 suns. 
 
 25 Rathe =esiTly; the positive, now out of use, of rather, 
 earlier, sooner. 
 
 26 Streaked, spotted. 
 
 27 Sad embroidery, i. e., the garb of mourning. 
 
 28 An untrue fancy; the body of the drowned Lycidaa 
 never having been recovered, 
 
 29 The world of monsters at the bottom of the sea. 
 
 30 Lands End in Cornwall was called Bellerium by the 
 Romans. Bellerus here does not appear to be a real 
 personage; the name was apparently coined by Milton 
 from that of the promontory, with the idea of raising the 
 implication that the region was named after some one so- 
 called. 
 
 31 St. Michael's Mount, a rocky islet near the coast of 
 Cornwall, supposed to be guarded by the Archangel 
 Michael. "The great vision" is St. Michael, seated on 
 the ledge of rock called St. Michael's chair, and gazing 
 far across the sea towards Namancos and Bayona's hold 
 (the former being a town, the second a stronghold on the 
 Spanish coast) , i. e., looking in the direction of Spain. 
 
214 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 
 So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
 Through the dear might of Him that walked 
 
 the waves, 
 Where, other groves and other streams along, 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 
 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
 In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 There entertain him all the saints above, 
 In solemn troops, and sweet societies. 
 That sing, and singing in their glory move, 180 
 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
 Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; 
 Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore. 
 In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
 To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185 
 
 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and 
 
 rills, 
 While the still mom went out with sandals 
 
 gray: 
 He touched the tender stops of various quills, 
 With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:'* 
 And now the sun had stretched out all the hills. 
 And now was dropt into the western bay. 19 1 
 At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: 
 To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 On His Having Arrived at the Age of 
 
 Twenty-Three 
 
 (1631) 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
 
 Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentietn 
 
 year! 
 My hasting days fly on with full career, 
 But my late spring no bud nor blossom 
 shew'th. 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 
 truth 5 
 
 That I to manhood am arrived so near; 
 And inward ripeness doth much less appear, 
 That some more timely-happy spirits en- 
 du'th. 
 Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow. 
 
 It shall be still in strictest measure even 10 
 To that same lot, however mean or high, 
 Towards which Time leads me, and the will of 
 Heaven, 
 All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
 As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 
 
 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 
 (1655) 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose 
 bones 
 Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; 
 Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
 When all our fathers worshiped stocks and 
 stones, 
 Forget not : in thy book record their groans 5 
 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient 
 fold 
 
 '* So called because Lycidas follows the elegiac manner 
 of Theocritxis and Moschus, who wrote in Doric Greek. 
 
 Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 
 
 moans 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes 
 
 sow 10 
 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth 
 
 sway 
 The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow 
 A hundredfold who, having learnt thy way, 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
 On His Blindness 
 
 (From Poems, etc., 1673. Written c. 1655?) 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days in this dark world and wide. 
 
 And that one talent which is death to hide 
 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul 
 
 more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 5 
 
 My true account, lest He returning chide; 
 
 "Doth God exact day-labour, light 
 
 denied?" 
 I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
 That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not 
 need 
 Either man's work or his own gifts. Who 
 best 10 
 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. 
 His state 
 Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait." 
 
 To Cyriack Skinner 
 
 (First printed in Phillips' Life of Milton, 1694. 
 Written c. 1655) 
 
 Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, 
 though clear. 
 To outward view, of blemish or of spot, 
 Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; 
 Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
 Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 5 
 Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
 Right onward. What supports me, dost thou 
 ' ask? 
 
 The conscience, friend, to have lost them 
 over-plied 10 
 
 In Liberty's defence, my noble task. 
 Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
 This thought might lead me through the 
 
 world's vain mask, 
 Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 
 
 XXI 
 
 To Cyriack Skinner 
 
 Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench 
 Of British Themis, with no mean applause. 
 Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our 
 
 laws, 
 Which others at their bar so often wrench, 
 
JOHN MILTON 
 
 215 
 
 To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to 
 drench 5 
 
 In mh-th that after no repenting draws; 
 Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, 
 And what the Swede intend, and what the 
 French. 
 To measure Hfe leam thou betimes, and know 
 Toward solid good what leads the nearest 
 
 way; 
 
 10 
 
 For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, 
 And disapproves that care, though wise in show, 
 That with superfluous burden loads the day. 
 And, when God sends a cheerful hour, re- 
 frains. 
 
 PARADISE LOST 
 
 Book I 
 
 Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world, and all our woe. 
 With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 
 Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 5 
 
 Sing, heavenly Muse, that, on the secret top 
 Of Oreb,^ or of Sinai, didst inspire 
 That shepherd^ who first taught the chosen seed 
 In the beginning how the heavens and earth 
 Rose out of Chaos : or, if Sion hill 10 
 
 Delight thee more, and Siloa's' brook that 
 
 flowed 
 Fast by the oracle of God, I thence 
 Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song. 
 That with no middle flight intends to soar 
 Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues 15 
 Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. 
 And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 
 Before all temples the upright heart and pure, 
 Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the 
 
 first 
 Wast present, and, with mighty wings out- 
 spread, 20 
 Dove-hke sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss, 
 And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark 
 Illumine, what is low raise and support; 
 That, to the height of this great argument 
 I may assert Eternal Providence, 25 
 And j ustif y the ways of God to men. 
 
 Say first — for Heaven hides nothing from thy 
 view, 
 Nor the deep tract of Hell — say first what cause 
 Moved our grand Parents, in that happy state. 
 Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall off 30 
 
 From their Creator, and transgress his will 
 For one restraint, lords of the World besides. 
 Who first seduced them to that foul revolt? 
 Th' infernal serpent; he it was whose guile, 
 Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived 35 
 The mother of mankind, what time his pride 
 Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host 
 Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring 
 
 ^Oreb: Sinai. At Oreb (Horeb) God spoke to Moses 
 out of the burning bush; from Mt. Sinai Moses received 
 the Law. Exod. iii. 1, and xxiv., 12-18. 
 
 2 Moses. 
 
 3 The pool or brook of Siloah near the temple at Je- 
 rusalem. 
 
 To set himseK in glory above his peers, 
 He trusted to have equalled the Most High, 40 
 If he opposed, and, with ambitious aim 
 Against the throne and monarchy of God, 
 Raised impious war in Heaven and battle 
 
 proud. 
 With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power 
 Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal 
 
 sky, ^ 45 
 
 With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
 To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 
 In adamantine chains and penal fire. 
 Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
 Nine times the space that measures day and 
 
 night 50 
 
 To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew. 
 Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf. 
 Confounded, though immortal. But his doom 
 Reserved him to more wrath; for now the 
 
 thought 
 Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 55 
 
 Torments him: round he throws his baleful 
 
 eyes. 
 That witnessed^ huge affliction and dismay. 
 Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate. 
 At once, as far as Angel's ken, he views 
 The dismal situation waste and wild. 60 
 
 A dungeon horrible, on all sides roimd, 
 As one great furnace flamed; yet from those 
 
 flames 
 No light; but rather darkness visible 
 Served only to discover sights of woe. 
 Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where 
 
 peace 65 
 
 And rest can never dwell, hope never comes 
 That comes to all, but torture without end 
 Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
 With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed. 
 Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 70 
 
 For those rebellious; here their prison ordained 
 In utter darkness, and their portion set. 
 As far removed from God and light of Heaven, 
 As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.^ 
 O how unHke the place from whence they fell! 75 
 There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed 
 With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous 
 
 fire. 
 He soon discerns; and, weltering by his side 
 One next himself in power, and next in crime, 
 Long after known in Palestine, and named 81 
 Beelzebub. To whom the Arch-Enemy, 
 And thence in Heaven called Satan,* with bold 
 
 words 
 Breaking the horrid silence, thus began: — 
 "If thou beest he — but Oh how fallen! how 
 
 changed 
 From him! — who, in the happy realms of light, 
 Cloth'd with transcendent brightness, didst 
 
 outshine 86 
 
 * Bore witness to. 
 
 5 According to the old astronomy, the earth was the 
 center of the physical universe. Milton declares that 
 the distance from hell to heaven is thrice the distance 
 from the earth to the outer limit of the physical universe, 
 or the "utmost pole." 
 
 « The name Satan means in Hebrew an enemy, ot 
 adversary. 
 
216 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 Myriads, though bright— If he whom mutual 
 
 league, 
 United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
 And hazard in the glorious enterprise, 
 Joined with nie once, now misery hath joined 90 
 in equal ruin ; into what pit thou seest 
 From what height fallen; so much the stronger 
 
 proved 
 He with his thunder: and till then who knew 
 The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those, 
 Nor what the potent Victor in his rage " 95 
 
 Can else inflict, do 1 repent, or change, 
 Though changed in out\^ard lustre, that fixed 
 
 mind, 
 And high disdain from sense of injured merit. 
 That with the Mightiest raised me to contend. 
 And to the fierce contention brought along lOO 
 Innumerable force of Spirits armed. 
 That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring. 
 His utmost power with adverse power opposed 
 In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven, 
 And shook his throne. What though the field 
 
 be lost? 105 
 
 All is not lost — the unconquerable will, 
 And study of revenge, immortal hate. 
 And courage never to submit or yield: 
 And what is else not to be overcome? 
 That glory never shall his wrath or might 110 
 Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace 
 With suppliant knee, and deify his power 
 Who, from the terror of his arm, so late 
 Doubted his empire — that were low indeed; 
 That were an ignominy and shame beneath lis 
 This downfall; since, by fate, the strength of 
 
 Gods, 
 And this empyreal substance, cannot fail; 
 Since, through experience of this great event, 
 In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced. 
 We may with more successful hope resolve 120 
 To wage by force or guile eternal war. 
 Irreconcilable to our grand Foe, 
 Who now triumphs, and in the excess of joy 
 Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven." 
 So spake the apostate Angel, though in pain, 125 
 Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair; 
 And him thus answered soon his bold com- 
 peer: — 
 "O Prince, O chief of many-thronM Powers, 
 That led the embattled Seraphim to war 
 Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds 130 
 Fearless, endangered Heaven's perpetual King, 
 And put to proof his high supremacy. 
 Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate! 
 Too well I see and rue the dire event 
 That, with sad overthrow, and foul defeat, 135 
 Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty host 
 In horrible destruction laid thus low. 
 As far as Gods and Heavenly Essences 
 Can perish: for the mind and spirit remain 
 Invincible, and vigour soon returns, 140 
 
 Though all our glory extinct, and happy state 
 Here swallowed up in endless misery. 
 But what if He our Conqueror (w^hom I now 
 Of force believe Almighty, since no le^s 
 Than such could have o'erpower'd such force as 
 
 ours) ' 145 
 
 Have left us in this our spirit and strength^ 
 
 entire. 
 Strongly to suffer and support our pains. 
 That we may so suffice his vengeful ire. 
 Or do him mightier service as his thralls 
 By right of war, whate'er his business be, 150 
 Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire. 
 Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep? 
 What can it then avail, though yet we feel 
 Strength undiminished, or eternal being 
 To undergo eternal punishment? " 155 
 
 Whereto with speedy words the Arch-Fiend 
 
 replied : — 
 " Fallen Cherub ! to be weak is miserable, 
 Doing or suffering : but of this be sure — • 
 To do aught good, never will be our task, 
 But ever to do ill our sole delight, 1 60 
 
 As being the contrary to His high will 
 Whom we resist. If then his providence 
 Out of our evil seek to bring forth good. 
 Our labour must be to pervert that end. 
 And out of good still to find means of evil; 165 
 Which oft-times may succeed, so as perhaps 
 Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb 
 His inmost counsels from their destined aim. 
 But see! the angry Victor hath recalled 
 His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 170 
 
 Back to the gates of Heaven; the sulphurous 
 
 hail, 
 Shot after us in storm, o'erblown, hath laid 
 The fiery surge that from the prooJT^ioe 
 Of Heaven received us falling; and the thunder, 
 Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage, 
 Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now 
 To bellow through the vast and boundless 
 
 deep. 177 
 
 Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn. 
 Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe. 
 Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, 
 The seat of desolation, void of light, i8l 
 
 Save what the glimmering of these livid flames 
 Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend. 
 From off the tossing of these fiery waves; 
 There rest, if any rest can harbour there; 183 
 And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, 
 Consult how we may henceforth most offend 
 Our enemy, our own loss how repair. 
 How overcome this dire calamity, 
 What reinforcement we may gain from hope, 190 
 If not, what resolution from despair." 
 
 Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate. 
 With head uplift the wave, and eyes 
 That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides 
 Prone on the flood, extended long and large, 195 
 Lay floating many a rood; in bulk as huge 
 As whom the fables name, of monstrous size, 
 Titanian^ or Earth-born, that warred on Jove, 
 Briareus,^ or Typhon,^ whom the den 
 By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast 2oq 
 
 ' The Titans, in Greek mythologry. were the children r*t^ 
 heaven and Earth. Of gigantic size, the Titans typify 
 strength and lawlessness. 
 
 8 A giant, with a hundred arms and fifty heads. 
 
 » A giant brought forth by the Earth to contend with 
 the Gods. Overcome by Jupiter, he was placed beneath 
 iEtna, or according to others under the "serboniar. 
 bog." 
 
JOHN MILTON 
 
 217 
 
 Leviathan, which God of all his works 
 
 Created hugest that swim the ocean stream. 
 
 Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam, 
 
 The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff. 
 
 Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, 205 
 
 With fixM anchor in his scaly rind, 
 
 Moors by his side under the lee, while night 
 
 Invests the sea, and wished morn delays. 
 
 So stretched out huge in length the Arch-Fiend 
 
 lay, 209 
 
 Chained on the burning lake; nor ever thence 
 Had risen, or heaved his head, but that the will 
 And high permission of all-ruling Heaven 
 Left him at large to his own dark designs, 
 That with reiterated crimes he might 
 Heap on himself damnation, while he sought 215 
 Evil to others, and enraged might see 
 How all his malice served but to bring forth 
 Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shown 
 On Man by him seduced, but on himself 219 
 Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured. 
 Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool 
 His mighty stature; on each hand the flames, 
 Driv'n backward, slope their pointing spires, 
 
 and rolled 
 In billows, leave i' the midst a horrid vale. 
 Then with expanded wings he steers his flight 
 Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 226 
 
 That felt unusual weight; till on dry land 
 He lights — if it were land that ever burned 
 With solid, as the lake with liquid fire, 229 
 
 And such appeared in hue: as when the force 
 Of subterranean wind transports a hill 
 Torn from Pelorus,i° or the shattered side 
 Of thundering iEtna, whose combustible 
 And fuelled entrails, thence conceiving fire, 234 
 Sublimed^^ with mineral fury, aid the winds, 
 And leave a singM bottom all involved 
 With stench and smoke. Such resting found 
 
 the sole 
 Of unblest feet. Him follow'd his next mate; 
 Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood 
 As gods, and by their_pwn recovered strength. 
 Not by the sufferance of supernal power. 241 
 "Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," 
 Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat 
 That we must change for Heaven? — this 
 
 mournful gloom 
 For that celestial light? Be it so, since he 245 
 Who now is sovran can dispose and bid 
 What shall be right: farthest from Him is best. 
 Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made 
 
 supreme 
 Above his equals — Farewell, happy fields. 
 Where joy for ever dwells! Hail horrors! hail 
 Infernal World! and thou, profoundest Hell, 251 
 Receive thy new possessor — one who brings 
 A mind not to be changed by place or time. 
 The mind is its own place, and in itself 
 Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. 
 What matter where, if I be still the same, 256 
 And what I should be, all but less than he 
 
 10 A promontory on the coast of Sicily, not far from 
 Mt. .Etna. 
 
 11 Sublimed, i. e. either uplifted, or changed into vapor, by 
 the fury (violent inter-action) of the combustible min- 
 erals, which are the fuelled entrails of the volcano. 
 
 Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at 
 
 least 
 We shall be free: the Almighty hath not built 
 Here for his envy, will not drive us hence : 260 
 Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice, 
 To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: 
 Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven. 
 But wherefore let we then our faithful friends. 
 The associates and co-partners of our loss, 265 
 Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool. 
 And call them not to share with us their part 
 In this unhappy mansion, or once more 
 With rallied arms to try what may be yet 
 Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell? " 
 So Satan spake; and him Beelzebub 271 
 
 Thus answered: — "Leader of those armies 
 
 bright 
 Which, but the Omnipotent, none could have 
 
 foiled! 
 If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge 
 Of hope in fears and dangers — heard so oft 275 
 In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge 
 Of battle, when it raged, in all assaults 
 Their surest signal — they will soon resume 
 New courage and revive, though now they lie 
 Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire, 280 
 As we erewhile, astounded and amazed 
 No wonder, fallen such a pernicious height!" 
 
 He scarce had ceased, when the superior Fiend 
 Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous 
 
 shield. 
 Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 285 
 Behind him cast. The broad circumference 
 Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose Orb 
 Through optic glass the Tuscan artist^^ views 
 At evening, from the top of Fesole,!^ 
 Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 290 
 
 Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. 
 His spear — to equal which the tallest pine 
 Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast 
 Of some great ammiraP^ were but a wand — 
 He walked with, to support uneasy steps 295 
 Over the burning marie", not like those steps 
 On Heaven's azure; and the torrid clime 
 Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire. 
 Nathless he so endured, till on the beach 
 Of that inflamed feea he stood, and called 300 
 His legions — Angel Forms, who lay entranced. 
 Thick as autumnal leaves, that strow the brooks 
 In Vallorpbrosa,^^ where the Etrurian shades. 
 High over-arched embower; or scattered sedge 
 Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed 305 
 Hath vexed the Red-Sea coast, whose waves 
 
 o'er threw 
 Busiris^^ and his Memphian chivalry, 
 While with perfidious hatred they pursued 
 The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld 
 From the safe shore their floating carcasses 3 1 
 
 12 Galileo. Artist, one versed in the liberal arts. 
 
 12 Fesole is a hill near Florence, and Valdarno the valley 
 of the Arno, in which Florence is situated. 
 
 1* Ammiral = admiral, hence the admiral's ship, the 
 flag-ship. 
 
 "5 Vallombrosa (i. e. "shady valley"), a valley about 
 18 miles from Florence. 
 
 i« An Egyptian King, here wrongly identified with the 
 Pharoah who oppressed the Israelites. Memphian, here 
 used in the general sense of Egyptian. 
 
218 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 And broken chariot- wheels. So thick bestrown, 
 Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood, 
 Under amazement of their hideous change. 
 He called so loud that all the hollow deep 
 Of Hell resounded: — "Princes, Potentates, 315 
 Warriors, the Flower of Heaven — once yours; 
 
 now lost, 
 If such astonishment as this can seize 
 Eternal Spirits! Or have ye chosen this place 
 After the toil of battle to repose 
 Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find 320 
 To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven? 
 Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 
 To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds 
 Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood 
 With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 325 
 His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discern 
 The advantage, and descending, tread us down 
 Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts 
 Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf? — 
 Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen ! " 330 
 
 They heard, and were abashed, and up they 
 
 sprung 
 Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch. 
 On duty sleeping found by whom they dread, 
 Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake. 
 Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 335 
 In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel; 
 Yet to their General's voice they soon obeyed 
 Innumerable. As when the potent rod 
 Of Amram's son,i^ jq Egypt's evil day. 
 Waved round the coast, up-called a pitchy cloud 
 Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, 341 
 That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung 
 Like Night, and darkened all the land of Nile; 
 So numberless were those bad Angels seen 
 Hovering on wing under the cope of Hell, 345 
 'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires; 
 Till, as a signal given, th' uplifted spear 
 Of their great Sultan waving to direct 
 Their course, in even balance down they light 
 On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain : 350 
 A multitude like which the populous North 
 Poured never from her frozen loins, to pass 
 Rhene^s or the Danaw,^^ when her barbarous 
 
 sons 
 Came like a deluge on the South, and spread 
 Beneath Gibraltar to the Lybian sands. 355 
 
 Forthwith from every squadron and each band. 
 The heads and leaders thither haste where 
 
 stood 
 Their great Commander — godlike Shapes, and 
 
 Forms 
 Excelling human; princely Dignities; 359 
 
 And Powers that erst in Heaven sat on thrones, 
 Though of their names in Heavenly records now 
 Be no memorial, blotted out and rased 
 By their rebellion from the Books of Life. 
 Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve 
 Got them new names, till, wandering o'er the 
 
 earth, 365 
 
 Through God's high sufferance for the trial of 
 
 man, 
 By falsities and lies the greatest part 
 Of mankind they corrupted to forsake 
 
 " Moses. Exod. x. 12-15. « Rhine. " Danube. 
 
 God their Creator, and the invisible 
 Glory of Him that made them to transform 370 
 Oft to the image of a brute, adorned 
 With gay religions full of pomp and gold, 
 And devils to adore for deities: 
 Then were they known to men by various names, 
 And various idols through the heathen world. 
 Say, Muse, their names then known, who 
 
 first, who last, 376 
 
 Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch. 
 At their great Emperor's call, as next in worth, 
 Came singly where he stood on the bare strand, 
 While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof. 
 The chief were those who, from the pit of 
 
 Hell 381 
 
 Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst fix 
 Their seats, long after, next the seat of God, 
 Their altars by His altar, gods adored 
 Among the nations round, and durst abide 385 
 Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned 
 Between the Cherubim ; yea, often placed 
 Within His sanctuary itself their shrines. 
 Abominations; and with cursed things ^ 
 
 His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned, 390 
 And with their darkness durst affront his light. 
 First, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with 
 
 blood 
 Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears; 
 Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels 
 
 loud. 
 Their children's cries unheard that passed 
 
 through fire 395 
 
 To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite 
 Worshipp'd in Rabba^" and her watery plain, 
 In Argob and in Basan, to the stream 
 Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such 
 Audacious neighbourhood, the wisest heart 400 
 Of Solomon he led by fraud to build 
 His temple right against the temple of God 
 On that opprobrious hill,2i and made his grove 
 The pleasant valley of Hinnom,22 Tophet 
 
 thence 
 And black Gehenna called, the type of Hell. 
 Next, Chemos,^^ the obscene dread of Moab's 
 
 sons, 406 
 
 From Aroar to Nebo, and the wild 
 Of southmost Abarim : in Hesebon 
 And Horonaim, Seon's realm, beyond 
 The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines, 410 
 And Eleale to the Asphaltic^* pool: 
 Peor his other name, when he enticed 
 Israel in Sittim,^^ on their march from Nile, 
 To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe. 
 Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged 415 
 Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove 
 Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate; 
 
 20 "City of Waters," capital of the land of the Ammor- 
 ites. 
 
 21 The Mount of Olives. I Kings, xi. 7. 
 
 22 Hinnom {Tophet, ot Gehenna) a beautiful valley near 
 Jerusalem, which, after it had been defiled by the sacrifi- 
 cial worship of Moloch, was converted into a repulsive 
 place where the refuse of the city was cast and burnt. 
 
 25 The chief god, or Baal of the Moabites, and wor- 
 shipped as Moloch by the Ammonites. He is spoken of as 
 Baal Peor (Numb. xxv. 3) i. e. the Baal who was wor- 
 shipped at Mt. Peor, in Moab. 
 
 24 The Dead Sea. 
 
 2* A valley in the land of Moab. Numb. xxv. 
 
JOHN MILTON 
 
 219 
 
 Till good Josiah^fl drove them thence to Hell. 
 With these came they, who, from the bordering 
 
 flood 
 Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts 420 
 Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names 
 Of Baalim?~' and Ashtoroth — those male, 
 These feminine: For Spirits, when they please, 
 Can either sex assume, or both; so soft 
 And uncom pounded is their essence pure, 425 
 Not tied or manacled with joint or limb, 
 Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones. 
 Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape they 
 
 choose. 
 Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure. 
 Can execute their aery purposes, 430 
 
 And works of love or enmity fulfil. 
 For those the race of Israel oft forsook 
 Their Living Strength, and unfrequented left 
 His righteous altar, bowing lowly down 
 To bestial gods; for which their heads as low 435 
 Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear 
 Of despicable foes. With these in troop. 
 Came Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians called 
 Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns; 
 To whose bright image nightly by the moon 440 
 Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs: 
 In Sion also not unsung, where stood 
 Her temple on the offensive mountain, built 
 By that uxorious king whose heart, though 
 
 large. 
 Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell 445 
 
 To idols foul. Thajnmuz^^ came next behind, 
 Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured 
 The Syrian damsels to lament his fate 
 In amorous ditties all a summer's day. 
 While smooth Adonis from his native rock 450 
 Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood 
 Of Thammuz yearly wounded: the love-tale 
 Infected Sion's daughters with like heat, 
 Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch 
 Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led, 455 
 
 His eye survey 'd the dark idolatries 
 Of alienated Judah. Next came one 
 Who mourned in earnest, when the captive ark 
 Maim'd his brute image, head and hands lopt 
 
 off 
 In his own temple, on the grunsel edge,^^ 460 
 Where he fell flat, and shamed his worshippers: 
 Dagon^^ his name, sea-monster, upward man 
 And downward fish; yet had his temple high 
 Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the coast 
 Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon, 465 
 
 And Accaron, and Gaza's frontier bounds. 
 Him foUow'd Rimmon,^^ whose delightful seat 
 
 ' 26 Josiah. II Kings, xxiii, 10. 
 
 27 Baalim — Ashtoroth, the Hebrew plurals of Baal (the 
 sun god) and Astoroth (the moon-goddess) . Milton means 
 that with the gods before named, came other gods of the 
 sun and moon, worshipped under various names from the 
 Euphrates on the East to the brook Sihor. (Joshua, 
 XV. 4) that divided Egypt from Syria. 
 
 28 The Oriental original of the Greek Adonis. Tham- 
 muz (or Tammuz) was killed by a wild boar, and every 
 year, when the stream Adonis (which flows from Lebanon, 
 the scene of his death) was colored by the red washings of 
 its upper banks, the waters were supposed to be tinged 
 with his blood. 
 
 29 Threshold. "> The god of the Philistines. 
 *i A Syrian god (v. II Kings, v) . 
 
 Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks 
 Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams. 
 He also against the house of God was bold: 470 
 A leper once he lost, and gained a king — 
 Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew 
 God's altar to disparage and displace 
 For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn 
 His odious offerings, and adore the gods 475 
 
 Whom he had vanquished. After these, ap- 
 peared 
 A crew who, under names of old renown — 
 Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train — 
 With monstrous shapes and sorceries, abused 
 Fanatic Egypt and her priests to seek 480 
 
 Their wandering gods disguised in brutish 
 
 forms • 
 
 Rather than human. Nor did Israel scape 
 The infection, when their borrowed gold com- 
 
 485 
 
 The calf in Oreb; and the rebel king^s 
 . Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan, 
 Likening his. Maker to the grazed ox — 
 Jehovah, who in one night, when he passed 
 From Egypt marching, equall'd with one 
 
 stroke 
 Both her first-born and all her bleating gods. 
 BeliaP^ came last; than whom a Spirit more 
 lewd ' 490 
 
 Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love 
 Vice for itseK. To him no temple stood, 
 Or ajtkr smoked; yet who more oft than he 
 In temples and at altars, when the priest 
 Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled 495 
 With lust and violence the house of God? 
 In courts and palaces he also reigns. 
 And in luxurious cities, where the noise 
 Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers. 
 And injury and outrage ; and when night 500 
 Darkens the streets, then wander forth the 
 
 sons 
 Of Belial, flown^* with insolence and wine. 
 Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night 
 In Gibeah, when the hospitable door 
 Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape. 505 
 
 These were the prime in order and in might: 
 The rest were long to tell; though far re- 
 nowned 
 The Ionian gods — of Javan's issue^^ held 
 Gods, yet confessed later than Heaven and 
 
 Earth, 
 Their boasted parents; — Titan, Heaven's first- 
 born, 510 
 With his enormous brood, and birthright seized 
 By younger Saturn; he from mightier Jove, 
 His own and Rhea's son, like measure found; 
 So Jove usurping reigned. These, first in 
 
 Crete 
 And Ida known, thence on the snowy top 515 
 Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air, 
 
 32 Jeroboam. J Kings, xii. 26-29. . 
 
 33 The spirit of evil, or worthlessness, here personified 
 by Milton.- Cf. the scriptural "sons of Belial," "sons of 
 wickedness," "children of the devil." \ 
 
 34 Flooded, filled. 
 
 35 Javan's issue, i. e. the lonians, or Greeks, who were 
 among those supposed to be descended from Javan, the 
 son of Japhet. Gen. x. 2-4. 
 
220 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 Their highest heaven; or on the Delphian 
 
 chff, 
 Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds 
 Of Doric land; or who with Saturn old 
 Fled over Adria^^ to the Hesperian^^ fields, 520 
 And o'er the Celtic roam'd the utmost Isles. 
 All these and more came flocking; but with 
 looks 
 Downcast and damp; yet such wherein ap- 
 peared 
 Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have found 
 
 their Chief 
 Not in despair, to have found themselves not 
 lost 525 
 
 In loss itself; which on his countenance cast 
 Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted pride 
 Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore 
 Semblance of worth, not substance, gently 
 
 raised 
 Their fainting courage, and dispelled their 
 fears: 530 
 
 Then straight commands that, at the warlike 
 
 sound 
 Of trumpets loud and clarions, be uprearcd 
 His mighty standard: that proud honour 
 
 claimed 
 Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall: 
 Who forthwith from the glittering staff un- 
 furled 535 
 Th' imperial ensign; which, full high advanced. 
 Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, 
 With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed, 
 Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while 
 Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds : 540 
 At which the universal host up-sent 
 A shout, that tore Hell's concave, and beyond 
 Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 
 All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
 Ten thousand banners rise into the air, 545 
 With orient colours waving: with them rose 
 A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms 
 Appeared, and serried shields in thick array 
 Of depth immeasureable. Anon they move 
 In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood^s 550 
 Of flutes and soft recorders,^^ — such as raised 
 To height of noblest temper, heroes old 
 Arming to battle, and instead of rage 
 Deliberate valour breathed, firm and un- 
 moved 
 With dread of death to flight or foul retreat; 555 
 Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage 
 With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and 
 
 chase 
 Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and 
 
 pain 
 From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, 
 Breathing united force, with fix^ thought, 560 
 Moved on in silence to soft pipes, that charmed 
 
 » The Adriatic Sea. 
 
 " //esperMin=We3tem: here, the lands west of Greece. — 
 Italy, the Celtic lands of Gaul etc. as far as the British 
 Isles. 
 
 ^ In Dorian music the scale differed from that in use 
 among the Lydians and others, this distinctive scale 
 (or arrangement of tones and half tones in the octave) wsis 
 called the Dorian mood, i. e. mode, or system. Doric 
 music was invigorating and martial in character. 
 
 •• A musical instrument resembling a flageolet. 
 
 Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil. And 
 
 now 
 Advanced in view they stand — a horrid front 
 Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise 
 Of warriors old, with ordered spear and shield, 
 Awaiting what command their mighty Chief 566 
 Had to impose. He through the armed files 
 Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse 
 The whole battalion- views, — their order due. 
 Their visages and stature as of gods; 570 
 
 Their number last he sums. And now his 
 
 heart 
 Distends with pride, and, hardening in his 
 
 strength. 
 Glories: for never since created Man 
 Met such embodied force as, named with these, 
 Could merit more than that small infantry"* 575 
 Warred on by cranes — though all the giant 
 
 brood 
 Of Phlegra" with the heroic race were joined 
 That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side 
 Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what resounds 
 In fable or romance of Uther's son,^^ 530 
 
 Begirt with British and Armoric knights; 
 And all who since, baptized or infidel. 
 Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban, 
 Damasco, or Morocco, or Trebisond, 
 Or whom Biserta^^ sent from Afric shore 585 
 When Charlemain with all his peerage, fell 
 By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond 
 Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed 
 Their dread Commander. He, above the rest 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 590 
 
 Stood like a tower. His form had yet not lost 
 All its original brightness, nor appeared 
 Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess 
 Of glory obscured: as when the sun new-risen, 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air 595 
 
 Shorn of his beams, or, from behind the moon, 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone 
 Above them all the Archangel : but his face 600 
 Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care 
 Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 
 Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride 
 Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast 
 Signs of remorse and passion, to behold 605 
 
 The fellows of his crime, the followers rather 
 (Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned 
 For ever now to have their lot in pain — 
 Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced 
 Of Heaven, and from eternal splendours flung 
 For his revolt — yet faithful how they stood, 61 i 
 Their glory withered; as when Heaven's fire 
 Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines, 
 With singM top their stately growth, though 
 
 bare. 
 Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared 
 
 ^0 Pygmies, a legendary nation of dwarfs, v. Iliad. Hi., 
 3-6. 
 
 *i The early name of a peninsula in Thrace, the scene 
 of a conflict between the gods and the Titans, or "giant 
 brood." 
 
 « King Arthur. 
 
 ^' A Saracen town on the Mediterranean coast of 
 Africa. 
 
JOHN MILTON 
 
 221 
 
 To speak; whereat their double ranks they 
 
 bend 616 
 
 From wing to wing, and half enclose him round 
 With all his peers: attention held them mute. 
 Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn. 
 Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth: at last 
 Words interwove with sighs, found out their 
 
 way:— 621 
 
 "O myriads of immortal Spirits! O Powers 
 Matchless, but with the Almighty!— and that 
 
 strife 
 Was not inglorious, though the event was dire, 
 As this place testifies, and this dire change 
 Hateful to utter. But what power of mind, 626 
 Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
 Of knowledge past or present, could have 
 
 feared 
 How such united force of gods, how such 
 As stood like these, could ever know repulse? 
 For who can yet believe, though after loss, 631 
 That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
 Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascen'd. 
 Self-raised, and re-possess their native seat? 
 For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, 635 
 If counsels different, or dangers shunned 
 By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns 
 Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure 
 Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute, 
 Consent or custom, and his regal state 640 
 
 Put forth at full, but still his strength con- 
 
 cwiled : 
 Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our 
 
 fall. 
 Henceforth his might we know, and know our 
 
 own, 
 So as not either to provoke, or dread 
 New war provoked ; our better part remains 645 
 To work in close design, by fraud or guile, 
 What force effected not; that he no less 
 At length from us may find, Who overcomes 
 By force hath overcome but half his foe. 
 Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife 
 There went a fame in Heaven that He ere long 
 Intended to create, and therein plant 652 
 
 A generation whom his choice regard 
 Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven; 
 Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 655 
 
 Our first eruption — thither or elsewhere: 
 For this infernal pit shall never hold 
 Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the Abyss 
 Long under dark^ess cover. But these thoughts 
 Full counsel must mature. Peace is despaired; 
 For who can think submission? War, then, 
 
 war 661 
 
 Open or understood, must be resolved." 
 
 He spake: and, to confirm his words, out-flew 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the 
 
 thighs 
 Of mighty Cherubim ; the sudden blaze 665 
 
 Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged 
 Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped 
 
 arms 
 Clashed on their sounding shields the din of 
 
 war. 
 Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven. 
 Th^re stood a hill not far, whose grisly top 
 
 Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire 
 Shone with a glossy scurf — undoubted sign 672 
 That in his womb was hid metallic ore, 
 The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with 
 
 A numerous brigade hastened: as when bands 
 Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed, 676 
 Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field. 
 Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on — 
 Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell 
 From Heaven; for even in Heaven his looks and 
 thoughts 680 
 
 Were always downward bent, admiring more 
 The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold, 
 Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed 
 In vision beatific. By him first 
 Men also, and by his suggestion taught, 685 
 
 Ransacked the Centre, and with impious 
 
 hands 
 Rifled the bowels of their mother earth 
 For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew 
 Opened into the hill a spacious wound. 
 And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire** 
 That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best 691 
 Deserve the precious bane. And here let those 
 Who boast in mortal things, and wondering tell 
 Of Babel, and the works of Memphian kings, 
 Learn how their greatest monuments of fame, 
 And strength, and art, are easily outdone 696 
 By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour 
 What in an age they, with incessant toil 
 And hands innumerable, scarce perform. 
 Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, 700 
 That underneath had veins of liquid fire 
 Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude 
 With wondrous art founded the massy ore, 
 Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion- 
 dross; 
 A third as soon had formed within the ground 
 A various mould, and from the boiling cells 706 
 By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook: 
 As in an organ, from one blast of wind, 
 To many a row of pipes the sound-board 
 
 breathes. 
 Anon out of the earth a fabric huge 710 
 
 Rose like an exhalation, with the sound 
 Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet — 
 Built like a temple, where pilasters round 
 Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid 
 With golden architrave; nor did there want 
 Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven; 
 The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon 717 
 Nor great Alcairo, such magnificence 
 Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine 
 Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat 720 
 
 Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove 
 In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile 
 Stood fixed her stately height; and straight the 
 
 doors, 
 Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide 
 Within, her ample spaces o'er the smooth 725 
 And level pavement; from the archM roof 
 Pendent by subtle magic, many a row 
 Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed 
 With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light 
 ** Wonder. 
 
222 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 \.s from a sky. The hasty multitude 730 
 
 Admiring entered; and the work some praise, 
 ^nd some the architect. His hand was known 
 ^n Heaven by many a towered structure high, 
 tVhere sceptred Angels held their residence, 
 Vnd sat as Princes, whom the supreme King 735 
 ilxalted to such power, and gave to rule, 
 5ach in his hierarchy, the Orders bright. 
 S^or was his name unheard or unadored 
 'n ancient Greece; and in the Ausonian land*^ 
 VIen called him Mulciber,*^ and how he fell 
 Ji'rom Heaven, they fabled, thrown by angry 
 
 Jove 741 
 
 5heer o'er the crystal battlements: from morn 
 ro noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, 
 \ summer's day, and with the setting sun 
 3ropt from the zenith, like a falling star, 745 
 ])n Lemnos, the Mgean isle. Thus they relate, 
 Jarring; for he with this rebellious rout, 
 ^ell long before; nor aught availed him now 
 ro have built in Heaven high towers; nor did he 
 
 scape 
 3y all his engines, but was headlong sent, 750 
 kVith his industrious crew, to build in Hell. 
 Meanwhile, the winged Heralds, by com- 
 mand 
 )f sovereign power, with awful ceremony 
 \.nd trumpet's sound, throughout the host 
 
 proclaim 
 K solemn council forthwith to be held 755 
 
 ^t Pandemonium,^^ the high capital 
 )f Satan and his peers. Their summons called 
 ?'rom every band and squared regiment 
 3y place or choice the worthiest: they anon 
 ►Vith hundreds and with thousands trooping 
 
 came, 760 
 
 Utended. All access was thronged; the gates 
 \.nd porches wide, but chief the spacious hall 
 Though like a covered field, where champions 
 
 bold 
 >Vont ride in armed, and at the Soldan's^ 
 
 chair, 
 Defied the best of Panim^^ chivalry 765 
 
 ro mortal combat, or career with lance), 
 rhick swarmed, both on the ground and in the 
 
 air 
 Crushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As 
 
 bees 
 ;n spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus 
 
 rides, 
 ^our forth their populous youth about the hive 
 ;n clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers 
 ^"ly to and fro, or on the smoothM plank, 772 
 rhe suburb of their straw-built citadel, 
 ^ew rubbed with balm, expatiate and confer 
 rheir state-afTairs : so thick the airy crowd 775 
 5warmed and were straitened; till, the signal 
 
 given, 
 3ehold a wonder! They but now who seemed 
 ;n bigness to surpass Earth's giant sons, 
 ^ow less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room 
 rhrong numberless — like that pygmean race^ 
 <5 Italy. « The softener, i. e. Vulcan. 
 
 " The abode of all the Demons, as the Pantheon is the 
 .bode of all the gods. 
 « Sultan. « Pagan. 
 
 "> The ancients placed the Pygmies in India. 
 
 Beyond the Indian mount; or fairy elvea, 781 
 
 Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side 
 
 Or fountain, some belated peasant sees, 
 
 Or dreams he sees, while over-head the Moon 
 
 Sits arbitress, and nearer to the Earth 785 
 
 Wheels her pale course; they, on their mirth and 
 
 dance 
 Intent, with jocund music charm his ear; 
 At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds. 
 Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms 
 Reduced their shapes immense, and were at 
 
 large, 790 
 
 Though without number still, amidst the hall 
 Of that infernal court. But far within. 
 And in their own dimensions, like themselves, 
 The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim 
 In close recess and secret conclave sat, 795 
 
 A thousand demi-gods on golden seats, 
 Frequent and full. After short silence then. 
 And summons read, the great consult began. 
 
 From Book III 
 
 Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven first-born! 
 
 Or of the Eternal coetemal beam 
 
 May I express thee imblamed? since God is 
 
 light, 
 And never but in unapproachM light 
 Dwelt from eternity— dwelt then in thee, 5 
 
 Bright effluence of bright essence increate! 
 Or hear'st thou^ rather pure Ethereal stream. 
 Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the Sun, 
 Before the Heavens, thou wert, and at the voice 
 Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 10 
 
 The rising World of waters dark and deep, 
 Won from the void and formless Infinite. 
 Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 
 Escaped the Stygian pool, though long de- 
 tained 
 In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight. 
 Through utter and through middle Darkness 
 borne, 16 
 
 With other notes than to the Orphean lyre 
 I sung of Chaos and eternal Night, 
 Taught by the Heavenly Muse to venture down 
 The dark descent, and up to re^ascend, 20 
 
 Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe, 
 And feel thy sovereign vital lamp; but thou 
 Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
 To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; 
 So thick a drop serene hath quenched their 
 orbs, 25 
 
 Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more 
 Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 
 Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
 Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief 
 Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath. 
 That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, 
 Nightly I visit; nor sometimes forget 32 
 
 Those other two equalled with me in fate. 
 So were I equalled with them in renown, 
 Blind Thamyris^ and blind Maeonides,^ 35 
 
 1 i. e. would you rather hear yourself called (do you 
 hear rather when you are called). 
 
 * A legendary poet of Greece. 
 
 * Homer, reputed son of Maion. 
 
ABRAHAM COWLEY 
 
 22 
 
 And Tiresias* and Phineus* prophets old: 
 Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move 
 Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird 
 Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid, 
 Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year 
 Seasons return; but not to me returns 41 
 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose. 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; 
 But cloud instead and ever-during dark 45 
 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
 Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair, 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased, 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 50 
 So much the rather thou. Celestial Light, 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her 
 
 powers 
 Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight. 55 
 
 From Book VII 
 Descend from Heaven, Urania,^ by that name 
 If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine 
 Following, above the Olympian hill I soar, 
 Above the flight of Pegasean wing! 
 The meaning, not the name, I call ; for thou 5 
 Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top 
 Of old Olympus dwell'st; but heavenly-born, 
 Before the hills appeared or fountain flowed, 
 Thou with Eternal Wisdom didst converse. 
 Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play 1 
 In presence of the Almighty Father, pleased 
 With thy celestial song, tip led by thee. 
 Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed, 
 An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air. 
 Thy tempering. With like safety guided down. 
 Return me to my native element; 16 
 
 Lest, from this flying steed unreined (as once 
 Bellerophon, though from a lower clime) 
 Dismounted, on the Aleian field I fall. 
 Erroneous there to wander and forlorn. 20 
 
 Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound 
 Within the visible Diurnal Sphere. 
 Standing on Earth, not rapt above the pole. 
 More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged 
 To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil 
 
 days, 25 
 
 On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues, 
 In darkness, and with dangers compassed 
 
 round, 
 And solitude; yet not alone, while thou 
 Visit'st my slumbers nightly, or when Morn 
 Purples the East. Still govern thou my song, 30 
 Urania, and fit audience find, though few, 
 But drive far off the barbarous dissonance 
 Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race 
 Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard^ 
 In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears 35 
 To rapture, till the savage clamour drowned 
 
 * Blind prophets in Greek legends. 
 
 1 Literally ("the heavenly one") one of the Muses in 
 Greek mythology but here the Divine inspiration, the 
 "heavenly Muse" invoked at the beginning of the poem. 
 
 2 OrpheuB. Of. Lycidas, lines. 57-63. 
 
 Both harp and voice; nor could the Muse dc 
 
 fend 
 Her son. So fail not thou who thee implores; 
 For thou art heavenly, she an empty dream. 
 
 From Book IX 
 No more of talk where God or Angel Guest 
 With Man, as with his friend, familiar used 
 To sit indulgent, and with him partake 
 Rural repast, permitting him the while 
 Venial discourse unblamed. 1 now mus 
 
 change 
 Those notes to tragic — foul distrust, and bread 
 Disloyal, on the part of man, revolt 
 And disobedience; on the part of Heaven, 
 Now alienated, distance and distaste. 
 Anger and just rebuke, and judgment given, i 
 That brought into this World a world of woe 
 Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery, 
 Death's harbinger. Sad task ! yet argument 
 Not less but more heroic than the wrath 
 Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued i, 
 
 Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage 
 Of Turnus for Lavinia disespoused; 
 Or Neptune's ire, or Juno's, that so long 
 Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea's son: 
 If answerable style I can obtain 2( 
 
 Of my celestial Patroness, who deigns 
 Her nightly visitation unimplored. 
 And dictates to me slumbering, or inspires 
 Easy my unpremeditated verse, 
 Since first this subject for heroic song 2i 
 
 Pleased me, long choosing and beginning late 
 Not sedulous by nature to indite 
 Wars, hitherto the only argument 
 Heroic deemed, chief mastery to dissect 
 With long and tedious havoc fabled knights 3( 
 In battles feigned (the better fortitude 
 Of patience and heroic martyrdom 
 Unsung), or to describe races and games. 
 Or tilting furniture, emblazoned shields. 
 Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds, 3t 
 
 Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights 
 At joust and tournament; then marshalled feasi 
 Served up in hall with sewers and seneshals 
 The skill of artifice or office mean; 
 Not that which justly gives heroic name 4C 
 
 To person or to poem ! Me, of these 
 Nor skilled nor studious, higher argument 
 Remains, sufficient of itself to raise 
 That name, unless an age too late, or cold 
 Climate, or years, damp my intended wing 45 
 Depressed; and much they may if all be mine, 
 Not hers who brings it nightly to my ear. 
 
 1618-1667 
 THE WISH 
 
 (From The Mistress, 1647) 
 
 Well then,I now do plainly see 
 This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; 
 The very honey of all earthly joy 
 Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy; 
 
224 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 And they, methinks, deserve my pity 5 
 
 Who for it can endure the stings, 
 The crowd, the buzz, and murmurings 
 
 Of this great hive, the city! 
 
 Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave, 
 May I a small house and large garden have; 10 
 And a few friends, and many books, both true, 
 Both wise, and both delightful too! 
 
 And since Love ne'er will from me flee, — 
 A. mistress moderately fair, 
 And good as guardian-angels are, 15 
 
 Only beloved, and loving me! 
 
 ^ fountains! when in you shall I 
 
 Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? 
 
 3 fields! O woods! when, when shall 1 be made 
 
 rhe happy tenant of your shade? 20 
 
 Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood! 
 Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, 
 Where all the riches lie, that she 
 
 Has coined and stamped for good. 
 
 Pride and ambition here 25 
 
 3nly in far-fetched metaphors appear; 
 
 Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs 
 
 scatter, 
 And naught but echo flatter. 
 
 The gods when they descended hither 
 From heaven did always choose their way; 30 
 And therefore we may boldly say 
 
 That 'tis the way too thither. 
 
 How happy here should I 
 And one dear She live, and embracing die! 
 5he who is all the world, and can exclude 35 
 Ln deserts solitude. 
 
 I should have then this only fear: 
 Lest men, when they my pleasures see, 
 Should hither throng to live like me, 
 
 And so make a city here. ' 40 
 
 THE GRASSHOPPER 
 
 (From Miscellanies, 1650) 
 
 Happy Insect, what can be 
 [n happiness compar'd to thee? 
 Fed with nourishment divine, 
 rhe dewy morning's gentle wine! 
 Nature waits upon thee still, 5 
 
 And thy verdant cup does fill. 
 Tis fiU'd where ever thou dost tread, 
 Nature selfe's thy Ganimed.^ 
 rhou dost drink, and dance, and sing; 
 Happier than the happiest King! 10 
 
 All the fields which thou dost see. 
 All the plants belong to thee. 
 All that summer hours produce. 
 Fertile made with early juice. 
 Man for thee does sow and plow; 15 
 
 Farmer he and land-lord thou! 
 Thou doest innocently joy; 
 Nor does thy luxury destroy; 
 The shepherd gladly heareth thee. 
 More harmonious than he. 20 
 
 * Ganymede, the cup-bearer of Zeiia. 
 
 Thee country hindes with gladness hear, 
 
 Prophet of the ripened year! 
 
 Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; 
 
 Phoebus is himself thy sire. 
 
 To thee of all things upon earth, 25 
 
 Life is no longer than thy mirth, 
 
 Happy insect, happy thou. 
 
 Dost neither age, nor winter know, 
 
 But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and 
 
 sung. 
 Thy fill, the flowery leaves among 30 
 
 (Voluptuous, and wise with all. 
 Epicurean animal!) 
 Sated with thy summer feast, 
 Thou retir'st to endless rest. 
 
 BREAD AND LIBERTY 
 
 (From Essay Of Liberty) 
 
 For the few hours of life allotted me. 
 
 Give me (great God) but bread and liberty. 
 
 I'll beg no more: if more thou'rt pleas'd to give, 
 
 I'll thankfully that overplus receive: 
 
 If beyond this no more be freely sent, 6 
 
 I'll thank for this, and go away content. 
 
 1621-1678 
 THE GARDEN 
 
 (Written c. 1650, published first in first col- 
 lected edition of Marvell's Poems, 1681) 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win the palm, the oak, or bays. 
 And their incessant labours see 
 Crowned from some single herb, or tree. 
 Whose short and narrow-verged shade, 5 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid. 
 While all the flowers and trees do close, 
 To weave the garlands of repose! 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
 And Innocence, thy sister dear? 
 Mistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companies of men. 
 Your sacred plants, if here below. 
 Only among the plants will grow; 
 Society is all but rude 
 To this delicious solitude. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 No white nor red was ever seen 
 
 So amorous as this lovely green. 
 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name, 20 
 
 Little, alas! they know or heed, 
 
 How far these beauties her exceed! 
 
 Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound. 
 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 When we have run our passion's heat, 
 Love hither makes his best retreat. 
 The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
 Still in a tree did end their race; 
 
 25 
 
ANDREW MARVELL 
 
 22^ 
 
 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
 
 Only that she might laurel grow; so 
 
 And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
 
 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
 
 What wondrous life is this I lead! 
 
 Ripe apples drop about my head; 
 
 The luscious clusters of a vine 35 
 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 
 
 The nectarine, and curious^ peach. 
 
 Into my hands themselves do reach; 
 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass. 
 
 Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 40 
 
 Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 
 
 Withdraws into its happiness; — 
 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 
 Does straight its own resemblance find; 
 
 Yet it creates, transcending these, 45 
 
 Far other worlds, and other seas, 
 
 Annihilating all that's made 
 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 50 
 
 Casting the body's vest^ aside. 
 My soul into the boughs does glide: 
 There, like a bu-d, it sits and sings, 
 Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
 And, till prepared for longer flight, 55 
 
 Waves in its plume the various light. 
 
 Such was that happy garden-state. 
 
 While man there walked without a mate: 
 
 After a place so pure and sweet, 
 
 What other help could yet be meet! 60 
 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 
 To wander solitary there: 
 
 Two paradises are in one, 
 
 To live in paradise alone. 
 
 How well the skilful gardener drew 65 
 
 Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new, 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run, 
 And, as it works, the industrious bee 
 Computes its time as well as we! 70 
 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? 
 
 BERMUDAS 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride, 
 In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
 From a small boat that rowed along, 
 The listening winds received this song. 
 
 " What should we do but sing his praise, 5 
 That led us through the watery maze, 
 Un:o an isle so long unknown. 
 And yet far kinder than our own? 
 Where he the huge sea-monster wracks,^ 
 That lift the deep upon their backs, 10 
 
 1 Here, in the unusual sense of delicious. 
 
 2 The body is the vest (vesture, garment) of the soul. 
 Cf. " this muddy vesture of decay." (Mcht. of Ven. V., 1). 
 
 1 Wrecks, destroys. 
 
 He lands us on a grassy stage. 
 
 Safe from the storms and prelate's rage. 
 
 He gave us this eternal spring, 
 
 Which here enamels everything, 
 
 And sends the fowls to us in care, i; 
 
 On daily visits through the air; 
 
 He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
 
 Like golden lamps in a green night. 
 
 And does in the pomegranates close, 
 
 Jewels more rich than Ormus^ shows; 2( 
 
 He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
 
 And throws the melons at our feet. 
 
 But apples plants of such a price, 
 
 No tree could ever bear them twice; 
 
 With cedars chosen by his hand, 2t 
 
 From Lebanon, he stores the land, 
 
 And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 
 
 Proclaim the ambergrease on shore; 
 
 He cast (of which we rather boast) 
 
 The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, 3C 
 
 And in these rocks for us did frame 
 
 A temple where to sound his name. 
 
 " Oh! let our voice his praise exalt, 
 
 'Till it arrive at heaven's vault. 
 
 Which, then (perhaps) rebounding, may 3S 
 
 Echo beyond the Mexique Bay." 
 
 Thus sung they in the English boat, 
 A holy and a cheerful note, 
 And all the way, to guide their chime. 
 With falling oars they kept the time. 40 
 
 TO HIS COY MISTRESS 
 
 Had we but world enough, and time, 
 
 This coyness, lady, were no crime. 
 
 We would sit down, and think which way 
 
 To walk, and pass our long love's day. 
 
 Thou by Indian Ganges' side 5 
 
 Should'st rubies find: I by the tide 
 
 Of Humber would complain. I would 
 
 Love you ten years before the flood. 
 
 And you should, if you please, refuse 
 
 Till the conversion of the Jews; 10 
 
 My vegetable love should grow 
 
 Vaster than empires and more slow; 
 
 An hundred years should go to praise 
 
 Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; 
 
 Two hundred to adore each breast, 15 
 
 But thirty thousand to the rest; 
 
 An age at least to every part. 
 
 And the last age should show your heart. 
 
 For, lady, you deserve this state, 
 
 Nor would I love at lower rate. 20 
 
 But at my back I always hear 
 Time's winged chariot hurrying near. 
 And yonder all before us lie 
 Deserts of vast eternity. 
 Thy beauty shall no more be found. 
 Nor, in thy marble vault shall sound 
 My echoing song: then worms shall try 
 That long preserved virginity. 
 
 25 
 
 2 Or Hormuz, a city at the entrance to the Persian 
 Gulf. a. Par. Lost. n. 2. . 
 
226 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 And your quaint honour turn to dust, 
 And into ashes all my lust: 30 
 
 The grave's a fine and private place, 
 But none, I think, do there embrace. 
 
 Now therefore while the youthful hue 
 Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 
 And while thy willing soul transpires 35 
 
 At every pore with instant fires, 
 Now let us sport us while we may, 
 And now, like amorous birds of prey 
 Rather at once our time devour, 
 Than languish in his slow-chaped^ power. 40 
 Let us roll all our strength and all 
 Our sweetness up into one ball. 
 And tear our pleasures with rough strife. 
 Thorough the iron gates of life; 
 Thus, though we cannot make our sun 45 
 Stand still, yet we will make him run. 
 
 Wi^omni CaretD 
 
 1589-1639 
 
 DISDAIN RETURNED 
 
 (Printed, without concluding stanza, in Porter's 
 Madrigalles and Ayres, 1632) 
 He that loves a rosy cheek. 
 
 Or a coral lip admires; 
 Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain his fires. 
 As old Time makes these decay, 5 
 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
 Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 
 
 Hearts with equal love combined, 
 
 Kindle never-dying fires; 10 
 
 Where these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 
 
 No tears, Celia, now shall win. 
 My resolved heart to return; 
 
 I have searched that soul within 15 
 
 And find naught but pride and scorn; 
 
 I have learned thy arts, and now 
 
 Can disdain as much as thouf 
 
 1591-1674 
 
 ARGUMENT TO HESPERIDES 
 
 (From Hesperides, 1648) 
 
 I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers. 
 
 Of April, May, of June and July-flowers; 
 
 I sing of May-poles, hock-carts,^ wassails,^ 
 
 wakes, ^ 
 Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridal- 
 cakes; 
 
 1 Slow-jawed. (Chap, or chop = a jaw.) Rather let us 
 devour time at once, than be eaten by his slow jaws. 
 
 > The last carts to return from the fields at harvest- 
 home. 
 
 2 It was a rural custom to drink the health of, or to 
 wassail, the fruit trees on Christmas eve. 
 
 ' Originally festivals held in celebration of the dedica- 
 tion of a church. 
 
 I write of youth, of love, and have access 5 
 By these to sing of cleanly wantonness; 
 I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece 
 Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris; 
 I sing of times trans-shifting, and 1 write 
 How roses first came red and lilies white; 10 
 I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing 
 The Court of Mab, and of the fairy king; 
 I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall) 
 Of heaven, and hope to have it after all. 
 
 CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Get up, get up for shame, the blooming mom 
 Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
 See how Aurora throws her fair 
 Fresh-quilted colours through the air: 
 Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 6 
 
 The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
 
 Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the 
 
 east 
 Above an hour since : yet you have not dress'd; 
 
 Nay ! not so much as out of bed? 
 
 When all the birds have matins said 10 
 
 And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin. 
 
 Nay, profanation to keep in, 
 Whenas a thousand virgins on this day 
 Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 
 
 Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen 15 
 
 To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 
 green. 
 And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
 For jewels for your gown or hair; 
 Fear not; the leaves will strew 
 Gems in abundance upon you : 20 
 
 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept. 
 Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; 
 Come and receive them while the light 
 Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: 
 And Titan on the eastern hill 25 
 
 Retires himself, or else stands still 
 Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in 
 
 praying: 
 Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. 
 
 Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark 
 
 How each field turns a street, each street a 
 
 park 30 
 
 Made green and trimm'd with trees; see 
 how 
 
 Devotion gives each house a bough 
 
 Or branch: each porch, each door ere this 
 
 An ark, a tabernacle is, 
 Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ; 35 
 As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
 
 Can such delights be in the street 
 
 And open fields and we not see 't? 
 
 Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey 
 
 The proclamation made for May; 40 
 
 And sin no more, as we have done, by stay- 
 ing; 
 But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 
 
ROBERT HERRICK 
 
 227 
 
 There's not a budding boy or girl this day 
 But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
 
 A deal of youth, ere this, is come 45 
 
 Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 
 Some have dispatched their cakes and cream, 
 Before that we have left to dream: 
 And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted 
 
 troth, 
 And chose their priest, ere we can cast off 
 sloth: 50 
 
 Many a green-gown has been given; 
 Many a kiss, both odd and even: 
 Many a glance, too, has been sent 
 From out the eye, love's firmament; 
 Many a jest told of the keys betraying 55 
 
 This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not 
 a-Maying. 
 
 Come, let us go while we are in our prime; 
 And take the harmless folly of the time. 
 
 We shall grow old apace, and die 
 
 Before we know our liberty. 60 
 
 Our life is short, and our days run 
 
 As fast away as does the sun: 
 And, as a vapour or a drop of rain 
 Once lost, can ne'er be found again, 
 
 So when you or I are made 65 
 
 A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 
 
 All love, all liking, all delight 
 
 Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
 Then while time serves, and we are but decay- 
 ing, 
 Come, my Corinna, come, let's go arMaying. 70 
 
 TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORN- 
 ING DEW 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears 
 Speak grief in you. 
 Who were but born 
 Just as the modest morn 
 Teem'd her refreshing dew? 5 
 
 Alas! you have not known that shower 
 That mars a flower, 
 Nor felt th' unkind 
 Breath of a blasting wind. 
 Nor are ye worn with years, 10 
 
 Or warp'd as we. 
 Who think it strange to see 
 Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
 To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue. 
 
 Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make 
 known 15 
 
 The reason why 
 Ye droop and weep; 
 Is it for want of sleep? 
 Or childish lullaby? 
 Or that ye have not seen as yet 20 
 
 The violet? 
 Or brought a kiss 
 From that sweetheart to this? 
 No, no, this sorrow shown 
 
 By your tears shed 25 
 
 Would have this lecture read: 
 
 That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
 Conceiv'd with grief are, and with tears brought 
 forth. 
 
 TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF 
 TIME 
 
 \y (From the same) 
 
 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 
 
 Old time is still a-flying: 
 And this same flower that smiles to-day 
 
 To-morrow will be dying. 
 
 The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, 5 
 
 The higher he's a-getting. 
 The sooner will his race be run, 
 
 And nearer he's to setting. 
 
 That age is best which is the first, 
 
 When youth and blood are warmer; 10 
 
 But being spent, the worse, and worst 
 Times still succeed the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time, 
 And while ye may go marry: 
 
 For having lost but once your prime 15 
 You may forever tarry. 
 
 TO DAFFODILS 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
 
 You haste away so soon; 
 As yet the early-rising sun 
 
 Has not attain'd his noon. 
 
 Stay, stay, 6 
 
 Until the hasting day 
 Has run 
 
 But to the evensong; 
 And, having prayed together, we 
 • Will go with you along. 10 
 
 We have short time to stay, as you, 
 
 We have as short a spring; 
 As quick a growth to meet decay, 
 
 As you, or anything. 
 
 We die, 15 
 
 As your hours do, and dry 
 Away, 
 
 Like to the summer's rain; 
 Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 
 
 Ne'er to be found again. 20 
 
 THE HAG 
 (From the same) 
 
 The hag is astride 
 
 This night for to ride. 
 The devil and she together; 
 
 Through thick and through thin. 
 
 Now out and then in, 3 
 
 Though ne'er so foul be the weather. 
 
 A thorn or a burr 
 She takes for a spur, 
 With a lash of a bramble she rides now; 
 
228 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 Through brakes and through briars, 10 
 
 O'er ditches and mires, 
 She follows the spirit that guides now. 
 
 No beast for his food 
 
 Dare now range the wood, 
 But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking; 15 
 
 While mischiefs, by these, 
 
 On land and on seas, 
 At noon of night are a-working. 
 
 The storm will arise 
 
 And trouble the skies; 20 
 
 This night, and more for the wonder. 
 
 The ghost from the tomb 
 
 Affrighted shall come, 
 Call'd out by the clap of the thunder. 
 
 A THANKSGIVING TO GOD, FOR HIS 
 
 . HOUSE 
 
 Lord, thou hast given me a cell. 
 
 Wherein to dwell; 
 A little house, whose hiunble roof 
 
 Is weather proof; 
 Under the spars of which I lie 5 
 
 Both soft and dry; 
 Where thou, my chamber for to ward, 
 
 Hast set a guard 
 Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 
 
 Me, while I sleep. 10 
 
 Low is my porch, as is my fate; 
 
 Both void of state; 
 And yet the threshold of my door 
 
 Is worn by th' poor. 
 Who thither come, and freely get 15 
 
 Good words, or meat. 
 Like as my parlour, so my hall 
 
 And kitchen's small; 
 A little buttery, and therein 
 
 A little bin, 20 
 
 Which keeps my little loaf of bread 
 
 Unchipt, unflead;^ 
 Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar 
 
 Make me a fire, 
 Close by whose living coal I sit, 25 
 
 And glow like it. 
 Lord, I confess too, when I dine. 
 
 The pulse is thine 
 And aU those other bits that be 
 
 There placed by thee; 30 
 
 The worts, 2 the purslane,^ and the mess 
 
 Of water-cress, 
 Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; 
 
 And my content 
 Makes those, and my beloved beet, 35 
 
 To be more sweet. 
 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 
 
 With guiltless mirth. 
 And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink. 
 
 Spiced to the brink. 40 
 
 Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 
 
 That soils my land. 
 
 ' Unbroken, uncut. 
 
 * Vegetables, such as cabbage, turnips, etc. 
 
 ' Salad. 
 
 And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, 
 
 Twice ten for one; 
 Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay 41 
 
 Her egg each day; 
 Besides, my healthful ewes to bear 
 
 Me twins each year; 
 The while the conduits of my kine 
 
 Run cream for wine; 50 
 
 All these, and better, thou dost send 
 Me, to this end, — 
 That I should render for my part, 
 
 A thankful heart; 
 Which, fired with incense, I resign, 55 
 
 As wholly thine; 
 — But the acceptance, that must be, 
 
 My Christ, by Thee. 
 
 HIS GRANGE, OR PRIVATE WEALTH 
 
 Though clock, 
 To tell how night draws hence, I've none, 
 
 A cock 
 I have to sing how day draws on: 
 
 I have 5 
 
 A maid, my Prue,i by good luck sent, 
 
 To save 
 That little, Fates me gave or lent. 
 
 A hen 
 I keep, which, creeking day by day, 10 
 
 Tells when 
 She goes her long white egg to lay: 
 
 A goose 
 I have, which, with a jealous ear. 
 
 Lets loose 15 
 
 Her tongue, to tell what danger's near. 
 
 A lamb 
 I keep, tame, with my morsels fed, 
 
 Whose dam 
 An orphan left him, lately dead: 20 
 
 A cat 
 I keep, that plays about my house. 
 
 Grown fat 
 With eating many a miching^ mouse: 
 
 To these 25 
 
 A Trasy' I do keep, whereby 
 
 I please 
 The more my rural privacy: 
 
 V/hich are: 
 But toys, to give my heart some ease: — 3C 
 
 Where care 
 None is, slight things do lightly please 
 
 g)ir aoljn g>ucM(ng 
 
 1609-1641 
 
 ORSAMES' SONG 
 (From Aglaura, acted 1637) 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? \ 
 
 Prithee, why so pale? \ v 
 
 Will, when looking well can't move her, f 
 
 Looking ill prevail? 
 Prithee, why so pale? 5 
 
 ' An old servant of Herrick's, named Prudence. 
 
 * Sly. » His pet spaniel. 
 
ROBERT BURTON 
 
 22C 
 
 Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 
 
 Prithee, why so mute? 
 Will, when speaking well can't win her, 
 
 Saying nothing do't? 
 
 Prithee, why so mute? 10 
 
 Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: 
 
 This cannot take her. 
 If of herseK she will not love, 
 
 Nothing can make her: 
 
 The devil take her! 15 
 
 1618-1658 > 
 
 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS 
 (From Lucasta, 1649) 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 
 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make. 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage; 
 Minds innocent and quiet take 
 
 That for an hermitage; 
 If I have freedom in my love, 
 
 And in my soul am free, 
 Angels alone, that soar above, 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 Hobert 115urton 
 
 1577-1640 
 
 BURTON TELLS WHY HE WRITES UN- 
 DER THE NAME OF DEMOCRITUS 
 JUNIOR 
 
 (From the Anatomy of Melancholy, 1621) 
 
 True, a new mistress now I chase, 
 
 The first foe in the field, 
 And with a stronger faith embrace 
 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 
 Yet this inconstancy is such 
 As you, too, shall adore,— 
 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much. 
 Loved I not honour more. 
 
 TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON^ 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 When Love with unconfined wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates, 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at the grates; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair. 
 
 And fettered to her eye, 
 The birds that wanton in the air 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When flowing cups run swiftly round 
 
 With no allaying Thames, 
 Our careless heads with roses bound. 
 
 Our hearts with loyal flames; 
 When thirsty grief in wine we steep 
 
 When healths and draughts go free, 
 Fishes that tipple in the deep 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When, like committed linnets, I 
 
 With shriller throat shall sing 
 The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 
 
 And glories of my King; 
 When I shall voice aloud, how good 
 
 He is, how great should be, 
 Enlarged winds that curl the flood 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 * Composed in 1642 during the poet's confinement in 
 the Gatehouse at Westminster, for his advocacy of the 
 royal cause. 
 
 Democritus,^ as he is described by Hippoc- 
 rates,"^ and Laertius,^ was a little wearish'* old 
 man, very melancholy by nature, averse from 
 5 company in his latter days, and much given to 
 5 solitariness, a famous Philosopher in his age, 
 coevus with Socrates, wholly addicted to his 
 studies at the last, and to a private life, writ 
 many excellent works, a great Divine, accord- 
 jQ ing to the divinity of those times, an expert 
 10 Physician, a Politician, an excellent Mathe- 
 matician, as Diacosmus and the rest of his 
 works do witness. He was much delighted with 
 the studies of Husbandry, saith Columella,^ and 
 often I find him cited by Constantinus and 
 15 others, treating of that subject. He knew the 
 natures, differences of all beasts, plants, fishes, 
 birds; and, as some say, could understand the 
 tunes and voices of them. In a word, he was 
 omnifariam doctus, a general scholar, a great 
 ^20 student; and to the intent he might better 
 contemplate, I find it related by some, that he 
 put out his eyes, and was in his old age volun- 
 tarily blind, yet saw more than all Greece 
 besides, and writ of every subject, Nihil in toto 
 ^^25 opificio naturce de quo non scripsit.^ A man of 
 an excellent wit, profound conceit; and to 
 attain knowledge the better in his younger 
 
 1 Democritus (c. 460-c. 357 B. C.) was a Greek philos- 
 
 ^ _ opher, traveller, and author. He is supposed to have 
 
 ^'^ gained his title, "The Laughing Philosopher," from the 
 
 30 humorous delight he took in watching the follies of other 
 
 men. Burton called himself Democritus Junior, because 
 
 he believed that he resembled the elder Democritus in 
 
 disposition; — at least in some particulars. Hence, in 
 
 describing "The Laughing Philosopher," Burton is also 
 
 giving us a glimpse into the peculiarities of his own 
 
 20 character and humors. 
 
 35 
 
 2 A famous Greek physician called "the father of 
 medicine." 
 
 3 Diogenes Laertius, a Greek author, who wrote a book 
 on the lives of the ancient philosophers. 
 
 * Weak, withered. 
 
 5 A Roman writer on agriculture, who was born in 
 Spain about tlie beginning of the Christian era. 
 
 6 There was nothing in the entire workings of nature 
 that he did not write about. 
 
230 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 years, he travelled to Egypt and Athens, to Plato commends, out of him Ldpsius^^ approves 
 confer with learned men, admired of some, and furthers, as fit to be imprinted in all curious 
 despised of others. After a wandering life, he wits, not he a slave of one science, or dwell alto- 
 settled at Abdera, a town in Thrace, and was gether in one subject as most do, but to rove 
 sent for thither to be their Law-maker, Re- 5 abroad, centum puer artium, ^^ to have an oar in 
 corder or Town-clerk as some will; or as others, every mxin's boat, to taste of every dish, and sip of 
 he was there bred and born. Howsoever it every cup, which saith Montaigne, was well per- 
 was, there he lived at last in a garden in the formed by Aristotle and his^^ learned country- 
 suburbs, wholly betaking himself to his studies, man Adrian Turnebus. This roving humour 
 and a private life, saving that sometimes he lo (though not with like success) I have ever had, 
 would walk down to the haven, and laugh heartily and like a ranging spaniel, that barks at ever^? 
 at such variety of ridiculous objects, which there bird he sees, leaving his game, I have followed 
 he saiv.'' Such a one was Democritus. all, saving that which I should, and may justly 
 But in the mean time, how doth this concern complfin, and truly, qui ubique est, nusquam 
 me, or upon what reference do I usurp h\s>\5est,^^ v^hxchGesner^^ did in modesty, th^kilhorve 
 habit? I confess that indeed to compare myself read many books, but to little purpose, for 
 to him for aught I have yet said, were both want of good method, I have confusedly tum- 
 impudency and arrogancy, I do not presume to bled over divers authors in our Libraries, with 
 make any parallel. Antistat mihi millibus small profit for want of art, order, memory, 
 Irecentis, parvus sum, nullum sum, altum nee 20 judgement. I never travelled but in Map or 
 3piro, nee spero.^ Yet thus much I will say of Card, in which my unconfined thoughts have 
 myself, and that I hope without all suspicion of freely expatiated, as having ever been especially 
 pride, or self conceit, I have lived a silent, delighted with the study of Cosmography. 
 sedentary, solitary, private life, mz/ii and mwsis' Saturn was the lord of my geniture,^^ cul- 
 in the University as long almost as Xenocrates 25 minating, etc., and Mars principal significator of 
 in Athens, ad senectam fere,^° to lea.rn wisdom a.s manners, in partile conjunction with mine 
 be did, penned up most part in my study. For Ascendant; both fortunate in their houses, etc. 
 [ have been brought up a student in the most I am not poor, I am not rich; nihil est, nihil 
 flourishing College of Europe, augustissimo deest,"^^ I have little, I want nothing; all my 
 zollegio, and can brag with Jovius,^^ almost, 30 treasure is in Minerva's tower. Greater prefer- 
 in ea luce domicilii Vaticani, totius orbis cele- ment as I could never get, so am I not in debt 
 berrimi, per 37 annos multa opporiunaque for it, I have a competency (Laus Deo) from my 
 iidici;^^ for 30 years I have continued (having noble and munificent Patrons, though I live 
 the use of as good Libraries as ever he had) a still a Collegiate student, as Democritus in his 
 scholar, and would be therefore loth, either by 35 garden, and lead a monastick life, ipse mihi 
 living as a drone, to be an unprofitable or un- theatrum,^^ sequestered from those tumults and 
 worthy a Member of so learned and noble a troubles of the world, et tanquum in specula 
 society, or to write that which should be any positus,^^ (as he said) in some high place above 
 way dishonourable to such a royal and ample you all, like Stoicus Sapiens, omnia secula, 
 foundation. Something I have done, though 40 praeterita presentiaque videns, una velut in- 
 by my profession a Divine, yet turbine raptus tuitu,^^ I hear and see what is done abroad, how 
 
 ingenii,^^ as he said, out of a running wit, an ,. t * x- • mka^ 1«n«^ t?i • v i,-i i • 4. a 
 
 ^ ' ^ ,.1 J • J T 1- J X " Justus Lipsius (1547-1606) a Flemish philologist and 
 
 unconstant, unsettled mind, I had a great critic, 
 
 desire (not able to attain to a superficial skill in ^ The child of a hundred arts. 
 
 . ; , ix • • n i 1 " Montaigne's. Montaigne (1533-1592), the great 
 any), to have some smattering m all, to be 45 French essayist, refers several times to his friend Adrian 
 
 aliguis in omnibus, nvllus in singulis,^^ which Turnebus, and he says that Turnebus "knew more, and 
 
 ^ ' ^ ' knew what he did know better, than any man of his time, 
 
 or long before him." 
 
 ^ We are told that Burton would go "down to the >» He who is everywhere, is nowhere. 
 Bridge-foot in Oxford," and Usten to "the Bargemen scold i* Konrad von Gesner (1516-1565), a Swiss naturalist 
 and storm and swear at one another, at which he would and scholar, who was professor first of Greek and after- 
 set his hands to his sides and laugh most profusely." wards of physics. 
 
 8 He excels me in three hundred thousand ways, I am 20 According to the old pseudo-science of Astrology, the 
 
 small, I am nothing, nor do I either wish for greatness, or character and destiny of a person was determined by the 
 
 expect it. position of the planets at the time of his birth. In Bur- 
 
 " For myself and for' my studies. ton's time even learned men still believed in the influence 
 
 1° Almost to old age. Burton was about forty-five when of the stars on human affairs. Burton tells us that he was 
 
 the ylrm^omy was published. born when Saturn and Mars were in partile (exact) 
 
 " Paulus Jovius (1483-1552) a noted Italian historian. conjunction. One born under the influence of Saturn was 
 
 '2 In that enlightened air of the Vatican Library, the supposed to have a saturnine (grave, or gloomy) disposi- 
 
 most famous in the whole world, I have come to know tion. 
 
 in thirty-seven years many useful things. 21 Nothing is there, nothing is lacking. 
 
 " Snatched from the whirlpool of my natural inclina- *2 1 myself make a theatre for myself, 
 
 tion. ^ *2 And set as it were in a watch tower. 
 
 "Literally — "Somebody in all (branches of learning ** Beholding all ages, past and present, as if ip one 
 
 although) , nothing in each (especial branch) ." vi«w. 
 
ROBERT BURTON 23 
 
 others, run, ride, turmoil, and macerate them- sounding in our ears: instead of nuptial Torches 
 selves in court and country, far from those we have firing of Towns and Cities: for triumpht 
 wrangling lawsuits, auloe vanitatum, fori am- lamentations; for joy, tears. So it is, and so i 
 hitionem, ridere mecum soleo:^^ I laugh at all, was, and ever mil be. He that refuselh to see an, 
 only secure lest my suit go amiss, my ships perish, 5 hear, to suffer this, is not fit to live in this work 
 corn and cattle miscarry, trade decay. / have and knows not the common condition of all men 
 no wife nor children good or had to provide for. to whom, so long as they live, with a reciproca 
 A mere spectator of other men's fortunes and course, joys and sorrows are annexed, and sue 
 adventures, and how they act their parts, which ceed one another. It is inevitable, it may not b^ 
 methinks are diversely presented unto me, as 10 avoided, and why then should'st thou be s< 
 from a common theatre or scene. much troubled? Grave nihil est homini quoi 
 
 fert necessitas,^ as Tully deems out of an ol( 
 Poet, that which is necessary cannot b( 
 
 REMEDIES AGAINST DISCONTENTS , ggX, iil^%r':S/r^:\Sf I' 
 (From the same) endured: make a virtue of necessity, and con 
 
 form thyself to undergo it. Si longa est, levi. 
 Discontents and grievances are either general est; si gravis est, hrevis est; if it be long, 'ti; 
 or particular; general are wars, plagues, hght; if grievous, it cannot last; it will away 
 dearths, famine, fires, inundations, unseason- 20 c?zes dolorem minuit,'' and if naught else, yei 
 able weather, epidemical diseases, which time will wear it out, custom will ease it 
 afflict whole Kingdoms, Territories, Cities: or oblivion is a common medicine for all losses 
 peculiar to private men, as cares, crosses, injuries, griefs, and detriments whatsoever 
 losses, death of friends, poverty, want, sick- and when they are once past, this commodit% 
 ness, orbities,^ injuries, abuses, etc. generally 25 comes of infelicity, it makes the rest of our lif 
 all discontent, homines quatimur fortunoe salo^ sweeter unto us: atque haec oHm meminiss€ 
 no condition free; quisque suos patimur manes.^ juvabit;^ the privation and want of a thing man% 
 Even in the midst of our mirth and jollity, there times makes it more pleasant and delightsome than 
 is some grudging, some complaint; as he saith, before it was. We must not think, the happiesi 
 our whole life is a glucupicron, a bitter sweet 30 of us all, to escape here without some misfor- 
 passion, honey and gall mixt together, we are tunes, 
 
 all miserable and discontent; who can deny it? Usque adeo nulla est sincera voluptas, 
 
 If all, and that it be a common calamity, an Sollicitumquealiquidlaetisintervenit.^ . . . 
 inevitable necessity, all distressed, then as 
 
 Cardan^ infers, who art thou that hopest to go 35 Whatsoever is under the Moon is subject to 
 free? Why dost thou not grieve thou art a mortal corruption, alteration; and, so long as thou 
 man, and not governor of the world? Ferre quam livest upon the earth, look not for other. Thou 
 sortem patiuntur omnes, Nemo recuset ! // it shall not here find peaceable and cheerful days, 
 be common to all, why should one man be more dis- quiet times, but rather clouds, storms, calumnies; 
 quieted than another? If thou alone wert dis- 'io such is our fate. . . . 
 
 tressed, it were indeed more irksome, and less Yea, but thou thinkest thou arj more miser- 
 
 to be indured; but, when the calamity is com- able than the rest, other men are happy in re- 
 mon, comfort thyself with this, thou hast more spect of thee, their miseries are but flea- 
 fellows, Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris,^ bitings to thine, thou alone art unhappj'-, none 
 'tis not thy sole case, and why shouldst thou 45 so bad as thyself. Yet if, as Socrates said, all 
 be so impatient? /, but, alas! we are more the men in the world should come and bring their 
 miserable than others; what shall we do? Besides grievances together, of body, mind, fortune, sores, 
 private miseries, we live in perpetual fear, and ulcers, madness, epilepsies, agues, and all those 
 danger of common enemies: we have Bellona's common calamities of beggary, want, servitude, 
 whips, and pitiful outcries, for Epithalamiums; 50 imprisonment, and lay them on a heap to be 
 for pleasant Musick, that fearful noise of Ord- equally divided, wouldst thou share alike, and 
 nance, Drums, and warlike Trumpets, still take thy portion, or be as thou art? Without 
 
 question thou wouldst be as thou art. If some 
 
 26 1 am wont to smile to myself at the empty vanity of Ttinifpr <hnu]c{ <3flv to mvp im nil onnfpnt 
 the palace, and the ambition of the market-place. Jupiter snouia say, tO give US ail content, 
 
 1 Bereavements (Lat. orbus) . « Nothing which necessity imposes is burdensome to 
 
 2 We men are tossed on the sea of fortune. men. 
 
 3 We suffer each one of us his own punishment. '' A day makes trouble less. 
 
 * Giralamo Cardano (1501-1576), an Italian philos- » And moreover it will delight us to remember those 
 
 opher, mathematician, and astrologer. things in time to come. 
 
 ' The solace of the unhappy is to have had companions ' All the way along there is no true pleasure. Some 
 
 in suffering. trouble intrudes upon our joys. 
 
232 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 "Jam faciam, quod vultis; eris tu, qui modo We are sent as so many soldiers into this 
 
 miles, world, to strive with it, the flesh, the devil; our 
 
 Mercator; tu, consultus modo, rusticus; hinc life is a warfare, and who knows it not? Non 
 
 vos, est ad asira mollis e terris via:^^ and therefore, 
 
 Vos hinc mutatis discedite partibus; eia! 5 per adventure, this world here is made troublesome 
 
 Quid statis? nolint." unto us, that, as Gregory notes, we should not be 
 
 Well, be 't so then : you, master soldier, ^^^f^'"^ ^^ ^^^ ^«^' «^^ -^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^ «^^ 
 
 Shall be a merchant; you, sir lawyer, ^ ^^' ' ',' •, ^ i -m .1 1 
 
 A country gentleman; go you to this, , ^?,^^ *^^° ^^^"^^ *« ^.^^^^"- ^^ *^^ ^^^ ^^ 
 
 That side you; why stand ye? It's well as 'tis. ^° *^«"^^^^^^^' ^f^ y^^ m misery m many 
 *^ grievances, on the other side you have many 
 
 Every man knows his own, but not others* pleasant sports, objects, sweet smells, delight- 
 defects and miseries; and His the nature of all some tastes, musick, meats, herbs, flowers, etc. 
 men still to reflect upon themselves, their own mis- to recreate your senses. Or put case thou art 
 fortunes, not to examine or consider other men's, 15 now forsaken of the world, dejected, con- 
 not to confer themselves with others: to re- temned, yet comfort thyself, as it was said to 
 count their miseries, but not their good gifts, Hagar in the wilderness, God sees thee, he takes 
 fortunes, benefits, which they have, to ruminate notice of thee: there is a God above that can 
 on their adversity, but not once to think on vindicate thy cause, that can relieve thee, 
 their prosperity, not what they have, but 20 And surely Seneca thinks he takes delight in 
 what they want: to look still on them that go seeing thee. The gods are well pleased when 
 before, but not on those infinite numbers that they see great men contending with adversity, as 
 come after. Whereas many a man would we are to see men fight, or a man with a beast. 
 think himself in heaven, a petty Prince, if he had But these are toys in respect. Behold, saith he, 
 but the least part of that fortune which thou so 25 a spectacle worthy of God: a good man contented 
 much repinest at, abhorrest, and accountest a with his estate. A tyrant is the best sacrifice to 
 most vile and wretched estate. How many Jupiter, as the ancients held, and his best ob- 
 thousands want that which thou hast! how ject a contented mind. For thy part then rest 
 many myriads of poor slaves, captives, of such satisfied, cast all thy care on him, thy burden on 
 as work day and night in coal-pits, tin-mines, 30 him, rely on him, trust on him, and he shall 
 with sore toil to maintain a poor living, of such nourish thee, care for thee, give thee thine heart's 
 as labour in body and mind, live in extreme desire; say with David, God is our hope and 
 anguish, and pain, all which thou art free from! strength, in troubles ready to be found, Psal. 46, 1. 
 O fortunatos nimium bona si sua nortnt!^^ For they that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount 
 Thou art most happy if thou couldst be con- 35 Sion, which cannot be removed, Psal. 125 1, 2. 
 tent, and acknowledge thy happiness. ... As the mountains are about Jerusalem, so is 
 
 Be content and rest satisfied, for thou art well the Lord about his people, henceforth and for- 
 in respect of others; be thankful for that thou ever. 
 hast, that God hath done for thee; he hath not 
 made thee a monster, a beast, a base creature, 40 
 
 ln:rJM;A"Ut7it, thouS\ wen a: ^^^ ^Tljomas ©berburg 
 
 thou art. ... 1581-1613 
 
 Our life is but short, a very dream, and while 
 we look about, immortalitas adest, eternity is at 45 j^ FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID 
 hand: our life is a pilgrimage on earth, which 
 
 wise men pass with great alacrity. If thou be in (From Characters 1614) 
 
 woe. sorrow, want, distress, in pain, or sickness, 
 
 think of that of our Apostle, God chastiseth A fair and happy milkmaid is a country 
 them whom He loveth. They that sow in tears 50 wench that is so far from making herself 
 shall reap in joy. Psal. 126, 6. As the furnace beautiful by art, that one look of hers is able to 
 proveth the potter's vessel, so doth temptation try put all face-physic out of countenance. She 
 men's thoughts, Eccl. 27, 5; 'tis for thy good, knows a fair look is but a dumb orator, to 
 periisses nisi periisses: hadst thou not been so commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All 
 visited, thou hadst been utterly undone; as 55 her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if 
 gold in the fire, so men are tried in adver- they had stolen upon her without her knowl- 
 sity. ... edge. The lining of her apparel which is 
 
 » O too happy ones, if only they reaUzed their own good ^^^^^^^ ' ^^ ^^^ better than OUtsides of tissue; for 
 fortune. V. Virg. Georg. H, 458. u The road from the earth to the stars is not so easy. 
 
THOMAS HOBBES 233 
 
 though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the sign of undervalue, either direct in their persons, 
 silk-worm, she is decked in innocency, a far or by reflection in their kindred, their friends, 
 better wearing. She doth not, with lying long their nation, their profession, or their name, 
 abed, spoil both her complexion and conditions: Hereby it is manifest that during the time 
 
 nature hath taught her, too immoderate sleep 5 men live without a common power to keep 
 is rust to the soul: she rises, therefore with them all in awe, they are in that condition 
 chanticleer, her Dame's cock, and at night which is called war; and such a war, as is of 
 makes the lamb her curfew. The golden ears every man, against every man. For "war" 
 of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps consisteth not in battle only, or in the act of 
 them, as if they wished to be bound and led lo fighting; but in a tract of time wherein the will 
 prisoners by the same hand that felled them, to contend by battle is sufficiently known: and 
 Her breath is her own, which scents all the year therefore the notion of "time" is to be con- 
 long of June, like a new-made haycock. She sidered in the nature of war, as it is in the 
 makes her hand hard with labour, and her nature of weather. For as the nature of foul 
 heart soft with pity; and when winters even- 15 weather lieth not in a shower or two of rain, but 
 ings fall early (sitting at her merry wheel) she in an inclination thereto of many days together; 
 sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune, so the nature of war consisteth not in actual 
 She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it fighting, but in the known disposition thereto 
 seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, during all the time there is no assurance to the 
 being her mind is to do well. She bestows her 20 contrary. All other time is "peace." 
 year's wages at next fair, and in choosing her Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time 
 
 garments counts no bravery i' the world like of war, where every man is enemy to every 
 decency. The garden and bee-hive are all man, the same is consequent to the time 
 her physic and chirurgery, and she lives the wherein men live without other security than 
 longer for it. She dares go alone and unfold 25 what their own strength and their own inven- 
 sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill tion shall furnish them withal. In such condi- 
 because she means none; yet to say truth, she is tion there is no place for industry, because the 
 never alone, for she is still accompanied with fruit thereof is uncertain, and consequently no 
 old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but culture of the earth; no navigation, nor use of 
 short ones, yet they have their efficacy, in that 30 the commodities that may be imported by sea; 
 they are not palled with ensuing idle cogita- no commodious building; no instruments of 
 tions. Thus lives she, and all her care is she moving and removing such things as require 
 may die in the Spring time, to have store of much force; no knowledge of the face of the 
 flowers stuck upon her winding sheet. earth; no account of time; no arts; no letters; 
 
 35 no society; and, which is worst of all, continual 
 
 fear and danger of violent death; and the life 
 
 tE^l)OtttaSf )^Obb$0 of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and 
 
 1588-1679 j^ jjj^y gggjjj strange to some man that has 
 
 40 not well weighed these things, that Nature 
 WAR should dissociate and render men apt to invade 
 
 ,_, r . .1. 1 i £jtri N and destroy o»e another; and he may therefore, 
 
 (From Lemaihan,^ 1651) ^^^ trusting to this inference, made from the 
 
 In the nature of man, we find three principal passions, desire perhaps to have the same con- 
 causes of quarrel. First, competition; secondly, 45 firmed by experience. Let him therefore 
 diffidence;^ thirdly, glory. The first maketh consider with himself, when taking a journey, 
 men invade for gain, the second for safety, and he arms himself, and seeks to go well accom- 
 the third for reputation. The first use violence, panied ; when going to sleep, he locks his doors ; 
 to make themselves masters of other men's when even in his house, he locks his chest; and 
 persons, wives, children, and cattle; the second, 50 this when he knows there be laws, and pubhc 
 to defend them; the third, for trifles, as a word, officers, armed to revenge allmjuries shall be 
 a smile, a different opinion, and any other done him; what opmion he has of his teliow 
 
 1 The Leviathan a creature of gigantic size and strength. subjects when he rides armed; of hlS feUow- 
 is used by Hobbes as the type of his ideal of the state. He citizens when he locks hlS dOOrS, ana 01 ms 
 
 a^aS? a'nf riio^ brthe"e""ci°e°'Xt 'a1> KlX'p^wS 55 chUdren and ^rvants when he locks his chests. 
 
 over its subjects, hence he makes Leviathan the symbol of Does he not there as much aCCUSe mankmQ Dy 
 "that mortal god" the strong state, armed, and dominant , . x- ^ j Aq \yy j^y words? But neither 
 
 over all. So, in the passage given here, he alludes to the niS actions, as l uo uy uiy wyi o 
 
 evils which follow "when men live without a common of us accuse man s nature m It. liie aesires 
 ■"^Ssu SackTtSd'rncl'in othera. and Other passions of man are in themselvea no 
 
234 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 sin. No more are the actions that proceed from by their industry to obtain them. And reason 
 those passicTis, till they know a law that for- suggesteth convenient articles of peace, upon 
 bids them; which till laws be made they cannot which men may be drawn to agreement, 
 know, nor can any law be made till they have 
 agreed upon the person that shall make it. 5 
 
 It may perad venture be thought there was 31^3"^^ ^iSlltOn 
 
 never such a time nor condition of war as this; 
 
 and I believe it was never generally so over all 1593-1683 
 
 the world, but there are many places where „ * T^xT^-ri.T^ -r^^-r^Tr^^^T^ » ^-rnr^ -n.-rr^^^-.-r^. 
 they live so now. For the savage people in ,o HAWKING, HUNTING, AND FISHING* 
 
 many places in America, except the govern- ^f^^j^ y^^ Complete Angler, fifth ed. 1676) 
 ment of small families, the concord whereof 
 
 dependeth upon natural lust, have no govern- Piscator. You are well overtaken, gentle- 
 ment at all, and live at this day in that brutish men, a good morning to you both; I have 
 manner, as I said before. Howsoever, it may 15 stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill to over- 
 be perceived what manner of life there would take you, hoping your business may occasion 
 be where there were no common power to fear you towards Ware, whither I am going this 
 by the manner of life which men that have fine, fresh May morning. 
 
 formerly lived under a peaceful government, Venator. Sir, I, for my part, shall almost 
 used to degenerate into a civil war. 20 answer your hopes; for my purpose is to drink 
 
 But though there had never been any time my morning's draught at the Thatched House 
 wherein particular men were in a condition of in Hoddesden; and I think not to rest till I 
 war one against another; yet in all times kings come thither, where I have appointed a friend 
 and persons of sovereign authority, because of or two to meet me: but for this gentleman that 
 their independency, are in continual jealousies 25 you see with me, I know not how far he intends 
 and in the state and posture of gladiators; his journey; he came so lately into my company, 
 having their weapons pointing, and their eyes that I have scarce had time to ask him the 
 fixed on one another; that is, their forts, question. 
 
 garrisons, and guns upon the frontiers of their Auceps. Sir, I shall by your favour, bear 
 kingdoms; and continual spies upon their 30 you company as far as Theobald's; and there 
 neighbours; which is a posture of war. But leave you, for then I turn up to a friend's house 
 because they uphold thereby the industry of who mews a hawk for me, 2 which I now long to 
 their subjects, there does not follow from it see. 
 
 that misery which accompanies the liberty of Ven. Sir, we are all so happy as to have a 
 particular men. 35 fine, fresh, cool morning, and I hope we shall 
 
 To this war of every man, against every each be the happier in the other's company, 
 man, this also is consequent — that nothing can And, gentlemen, that I may not lose yours, I 
 be unjust. The notions of right and wrong, shall either abate or amend my pace to enjoy 
 justice and injustice, have there no place, it; knowing that, as the Italians say, "Good 
 Where there is no common power, there is no 40 company in a journey makes the way to seem 
 law; where no law, no injustice. Force and the shorter." 
 
 fraud are in war the two cardinal virtues. Jus- Auc. It may do so. Sir, with the help of good 
 tice and injustice are none of the faculties discourse, which, methinks we may promise 
 neither of the body nor mind. If they were, from you that both look and speak so cheer- 
 they might be in a man that were alone in the 45 fully; and, for my part, I promise you as an 
 world, as well as his senses and passions. They invitation to it, that I will be as free and open- 
 are qualities that relate to men in society, not hearted as discretion will allow me to be with 
 in soUtude. It is consequent also to the same strangers. 
 
 condition, that there be no propriety, no domin- Ven. And, Sir, I promise the like, 
 ion, no "mine" and "thine" distinct; but only 50 Pisc. I am right glad to hear your answers: 
 that to be every man's that he can get, and for 
 
 so long as he can keep it. And thus much for ,, ^ This conversation is between Piscator (the fisherman). 
 
 ,1 .11 J... 1 • r t , . Venator (the hunter), and Auceps (the fowler, or bird- 
 
 tne HI condition which man by mere nature is catcher). These representatives of three kinds of sport, 
 
 actually placed in; though with a possibility to ™^* ,°ear Tottenham, a town some five miles north of 
 
 „„_^ , ,. ., • i.« _xi • xt- • London. They then appear to have taken the main 
 
 come out Ot it, consisting partly in the passions, 65 road toward Ware, a town on the river Lea. some fifteen 
 
 partly in his reason. ^^ twenty miles north of Tottenham. The Thatched 
 
 rpi . J.-U J. • f ± House on the Ware road, lay directly in their route: 
 
 ine passions tnat incline men to peace, are Theobald's was a magnificent country-seat, about six 
 
 fear of death; desire of such things as are miles north of Tottenham. 
 
 „^„^„„„„, .^ ' J. T • e^ "'o <iic 2 Takes care of a hawk durmg the mewing, or moultin* 
 
 necessary to commodious uvmg; and a hope season. 
 
IZAAK WALTON 235 
 
 and in confidence you speak the truth, I shall " Lucian, well skill' d in scoffing, this hath writ: 
 
 put on a boldness to ask you, Sir, whether Friend, that' s your folly which you think your wit: 
 
 business or pleasure caused you to be so early This you vent oft, void both of wit and fear, 
 
 up, and walk so fast; for this other gentleman Meaning another, when yourself you jeer:' 
 
 hath declared he is going to see a hawk that a 5 
 
 friend mews for him. If to this you add what Solomon says of 
 
 Ven. Sir, mine is a mixture of both, a little scoffers, that, "they are an abomination to 
 business and more pleasure: for I intend this mankind," (Prov. xxiv. 9), let him that thinks 
 day to do all my business, and then bestow fit, scoff on, and be a scoffer still; but I account 
 another day or two in hunting the otter, which, lo them enemies to me, and to all that love virtue 
 a friend, that I go to meet, tells me, is much and Angling. 
 
 pleasanter than any other chase whatsoever: And for you that have heard many grave, 
 
 howsoever I mean to try it; for to-morrow serious men pity Anglers; let me tell you, Sir] 
 morning we shall meet a pack of otter-dogs of there be many men that are by others taken 
 noble Mr. Sadler's,' upon Amwell Hill,* who 15 to be serious and grave men, which we contemn 
 will be there so early, that they intend to pre- and pity. Men that are taken to be grave, 
 vent^ the sun rising. because nature hath made them of a sour com- 
 
 Pisc. Sir, my fortune has answered my de- plexion, money-getting men, men that spend 
 sires; and my purpose is to bestow a day or all their time, first in getting, and next in 
 two in helping to destroy some of those vil- 20 anxious care to keep it; men that are con- 
 lanous vermin; for I hate them perfectly, demned to be rich, and then alwa3^s busy or 
 because they love fish so well, or rather, be- discontented: for these poor-rich-men, we 
 cause they destroy so much; indeed, so much. Anglers pity them perfectly, and stand in no 
 that, in my judgment all men that keep otter- need to borrow their thoughts to think ourselves 
 dogs ought to have pensions from the King to 25 so happy. No, no. Sir, we enjoy a contented- 
 encourage them to destroy the very breed of ness above the reach of such dispositions, and 
 those base otters, they do so much mischief, as the learned and ingenious Montaigne says 
 
 Ven. But what say you to the foxes of the like himself freely, "When my cat and I enter- 
 nation? Would not you as willingly have them tain each other with mutual apish tricks, as 
 destroyed? for doubtless they do as much mis- 30 playing with a garter, who knows but that I 
 chief as otters do. make my cat more sport than she makes me? 
 
 Pisc. Oh, Sir, if they do, it Is not so much to Shall I conclude her to be simple, that has her 
 me and my fraternity as those base vermin the time to begin or refuse to play as freely as I 
 otters do. myself have? Nay, who knows but that it is a 
 
 Auc. Why, Sir, I pray, of what fraternity are 35 defect of my not understanding her language 
 you, that you are so angry with the poor otters? (for doubtless cats talk and reason with one 
 
 Pisc. I am. Sir, a Brother of the Angle, and another) that we agree no better? And who 
 therefore an enemy to the otter: for you are to knows but that she pities me for being no wiser 
 note that we Anglers all love one another, and than to play with her, and laughs and censures 
 therefore do I hate the otter both for my own 40 my folly for making sport for her, when we two 
 and for their sakes who are of my brotherhood, play together?" 
 
 Ven. And I am a lover of hounds; I have Thus freely speaks Montaigne concerning 
 followed many a pack of dogs many a mile, and cats; and I hope I may take as great a hberty 
 heard many merry huntsmen make sport and to blame any man, and laugh at him too, let 
 scoff at anglers. 45 him be never so grave, that hath not heard what 
 
 Auc. And I profess myself a Falconer, and Anglers can say in the justification of their art 
 have heard many grave, serious men pity andrecreation; which I may again tell you is so 
 them, 'tis such a heavy, contemptible, dull full of pleasure, that we need not borrow their 
 recreation. thoughts to think ourselves happy. 
 
 Pisc. You know, gentlemen 'tis an easy 50 Ven. Sir, you have almost amazed me; for 
 thing to scoff at any art or recreation: a little though I am no scoffer, yet I have, T pray let 
 wit, mixed with ill-nature, confidence, and me speak it without offence, always looked upon 
 malice, will do it; but though they often venture Anglers as more patient and more simple men 
 boldly, yet they are often caught even in theip than I fear I shall find you to be. 
 own trap, according to that of Lucian, the 55 Pisc Sir, I hope you will not judge my 
 father of the family of scoffers. earnestness to be impatience: and for my 
 
 » A well-known sportsman and country-gentleman of simpHcity, if by that you mean a harmlessness, 
 the time.' „ „ ^ •, .u r «. or that simpUcity which was usually found in 
 
 * Amwell 13 a small vil age a few miles south of Ware. ^, . ... ^Y . ,. ^ _,^ „,^,^ „« ikv^^^.*- 
 
 ^Anticipate the sunrise. the primitive Christians, who were, as most 
 
236 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 Anglers are, quiet men, and followers of peace, have her wings scorched by the sun's heat, she 
 men that were so simply-wise as not to sell their flies so near it, but her mettle makes her care- 
 consciences to buy riches, and with them less of danger; for she then needs nothing, but 
 vexation and a fear to die; if you mean such makes her nimble pinions cut the fluid air, 
 simple men as lived in those times when there 5 and so makes her high way over the steepest 
 were fewer lawyers; when men might have had mountains and deepest rivers, and in her 
 a lordship safely conveyed to them in a piece of glorious career looks with contempt upon 
 parchment no bigger than your hand, though those high steeples and magnificent palaces 
 several sheets will not do it safely in this wiser which we adore and wonder at; from which 
 age; I say, Sir, if you take us Anglers to be 10 height I can make her to descend by a word 
 such simple men as I have spoken of, then from my mouth (which she both knows and 
 myself and those of my profession will be glad obeys), to accept of meat from my hand, to 
 to be so understood: but if by simplicity you own me for her master, to go home with me 
 meant to express a general defect in those that and be willing the next day to afford me the 
 profess and practise the excellent art of Angling 15 like recreation. 
 
 I hope in time to disabuse you, and make the And more; this element of air which I pro- 
 
 contrary appear so evidently, that, if you will fess to trade in, the worth of it is such, and it 
 but have patience to hear me, I shall remove is of such necessity, that no creature whatso- 
 all the anticipations that discourse, or time, or ever, not only those numerous creatures that 
 prejudice, have possessed you with against 20 feed on the face of the earth, but those various 
 that laudable and ancient art; for I know it is creatures that have their dwelling within the^ 
 worthy the knowledge and practice of a wise waters, — every creature that hath life in its 
 man. nostrils stands in need of my element. The 
 
 But, gentlemen, though I be able to do this, waters cannot preserve the fish without air, 
 I am not so unmannerly as to engross all the 25 witness the not breaking of ice in an extreme 
 discourse to myself; and therefore, you two frost: the reason is, for that if the inspiring and 
 having declared yourselves, the one to be expiring organ of any animal be stopped, it 
 a lover of hawks, the other of hounds, I shall suddenly yields to nature, and dies. Thus 
 be most glad to hear what you can say in the necessary is air to the existence both of fish 
 commendation of that recreation which each 30 and beasts, nay, even to man himself; that 
 of you love and practise; and having heard air, or breath of life with which God at first 
 what you can say, I shall be glad to exercise inspired mankind (Gen. ii. 7), he, if he wants 
 your attention with what I can say concerning it, dies presently, becomes a sad object to all 
 my own recreation and art of Angling, and by that loved and beheld him, and in an instant 
 this means we shall make the way to seem the 35 turns to putrefaction. 
 
 shorter: and if you like my motion, I would Nay, more, the very birds of the air, those 
 
 have Mr. Falconer to begin. that be not hawks, are both so many and so 
 
 Aug. Your motion is consented to with all useful and pleasant to mankind, that I must 
 my heart; and, to testify it, I will begin as you not let them pass without some observations: 
 have desired me. 40 they both feed and refresh him : feed him with 
 
 And first for the element that I used to trade their choice bodies, and refresh him with their 
 in, which is the air, an element of more worth heavenly voices. I will not undertake to men- 
 than weight, an element that doubtless exceeds tion the several kinds of fowl by which this is 
 both the earth and water; for though I some- done; and his curious palate pleased by day, 
 times deal in both, yet the air is most properly 45 and which with their very excrements^ afford 
 mine, I and my hawks use that most, and it him a soft lodging at night. These I will pass 
 yields us most recreation; it stops not the high by, but not those little nimble musicians of 
 soaring of my noble, generous falcon ; in it she the air, that warble forth their curious ditties, 
 ascends to such an height, as the dull eyes of with which nature hath furnished them to the 
 beasts and fish are not able to reach to; their 50 shame of art. 
 
 bodies are too gross for such high elevations: As first, the lark, when she means to rejoice, 
 
 in the air my troops of hawks soar up on high, to cheer herself and those that hear her, she 
 and when they are lost in the sight of men, then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends 
 then they attend upon and converse with the higher into the air; and, having ended her 
 gods; therefore I think my eagle is so justly 55 heavenly employment, grows then mute and 
 styled Jove's servant in ordinary: and that very sad to think she must descend to the dull 
 falcon, that I am now going to see, deserves earth, which she would not touch but for ne- 
 no meaner a title, for she usually in her flight cessity. 
 endangers herself, like the son of Daedalus, to ei. e., their feathers; used to stuff beds, pillows, etc. 
 
IZAAK WALTON 237 
 
 How do the blackbird and thrasseF with nourisheth, and descend to the least of crea- 
 their melodious voices bid welcome to the tures, how doth the earth afford us a doctrinal 
 cheerful spring, and in their fixed mouths example in the little emmet, who in the summer 
 warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument provides and lays up her winter provision, and 
 can reach to! 5 teaches man to do the hke! The earth feeds 
 
 Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their and carries those horses that carry us. If I 
 particular seasons, as namely the laverock,^ would be prodigal of my time and your pa- 
 the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest tience, what might not I say in commendation 
 robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead, of the earth? that puts limits to the proud and 
 
 But the nightingale, another of my airy lo raging sea, and by that means preserves both 
 creatures, breathes such sweet loud music out man and beast, that it destroys them not, as 
 of her little instrumental throat, that it might we see it daily doth those that venture upon the 
 make mankind to think miracles are not sea, and are there shipwrecked, drowned, and 
 ceased. He that at midnight, when the very left to feed haddocks; when we that are so 
 labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have 15 wise as to keep ourselves on earth, walk, and 
 very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, talk, and live, and eat, and drink, and go a 
 the natural rising and falling, the doubling hunting: of which recreation I will say a little, 
 and redoubling of her voice, might well be and then leave Mr. Piscator to the commenda- 
 hfted above earth, and say, "Lord, what tion of Angling. 
 
 music hast thou provided for the saints in 20 Hunting is a game for Princes and noble 
 lieaven, when thou affordest bad men such persons; it hath been Ijighly prized in all ages; 
 music on earth!" . . . it was one of the qualifications that Xenophon 
 
 Ven. Well, Sir, and I will now take my turn, bestowed on his Cyrus, that he was a hunter 
 and will first begin with a commendation of of wild beasts. Hunting trains up the younger 
 the earth, as you have done most excellently of 25 .iobility to the use of manly exercises in their 
 the air; the earth being that element upon -iper age. What more manly exercise than 
 which I drive my pleasant, wholesome, hungry hunting the wild-boar, the stag, the buck, 
 trade. The earth is a solid, settled element; the fox, or the hare! How doth it preserve 
 an element most universally beneficial both to health, and increase strength and activity! 
 man and beast: to men who have their several 30 And for the dogs that we use, who can com- 
 recreations upon it, as horse-races, hunting, mend their excellency to that height which 
 sweet smells, pleasant walks: the earth feeds they deserve? How perfect is the hound at 
 man, and all those several beasts that both smelling, who never leaves or forsakes his 
 feed him and afford him recreation. What first scent, but follows it through so many 
 pleasure doth man take in hunting the stately 35 changes and varieties of other scents, even over 
 stag, the generous buck, the wild-boar, the and in the water, and into the earth! What 
 cunning otter, the crafty fox, and the fearful music doth a pack of dogs then make to any 
 hare! And if 1 may descend to a lower game, man, whose heart and ears are so happy as 
 what pleasure is it sometimes with gins to to beset to the tune of such instruments! How 
 betray the very vermin of the earth! as namely, 40 will a right greyhound fix his eye on the best 
 the fitchet,9 the fulimart, the ferret, the pole- buck in a herd, single him out, and follow him, 
 cat, the mould warp, 1° and the like creatures and him only, through a whole herd of rascal' ^ 
 that live upon the face and within the bowels game, and still know and then kill him! For 
 of the earth! How doth the earth bring forth my hounds, I know the language of them, and 
 herbs, flowers, and fruits, both for physic and 45 they know the language and meanmg of one 
 the pleasure of mankind! and above all, to me another, as perfectly as we know the voices 
 at least, the fruitful vine, of which when I of those with whom we discourse daily, 
 drink moderately it clears my bjain, cheers I might enlarge myself in the commendation 
 
 my heart, and sharpens my wit. How could of hunting, and of the noble hound especially, 
 Cleopatra have feasted Mark Antony with 50 as also of the docibleness of dogs m general; 
 eight wild-boars roasted whole at one supper, and I might make many observations of land- 
 and other meat suitable, if the earth had not creatures, that for composition, order, figure, 
 been a bountiful mother? But to pass by the and constitution, approach nearest to the 
 mighty elephant, which the earth breeds and completeness and understanding of man; es- 
 
 V Throstle, son.-thrush. 55 pecially of those creatur^ which Moses m the 
 
 8 Lark, skylark. ,^ ^ , law permitted to the Jews, (i^v. ix. J-»;, 
 
 9 The filchet, or fitchew, the fulimart (fumart, or foul- , • v , cloVCn hoofs and chew the Cud, 
 mart), and the pole-cat closely resemble each other, all wnicn nave ciovcu iiuuio a , 
 
 IndbadV^^ '^"^ ^^"^^^ ^' *^^ "^'''''''' "^ ''"'"' " "Animals unfit to chase or kill on account of ignoble 
 
 *°io Thrcoinmon mole. quality or lean condition." 
 
238 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 which I shall forbear to name, because I will increase of wood to be from water of rain, or 
 not be so uncivil to Mr. Piscator, as not to from dew, and not to be from any other ele- 
 allow him a time for the commendation of ment. And they affirm, they can reduce this 
 angling, which he calls an art; but doubtless wood back again to water; and they affirm, 
 'tis an easy one: and, Mt. Auceps, I doubt we 5 also, the same may be done in any animal or 
 shall hear a watery discourse of it, but I hope vegetable. And this I take to be a fair testi- 
 ' twill not be a long one. mony of the excellency of my element of 
 
 Auc. And I hope so too, though I fear it water, 
 will. The water is more productive than the earth. 
 
 Pisc. Gentlemen, let not prejudice pre- 10 Nay, the earth hath no fruitfulness without 
 possess you, I confess my discourse is like to showers or dews; for all the herbs, and flowers 
 prove suitable to my recreation, calm and and fruits, are produced and thrive by the 
 quiet; we seldom take the name of God into water; and the very minerals are fed by streams 
 our mouths, but it is either to praise Him or that run underground, whose natural course 
 pray to Him ; if others use it vainly in the midst 15 carries them to the tops of many high moun- 
 of their recreations, so vainly as if they meant tains, as we see by several springs breaking 
 to conjure, I must tell you it is neither our forth on the tops of the highest hills; and this 
 fault nor our custom; we protest against it. is also witnessed by the daily trial and testi- 
 But pray remember, I accuse nobody; for as mony of several miners. 
 
 I would not make "a watery discourse," so 20 Nay, the increase of those creatures that 
 I would not put too much vinegar into it; nor are bred and fed in the water are not only 
 would I raise the reputation of my own art more and more miraculous, but more advan- 
 by the diminution of another's. And so tageous to man, not only for the lengthening 
 much for the prologue to what I meant to of his life, but for the preventing of sickness; 
 say. • 25 for 'tis observed by the most learned physi- 
 
 And now for the water, the element that I cians, that the casting off of Lent and other 
 trade in. The water is the eldest daughter of fish days, which hath not only given the lie 
 the creation, the element upon which the to so many learned, pious, wise founders of 
 Spirit of God did first move (Gen. i. 2), the colleges, for which we should be ashamed, 
 element which God commanded to bring forth 30 hath doubtless been the chief cause of those 
 living creatures abundantly; and without which many putrid, shaking, intermitting agues, 
 those that inhabit the land, even all creatures unto which this nation of ours is now more 
 that have breath in their nostrils, must sud- subject than those wiser countries that feed 
 denly return to putrefaction. Moses, the great on herbs, salads, and plenty of fish; of which 
 law giver, and chief philosopher, skilled in all 35 it is observed in story, that the greatest part 
 the learning of the Egyptians, who was called of the world now do. And it may be fit to re- 
 the friend of God, and knew the mind of the member that Moses (Lev. xi. 9, Deut. xiv. 9) 
 Almighty, names this element the first in the appointed fish to be the chief diet for the best 
 creation; this is the element upon which the commonwealth that ever yet was. 
 Spirit of God did first move, and is the chief 40 And it is observable, not only that there are 
 ingredient in the creation: many philosophers fish, as namely, the whale, three times as big 
 have made it to comprehend all the other ele- as the mighty elephant, that is so fierce in 
 ments, and most allow it the chief est in the battle; but that the mightiest feasts have been 
 mixtion^2 of ^U living creatures. of fish. The Romans in the height of their 
 
 There be that profess to believe that all 45 glory have made fish the mistress of all their 
 bodies are made of water, and may be reduced entertainments; they have had music to usher 
 back again to water only; they endeavour to in their sturgeons, lampreys, ^^ and mullets, 
 demonstrate it thus: — which they would purchase at rates rather to 
 
 Take a willow, or any like speedy-growing be wondered at than believed. He that shall 
 plant, newly rooted in a box or barrel full of 50 view the writings of Macrobius,^^ or Varro,^^ 
 earth, weigh them all together exactly when may be confirmed and informed of this, and of 
 the trees begin to grow, and then weigh all ,,rpu , u ^^ „ ,, , 
 
 , ., i-j ii . • • 1 p -i "The lamprey, when full grown, resembles an eel, 
 
 together after the tree is mcreased from its and is considered a delicacy. 
 
 first rooting to weigh an hundred pound weight „ " ^ Latin writer of the fifth century. In his Convivia 
 
 ,, ", .J „ , .11 -11 baturnalia, he speaks oi a certam Roman villa which, 
 
 more than when it was first rooted and weighed; 55 although not large, was put up for sale at four million 
 
 and you shall find this augment of the tree to sesterces, because of its fish ponds ,,,^ ^^ ^ ^ , 
 
 , •^.., . ,1 J- • .• e 11 ^^ Marcus Terentius Varro Reatinus (llG-28 B. C), a 
 
 be without the diminution OI one drachm voluminous writer, called "the most learned of the 
 
 weight of the earth. Hence they infer this Romans." in his treatise on husbandry he speaks of the 
 
 •^^ *' fresh and salt water fish p>onds of the Romans. {De Re 
 
 " Mixture. Rustica, III. 17, 2). 
 
IZAAK WALTON 231 
 
 the incredible value of their fish and fish- saved; but his second will was, that those onl^ 
 POiids. should be saved that did live answerable U 
 
 that degree of grace which he had offered o 
 
 afforded them." 
 SELECTION FROM THE LIFE OF 5 But the justifying of this doctrine did no 
 HOOKER prove of so bad consequence, as the kindnes 
 
 of Mrs. Churchman's curing him of his lati 
 (From Walton's Lives, 1665) distemper and cold; for that was so gratefulb 
 
 apprehended by Mr. Hooker, that he though" 
 I return to Mr. Hooker in his college, i where lo himself bound in conscience to believe al 
 he continued his studies with all quietness, for that she said: so the good man came to b( 
 the space of three years; about which time he persuaded by her, "that he was a man o 
 entered into sacred orders, being then made tender constitution; and that it was best fo] 
 deacon and priest, and, not long after, was him to have a wife, that might prove a nurs( 
 appointed to preach at St. Paul's Cross. 15 to him; such a one as might both prolong hi; 
 
 In order to which Sermon, to London he life, and make it more comfortable; and sucl 
 came, and immediately to the Shunamite's a one she could and would provide for him 
 house ;2 which is a house so called, for that, if he thought fit to marry." And he, not con- 
 besides the stipend paid the preacher, there is sidering that "the children of this world ar( 
 provision made also for his lodging and diet 20 wiser in their generation than the children oJ 
 for two days before, and one day after his light;" but, like a true Nathanael, fearing nc 
 sermon. This house was then kept by John guile, because he meant none, did give hei 
 Churchman, sometime a draper of good note such a power as Eleazar was trusted with,— 
 in Watling Street, upon whom poverty had you may read it in the book of Genesis, — when 
 at last come like an armed man, and brought 25 he was sent to choose a wife for Isaac; for even 
 him into a necessitous condition; which, though so he trusted her to choose for him, promising 
 it be a punishment, is not always an argument upon a fair summons to return to London, and 
 of God's disfavor; for he was a virtuous man. accept her choice; and he did so in that, oi 
 I shall not yet give the like testimony of his about the year following. Now, the wife 
 wife, but leave the reader to judge by what 30 provided for him was her daughter Joan, who 
 follows. But to this house Mr. Hooker came brought him neither beauty nor portion: and 
 so wet, so weary, and weatherbeaten, that he for her conditions, they were too like that wife's, 
 was never known to express more passion, which is by Solomon compared to a dripping 
 than against a friend that dissuaded him from house; so that the good man had no reason to 
 footing it to London, and for finding him no 35 "rejoice in the wife of his youth;" but too just 
 easier a horse, — supposing the horse trotted cause to say with the holy prophet, "Woe is 
 when he did not; — and at this time also, such me, that I am constrained to have my habita- 
 a faintness and fear possessed him, that he tion in the tents of Kedar." 
 would not be persuaded two days' rest and This choice of Mr. Hooker's — if it were his 
 
 quietness, or any other means could be used 40 choice — may be wondered at; but let us con- 
 to make him preach his Sunday 's sermon : but a sider that the Prophet Ezekiel says, "There 
 warm bed, and rest, and drink proper for a is a wheel within a wheel;" a secret sacred 
 cold, given him by Mrs. Churchman, and her wheel of Providence, — most visible in mar- 
 diligent attendance added unto it, enabled him riages, — guided by His hand that "allows not 
 to perform the ojQBce of the day, which was in 45 the race to the swift" nor "bread to the wise," 
 or about the year 1581. nor good wives to good men: and he that can 
 
 And in this first public appearance to the bring good out of evil — for mortals are blind 
 world, he was not so happy as to be free from to this reason — only knows why this blessing 
 exceptions against a point of doctrine delivered was denied to patient Job, to meek Moses, 
 in his sermon; which was, "That in God there 50 and to our as meek and patient Mr. Hooker, 
 were two wills; an antecedent and a consequent But so it was; and let the reader cease to won- 
 will; his first will that all mankind should be der, for affliction is a divine diet; which though 
 
 it be not pleasing to mankind, yet Almighty 
 
 1 i. e., Corpus Christi College, Oxford. Hooker was sent Qod hath often, very often, imposed it as good, 
 
 to Oxford in 1567, when he was in his fifteenth year. He ^, , , ., , ', .'' , .i J^ ,.,, ", 
 
 graduated M. A. in 1577, and obtained his Fellowship in 55 though bitter phySlC tO tnose cnildren WhOSe 
 the same year. About three years later (having taken gouls are dearest to him. 
 holy orders in 1581) he received the appointment to a j i .i • • ^ xu« j 
 
 preach in London to which Walton here refers. And by this marriage the good man was 
 
 2 A reference to the woman of Shunem (Shunamite) who drawn from the tranquility of his College; from 
 
 entertained the prophet Elisha, and constrained him to ^, , r • j. r i r i 
 
 -?at bread." u Kings, iv, 8:11. the garden of piety, of pleasure, of peace,- and 
 
240 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 a sweet conversation, into the thorny wilder- iflOllU C^fltk 3^ 
 
 ness of a busy world; into those corroding cares 1 9 1 aac ^ 
 
 that attend a married priest, and a country 1601.-1665 
 
 parsonage; which was Drayton-beauchamp in PRTTTri 
 
 Buckinghamshire, not far from Aylesbury, and 5 
 
 in the diocese of Lincoln; to which he was (From Microcosmographie, 1628) \ 
 
 presented by John Cheney Esq , -then patron ^ ^^.^.^ .^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ „^^ ^^^^ ^ .^ 
 
 of it-the 9th of December, 1584, where he ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^.^ observation is the 
 
 behaved himself so as to give no occasion o ^^thography. He is the surgeon of old authors, 
 evil but as St Pau adviseth a minister of 10^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ignorance. 
 God-''m much patience, m afflictions in jj^ converses much in fragments and Desunt 
 anguishes, in necessities, m poverty and no ^^i^^, , ^^^ -^ ^^ .^^^ .^ ^^.^^ ^^^^ ^• 
 doubt .'in long suffering; 'yet troubhng no ^^ -^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ 
 man with his discontents and wants. jj^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^jl ^^.^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^-^ 
 
 And m this condition he continued about a 15 ^^^ ^^.^^^ ^jj j^^^^. ^^ ^3^^ in 
 
 year; m which time his two pupils, Edwin ^^^^^ Latin. He tastes styles, as some 
 bandys3 and George Cranmer, took a journey ^escreeter palates do wine; and tells you which 
 to see their tutor; where they found him with -^ j^ ^^.^^ sophi^ated and bastard, 
 
 a book m his hand -It was the Odes of Horace jj-^ ^^ ^^^^^ .^ ^ miscellany of old words, 
 -he being then like humble and innocent Abel, 20 ^^^^^^^^ { ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^J ^^^ entombed 
 tendmg his small allotment of sheep m a ^ ^ ^^^ ^^^ modernest man he follows 
 
 common field, which he told his pupils he was -^ piautus.3 He writes omneis at length, and 
 forced to do then, for his servant was gone ^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ .^ ^^^^ incomform- 
 home to dine, and assist his wife to do some ^^^j^ ^ He is a troublesome vexer of the dead, 
 necessary household business But when his25^j^.^j^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^ . ^^^^ ^.^^ ^^ ^^^ 
 
 servant returned and released him, then his judgment of his castigations. He is one that 
 
 two pupils attended him unto his house where ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^jj ^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^jj^ 
 
 their best entertainment was his quiet com- ^^^^ .^^^ ^^j.^^ ^.^^ ^^ comments. 
 
 pany, which was presently denied them; for 
 
 Richard was called to rock the cradle; and the 30 
 
 rest of their welcome was so like this, that ^{x tKJ^OlttaS? llBrOtDltt 
 
 they stayed but till next morning, which was 
 
 time enough to discover and pity their tutor's 1605-1682 
 
 condition; and they having in that time re- T^T:.Ari.TT aatta TA/nv/r^-nrnAXTrnTr 
 
 joiced in the remembrance, and then para- 35 DEATH AND IMMORTALITY 
 
 phrased* on the many innocent recreations of (From Hydriotaphia: Urn Burial, 1658) 
 
 their younger days, and other like diversions, ^-^ . ,, j ■, i ,7 11 
 
 J xil u • u- ^ u ^^^^4. ^ Now since these dead bones^ have already 
 
 and thereby given him as much present com- 4. 1 i. j +u r • f tvt ^u ^ u j 
 
 J. . .1 ui^ 4.u^ Z^^ ( ^^A +^ out-lasted the living ones of Methuselah, and 
 
 fort as they were able, they were forced to. , , ^ , ,,,. nrri 
 
 leave him to the company of his wife Joan, 40'° f ^^'^ underground, and thm walls of clay, 
 and seek themselves a quieter lodging for next ""'"""'F" ''"*'>« ?';:°°g and specious buildmgs 
 night. But at their parting from him, Mr. ^l^"'* '*; ^""^ "J^-^^y ^^^ ""'^'^■^ *!>« <'™'"« 
 
 Cranmer said, "Good tutor, I am sorry your i John Earle, a learned and witty man and a successful 
 
 Ir^f i"a fallpn in nn hptfpr ornimH nti in vmir writer, was Chaplain to Charles II in exile, and after tho 
 
 lot IS tallen m no Detter grouna, as lO your Restoration became successively Bishop of Worcester and 
 parsonage; and more sorry that your wife 45 of Salisbury. The nature of the Microsmogmphie, his 
 
 T^rr.i7Pa nrvf Q mr.rP Pnmfnr+nhlp nnTnnnnmn ^^^^^ work, is suggested in its sub-title— .4 Piece of the 
 
 proves not a more COmioriaOie companion, world Discoverefiin Essays and Characters. The numerous 
 
 after you have wearied yourself in your restless character studies of the seventeenth century "form a link 
 
 ,^<-.,ri;oa " Tr, -arhr^rr, fViP crnnrl mon rpnli'prl between the 'humors' of the old comedy on the one 
 
 fetudies. lO Whom tne gOOa man replied, hand and the familiar essay and novel of the eighteenth 
 
 "My dear George, if saints have usually a century on the other." Among these "character- 
 
 double share in the miseries of this life, I, that so '"l'S:y''t;lu^°'^'\tSS':!!!!Tike text of the ,„rk 
 
 am none, ought not to repine at what my wise he is editmg. 
 
 Creator hath appointed for me; but labour-as ,«', ^B'°a^HTn'ce°he' te'Sto';;" .°!„e be°oreX''LS 
 
 indeed I do daily — to submit mine to his scholar and writer Varro, who died about 28 B. C. and 
 :il ^^A ■^^c^r.r^^^ ^^,T o^„l ;« r^ailanf^a ot^^I before tlic Augustau Age of Latin literature, — the age of 
 
 Will, and possess my soul in patience and Vergil, Horace:, and their groat contemporaries. 
 
 peace." 55 * These are instances of the obsolete or antiquated 
 
 Latin usage followed by the pedantic critic. 
 'Sir Edwin Sandys (c. 1561-1629), who assisted the i This essay was suggested by the discovery of "be- 
 
 Pilgrimsin chartering the Mayflower. tween forty and fifty urns" in a field of Old Walsingham, 
 
 * i. e., repeated their "innocent recreations," with such Norfolk, containing human bones, with boxes, combs, and 
 
 amplification or difference as there is between a paraphrase other articles. In a preceding chapter, Browne contends 
 
 npi 
 idl 
 
 the original text. that "these were the urns of Romans.' 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE 241 
 
 and tramplings of three conquests :2 what mal-con tent of Job, who cursed not the day oi 
 
 l)rince can promise such diuturnity unto his his Hfe, but his nativity; content to have so 
 
 rehcks, or might not gladly say, far been, as to have a title to future being, 
 
 Sic ego componi versus in ossa veUmP , ^J^^^^f^./^^ ^f ^^^f^^ ^^'^ but in an hidden 
 _ 5 state 01 hte, and as it were, an abortion. 
 Time which antiquates antiquities, and hath What song the Syrens sang, or what name 
 an art to make dust of all things, hath yet Achilles assumed when he hid himself among 
 spared these minor monuments. In vain we women, though puzzling questions, are not 
 hope to be known by open and visible conserva- beyond all conjecture. What time the per- 
 tories,^ when to be unknown was the means of 10 sons of these ossuaries^ entered the famous 
 their continuation, and obscurity their protec- nations of the dead, and slept with princes and 
 1 ion. If they died by violent hands, and were counsellors, might admit a wide solution. But 
 thrust into their urns, these bones become who were the proprietaries of these bones, or 
 considerable, and some old philosophers would what bodies these ashes made up, were a ques- 
 honour them, whose souls they conceived most istion above antiquarism; not to be resolved by 
 pure, which were thus snatched from their man, nor easily perhaps by spirits, except we 
 bodies, and to retain a stronger propension consult the provincial guardians, i° or tutelary 
 unto them;^ whereas they weariedly left a observators. Had they made as good provision 
 languishing corpse, and with faint desires of for their names, as they have done for their 
 re-union. If they fell by long and aged decay, 20 relicks, they had not so grossly erred in the 
 yet wrapt up in the bundle of time, they fall art of perpetuation. But to subsist in bones, 
 into indistinction, and make but one blot with and be but pyramidally extant, is a fallacy in 
 infants. If we begin to die when we live, and duration. Vain ashes which in the oblivion of 
 long life be but a prolongation of death, our names, persons, times, and sexes, have found 
 life is a sad composition; we live with death, 25 unto themselves a fruitless continuation, and 
 and die not in a moment. How many pulses only arise unto late posterity, as emblems of 
 made up the life of Methuselah, were work mortal vanities, antidotes against pride, vain- 
 for Archimedes: common counters sum up the glory, and madding vices. Pagan vain-glories 
 life of Moses his man.^ Our days become con- which thought the world might last forever, 
 siderable, like petty sums, by minute accumu-3ohad encouragement for ambition; and finding 
 lations; where numerous fractions make up no atropos^^ unto the immortality of their 
 but small round numbers; and our days of a names, were never dampt with the necessity 
 span long, make not one little finger.^ of oblivion. Even old ambitions had the ad- 
 If the nearness of our last necessity brought vantage of ours, in the attempts of their vain- 
 a nearer conformity into it, there was a happi- 35 glories, who acting early, and before the prob- 
 ness in hoary hairs, and no calamity in half able meridian of time, have by this time found 
 senses. But the long habit of living indis- great accomplishment of their designs, whereby 
 poseth us for dying; when avarice makes us the ancient heroes have already out-lasted their 
 the sport of death, when even David grew monuments, and mechanical preservations, 
 politickly cruel, and Solomon could hardly be 40 But in this latter scene of time, we cannot ex- 
 said to be the wisest of men. But many are pect such mummies unto our memories, when 
 too early old, and before the date of age. Ad- ambition may fear the prophecy of Ehas,^^ 
 versity stretcheth our days, misery makes and Charles the Fifth can never hope to live 
 Alcmena's nights,^ and time hath no wings within two Methuselahs of Hector, 
 unto it. But the most tedious being is that 45 
 which can unwish itself, content to be nothing (^ J j^g^^'o^J'eT "^^"^^ ^°°^^ ^^^^ deposited in these urns 
 
 or never to have been, which was beyond the lo The guardian spirits of a particular place; tutelary 
 
 observators, guardian angels of the persons buried there. 
 
 2 English, Danish, and Roman. ^^ The Fate who cuts the thread of life. 
 
 3 Thus I wish to be buried when I am turned into " i. e., of the prophet Elijah, called Elias in the Neio 
 bones. Testament. The prophecy was, that the world was to last 
 
 * Means of preservation. but six thousand years. The world would thus come to 
 8 Inclination towards them. an end in 2000 a. d. Should this prophecy be fulfilled, 
 6 i. e., Moses's man. The average length of man's life as Charles V., who died in 1558, could not possibly be re- 
 estimated by Moses (Pslm. xc. 10) is but seventy or membered more than 442 years, while Hector (assuming 
 eighty years, hence while it would take a great mathema- his death to have taken place about 1100 or 1200 B. C.) 
 tician {an Archimedes) to calculate the number of prxlses, had been already remembered some 2700 or 2800 years 
 or heart-beats in the life of Methuselah, ordinary reckon- when Browne wrote. Therefore in 1658, the date of 
 ers can readily sum up the short span of man's life Browne's essay. Hector's fame had already exceeded the 
 according to Moses' computation. greatest possible duration of that of Charles V. by over 
 ' i. e., not one hundred years. According to an ancient two thousand years, or by more than double the length of 
 method of counting on the fingers, the crooking of the Methuselah's life (tivo Methuselahs), which would be 
 little finger of the right hand signified a hundred. only 1938 years. According to a passage m the Talmud, 
 8 In the story of Alcmena, Jupiter delays the rising of the tradition of this prophecy was handed down "by the 
 Phoebus, and makea one night as long as three. house " (i. e. the disciples or school) of Elijah. 
 
242 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 And therefore, restless inqjietude for the tion and judgment of himself. Who cares to 
 
 diuturnity of our memories unto present con- subsist like Hippocrates's patients, or Achilles's 
 
 siderations seems a vanity almost out of date, horses in Homer, under naked nominations, 
 
 and superannuated piece of folly. We cannot without deserts and noble acts, which are the 
 
 hope to live so long in our names, as some have 5 balsam of our memories, the entelechia^"^ and 
 
 done in their persons. One face of Janus ^^ holds soul of our subsistences? To be nameless in 
 
 no proportion unto the other. 'Tis too late worthy deeds, exceeds an infamous history, 
 
 to be ambitious. The great mutations of the The Canaanitish woman lives more happily 
 
 world are acted, or time may be too short for without a name, than Herodias with one. 
 our designs. To extend our memories by monu- 10 And who had not rather have been the good 
 
 ments, whose death we daily pray for, and thief, than Pilate? 
 
 whose duration we cannot hope, without injury But the iniquity of oblivion blindly seat- 
 to our expectations in the advent of the last tereth her poppy, and deals with the memory 
 day, were a contradiction to our beliefs. We of men without distinction to merit of perpe*- 
 whose generations are ordained in this setting 15 tuity. Who can but pity the founder of the 
 part of time, are providentially taken off from pyramids? Herostratus lives that burnt the 
 such imaginations; and, being necessitated to temple of Diana, he is almost lost that built it. 
 eye the remaining particle of futurity, are nat- Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's 
 urally constituted unto thoughts of the next horse, ^^ confounded that of himself. In vain 
 world, and cannot excusably decline the con- 20 we compute our felicities by the advantage of 
 sideration of that duration, which maketh our good names, since bad have equal durations, 
 pyramids pillars of snow, and aU that's past a and Thersites is like to live as long as Agamem- 
 moment. non. Who knows whether the best of men be 
 
 Circles and right lines limit and close all known, or whether there be not more remark- 
 bodies, and the mortal right lined circle^* must 25 able persons forgot, than any that stand re- 
 conclude and shut up all. There is no antidote membered in the known account of time? 
 against the opium of time, which temporally Without the favour of the everlasting register, 
 considereth all things: our fathers find their the first man had been as unknown as the last, 
 graves in our short memories, and sadly tell and Methusaleh's long life had been his only 
 us how we may be buried in our survivors. 30 chronicle. 
 
 Grave-stones tell truth scarce forty years. Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part 
 
 Generations pass while some trees stand, and must be content to be as though they had not 
 
 old famiUes last not three oaks. To be read been, to be found in the register of God, not 
 
 by bare inscriptions like many in Gruter,^^ to in the record of man. Twenty-seven names 
 hope for eternity by enigmatical epithets or 35 make up the first story before the flood, and 
 
 first letters of our names, to be studied by the recorded names ever since contain not one 
 
 antiquaries, who we were, and have new names Hving century. The number of the dead long 
 
 given us like many of the mummies, are cold exceedeth all that shall live. The night of 
 
 consolations unto the students of perpetuity, time far surpasseth the day, and who knows 
 even by everlasting languages. 40 when was the equinox? Every hour adds unto 
 
 To be content that times to come should only that current arithmetick, which scarce stands 
 
 know there was such a man, not caring whether one moment. And since death must be the 
 
 they know more of him, was a frigid ambition in Lucina^^ of life, and even Pagans could doubt, 
 
 Cardan ;i® disparaging his horoscopal inclina- ^i. ,«., ^ m, * • * . • i.- 
 
 ' ^ ° ° ^ the 16th century. The reference is to a sentence m his 
 
 18 Janus, the Roman god of beginnings, and hence autobiography, which may be translated as follows: 
 
 especially associated with gates and other places of en- " I wish to be known because I am, I do not require that 
 
 trance. He was represented with two faces, looking in ^ should be known as I am." 
 
 different directions, possibly because at the moment of " Entelechy, the complete realization, or full expres- 
 
 beginning we naturally look backward to what is ended sioii of a thing. Here, our noble acts are regarded as the 
 
 and forward to what is to come. Browne (adopting this entelechia, the perfect, or essential, part of our subsistence, 
 
 interpretation) declares that the face of Janus which or remembrance upon earth. 
 
 ooks forward to the future, is out of all proportion to the '^ The historian Dion Cassius, after commenting on 
 
 face which looks towards the past; i. e. that the world's tbe delight which the Emperor Hadrian (Adrian) took in 
 
 past will greatly exceed its future, the larger part of the hunting, adds: "What he [Hadrian] did for a horse called 
 
 six thousand years being already spent. Baristhenes, which he commonly used for hunting, may 
 
 »'Le., the Greek letter theta, 6, the symbol of death. ^9^ "^ ^t^ ^2^ /■^'^l^® excess of this passion carried him. 
 
 Among the Greeks, when a man's fate was decided by T""^ m?^"" ^^ "^'K^iV^'^^*^ him a monument in the form 
 
 vote, those in favor of his death marked their ballots with ?^^t P If ^ T T^ ^L^^j^Efr^'l ^'' epitaph Hadnan 
 
 +v.^ i^f,^,. a t^o* K^;.,™ +u„ c-o* i„t-+«, t tu J was buried in a splendid mausoleum on the bank of the 
 
 the letter 9, that being the first letter of the word Tiber. There is an inscription to him in the interior of the V 
 
 Wdmros. or death. The fatal letter thus came to be tomb, which was not explored until 1825, so that hia ) 
 
 a sign ot death, and as such is found on Roman grave- epitaph was not eventually confounded by time, as waa 'll 
 
 stones. the case when Browne wrote. 
 
 15 Jan Gruter, a Dutch scholar, whose principal work " The Roman goddess of birth. Death is the Ludna 
 
 was a book of Roman inscriptions. (Lat. lux, light, lucina, light-bringing), or heaveak 
 
 ^A famous Italian mathematician and scientist of power that presides over our birth into a true life. 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE 24^ 
 
 whether thus to live were to die; since our below the moon : men have been deceived ever 
 
 longest sun sets at right descensions,2o and in their flatteries, above the sun, and studiec 
 
 makes but winter arches, and therefore it can- conceits to perpetuate their names in heaven 
 
 not be long before we lie down in darkness, The various cosmography of that part hath 
 
 and have our light in ashes ;2i since the brother 5 already varied the names of contrived constel- 
 
 of death daily haunts us with dying mementos, lations; Nimrod is lost in Orion, and Osyris ir 
 
 and time that grows old in itseK, bids us hope the dog-star. While we look for incorruptior 
 
 no long duration;— diuturnity is a dream and in the heavens, we find they are but hke th^ 
 
 folly of expectation. earth;— durable in their main bodies, alterable 
 
 Darkness and light divide the course of time, lo in their parts; whereof, beside comets and new 
 
 and oblivion shares with memory a great part stars, perspectives^* begin to tell tales, and the 
 
 even of our Hving beings; we slightly remember spots that wander about the sun, with Phae- 
 
 our fehcities, and the smartest strokes of afflic- ton's favour would make clear conviction, 
 
 tion leave but short smart upon us. Sense en- There is nothing strictly immortal, but im- 
 
 dureth no extremities, and sorrows destroy us 15 mortality. Whatever hath no beginning, may 
 
 or themselves. To weep into stones are fables, be confident of no end; — which is the peculiar 
 
 AflSictions induce callosities; miseries are of that necessary essence that cannot destroy 
 
 shppery, or fall Uke snow upon us, which not- itself; — and the highest strain of omnipotency 
 
 withstanding is no unhappy stupidity. To be to be so powerfully constituted as not to suffer 
 
 ignorant of evils to come, and forgetful of 20 even from the power of itself: all others have a 
 
 evils past, is a merciful provision in nature, dependent being and within the reach of de- 
 
 whereby we digest the mixture of our few struction. But the suflSciency of Christian 
 
 and evil days, and, our delivered senses not immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and 
 
 relapsing into cutting remembrances, our sor- the quahty of either state after death, makes 
 
 rows are not kept raw by the edge of repetitions. 25 a folly of posthumous memory. God who can 
 
 A great part of antiquity contented their hopes only destroy our souls, and hath assured our 
 
 of subsistency with a transmigration of their resurrection, either of our bodies or names hath 
 
 souls, — a good way to continue their memories, directly promised no duration. Wherein there 
 
 while, having the advantage of plural succes- is so much of chance, that the boldest expect- 
 sions, they could not but act something re- 30 ants have found unhappy frustration; and to 
 
 markable in such variety of beings, and enjoy- hold long subsistence, seems but a scape in 
 
 ing the fame of their passed selves, make oblivion. But man is a noble animal, splendid 
 
 accumulation of glory unto their last durations, in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnis- 
 
 Others, rather than be lost in the uncom- ing nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor 
 
 for table night of nothing, were content to re- 35 omitting ceremonies of bravery in the infamy ^^ 
 
 cede into the common being, and make one of his nature. 
 
 particle of the public soul of all things, which Life is a pure flame, and we live by an in- 
 
 was no more than to return into their unknown visible sun within us. A small fire sufficeth 
 
 and divine original again. Egyptian ingenuity for life, great flames seemed too little after 
 
 was more unsatisfied, contriving their bodies 40 death, while men vainly affected precious 
 
 in sweet consistencies, ^^ to attend the return pyres, and to burn like Sardanapalus; but the 
 
 of their souls. But all was vanity, feeding the wisdom of funeral laws found the folly of 
 
 wind, and folly. The Egyptian mummies, prodigal blazes, and reduced undoing fires 
 
 .which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice unto the rule of sober obsequies, wherein few 
 
 now consumeth. Mummy is become merchan- 45 could be so mean as not to provide wood, pitch, 
 
 dise,23 Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is a mourner, and an urn. 
 
 sold for balsams. Five languages secured not the epitaph of 
 
 In vain do individuals hope for immortality, Gordianus.^^ The man of God^^ lives longer 
 
 '>r any patent from oblivion, in preservations without a tomb than any by one, invisibly 
 
 ,, ,, ^. ,, . ,^ ,^ , . ,. ,. ^, 50 interred by angels, and adjudged to obscurity, 
 
 ^- A technical term in the old astronomy, indicating the ^, , *', •,, i. J!^ „«u« ^;^^«+;»,„ 
 
 ^■uiv setting of the sun, which, during these short days, though not Without some marks du-ecting 
 
 uiakes but wmter arches, that is does not pass through the human disCOVery. EnOch and EliaS, without 
 
 Zenith at noon, but describes an arc, or arch, nearer to the 
 
 liorizon. The sense is: since our day of life, even when it is 24 Telescopes. 
 
 longest, is but as a short day in winter. 25 gouthey suggests that Browne wrote infimy (1. e., 
 
 21 An allusion to the Jewish custom of placing a lighted lowliness, inferiority) not infamy, which has a moro 
 candle in a pot of ashes by the corpse. opprobrious meaning. , • j r 1 t, 
 
 22 The sense appears to be "planning [to preserve] their 26 Marcus Antonius Gordianus, the third of the Roman 
 bodies in sweet consistencies," 1. e. in gums or spices Emperors of that name. He was murdered while con- 
 which enable them to resist decay. ducting an expedition against the Persians (244 A. D.) 
 
 2a Mummy, or Mummia, a substance made (or sup- and a monument erected to his memory bore an inscnp- 
 
 posed to be made) from mummies, was regularly used in tion in Greek, Latin. Hebrew, Egyptaan, and Arable 
 
 mediciJQe as late as the early 18th century. ^ Moses. 
 
244 
 
 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 either tomb or burial, in an anomalous state 
 of being, are the great examples of perpetuity, 
 in their long and living memory, in strict ac- 
 count being still on this side death, and having 
 a late part yet to act upon this stage of earth. 
 If in the decretory term of the world we shall 
 not all die but be changed, according to received 
 translation, the last day will make but few 
 graves; at least quick resurrections will antici- 
 pate lasting sepultures. Some graves will be 
 opened before they be quite closed, and Laza- 
 rus be no wonder. When many that fear to 
 die, shall groan that they can die but once, the 
 dismal state is the second and living death, 
 when life puts despair on the damned; when 
 men shall wish the coverings of mountains, not 
 of monuments, and annihilation shall be 
 courted. 
 
 While some have studied monuments, others 
 have studiously declined them, and some have 
 been so vainly boisterous, that they durst not 
 acknowledge their graves; wherein Alaricus^ 
 seems most subtle, who had a river turned to 
 hide his bones at the bottom. Even Sylla that 
 thought himself safe in his urn, could not pre- 
 vent revenging tongues, and stones thrown at 
 his monument. Happy are they whom privacy 
 makes innocent, who deal so with men in this 
 world, that they are not afraid to meet them 
 in the next; who, when they die, make no com- 
 motion among the dead, and are not touched 
 with that poetical taunt of Isaiah. ^^ Pyramids, 
 arches, obelisks, were but the irregularities of 
 vain-glory, and wild enormities of ancient 
 magnanimity. But the most magnanimous 
 resolution rests in the Christian religion, which 
 trampleth upon pride, and sits on the neck of 
 ambition, humbly pursuing that infallible per- 
 petuity, unto which all others must diminish 
 their diameters, and be poorly seen in angles of 
 contingency. ^° 
 
 Pious spirits who passed their days in rap- 
 tures of futurity, made little more of this world, 
 than the world that was before it, while they 
 lay obscure in the chaos of pre-ordination, 
 and night of their fore-beings. And if any have 
 been so happy as truly to understand Christian 
 annihilation, ecstasies, exolution,^^ liquefaction, 
 
 * Alaric, the Goth, who, according to legend, was 
 buried with great treasure in the bed of the river Busento 
 to protect his body from the Romans. 
 
 » Isa. xiv., 16, etc. 
 
 ^°The angle of contingence is the smallest of angles. 
 
 3' Exolution (Lat. ex-solvo. to unloose, liberate, etc.) 
 seems to suggest a state in which the soul is released, or 
 [)urified; the gross and earthly elements which clog it 
 being melted or dissolved. The word liquefaction follows 
 up this thought. The word transformation apparently in- 
 dicates that the preliminary stages of aspiration and 
 [nirification have done their work, as it is followed by 
 f'xpressions depicting the active joys of the liberated soul. 
 The order of all the words in the series is not fortuitous, but 
 mdicates a spiritual progress. _ 
 
 transformation, the kiss of the spouse, gustation 
 of God, and ingression into the divine shadow, 
 they have already had an handsome anticipa- 
 tion of heaven; the glory of the world is 
 5 surely over, and the earth in ashes unto 
 them. 
 
 To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in 
 their productions, to exist in their names^^ 
 and predicament of chimaeras, was large satis- 
 
 10 faction unto old expectations, and made one 
 part of their Elysiums. But all this is nothing 
 in the metaphysicks of true belief. To live 
 indeed, is to be again ourselves, which being 
 not only an hope, but an evidence in noble 
 
 15 believers, 'tis all one to lie in St. Innocent's 
 churchyard,^' as in the sands of Egypt. Ready 
 to be any thing, in the ecstasy of being ever, 
 and as content with six foot as the moles of 
 Adrianus.'* 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 . . . iabesne cadavera solvat, 
 
 An rogusj hand refert.^^ Lucan. 
 
 FAITH 
 
 (From Religio Medici, 1642) 
 
 30 As for those wingy mysteries in divinity, and 
 airy subtleties in religion, which have un- 
 hinged the brains of better heads, they never 
 stretched the pia mater of mine. Methinks 
 there be not impossibilities enough in religion 
 
 35 for an active faith: the deepest mysteries ours 
 contains have not only been illustrated, but 
 maintained, by syllogism and the rule of rea- 
 son. I love to lose myself in a mystery; to 
 pursue my reason to an O altiludo!^ 'Tis my 
 
 40 solitary recreation to pose my apprehension 
 with those involved enigmas and riddles of the 
 Trinity — incarnation and resurrection. I can 
 answer all the objections of Satan and my 
 rebellious reason with that odd resolution I 
 
 45 learned of Tertullian, Cerium est quia impos- 
 sible est.^ I desire to exercise my faith in 
 the difficultest point; for, to credit ordinary 
 and visible objects, is not faith, but per- 
 
 82 i. e., to live in the mere memory of their names on 
 earth (whether on monuments, or kept alive through 
 their productions), to Hve, if only in the predicament, or 
 state, of those impossible monsters (chimceras) who exist 
 but as fables, this was a large satisfaction, etc. 
 
 '3 " In Paris, where bodies soon consume." , 
 
 34 The tomb of Hadrian. \ 
 
 35 "It matters not at all whether corruption dissolves 
 dead bodies, or the funeral pile." ' 
 
 1 altitude divitiarum sapientiae et scientiae Dei. 
 (Vulg. Rom., 11, 33) ;— "O the depth of the riches both of 
 the wisdom and knowledge of God! " 
 
 2 It is certain because it is impossible. 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE 24; 
 
 GOD'S WISDOM AND ETERNITY mon ears like a fable. For the world, I coun 
 
 ,-p, , . it not an inn, but an hospital; and a place no 
 
 (i^rom tne same; ^^ j.^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^.^ .^ r^.^^ ^^^j^ ^^^^ j ^^^^^^ 
 
 In my solitary and retired imagination {neque is myself; it is the microcosm of my own fram 
 enim cum porticus aid me lectulus accepit, desum 5 that I cast mine eye on : for the other, I use i 
 mihiy I remember I am not alone; and there- but like my globe, and turn it round sometime 
 fore forget not to contemplate him and his for my recreation. Men that look upon m; 
 attributes, who is ever with me, especially outside, perusing only my condition and for 
 those two mighty ones, his wisdom and eter- tunes, do err in my altitude; for I am abov' 
 nity. With the one I recreate, with the other 10 Atlas's shoulders. That mass of flesh tha 
 I confound, my understanding: for who can circumscribes me limits not my mind. Tha 
 speak of eternity without a solecism, or think surface that tells the heavens it hath an en( 
 thereof without an ecstasy? cannot persuade me I have any. I take nr 
 
 Time we may comprehend; 'tis but five days circle to be above three hundred and sixty 
 older than ourselves, and hath the same horo- 15 Though the number of the ark do measure m] 
 scope wuth the world; but to retire so far back body, it comprehendeth not my mind. Whils 
 as to apprehend a beginning, — to give such an I study to find how I am a microcosm, or littl 
 infinite start forwards as to conceive an end, — world, I find myself something more than tb 
 in an essence that we aflSrm hath neither the great. There is surely a piece of divinity ii 
 one nor the other, it puts my reason to St. 20 us; something that was before the elements 
 Paul's sanctuary; my philosophy dares not and owes no homage unto the sun. Natur 
 say the angels can do it. God hath not made a tells me I am the image of God, as well a 
 creature that can comprehend him; 'tis a scripture. He that understands not thus mucl 
 privilege of his nature: "I am that I am" was hath not his introduction or first lesson, am 
 his own definition unto Moses;'^ and 'twas a 25 is yet to begin the alphabet of man. Let tn 
 short one to confound mortality, that durst not injure the felicity of others, if I say I an 
 question God, or ask him what he was. In- as happy as any. Ruat caelum, fiat volunta 
 deed, he only is; all others have and shall be; iua,^ salveth all; so that, whatsoever happens 
 but, in eternity, there is no distinction of it is but what our daily prayers desire. Ii 
 tenses; and therefore that terrible term, pre- 30 brief, I am content; and what should provi 
 destination, which hath troubled so many dence add more? Surely this is it we call hap 
 weak heads to conceive, and the wisest to piness, and this do I enjoy; with this I am 
 explain, is in respect to God no prescious de- happy in a dream, and as content to enjoy a hap 
 termination of our estates to come, but a de- piness in a fancy, as others in a more appar 
 finitive blast of his will already fulfilled, and 35 ent truth and reality. There is surely a neare 
 at the instant that he first decreed it; for, to apprehension of anything that delights us, ii 
 his eternity, which is indivisible, and alto- our dreams, than in our waked senses. Withou 
 gether, the last trump is already sounded, the this I were unhappy; for my awaked judgmen 
 reprobates in the flame, and the blessed in discontents me, ever whispering unto me tha 
 Abraham's bosom. St. Peter speaks modestly 40 1 am from my friend, but my friendly dreami 
 when he saith, "A thousand years to God are in the night requite me, and make me think : 
 but as one day:"^ for, to speak like a philos- am within his arms. I thank God for my happ: 
 opher, those continued instances of time, dreams, as I do for my good rest; for there i; 
 which flow into a thousand years, make not to a satisfaction in them unto reasonable desires 
 him one moment. What to us is to come, to 45 and such as can be content with a fit of happi 
 his eternity is present; his whole duration ness. And surely it is not a melancholy con 
 being but one permanent point, without sue- ceit to think we are all asleep in this world 
 cession, parts, flux, or division. and that the conceits of this life are as mer( 
 
 dreams, to those of the next, as the phantasmi 
 
 50 of the night, to the conceit of the day. Ther< 
 
 THE DIVINITY IN MAN jg ^n equal delusion in both; and the one dotl 
 
 ,^ ^, ^. TTx but seem to be the emblem or picture of th« 
 
 (From the same, Part II) ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ somewhat more than ourselvei 
 
 Now for my life, it is a miracle for thirty in our sleeps; and the slumber of the bod> 
 years, which to relate, were not a history, but 55 seems to be but the wakmg of the soul. It ii 
 a piece of poetry, and would sound to com- the ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason 
 
 and our waking conceptions do not match th< 
 
 1 For when neither the portico nor the bed has accepted fancies of OUr sleeps. 
 '"'4jo'3.'iirS?''''*^°'""'''''^' 3jiPe^iii.8. 1 Let the heavens perish. 30 thy will be done. 
 
246 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 tE/i^Otn90 ifttUnr presages much good unto him. To such a 
 
 lad a frown may be a whipping, and a whip- 
 
 1508-1561 ping a death; yea, where their master whips 
 
 rrm7 r^r\r,r\ o/^xrrkrkT Ayr a oT'T^^rj them once, shame whips them all the week 
 
 THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER 5 after. Such natures he useth with all gentle- 
 
 (From The Holy State, 1642) "^J^- ^, , . . , . ,, ^, 
 
 2. 1 hose that are mgemous^ and idle. These 
 
 There is scarce any profession in the com- think, with the hare in the fable, that running 
 monwealth more necessary, which is so sHghtly with snails (so they count the rest of their 
 performed. The reasons whereof I conceive 10 schoolfellows) they shall come soon enough 
 to be these: First, young scholars make this to the post, though sleeping a good while be- 
 calling their refuge, yea, perchance before they fore their starting. Oh, a good rod would finely 
 have taken any degree in the university, com- take them napping. 
 
 mence schoolmasters in the country, as if 3. Those that are dull and diligent. Wines, 
 nothing else were required to set up this pro- 15 the stronger they be, the more lees they have 
 fession but only a rod and a ferula. Secondly, when they are new. Many boys are muddy- 
 others, who are able, use it only as a passage headed till they be clarified with age, and such 
 to better preferment, to patch the rents in afterwards prove the best. Bristol diamonds* 
 their present fortune till they can provide a are both bright and squared and pointed by 
 new one, and betake themselves to some more 20 nature, and yet are soft and worthless; whereas, 
 gainful caUing. Thirdly, they are disheartened Orient ones in India are rough and rugged, nat- 
 from doing their best with the miserable reward urally. Hard, and dull natures of youth acquit 
 which in some places they receive, being mas- themselves afterwards the jewels of the coun- 
 ters to the children and slaves to their parents, try, and therefore their dulness at first is to be 
 Fourthly, being grown rich, they grow negli- 25 borne with, if they be diligent. That school- 
 gent, and scorn to touch the school by the master deserves to be beaten himself who 
 proxy of an usher. ^ But, see how well our beats nature in a boy for a fault. And I ques- 
 schoolmaster behaves himself. tion whether all the whipping in the world can 
 
 His genius inclines him with delight to his make their parts, which are naturally sluggish, 
 profession. Some men had as Uef be schoolboys 30 rise one minute before the hour nature hath 
 as schoolmasters, to be tied to the school, as appointed. 
 
 Cooper's "Dictionary" and Scapula's "Lexi- 4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negli- 
 con" are chained to the desks therein; and gent also. Correction may reform the latter, 
 though great scholars, and skilful in other arts, not amend the former. All the whetting in the 
 are bunglers in this: but God of His goodness 35 world can never set a razor's edge on that 
 hath fitted several men for several callings, which hath no steel in it. Such boys he con- 
 that the necessity of Church and State in all signeth over to other professions. Shipwrights 
 conditions may be provided for. So that he and boatmakers will choose those crooked pieces 
 who beholds the fabric thereof may say, "God of timber which other carpenters refuse. Those 
 hewed out this stone, and appointed it to lie 40 may make excellent merchants and mechanics 
 in this very place, for it would fit none other which will not serve for scholars, 
 so well, and here it doth most excellent." And He is able, dihgent, and methodical in his. 
 
 thus God mouldeth some for a schoolmaster's teaching; not leading them rather in a circle 
 life, undertaking it with desire and delight, than forwards. He miiices his precepts for 
 and discharging it with dexterity and happy 45 children to swallow, hanging i^logs on the 
 success. nimbleness of his own soul, that his scholars 
 
 He studieth his scholars' natures as care- may go along with him. He is, and will be 
 fully as they their books, and ranks their dis- known to be, an absolute monarch in his school, 
 positions into several forms. '^ And though it If cockering mothers profi'er him money to 
 may seem difficult for him in a great school to 50 purchase their sons an exemption from his 
 descend to all particulars, yet experienced rod (to live as it were in a peculiar, out of their 
 schoolmasters may quickly make a grammar of master's jurisdiction), with disdain he refuseth 
 boys' natures, and reduce them all, saving some it, and scorns the late custom in some places 
 few exceptions to, these general rules: of commuting whipping into money, and ran- 
 
 1. Those that are ingenious and industrious. 55 soming boys from the rod at a set price. If he 
 The conjunction of two such planets in a youth hath a stubborn youth, correction-proof, he 
 
 1 They made it possible for themselves to neglect the debaseth not his authority by contesting with 
 
 school by employing an usher as their proxy. 
 
 * Groups, or classes, as those given in the succeeding * Naturally bright or clever, 
 
 passage. , * Small quartz crystals found near the city of Bristol. 
 
THOMAS FULLER 247 
 
 him, but fairly, if he can, puts him away be- scholars, after their studying in the university, 
 fore his obstinacy hath infected others. preferred to beggary. 
 
 He is moderate in inflicting deserved correc- He spoils not a good school to make thereof 
 
 tion. Many a schoolmaster better answereth a bad college, therein to teach his scholars 
 the name iraidoTpiptjs^ than 7rat5a7w76s,^ rather 5 logic. For, besides that logic may have an 
 tearing his scholars' flesh with whipping than action of trespass against grammar for en- 
 giving them good education. No wonder if his croaching on her liberties, syllogisms are sole- 
 scholars hate the Muses, being presented unto cisms taught in the school, and oftentimes they 
 them in the shapes of fiends and furies. Junius are forced afterwards in the university to un- 
 complains de insolento carnifidnd' of his school- 10 learn the fumbling skill they had before, 
 master, by whom conscindehatur flagris sepiies Out of his school he is no whit pedantical in 
 aut octies in dies singulos.^ Yea, hear the la- carriage or discourse; contenting himself to be 
 mentable verses of poor Tusser^ in his own life: rich in Latin, though he doth not jingle with it 
 
 in every company wherein he comes. 
 
 "From Paul's I went, to Eton sent, 15 To conclude, let this amongst other motives 
 
 To learn straightways the Latin phrase, make schoolmasters careful in their place, 
 
 Where fifty-three stripes, given to me that the eminencies of their scholars have com- 
 
 At once I had. mended the memories of their schoolmasters 
 
 to posterity, who otherwise in obscurity had 
 
 "For fault but small, or none at all, 20 altogether been forgotten.^ Who had ever 
 
 It came to pass thus beat I was; heard of R. Bond, in Lancashire, but for the 
 
 See Udall,^° see, the mercy of thee, breeding of Ifearned Ascham,^^ j^jg scholar? or 
 
 To me, poor lad." of Hartgrave, in Brundly school, in the same 
 
 county, but because he was the first did teach 
 
 Such an Orbilius" mars more scholars than 25 worthy Dr. Whitaker?^' Nor do I honour the 
 
 he makes: their tyranny hath caused many memory of Mulcaster for anything so much 
 
 tongues to stammer, which spake plain by as for his scholar, that gulf of learning. Bishop 
 
 nature, and whose stuttering at first was noth- Andrews. ^^ This made the Athenians, the 
 
 ing else but fears quavering on their speech day before the great feast of Theseus, their 
 
 at their master's presence; and whose mauling 30 founder, to sacrifice a ram to the memory of 
 
 them about their heads hath dulled those who, Conidas, his schoolmaster that first instructed 
 
 in quickness, exceeded their master. him. 
 
 He makes his school free to him who sues a-im? Ta-DATQixm 
 
 to him in forma pauperis. And surely learning ^^ bJil.1^ -l-KAltoliN Lr 
 
 is the greatest alms that can be given. But he 35 (From the same) 
 
 is a beast who, because the poor scholar cannot 
 
 pay him his wages, pays the scholar in his He whose own worth doth speak, need not 
 whipping. Rather are diligent lads to be en- speak his own worth. Such boasting sounds 
 couraged with all excitements to learning, proceed from emptiness of desert: whereas the 
 This minds me of what I have heard concern- 40 conquerors in the Olympian games did not put 
 ing Mr. Bust, that worthy late schoolmaster on the laurels on their own heads, but waited 
 of Eton, who would never suffer any wander- till some other did it. Only anchorets^ that 
 ing begging scholar (such as justly the statute want company may crown themselves with 
 hath ranked in the forefront of rogues) to their own commendations, 
 come into his school, but would thrust him out 45 It showeth more wit but no less vanity to 
 with earnestness (however privately charit- commend one's self not in a straight line but 
 able unto him), lest his schoolboys should be by reflection. Some sail to the port of their 
 disheartened from their books by seeing some own praise by a side-wind; as when they dis- 
 praise themselves, stripping themselves naked 
 ^ Paidotribes, one who teaches boys wrestling, or ^q of what is their due, that the modesty of the 
 ^eTSdagogue, a teacher. beholders may clothe them with it again; or 
 
 7 About the excessive chastisement. . . when they flatter another to his face, tossing 
 
 daily.' ^^" '"'"'" '"^ ""'"""" ^"^ ''°"'^'' '''^''' ""' " *'"""' the ball to him that he may throw it back again 
 
 » Thomas Tusser (15247-1580) , chiefly remembered by ^q them; or when they COmmend that quafity, 
 
 his rugged but shrewd and entertaining rhymes the Five ^^ Ascham v p 133 
 
 ^^"o't'-l^/l'tM^/fnli.^'^'lS'^Ap.idmaster of Eton in '' WUliam Whitdk^(\M7-\mS), a learned theologian, 
 
 l£tl^'l^^^'^i'^;''X' comedT la^'^ ""S^ g-^-or^f ^'^^ -^ --^- ^' ^'' ^^^^'^ -"«««' 
 
 ^''^OrhUius Pupillus, a Roman schoolmaster noted for ^^^ Lancelot ^"f^« (1555-1626). succesaively Bishop of 
 
 his severi ty! Horace, one of his pupils, calls him plagosus Chichester and of Winchester. 
 
 Orbilius, Orbilius fond of flogging. ^ Anchorites. 
 
248 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 wherein themselves excel, in another man Once a dunce, void of learning but full of books, 
 (though absent) whom all know far their in- flouted a library-less scholar with these words, 
 ferior in that faculty; or, lastly, (to omit other — Salve, doctor sine libris:^ but the next day 
 ambushes men set to surprise praise), when they the scholar coming into this jeerer's study 
 send the children of their own brain to be 5 crowded with books, — Salvete, libri, saith he, 
 nursed by another man, and commend their sine doctored 
 
 own works in a third person, but if challenged 2. Few books well selected are best. Yet, as 
 
 by the company that they were authors of it a certain fool bought all the pictures that 
 themselves, with their tongues they faintly came out, because he might have his choice; 
 deny it, and with their faces strongly af- lO such is the vain humour of many men in gather- 
 firm it. ' ing of books: yet when they have done all, 
 
 Self-praising comes most naturally from a they miss their end, it being in the editions of 
 man when it comes most violently from him in authors as in the fashions of clothes, when 
 his own defence. For though modesty binds a man thinks he hath gotten the latest 
 a man's tongue to the peace in this point, yet, 15 and newest, presently another newer comes out. 
 being assaulted in his credit, he may stand 3. Some books are only cursorily to be tasted 
 
 upon his guard, and then he doth not so much of. Namely, first voluminous books, the task 
 praise as purge himself. One braved a gentle- of a man's life to read them over; secondly, 
 man to his face that in skill and valour he came auxiUary books, only to be repaired to on 
 far behind him. ,"'Tis true," said the other, 20 occasions; thirdly, such as are mere pieces of 
 "for when I fought with you, you ran away formality, so that if you look on them you look 
 before me." In such a case it was well returned, through them; and he that peeps through the 
 and without any just aspersion of pride. He casement of the index sees as much as if he 
 that falls into sin is a man; that grieves at it, were in the house. But the laziness of those 
 is a saint; that boasteth of it, is a devil. Yet 25 cannot be excused who perfunctorily pass 
 some glory in their shame, counting the stains over authors of consequence, and only trade 
 of sin the best complexion for their souls. in their tables of contents. These, like city- 
 These men make me believe it may be true cheaters,* having gotten the names of all coun- 
 what Mandeville writes of the Isle of Soma- try gentlemen, make silly people believe they 
 barre, in the East Indies, that all the nobility 30 have long lived in those places where they 
 thereof brand their faces with a hot iron in never were, and flourish with skill in those au- 
 token of honour. thors they never seriously studied. 
 
 He that boasts of sins never committed is a 4. The genius of the author is commonly dism 
 
 double devil. . . . Some, who would sooner covered in the dedicatory epistle. Many place 
 creep into a scabbard than draw a sword, 35 the purest grain in the mouth of the sack for 
 boast of their robberies, to usurp the esteem chapmen to handle or buy; and from the dedi- 
 of valour; whereas, first let them be well cation one may probably guess at the work, 
 whipped for their lying, and as they like that saving some rare and peculiar exceptions, 
 let them come afterward and entitle themselves Thus, when once a gentleman admired how 
 to the gallows. 40 so pithy, learned, and witty a dedication was 
 
 matched to a flat, dull, foolish book: "In 
 truth," said another, "they may be well 
 OF BUOKb matched together, for I profess they are 
 
 (From the same) nothing akin." 
 
 45 5. Proportion an hour s meditation to an 
 
 Solomon saith truly, "Of making many hour's reading of a staple author. This makes a 
 books there is no end;"^ so insatiable is the man master of his learning, and dispirits^ the 
 thirst of men therein: as also endless is the de- book into the scholar. The King of Sweden 
 sire of many in buying and reading them. But never filed his men above six deep in one com- 
 we come to our rules. 50 pany, because he would not have them He in 
 
 1. It is a vanity to persuade the world one useless clusters in his army, but so that every 
 hath m,uch learning by getting a large library, particular soldier might be drawn out into 
 As soon shall I believe every one is valiant service. Books that stand thin on the shelves, 
 that hath a well furnished armory. I guess yet so as the owner of them can bring forth 
 good housekeeping by the smoking, not the 55 every one of them into use, are better than far 
 number of the tunnels, as knowing that many better libraries, 
 of them (built merely for uniformity) are 2 Good-day, doctor without books. 
 without chimneys, and more without fires 3 Greeting to you. books, without a scholar. 
 
 •^ ' < Swindlers, confidence men. 
 
 1 Ecc. xii., 12. * Breathes the soul of the book from it into the scholar. 
 
EDWARD HYDE, EARL OF CLARENDON 249 
 
 6. Learning hath gained most by those books (Il;DtDarD i^|?tlC^ (tWCl Of ClatHlDOtl 
 
 bywhich the printer hath lost. Arias Montanus,^ 
 
 in printing the Hebrew Bible, (commonly lbU«-lb74 
 
 called the Bible of the King of Spain) much 
 
 wasted himself, and was accused in the court 5 CHARLES I. SETS UP HIS STANDARD 
 
 of Rome for his good deed, and being cited AT NOTTINGHAM 
 
 thither, pro tantorum laborum proemio, vix 
 
 veniam impetravit. Likewise, Christopher (From The History of the Rebellion, 1704-7) 
 
 Plantin,' by printing of his curious interlineary 
 
 Bible in Antwerp, through the unreasonable 10 (His Majesty) forthwith published a declar- 
 
 actions of the king's officers, sunk and almost ation, that had been long ready, in which he 
 
 ruined his estate. And our worthy English recapitulated all the insolent and rebellious 
 
 knight, who set forth the golden-mouthed actions which the two houses had committed 
 
 Father^ in a silver print, was a loser by it. against him: and declared them "to be guilty; 
 
 7. Whereas foolish pamphlets prove most 15 and forbad all his subjects to yield any obedi- 
 heneftcial to the printers. When a French ence to them:" and, at the same time, pub- 
 printer complained that he was utterly undone lished his proclamation; by which "he required 
 by printing a solid serious book of Rabelais all men who could bear arms, to repair to him 
 concerning physic, Rabelais, to make him at Nottingham, by the twenty-fifth of August^ 
 recompense, made that his jesting, scurrilous 20 following; on which day he would set up his 
 work, which repaired the printer's loss with royal standard there, which all good sub- 
 advantage. Such books the world swarms jects were obliged to attend." . . . 
 too much with. When one had set out a wit- The king came to Nottingham two or three 
 less pamphlet, writing Finis at the end thereof, days before the day he had appointed to set 
 another wittily wrote beneath it, 25 up the standard; having taken Lincoln in his 
 
 a>T xu ^u y 4. ^ f ■r.^A way, and drawn some arms from the train 
 
 . . "Nay, there thou hest my friend J'^ ^^ ^^^^ ^ ^;^^ j^;^ ^^ Nottingham; 
 
 In writmg f oohsh books there .s no end. ^^^^ ^,^^_^^^_ ^^^ J^^ ^^^^ j^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^j^^ ^ 
 
 And surely such scurrilous, scandalous papers yjg^ of his horse; whereof there were several 
 do more than conceivable mischief. First, 3Q troops well armed, and under good officers, to 
 their lusciousness puts many palates out of ^he number of seven or eight hundred men; 
 taste, that they can never after relish any solid ^j^h which, being informed, "that there were 
 and wholesome writers; secondly, they cast gome regiments of foot marching towards 
 dirt on the faces of many innocent persons, Coventry, by the Earl of Essex's orders," he 
 which, dried on by continuance of time, c^^s5mside haste thither; making fittle doubt but 
 never after be washed off; thirdly, the pam- ^hat he should be able to get thither before 
 phlets of this age may pass for records with them, and so to possess himself of that city; 
 the next (because pubficly uncontrolled), and andhedidget thither the day before they came; 
 what we laugh at, our children may beheve; ^ut found not only the gates shut against him, 
 fourthly, grant the things true they jeer at, ^^^ut some of his servants shot and wounded 
 yet this music is unlawful in any Christian fj.^^ the walls: nor could all his messages and 
 church, to play upon the sins and miseries of summons prevail with the mayor and magis- 
 others, the fitter object of the elegies and the trates, before there was any garrison there, 
 satires of all truly religious. to suffer the king to enter into the city. So 
 
 But what do I speaking against multiplicity 45 g^eat an interest and reputation the parliament 
 of books in this age, who trespass in this na- j^^d gotten over the affections of the people, 
 ture myself? What was a learned man's com- whose hearts were alienated from any rever- 
 ^_ pliment, may serve for my confession and con- ^^^^ to the government. 
 
 ^ elusion '.-Multi mei similes hoc morbo laborant, ^he king could not remedy the affront, but 
 ut cum scribere nesciant, tamen a scribendo tern- ^^ ^gjjt that night to Stonely, the house then 
 perare non possint.^ of Sir Thomas Lee; where he was well received; 
 
 6 A Spanish oriental scholar of the iGth century. and, the next day, his body of horse, having a 
 
 aJdtlMtet^L':;^".^'?^'"^"^^^^^^^ e'ear view upon an open Campania for five or 
 
 Here he published a polyglot Bible in 1569-72. SIX miles together, of the enemy s small body 
 
 s.S7.Jo/.n.afatheroftheGjeekCWch caled^^^ ^ ^^^^ consisted not of above twelvC 
 
 oxtom, or "golden-mouthed, on account or nis eio ujkj , u* i 
 
 quence. A magnificent and costlv edition of Chrysostom s hundred men, With One trOOp Ot hOrse, WlllCn 
 
 vyorks was ^^sued^by ^hej^oft English scholar Sir Henry ^^^^^.^hed with them over that plain, retired 
 '^•"Many like^myself^struggie with this complaint, that before them, without giving them one charge; 
 
 while they do not know how to write, they are yet unable ^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^ 
 
 to refrain from writing. 
 
250 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 which was imputed to the lashty of Wilmot, answer, he had only the Lord Wentworth and 
 who commanded; and had a colder courage Mr. Thomas Weston, who came to enjoy the 
 than many who were under him, and who were delight of his company, which was very attrac- 
 of opinion, that they might have easily de- tive, and for whom he had promised to raise 
 featedthatbodyof foot; which would have been 5 troops of horse, and three or four country 
 a very seasonable victory; would have put gentlemen, who repaired thither upon the first 
 Coventry unquestionably into the King's news of his declaring with so small a number of 
 hands, and sent him with a good omen to the men, as was fitter for their equipage and ret- 
 setting up of his standard. Whereas, that inue than for the defence of the place, and an 
 unhappy retreat, which looked like a defeat, lo addition of twenty or thirty common men to 
 and the rebellious behaviour of Coventry, his garrison, which the kindness of some friends 
 made his majesty's return to Nottingham very had suppUed with: and in this state Sir Will, 
 melancholy; and he returned thither the very Waller found him and the place, when he came 
 day the standard was appointed to be set up. before it, and when he was deprived of all com- 
 
 According to the proclamation, upon the 15 munication by land or sea. He continued in 
 twenty-fifth day of August, the standard was the same jollity from the time he was besieged, 
 erected, about six of the clock in the evening and suffered the enemy to approach as he 
 of a very stormy and tempestuous day. The pleased, without disturbing him by any brisk 
 king himself, with a small train, rode to the sally or soldierly action, which all men expected 
 top of the castle-hill, Varney the knight- 20 from him, who were best acquainted with his 
 marshal, who was standard bearer, carrying other infirmities; and after about the end of 
 the standard, which was then erected in that three weeks, he delivered the town, upon no 
 place, with little other ceremony than the other conditions than the liberty for all who had 
 sound of drums and trumpets: melancholy a mind to go away, and his own transportation 
 men observed many ill presages about that 25 into Holland. When he recovered, and re- 
 time. There was not one regiment of foot yet stored himseK to the king and queen's favour 
 levied and brought thither; so that the trained and trust, after his foul tergiversation, he had 
 bands, which the sheriff had drawn together, great thoughts in his heat of power and au- 
 was all the strength the king had for his person, thority; for his ambition was always the first 
 and the guard of the standard. There appeared 30 deity he sacrificed to; and it was proposed by 
 no conflux of men in obedience to the proclama- him, and consented to, that when the king 
 tion; the arms and ammunition were not yet should find it necessary to put himself into the 
 come from York, and a general sadness covered field, (which was thought would be fit for him 
 the whole town. And the king himseK ap- to do much sooner), the Queen should retire 
 peared more melanchoHc than he used to be. 35 to Portsmouth: and that was the reason why 
 The standard itself was blown down, the same the queen was so solicitous that it might be 
 night it had been set up, by a very strong and put into a good condition; and by this means 
 unruly wind, and could not be fixed again in a he should be sure never to be reduced into any 
 day or two, till the tempest was allayed. And straits without a powerful relief, and should 
 within three or four days the news arrived that 40 always have it in his power to make good condi- 
 Portsmouth was given up ; which almost struck tions for himself, in all events. But when 
 the king to the heart. Goring, ^ who had re- the parliament's power was so much increased 
 ceived so much money from the parliament, to and the king's abated, that the queen resolved 
 mend the fortifications, and so much from the to transport herseK beyond the seas, the edge 
 queen, to provide men and victual and am- 45 of his. zeal was taken off, and he thought Ports- 
 munition, that he might be able to defend him- mouth too low a sphere for him to move in; 
 self when he should be forced to declare, which and the keeping a town (which must follow 
 he expected to be much sooner, and could not the fate of the kingdom) was not a fit portion 
 expect to be suddenly reUeved, had neither for him; and so he cared not to lose what he 
 mended the fortifications, or provided any- 50 did not care to keep. And it were to be wished 
 thing for his defence, but had spent all the that there might be no more occasion to men- 
 money in good fellow-ship, or lost it at play; tion him after this repeated treachery, and that 
 the temptation of either of which vices, he his incomparable dexterity and sagacity had 
 never could resist. So that when he could no not prevailed so far over those whom he had 
 longer defer giving the parliament a direct 55 so often deceived, as to make it absolutely 
 
 ^ Col. Goring, the Governor of Portsmouth. According ^ecessary to speak at large of him, more than 
 
 to Clarendon he received £3000. from the Queen to fortify once, before this discourse COmeS tO an end. 
 
 '°aVod"4p°/?ror.he SruSr AayTe^lS ^nd this was the melancholy state of the king's 
 of the garnsou. affairs, when the standard was set up. 
 
EDWARD HYDE, EARL OF CLARENDON 251 
 
 LORD FALKLAND not to see London, which he loved above all 
 
 fjj, ., >. places, till he had perfectly learned the Greek 
 
 (From the same) f , 4. 4. i.- 1, -^u 
 
 ^ tongue, he went to his own house m the coun- 
 
 In this unhappy battle^ was slain the lord try, and pursued it with that indefatigable 
 
 viscount Falkland ;2 a person of such prodigious 5 industry, that it will not be believed in how 
 
 parts of learning and knowledge, of that inim- short a time he was master of it, and accurately 
 
 itable sweetness and delight in conversation, read all the Greek historians. 
 
 of so flowing and obliging a humanity and good- In this time, his house being within ' ten 
 
 ness to mankind, and of that primitive sim- miles of Oxford, he contracted familiarity 
 
 plicity and integrity of hfe, that if there were 10 and friendship with the most polite and ac- 
 
 no other brand upon this odious and accursed curate men of that university; who found such 
 
 civil war, than that single loss, it must be most an immenseness of wit, and such a solidity of 
 
 infamous and execrable to all posterity. judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound 
 
 rr • t 4 1 J 7 1 in by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast 
 
 Turve mori, post te, solo non posse dolore.^ ,ri„i^ +ufu ^- ^• 
 
 ^ ' ^ ' ^ 15 knowledge, that he was not ignorant in any- 
 
 Before this parliament, his condition of life thing, yet such an excessive humility, as if he 
 was so happy that it was hardly capable of had known nothing, that they frequently re- 
 improvement. Before he came to twenty years sorted, and dwelt with him, as in a college situ- 
 of age, he was master of a noble fortune, which ated in a purer air; so that his house was a uni- 
 descended to him by the gift of a grandfather, 20 versity in a less volume; whither they came 
 without passing through his father or mother, not so much for repose as study; and to ex- 
 who were then both alive, and not well enough amine and refine those grosser propositions, 
 contented to find themselves passed by in the which laziness and consent made current 
 descent. His education for some years had in vulgar conversation. 
 
 been in Ireland, where his father was lord 25 Many attempts were made upon him, by the 
 deputy; so that, when he returned into Eng- instigation of his mother (who was a lady of 
 land, to the possession of his fortune, he was another persuasion in religion, and of a most 
 unentangled with any acquaintance or friends, masculine understanding, allayed with the 
 which usually grow up by the custom of con- passions and infirmities of her own sex) to 
 versation; and therefore was to make a pure 30 pervert him in his piety to the church of Eng- 
 election of his company; which he chose by land, and to reconcile him to that of Rome; 
 other rules than were prescribed to the young which they prosecuted with the more confi- 
 nobility of that time. And it cannot be de- dence, because he declined no opportunity or 
 nied, though he admitted some few to his occasion of conference with those of that re- 
 friendship for the agreeableness of their na-ssligion, whether priests or laics; having dili- 
 tures, and their undoubted affection to him, gently studied the controversies, and exactly 
 tliat his familiarity and friendship, for the most read all, or the choicest of the Greek and Latin 
 part, was with men of the most eminent and fathers, and having a memory so stupendous, 
 sublime parts, and of untouched reputation that he remembered, on all occasions, whatso- 
 in point of integrity; and such men had a 40 ever he read. And he was so great an enemy 
 title to his bosom. to that passion and uncharitableness, which he 
 
 He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, saw produced, by difference of opinion, in 
 and good parts in any man; and, if he found matters of religion, that in all those disputa- 
 them clouded with poverty or want, a most tions with priests, and others of the Roman 
 liberal and bountiful patron towards them, 45 church, he affected to manifest all possible 
 even above his fortune; of which, in those ad- civility to their persons, and estimation of 
 ministrations, he was such a dispenser, as, their parts; which made them retain still some 
 if he had been trusted with it to such uses, and hope of his reduction, even when they had 
 if there had been the least of vice in his ex- given over offering further reasons to him to 
 pense, he might have been thought too prodi- 50 that purpose. 
 
 gal. He was constant and pertinacious in He had a courage of the most clear and keen 
 
 whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to be temper, and so far from fear, that he was not 
 wearied by any pains that were necessary to without appetite of danger; and therefore, 
 that end. And therefore having once resolved upon any occasion of action, he always engaged 
 
 1 The first battle of Newbury, Sept. 20th. 1643. 55 his person in those troops, which he thought, 
 
 2 Lucius Gary, Viscount Falkland (1610-1643). While |3y i\^q forwardness of the commanders, to be 
 
 he took the side of the king, he did not share in the bhndly . n . i e 4.u „4. .^^^A ^ ;^ oil 
 
 partisan spirit of his timl V. Matthew Arnold's essay most like to be furthest engaged, and in aU 
 on him in Discourses in America. sucli encounters he had about him a strange 
 
 afteiVheel'^ "'''' ^" ^'"''^ ^ "^""''""' "' "'^" ^ ^"^'^"" '° cheerfulness and companionableness, without 
 
252 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 at all affecting the execution which was then exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his 
 principally to be attended, in which he took clothes and habit, which he had minded before 
 no dehght, but took pains to prevent it, where always with more neatness, and industry, and 
 it was not, by resistance, necessary; insomuch expense, than is usual to so great a mind, he was 
 that at Edge-hill,* when the enemy was routed, 5 not now only incurious, but too negligent; and in 
 he was like to have incurred great peril, by his reception of suitors, and the necessary or cas- 
 interposing to save those who had thrown away ual addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, 
 their arms, and against whom, it may be, others and severe, that there wanted not some men 
 were more fierce for their having thrown them (who were strangers to his nature and disposi- 
 away: insomuch as a man might think, he 10 tion),^ who believed him proud and imperious, 
 came into the field only out of curiosity to see from which no mortal man was ever more free, 
 the face of danger, and charity to prevent the The truth is, as he was of a most incompara- 
 shedding of blood. Yet in his natural inchna- ble gentleness, application, and even a demiss- 
 tion he acknowledged he was addicted to the ness,^ and submission to good, and worthy, and 
 profession of a soldier; and shortly after he 15 entire men, so he was naturally (which could 
 came to his fortune, and before he came to not but be more evident in his place, which 
 age, he went into the Low Countries, with a objected him to another conversation and 
 resolution of procuring command, and to give intermixture, than his own election had done) 
 himself up to it, from which he was converted adversus malos injucundus^ and was so ill a 
 by the complete inactivity of that summer: 20 dissembler of his disHke and disinclination to 
 and so he returned into England, and shortly ill men, that it was not possible for such not to 
 after entered upon that vehement course of discern it. There was once, in the house of 
 study we mentioned before, till the first alarum Commons, such a declared acceptation of the 
 from the north; and then again he made ready good service an eminent member had done to 
 for the field, and though he received some re- 25 them, and, as they said, to the whole kingdom, 
 pulse in the command of a troop of horse, of that it was moved, he being present, "that the 
 which he had a promise, he went a volunteer speaker might, in the name of the whole house, 
 with the earl of Essex. give him thanks; and then, that every member 
 
 From the entrance into this unnatural war, might, as a testimony of his particular ac- 
 his natural cheerfulness and vivacity grew 30 knowledgement, stir or move his hat towards 
 clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection him;" the which (though not ordered) when 
 of spirit stole upon him, which he had never very many did, the lord Falkland (who believed 
 been used to; yet being one of those who be- the service itself not to be of that moment, and 
 lieved that one battle would end all differences, that an honourable and generous person could 
 and that there would be so great a victory on 35 not have stooped to it for any recompense), 
 one side, that the other would be compelled instead of moving his hat, stretched both his 
 to submit to any conditions from the victor arms out, and clasped his hands together upon 
 (which supposition and conclusion generally the crown of his hat, and held it close down to 
 sunk into the minds of most men, and pre- hishead; that all men might see, how odious that 
 vented the looking after of many advantages, 40 flattery was to him, and the very approbation 
 that might have been laid hold of), he resisted of the person, though at that time most popular, 
 those indispositions, et in luciu, helium inter When there was any overture or hope of 
 remedia eralJ' But after the king's return from peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, 
 Brentford, and the furious resolution of the and exceedingly solicitous to press any thing 
 two houses not to admit any treaty for peace, 45 which he thought might promote it; and sitting 
 those indispositions, which had before touched among his friends, often, after a deep silence 
 him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerful- and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad 
 ness; and he, who had been so exactly unre- accent, ingeminate the word Peace, Peace; and 
 served and affable to all men, that his face and would passionately profess, "that the very 
 countenance was always present, and vacant^ 50 agony of the war, and the view of the calami- 
 to his company, and held any cloudiness, and ties and desolation the kingdom did and must 
 less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rude- endure, took his sleep from him, and would 
 ness or incivility, became, on a sudden, less shortly break his heart." This made some 
 communicable; and thence, very sad, pale, and think, or pretend to think, "that he was so 
 
 55 much enamoured on peace, that he would have \ 
 6^^ittf^:At^fA.^itS^fr^l^'t■J^L^T.. St been glad the king should have bought it at any ,' 
 
 the advantage was, on the whole, with the Royalists. 
 
 6 In misery, war was among the means of healing. "> Pliancy, adaptability. 
 
 "Disengaged, not preoccupied with his own sad fore- » Humility, entire submjssiveness. 
 
 bodings. • Unfriendly towards bad men. 
 
JEREMY TAYLOR 253 
 
 price:" which was a most unreasonable cal- governs all the world, and hath so ordered us 
 umny. As if a man, that was himself the most in the administration of his great family. He 
 punctual and precise in every circumstance that were a strange fool, that should be angry, 
 might reflect upon conscience or honour, could because dogs and sheep need no shoes, and yet 
 have wished the king to have committed a 5 himself is full of care to get some. God hath 
 trespass against either. And yet this senseless supplied those needs to them by natural 
 scandal made some impression upon him, or at provisions, and to thee by an artificial: for he 
 least he used it for an excuse of the daringness hath given thee reason to learn a trade, or some 
 of his spirit; for at the leaguer ^° before Glou- means to make or buy them, so that it only 
 cester, when his friends passionately repre- 10 differs in the manner of our provision: and 
 hended him for exposing his person unneces- which had you rather want, shoes or reason? 
 sarily to danger (as he dehghted to visit the And my patron that hath given me a farm, is 
 trenches, and nearest approaches, and to dis- freer to me than if he gives a loaf ready baked, 
 cover what the enemy did), as being so much But, however, all these gifts come from him, 
 beside the duty of his place, that it might be 15 and therefore it is fit he should dispense them as 
 understood against it, he would say merrily, he pleases; and if we murmur here, we naay, at 
 "that his office could not take away the privi- the next melancholy, be troubled that God did 
 leges of his age; and that a secretary in war not make us to be angels or stars. For if that, 
 might be present at the greatest secret of dan- which we are or have, do not content us, we 
 ger;" but withal alleged seriously, " that it con- 20 may be troubled for everything in the world, 
 cerned him to be more active in enterprizes of which is besides our being or our possessions, 
 hazard, than other men; that all might see, that God is the master of the scenes; we must not 
 his impatiency for peace proceeded not from pu- choose which part we shall act; it concerns us 
 sillanimity, or fear to adventure his own person." only to be careful that we do it well, always 
 In the morning before the battle, as always 25 saying, "If this please God, let it be as it is:" 
 upon action, he was very cheerful, and put and we who pray, that God's will may be done 
 himself into the first rank of the lord Byron's" in earth, as it is in heaven, must remember, that 
 regiment, who was then advancing upon the the angels do whatsoever is commanded them, 
 enemy, who had lined the hedges upon both and go wherever they are sent, and refuse no 
 sides with musketeers; from whence he was 30 circumstances: and if their employment be 
 shot with a musket in the lower part of the crossed by a higher degree, they sit down in 
 belly; and in the instant falling from his horse, peace and rejoice in the event; and when the 
 his body was not found till the next morning; angel of Judea^ could not prevail in behalf of 
 till when, there was some hope he might have the people committed to his charge, because 
 been a prisoner; though his nearest friends, who 35 the angel of Persia opposed it, he only told the 
 knew his temper, received small comfort from story at the command of God, and was as 
 that imagination. Thus fell that incomparable content, and worshipped with as great an 
 young man, in the four and thirtieth year of ecstasy in his proportion, as the prevailing 
 his age, having so much despatched the busi- spirit. Do thou so fikewise: keep the station, 
 ness of life, that the oldest rarely attain to that 40 where God hath placed you and you shall never 
 immense knowledge, and the youngest enter long for things without, but sit at home feasting 
 not into the world with more innocence: upon the Divine providence and thy own 
 whosoever leads such a life, need not care upon reason by which we are taught, that it is 
 how short warning it be taken from him. necessary and reasonable to submit to God. 
 
 45 For is not all the world God's family? Are 
 
 -^ovintrvi fffavtlrtf ^°* ^® ^^^ creatures? Are we not as clay in the 
 
 Jl^rnn^ ill/a^Wi: j^^^^^ ^^ ^j^^ potter?^ Do we not live upon his 
 
 1613-1667 meat, and move by his strength, and do our 
 
 m^ nnxn^TrxTT^TTT^MTrac! tm at t F^TATFcj ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^g^*^ ^^® ^^ anything, but what 
 OF CONTENTEDNESS IN ALL ESTATES ^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^.^^ ^^^ ^j^^^ ^j^^^e be a mutiny 
 
 AMD ACClDJi^iNlb among the flocks and herds, because their 
 
 (From Holy Living, 1650) Lord or their shepherd chooses their pastures, 
 
 1. Contentedness in all estates is a duty of and suffers them not to wander into deserts and 
 
 religion: it is the great reasonableness of com- unknown ways? If we choose, we do it so 
 
 plying with the Divine Providence, which 55 foofishly, that we cannot like it long, and most 
 
 commonly not at all: but God, who can do what 
 
 "lirTohn Byron, an ancestor of the poet. He was not he pleases, is wise tO choOSe safely for US, 
 
 "Lord Byron" at that time, however, but was made affectionate to COmply with OUr needs, and 
 
 Baron of Rochdale about a month later, so becommg ^ •' , r i • o 
 
 the first peer of the family. i £>an.. x., 13. * Jso., lxiv.,8. 
 
254 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 powerful to execute all his wise decrees. Here times." This, in Gentile philosophy, is the 
 therefore is the wisdom of the contented man, same with the discourse of St. Paul, "I have 
 to let God choose for him: for when we have learned in whatsoever state 1 am, therewith to 
 given up our wills to him, and stand in that be content. I know both how to be abased, and 
 station of the battle, where our great general 5 I know how to abound: everywhere and in all 
 hath placed us, our spirits must needs rest, things I am instructed both how to be full and 
 while our conditions have, for their security, to be hungry; both to abound and to suffer 
 the power, the wisdom, and the charity of God. need."^ 
 
 2. Contentedness, in all accidents, brings We are in the world, like men playing at 
 great peace of spirit, and is the great and only lo tables ;5 the chance is not in our power, but to 
 instrument of temporal felicity. It removes the play it is; and when it is fallen, we must manage 
 sting from the accident, and makes a man not it as we can; and let nothing trouble us, but 
 to depend upon chance, and the uncertain when we do a base action, or speak hke a fool, or 
 dispositions of men for his well-being, but only think wickedly: these things God hath put into 
 on God and his own spirit. We ourselves make 15 our powers; but concerning those things, which 
 our fortunes good or bad; and when God lets are wholly in the choice of another, they 
 loose a tyrant upon us, or a sickness, or scorn, cannot fall under our deliberation, and there- 
 or a lessened fortune, if we fear to die, or know fore neither are they fit for our passions. My 
 not to be patient, or are proud, or covetous, then fear may make me miserable, but it cannot 
 the calamity sits heavy on us. But if we know 20 prevent what another hath in his power and 
 how to manage a noble principle, and fear not purpose: and prosperities can only be enjoyed 
 death so much as a dishonest action, and think by them, who fear not at all to lose them; since 
 impatience a worse evil than a fever, and pride the amazement and passion concerning the 
 to be the biggest disgrace, and poverty to be future takes off all the pleasure of the present 
 infinitely desirable before the torments of 25 possession. Therefore, if thou hast lost thy 
 covetousness; then we, who now think vice to land, do not also lose thy constancy: and if 
 be so easy, and make it so famihar, and think thou must die a little sooner, yet do not die 
 the cure so impossible, shall quickly be of impatiently. For no chance is evil to him that 
 another mind, and reckon these accidents is content, and to a man nothing is miserable, 
 amongst things eligible. 30 unless it be unreasonable. No man can make 
 
 But no man can be happy that hath great another man to be his slave, unless he hath 
 hopes and great fears of things without, and first enslaved himself to life and death, to 
 events depending upon other men, or upon the pleasure or pain, to hope or fear: command 
 chances of fortune. The rewards of virtue are these passions, and you are freer than the 
 certain, and our provisions for our natural 35 Parthian kings.^ 
 support are certain; or if we want meat till we 
 
 die, then we die of that disease, and there are ^^,^^^___ . r„^^^^ ^^ rr.-r^^ ,r . -.^^r^^-r » ^x-rx 
 many worse than to die with an atrophy or CONSIDERATION OF THE VANITY AND 
 consumption, or unapt and coarser nourish- SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE 
 
 ment. But he that suffers a transporting pas- 40 (jr^om Holy Dying, 1651) 
 
 sion concernmg thmgs withm the power of 
 
 others, is free from sorrow and amazement no A man is a bubble (said the Greek proverb), 
 longer than his enemy shall give him leave; and which Lucian^ represents with advantages and 
 it is ten to one but he shall be smitten then and its proper circumstances to this purpose: 
 there, where it shall most trouble him: for so 45 saying. All the world is a storm, and men rise 
 the adder teaches us where to strike, by her up in their several generations, like bubbles 
 curious and fearful defending of her head. The descending d Jove pluvio, from God and the 
 old stoics,^ when you told them of a sad story dew of heaven, from a tear and drop of rain, 
 would 8t\lla,iiswer, "What is that to me? — Yes, from nature and Providence; and some of 
 for the tyrant hath sentenced you also to 50 these instantly sink into the deluge of their 
 prison, — Well, what is that? He will put a first parent, and are hidden in a sheet of water, 
 chain upon my leg; but he cannot bind my having had no other business in the world, but 
 soul. — No: but he will kill you. — Then I will *Epis. Phil iv., ll, 12. 
 
 Hip Tf nrp«5PTifli7- ] pf TY10 trr^ fViof T rrmxr nrca B Backgammon. TAc c/iance. here, = the number throwii 
 
 1 t P^f ^^^^^y* ^^^ ^^ gO' ^'^^^ A ^^y P'^^S- in a cast of the dice. When it has fallen, i. e.. when the 
 
 ently be freer than himself: but if not till 55 cast is made. 
 
 anon or t^-mnrrnw T will HinP firqt nr sslppn * Apparently taken as examples of the oriental despot, 
 
 anon or to-morrow, l wm mne nrst, or sleep, persian kings would seem to he an exacter illustration. 
 or do what reason or nature calls for, as at other i a Greek satirist and humorist of the second century. 
 
 His amplification of the Greek proverb referred to, ocours 
 •Taylor seems to have had Epictetus, the Roman mYAs Charon, or the Spectator of the World. The passage 
 stoical philosopher especially in mind. in Taylor is a paraphrase of that in Lucian. 
 
JEREMY TAYLOR 255 
 
 to be born, that they might be able to die: smoke, or the lighter parts of water, tossed 
 others float up and down two or three turns, with every wind, moved by the motion of a 
 and suddenly disappear, and give their place superior body, without virtue in itself, hfted 
 to others: and they that live longest upon the upon high, or left below, according as it pleases 
 face of the waters, are in perpetual motion, 5 the sun, its foster-father. But it is lighter yet. 
 restless and uneasy; and, being crushed with It is but appearing; a fantastic vapour, an 
 the great drop of a cloud, sink into flatness and apparition, nothing real: it is not so much as a 
 a froth; the change not being great, it being mist, not the matter of a shower, nor substan- 
 jhardly possible it should be more a nothing tial enough to make a cloud; but it is like 
 than it was before. So is every man: he is born lo Cassiopeia's chair, or Pelops' shoulder,^ or the 
 in vanity and sin; he comes into the world like circles of heaven, (paivd/xeva,^ for which you 
 morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their cannot have a word that can signify a verier 
 heads into the air, and conversing with their nothing. And yet the expression is one degree 
 kindred of the same production, and as soon more made diminutive: a vapour, and fanlasti- 
 they turn into dust and f orgetf ulness : some of 15 cal, or a mere appearance, and this but for a 
 them 2 without any other interest in the affairs little while neither; the very dream, the fantasm 
 of the world, but that they made their parents disappears in a small time, "like the shadow 
 a httle glad, and very sorrowful; others ride that departeth; or like a tale that is told; or as a 
 longer in the storm; it may be until seven dream when one waketh." A man is so vain, so 
 years of vanity be expired, and then peradven- 20 unfixed, so perishing a creature, that he cannot 
 ture the sun shines hot upon their heads, and long last in the scene of fancy: a man goes off 
 they fall into the shades below, into the cover and is forgotten, like the dream of a distracted 
 of death and darkness of the grave to hide them, person. The sum of all is this: that thou art a 
 But if the bubble stands the shock of a bigger man, than whom there is not in the world any 
 drop, and outlives the chances of a child, of a 25 greater instance of heights and declensions, of 
 careless nurse, of drowning in a pail of water, of Hghts and shadows, of misery and folly, of 
 being overlaid by a sleepy servant, or such Httle laughter and tears, of groans and death, 
 accidents, then the young man dances like a And because this consideration is of great 
 bubble, empty and gay, and shines like a dove's usefulness and great necessity to many pur- 
 neck, or the image of a rainbow, which hath no 30 poses of wisdom and the spirit; all the succes- 
 substance, and whose very imagery and colours sion of time, all the changes in nature, all the 
 are fantastical; and so he dances out the varieties of light and darkness, the thousand 
 gaiety of his youth, and is all the while in a thousands of accidents in the world, and every 
 storm, and endures, only because he is not contingency to every man, and to every 
 knocked on the head by a drop of bigger rain, or 35 creature, doth preach our funeral sermon, and 
 crushed by the pressure of a load of indigested calls us to look and see, how the old sexton 
 meat, or quenched by the disorder of an ill- Time throws up the earth, and digs a grave, 
 placed humour:' and to preserve a man alive in where we must lay our sins or our sorrows, and 
 the midst of so many chances and hostilities, is sow our bodies, till they rise again in a fair 
 as great a miracle as to create him; to preserve 40 or an intolerable eternity. Every revolution 
 him from rushing into nothing, and at first to which the sun makes about the world, divides 
 draw him up from nothing, were equally the between life and death; and death possesses 
 issues of an almighty power. And therefore the both those portions by the next morrow; and 
 wise men of the world have contended, who we are dead to all those months which we have 
 shall best fit man's condition with words 45 already lived, and we shall never live them over 
 signifying his vanity and short abode. Homer again: and still God makes little periods of our 
 calls a man "a leaf,"^ the smallest, the weakest age. First we change our world, when we come 
 piece of a short-lived, unsteady plant. Pindar from the womb to feel the warmth of the sun. 
 calls him "the dream of a shadow:" Another, Then we sleep, and enter into the image of 
 "the dream of the shadow of smoke."^ But 50 death, in which state we are unconcerned in all 
 St. James spake by a more excellent Spirit, the changes of the world: and if our mothers 
 saying, "Our life is but a vapour,"^ viz. drawn or our nurses die, or a wild boar destroy our 
 from the earth by a celestial influence; made of vineyards, or our king be sick, we regard it 
 
 e., of the children of men. The analogy, between 
 
 not, but during that state, are as disinterested, 
 
 man" and^the" momtV?^ mrs/iTo"oms, Is not sustained, and ^ The shoulder of ivory supplied by Demeter in the 
 
 the result is an unfortunate confusion. place of the one she had thoughtlessly eaten (v. i^ef ops in 
 
 » In the old system of medicine there were four cardinal Class. Did.) exists only in fable, and is indeed the shadow 
 
 humours (or animal fluids); the blood, choler (yellow bile), of a shade, since this is not even the real shoulder ot 
 
 phlegm, and melancholy (hlac]<:hUe). Pelops, and Pelops himself is a myth. 
 
 * Iliad, vi, U6 and ci. Iliad, xxi, 462. » Phenomena, i. e., the appearance of things, as dis- 
 
 6 iEscbylus. « Epis. St. James, iv, 14. tinguished from the reality, the things themselves. 
 
256 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 as if our eyes were closed with the clay that flowers to strew our hearse, and the summei 
 weeps in the bowels of the earth. At the end of gives green turf and brambles to bind upon our 
 seven years our teeth fall and die before us, graves. Calentures^" and surfeit," cold and 
 representing a formal prologue to the tragedy; agues, are the four quarters of the year, and 
 and still every seven years, it is odds, but we 5 all minister to death; and you can go no 
 shall finish the last scene: and when nature, or whither but you tread upon a dead man's 
 chance, or vice, takes our body in pieces, bones. 
 
 weakening some parts and loosing others, we The wild fellow in Petronius,^^ tj^at escaped 
 taste the grave and the solemnities of our own upon a broken table from the furies of a ship- 
 funerals, first, in those parts that ministered to 10 wreck, as he was sunning himself upon the 
 vice; and next, in them that served for orna- rocky shore, espied a man rolled upon his 
 ment; and in a short time, even they that served floating bed of waves, ballasted with sand in 
 for necessity become useless and entangled like the folds of his garment, and carried by his 
 the wheels of a broken clock. Baldness is but a civil enemy, the sea, towards the shore to find a 
 dressing to our funerals, the proper ornament 15 grave: and it cast him into some sad thoughts: 
 of mourning, and of a person entered very far that peradventure this man's wife, in some 
 into the regions and possession of death: and part of the continent, safe and warm, looks next 
 we have many more of the same signification: month for the good man's return; or, it may be, 
 gray hairs, rotten teeth, dim eyes, trembling his son know^s nothing of the tempest; or his 
 joints, short breath, stiff limbs, wrinkled skin, 20 father thinks of that affectionate kiss, which 
 short memory, decayed appetite. Every day's still is warm upon the good old man's cheek, 
 necessity calls for a reparation of that portion, ever since he took a kind farewell; and he weeps 
 which death fed on all night, when we lay in his with joy to think, how blessed he shall be, when 
 lap, and slept in his outer chambers. The very his beloved boy returns into the circle of his 
 spirits of a man prey upon the daily portion of 25 father's arms. These are the thoughts of 
 bread and flesh, and every meal is a rescue mortals, this is the end and sum of all their 
 from one death, and lays up for another; and designs: a dark night and an ill guide, a bois- 
 while we think a thought, we die; and the terous sea and a broken cable, a hard rock and a 
 clock strikes and reckons on our portion of rough wind, dashed in pieces the fortune of a 
 eternity; we form our words with the breath of 30 whole family, and they that shall weep loudest 
 our nostrils, we have the less to live upon for the accident, are not yet entered into the 
 for every word we speak. storm, and yet have suffered shipwreck. Then 
 
 Thus nature calls us to meditate of death by looking upon the carcass, he knew it, and found 
 those things which are the instruments of it to be the master of the ship, who, the day 
 acting it: and God, by all the variety of his 35 before, cast up the accounts of his patrimony 
 providence, makes us see death everywhere, in and his trade, and named the day when he 
 all variety of circumstances, and dressed up for thought to be at home. See how the man 
 all the fancies, and the expectation of every swims, who was so angry two days since; his 
 single person. Nature hath given us one passions are becalmed with the storm, his 
 harvest every year, but death hath two: and the 40 accounts cast up, his cares at an end, his 
 spring and the autumn send throngs of men and voyage done, and his gains are the strange 
 women to charnel-houses; and all the summer events of death, which whether they be good 
 long, men are recovering from their evils of the or evil, the men, that are alive, seldom trouble 
 spring, till the dog-days come, and then the themselves concerning the interest of the 
 Sirian star^ makes the summer deadly; and the 45 dead. 
 
 fruits of autumn are laid up for all the year's But seas alone do not break our vessel in 
 
 provision, and the man that gathers them, eats pieces; everywhere we may be shipwrecked, 
 and surfeits, and dies, and needs them not, and A valiant general, when he is to reap the 
 himself is laid up for eternity; and he that harvest of his crowns and triumphs, fights 
 escapes till winter, only stays for another 50 unprosperously, or falls into a fever with joy 
 opportunity, which the distempers of that and wine, and changes his laurel into cypress, 
 quarter minister to him with great variety, his triumphal chariot to a hearse; dying the 
 Thus death reigns in all the portions of our 
 
 time. The autumn with its fruits provides . '" Calmtures, the name given to delirious fevers occa- 
 j. J -. ,., •.» ij. sioned bv excessive heat, but here used generally to m- 
 
 aisorders tor us, and the winters cold turns 55 elude aifmaladies resulting from heat, as sun stroke, etc. 
 
 them into sharp diseases, and the spring brings " Surfeit, sicknesses produced by overeating. \ ^ 
 
 ^ I o o 12 petronius Arbiter, a Roman writer of the 1st cen- 
 
 9 The appearance of Sirius. or the dog-star, occurring in tury. The wild fellow, is Encolpius, a character in a 
 
 the hottest time of the vear, or. during July or August. work of Petronius known as "The Banquet of Trimal- 
 
 was supposed to be the cause of diseases prevalent in that chio." Taylor here paraphrases in part, the story told by 
 
 sultry and often unhealthy season, Encolpius. 
 
JOHN BUNYAN 267 
 
 night before he was appointed to perish, in ANGER A HINDERENCE TO PRAYER 
 
 the drunkenness of his festival joys. It was a /-r? o 
 
 sad arrest of the loosnesses and wilder feasts of ^^ ^^^ bermons, 1655) 
 
 the French court, when their king (Henry II.) Anger is a perfect alienation of the mind 
 
 was killed really by the sportive image of a 5 from prayer, and therefore is contrary to that 
 
 fight. . . . attention, which presents our prayers in a right 
 
 There is no state, no accident, no circum- hne to God. For so have I seen a lark rising 
 stance of our hfe, but it hath been soured by from his bed of grass, and soaring upwards, 
 some sad instance of a dying friend: a friendly singing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven, 
 meeting of ten ends in some sad mischance, and 10 and climb above the clouds; but the poor 
 makes an eternal parting: and when the poet bird was beaten back with the loud sighings of 
 ^schylus was sitting under the walls of his an eastern wind, and his motion made irregular 
 house, an eagle hovering over his bald head, and inconstant, descending more at every 
 mistook it for a stone, and let fall his oyster, breath of the tempest, than it could recover by 
 hoping there to break the shell, but pierocd the 15 the libration and frequent weighing of his 
 poor man's skull. wings; till the little creature was forced to sit 
 
 Death meets us everywhere, and is procured down and pant, and stay till the storm was 
 by every instrument and in all chances, and over; and then it made a prosperous flight, and 
 enters in at many doors; by violence and secret did rise and sing, as if it had learned music and 
 influence, by the aspect of a star and the stink 20 motion from an angel, as he passed sometimes 
 of a mist, by the emissions of a cloud arid the through the air, about his ministries here below: 
 meeting of a vapour, by the fall of a chariot and so is the prayer of a good man; when his affairs 
 the stumbling at a stone, by a full meal or an have required business, and his business was 
 empty stomach, by watching at the wine or by matter of discipline, and his discipline was to 
 watching at prayers, by the sun or the moon; 25 pass upon a sinning person, or had a design of 
 by a heat or a cold, by sleepless nights or charity, his duty met with infirmities of a 
 sleeping days; by water frozen into the hard- man, and anger was its instrument, and the 
 ness and sharpness of a dagger; or water instrument became stronger than the prime 
 thawed into the floods of a river; by a hair or a agent, and raised a tempest, and overruled the 
 raisin;i3 ^^y violent motion or sitting still; by 30 man; and then his prayer was broken, and his 
 severity or dissolution; by God's mercy or thoughts were troubled, and his words went up 
 God's anger; by every thing in providence and towards a cloud, and his thoughts pulled them 
 every thing in manners; by every thing in back again, and made them without intention; 
 nature and every thing in chance. Eripitur and the good man sighs for his infirmity, but 
 persona, manet res,'^* we take pains to heap up 35 must be content to lose the prayer, and he must 
 things useful to our hfe, and get our death in recover it when his anger is removed, and his 
 the purchase; and the person is snatched away, spirit is becalmed, made even as the brow of 
 and the goods remain. And all this is the law Jesus, and smooth Uke the heart of God; and 
 and constitution of nature; it is a punishment then it ascends to heaven upon the wings of the 
 to our sins, the unalterable event of Providence, 40 holy dove, and dwells with God, till it returns, 
 and the decree of Heaven. The chains that Uke the useful bee, loaden with a blessing and 
 confine us to this condition are strong as the dew of heaven, 
 destiny and immutable as the eternal laws of 
 God. 
 
 I have conversed with some men who re- 45 3l0l^n 115X111^3111 
 
 joiced in the death or calamity of others, and ifi9S_lfis« 
 
 accounted it as a judgment upon them for loJe-lbss 
 
 being on the other side, and against them in h^ttt? t^tpttt WTTTT A POTT YON 
 
 the contention; but within the revolution of a ^HE FIGHT WITH APULLYOJN 
 
 few months, the same men met with a more 50 (From The Pilgrim's Progress, 1678-1684) 
 uneasy and unhandsome death: which when I 
 
 saw, I wept, and was afraid; for I knew that (In the course of his pilgrimage from the 
 
 it must be so with all men; for we also shall die. City of Destruction to Mount Zion, Christian 
 and end our quarrels and contentions by pass- comes to the House Beautiful. Here Watchful, 
 ing to a final sentence. 55 the Porter, summons Discretion, "a grave and 
 
 „^, , . .. . t. .u.,.uu beautiful damsel," who in turn calls Prudence, 
 
 " The poet Anacreon IS said to have met his death by „ , „, . .,, .-l.^^- nf+c. o«r«« Aic 
 
 swallowing the stone of a raisin. Piety, and Chanty. All these, after some dis- 
 
 1* The person is snatched away, and the goods remain, course with Christian, receive him kindly and 
 
 These words however are employed in a diflferent sense , u* i. /^u«;^4-;«« <>1<^^r^a +V10+ m'n-Kf in a 
 
 by Lucretius from whom the passage is taken. hear his story. Christian Sleeps that mght m a 
 
258 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 ''large upper chamber; whose window opened Apollyon.^ Then did Christian begin to be 
 toward the sun-rising;" its name was Peace, afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go 
 In the morning Christian's entertainers take back, or stand his ground. But he considered 
 him to the armoury, and show him the armour again, that he had no armour for his back, and 
 provided for pilgrims. Christian abides there 5 therefore thought that to turn the back to - 
 three days, and on the morning of the third him might give him greater advantage with 
 day, they take him to the top of the house, and ease to pierce him with his darts; therefore he 
 show him afar off EmmanueVs Land and the resolved to venture and stand his ground: for, 
 Delectable Mountains, telling him that from thought he, had I no more in mine eye than the 
 thence he can see the gate of the Celestial City, lo saving of my life, it would be the best way to 
 Christian then determines to leave the House stand. 
 Beautiful and continue on his pilgrimage.) So he went on, and ApoUyon met him. Now ' 
 
 Now Christian bethought himself of setting the monster was hideous to behold: he was 
 foward, and they were willing he should. But clothed with scales like a fish (and they are his 
 first, said they, let us go again into the armoury. 15 pride) ; he had wings like a dragon, and feet 
 So they did; and when he came there, they like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and 
 harnessed him from head to foot with what was smoke; and his mouth was as the mouth of a 
 of proof, lest perhaps he should meet with lion. When he was come up to Christian, he 
 assaults in the way. He, being therefore thus beheld him with a disdainful countenance, and 
 accoutred, walked out with his friends to the 20 thus began to question with him. 
 gate; and there he asked the Porter if he saw Apol. Whence come you? and whither are 
 any pilgrim pass by. Then the Porter an- you bound? 
 Bwered, Yes. Chr. I am come from the City of Destruc- 
 
 Chr. Pray did you know him? tion, which is the place of all evil, and am 
 
 Port. I asked his name and he told me it was 25 going to the City of Zion. 
 Faithful. Apol. By this I perceive that thou art one 
 
 O, said Christian, I know him: he is my of my subjects; for all that country is mine, and 
 townsman, my near neighbour; he comes from I am the prince and god of it. How is it then 
 the place where I was bom: how far do you that thou hast run away from thy king? Were 
 think he may be before? 30 it not for that I hope thou mayest do me more 
 
 Port. He is got by this time below the service, I would strike thee now at one blow to 
 hill. the ground. 
 
 Well, said Christian, good Porter, the Lord Chr. I was indeed born in your dominions; 
 
 be with thee, and add to all thy blessings much but your service was hard, and your wages 
 increase, for the kindness that thou hast showed 35 such as a man could not Uve on; "for the wages 
 to me. of sin is death;" therefore when I was come 
 
 Then he began to go forward; but Discretion, , to years, I did as other considerate persons do, 
 Piety, Charity, and Prudence, would accom- look out, if perhaps I might mend myself . 
 pany him down to the foot of the hill. So they Apol. There is no prince that will thus 
 went on together, reiterating their former 40 lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as yet 
 discourses, till they came to go down the hill, lose thee; but, since thou complainest of thy 
 Then said Christian, As it was difficult coming service and wages, be content to go back; 
 up, so, so far as I can see, it is dangerous going what our country will afford, I do here promise 
 dowTi. Yes, said Prudence, so it is; for it is an to give thee. 
 
 hard matter for a man to go down into the 45 Chr. But I have let myself to another, even 
 valley of Humiliation, as thou art now, and to to the King of princes; and how can I with 
 catch no slip by the way; therefore, said they, fairness go back with thee? 
 are we come out to accompany thee down the Apol. Thou hast done in this according to 
 hill. So he began to go down, but very warily; the proverb, " Changed a had for a worse;" but it 
 yet he caught a slip or two. 50 is ordinary for those that have professed them- 
 
 Then I saw in my dream, that these good selves his servants, after a while to give him the ; 
 companions, when Christian was gone down to slip, and return again to me. Do thou so too, I 
 the bottom of the hill, gave him a loaf of and all shall be well. l 
 
 bread, a bottle of wine, and a cluster of raisins; Chr. I have given him my faith, and sworn J 
 
 and then he went his way. 55 my allegiance to him: how then can I go back V 
 
 But now, in this valley of Humiliation, poor from this, and not be hanged as a traitor? 
 Christian was hard put to it; for he had gone Apol. Thou didst the same to me; and yet I 
 but a little way, before he espied a foul fiend , rru .. a . r ^u u .. 1 •... ^- j • 
 
 ii /- I 1 . , 1 • 1 • • 'The Angel of the bottomless pit mentioned in 
 
 COmmg over the held to meet him: his name is Rev. ix., 11. the name means, "the Destroyer." 
 
JOHN BUNYAN 259 
 
 am willing to pass by all, if now thou wilt yet for them, and have obtained pardon of my 
 turn again and go back. Prince. 
 
 Chr. What I promised thee was in my Then Apollyon broke out into a grievous 
 
 nonage; and besides, I count that the Prince rage, saying, I am an enemy to this Prince; I 
 under whose banner I now stand, is able to 5 hate his person, his laws, and people: I am come 
 absolve me; yea, and to pardon also what I out on purpose to withstand thee, 
 did as to my compliance with thee: and, be- Chr. Apollyon, beware what you do; for I 
 sides, O thou destroying Apollyon, to speak am in the King's high-way, the way of holiness; 
 truth, I hke his service, his wages, his servants, therefore take heed to yourself, 
 his government, his company, and country, lo Then Apollyon straddled quite over the 
 better than thine; therefore leave off to per- whole breadth of the way, and said, I am void 
 suade me further; I am his servant, and I will of fear in this matter; prepare thyself to die; for 
 follow him. I swear by my infernal den, that thou shalt go 
 
 Apol. Consider again when thou art in cool no f anther; here will I spill thy soul, 
 blood, what thou art likely to meet with in the 15 And with that he threw a flaming dart at his 
 way that thou goest. Thou knowest that, for breast; but Christian had a shield in his hand, 
 the most part, his servants come to an ill end, with which he caught it, and so prevented the 
 because they are transgressors against me and danger of that. 
 
 my ways. How many of them have been put Then did Christian draw; for he saw it was 
 
 to shameful deaths! And besides, thou count- 20 time to bestir him; and Apollyon as fast made 
 est his service better than mine; whereas he at him, throwing darts as thick as hail; by the 
 never came yet from the place where he is, to which, notwithstanding all that Christian 
 deliver any that served him out of their hands: could do to avoid it, Apollyon wounded him in 
 but, as for me, how many times, as all the his head, his hand, and foot. This made 
 world very well knows, have I delivered, either 25 Christian give a little back: Apollyon, there- 
 by power or fraud, those that have faithfully fore, followed his work amain, and Christian 
 served me, from him and his, though taken by again took courage and resisted as manfully as 
 them! And so I will deUver thee. he could. This sore combat lasted for above 
 
 Chr. His forbearing at present to deliver half a day, even till Christian was almost quite 
 them is on purpose to try their love, whether so spent; for you must know that Christian, by 
 they will cleave to him to the end: and, as for reason of his wounds, must needs grow weaker 
 the ill end thou sayest they come to, that is and weaker. 
 
 most glorious in their account; for, for present Then Apollyon, espying his opportunity, 
 
 deliverance, they do not much expect it; for began to gather up close to Christian, and 
 they stay for their glory, and then they shall 35 wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall; 
 have it, when their Prince comes in his and the and with that Christian's sword flew out of his 
 glory of the angels. hand. Then said Apollyon, I am sure of thee 
 
 Al'OL. Thou hast already been unfaithful in now: and with that he had almost pressed him 
 thy service to him; and how dost thou think to death; so that Christian began to despair of 
 to receive wages of him? 40 life. But, as God would have it, while Apollyon 
 
 Chr. Wherein, O Apollyon, have I been was fetching his last blow, thereby to make a 
 unfaithful to him? full end of this good man. Christian nimbly 
 
 Apol. Thou didst faint at first setting out, reached out his hand for his sword, and caught 
 when thou wast almost choked in the Gulf of it, saying, "Rejoice not against me, O mine 
 Despond; thou didst attempt wrong ways to be 45 enemy, when I fall, I shall arise;" and with that 
 rid of thy burden, whereas thou shouldst have gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give 
 stayed till thy Prince had taken it off: thou back as one that had received his mortal wound, 
 didst sinfully sleep, and lose thy choice things: Christian, perceiving that, made at him again, 
 thou wast almost persuaded to go back at the saying, "Nay, in all these things we are more 
 sight of the lions: and when thou talkest 50 than conquerors, through Him that loved us." 
 of thy journey, and of what thou hast seen and And, with that, Apollyon spread forth his 
 heard, thou art inwardly desirous of vain-glory dragon's wings and sped him away that Chris- 
 in all that thou sayest or doest. tian saw him no more. 
 
 Chr. All this is true and much more which In this combat no man can imagine, unless 
 
 thou hast left out: but the Prince, whom I serve 55 he had seen and heard, as I did, what yelling 
 and honour, is merciful and ready to forgive, and hideous roaring Apollyon made all the time 
 But besides, these infirmities possessed me in of the fight; he spake like a dragon: — and on the 
 thy country: for there I sucked them in, other side, what sighs and groans burst from 
 and I have groaned under them, being sorry Christian's heart. I never saw him all the while 
 
260 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 give so much as one pleasant look, till he per- into the pursuance of some other assertions, 
 ceived that he had wounded Apollyon with his the knowledge and the use of which cannot but 
 two-edged sword; then indeed he did smile and be a great furtherance both to the enlargement 
 look upward! But it was the dreadfullest fight of truth and honest living with much more 
 that ever I saw. 5 peace. Nor should the laws of any private 
 
 So when the battle was over, Christian said, friendship have prevailed with me to divide 
 I will here give thanks to Him that hath de- thus, or transpose my former thoughts; but 
 livered me out of the mouth of the lion, to that I see those aims, those actions, which have 
 Him that did help me against Apollyon. And won you with me^ the esteem of a person sent 
 so he did, saying, 10 hither by some good providence from a far 
 
 country to be the occasion and incitement of 
 " Great Beelzebub, the captain of this fiend, great good to this island, and as I hear you have 
 
 Design'd my ruin : therefore to this end obtained the same repute with men of most 
 
 He sent him harness'd out; and he with rage approved wisdom and some of the highest 
 Thathellishwas, did fiercely me engage: 15 authority among us, not to mention the 
 
 But blessed Michael helped me; and I, learned correspondence which you hold in 
 
 By dint of sword, did quickly made him fly: foreign parts, and the extraordinary pains and 
 
 Therefore to Him let me give lasting praise diUgence which you have used in this matter 
 
 And thanks, and bless His holy name always." both here and beyond the seas, either by the 
 
 20 definite will of God so ruling, or the peculiar 
 Then there came to him an hand with some sway of nature, which also is God's working, 
 of the leaves of the tree of life; the which Neither can I think, that so reputed and so 
 Christian took, and applied to the wounds that valued as you are, you would, to the forfeit of 
 he had received in the battle, and was healed your own discerning abihty, impose upon me 
 immediately. He also sat down in that place 25 an unfit and over-ponderous argument; but that 
 to eat bread, and to drink of the bottle that was the satisfaction which you profess to have re- 
 given to him a Httle before: so, being refreshed, ceived from those incidental discourses which 
 he addressed himself to his journey, with his we have wandered into, hath pressed and al- 
 sword drawn in his hand; for, he said, I know most constrained you into a persuasion, that 
 not but some other enemy may be at hand. 30 what you require from me in this point, I 
 But he met with no other affront from Apollyon neither ought nor can in conscience defer be- 
 quite through this valley. yond this time both of so much need at once, 
 
 and so much opportunity to try what God hath 
 
 determined. 
 3l0l)n ^iUon ^ -"• ^^^ ^^* resist, therefore, whatever it is 
 
 either of divine or human obligement that you 
 1608-1674 lay upon me; but will forthwith set down in 
 
 writing, as you request me, that voluntary idea, 
 
 TRACTATE ON EDUCATION. LETTER which hath long in silence presented itself to 
 
 TO HARTLIB ^q me, of a better education, in extent and com- 
 
 Q644') prehension far more large, and yet of time far 
 
 shorter and of attainment far more certain, 
 
 Master Hartlib,* than hath been yet in practice. Brief I shall 
 
 I am long since persuaded that to say and do endeavour to be; for that which I have to say, 
 
 aught worth memory and imitation, no purpose 45 assuredly this nation hath extreme need should 
 
 or respect should sooner move us than simply be done sooner than spoken. To tell you, 
 
 the love of God and of mankind. Nevertheless, therefore, that I have benefited herein among 
 
 to write now the reforming of education, old renowned authors I shall spare; and to 
 
 though it be one of the greatest and noblest search what many modern Januas and Didac- 
 
 designs that can be thought on, and for the 50 tics,3more than ever I shall read, have projected, 
 
 want whereof this nation perishes, I had not my inchnation leads me not. But if you can 
 
 yet at this time been induced but by your accept of these few observations which have 
 
 earnest entreaties and serious conjurements; as flowered off, and are, as it were, the burnishing 
 
 having my mind for the present half diverted of many studious and contemplative years 
 
 1 Samuel Hartlib was bom in Prussia about the begin- 2 i. g., which have made you in my estimation "a persopA , 
 
 ning of the 17th century and came to England about 1628. sent hither," etc. 
 
 He beheved in the new methods of instruction recently ^ Januas =eitheT those books which serve as entrances 
 advanced by the educational reformer Comenius, and or introductions to a subject (Lat. Janua, a door, an en- 
 discussed these new views with Milton. Milton's tract trance) or, more probably, the authors of such books. 
 on education was the outcome of these discussions, and Didactics =eitheT works of a didactic, or teaching, char- 
 was written in response to Hartlib's "earnest entreaties." acter, or, preferably, the authors of such works. 
 
/rii 
 
 JOHN MILTON 261 
 
 altogether spent in the search of religious and chosen short book lessoned thoroughly to them, 
 civil knowledge, and such as pleased you so they might then forthwith proceed to learn the 
 well in the relating, I here give you them to dis- substance of good things and arts in due order, 
 pose of. which would bring the whole language quickly 
 
 The end, then, of learning is, to repair the 5 into their power. This 1 take to be the most 
 ruins of our first parents by regaining to know rational and most profitable way of learning 
 God aright, and out of that knowledge to love languages, and whereby we may best hope to 
 him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may give account to God of our youth spent herein, 
 the nearest by possessing our souls of true vir- And for the usual method of teaching arts, I 
 tue, which, being united to the heavenly grace lo deem it to be an old error of universities, not 
 of faith, makes up the highest perfection. But yet well recovered from the scholastic grossness 
 because our understanding cannot in this body of barbarous ages, that instead of beginning 
 found itself but on sensible things, nor arrive so with arts most easy (and those be such as are 
 clearly to the knowledge of God and things most obvious to the sense), they present their 
 invisible, as by orderly coming over the visible 15 young unmatriculated novices, at first coming, 
 and inferior creature, the same method is with the most intellective abstractions of logic 
 necessarily to be followed in all discreet teach- and metaphysics; so that they having but 
 ing. And seeing every nation affords not newly left those grammatic flats and shallows, 
 experience and tradition enough for all kinds of where they stuck unreasonably, to learn a few 
 learning, therefore we are chiefly taught the 20 words with lamentable construction, and now 
 languages of those people who have at any on the sudden transported under another 
 time been most industrious after wisdom; so climate, to be tossed and turmoiled with their 
 that language is but the instrument conveying unballasted wits in fathomless and unquiet 
 to us things useful to be known. And though a deeps of controversy, do, for the most part, 
 linguist should pride himself to have all the 25 grow into hatred and contempt of learning, 
 tongues that Babel cleft the world into, yet if mocked and deluded all this while with ragged 
 he have not studied the solid things in them, as notions and babblements, while they expected 
 well as the words and lexicons, he were nothing worthy and dehghtful knowledge; till poverty 
 so much to be esteemed a learned man, as any or youthful years call them importunately their 
 yeoman or tradesman competently wise in his 30 several ways, and hasten them, with the sway 
 mother-dialect only. Hence appear the many of friends, either to an ambitious and mer- 
 mistakes which have made learning generally cenary, or ignorantly zealous divinity: some 
 
 so unpleasing and so unsuccessful. First, we do 
 amiss to spend seven or eight years merely in 
 
 allured to the trade of law, grounding their 
 purposes not on the prudent and heavenly 
 
 scraping together so much miserable Latin and : 5 contemplation of justice and equity, which 
 Greek as might be learned otherwise easily and i was never taught them, but on the promising 
 delightfully in one year. And that which casts and pleasing thoughts of htigious terms, fat 
 oiir proficiency therein so much behind, is our contentions, and flowing fees; others betake 
 time lost partly in too oft idle vacancies* given them to state affairs, with souls so unprincipled 
 both to schools and universities; partly in a 40 in virtue and true generous breeding, that 
 preposterous exaction, forcing the empty wits flattery and court-shifts, and tyrannous apho- 
 of children to compose themes, verses, and risms appear to them the highest points of 
 orations, which are the acts of ripest judgment, wisdom; instiUing their barren hearts with a 
 and the final work of a head filled by long conscientious slavery; if, as I rather think, it 
 reading and observing, with elegant maxims 45 be not feigned: others, lastly, of a more deli- 
 and copious invention. These are not matters cious and airy spirit,'^ retire themselves, know- 
 to be wrung from poor stripUngs, Uke blood out ing no better, to the enjoyments of ease and 
 of the nose, or the plucking of untimely fruit; luxury, hving out their days in feast and 
 besides the ill habit which they get of wretched jollity; which indeed is the wisest and safest 
 barbarising against the Latin and Greek idiom 50 course of all these, unless they were with 
 with their untutored Anglicisms, odious to be more integrity undertaken. And these are 
 read, yet not to be avoided without a well- the errors, and these are the fruits of mis- 
 continued and judicious conversing among spending our prime youth at the schools and 
 pure authors, digested, which they scarce taste. universities, as we do, either in learning mere 
 Whereas, if after some preparatory grounds of 55 words, or such things chiefly as were better 
 speech by their certain forms got into memory,! unlearnt. 
 
 they were led to the praxis^ hereof in some\ I shall detain you now no longer in the 
 
 , demonstration of what we should not do, but 
 
 * Too frequent vacations. „. , . i i- ui. r i 
 
 6 Use, practice: diacipUne for some specific end. « Pleasure-loving and light, or Uvely. 
 
262 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 straight conduct you to a hillside, where I will grammar, either that now used, or any better; 
 point you out the right path of a virtuous and and while this is doing, their speech is to be 
 noble education; laborious indeed at the first fashioned to a distinct and clear pronunciation, 
 ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of as near as may be to the Italian, especially in 
 goodly prospect, and melodious sounds on 5 the vowels. For we EngUshmen, being far 
 every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not northerly, do not open our mouths in the cold 
 more charming. I doubt not but ye shall have air wide enough to grace a southern tongue, but 
 more ado to drive our dullest and laziest are observed by all other nations to speak 
 youth, our stocks and stubs,^ from the infinite exceeding close and inward; so that to smatter 
 desire of such a happy nurture, than we have 10 Latin with an English mouth is as ill a hearing 
 now to hale and drag our choicest and hope- as law French. Next, to make them expert in 
 fullest wits to that asinine feast of sow-thistles the usefullest points of grammar, and withal to 
 and brambles, which is commonly set before season them and win them early to the love of 
 them as all the food and entertainment of their virtue and true labour, ere any flattering 
 tenderest and most docible age. I call, there- 15 seducement or vain principle seize them 
 fore, a complete and generous education, that wandering, some easy and delightful book of 
 which fits a man to perform justly, skilfully, education should be read to them, whereof the 
 and magnanimously all the offices, both private Greeks have store, as Cebes,^° Plutarch, and 
 and pubUc, of peace and war. And how all this other Socratic discourses; but in Latin we have 
 may be done between twelve and one-and- 20 none of classic authority extant, except the 
 twenty, less time than is now bestowed in two or three first books of QuinctiUan" and 
 pure trifling at grammar and sophistry, is to be some select pieces elsewhere, 
 thus ordered: — But here the main skill and groundwork will 
 
 First, to find out a spacious house and be, to temper them such lectures and explana- 
 ground about it fit for an academy, and big 25 tions upon every opportunity as may lead and 
 enough to lodge a hundred and fifty persons, draw them in willing obedience, inflamed with 
 whereof twenty or thereabout may be attend- the study of learning and the admiration of 
 ants, all under the government of one, who virtue, stirred up with high hopes of living to 
 shall be thought of desert sufficient, and ability be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to 
 either to do all, or wisely to direct and oversee it 30 God and famous to all ages: that they may 
 done. This place should be at once both school despise and scorn all their childish and ill- 
 and university, not needing a remove to any taught qualities, to delight in manly and 
 other house of scholarship, except it be some hberal exercises; which he who hath the art 
 peculiar college of law, or physic, where they and proper eloquence to catch them with, what 
 mean to be practitioners; but as for those 35 with mild and efi"ectual persuasions, and what 
 general studies which take up all our time with the intimation of some fear, if need be, 
 from Lilly^ to commencing, as they term it, but chiefly by his own example, might in a 
 master of art, it should be absolute. After short space gain them to an incredible diligence 
 this pattern as many edifices may be converted and courage, infusing into their young breasts 
 to this use as shall be needful in every city 40 such an ingenuous and noble ardour as would 
 throughout this land, which would tend much not fail to make many of them renowned and 
 to the increase of learning and civility every- matchless men. At the same time, some other 
 where. This number,^ less or more, thus col- hour of the day might be taught them the rules 
 lected, to the convenience of a foot-company, of arithmetic, and, soon after, the elements 
 or interchangeably two troops of cavalry, 45 of geometry, even playing, as the old man- 
 should divide their day's work into three parts ner was. After evening repast till bed-time 
 as it lies orderly — their studies, their exercise, their thoughts would be best taken up in 
 and their diet. the easy grounds of religion and the story of 
 
 For their studies: first, they should begin Scripture, 
 with the chief and necessary rules of some good 50 The next step would be to the authors of 
 
 7 stocks and stubs are identical, both meaning lifeless, agriculture, CatO, VarTO, and Columella, i" for 
 
 insensible blocks or trunks Cf. stocks and stones ^;j^^ matter is most casy ; and if the language be 
 
 8i. e., from the time when he begins his studies with ,.„ ,. , ,, ■, ,. •, • , j-ai ^^ 
 
 Lilbfs Latin Grammar to commenciny or Commencement alfncuit, SO mUCh the better; it IS not a aimculty 
 Day, when he completes them as Master of Arts. "To 
 
 commence M. A." (as Milton tells us) was the regular, or "A Greek philosopher, author of a dialogue called 
 
 technical equivalent for "to take the degree of M. A." The Picture, which aims to show that happiness is to be^ 
 
 ^ i. e., this number of students (150, as above suggested) found in virtue, and in the cultivation of the mind. \i 
 
 having been thus collected to about the convenience of a " The Roman rhetorician and teacher of oratory. The ^f 
 
 foot-ro i-n-pany (the number of a foot-company when con- reference is to his treatise on Oratory (Z)e Institutione 
 
 veno'l), or, what is the same thing, to the number of two Oratorio). 
 
 troops of cavalry. There were about as many men in two '2 Marcus Porcius Cato wrote De Re Rustica: Varro and 
 
 cavalry trodps as in one company of foot. Columella were also authors of books on agriculture. 
 
JOHN MILTON 263 
 
 above their years. And here will be an occasion delight. Then also those poets which are now 
 of inciting and enabling them hereafter to im- counted most hard will be both facile and 
 prove the tillage of their country, to recover the pleasant, Orpheus, Hesiod, Theocritus, Aratus, 
 bad soil, and to remedy the waste that is made Nicander, Oppian, Dionysius; and, in Latin, 
 of good ; for this was one of Hercules' praises. 5 Lucretius, Manilius, and the rural part of 
 Ere half these authors be read (which will soon Virgil. 
 
 be with plying hard and daily) they cannot By this time years and good general precepts 
 
 choose but be masters of any ordinary prose: will have furnished them more distinctly with 
 so that it will be then seasonable for them to that act of reason which in ethics is called 
 learn in any modern author the use of the loProairesis;^^ that they may with some judg- 
 globes and all the maps, first with the old ment contemplate upon moral good and evil, 
 names and then with the new; or they might Then will be required a special reinforcement of 
 then be capable to read any compendious constant and sound indoctrinating to set them 
 method of natural philosophy; and, at the same right and firm, instructing them more amply 
 time, might be entering into the Greek tongue, 15 in the knowledge of virtue and the hatred of 
 after the same manner as was before prescribed vice; while their young and phant affections are 
 in the Latin; whereby the difficulties of gram- led through all the moral works of Plato, 
 mar being soon overcome, all the historical Xenophon, Cicero, Plutarch, Laertius, and 
 physiology of Aristotle and Theophrastus^' those Locrian remnants ;^^ but still to be re- 
 are open before them, and, as I may say, under 20 duced in their nightward studies wherewith 
 contribution. The hke access will be to they close the day's work under the deter- 
 Vitruvius, to Seneca's "Natural Questions," minate sentence of David or Solomon, or the 
 to Mela, Celsus, Phny, or Solinus.^* And evangelists and apostolic scriptures. Being 
 having thus past the principles of arithmetic, perfect in the knowledge of personal duty, they 
 geometry, astronomy, and geography, with a 25 may then begin the study of economics. And 
 general compact of physics, they may descend either now or before this, they may have easily 
 in mathematics to the instrumental science of learned, at any odd hour, the Itahan tongue, 
 trigonometry, and from thence to fortification. And soon after, but with wariness and good 
 architecture, enginery, or navigation. And in antidote, it would be wholesome enough to let 
 natural philosophy they may proceed leisurely 30 them taste some choice comedies, Greek, Latin, 
 from the history of meteors, minerals, plants, or Italian; those tragedies also that treat of 
 and hving creatures, as far as anatomy. Then household matters, as Trachiniae,^^ Alcestis,^' 
 also in course might be read to them out of and the hke. 
 
 some not tedious writer, the institution of The next removal must be to the study of 
 
 physic; that they may know the tempers, the 35 politics; to know the beginning, end, and rea- 
 humours, the seasons, and how to manage a sons of pohtical societies, that they may not, 
 crudity, ^5 which he who can wisely and timely in a dangerous fit of the commonwealth, be 
 do is not only a great physician to himself and such poor shaken uncertain reeds, of such a 
 to his friends, but also may at some time or tottering conscience as many of our great 
 other save an army by this frugal and expense- 40 councillors have lately shown themselves, but 
 less means only, and not let the healthy and steadfast pillars of the State. After this they 
 stout bodies of young men rot away under him are to dive into the grounds of law and legal 
 for want of this discipline, which is a great pity, justice, delivered first and with best warrant 
 and no less a shame to the commander. To set by Moses, and, as far as human prudence can 
 forward all these proceedings in nature and 45 be trusted, in those extolled remains of Grecian 
 mathematics, what hinders but that they may lawgivers, Lycurgus, Solon, Zaleucus, Charon- 
 procure, as oft as shall be needful, the helpful das; and thence to all the Roman edicts and 
 experience of hunters, fowlers, fishermen, tables, with their Justinian; and so down to the 
 shepherds, gardeners, apothecaries; and in the Saxon and common laws of England and the 
 other sciences, architects, engineers, mariners, 50 statutes. 
 
 anatomists, who, doubtless, would be ready, Sundays also and every evening may be now 
 
 some for reward and some to favour such a ,, ^^.^^^^,^ ^^^^ ^^.^ ^^^^ .^ ^.^ ^^^ .^^ ,^ ^^p^^^3 ^ 
 
 hopeful semmary. And this would give them deliberate preference for one thing over another, a? dis- 
 a^^oh n rpnl tinpfnrp nf nnfiiral knowlpde-p n«? tinguished from a sudden or unpremeditated action, and 
 SUCn a real tincture Ot natural Knowieage as ^jg^i^^es that the exercise of this deliberate preference is 
 they shall never forget, but daily augment with 55 "most intimately connected with virtue." 
 
 " Probably, as much of the work of ths philosopher 
 
 J3 A Greek philosopher and scientist (b. c. 371 B. C.) Timaeus of Locri, as has come down to us. A work On 
 who has been called the founder of botany. the Soul of the World and of Nature was formerly attributed 
 
 1^ Writers of works on architecture, biography, natural to him. but his authorship of it is disputed, 
 history, etc. ^^ Or, The Women of Trachis, a tragedy of Sopbooles. 
 
 »* An attack of indigestion. ^' A tragedy by Euripides. 
 
 I 
 
264 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 understandingly spent in the highest matters of gestures, and stuff otherwise wrought, than 
 theology and church history, ancient and what we now sit under, oft-times to as great 
 modern: and ere this time the Hebrew tongue a trial of our patience as any other that they 
 at a set hour might have been gained, that the preach to us. These are the studies wherein 
 Scriptures may be now read in their own 5 our noble and our gentle youth ought to bestow 
 original; whereto it would be no impossibility to their time in a disciplinary way from twelve to 
 add the Chaldee and the Syrian dialect. When one-and-twenty, unless they rely more upon 
 all these employments are well conquered, their ancestors dead than upon themselves 
 then will the choice histories, heroic poems, and living. In which methodical course it is so 
 Attic tragedies of stateliest and most regal 10 supposed they must proceed by the steady 
 argument, with all the famous political ora- pace of learning onward, as at convenient times 
 tions, offer themselves; which, if they were not for memory's sake to retire back into the middle 
 only read, but some of them got by memory, ward, and sometimes into the rear of what 
 and solemnly pronounced with right accent they have been taught, until they have con- 
 and grace, as might be taught, would endue 15 firmed and solidly united the whole body of 
 them even with the spirit and vigour of Demos- their perfected knowledge, Hke the last em- 
 thenes or Cicero, Euripides or Sophocles. battling of a Roman legion. 22 Now will be 
 
 And now, lastly, will be the time to read with worth the seeing what exercises and recreations 
 them those organic arts^" which enable men to may best agree and become these studies, 
 discourse and write perspicuously, elegantly, 20 
 
 and according to the fittest style of lofty, their exercise 
 
 mean, or lowly. Logic, therefore, so much as is The course of study hitherto briefly described 
 
 useful, is to be referred to this due place, with is, what I can guess by reading, likest to those 
 all her well-couched heads and topics, until it be ancient and famous schools of Pythagoras, 
 time to open her contracted palm into a grace- 25 Plato, Isocrates, Aristotle, and such others, 
 ful and ornate rhetoric, taught out of the rule out of which were bred such a number of 
 of Plato, Aristotle, Phalereus, Cicero, Her- renowned philosophers, orators, historians, 
 mogenes, Longinus. To which poetry would poets, and princes all over Greece, Italy, and 
 be made subsequent, or, indeed, rather pre- Asia, besides the flourishing studies of Cyrene 
 cedent, as being less subtile and fine, but more 30 and Alexandria. But herein it shall exceed 
 simple, sensuous, and passionate. I mean not them, and supply a defect as great as that which 
 here the prosody of a verse, which they could Plato noted in the commonwealth of Sparta, 
 not but have hit on before among the rudiments Whereas that city trained up their youth most 
 of grammar, but that sublime art which in for war, and these in their academies and 
 Aristotle's Poetics, in Horace, and the Italian 35 Lycasum all for the gown, this institution of 
 commentaries of Castlevetro, Tasso, Mazzoni,^!^ breeding which I here dehneate shall be equally 
 and others, teaches what the laws are of a true good both for peace and war. Therefore, about 
 epic poem, what of a dramatic, what of a lyric, an hour and a half ere they eat at noon should 
 what decorum is, which is the grand master- be allowed them for exercise, and due rest 
 piece to observe. This would make them soon 40 afterwards; but the time for this may be en- 
 perceive what despicable creatures our com- larged at pleasure, according as their rising in 
 mon rhymers and play-writers be; and show the morning shall be earlj'. The exercise which 
 them what rehgious, what glorious and mag- I commend first is the exact use of their weapon, 
 nificent use might be made of poetry, both in to guard, and to strike safely with edge or 
 divine and human things. . 45 point. This will keep them healthy, nimble, 
 
 From hence, and not till now, will be the strong, and well in breath; is also the likeliest 
 right season of forming them to be able writers means to make them grow large and tall, and 
 and composers in every excellent matter, when to inspire them with a gallant and fearless 
 they shall be thus fraught with an universal courage, which being tempered with seasonable 
 insight into things: or whether they be to speak 50 lectures and precepts to them of true fortitude 
 in parliament or council, honour and attention and patience, will turn into a native and 
 would be waiting on their Hps. There would heroic valour, and make them hate the cow- 
 then also appear in pulpits other visages, other 
 
 22 A reference to the Roman custom in battle, accordinp; 
 
 20 Arts which are not an end in themselves, but in- to which the division in the front rank (hastati) would 
 
 strumental to the attainment of some further end. retire through openings left for that purpose, the division 
 
 ^^ Ludovico Castlevetro (1515-1571), Italian scholar and immediately in the rear (principes) advancing to take \ 
 
 commentator, translated Aristotle's Ethics. Torquato their place. If the principes had to retire, then, by a 
 
 Tasso (1541-1595), one of the greater Italian poets, dis- similar movement, the third division, originally at the 
 
 cussed the epic in his Discourses on the Art of Poetry. extreme rear, would come to the front. In the last em- 
 
 Oiacomo Mazzoni (1.548-1598) was an Italian critic, and a battling those who had originally been in advance would 
 
 friend of Tasso. He wrote a book on Dante. thus be in the rear. 
 
JOHN MILTON 265 
 
 ardice of doing wrong. They must be also these constant exercises at home, there is 
 practised in all the locks and gripes of wrestling, another opportunity of gaining experience to 
 wherein Englishmen were wont to excel, as be won from pleasure itseK abroad: in those 
 need may often be in fight to tug, to grapple, vernal seasons of the year, when the air is 
 and to close. And this, perhaps, will be enough 5 calm and pleasant, it were an injury and 
 wherein to prove and heat their single strength, sullenness against nature not to go out and see 
 The interim of unsweating themselves regularly, her riches and partake in her rejoicing with 
 and convenient rest before meat, may both heaven and earth. I should not, therefore, be a 
 with profit and delight be taken up in recreating persuader to them of studying much then, 
 and composing their travailed spirits with the 10 after two or three years that they have well 
 solemn and divine harmonies of music heard or laid their grounds, but to ride out in companies 
 learned, either whilst the skilful organist pHes with prudent and staid guides to all the quarters 
 his grave and fancied descant in lofty fugues, or of the land, learning and observing all places of 
 the whole symphony with artful and un- strength, all commodities of building and of 
 imaginable touches adorn and grace the well- 15 soil for towns and tillage, harbours, and ports 
 studied chords of some choice composer; some- for trade. Sometimes taking sea as far as to our 
 times the lute or soft organ-stop, waiting on navy, to learn there also what they can in the 
 elegant voices either to religious, martial, or practical knowledge of sailing and of sea-fight, 
 civil ditties, which, if wise men and prophets be These ways would try all their pecuHar gifts of 
 not extremely out, have a great power over 20 nature, and if there were any secret excellence 
 dispositions and manners to smooth and make among them, would fetch it out and give it 
 them gentle from rustic harshness and dis- fair opportunities to advance itself by, which 
 tempered passions. The like also would not be could not but mightily redound to the good of 
 unexpedient after meat, to assist and cherish this nation, and bring into fashion again those 
 nature in her first concoction, and send their 25 old admired virtues and excellencies with far 
 minds back to study in good tune and satisfac- more knowledge now in this purity of Christian 
 tion. Where having followed it close under knowledge. Nor shall we then need the mon- 
 vigilant eyes until about two hours before sieurs of Paris to take our hopeful youth into 
 supper, they are, by a sudden alarum or their sHght and prodigal custodies, and send 
 watchword, to be called out to their mihtary 30 them over back again transformed into mimics, 
 motions, under sky or covert, according to the apes, and kekshose.^^ But if they desire to see 
 season, as was the Roman wont; first on foot, other countries at three or four and twenty 
 then, as their age permits, on horseback, to all* years of age, not to learn principles, but to 
 the art of cavalry; that having in sport, but enlarge experience and make wise observation, 
 with much exactness and daily muster, served 35 they will by that time be such as shall deserve 
 out the rudiments of their soldiership in all the the regard and honour of all men where they 
 skill of embattling, marching, encamping, pass, and the society and friendship of those in 
 fortifying, besieging, and battering, with all the all places who are best and most eminent. And 
 helps of ancient and modern strategems, perhaps then other nations will be glad to visit 
 tactics, and warhke maxims, they may, as it 40 us for their breeding, or else to imitate us in 
 were out of a long war, come forth renowned their own country. 
 
 and perfect commanders in the service of their Now, lastly, for their diet there cannot be 
 
 country. They would not then, if they were much to say, save only that it would be best 
 trusted with fair and hopeful armies, suffer in the same house; for much time else would be 
 them for want of just and wise disciphne to shed 45 lost abroad, and many ill habits got; and that it 
 away from about them hke sick feathers, should be plain, healthful, and moderate, I sup- 
 though they be never so oft supphed; they pose is out of controversy, 
 would not suffer their empty and unrecruitable Thus, Mr. Hartlib, you have a general view 
 colonels of twenty men in a company to quaff in writing, as your desire was, of that which at 
 out or convey into secret hoards the wages of a 50 several times I had discoursed with you con- 
 delusive list and miserable remnant; yet in the cerning the best and noblest way of education; 
 meanwhile to be overmastered with a score or not beginning, as some have done, from the 
 two of drunkards, the only soldiery left about cradle, which yet might be worth many con- 
 them, or else to comply with all rapines and siderations, if brevity had not been my scope, 
 violences. No, certainly, if they knew aught of 55 P^any other circumstances also I could have 
 that knowledge that belongs to good men or mentioned, but this, to such as have the 
 good governors they would not suffer these worth in them to make trial, for light and 
 thmgs. ^ T» -J 22 i. e., Kickshaws (Fr. aueZgtte cAose) trifling, fantastif 
 
 But to return to our own institute. Besides things. 
 
266 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 direction may be enough. Only I believe that loth to own; next what is to be thought in 
 this is not a bow for every man to shoot in, that general of reading, whatever sort the books be; 
 counts himself a teacher, but will require sinews and that this Order avails nothing to the sup- 
 almost equal to those which Homer gave pressing of scandalous, seditious, and libellous 
 Ulysses; yet I am withal persuaded that it 5 books, which were mainly intended to be 
 may prove much more easy in the assay than it suppressed. Last, that it will be primely to 
 now seems at distance, and much more illus- the discouragement of all learning, and the 
 trious: howbeit, not more difficult than I stop of Truth, not only by the disexercising and 
 imagine, and that imagination presents me with blunting our abilities in what we know already, 
 nothing but very happy and very possible 10 but by hindering and cropping the discovery 
 according to best wishes, if God have so decreed, that might be yet further made both in religious 
 and this age have spirit and capacity enough to and civil Wisdom. 
 
 apprehend. ' I deny not, but that it is of greatest concern- 
 
 ment in the Church and Commonwealth, to 
 15 have a vigilant eye how books demean them- 
 AREOPAGITICA* selves as well as men; and thereafter to confine, 
 
 imprison, and do sharpest justice on them as 
 
 (1644) malefactors: For books are not absolutely dead 
 
 (Selections) things, but do contain a potency of life in them 
 
 20 to be as active as that soul was whose progeny 
 
 If ye be thus resolved, ^ as it were injury to they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the 
 think ye were not, I know not what should purest eflScacy and extraction of that living 
 withhold me from presenting ye with a fit intellect that bred them. I know they are as 
 instance wherein to show both that love of lively, and as vigorously productive, as those 
 truth which ye eminently profess, and that 25 fabulous Dragon's teeth ;^ and being sown up 
 uprightness of your judgment which is not and down, may chance to spring up armed men. 
 wont to be partial to yourselves; by judging And yet, on the other hand, unless wariness be 
 over again that Order which ye have or- used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good 
 dained^ to regulate Printing: That no Book, book: who kills a man kills a reasonable crea- 
 pamphlet, or paper shall be henceforth Printed, 30 ture, God's image; but he who destroys a good 
 unless the same be first approved and licensed by book, kills reason itself, kills the image of 
 such, or at least one of such as shall be thereto God, as it were in the eye.^ Many a man lives a 
 appointed. For that part which preserves 'burden to the earth; but a good book is the 
 justly every man's copy to himself, or provides precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed 
 for the poor, I touch not, only wish they be not 35 and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond 
 made pretences to abuse and persecute honest life. 'Tis true, no age can restore a life, whereof 
 and painful men, who offend not in either of perhaps there is no great loss; and revolutions 
 these particulars. But that other clause of of ages do not oft recover the loss of a rejected 
 Licensing Books, which we thought had died truth, for the want of which whole nations fare 
 with his brother quadragesimal* and matrimonial 40 the worse. We should be wary therefore what 
 when the prelates expired, I shall now attend persecution we raise against the Hving labours 
 with such a homily, as shall lay before ye, first of pubhc men, how we spill that seasoned hfe of 
 the inventors of it, to be those whom ye will be man, preserved and stored up in books; since we 
 
 , . jj + +u A -D *i. A see a kind of homicide may be thus com- 
 
 ii. e., address to the Areopagus. By the Areopagus .,, , ,. , i , .- . 
 
 Milton means the English Parliament, which he thus 45 mitted, Sometimes a martyrdom, and if it 
 
 likens to the Greek Areopagus, the high council and court extend to the whole impression,^ a kind of 
 
 of ancient Athens. One of the orations of Isocrates. the , » , , *^ . ' . , 
 
 Attic orator, is known as Logos Areopagitikos, the Areop- maSSacre, whereOI the execution ends not m the 
 agitic Discourse. As Isocrates appealed to the ancient olnvino- nf nn plpmpnfal lifp hnf <5frikp«s nf fhaf 
 
 Areopagus (the high court of Ares. " or Mars." Hill), so -W^g ot an elemental Hie, DUt StrikCb at that 
 Milton appeals to the modern Areopagus, "the Lords and ethereal and faith essence,^ the breath of reason 
 ^^Trc.^i^il''^%\rrr^:^dcJ4^"'''''' ^''"' 50 itself, slays an immortality rather than a lite. 
 
 2 i. e.. resolved to do what has just been urged by Milton 8 gee the stories of Cadmuc and of Jason. 
 
 in the preceding passage; viz. to "obey the voice of reason 6 God's image is reflected in a good book as the image of 
 
 from whatever quarter it be heard speaking." and to repeal outward objects is on the retina of the eye. 
 
 any Parliamentary act of your own as willingly as you ' The whole edition; here, all the copies printed. 
 
 would one passed by your predecessors in Parliament. « Aristotle holds that there are five elements, earth, 
 
 3 The ordinance of 1643, reestablishing a censorship of .water, air. fire, ether; the last is the "fifth element," or 
 the press, which had been substantially free since 1640. g7iin/.essence (fifth essence), which is not subject to change. 
 
 * Pertaining to Lent, a season of forty days. Ecclesias- He who destroys all the copies of a book, does not merelv 
 
 tical rules for the observence of Lent, and ecclesiastical destroy a thing subject to change (like the first four 
 
 views of marriage (which Milton regarded as a civil elements), he destroys part of a man's spirit preserved and 
 
 contract and not as a sacrament) had "died when the stored up in a good book beyond the term of mortal life, 
 
 K relates expired," but the censorship of the press (which he slays the "fifth essence." the man's ethereal part, "an 
 
 lilton calls their brother) is continued. immortality rather than a life." 
 
JOHN MILTON 267 
 
 But lest I should be condemned of introducing learned men reputed in this land, Mr. Selden,^ 
 license, while I oppose Ucensing, I refuse not whose volume of natural and national laws 
 the pains to be so much historical, as will serve proves, not only by great authorities brought 
 to show what hath been done by ancient and together, but by exquisite reasons and theorems 
 famous commonwealths, against this disorder, 5 almost mathematically demonstrative, that all 
 till the very time that this project of hcensing opinions, yea errors, known, read, and collated, 
 crept out of the Inquisition, was catched up by are of main service and assistance toward the 
 our prelates, and hath caught some of our speedy attainment of what is truest. I con- 
 presbyters, ceive, therefore, that when God did enlarge the 
 
 [An historical survey here follows, showing lo universal diet of man's body, saving ever the 
 the position of the authorities in Athens, rules of temperance, He then also, as before, 
 Lacedsemon, and Rome, in regard to the left arbitrary the dieting and repasting of our 
 question at issue. Continuing the history minds; as wherein every mature man might 
 through early Christian times, Milton finally have to exercise his own leading capacity. How 
 contends that the system of press censorship, 15 great a virtue is temperance, how much of 
 which he condemned, was "engendered" by moment through the whole life of man! yet 
 the Council of Trent (1546) and the Spanish God commits the managing so great a trust, 
 Inquisition.] without particular law or prescription, wholly 
 
 Dionysius Alexandrinus was about the to the demeanour of every grown man. And 
 year 240, a person of great name in the Church 20 therefore when He Himself tabled the Jews 
 for piety and learning, who had wont to avail from heaven, that omer, which was every 
 himself much against heretics by being con- man's daily portion of manna, is computed to 
 versant in their books; until a certain presbyter have been more than might have well sufficed 
 laid it scrupulously to his conscience, how he the heartiest feeder thrice as many meals. For 
 durst venture himself among those defiling 25 those actions which enter into a man, rather 
 volumes. The worthy man, loth to give than issue out of him, and therefore defile not, 
 offence, fell into a new debate with himself God uses not to captivate under a perpetual 
 what was to be thought; when suddenly a childhood of prescription, but trusts him with 
 vision sent from God (it is his own epistle that the gift of reason to be his own chooser; there 
 so avers it) confirmed him in these words: so were but Httle work left for preaching, if law 
 Read any books whatever come to thy hands, and compulsion should grow so fast upon those 
 for thou art sufficient both to judge aright, and things which heretofore were governed only 
 to examine each matter. To this revelation he by exhortation. Solomon informs us, that 
 assented the sooner, as he confesses, because it much reading is a weariness to the flesh; but 
 was answerable to that of the Apostle to the 35 neither he nor other inspired author tells us 
 Thessalonians: Prove all things, hold fast that that such, or such reading is unlawful: yet 
 which is good. And he might have added an- certainly had God thought good to limit us 
 other remarkable saying of the same author: herein, it had been much more expedient tc 
 To the pure, all things are pure; not only have told us what was unlawful, than what 
 meats and drinks, but all kind of knowledge 40 was wearisome. As for the burning of those 
 whether of good or evil; the knowledge cannot Ephesian books by St. Paul's converts ;i° 'tis 
 defile, nor consequently the books, if the will repHed the books were magic, the Syriac so 
 and conscience be not defiled. For books are as renders them. It was a private act, a voluntary 
 meats and viands are; some of good, some of act, and leaves us to a voluntary imitation: the 
 evil substance; and yet God in that unapocry- 45 men in remorse burnt those books which were 
 phal vision, said without exception: Rise, Peter, their own; the magistrate by this example is 
 kill and eat, leaving the choice to each man's not appointed: these men practised the books, 
 discretion. Wholesome meats to a vitiated another might perhaps have read them in some 
 stomach differ Httle or nothing from unwhole- sort usefully. Good and evil we know in the 
 some; and best books to a. naughty mind are 50 field of this world grow up together almost 
 not unapphable to occasions of evil. Bad inseparably; and the knowledge of good is so 
 meats will scarce breed good nourishment in involved and interwoven with the knowledge of 
 the healthiest concoction; but herein the evil, and in so many cunning resemblances 
 difference is of bad books, that they to a dis- hardly to be discerned, that those confused 
 creet and judicious reader serve in many re- 55 9john Selden (1584-1654), jurist, antiquary, and 
 
 -^npfts to Hisipnvpr to ponfutp to forewarn and author. He was member of the Long Parimment (1640) 
 speciS to aiSCOVer, to coniutc, lo loxewdni, duu ^^^j ^^^ ^^ ^^^ Committee which nnpeached Archbishop 
 
 to illustrate. Whereof what better witness Laud. As an author, he is chiefly remembered by his 
 
 pan VP Pvnppt T ^hniilrl nrodiiff* than one of Table-Talk. Milton here refers to Selden's treatise De 
 
 can ye expect l snouia proauce, tnan one oi j^^^ Maturaii et Gentium, etc., 1640. 
 your own now sitting in Parhament, the chief of lo Acts, xix., 19. 
 
268 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 seeds which were imposed on Psyche^^ as an examine all the lutes, the violins, and the guitars 
 incessant labour to cull out, and sort asunder, in every house; they must not be suffered to 
 were not more intermixed. It was from out prattle as they do, but must be licensed what 
 the rind of one apple tasted, that the knowledge they may say. And who shall silence all the 
 of good and evil, as two twins cleaving together, 5 airs and madrigals that whisper softness in 
 leaped forth into the world. And perhaps this chambers? The windows also, and the bal- 
 is that doom which Adam fell into of knowing conies must be thought on, there are shrewd 
 good and evil, that is to say of knowing good by books, with dangerous frontispieces, set tol 
 evil. As therefore the state of man now is; sale; who shall prohibit them, shall twenty 
 what wisdom can there be to choose, what lO licensers? The villages also must have their 
 continuance to forbear without the knowledge visitors to inquire what lectures the bagpipe 
 of evil? He that can apprehend and consider and the rebeck reads even to the ballatry,i* 
 vice with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and the gamut of every municipal fiddler, for 
 and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet these are the countryman's Arcadias, and his 
 prefer that which is truly better, he is the true 15 Monte Mayors, ^^ Next, what more national 
 wayfaring Christian. I cannot praise a fugitive corruption, for which England hears ill abroad, 
 and cloistered virtue, unexercised and un- than household gluttony: who shall be the 
 breathed, that never sallies out and sees her rectors of our daily rioting? And what shall be 
 adversary, but slinks out of the race, where done to inhibit the multitudes that frequent 
 that immortal garland is to be run for, not 20 those houses where drunkenness is sold and 
 without dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not harboured? Our garments also should be 
 innocence into the world, we bring impurity referred to the licensing of some more sober 
 much rather; that which purifies us is trial, and workmasters to see them cut into a less wanton 
 trial is by what is contrary. That virtue garb. Who shall regulate all the mixed conver- 
 therefore which is but a youngling in the con-25sation of our youth, male and female together, 
 templation of evil, and knows not the utmost as is the fashion of this country, who shall still 
 that vice promises to her followers, and rejects appoint what shall be discoursed, what pre- 
 it, is but a blank virtue, not a pure; her white- sumed, and no further? Lastly, who shall 
 ness is but an excremental whiteness ;i2 which forbid and separate all idle resort, all evil com- 
 was the reason why our sage and serious poetsopany? These things will be, and must be; but 
 Spenser, whom I dare be known to think a how they shall be least hurtful, how least 
 better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas, de- enticing, herein consists the grave and govern- 
 scribing true temperance under the person of ing wisdom of a state. To sequester out of 
 Guion,i3 brings him in with his palmer through the world into Atlantic and Utopian polities, i*' 
 the cave of Mammon, and the bower of earthly 35 which never can be drawn into use, will not 
 bliss, that he might see and know, and yet mend our condition; but to ordain wisely as in 
 abstain. Since therefore the knowledge and this world of evil, in the midst whereof God 
 survey of vice is in the world so necessary to the hath placed us unavoidably. . . . 
 constituting of human virtue, and the scan- Lords and Commons of England, consider 
 ning of error to the confirmation of truth, how 40 what Nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof 
 can we more safely, and with less danger scout ye are the governors: a nation not slow and 
 into the regions of sin and falsity than by dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing 
 reading all manner of tractates and hearing spirit, acute to invent, subtle and sinewy to 
 all manner of reason? And this is the benefit discourse, not beneath the reach of any point 
 which may be had of books promiscuously 45 the highest that human capacity can soar to. 
 read. • . -^ ^ Therefore the studies of Learning in her deepest 
 
 If we think to regulate printing, thereby to sciences have been so ancient, and so eminent 
 rectify manners, we must regulate all recrea- among us, that writers of good antiquity, and 
 tions and pastimes, all that is delightful to man. ablest judgment have been persuaded that even 
 No music must be heard, no song be set or 50 the school of Pythagoras, and the Persian 
 sung, but what is grave and Doric. There wisdom took beginning from the old philosophy 
 must be licensing dancers, that no gesture, of this island. And that wise and civil Roman, 
 motion, or deportment be taught our youth but Julius Agricola, who governed once here for 
 what by their allowance shall be thought ,aT, „ ^ xu i 
 
 t . "i 1 -ni . -J J r •. -n " Ballads, the popular songs. 
 
 honest; tor such Plato was prOVldea Ot; it will 55 nj„rge de Montemayor (c. 1520-1561), author of the 
 
 ask more than the work of twenty licensers to Spanish pastoral drama Diana. Sidney's Arcadia is a 
 
 •^ work of the same general character, 
 
 " See the familiar story of Cupid and Psyche, told by i« To withdraw (sequester) ourselves from the actual 
 
 Apuleius, world, into such ideal and visionary systems of govern- 
 
 12 i. e., only superficial, only "skin-deep." inent as those pictured by Bacon in his New Atlantis, or 
 
 " See Faerie Queene, Bk. II, More in his Utopia, ''tvill not mend" etc. 
 
JOHN MILTON 269 
 
 Caesar, preferred the natural wits of Britain, could a man require more from a Nation so 
 before the laboured studies of the French. Nor pliant and so prone to seek after knowledge? 
 is it for nothing that the grave and frugal What wants there to such a towardly and 
 Transylvanian^^ sends out yearly from as far as pregnant soil, but wise and faithful labourers, 
 the mountainous borders of Russia, and beyond 5 to make a knowing people, a Nation of Prophets^ 
 the Hercynianwilderness,i8 not their youth, but of Sages, and of Worthies? We reckon more 
 their staid men, to learn our language, and our than five months yet to harvest; there need not 
 theologic arts. Yet that which is above all this, be five weeks; had we but eyes to hft up, the 
 the favour and the love of Heaven, we have fields are white already. Where there is much 
 great argument to think in a peculiar manner lo desire to learn, there of necessity will be much 
 propitious and propending towards us. Why arguing, much writing, many opinions; for 
 (ilse was this Nation chosen before any other, opinion in good men is but knowledge in the 
 that out of her as out of Sion should be pro- making. Under these fantastip terrors of sect 
 claimed and sounded forth the first tidings and and schism, we wrong the earnest and zealous 
 trumpet of Reformation to all Europe? And 15 thirst after knowledge and understanding which 
 had it not been the obstinate perverseness of our God hath stirred up in this city. What some 
 prelates against the divine and admirable lament of, we rather should rejoice at, should 
 spirit of Wickliff, to suppress him as a schis- rather praise this pious forwardness among 
 matic and innovator, perhaps neither the men, to reassume the ill-reputed care of their 
 Bohemian Huss and Jerome, ^^ no nor the name 20 Religion into their own hands again. A little 
 of Luther, or of Calvin had been ever known: generous prudence, a little forbearance of one 
 the glory of reforming all our neighbours had another, and some grain of charity might win 
 been completely ours. But now, as our ob- all these diligences to join, and unite in one 
 durate clergy have with violence demeaned the general and brotherly search after Truth; 
 matter, we are become hitherto the latest and 25 could we but forego this prelatical tradition of 
 backwardest scholars, of whom God offered to crowding free consciences and Christian 
 have made us the teachers. Now once again liberties into canons and precepts of men. I 
 by all concurrence of signs, and by the general doubt not, if some great and worthy stranger 
 instinct of holy and devout men, as they daily should come among us, wise to discern the 
 and solemnly express their thoughts, God is 30 mould and temper of a people, and how to 
 decreeing to begin some new and great period govern it, observing the high hopes and aims, 
 in His Church, even to the reforming of Refor- the diligent alacrity of our extended thoughts 
 mation itself. What does He then but reveal and reasonings in the pursuance of truth and 
 Himself to His servants, and as His manner is, freedom, but that he would cry out as Pyrrhus^o 
 first to His Englishmen; I say as His manner is, 35 did, admiring the Roman docility and courage: 
 first to us, though we mark not the method of If such were my Epirots,^! I would not despair 
 His counsels, and are unworthy. Behold now the greatest design that could be attempted to 
 this vast City: a city of refuge, the mansion make a Church or Kingdom happy. Yet these 
 house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded are the men cried out against for schismatics 
 with His protection; the shop of war hath not 40 and sectaries; as if, while the temple of the 
 there more anvils and hammers waking, to Lord was building, some cutting, some squaring 
 fashion out the plates and instruments of the marble, others hewing the cedars, there 
 armed Justice in defence of beleaguered truth, should be a sort^^ of irrational men who could 
 than there be pens and heads there, sitting by not consider there must be many schisms and 
 their studious lamps, musing, searching, re- 45 many dissections made in the quarry and in the 
 volving new notions and ideas wherewith to timber, ere the house of God can be built, 
 present, as with their homage and their fealty, And when every stone is laid artfully together, 
 the approaching reformation: others as fast it cannot be united into a continuity, it can 
 reading, trying all things, assenting to the but be contiguous in this world; neither can 
 force of reason and convincement. What 50 every piece of the building be of one form; 
 
 nay rather the perfection consists in this: 
 
 " Transylvania (the land beyond the Carpathian i]^^^^ q^^ of many moderate varieties and 
 forests, trari.s-sylva), since 1868 a part of Hungary, was 1,1, ,. . '^^'f j -1 x 4. xi 
 
 an independent principality in Milton's time. brotherly dissimihtudes that are not vastly 
 
 '^'l^^ ^^F'^ynia siim of PVmy was a wild region oi disproportional, arises the goodly and the 
 
 undefined hmits south of the Caspian (or Ilyrcane) Sea. ^ i . j.i. x j xi, i. ^ 
 
 But Milton, apparently, is thinking here of a remote 55 graceful Symmetry that COmmendS the wnole 
 district near Transylvania in the neighborhood of the 
 
 Carpathian mountains. 20 Pyrrhus, king of Epirus. He is reported to have 
 
 's Jerome of Prague, a religious reformer of the four- made a remark similar to the one here attributed to him 
 
 tecnth and early fifteenth centuries, who was a follower after his hard-won victory over the Romans in the battle 
 
 of John Huss. John Wyclif died in 1384 ; Huss was burned of Heraclea, 280 B. C. 
 
 for heresy in 1415, and Jerome in 141C. *' Men of Epirus. " Group, company. 
 
270 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 pile and structure. Let us therefore be more acutest, and the pertest operations of wit 
 considerate builders, more wise in spiritual and subtlety, it argues in what good plight and 
 architecture, when great reformation is ex- constitution the body is, so when the cheerful- 
 pected. For now the time seems come, wherein ness of the people is so sprightly up, as that it 
 Moses the great prophet may sit in heaven 5 has, not only wherewith to guard well its own 
 rejoicing to see that memorable and glorious freedom and safety, but to spare, and to bestow 
 wish of his fulfilled, when not only our seventy upon the solidest and sublimest points of con- 
 Elders, but all the Lord's people,^^ are become troversy and new invention, it betokens us not 
 prophets. No marvel then though some men, degenerated, nor drooping to a fatal decay, but 
 and some good men too, perhaps, but young in lo casting off the old and wrinkled skin of corrup- 
 goodness, as Joshua then was, envy them, tion to outlive these pangs and wax young 
 They fret, and out of their own weakness are in again, entering the glorious ways of truth and 
 agony, lest these divisions and subdivisions will prosperous virtue destined to become great and 
 undo us. The adversary again applauds, and honourable in these latter ages. Methinks I see 
 waits the hour; when they have branched them- 15 in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing 
 selves out, saith he, small enough into parties herself like a strong man after sleep, and shak- 
 and partitions, then will be our time. Fool! ing her invincible locks: Methinks I see her as 
 he sees not the firm root, out of which we all an eagle mewing^e her mighty youth, and 
 grow, though into branches: nor will beware kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday 
 until he see our small divided maniples^^ 20 beam ; purging and unsealing her long-abused 
 cutting through at every angle of his ill-united sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance; 
 and unwieldy brigade. And that we are to while the whole noise of timorous and flocking 
 hope better of all these supposed sects, and birds, with those also that love the twilight, 
 schisms, and that we shall not need that flutter about, amazed at what she means, and 
 solicitude honest perhaps though over-timorous 25 in their envious gabble would prognosticate a 
 of them that vex in this behef , but shall laugh year of sects and schisms, 
 in the end, at those malicious applauders of our What should ye do then, should ye suppress 
 
 differences, I have these reasons to persuade all this flowery crop of knowledge and new light 
 me. sprung up and yet springing daily in this city, 
 
 First, when a City shall be as it were besieged 30 should ye set an oligarchy of twenty engrossers 
 and blocked about, her navigable river infested, over it, to bring a famine upon our minds again, 
 inroads and incursions round, defiance and when we shall know nothing but what is 
 battle oft rumoured to be marching up even to measured to us by their bushel? Believe it, 
 her walls, and suburb trenches, that then the Lords and Commons, they who counsel ye to 
 people, or the greater part, more than at other 35 such a suppressing, do as good as bid ye sup- 
 times, wholly taken up with the study of press yourselves; and I will soon show how. 
 highest and most important matters to be If it be desired to know the immediate cause of 
 reformed, should be disputing, reasoning, read- all this free writing and free speaking, there 
 ing, inventing, discoursing, even to a rarity, and cannot be assigned a truer than your own mild, 
 admiration, things not before discoursed or 40 and free, and humane government; it is the 
 written of, argues first a singular goodwill, liberty. Lords and Commons, which your own 
 contentedness and confidence in your prudent valorous and happy counsels have purchased 
 foresight, and safe government, Lords and us, liberty which is the nurse of all great wits; 
 Commons; and from thence derives itself to a this is that which hath rarified and enhghtened 
 gallant bravery and well grounded contempt 45 our spirits like the influence of heaven; this is 
 of their enemies, as if there were no small num- that which hath enfranchised, enlarged, and 
 ber of as great spirits among us, as his was,^^ lifted up our apprehensions degrees above 
 who when Rome was nigh besieged by Hannibal, themselves. Ye cannot make us now less 
 being in the city, bought that piece of ground capable, less knowing, less eagerly pursuing of 
 at no cheap rate, whereon Hannibal himself 50 the truth, unless ye first make yourselves, that 
 encamped his own regiment. Next it is a lively made us so, less the lovers, less the founders 
 and cheerful presage of our happy success and of our true liberty. We can grow ignorant 
 victory. For as in a body, when the blood is again, brutish, formal, and slavish, as ye 
 fresh, the spirits pure and vigorous, not only to found us; but you then must first become that 
 vital, but to rational faculties, and those in the 55 which ye cannot be, oppressive, arbitrary, and 
 
 23 Numb. xi.. 29. tyrannous, as they were from whom ye have 
 
 24 Small companies of soldiers. The Roman manipulus freed US. That OUr hearts are now more 
 
 ™'Tl"e''SrrL?cffS'SVs s<,»e. „vi. u. The "apacious, our thoughts more erected to the 
 
 name of the confident purchaser is not given. 20 Renewing: as a moulting bird puts on new plumage. 
 
ABRAHAM COWLEY 271 
 
 search and expectation of greatest and exactest companion, if I could find any of the same 
 things, is the issue of your own virtue prop- temper. I was then, too, so much an enemy to 
 agated in us; ye cannot suppress that unless ye all constraint, that my masters could never 
 reinforce an abrogated and merciless law, that prevail on me, by any persuasions or encourage- 
 fathers may despatch at will their own chil- 5 ments, to learn without book the common rules 
 dren. And who shall then stick closest to ye, of grammar, in which they dispensed with me 
 and excite others? not he who takes up arms alone, ^ because they found I made a shift to do 
 for coat and conduct, ^^ and his four nobles of the usual exercises out of my own reading and 
 Danegelt. Although I dispraise not the observation. That I was then of the same mind 
 defence of just immunities, yet love my peace 10 as I am now (which, I confess, I wonder at 
 better, if that were all. Give me the liberty to myself) may appear by the latter end of an 
 know, to utter, and to argue freely according to ode which I made when I was but thirteen years 
 conscience, above all liberties. old, and which was then printed with many 
 
 other verses. The beginning of it is boyish, but 
 
 15 of this part, which I here set down, if a very 
 
 jSbtdbdint dDotOln' nttle were corrected, I should hardly now be 
 
 much ashamed. 
 
 1618-1667 
 
 IX 
 
 m? A/rva-PTT? '^^^^ ^^^y grant me, that my means may li© 
 
 Ulf Ml toUiLiF 20 Too low for envy, for contempt too iiigh. 
 
 (E.say. in Verse and Pro.. 1668) Not Kr^'drb^t g^JI alone: 
 
 It is a hard and nice subject for a man to The unknown are better than ill known. 5 
 
 write of hi,nself; it grates his own heart to say H-^eTw^ulf hl^ertut when it de, 
 
 anythmg of disparagement, and the reader s 25 ^ pends 
 
 ears to hear anything of praise for him. There ^^^ ^^ ^1^^ number, but the choice of friends, 
 is no danger from me of offending him in this 
 
 kind; neither my mind, nor my body, nor my x 
 
 fortune, allow me any materials for that Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
 vanity. It is sufficient for my own contentment 30 And sleep, as undisturbed as death, thenight. 10 
 that they have preserved me from being My house a cottage, more 
 
 scandalous, or remarkable on the defective Than palace, and should fitting be 
 side. But besides that, I shall here speak of For all my use, no luxury, 
 myself only in relation to the subject of these M^^^^^ ^^^ p^^^^^^^^ 
 
 precedent discourses,^ and shall be likelier 35 .^^ j^ 
 
 thereby to fall into the contempt, than rise up Horace m'ight envy in his Sabine field, 
 to the estimation of most people. ^ 
 
 As far as my memory can return back into , , ^ , , , ^^e , n j- 
 
 my past life, before 1 knew or was capable Thus would I double my life s fading sp^^^^^^ 
 
 of^gu^essing what the world, or f-es or bu^'" « ^^ ^'dt ^^t^ ™" "^ '^^ 
 ness of It were, the natural affectioiis ot my ^^^^^^ unbought sports, this happy state, 2t 
 soul gave me a secret bent of aversion trom j would not fear, nor wish my fate, 
 them, as some plants are said to turn away g^^^ boldly say each night, 
 
 from others, by an antipathy imperceptible To-morrow let my sun his beams display 
 to themselves and inscrutable to man's under- 45 Or in clouds hide them— I have lived to-day. 
 standing. Even when I was a very young boy , 
 
 at school, instead of running about on holy- You may see by it I was even then acquainted 
 days and playing with my fellows, I was wont with the poets (for the conclusion is taken out 
 to steal from them and walk into the fields, of Horace),^ and perhaps it was the immature 
 either alone with a book, or with some one 50 and immoderate love of them which stamped 
 27 Not he who takes up arms on account of (i . e. against) first, or rather engraved, these characters in me, 
 illegal taxation, imposed to pay for the clothing (coat) Thev were like letters cut into the barl« of a 
 
 and transport (conduct) of the king's troops, and not he J . , , ..,, _-.„™ 
 
 who refuses to give his four nobles of a ship-money tax. yOUng tree, WhlCh Wltn tne tree SllU grow 
 
 The proceeds of the tax imposed to meet the cost of nronortionablv But hoW this love came to be 
 
 clothing and transporting new levies was known as coai piupuitiuim y. nnP<5finn T 
 
 and conduct money. The ship-money tax (which John 55 produced m me SO early IS a nard question. 1 
 
 Hampden and others refused to pay), was called Danegelt. Kplievp I can tell the particular little chance 
 because the king and his party relied on the old Danegelt ^ ^ ' j; . , , pV>4mAQ nf 
 
 (originally money given to the Danes to refrain from that filled my head first With SUCh ChimeS OI 
 
 attacking England) as a precedent. verse as have never since left ringing there. 
 
 1 The essay Of Myself is the last of a series entitled , ^ ' , « » n^ TTT -r-^^ ai ^ ««, 
 
 Several Discourses by Way of Essays in Prose and Verse. ' Excused me alone. » Od. Ill, XMX, 41 et. seq. 
 
272 THE AGE OF MILTON 
 
 For I remember, when I began to read, and to I was in business of great and honourable trust, 
 
 take some pleasure in it, there was wont to lie though I ate at the best table, and enjoyed the 
 
 in my mother's parlour (I know not by what best conveniences for present subsistence that 
 
 accident, for she herself never in her life read ought to be desired by a man of my condition in 
 
 any book but of devotion), but there was wont 5 banishment and pubhc distresses; yet I could 
 
 to lie Spenser's works; this I happened to fall not abstain from renewing my old schoolboy's 
 
 upon, and was infinitely delighted with the wishinacopy of verses to the same effect: 
 
 stories of the knights, and giants, and monsters, irr n ^i, t j i • i 
 
 and brave houses, which I found everywhere Swv'JnX.nH ? Sinter «c^^^ .f . s 
 ,,.,,, J ^ T 1 1 Txxi X J inis busy world anal shall neer agree, etc.* 
 
 there (though my understandmg had little to do 10 °^ ' 
 
 with all this) ; and by degrees with the tinkling And I never then proposed to myseK any 
 of the rhjTue and dance of the numbers, so other advantage from His Majesty's happy 
 that I think I had read him all over before I was Restoration, but the getting into some mod- 
 twelve years old, and was thus immediately erately convenient retreat in the country, which 
 made a poet. 15 I thought in that case T might easily have 
 
 With these affections of mind, and my heart compassed, as well as some others, with no 
 wholly set upon letters, I went to the univer- greater probabiUties or pretences have arrived 
 sity,^ but was soon torn from thence by that to extraordinary fortunes. But I had before 
 violent public storm^ which would suffer noth- written a shrewd prophecy against myself, and 
 ing to stand where it did, but rooted up every 20 1 think Apollo inspired me in the truth, though 
 plant, even from the princely cedars to me, the not in the elegance of it: 
 hyssop. Yet I had as good fortune as could ^, .^, ^ ^ ^ • ^r 
 
 i,o,r^ K^foii^r. ^« ir. c„^i; -, +^^^^of. fr.r. T t^.oc Thou, ncithcr great at court nor m the war 
 have befallen me m such a tempest for I was ^^^ ^^ ^^, exchange shalt be, nor at the wran- 
 cast by it into the family of one of the best gling bar* 
 
 persons,^ and into the court of one of the best 25 Content thysdf with the smaU barren praise, 
 princesses^ of the world. Now though I was Which neglected verse does raise, etc. 
 here engaged in ways most contrary to the 
 
 original design of my life, that is, into much However, by the failing of the forces which I 
 
 company, and no small business, and into a had expected, I did not quit the design which I 
 daily sight of greatness, both mihtant and 30 had resolved on; I cast myself into it A corps 
 triumphant (for that was the state then of the perdu,^ without making capitulations or taking 
 English and French Courts) ; yet all this was so counsel of fortune. But God laughs at a man 
 far from altering my opinion, that it only added who says to his soul, "Take thy ease:" I met 
 the confirmation of reason to that which was presently not only with many little encum- 
 before but natural inclination. I saw plainly 35 brances and impediments, but with so much 
 all the paint of that kind of Hfe, the nearer I sickness (a new misfortune to me) as would 
 came to it; and that beauty, which I did not have spoiled the happiness of an emperor as 
 fall in love with when, for aught I knew, it was well as mine. Yet I do neither repent nor alter 
 real, was not like to bewitch or entice me when my course. Non ego perfidum dixi sacramen- 
 I saw that it was adulterate. I met mth. 40 tum.^° Nothing shall separata me from a mis- 
 several great persons, whom I liked very well; tress which I have loved so long, and have now 
 but could not perceive that any part of their at last married, though she neither has brought 
 greatness was to be liked or desired, no more me a rich portion, nor lived yet so quietly with 
 than I would be glad or content to be in a me as I hoped from her: 
 
 storm, though I saw many ships wJiich rid 45 ,r i i - ■ t 
 
 r 1 J u 1 • -i. A i. ij i. • . • Necvos.auLcissiniamundi 
 
 safely and bravely m it. A storm would not ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^ 
 
 agree with my stomach, if it did with my Hortique sylvceque, animd remanente relinquam. 
 
 courage. Though I was in a crowd of as good 
 
 company as could be found anywhere, though Nor by me e'er shall you, 
 
 5Q You of all names the sweetest, and the best, 
 * S?™^*^.?®;^/* ^^?^- ,.. ^ , , ,^ T, .. You, Muses, books, and liberty, and rest; 
 
 .ide • '"^ "" "" You gardens, fields, and woods, forsaken be, 
 
 6 Henry Jermyn (d. 1684), afterwards Earl of St. As long as life itself forsakes not me. 
 Albans. 
 
 ^Henrietta Maria (1609-1669), Queen Consort of « See The Wish, p. 223. 
 
 Charles I. Cowley followed her to France in 1646, and ^F,quiva\enttohead foremost, or, head-over -heels. 
 
 was employed in various diplomatic matters by the court. "> I have not sworn a faithless oath. 
 
VI. DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 c. 1660-1784 
 
 THE AGE OF DRYDEN 
 
 g)amuel Butler 
 
 1612-1680 
 
 THE MERITS OF SIR HUDIBRASi 
 
 (From Hudibras, Part I, Canto I, 1663) 
 
 When civil dudgeon first grew high, 
 
 And men fell out, they knew not why: 
 
 When hard words, jealousies, and fears 
 
 Set folks together by the ears, 
 
 And made them fight, like mad or drunk, 5 
 
 For dame Religion as for Punk; 
 
 Whose honesty they all durst swear for, 
 
 Tho' not a man of them knew wherefore: 
 
 When Gospel-Trumpeter 2 surrounded 
 
 With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded, 10 
 
 .And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 
 
 Was beat with fist, instead of a stick : 
 
 Then did Sir Knight' abandon dwelling, 
 
 And out he rode a coUonelling.^ 
 
 A wight he was, whose very sight would 15 
 
 Entitle him. Mirror of Knighthood; 
 
 That never bow'd his stubborn knee 
 
 To anything but chivalry; 
 
 Nor put up blow, 5 but that which laid 
 
 Right Worshipful on shoulder-blade: 20 
 
 Chief of domestic Knights, and errant, 
 
 Either for charted or for warrant:' 
 
 Great on the bench, great in the saddle. 
 
 That could as well bind o'er, as swaddle;' 
 
 Mighty he was at both of these, 25 
 
 And styl'd of war as well as peace. 
 
 (So some rats of amphibious nature, 
 
 Are either for the land or water.) 
 
 But here our authors make a doubt, 
 
 Whether he were more wise or stout. 30 
 
 Some hold the one, and some the other; 
 
 But howsoe'er they make a pother. 
 
 The difif'rence was so small, his brain 
 
 Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain; 
 
 Which made some take him for a tool 35 
 
 That knaves do work with, call'd a fool. 
 
 For 't has been held by many, that 
 
 As Montaigne,^ playing with his cat, 
 
 1 Hudibras is a long satirical poem, in mock-heroic vein, 
 directed especially against the Puritans and other non- 
 conforming sects, and also ridiculing many folhes of the 
 
 " Reierring to Presbyterians who preached rebellion 
 irom the pulpit. 
 
 » The original of Sir Hudibras is supposed to have been 
 Sir Samuel Luke, of Bedfordshire, a rigid Puritan, high 
 in Cromwell's favor. 
 
 * Acting or plaving the colonel. i • u xu 
 
 * He submitted to no blow but that with which the 
 King dubbed him Knight. 
 
 6 A written challenge. 
 
 ^ Beat, or cudgel. r, , • ,. 
 
 8 Michael de Montaigne the famous French essayist, 
 
 1523-1592. V. p. 235, 1. 25, etc. 
 
 Complains she thought him but an ass, 
 Much more she would Sir Hudibras: 40 
 
 For that's the name our valiant knight 
 To all his challenges did write. 
 But they're mista^^en very much, 
 'Tis plain enough he was no such; 
 We grant, altho' he had much wit, 45 
 
 H' was very shy of using it; 
 As being loath to wear it out, 
 And therefore bore it not about; 
 f> Unless on holy-days, or so, 
 As men their best apparel do. 50 
 
 Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek 
 As naturally as pigs squeak: 
 That Latin was no more difficile. 
 Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle: 
 Being rich in both, he never scanted 65 
 
 His bounty unto such as wanted; 
 But much of either would afford 
 To many, that had not one word. ... 58 
 
 He was in logic a great critic, 65 
 
 Profoundly skill'd in Analytic; 
 He could distinguish, and divide 
 A hair 'twixt south and south-west side; 
 On either which he would dispute. 
 Confute, change hands, and still confute; 70 
 He'd undertake to prove, by force 
 Of argument, a man's no horse; 
 He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 
 And that a Lord may be an owl; 
 A calf an Alderman, a goose a Justice, 75 
 
 And rocks, Committee-men or Trustees. 
 He'd run in debt by disputation, 
 And pay with ratiocination. 
 All this by syllogism, true 
 In mood and figure, he would do. 80 
 
 For Rhetoric, he could not ope 
 His mouth, but out there flew a trope;® 
 And when he happen'd to break off 
 I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 
 H' had hard words ready, to shew why, 85 
 And tell what rules he did it by: 
 Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
 You'd think he talk'd like other folk. 
 For all a rhetorician's rules 
 Teach nothing but to name his tools. 90 
 
 But, when he pleas'd to shew't, his speech 
 In loftiness of sound was rich; 
 A Babylonish dialect, 
 Which learned pedants much affect; 
 It was' a party-colour'd dress 95 
 
 Of patch'd and piebald languages: 
 'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
 Like fustian^" heretofore on satin. 
 It had an odd promiscuous tone. 
 As if h' had talk'd three parts in one; lOO 
 
 » A figure of rhetoric, i. e. he could not speak without 
 using ornate language. . 
 
 10 Sleeves or hose made of coarse fustian were often 
 cut into holes in order to show the satin underneath. 
 
 273 
 
274 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Which made some think, when he did gabble, 
 
 Th' had heard three labourers of Babel; 
 
 Or Cerberus" himself pronounce 
 
 A leash of languages at once. 
 
 This he as volubly would vent 105 
 
 As if his stock would ne'er be spent; 
 
 And truly, to support that charge, 
 
 He had supplies as vast and large: 
 
 For he could coin or counterfeit 
 
 New words, with little or no wit; 110 
 
 Words so debas'd and hard, no stone^'^ 
 
 Was hard enough to touch them on. 
 
 And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em, 
 
 The ignorant for current took 'em; 
 
 That had the orator,^^ ^j^q once lis 
 
 Did fill his mouth with pebble stones 
 
 When he harangu'd, but known his phrase, 
 
 He would have us'd no other ways. 
 
 In Mathematics he was greater 
 
 Than Tycho Brahe,/* or Erra Pater;!^ 120 
 
 For he, by geometric scale, 
 
 Could take the size of pots of ale; 
 
 Resolve by sines and tangents straight, 
 
 If bread or butter wanted weight; 
 
 And wisely tell what hour o' th' day 125 
 
 The clock does strike, by Algebra. 
 
 Beside, he was a shrewd Philosopher, 
 
 And had read ev'ry text and gloss over: 
 
 Whate'er the crabbed 'st author hath, 
 
 He understood b' implicit faith : 130 
 
 Whatever sceptic could enquire for, 
 
 For ev'ry why, he had a wherefore; 
 
 Knew more than forty of them do. 
 
 As far as words and terms could go. 
 
 All which he understood by rote, 135 
 
 And, as occasion serv'd, would quote: 
 
 No matter whether right or wrong; 
 
 They might be either said or sung. 
 
 His notions fitted things so well. 
 
 That which was which he could not tell; 140 
 
 But oftentimes mistook the one 
 
 For th' other, as great clerks have done. 
 
 He could reduce all things to acts. 
 
 And knew their natures by abstracts; 
 
 Where entity^^ and quiddity, ^^ 145 
 
 The ghosts of defunct bodies fly; 
 
 Where Truth in person does appear. 
 
 Like words congeal'd in Northern air. 
 
 He knew what's what, and that's as high 
 
 As metaphysic wit can fly. 150 
 
 In school-divinity as able 
 
 As he that hight Irrefragable;^^ 
 
 A second Thomas, ^^ or at once 
 
 To name them all, another Duns. 2° 
 
 11 According to Hesiod, Cerberus had fifty heads. 
 
 " Referring to the testing of precious metals by the use 
 of the touchstone. 
 
 13 Demosthenes. 
 
 1* A famous Danish astronomer, 1546-1601. 
 
 " An old astrologer, whose name is here given to 
 William Lilly, a famous astrologer of the time. 
 
 w A philosophical term for things that exist, as opposed 
 to those things that are only potential. 
 
 " The real essences of things. 
 
 18 Alexander of Hales, d. 1245, was called doctor irref- 
 ragable. 
 
 19 Thomas Aquinas, d. 1274, a famous scholar. 
 
 20 The followers of Duns Scotus (d. 1308). by their op- 
 position to the New Learning, came to be looked upon as 
 stupid obstructionists: hence our word dunce^= Dunsman. 
 
 Profound in all the nominal, ^^ 155 
 
 And real ways, beyond them all; 
 
 For he a rope of sand could twist 
 
 As tough as learned Sorbonist;22 
 
 And weave fine cobwebs fit for skull 
 
 That's empty when the moon^^ is full; 160 
 
 Such as take lodgings in a head 
 
 That's to be let unfurnished. 
 
 He could raise scruples dark and nice, 
 
 And after solve 'em in a trice. ... 164 
 
 For his Religion, it was fit 
 To match his learning and his wit: 190 
 
 'Twas Presbyterian true blue. 
 For he was of that stubborn crew 
 Of errant saints, whom all men grant 
 To be the true Church Militant: 
 Such as do build their faith upon 195 
 
 The holy text of Pike and Gun. 
 Decide all controversies by 
 Infallible artillery; 
 And prove their doctrine Orthodox 
 By apostolic Blows and Knocks; 200 
 
 Call fire, and sword, and desolation, 
 A godly thorough reformation, 
 Which always must be carried on. 
 And still be doing, never done: 
 As if religion were intended 205 
 
 For nothing else but to be mended. 
 A sect whose chief devotion lies 
 In odd perverse antipathies: 
 In faUing out with that or this, 
 And finding somewhat still amiss: 210 
 
 More peevish, cross, and splenetic, 
 Than dog distract, or monkey sick. 
 That with more care keep holy-day 
 The wrong, than others the right way: 
 Compound for sins they are inclined to, 215 
 By damning those they have no mind 
 
 to. 
 Still so perverse and opposite, 
 As if they worshipp'd God for spite. 
 The self-same thing they will abhor 
 One way, and long another for. 220 
 
 Free-will they one way disavow, 
 Another, nothing else allow. 
 All piety consists therein 
 In them, in other men all sin. 
 Rather than fail, they will defy 225 
 
 That which they love most tenderly; 
 Quarrel with minc'd-pies, and disparage 
 Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge; 
 Fat pig and goose itself oppose, 
 And blaspheme custard thro' the nose. 230 
 
 Th' apostles of this fierce religion, 
 Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon. ^^ 
 
 21 Nominal vs. real. The reference is to two philosoph- 
 ical doctrines advocated by the Nominalists and the 
 Realists respectively. 
 
 22 A member or Doctor of the College of the Sorbonne 
 in Paris, founded by Robert de Sorbon in 1257. 
 
 23 The old belief that insanity was due to the influence 
 of the moon is reflected in our words lunatic, lunacy, from 
 Latin lutia, moon. 
 
 ^^ The ass, according to the Koran, was the beast 
 which Gabriel brought to carry Mahomet to the presence 
 of God. The pigeon (ivigeon) Mahomet taught to eat out 
 of his ear, that it might be thought to be his meaaa o' 
 communication with God. 
 
JOHN DRYDEN 
 
 275 
 
 To whom our Knight, by fast instinct 
 Of wit and temper, was so Hnkt, 
 As if hypocrisy and nonsense 235 
 
 Had got th' advowson^s of his conscience. 
 
 31ol)n Dr^Dm 
 
 1631-1700 
 
 MAC-FLECK NOE; OR, A SATIRE ON THE 
 TRUE BLUE PROTESTANT POET, T. S.^ 
 
 (1682) 
 
 All hufnan things are subject to decay, 
 
 And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey. 
 
 This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, 
 
 young 
 Was called to empire, and had governed long; 
 In prose and verse was owned, without dis- 
 pute, 5 
 Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. 
 This aged prince, now flourishing in peace. 
 And blest with issue of a large increase, 
 Worn out with business, did at length debate 
 To settle the succession of the state; lO 
 And, pondering which of all his sons was fit 
 To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, 
 Cried, "Tis resolved! for Nature pleads, that he 
 Should only rule, who most resembles me. 
 Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, 15 
 Mature in dulness from his tender years; 
 Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he. 
 Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. 
 The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, 
 But Shadwell never deviates into sense ; 20 
 Some beams of wit on other souls may fall. 
 Strike through, and make a lucid interval; 
 But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, 
 His rising fogs prevail upon the day. 
 Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, ^ 25 
 And seems designed for thoughtless majesty; 
 Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the 
 
 plain, 
 And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. 
 Hey wood and Shirley were but types of thee, 
 Thou last great prophet of tautology ! 30 
 
 Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, 
 Was sent before but to prepare thy way; 
 And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget,^ came 
 To teach the nations in thy greater name. 
 
 25 Advov}son meafit originally the obligation to protect 
 a religious office or institution; hence the passage would 
 seem to mean that hypocrisy and nonsense had come to 
 defend and excuse his conscience. 
 
 ' Mac-Flecknoe is a satire directed against Thomas 
 Shadwell,"T. S.," (1640-1692), a minor poet and drama- 
 fist of the Restoration. Dryden's poem, The Medal, drew 
 from Shadwell a venomous counter attack. The Medal of 
 John Bayes (i. e. Dryden). This Dryden answered in 
 Mac-Flecknoe. Shadwell is represented in the poem as 
 the son or poetic successor of Richard Flecknoe, an Irish 
 poet, wit, and playwright, and the poem opens with the 
 abdication of Flecknoe as absolute monarch of the 
 kingdom of Nonsense, in favor of Shadwell. 
 
 2 "This stuff appears to have been sacred to the poorer 
 votaries of Parnassus; and it is somewhat odd that it 
 seems to have been the dress of our poet hioaseif in the 
 entire stages of tiis fortune." Scott. 
 
 My warbling lute, — the lute I whilom strung, 35 
 When to King John of Portugal' I sung, — 
 Was but the prelude to that glorious day, 
 When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way, 
 With well-timed oars, before the royal barge, 
 Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge; 40 
 And big with hymn, commander of an host, — 
 The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. 
 Methinks I see the new Arion sail. 
 The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. 
 At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to 
 
 shore, 45 
 
 The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar; . . . 
 About thy boat the little fishes throng, 49 
 
 As at the morning toasf* that floats along. 
 Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, 
 Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing 
 
 hand; 
 St. Andre's^ feet ne'er kept more equal time, 
 Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme: 
 Though they in number as in sense excel; 55 
 So just, so like tautology, they fell. 
 That, pale with envy, Singleton^ forswore 
 The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore. 
 And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more." 
 Here stopt the good old sire and wept for 
 
 joy, 60 
 
 In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. 
 All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, 
 That for anointed dulness he was made. 
 
 Close to the walls which fair Augusta^ bind, 
 (The fair Augusta much to fears inclined), 65 
 An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight. 
 There stood of yore, and Barbican^ it hight,^ 
 A watch-tower once, but now, so fate ordains, 
 Of all the pile an empty name remains; ... .69 
 Near it a Nursery^*^ erects its head, 73 
 
 Where queens are formed and future heroes 
 
 bred. 
 Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and 
 
 cry, ... 75 
 
 And little Maximins" the gods defy. 78 
 
 Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here. 
 Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; 80 
 But gentle Simkin^^ j^g^ reception finds 
 Amidst this monument of vanished minds; 
 Pure clinches^' the suburban muse affords, 
 And Panton^^ waging harmless war with words. 
 Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well 
 
 known, 85 
 
 Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne. 
 For ancient Decker prophesied long since, 
 
 s An allusion to some work of Flecknoe's of which, it 
 seems, nothing is now known. 
 
 < Apparently the bread and toast thrown into the 
 Thames from the boats in order to attract the fishes. 
 
 ' A fashionable dancing master of the time. 
 
 * An opera singer and musician. He acted the part of 
 Villerius, in Sir William Davenant's opera, The Siege of 
 Rhodes. 
 
 7 The title given by the Romans to London, Londinium 
 Augusta. 
 
 8 A round tower near the junction of Barbican and 
 Aldersgate Streets. 
 
 ' Was called. 
 
 10 A school of acting established in 1665 by the king. 
 
 11 MaximiB was the hero of Dryden's Tyrannic Love. 
 
 12 A cobbler, in an Interlude of the day. 
 
 13 Puns. 
 
 1* A noted puiister. 
 
276 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, 
 Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense; 
 To whom true dulness should some Psyches 
 owe, 90 
 
 But worlds of Misers^^ from his pen should 
 
 flow; 
 Humorists and Hypocrites, it should pro- 
 duce, — 
 Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. 
 Now empress Fame had published the re- 
 nown 
 Of Shad well's coronation through the town. 95 
 Roused by report of fame, the nations meet, 
 From near Bunhill/^ and distant Watling 
 
 Street. 17 
 No Persian carpets spread the imperial way, 
 But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay. . . . 
 Much Hey wood, Shirley, Ogleby^^ there lay, 102 
 But loads of Shad well almost choked the way; 
 Bilked^^ stationers for yeomen stood prepared, 
 And Herringman^o was captain of the guard. 105 
 The hoary prince in majesty appeared. 
 High on a throne of his own labours reared. 
 At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, 
 Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. 
 His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace. 
 And lambent dulness played around his face.lil 
 As Hannibal did to the altars come, 
 Sworn by his sire, a mortal foe to Rome, 
 So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, 
 That he till death true dulness would main- 
 tain; 115 
 And, in his father's right, and realm's defence. 
 Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with 
 
 sense. 
 The king himself the sacred unction made, 
 As king by office, and as priest by trade. 
 In his sinister hand, instead of ball, 120 
 
 He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; 
 "Love's kingdom" to his right he did convey, 
 At once his sceptre, and his rule of sway; 
 Whose righteous lore the prince had practised 
 
 young. 
 And from whose loins recorded^i Psyche^^ 
 sprung. 125 
 
 His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread. 
 That nodding seemed to consecrate his head. 
 Just at the point of time, if fame not lie. 
 On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly; 
 So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, 130 
 Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. 
 The admiring throng loud acclamations make, 
 And omens of his future empire take. 
 The sire then shook the honours of his head, 
 And from his brows damps of oblivion shed 135 
 Full on the filial dulness : long he stood, 
 Repelling from his breast the raging god; 
 
 ^5 The reference here is to The Miser and The Humor- 
 ists, plays by Shadwell. Raymond is a character in The 
 Humorists, while Bru^e appears in another of Shadwell's 
 plays. 
 
 16.17 Two sections of London. The sense is that they 
 come from north and south. 
 
 18 John Ogleby, 1600-1676, a Scotch versifier. 
 
 » Defrauded. 
 
 20 A leading publisher of the day. 
 
 21.22 The opera of Psyche which was recorded, i. e., 
 sung. 
 
 At length burst out in this prophetic mood: — 
 "Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him 
 
 reign, 
 To far Barbadoes on the western main ; uo 
 
 Of his dominion may no end be known, 
 And greater than his father's be his throne; 
 Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his 
 
 pen!" 
 He paused, and all the people cried, "Amen." 
 Then thus continued he: " My son, advance 145 
 Still in new impudence, new ignorance. 
 Success let others teach, learn thou from me 
 Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. 
 Let Virtuosos in five years be writ. 
 Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. 150 
 Let gentle George^^ in triumph tread the stage, 
 Make Dormiant betray, and Loveit rage; 
 Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, 
 And in their folly show the writer's wit; 
 Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence, 155 
 And justify their author's want of sense. 
 Let them be all by thy own model made 
 Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid. 
 That they to future ages may be known, 
 Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own : 160 
 
 Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, 
 All full of thee, and differing but in name. 
 But let no alien Sedley^* interpose, 
 To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. 
 And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst 
 cull, 165 
 
 Trust nature; do not labour to be dull, 
 But write thy best, and top; and, in each line, 
 Sir Formal's^s oratory will be thine : 
 Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, 
 And does thy northern dedications^^ fill. 170 
 Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame, 
 By arrogating Jonson's hostile name; 
 Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, 
 And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. 
 Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part: 
 What share have we in nature, or in art? 176 
 Where did his wit on learning fix a brand, 
 And rail at arts he did not understand? 
 Where made he love in Prince Nicander's" 
 
 vein, 
 Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble 
 strain? ... 180 
 
 When did his muse from Fletcher scenes pur- 
 loin, 183 
 As thou whole Etherege dost transfuse to thine? 
 But so transfused, as oil and waters flow, i S5 
 His always floats above, thine sinks below. 
 This is thy province, this thy wondrous way. 
 New humours to invent for each new play: 
 This is that boasted bias of thy mind, . ^ 
 By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined ; 190 
 
 23 Sir George Etheridge (c. 1636-1689), a famous wit 
 and comedy writer. Dorimant, Loveit, etc., are char- 
 acters in his plays. 
 
 24 Sir Charles Sedley, 1639-1701, a wit and patron of 
 literature, who assisted Shadwell in his comedy Epsom 
 Wells. The insinuation is that Sedley larded its prose 
 with a wit alien to its dullness. 
 
 25 A character in Shadwell's Virtuoso. 
 
 28 Certain dedications of Shadwell's to the Duke and 
 Duchess of Newcastle. 
 
 ^ A lover in the opera of Psyche. 
 
JOHN DRYDEN 
 
 277 
 
 Which makes thy writings lean on one side still, 
 And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. 
 Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence 
 Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. 
 A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, 195 
 
 But sure thou art but a kilderkin^s of wit. 
 Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; 
 Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. 
 With whate'er gall thou setst thyself to write, 
 Thy inoffensive satires never bite; 200 
 
 In thy felonious heart though venom lies, 
 It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. 
 Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame 
 In keen iambics, but mild anagram. 
 Leave writing plays, and choose for thy com- 
 mand,' -205 
 Some peaceful province in Acrostic land. 
 There thou may'st wings display,, and altars 
 
 rais^ 
 And torture one poor word ten thousand ways; 
 Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, 
 Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute." 
 He said: but his last words were scarcely 
 heard; 211 
 
 For Bruce29 and Longvipo had a trap prepared 
 And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. 
 Sinking he left his drugget robe behind. 
 Borne upwards by a subterranean wind . 215 
 The mantle fell to the young prophet's part; 
 With double portion of his father's art. 
 
 ACHITOPHELi 
 (From Absalom and Achilophel, 1681) 
 Of these the false Achitophel was first ; 150 
 A name to all succeeding ages curst: 
 For close designs, and^crooked counsels fit; 
 Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; 
 Restless, unfixed in principles and place; 
 In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace; 155 
 A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 
 Fretted the pigmy-body to decay. 
 And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. 
 A daring pilot in extremity, 
 Pleased with the danger, when the waves went 
 high, 160 
 
 He sought the storms; but for a calm unfit. 
 Would steer too nigh the sands, to boast his wit. 
 Great wits are sure to madness near allied, 
 And thin partitions do their bounds divide; 
 Else, why should he, with wealth and honour 
 blest, 165 
 
 Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? 
 Punish a body which he could not please; 
 Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? 
 And all to leave what with his toil he won. 
 To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;i70 
 Got, while his soul did huddled notions try; 
 And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. 
 In friendship false, implacable in hate; 
 Resolved to ruin, or to rule the state. 
 
 28 A small barrel. 
 
 29.30 Two characters in Shadwell's Virtuoso. 
 
 1 The earliest of Drvden's satires. It was directed 
 against the versatile, able, but unscrupulous politician, 
 Anthony Ashley Cooper, Lord Shaftsbury, who appears' 
 under the name of Achitophel. 
 
 To compass this the triple bond^ he broke; 175 
 
 The pillars of the public safety shook; 
 
 And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke; 
 
 Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting fame, 
 
 Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name. 
 
 So easy still it proves in factious times, ISO 
 
 With public zeal to cancel private crimes. 
 
 How safe is treason, and how sacred ill. 
 
 Where none can sin against the people's will, 
 
 Where crowds can wink, and no offence be 
 
 known, 
 Since in another's guilt they find their own? 185 
 Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge; 
 The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. 
 In Israel's courts ne'er sat on Abbethdin^ 
 With more discerning eyes, or hands more 
 
 clean, 
 Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress; 
 Swift of despatch, and easy of access. 191 
 
 Oh! had he been content to serve the crown. 
 With virtue only proper to the gown ; 
 Or had the rankness of the soil been freed 
 From cockle, that oppressed the noble seed; 195 
 David for him his tuneful harp had strung. 
 And heaven had wanted one immortal song. 
 But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand. 
 And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land. 
 Achitophel, grown weary to possess 200 
 
 A lawful fame, and lazy happiness. 
 Disdained the golden fruit to gather free, 
 And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree. 
 
 A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S^ DAY, 22nd 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 1687 
 I 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
 This universal frame began : 
 When nature underneath a heap 
 
 Of jarring atoms lay. 
 And could not heave lier head, 5 
 
 The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
 
 ''Arise, ye more than dead." 
 Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, 
 In order to their stations leap, 
 
 And Music's power obey. 10 
 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 
 This universal frame began; 
 From harmony to harmony 
 Through all the compass of the notes it ran. 
 The diapason closing full in man. 15 
 
 II 
 What passion cannot music raise and quell? 
 When Jubal struck the chorded shell, 
 His listening brethren stood around, 
 
 2 A "Triple Alliance" between Holland. Sweden, and 
 England in 1668. It was broken by an infamous secret 
 treaty with France, Shaftsbury was one of its signers. 
 
 3 A Hebrew word meaning "fathprj>f the Nation;" 1. e.. 
 the judges. As Lord Chancellor, Shaftsbury had a well 
 deserved reputation for uprightness and ability. 
 
 1 St. Cecilia, virgin martyr of the third century, be- 
 came patron saint of music, and was supposed to have 
 invented the organ. 
 
278 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 And, wondering, on their faces fell 
 
 To worship that celestial sound: 20 
 
 Less than a God they thought there could not 
 dwell 
 Within the hollow of that shell, 
 That spoke so sweetly, and so well. 
 
 What passion cannot music raise and quell? 
 
 The trumpet's loud clangour 25 
 
 Excites us to arms, 
 With shrill notes of anger 
 And mortal alarms. 
 The double, double, double beat 
 
 Of the thundering drum, 30 
 
 Cries, hark! the foes come: 
 Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat. 
 
 IV 
 
 The soft complaining flute. 
 In dying notes, discovers 
 The woes of hopeless lovers; 35 
 
 Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 
 
 V 
 
 Sharp violins proclaim 
 Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
 Fury, frantic indignation. 
 Depth of pains, and height of passion, 40 
 
 For the fair, disdainful dame. 
 
 VI 
 
 But, oh! what art can teach. 
 What human voice can reach, 
 
 The sacred organ's praise? 
 
 Notes inspiring holy love. 
 Notes that wend their heavenly ways 
 
 To mend the choirs above. 
 
 45 
 
 VII 
 
 Orpheus could lead the savage race; 
 And trees unrooted left their place. 
 
 Sequacious of the lyre: 50 
 
 But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; 
 When to her organ vocal breath was given. 
 An angel heard, and straight appeared, 
 Mistaking earth for heaven. 
 
 GRAND CHORUS 
 
 As from the power of sacred lays 55 
 
 The spheres began to move. 
 And sung the great Creator's praise 
 
 To all the blessed above; 
 So when the last and dreadful hour 
 This crumbling pageant shall devour, 60 
 
 The trumpet shall be heard on high. 
 The dead shall live, the living die. 
 And Music shall untune the sky. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR THE POWER 
 OF MUSIC; AN ODE IN HONOUR OF 
 ST. CECILIA'S DATTTG^T 
 I 
 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike son: 
 Aloft, in awful state, 
 The godlike hero sate 
 On his imperial throne. 6 
 
 His valiant peers were placed around; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound : 
 (So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
 The lovely Thais, by his side. 
 Sate like a blooming eastern bride, 10 
 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair! 
 None but the brave. 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 15 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Happy, happy, happy pair! 
 
 None hut the brave, 
 
 None but the brave, 
 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 Timotheus, placed on high 20 
 
 Amid the tuneful quire. 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre: 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky. 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove, 25 
 
 Who left his blissful seats above, 
 (Such is the power of mighty love.) 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god; 
 Sublime on radiant spires^ he rode; 
 
 When he to fair Olympia pressed, 30 
 
 And while he sought her snowy breast; 
 Then, round her slender waist he curled. 
 And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign 
 
 of the world. 
 The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
 A present deity! they shout around ; 35 
 
 A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound. 
 With ravished ears, 
 The monarch hears; 
 Assumes the god, 
 
 Affects to nod, 40 
 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 With ravished ears, 
 The monarch hears; 
 Assumes the god, 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 45 
 
 III 
 
 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician 
 sung; 
 Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. 
 The jolly god in triumph comes; 
 Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; 50 
 Flushed with a purple grace 
 He shows his honest face: 
 Now, give the hautboys breath; he comes, he 
 comes. 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young. 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain ; 55 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; 
 Rich the treasure. 
 Sweet the pleasure, 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain . 60 
 
 1 Spirals, coils. Cf. Milton, Par. Lost, ix, 502. 
 
JOHN DRYDEN 
 
 279 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 Drinking is the soldier^ s -pleasure; 
 Rich the treasure, 
 Sweet the pleasure, 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 65 
 
 IV 
 
 Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain: 
 Fought all his battles o'er again; 
 And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he 
 slew the slain. 
 The master saw the madness rise, 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 70 
 
 And, while he heaven and earth defied, 
 Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
 He chose a mournful muse, 
 Soft pity to infuse. 
 He sung Darius great and good 75 
 
 By too severe a fate, 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
 Fallen from his high estate, 
 
 And weltering in his blood: 
 Deserted, at his utmost need, 80 
 
 By those his former bounty fed ; 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
 Revolving, in his altered soul, 85 
 
 The various turns of chance below; 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Revolving, in his altered soul. 
 
 The various turns of chance below; 
 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole; 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 90 
 
 The mighty master smiled, to see 
 That love was in the next degree; 
 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, 95 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures: 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble; 
 Honour, but an empty bubble; 100 
 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying: 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning, 
 Think, O think it worth enjoying; 
 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 105 
 
 Take the good the gods provide thee — 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
 So Love was crowned, but Music won the 
 cause. 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the fair. lio 
 
 Who caused his care, 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again; 
 At length, with love and wine at once op- 
 pressed 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 115 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Who caused his care, 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again; 120 
 At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 VI 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again; 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 125 
 
 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head; 
 As awaked from the dead, 
 And amazed, he stares around. 130 
 
 Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries, 
 See the furies arise; 
 See the snakes, that they rear. 
 How they hiss in their hair. 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 135 
 Behold a ghastly band. 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were 
 slain. 
 And, unburied, remain 
 Inglorious on the plain: 140 
 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew. 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high. 
 How they point to the Persian abodes, 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods. — 
 The princes applaud, with a furious joy, 146 
 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 
 destroy; 
 Thais led the way, 
 To light him to his prey. 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 150 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to cte- 
 stroy; 
 
 Thais led the way, 
 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 
 
 VII 
 
 Thug, long ago, 155 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
 While organs yet were mute, 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute, 
 
 And sounding lyre. 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 
 desire. 160 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 In ven tress of the vocal frame; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 165 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 
 before. 
 
280 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 Or both divide the crown ; 
 
 He raised a mortal to the skies, 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 GRAND CHORUS 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame: 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 Enlarged the former narrov) hounds, 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 175 
 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 
 before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown; 
 He raised a mortal to the skies. 
 She drew an angel down. 180 
 
 UNDER MR. MILTON'S PICTURE 
 
 (1688) 
 
 Three poets, in three distant ages born, 
 
 Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. 
 
 The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed; 
 
 The next, in majesty; in both the last. 
 
 The force of Nature could no further go; 5 
 
 To make a third, she joined the former two. 
 
 Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
 Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! 
 Thou strength of his Almighty hand, 15 
 
 170 Whose power does heaven and earth command. 
 Proceeding Spirit, our defence. 
 Who dost the gift of tongues dispense. 
 And crown'st thy gifts with eloquence! 
 Refine and purge our earthly parts; 2C 
 
 But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts! 
 Our frailties help, our vice control, 
 Submit the senses to the soul; 
 And when rebellious they are grown. 
 Then lay thy hand, and hold 'em down. 25 
 
 Chase from our minds the infernal foe; 
 And peace the fruit of love bestow; 
 And lest our feet should step astray, 
 Protect and guide us in the way. 
 
 Make, us eternal truths receive; 30 
 
 And practise all that we believe; 
 Give us thyself, that we may see: 
 The Father, and the Son, by thee: 
 
 Immortal honour, endless fame; 
 Attend the Almighty Father's name: 35 
 
 The Saviour Son be glorified, 
 Who for lost man's redemption died: 
 And equal adoration be. 
 Eternal Paraclete, to thee. 
 
 SONG 
 
 In ''The Indian Emperor" 
 
 Ah fading joy! how quickly art thou past! 
 
 Yet we thy ruin haste. 
 As if the cares of human life were few, 
 
 We seek out new: 
 And follow fate, which would too fast pursue: 
 See how on every bough the birds express, 
 In their sweet notes their happiness. 
 They all enjoy and nothing spare; 
 But on their mother Nature lay their care: 
 Why then should man the lord of all below. 
 
 Such troubles choose to know, 
 As none of all his subjects undergo? 
 
 Hark, hark, the waters fall, fall, fall, 
 And with a murmuring sound. 
 Dash, dash upon the ground, 
 To gentle slumbers call. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS 
 
 (Paraphrased) 
 
 Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
 The world's foundations first were laid, 
 Come visit every pious mind; 
 Come pour thy joys on human kind; 
 From sin and sorrow set us free, 
 And make thy temples worthy thee. 
 
 O source of uncreated light. 
 The Father's promised Paraclete! 
 Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
 Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; 
 Come, and thy sacred unction bring 
 To sanctify us, while we sing. 
 
 31otin Wilmot, dBarl of Hoclie0ter 
 
 1647-lGSO 
 
 EPITAPH ON CHARLES II 
 
 (1685) 
 
 Here lies our sovereign lord the King, 
 Whose word no man relies on. 
 
 Who never said a foolish thing. 
 Nor ever did a wise one. 
 
 1620-1706 
 
 THE GREAT FIRE 
 
 (From Evelyn's Diary, 1641-1697) 
 
 Sept. 2, 1666. This fatal night about ten, 
 began that deplorable fire near Fish street^ in 
 London. 
 
 3. I had public prayers at home. The fire 
 5 continuing, after dinner I took coach with my 
 wife and son and went to the Bankside in. 
 Southwark, where we beheld the dismal 
 spectacle, the whole City in dreadful flames 
 near the Water side; all the houses from the 
 5 10 Bridge, all Thames Street, and upwards 
 towards Cheapside, down to the Three Cranes, 
 were now consumed; and so returned exceeding 
 astonished what would become of the rest. 
 
 10 ^ The fire started in the house of the "King's Baker," 
 
 in Pudding Lane, near New Fish-street-hill. In general 
 terms, this was not far from the river, and between thf 
 Tower and London Bridge. 
 
JOHN EVELYN 281 
 
 The fire having continued all this night (if I semblance of Sodom, or the last day. It 
 may call that night which was light as day forcibly called to my mind that passage non 
 for ten miles round about, after a dreadful enim hie habemus stabilem civitatem;^ the rums 
 manner), when conspiring with a fierce eastern resembling the picture of Troy. London was, 
 wind in a very dry season; I went on foot to the 5 but is no more! Thus I returned home, 
 same place, and saw the whole south part of the Sept. 4. The burning still rages, and it wa^ 
 city burning from Cheapside to the Thames, now gotten as far as the Inner Temple; all 
 and all along Cornhill (for it likewise kindled Fleet Street, the Old Bailey, Ludgate Hill, 
 back against the wind as well as forward), Warwick Lane, Newgate, Paul's Chain, Wat- 
 Tower Street, Fen-church Street, Gracious lo ling Street, now flaming, and most of it re- 
 Strect, and so along to Baynard's Castle, and duced to ashes; the stones of Paul's flew like 
 was now taking hold of St. Paul's Church, to granados,' the melting lead running down the 
 which the scaffolds contributed exceedingly, streets in a stream, and the very pavements 
 The conflagration was so universal, and the glowing with fiery redness, so as no horse nor 
 people so astonished, that from the beginning, 1 15 m^n was able to tread on them, and the 
 know not by what despondency or fate, they demolition had stopped all the passages, so that 
 hardly stirred to quench it, so that there was no help could be applied. The eastern wind 
 nothing heard or seen but crying out and still more impetuously driving the flames for- 
 lamentation, running about like distracted ward. Nothing but the Almighty power of 
 creatures, without at all attempting to save 20 God was able to stop them, for vain was the 
 even their goods; such a strange consternation help of man. 
 
 there was upon them, so as it burned both in 5. It crossed towards Whitehall; but oh, the 
 breadth and length, the churches, public halls, confusion there was then at that Court! It 
 Exchange, hospitals, monuments, and orna- pleased his Majesty to command me among the 
 ments, leaping after a prodigious manner from 25 rest to look after the quenching of Fetter Lane 
 house to house and street to street, at great end, to preserve if possible that part of Holborn 
 distances one from the other; for the heat with whilst the rest of the gentlemen took their 
 a long set of fair and warm weather had even several posts, some at one part, some at an- 
 ignited the air and prepared the materials to other (for now they began to bestir themselves, 
 conceive the fire, which devoured after an 30 and not till now, who hitherto had stood as men 
 incredible manner houses, furniture, and every- intoxicated, with their hands across) and began 
 thing. Here we saw the Thames covered with to consider that nothing was likely to put a 
 goods floating, all the barges and boats laden stop but the blowing up of so many houses as 
 with what some had time and courage to save, might make a wider gap than any had yet been 
 as, on the other, the carts, etc., carrying out to 35 made by the ordinary method of pulling them 
 the fields, which for many miles were strewed down with engines; this some stout seamen pro- 
 Itvith moveables of all sorts, and tents erecting posed early enough to have saved nearly the 
 to shelter both people and what goods they whole City, but this some tenacious and avari- 
 could get away. Oh the miserable and calam- cious men, aldermen &c., would not permit, 
 itous spectacle! such as haply the world had 40 because their houses must have been of the 
 not seen the like since the foundation of it, nor first. It was therefore now commanded to be 
 be outdone till the universal conflagration of it. practised, and my concern being particularly 
 All the sky was of a fiery aspect, like the top of for the Hospital of St. Bartholomew, near 
 a burning oven, and the fight seen above forty Smithfield, where I had my wounded and sick 
 miles round about for many nights. God 45 men, made me the more diligent to promote it; 
 grant mine eyes may never behold the like, who nor was my care for the Savoy less, 
 now saw above 10,000 houses all in one flame; It now pleased God by abating the wind, and 
 
 the noise and cracking and thunder of the by the industry of the people, when almost all 
 impetuous flames, the shrieking of women and was lost, infusing a new spirit into them, that 
 children, the hurry of people, the fall of towers, 50 the fury of it began sensibly to abate about 
 houses and churches, was like an hideous storm, noon, so as it came no farther than the Temple 
 and the air all about so hot and inflamed that westward, nor than the entrance of Smithfield 
 at the last one was not able to approach it, so north; but continued all this day and night so 
 that they were forced to stand still and let the impetuous toward Cripple-gate and the Tower 
 flames bum on, which they did for near two 55 as made us all despair; it also brake out again in 
 miles in length and one in breadth. The the Temple, but the courage of the multitude 
 clouds also of smoke were dismal and reached persisting, and many houses being blown up, 
 upon computation near fifty-six miles in length. , .. ^^^ j^^^^ ^^ j^^^^ ^^ continuing city." Heb., xiii.. 14. 
 Thus I left it this afternoon burning, a re- serenades; an explosive missile thrown by the hand. 
 
282 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 3uch gaps and desolations were soon made, as unnecessary trouble or incumbrance of life: si 
 with the former three days consumption, the that whether they are to be reckoned among 
 back fire did not so vehemently urge upon the goods or evils is yet left in doubt, 
 rest as formerly. There was yet no standing When I was young and in some idle com- 
 near the burning and glowing ruins by near a 5pany, it was proposed that every one should 
 fftrlong's space. tell what their three wishes should be, if they 
 
 The coal and wood wharves and magazines were sure to be granted; some were very pleas- 
 of oil, rosin, &c., did infinite mischief, so as ant, and some very extravagant; mine were 
 the invective which a little before .1 had ded- health, and peace, and fair weather; which, 
 icated to his Majesty and published, giving lo though out of the way among young men, yet 
 warning what might probably be the issue of perhaps might pass well enough among old: 
 suffering those shops to be in the City, was they are all of a strain, for health in the body is 
 looked on as a prophecy. like peace in the State and serenity in the air: 
 
 The poor inhabitants were dispersed about the sun, in our chmate at least, has something 
 St. George's Fields, and Moo'tfields, as far as 15 so reviving, that a fair day is a kind of a sensual 
 Highgate, and several miles in circle, some pleasure, and, of all others, the most innocent, 
 under tents, some under miserable huts and Peace is a public blessing, without which no 
 
 hovels, many without a rag or any necessary man is safe in his fortunes, his liberty, or his 
 utensils, bed or board, who from dehcateness, life: neither innocence or laws are a guard or 
 riches, and easy accommodations in stately and 20 defence; no possessions are enjoyed but in 
 well furnished houses, were now reduced to danger or fear, which equally lose the pleasure 
 extremest misery and poverty. and ease of all that fortune can give us. Health 
 
 In this calamitous condition I returned with is the soul that animates all enjoyments of life, 
 a sad heart to my house, blessing and adoring which fade and are tasteless, if not dead, 
 the distinguishing mercy of God to me and mine 25 without it: a man starves at the best and the 
 who in the midst of all this ruin was like Lot, in greatest tables, makes faces at the noblest and 
 my little Zoar,^ safe and sound. most delicate wines, is poor and wretched in the 
 
 midst of the greatest treasures and fortunes: 
 
 with common diseases strength grows decrepit, 
 ^iX ^ilUattl XE^ttttplt 30 youth loses all vigour, and beauty all charms; 
 
 °^"^^^ grows harsh, and conversation disagree- 
 
 lb28-lo98 able; palaces are prisons, or of equal confine- 
 
 OT? HPATTTT ANn T ONP T TFF ment, riches are useless, honour and attendance 
 
 Ob ilJi.ALlli AJNU l^UJNLr Lltih ^^.^ cumbersome, and crowns themselves are 
 
 (From Miscellanea, 1679-1692) 35 a burden : but, if diseases are painful and violent, 
 
 they equal all conditions of life, make no 
 Some writers, in casting up the goods most difference between a Prince and a beggar; and a 
 desirable in life, have given them this rank, fit of the stone or the colic puts a King to the 
 health, beauty, and riches. Of the first I find rack, and makes him as miserable as he can do 
 no dispute, but to the two others much may be 40 the meanest, the worst, and most criminal of 
 said: for beauty is a good that makes others his subjects. 
 
 happy rather than one's self; and, how riches To know that the passions or distempers of 
 
 should claim so high a rank, I cannot tell, when the mind make our lives unhappy, in spite of 
 so great, so wise, and so good a part of mankind all accidents and favours of fortune, a man 
 have in all ages preferred poverty before them. 45 perhaps must be a philosopher; and requires 
 The TherapeutoB^ and Ebionites^ among the much thought, and study, and deep reflections. 
 Jews, the primitive monks and modern friars To be a Stoic, and grow insensible of pain, as 
 among Christians, so many Dervises^ among the well as poverty or disgrace, one must be per- 
 Mahometans, the Brachmans^ among the haps something more or less than a man, 
 /ndians, and all the ancient philosophers; who, 50 renounce common nature, oppose common 
 whatever else they differed in, agreed in this of truth and constant experience. But there 
 despising riches, and at best esteeming them an needs little learning or study, more than com- 
 *The "little city" which was the refuge of Lot. when mon thought and observation, to find out, that 
 
 Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed. V.G.n..xix 19-23. jjj ^^^^^^ j^^^g ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ enjoyments of 
 
 1 A sect of Jewish ascetics m pre-chnstian and early ., i.j^ii /• j c 
 
 Christian times. They were established chiefly in Egypt 55 fortune, but the pleasures ol Sense, and even ol 
 
 and lived austere and solitary lives. imagination, and hinders the common opera- 
 
 * An early Christian sect, which became separated ,•,,, p, i i -jr u- 
 
 from the Church towards the end of the second century. tions both of body and mmd Irom bemg easy 
 3 Dervishes. , . , . and free. Let philosophers reason and differ 
 
 * Brahmins, members of the sacerdotal caste among , ,^, i-rji. • c li. 
 
 the Hindoos. about the chief good or happiness of man; iet 
 
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE 283 
 
 them find it where they can, and place it where pains to discover the regions where it grows, 
 they please; but there is no mistake so gross, or the springs that feed it, the customs and 
 opinion so impertinent (how common soever) methods by which it is best cultivated and 
 as to think pleasures arise from what is without preserved. . . . 
 
 us, rather than from what is within; from the 5 [Temple here goes on to consider the va- 
 impression given us of objects, rather than from rious practices for the preservation of health, 
 the disposition of the organs that receive them, which have otjtained in different times and 
 The various effects of the same objects upon countries, illustrkting his remarks by personal 
 different persons, or upon the same persons at anecdotes.] . . . 
 
 different times, make the contrary most 10 In the course of my life, I have often pleased 
 evident. Some distempers make things look or entertained myself with observing the va- 
 yellow, others double what we see; the com- rious and fantastical changes of the diseases 
 monest alter our tastes and our smells, and the generally complained of, and of the remedies in 
 very foulness of ears changes sounds. The common vogue, which were like birds of pas- 
 difference of tempers, as well as of age, may 15 sage, very much seen or heard of at one season, 
 have the same effect, by the many degrees of and disappeared at another, and commonly 
 perfection or imperfection in our original succeeded by some of a very different kind, 
 tempers, as well as of strength or decay, from When I was very young, nothing was so much 
 the differences of health and of years. From all feared or talked of as rickets among children, 
 which 'tis easy without being a great naturalist, 20 and consumptions among young people of both 
 to conclude, that our perceptions are formed, sexes. After these theepleen'^ came in play, and 
 and our imaginations raised upon them, in a grew a formal disease: then the scurvy, which 
 very great measure, by the dispositions of the was the general complaint, and both were 
 organs through which the several objects make thought to appear in many various guises, 
 their impressions; and that these vary accord- 25 After these, and for a time, nothing was so 
 ing to the different frame and temper of the much talked of as the ferment of the blood, 
 others; as the sound of the same breath passing w^hich passed for the cause of all sorts of ail- 
 through an oaten pipe, a fiute, or a trumpet, ments, that neither physicians nor patients 
 But to leave philosophy, and return to health, knew well what to make of. And to all these 
 Whatever is true in point of happiness depend- 30 succeeded vapours,^ which serve the same turn, 
 ing upon the temper of the mind, 'tis certain and furnish occasion of complaint among per- 
 that pleasures depend upon the temper of the sons whose bodies or minds ail something, but 
 body; and that, to enjoy them, a man must be they know not what; and among the Chineses 
 well himself, as the vessel must be sound to would pass for mists of the mind or fumes of the 
 have your wine sweet; for otherwise, let it be 35 brain, rather than indispositions of any other 
 never so pleasant and so generous, it loses the parts. Yet these employ our physicians, per- 
 taste; and pour in never so much, it all turns haps more than other diseases, who are fain 
 sour, and were better let alone. Whoever will to humour such patients in their fancies of 
 eat well, must have a stomach; who will relish being ill, and to prescribe some remedies, for 
 the pleasure of drinks, must have his mouth in 40 fear of losing their practice to others that 
 taste; nay, to find any felicity, or take any pretend more skill in finding out the cause of 
 pleasure in the greatest advantages of honour diseases, or care in advising remedies, which 
 and fortune, a man must be in health. Who neither they nor their patients find any effect 
 would not be covetous, and with reason, if this of, besides some gains to one, and amusement to 
 could be purchased with gold? who not ambi- 45 the other. This, I suppose, may have con- 
 tious, if it were at the command of power, or tributed much to the mode of going to the 
 restored by honour? But alas! a white staffs waters either cold or hot upon so many occa- 
 will not help gouty feet to walk better than a sions, or else upon none besides that of enter- 
 common cane; nor a blue ribband^ bind up a tainment, and which commonly may have no 
 
 wound so well as a fillet : the glitter of gold or of 50 , Temple, writing at the end of the 17th century, speaks 
 diamonds will but hurt sore eyes, instead of as though this favorite complaint were then less prevalent. 
 
 curing them; and an aching head will be no CT/^rJf^temAV"'!! ffie WeX?i o^tK^^^^ 
 more eased by wearing a crown than a common isth century is full of allusions to it as the fashionable 
 
 nitrVit n«r> disease. Lady Winchelsea published a Pindaric Ode 
 
 nignt-cap. entitled The Spleen, in 1701, and Matthew Green's poem 
 
 If health be such a blessing, and the very 55 on the same subject appeared in 1737. V. also Pope s 
 
 source of all pleasure, it may be worth the ^r£iki'the^3een; ^a' fashionable malady, real or pre- 
 
 8 The sign of office given bv the sovereign in Temple's tended, of the latter 17th and early 18th centuries. It 
 
 time to the members of the Pfivy Council, as the Premier, was associated with nervous depression of spirits and 
 
 the Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Steward, etc. debility, and was apparently similar to what we call 
 
 6 Part of the insignia of the order of the Garter. "nervous prostration. 
 
284 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 1 
 other effect. And 'tis well if this be the worst which feed the hopes of the patient, and the 
 of the frequent use of those waters, which, apothecary's gains, but leave nature to her 
 though commonly innocent, yet are sometimes course, who is the sovereign physician in most 
 dangerous, if the temper of the person or cause diseases, and leaves little for others to do, 
 of the indisposition be unhappily mistaken, 5 further than to watch accidents; where they 
 especially in people of age. know no specific remedies, to prescribe diets; 
 
 As diseases have changed vogue, so have and, above all, to prevent disorders from the 
 remedies in my time and observation. I stomach, and take care that nature be not 
 remember at one time the taking of tobacco, at employed in the kitchen, when she should be 
 another the drinking of warm beer, proved for 10 in the field to resist her enemy; and that she 
 universal remedies; then swallowing of pebble- should not be weakened in her spirits and 
 stones, in imitation of falconers curing hawks, strength, when they are most necessary to 
 One Doctor pretended to cure all heats and support and relieve her. 'Tis true, physicians 
 fevers, by drinking as much cold spring water must be in danger of losing their credit with 
 as the patient could bear; at another time, 15 the vulgar, if they should often tell a patient 
 swallowing up a spoonful of powder of sea- he has no need of physic, and prescribe only 
 bisket after meals was infallible for all indiges- rules of diet or common use; most people would 
 tion, and so preventing diseases. Then coffee think they had lost their fee: but the excellence 
 and tea began their successive reigns. The of a physician's skill and care is discovered by 
 infusion of powder of steel have had their 20 resolving first whether it be best in the case to 
 turns, and certain drops of several names and administer any physic or none, to trust to 
 compositions; but none that I find have estab- nature or to art; and the next, to give such 
 lished their authority, either long or generally, prescriptions, as, if they do no good, may be 
 by any constant and sensible successes of their sure to do no harm. 
 
 reign, but have rather passed hke a mode, which 25 In the midst of such uncertainties of health 
 every one is apt to follow, and finds the most and of physic, for my own part, I have, in the 
 convenient or graceful while it lasts; and begins general course of my life, and of many acute 
 to dislike in both those respects when it goes out diseases, as well as some habitual, trusted to 
 of fashion. God Almighty, to nature, to temperance or 
 
 Thus men are apt to play with their healths 30 abstinence, and the use of common remedies, 
 and their fives, as they do with their clothes; either vulgarly known, and approved like 
 which may be the better excused, since both proverbs by long observation and experience, 
 are so transitory, so subject to be spoiled with either of my own, or such persons as have fallen 
 common use, to be torn by accidents, and at in the way of my observation or inquiry. . . . 
 best to be so soon worn out. ... I observed a 35 The two great blessings of life are, in my 
 consult of physicians, in a fever of one of opinion, health and good humour; and none 
 my near friends, perplexed to the last degree contribute more to one another; without health, 
 whether to let him blood or no, and not able to all will allow life to be but a burden; and the 
 resolve, till the course of the disease had de- several conditions of fortune to be all wearisome, 
 clared itself, and thereby determined them. 40 dull, or disagreeable, without good humour: 
 Anotherof my friends was so often let blood, by nor does any seem to contribute towards the 
 his first physician, that a second, who was sent true happiness of life, but as it serves to increase 
 for, questioned whether he would recover it: that treasure, or to preserve it. Whatever 
 the first persisted the blood must be drawn till other differences are commonly apprehended in 
 some good appeared ; the other affirmed, that, 45 the several conditions of fortune, none perhaps 
 in such diseases, the whole mass was cor- will be found so true or so great, as what is 
 nipted, but would purify again when the acci- made by those two circumstances, so little 
 dent was past, like wine after a fermentation, regarded in the common course or pursuits of 
 which makes all in the vessel thick and foul for a mortal men. 
 
 season; but when that is past, grows clear again 50 Whether long life be a blessing or no, God 
 of itself. So much is certain, that it depends a Almighty only can determine, who alone knows 
 great deal upon the temper of the patient, the what length it is like to run, and how 'tis like to 
 nature of the disease in its first causes, upon the be attended. Socrates used to say, that 'twas 
 skill and care of the physician to decide whether pleasant to grow old with good health and a 
 any of these violences upon nature are neces- 55 good friend; and he might have reason. A man 
 sary or no, and whether they are like to do good may be content to live while he is no trouble to 
 or harm. himself or his friends; but, after that, 'tis 
 
 The rest of our common practice consists in hard if he be not content to die. I knew and 
 various compositions of innocent ingredients, esteemed a person abroad, who used to say, a 
 
JOHN DRYDEN 285 
 
 man must be a mean wretch that desired to live third for our friends; but the fourth is for our 
 after threescore years old. But so much, I enemies. 
 
 doubt, is certain, that, in life, as in wine, he. For temperance in other kinds, or in general, 
 that will drink it good, must not draw it to the I have given its character and virtues in thr . 
 dregs. 5 essay of moxa, so as to need no more upon that I 
 
 Where this happens, one comfort of age may subject here, 
 be, that, whereas younger men are usually in When, in default or despite of all these cares, 
 pain, when they are not in pleasure, old men or by effect of ill airs and seasons, acute or 
 find a sort of pleasure, whenever they are out strong diseases may arise, recourse must be 
 of pain. And, as young men often lose oriohad to the best physicians that are in reach, 
 impair their present enjoyments, by raving whose success will depend upon thought and 
 after what is to come, by vain hopes, or fruit- care, as much as skill. In all diseases of body 
 less fears; so old men relieve the wants of their or mind,^it is happy to have an able physician 
 age, by pleasing reflexions upon what is past, for a friend, or a discreet friend for a physician; 
 Therefore men, in the health and vigour of their 15 which is so great a blessing, that the wise man 
 age, should endeavour to fill their lives with will have it to proceed only from God, where 
 reading, with travel, with the best conversa- he says, A faithful friend is the medicine of 
 tion, and the worthiest actions, either in their life, and he that fears the Lord shall find him.* 
 public or private stations; that they may have 
 something agreeable left to feed on, when they 20 
 are old, by pleasing remembrances. ^lOi^tl ^t^DtlX 
 
 But, as they are only the clean beasts which 
 chew the cud, when they have fed enough; 1631-1700 
 
 so they must be clean and virtuous men that rpryc^-Kinzy \T<rr\ t:^tv o 
 can reflect, with pleasure, upon the past ac-25 FRENCH AND ENGLISH TRAGIC 
 cidents or courses of their lives. Besides, WRITERS ^ 
 
 men who grow old with good sense, or good (p^.^^^ ^^ ^ssay of Dramatic Poesy, 1668) 
 
 fortunes, and good nature, cannot want the ,^ 
 
 pleasure of pleasing others, by assisting with ''Now what, I beseech you, is more easy than 
 
 their gifts, their credit, and their advice, such 30 to write a regular French play, or more difficult 
 as deserve it; as well as their care of children, than write an irregular English one, like those 
 kindness to friends, and bounty to servants. of Fletcher, or of Shakespeare? 
 
 But there cannot indeed live a more unhappy "If they content themselves, as Corneille did, 
 
 creature than an ill-natured old man, who is with some flat design, which, like an ill riddle, 
 neither capable of receiving pleasures, nor 35 is found out ere it be half proposed, such 
 sensible of doing them to others; and, in such plots we can make every way regular, as easily 
 a condition, it is time to leave them. as they; but whene'er they endeavour to rise 
 
 Thus have I traced, in this essay, whatever to any quick turns and counterturns of plot, 
 has fallen in my way or thoughts to observe as some of them have attempted, since Cor- 
 concerning life and health, and which I con- 40 neille's plays have been less in vogue, you 
 ceived might be of any public use to be known see they write as irregularly as we, though 
 or considered: the plainness wherewith it is they cover it more speciously. Hence the 
 written easily shews, there could be no other reason is perspicuous, why no French plays, 
 intention : and it may at least pass like a Derby- when translated, have, or ever can succeed on 
 shire charm, which is used among sick cattle, 45 the English stage. For, if you consider the 
 with these words; if it does thee no good, it will plots, our own are fuller of variety; if the writ- 
 do thee no harm. ing, ours are more quick and fuller of spirit; 
 
 To sum up all, the first principle of health and therefore 'tis a strange mistake in tho^ 
 and long life is derived from the strength of who decry the way of writing plays in verse, 
 our race or our birth; which gave occasion to 50 as if the English therein imitated the French, 
 that saying, gaudeant bene nati: let them rejoice » Ecdes., vi., 16. 
 that are happily born. Accidents are not in our ,^:Jl^^Sfp^^.TwJ°"tVS:^°S^Z^t It 
 
 power to govern : so that the best cares or pro- our English writers from the censure of those who un- 
 
 vi<?innQ for lifp f^tnt^ liAaltli ihftf qrp Ipft, n<? justly prefer the French before them." The essay is in 
 
 visions lOr ine ana nealtn, mat are leit us, i^e form of a conversation between four gentlemen, whom 
 consist m the discreet and temperate govern- 55 Bryden calls Eugenius, Crites.Lisideius, and Neander,'who 
 
 ment of diet and f^xf^roi'^p- in both which all have taken a barge and gone down the Thames towards 
 
 meui oi uiet ana exercise, m ooiii wuicii <xu Greenwich. Eugenius is Charles. Lord Buckhurst, 
 
 excess is to be avoided, especially in the common Crites is Sir Robert Howard, Lisideius is Sir Charles 
 
 imp of winp- wfiPrpnf fhp firdf p-lflss mav rJass SedJe-y, and Meander is Dryden himself. In the passage 
 
 use OI Wine, wnereoi ine nrst giass may pass ^.^ above,* Neander is replying to Lisideius. who has 
 
 for health, the second for good humour, the been speaking in praise of the French dramatists. 
 
286 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 We have borrowed nothing from them; our writers, both French and EngUsh, ought to 
 plots are weaved in English looms: we endeav- give place to him." 
 
 our therein to follow the variety and greatness "I fear," replied Neander, "that in obeying 
 
 of characters which are derived to us from your commands I shall draw a little envy on 
 Shakespeare and Fletcher; the copiousness and 5 myseK. Besides, in performing them, it will 
 well-knitting of the intrigues we have from be first necessary to speak somewhat of Shake- 
 Jonson; and for the verse itseK we have speare and Fletcher, his rivals in poesy; and 
 English precedents of elder date than any of one of them, in my oj)inion, at least his equal, 
 Corneille's plays. Not to name our old come- perhaps his superior. 
 
 dies before Shakespeare, which were all writ 10 "To begin then, with Shakespeare. He 
 in verse of six feet, or Alexandrines, such as was the man who of all modern, and perhaps 
 the French now use, I can show in Shakespeare, ancient poets, had the largest and most 'corn- 
 many scenes of rhyme together, and the like prehensive soul. All the images of Nature 
 in Ben Jonson's tragedies: in Catiline and were still present to him, and he drew them, 
 Sejanus sometimes thirty or forty lines, I mean 15 not laboriously, but luckily; when he describes 
 besides the Chorus, or the monologues; which anything, you more than see it, you feel it too. 
 by the way, showed Ben no enemy to this way Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, 
 of writing, especially if you look upon his give him the greater commendation: he was 
 Sad Shepherd, which goes sometimes on rhyme, naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles 
 sometimes on blank verse, like an horse who 20 of books to read Nature; he looked inwards and 
 eases himself on trot and amble. You find him found her there. I cannot say he is every- 
 likewise comnjending Fletcher's pastoral of where ahke; were he so, I should do him in- 
 The Faithful Shepherdess, which is for the most jury to compare him with the greatek of man- 
 part rhyme, though not refined to that purity kind. He is many times flat, insipid; his comic 
 to which it hath since been brought. And these 25 wit degenerating into clenches,^ his serious 
 examples are enough to clear us from a servile sweUing into bombast. But he is always great, 
 imitation of the French. when some great occasion is presented to him; 
 
 "But to return from whence I have digressed: no man can say he ever had a fit subject for 
 I dare boldly affirm these two things of the his wit, and did not then raise himself as high 
 English drama; — First^ that we have many go above the rest of poets, 
 plays of ours as regular as any of theirs, and j-, ^ i ^ i ^ - ^ -i • , 
 
 which, besides, have more variety of plot and ^«^«^^ ^«« 'olent inter mbuma cupressi.^ 
 characters; and secondly, that in most of the The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of 
 irregular plays of Shakespeare or Fletcher Eaton^ say, that there was no subject of which 
 (for Ben Jonson's are for the most part S< any poet ever writ, but he would produce 
 regular), there is a more mascuhne fancy and it much better treated of in Shakespeare; and 
 greater spirit in the writing, than there is in however others are now generally preferred 
 any of the French. I could produce, even in before him, yet the age wherein he lived, which 
 Shakespeare's and Fletcher's works, some had contemporaries with him Fletcher and 
 plays which are almost exactly formed; as4oJonson, never equalled them to him in their 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor, and The Scornful esteem; and in the last King's court, when 
 Lady: but because (generally speaking). Shake- Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir John 
 speare, who writ first, did not perfectly observe Suckling, and with him the greater part of the 
 the laws of Comedy, and Fletcher, who came courtiers, set our Shakespeare far above him. 
 nearer to perfection, yet through carelessnesses "Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am 
 made many faults; I will take the pattern of a next to speak, had, with the advantage of 
 perfect play from Ben Jonson, who was a Shakespeare's wit, which was their precedent, 
 careful and learned observer of the dramatic great natural gifts, improved by study: Beau- 
 laws, and from all his comedies I shall select mont especially being so accurate a judge of 
 The Silent Woman; of which I wiU make a 50 plays, that Ben Jonson, while he Hved, sub- 
 short examen, according to those rules which mitted all his writings to his censure, and, 'tis 
 the French observe." thought, used his judgment in correcting, if 
 
 As Neander was beginning to examine The not contriving, all his plots. What value he 
 Silent Woman, Eugenius, looking earnestly had for him, appears by the verses he writ to 
 upon him; "I beseech you, Neander," said he, 55 zpuns. \ 
 
 "gratify the company, and me in particular, J^t^reth'^ofv'ibSrvTgTi'.'L'""*"' '''"^' ' 
 
 SO far, as before you speak of the play, to give ^John Hales (1584-1656), a distinguished English 
 
 us a character of the author; and tell us frankly -l^°rfrLfd"^rL^;d Fatfi/lTe^rw^^^^^^^^^^^^ aS 
 your opinion, whether you do laot think all Ben Jousoo, aad w^e »»de a fellow of Etoo in 1613. 
 
JOHN DRYDEN 2^ 
 
 him;5 and therefore I need speak no farther He invades authors hke a monarch; and what 
 of it. The first play that brought Fletcher and would be theft in other poets, is only victory 
 him m esteem was their Philaster: for before in him. With the spoils of these writers he so 
 that, they had written two or three very un- represents old Rome to us, in its rites, cere- 
 successfully, as the- like is reported of Ben 5 monies, and customs, that if one of their 
 Jonson, before he writ Every Man in his Hu- poets had written either of his tragedies, we 
 mour. Their plots were generally more regular had seen less of it .than in him. If there was 
 than Shakespeare's, especially those which any fault in his language, 'twas that he weaved 
 were made before Beaumont's death; and they it too closely and laboriously, in his serious 
 understood and imitated the conversation of lo plays: Perhaps too he did a Httle too much 
 gentlemen much better; whose wild debauch- Romanize our tongue, leaving the words 
 eries, and quickness of wit in repartees, no which he translated ahnost as much Latin as 
 poet can ever paint an they have done. Hu- he found them: wherein, though he learnedly 
 mour, which Ben Jonson derived from par- followed the idiom of their language, he did 
 ticular persons, they made it not their business 15 not enough comply with^ the idiom of ours, 
 to describe: they represented all the passions If I would compare him with Shakespeare, 1 
 very lively, but above all, love. I am apt to must acknowledge him the more correct poet, 
 believe the English language in them arrived but Shakespeare the greater wit; . Shakespeare 
 to its highest perfection: what words have was the Homer, or father of our dramatic 
 since been taken in, are rather superfluous than 20 poets; Johnson" was the Virgil, the pattern of 
 ornamental. Their plays are now the most elaborate writing; I admire him but I love 
 pleasant and frequent entertainments of the Shakespeare. To conclude of him; as he has 
 stage; two o( theirs being acted through the given us the most correct plays, so in the 
 year for one of Shakespeare's or Jonson's; precepts which he has laid down in his Dis- 
 the reason is, because there is a certain gaiety 25 coveries, we have as many and profitable 
 in their -comedies, and pathos in their more rules for perfecting the stage, as any where- 
 serious plays, which suits generally with all with the French can furnish us." 
 men's humours. Shakespeare's language is 
 likewise a Httle obsolete, and Ben Jonson's 
 wit comes short of theirs. 30 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 -As for Jonson, to whose cha.racter I am now ^^^^^ p^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ Cressida, 1679) 
 arrived, if we look upon him while he was 
 
 himself (for his last plays were but his dotages). If Shakespeare be allowed, as I think he 
 
 I think him the most learned and judicious must, to have made his characters distinct, 
 writer which any theatre ever had. He was a 35 it will easily be inferred that he understood 
 most severe judge of himself, as well as others, the nature of4he passions: because it has been 
 One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that proved already that confused passions make 
 he was frugal of it. In his works you find little undistinguishable characters: yet I cannot 
 to retrench or alter. Wit, and language, and deny that he has his failings; but they are not 
 humour also in some measure, we had before 40 so much in the passions themselves, as in his 
 him; but something of art was wanting to the manner of expression: he often obscures his 
 Drama, till he came. He managed his strength meaning by his words, and sometimes makes 
 to more advantage than any who preceded it unintelligible. I will not say of so great a 
 him. You seldom find him making love in any poet, that he distinguished not the blown puffy 
 of his scenes, or endeavouring to move the 45 style from true sublimity; but I may venture 
 passions; his genius was too sullen and satur- to maintain, that the fury of his fancy often 
 nine to do it gracefully, especially when he transported him beyond the bounds of judg- 
 knew he came alter those who had performed ment, either in coining of new words and 
 both to such an height. Humour was his phrases, or racking words which were in use, 
 proper st>liere; and in that he delighted 50 into the violence of a catachresis.^ It is not 
 most to represent mechanic people. He was that I would explode the use of metaphors 
 deeply conversant in the Ancients, both Greek from passion, for Longinus thinks 'em neces- 
 and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them: sary to raise it: but to use 'em at every word, 
 there is scarce a poet or historian among the to say nothing without a metaphor, a simile, 
 Roman authors of those times whom he has 55 an image, or description, is, I doubt, to smell 
 not translated in Sejanus and Catiline. But a little too strongly of the buskin. I must be 
 he has done his robberies so openly, that one forced to give an example of expressing passion 
 may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. , ^^^^^ ^^^ ^.^^^^ ^^ ^ ^^^ by employing it in a sens. 
 
 * Epigram Iv. To Francis Beaumont. beyond its legitimate meaning. 
 
288 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 figuratively; but that I may do it with respect writers, who, not being able to infuse a natural 
 to Shakespeare, it shall not be taken from any- passion into the mind, have made it their 
 thing of his: 'tis an exclamation against For- business to ply the ears, and to stun their 
 tune, quoted in his Hamlet but written by judges by the noise. But Shakespeare does 
 some other poet — 5 not often thus; for the passions in his scene 
 
 Out, out, thou strumpet. Fortune! all you gods, between Brutus and Cassius are extremely 
 In general synod, take away her power; natural, the thoughts are such as arise from 
 
 Break all the spokes and felleys from her wheel, the matter, the expression of 'em not viciously 
 And bowl the round nave down the hill of figurative. I cannot leave this subject, be- 
 Heav'n, 10 fore I do justice to that divine poet, by giving 
 
 As low as to the fiends. 5 you one of his passionate descriptions: 'tis 
 
 And immediately after, speaking of Hecuba, ^^ Richard the Second when he was deposed, 
 when Priam was killed before her eyes — and led in triumph through the streets of 
 
 The mobbled queen ,. ^^^?°.^ ^^ ?^"7 ^^ BulUngbrook: the painting 
 Threatening the flame, ran up and down ^^°^ ** ^^ ^^ "v^^^' ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^s so movmg. 
 
 With bissom rheum; a clout about that head ^^^\ I have scarce read anythmg comparable 
 Where late the diadem stood; and for a robe, to it in any other language. Suppose you 
 About her lank and all o'er-teemed loins, 5 have seen already the fortunate usurper pass- 
 A blanket in th' alarm of fear caught up. ing through the crowd, and followed by the 
 
 Who this had seen, with tongue in venom 20 shouts and acclamations of the people; and 
 
 ,n • T% 1. > i. i. 1 J J. 1- 110 w behold King Richard entering upon the 
 
 Gamst Fortune s state would treason have -j fu x i. j r ^• 
 
 pronounced- wcacs^^u ii<a,vc gcene: consider the wretchedness of his con- 
 But if the gods themselves did see her then, ^l^^^^^'. ^^^ ^^^ carriage in it; and refrain from 
 When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport 10 P^^^j ^^ you can — 
 In mincing with his sword her husband's limbs, 25 As in a theatre, the eyes of men. 
 The instant burst of clamour that she made After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, 
 i^^^f!^*^^'^^^ mortal naove them not at all) Are idly bent on him that enters next, 
 Would have made milch the burning eyes of Thinking his prattle to be tedious: 
 
 heaven. Even so, or with much more contempt, men's 
 And passion m the gods. 15 eyes 5 
 
 What a pudder is here kept in raising the ^'^ ^^^^} °^ I^i^hard: no man cried, God save 
 expression of trifling thoughts! Would not a ^^ j^^^i tongue gave him hig welcome home, 
 man have thought that the poet had been But dust was thrown upoii his sacred head, 
 bound prentice to a wheelwright, for his first Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, 
 rant? and had followed a ragman, for the 35 His face still combating with tears and smiles 
 clout and blanket in the second? Fortune is (The badges of his grief and patience), 11 
 
 painted on a wheel, and therefore the writer. That had not God (for some strong purpose) 
 in a rage, will have poetical justice done upon ^, steel'd ^ r i. 
 
 every member of that engine: after this exe- ^^^ \ll °'^'^' ^^ ^ perforce have 
 cution, he bowls the nave down-hill from 40 ^^^ ^^^^^^^^ i^^^lf I^^^^ i^j^^ ^^^ 
 Heaven, to the nends (an unreasonable long 
 
 mark, a man would think); 'tis well there are To speak justly of this whole matter: 'tis 
 no solid orbs to stop it in the way, or no ele- neither height of thought that is discommended, 
 ment of fire to consume it: but when it came nor pathetic vehemence, nor any nobleness of 
 to the earth, it must be monstrous heavy, 45 expression in its proper place; but 'tis a false 
 to break grounds as low as the centre. His measure of all these, something, which is like 
 making milch the burning eyes of heaven them, and is not them; 'tis the Bristol-stone^ 
 was a pretty tolerable flight too: and I think which appears like a diamond; 'tis an extrava- 
 no man ever drew milk out of eyes before him: gant thought, instead of a sublime one; 'tis 
 yet, to make the wonder greater, these eyes 50 roaring madness, instead of vehemence; and 
 were burning. Such a sight indeed were a sound of words, instead of sense. If Shake- 
 enough to have raised passion in the gods; speare were stripped of all the bombasts in his 
 but to excuse the effects of it, he tells you, passions, and dressed in the most vulgar 
 perhaps they did not see it. Wise men would words, we should find the beauties of his\ 
 be glad to find a little sense couched under 55 thoughts remaining; if his embroideries were 
 all these pompous words; for bombast is com- burnt down, there would still be silver at the 
 monly the deUght of that audience which bottom of the melting-pot: but I fear (at 
 loves Poetry, but understands it not: and as , a n ^ ^ \ t a , ti^»*^i »«^ =««.« 
 
 , % ' , . , ,. ,. , , ^ Small quartz crystals found near Bristol, and some- 
 
 commonly has been the practice of those times called "Bristol-diamonds." 
 
JOHN DRYDEN 289 
 
 least let me fear it for myself) that we, who ape for their guide, that if this fancy be not regu- 
 
 his sounding words, have nothing of his thought lated, it is a mere caprice, and utterly inca- 
 
 but are all outside; there is not so much as a pable to produce a reasonable and judicious 
 
 dwarf within our giant's clothes. Therefore, poem." 
 
 let not Shakespeare suffer for our sakes; 'tis 5 
 
 our fault, who succeed him in an age which is 
 
 more refined, if we imitate him so ill, that we POSTSCRIPT TO THE READER 
 
 copy his faiHngs only, and make a virtue of (^^^^ Dryden's translation of Virgil, 1697) 
 that m our writmgs which m his was an im- ' 
 
 perfection. 10 What Virgil wrote in the vigour of his age, 
 
 For what remains, the excellency of that in plenty and at ease, I have undertaken to 
 poet was, as I have said, in the more manly translate in my declining years; struggling 
 passions; Fletcher's in the softer: Shake- with wants, oppressed with sickness, curbed 
 speare writ better betwixt man and man; in my genius, liable to be misconstrued in all 
 Fletcher, betwixt man and woman: conse-l5l write; and my judges, if they are not very 
 quently, the one described friendship better; equitable, already prejudiced against me, by 
 the other love: yet Shakespeare taught Fletcher the lying character which has been given 
 to write love: and Juliet and Desdemona are them of my morals. Yet steady to my prin- 
 originals. 'Tis true, the scholar had the softer ciples, and not dispirited with my afflictions, 
 soul; but the master had the kinder. Friend- 20 1 have, by the blessing of God on my endeav- 
 ship is both a virtue and a passion essentially; ours, overcome all difficulties, and, in some 
 love is a passion only in its nature, and is not a measure, acquitted myself of the debt which 
 virtue but by accident: good nature makes I owed the public when I undertook this 
 friendship; but effeminacy love. Shakespeare work. In the first place, therefore, I thank- 
 had an universal mind, which comprehended 25 fully acknowledge to the Almighty Power the 
 all characters and passions; Fletcher a more assistance He has given me in the beginning, the 
 confined and limited: for though he treated prosecution, and conclusion of my present 
 love in perfection, yet honour, ambition, re- studies, which are more happily performed 
 venge, and generally all the stronger passions, than I could have promised to myself, when 1 
 he either touched not, or not masterly. To 30 laboured under such discouragements. For, 
 conclude all, he was a limb of Shakespeare, what I have done, imperfect as it is for want 
 
 I had intended to have proceeded to the of health and leisure to correct it, will be 
 last property of manners, which is, that they judged in after-ages, and possibly in the 
 must be constant, and the characters, main- present, to be no dishonour to my native 
 tained the same from the beginning to the end; 35 country, whose language and poetry would be 
 and from thence to have proceeded to the more esteemed abroad, if they were better 
 thoughts and expressions suitable to a tragedy; understood. Somewhat (give me leave to say) 
 but I will first see how this will relish with the I have added to both of them in the choice 
 age. It is, I confess, but cursorily written; of words, and harmony of numbers, which 
 yet the judgment, which is given here, is 40 were wanting, especially the last, in all .our 
 generally founded upon experience: but be- poets, even in those who, being endued with 
 cause many men are shocked at the name of genius, yet have not cultivated their mother- 
 rules, as if they were a kind of magisterial tongue with suflicient care; or, relying on the 
 prescription upon poets, I will conclude with beauty of their thoughts, have judged the 
 the words of Rapin, in his Reflections on Aris- 45 ornament of words, and sweetness of sound, 
 totle's work Of Poetry: "Jf the rules be ^ell unnecessary. One is for raking in Chaucer 
 considered, we shall find there to be made (our English EnniusO for antiquated words, 
 only to reduce Nature into method, lo trace which are never to be revived, but when sound 
 her step by step, and not to suffer the least or significancy is wanting in the present Ian- 
 mark of her to escape us: 'tis only by these, soguage. 'But many of his deserve not this re- 
 that probability in fiction is maintained, which demption, any more than the crowds of men 
 is the soul of poetry. They are founded upon who daily die, or are slain for sixpence in a 
 good sense, and sound reason, rather than on battle, merit to be restored to fife, if a wish 
 authority; for though Aristotle and Horace could revive them. Others have no ear for 
 are produced, yet no man must argue, that 55 verse, nor choice of words, nor distinction of 
 what they write is true, because they writ it; thoughts; but mingle farthings with their 
 but 'tis evident, by the ridiculous mistakes gold, to make up the sum. Here is a field of 
 and gross absurdities which have been made , ^^^.^^^^^^ ^^^^.^^ ^239-169 B. C.) was regarded by the 
 
 by those poets who have taken their fancy only Uonians as the father of Latin poetry. 
 
290 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Satire opened to me: but, since the Revolution, Extremum hunc, Arethusa . . . 
 
 / have wholly renounced that talent. For . . . Negat quis carmina Gallo?^ 
 
 who would give physic to the great, when he is 
 
 uncalled? — to do his patient no good, and en- Neither am I to forget the noble presents 
 
 danger himself for his prescription? Neither 5 which was made me by Gilbert Dolben, Esq., 
 
 am I ignorant, but I may justly be condemned the worthy son of the late Archbishop of 
 
 for many of those faults of which I have too York, who, when I began this work, enriched 
 
 liberally arraigned others. me with all the several editions of Virgil, and 
 
 all the commentaries of those editions in Latin; 
 
 . . . Cynthius aurem 10 amongst which, I could not but prefer the 
 
 Vellit, et admonuit . . .^ Dauphin's, as the last, the shortest, and the 
 
 most judicious. Fabrini I had also sent me 
 'Tis enough for me, if the Government will let from Italy; but either he understands Virgil 
 me pass unquestioned. In the meantime, I very imperfectly, or I have no knowledge of 
 am obliged, in gratitude, to return my thanks 15 my author. 
 
 to many of them, who have not only distin- Being invited by that worthy gentleman, 
 
 guished me from others of the same party, Sir William Bowyer, to Denham Court, I 
 by a particular exception of grace, but, without translated the first Georgic at his house, and 
 considering the man, have been bountiful to the greatest part of the last ^neid. A more 
 the poet : have encouraged Virgil to speak such 20 friendly entertainment no man ever found. 
 English as I could teach him, and rewarded his No wonder, therefore, if both those versions 
 interpreter for the pains he has taken in bring- surpass the rest, and own the satisfaction I 
 ing him over into Britain, by defraying the received in his converse, with whom I had 
 charges of his voyage. Even Cerberus, when the honour to be bred in Cambridge, and in 
 he had received the sop, permitted iEneas to 25 the same college. The Seventh JEneid was 
 pass freely to Elysium. Had it been offered me, made English at Burleigh, the magnificent 
 and I had refused it, yet still some gratitude is abode of the Earl of Exeter. In a village be- 
 due to such who were wiUing to oblige me; longing to his family I was born; and under his 
 but how much more to those from whom I roof I endeavoured to make that J^neid ap- 
 have received the favours which they have 30 pear in English with as much lustre as I could; 
 offeredtooneof a different persuasion! Amongst though my author has not given the finishing 
 whom I cannot omit naming the Earls of Derby strokes either to it, or to the Eleventh, as I 
 and of Peterborough. To the first of these I perhaps could prove in both, if I durst presume 
 have not the honour to be known; and there- to criticise my master. 
 
 fore his liberality was as much unexpected as 35 By a letter from William Walsh, ^ of Abberley, 
 it was undeserved. The present Earl of Peter- Esq. (who has so long honoured me with his 
 borough has been pleased long since to accept friendship, and who, without flattery, is the 
 the tenders of my service: his favours are so best critic of our nation), I have been informed, 
 frequent to me, that I receive them almost that his Grace the Duke of Shrewsbury has 
 by prescription. No difference of interest or 40 procured a printed copy of the Pastorals, 
 opinion has been able to withdraw his pro- Georgics, and first six JUneids, from my book- 
 tection from me; and I might justly be con- seller, and has read them in the country, to- 
 demned for the most unthankful of mankind, gether with my friend. This noble person hav- 
 if I did not always preserve for him a most ing been pleased to give them a commendation, 
 profound respect and inviolable gratitude. 45 which I presume not to insert, has made me 
 I must also add, that, if the last Mneid vain enough to boast of so great a favour, and 
 shine amongst its fellows, 'tis owing to the to think I have succeeded beyond my hopes; 
 commands of Sir William Trumball, one of the character of his excellent judgment, the 
 the principal Secretaries of State, who recom- acuteness of his wit, and his general knowledge 
 mended it, as his favourite, to my Qare; and 50 of good letters, being known as well to all the 
 for his sake particularly, I have made it mine, world, as the sweetness of his disposition, his 
 For who would confess weariness, when he humanity, his easiness of access, and de«ire 
 enjoined a fresh labour? I could not but of obliging those who stand in need of his 
 invoke the assistance of a Muse, for this last protection, are known to all who have ap- i 
 \)ffice. 55 proached him, and to me in particular, who have ^ 
 
 2 Apollo twitched my ear, and admonished me. Dry- ' Grant me this last labor, Arethusa . . . who could 
 
 den translates the passage (Virg. EcL, v. 3) : refuse songs to Gallus? (Virg. Eel, x., 1-54). 
 
 * William Walsh (1663-1708), a critic and minor poet, 
 "Apollo checked my pride, and bade me feed is remembered as the friend, early adviser, and corre- 
 
 My fattening flocks, nor dare beyond the reed." spondent of Pope. 
 
SAMUEL PEPYS 291 
 
 formerly had the honour of his conversation, the Royalle company by themselves in the 
 Whoever has given the world the translation of coach, ^ which was a blessed sight to see. 
 part of the Third Georgic, which he calls The After dinner the King and Duke altered the 
 Power of Love, has put me to sufficient pains name of some of the ships,' viz. the Nazeby 
 to make my own not inferior to his; as my 5 into Charles; the Richard, James; the Speaker, 
 Lord Roscommon's Silenus had formerly Mary; the Dunbar (which was not in com- 
 given me the same trouble. The most ingenious pany with us), the Henry; Winsly, Happy 
 Mr. Addison of Oxford has also been as trouble- Return; Wakefield, Richmond; Lambert, the 
 some to me as the other two, and on the same Henrietta; Cheriton, the Speedwell; Bradford, 
 account. After his Bees, my latter swarm 10 the Successe. That done, the Queen, ^ Princesse 
 is hardly worth the hiving. Mr. Cowley's Royalle,^ and Prince of Orange, took leave of 
 Praise of a Country Life is excellent, but is the King, and the Duke of York^ went on board 
 rather an imitation of Virgil than a version, the London, and the Duke of Gloucester, the 
 That I have recovered, in some measure, the Swiftsure. Which done, we weighed anchor, 
 health which I had lost by too much applica- 15 and with a fresh gale and most happy weather 
 tion to this work, is owing, next to God's mercy, we set sail for England. All the afternoon the 
 to the skill and care of Dr. Guibbons and Dr. King walked here and there, up and down 
 Hobbs, the two ornaments of their profession, (quite contrary to what I thought him to have 
 whom I can only pay by this acknowledge- been) very active and stirring. Upon the 
 ment. The whole Faculty has always been 20 quarter-deck he fell into discourse of his es- 
 ready to oblige me; and the only one of them, cape from Worcester,^ where it made me ready 
 who endeavoured to defame me, had it not in to weep to hear the stories that he told of his 
 his power. I desire pardon from my readers for difficulties that he had passed through, as his 
 saying so much in relation to myself, which travelling four days and three nights on foot, 
 concerns not them; and, with my acknowledge- 25 every step up to his knees in dirt, with nothing 
 ments to all my subscribers, have only to add, but a green coat and a pair of country breeches 
 that the few Notes which follow are par mavr- on, and a pair of country shoes that made him 
 idre d' acquit,^ because I had obliged myself so sore all over his feet, that he could scarce 
 by articles to do somewhat of that kind. These stir. Yet he was forced to run away from a 
 scattering observations are rather guesses at 30 miller and other company, that took them for 
 my author's meaning in some passages, than rogues. His sitting at table at one place, where 
 proofs that so he meant. The unlearned may the master of the house, that had not seen him 
 have recourse to any poetical dictionary in in eight years, did know him, but kept it pri- 
 English, for the names of persons, places, or vate; when at the same table there was one that 
 fables, which the learned need not: but that 35 had been of his own regiment at Worcester could 
 Httle which I say is either new or necessary; not know him, but made him drink the King's 
 and the first of these qualifications never fails health, and said that the King was at least 
 to invite a reader, if not to please him. four fingers higher than he. At another place 
 
 he was by some servants of the house made to 
 ^StUUtl ItDn^^fl' *^ drink, that they might know that he was not a 
 
 Roundhead, which they swore he was. In 
 
 1633-1703 another place at his inn, the master of the house, 
 
 THE RETURN OF CHARLES II. as the King was standing with his hands upon 
 
 ,^ r.. - o 7 D 1«fin^ ^^^ back of a chair by the fire-side, kneeled 
 
 (From Diary of Samuel Pepys, 1660) ^^ 
 
 23rd.. In the morning come infinity of J.^iy'S^S^Xthe'clpS'!"''^* '- " "'" "' '"'' 
 
 people on board from the Kmg to go along with 3 xhe reason for the change of name is obvious: but 
 
 him All Hflv nofViino- hnf LorH«? and t^is purifying from Puritanic and embarrassing associa- 
 
 nim. ... All day notning out l^Oras ana ^j^^ ^^g an element of humour. Naseby and Djmbar 
 persons of honour on board, that we were ex- were of course reminiscent of Puritan victories, while the 
 f-PpHino- full DinPfl in a PTPnt dpal of state 50 Richard (presumably named after Cromwell's son), the 
 Ceeamg lUll. Umea m a grear aeai Ol state, ov g^^^j^^^ ^^^ Lambert, and the rest, bore names hardly less 
 
 6 By way of discharging (an obligation), or of a formal full of unpleasant suggestion to the ears of the Royalists. 
 jharacter. 4 Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James 
 
 1 i. e.. May 23, 1660. At this time Pepys was still VI, of Scotland, and First of England, whose husband, 
 young, poor, and comparatively unknown. The founda- Frederick became King of Bohemia. Shortly after, he 
 ibion of his fortune had, however, been laid by the kind- was forced by reverses to fly with his family to Holland, 
 ness of his patron and kinsman Sir Edward Montague Elizabeth returned to England after the Restoration of 
 (afterwards Earl of Sandwich), through whose influence 55 her nephew, where she died in 1662. 
 
 he had been made secretary to the generals on the English * Mary, sister of Charles II, wife of William II, Prince 
 
 fleet, in March, 1660. With his patron, and the other of Orange, and mother oi William III, of Orange, who 
 members of the delegation, he went to the Hague to became King of England in 1689. 
 
 bring back Charles II. The passages here given relate « Afterwards James II, of England. „ , , , 
 
 to the King's embarkation at the Hague and his landing at ^ i. e., after the crushing defeat of the Royal forces by 
 
 Dover Cromwell at the Battle of Worcester, 1651. 
 
292 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 down and kissed his hand, privately, saying, which he did, and talked awhile with General 
 that he would not ask him who he was, but Monk and others, and so into a stately coach 
 bid God bless him whither he was going. Then there set for him, and so away through the 
 the difficulties in getting a boat to get into town towards Canterbury, without making 
 France, where he was fain to plot with the mas- 5 any stay at Dover. The shouting and joy ex- 
 ter thereof to keep his design from the foreman pressed by all is past imagination, 
 and a boy (which was all the ship's company,) 
 
 and so get to Fecamp in France. At Rouen he PPFAT T?TT?F OT? inMnOM 
 
 looked so poorly, that the people went into THE GREAT FIRE OF LONDON 
 
 the rooms before he went away to see whether 10 (From the same 1666) 
 
 he had not stole something or other. ... 
 
 So to my cabin again, where the company still 2nd.* (Lord's Day). Some of our maids 
 was, and were talking more of the King's sitting up late last night to get things ready 
 difficulties; as how he was fain to eat a piece of against our feast to-day, Jane called us up 
 bread and cheese out of a poor body's pocket; 15 about three in the morning, to tell us of a 
 how, at a Catholique house, he was fain to great fire they saw in the city. So I rose, and 
 lie in the priest's hole a good while in the house slipped on my night-gown, and went to h(T 
 for his privacy. After that our company window; and thought it to be on the back-side 
 broke up. We have all the Lord Commissioners of Marke-lane at the farthest, but being unused 
 on board us, and many others. Under sail 20 to such fires as followed, I thought it far enoug,h 
 all night, and most glorious weather. off: and so went to bed again, and to sleop. 
 
 24th. Up, and made myseK as fine as I could, About seven rose again to dress myself, and 
 with the linning stockings on and wide canons' there looked out at the window, and saw the 
 that I bought the other day at Hague. . . . fire not so much as it was, and further off. 
 
 25th. By the morning we were come close 25 So to my closet to set things to rights, after 
 to the land, and everybody made ready to get yesterday's cleaning. By and by Jane comes 
 on shore. The King and the two Dukes did and tells me that she hears that above 300 
 eat their breakfast before they went, and there houses have been burned down to-night by the 
 being set some ship's diet, they did eat of noth- fire we saw, and that it is now burning down 
 ing else but pease and pork, and boiled beef. 30 all Fish-street, by London Bridge. So I made 
 Dr. Gierke, who eat with me, told me how the myself ready presently, and walked to the 
 King had given 50£ to Mr. Shepley for my Tower, and there got upon one of the high 
 Lord's servants, and 500£ among the officers places, Sir J. Robinson's little son going up 
 and common men of the ship. I spoke to the with me; and there I did see the houses at that 
 Duke of York about business, who called me 35 end of the bridge all on fire, and an infinite 
 Pepys by name, and upon my desire did prom- great fire on this and the other side the end of 
 ise me his future favour. Great expectation the bridge; which, among other people, did 
 of the King's making some Knights, but there trouble me for poor little Michell and our 
 was none. About noon (though the brigantine Sarah on the bridge. So down with my heart 
 that Beale made was there ready to carry him) 40 full of trouble to the Lieutenant of the Tower, 
 yet he would go in my Lord's barge with the who tells me it begun this morning in the King's 
 two Dukes. Our Captn. steered, and my Lord baker's house in Puddine-lane, and that it 
 went along bare with him. I went, and Mr. hath burned down St. Magnes Church^ and 
 Mansell, and one of the King's footmen, and a most part of Fish-street already. So I down to 
 dog that the king loved, in a boat by ourselves, 45 the water-side, and there got a boat, and 
 and so got on shore when the King did, who through bridge, and there saw a lamentable 
 was received by General Monk with all imagi- fire. Poor Michell's house, as far as the Old 
 nable love and respect at his entrance upon the Swan,' already burned that way, and the 
 land of Dover, Infinite the crowd of people fire running further, that in a very little time 
 and the horsemen, citizens, and noblemen of 50 it got as far as the Steele-yard, while I was 
 all sorts. The Mayor of the town come and there. Everybody endeavouring to remove 
 give him his white staff, the badge of his place, their goods, and flinging into the river, or 
 which the King did give him again. The Mayor bringing them into lighters that lay off; poor 
 also presented him from the town a very rich people staying in their houses as long as tilL 
 Bible, which he took, and said it was the thing 55 
 that he loved above all things in the world. l^^h^'^^^^i ,r , rr.,- , , ,, 
 
 A .,,.,. ° ,. J , ^ St. Magnus the Martyr. This church was on the corner 
 
 A canopy was provided for him to stand under, of Fish Street Hill and was very near to the London 
 
 Bridge. 
 * "Ornamental rolls which terminated the breeches or 'A well-known tavern not far from Old London 
 
 hose at the knee." Cent. Diet. Bridge. 
 
SAMUEL PEPYS 293 
 
 the very fire touched them, and then running tracted, and no manner of means used to 
 into boats, or clambering from one pair of quench the fire. The houses too so very thick 
 stairs by the water-side to another. And thereabouts, and full of matter for burning, as 
 among other things, the poor pigeons, I per- pitch and tar, in Thames-street: and warehouses 
 ceive, were loth to leave their houses, but 5 of oil, and wines, and brandy, and other 
 hovered about the windows and balconys, till things. . . . Having seen as much as I could 
 they burned their wings and fell down. Having now, I away to White Hall by appointment, and 
 staid, and in an hour's time seen the fire rage there walked to St. James' Park, and there met 
 every way, and nobody, to my sight, endeavour- my wife and Creed and Wood and his wife, and 
 ing to quench it, but to remove their goods, lo walked to my boat; and there upon the water 
 and leave all to the fire, and having seen it get again, and to the fire up and down, it still 
 as far as the Steele-yard,* and the wind mighty encreasing, and the wind great. So near the 
 high, and driving it into the city; and every- fire as we could for smoke; and all over the 
 thing after so long a drouth proving combustible, Thames, with one's faces in the wind, you 
 even the very stones of churches, and among 15 were almost burned with a shower of fire- 
 other things, the poor steeple by which pretty drops. This is very true; so as houses were 
 
 Mrs. lives, and whereof my old school- burned by these drops and flakes of fire, 
 
 fellow Elborough is parson, taken fire in the three or four, nay five or six houses, one from 
 very top, and there burned till it fell down: another. When we could endure no more 
 I to White Hall (with a gentleman with me, 20 upon the water, we to a little ale-house on 
 who desired to go off from the Tower, to see the the Bankside,^ over against the Three Cranes, 
 fire, in my boat); and there up to the King's and there staid till it was dark almost, and 
 closet in the Chapel, where people come about saw the fire grow, and as it grew darker, 
 me; and I did give them an account dismayed appeared more and more, and in corners and 
 them all, and word was carried in to the King. 25 upon steeples, and between churches and 
 So I was called for, and did tell the King and houses, as far as we could see up the hill of 
 the Duke of York what I saw, and that unless the city, in a most horrid malicious bloody 
 his Majesty did command houses to be pulled flame, not like the fine flame of an ordinary 
 down, nothing could stop the fire. They fire. Barbary and her husband away before 
 seemed much troubled, and the King com- 30 us. We staid till, it being darkish, we saw the 
 manded me to go to my Lord Mayor from him, fire as only one entire arch of fire from this to 
 and command him to spare no houses, but to the other side the bridge, and in a bow up the 
 pull down before the fire every way. The hill for an arch of above a mile long; it made 
 Duke of York bid me tell him, that if he would me weep to see it. The churches, houses, and 
 have any more soldiers, he shall; and so did my 35 all on fire, and flaming at once, and a horrid 
 Lord Arlington afterwards, as a great secret, noise the flames made, and the cracking of 
 Here meeting with Captain Cocke, I in his houses at their ruin. So home with a sad 
 coach, which he lent me, and Creed with me to heart, and there find everybody discoursing 
 Paul's, and there walked along Watling-street, and lamenting the fire! 
 as well as I could, every creature coming away 40 
 
 loaden with goods to save, and here and there THE LAST ENTRY IN PEPYS' DIARY 
 sick people carried away in beds. Extraor- 
 dinary good good.4 carried in carts and on Slst.^ Up very betimes, and continued all 
 backs. At last met by Lord Mayor in Canning- the morning with W. Hewer, upon examining 
 street, like a man spent, with a handkercher 45 and stating my accounts, in order to the fitting 
 about his neck, 'to the King's message, he myself to go abroad beyond sea, which the ill 
 cried like a fainting woman, "Lord! what can condition of my eyes and my neglect for a 
 I do? I am spent: people will not obey me. year or two hath kept me behind-hand in, 
 I have been pulling down houses; but the fire and so as to render it very difficult now and 
 overtakes us faster than we can do it." That 50 troublesome to my mind to do it: but I this 
 he needed no more soldiers; and that, for him- day made a satisfactory entrance therein, 
 self, he must go and jefresh himself, having been Had another meeting with the Duke of York 
 up all night. So he left me, and I him, and at White Hall on yesterday's work, and made 
 walked home; seeirig people all almost dis- a good advance: and so being called by my 
 ! 55 wife, we to the Park, Mary Batelier, and a 
 
 « Formerly the headqi^arters in England of the Han- Dutch gentleman, a friend of hers, being with 
 
 seatic League, and hencte called the "Guildhall of the =• "^pu^ 'TO'r.rlrl'a TT'nrI " n rlrinli-ino-- 
 
 Germans." It was sitUiUed on the river-front west of US. Ihence tO The World S il^nd, a dimkmg- 
 
 London Bridge: the fire , (which had begun east of the b On the southern or Surrey, side of the river, 
 
 bridge, near Billingsgate) was therefore spreadmg west- ^f L vfl^ ourrey, 
 
 ward. ^ ^ May 31st, 1669. 
 
294 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 house by the Park; and there merry, and so 
 home late. And thus ends all that I doubt 
 I shall ever be able to do with my own eyes 
 in the keeping of my Journall, I being not able 
 to do it any longer, having done now so long 
 as to undo my eyes almost every time that I 
 take a pen in my hand; and therefore, what 
 ever comes of it, I must forbear: and therefore 
 resolve from this time forward to have it kept 
 by my people in long-hand, and must be con- 
 tented to set down no more than is fit for them 
 and all the world to know; or if there be any- 
 thing, I must endeavour to keep a margin in 
 my book open, to add here and there a note in 
 short-hand with my own hand. And so I 
 betake myself to that course, which is almost 
 as much as to see myself go into my grave; 
 for which, and all the discomforts that will ac- 
 company my being blind, the God prepare 
 me! S. P. 
 
 THE AGE OF POPE 
 
 1664-1721 
 
 TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS 
 OLD. MDCCIV 
 
 THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY 
 
 (From Poems on Several Occasions, 1709) 
 
 Lords, knights, and 'squires the numerous band, 
 That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, 
 
 Were summoned by her high command. 
 To show their passions by their letters. 
 
 My pen among the rest I took, 5 
 
 Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 
 
 Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
 The power they have to be obeyed. 
 
 For, as our different ages move, 23 
 
 'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!) 
 
 That I shall be past making love, 
 When she begins to comprehend it. 
 
 A BETTER ANSWER 
 
 Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! 
 Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all un- 
 curled: 
 lOPr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff 
 
 20 
 
 N^or quality, nor reputation. 
 Forbid me yet my flame to tell, 
 
 Dear five years old befriends my passion, 
 And I may write till she can spell. 
 
 10 
 
 For, while she makes her silk-worm's beds, 
 With all the tender things I swear; 
 
 Whilst all the house my passion reads, 15 
 
 In papers round her baby's hair; 
 
 She may receive and own my flame, 
 For though the strictest prudes should know 
 it. 
 
 She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, 
 
 And I for an unhappy poet. 20 
 
 Then, too, alas! when she shall tear 
 The lines some younger rival sends; 
 
 She'll give me leave to write, I fear, 
 And we shall still continue frieiids. 
 
 Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this 
 world. 
 
 How cans' t thou presume, thou hast leave 
 15 to destroy 5 
 
 The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy 
 keeping? 
 Those looks were designed to inspire love and 
 joy: 
 More ordinary eyes may serve people for 
 weeping. 
 
 To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ. 
 Your judgment at once, and my passion you 
 wrong: lo 
 
 You take that for fact, which will scarce be 
 found wit: 
 Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a 
 song? 
 
 What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, 
 shows 
 The difference there is betwixt nature and 
 art: 
 I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose: 
 And they have my whimsies; but thou hast 
 my heart. 16 
 
 The god of us verse-men (you know, Child) 
 the sun. 
 
 How after his journeys he sets up his rest; 
 If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run; 
 
 At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast. 20 
 
 So when I am wearied with wandering all day; 
 
 To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: 
 No matter what beauties 1 saw in my way: 
 
 They were but my visits, but thou art my 
 home. 
 
 Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war; 25 
 And let us like Horace and Lydia agree: 
 
 For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, 
 As he was a poet sublim(;r than me. 
 
 Iflonatlian ^toift 
 
 1667-17 \5 
 
 IN SICKNESS 
 
 (Written in Ireland in October, 1714) 
 
 'Tis true— then why should I repine 
 To see my life so fast decline? 
 But why obscurely here alone. 
 Where I am neither IcA^ed nor known? 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 295 
 
 My state of health none care to learn, 5 
 
 My life is here no soul's concern; 
 
 And those with whom I now converse 
 
 Without a tear will tend my hearse. 
 
 Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid,^ 
 
 Who knows his art but not his trade, 10 
 
 Preferring his regard for me 
 
 Before his credit or his fee. 
 
 Some formal visits, looks, and words, 
 
 What mere humanity affords, 
 
 I meet, perhaps, from three or four 15 
 
 From whom I once expected more, 
 
 Which those who tend the sick for pay 
 
 Can act as decently as they; 
 
 But no obliging tender friend 
 
 To help at my approaching end. 20 
 
 My life is now a burden grown 
 
 To others, ere it be my own. 
 
 Ye formal weepers for the sick, 
 In your last oflSces be quick, 
 And spare my absent friends the grief 25 
 To hear, yet give me no relief; 
 Expired to-day, intombed tomorrow, 
 When known, will save a double sorrow. 
 
 THE DAY OF JUDGMENT . 
 
 With a whirl of thought oppress'd, 
 
 I sunk from reverie to rest. 
 
 A horrid vision seiz'd my head, 
 
 I saw the graves give up their dead! 
 
 Jove, armed with terrors, bursts the skies, 5 
 
 And thunder roars and lightning flies! 
 
 Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown. 
 
 The world stands trembling at his throne! 
 
 While each pale sinner hung his head, 
 
 Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: 10 
 
 ''Offending race of human kind. 
 
 By nature, reason, learning, blind; 
 
 You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; 
 
 And you, who never fell from pride: 
 
 You who in different sects were shamm'd, 15 
 
 And come to see each other damn'd: 
 
 (So some folk told you, but they knew 
 
 No more of Jove's designs than you;) 
 
 — The world's mad business now is o'er, 
 
 And I resent these pranks no more. 20 
 
 — I to such blockheads set my wit! 
 
 I damn such fools! — Go, go, you're bit." 
 
 1672-1719 
 
 ODE. "THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT" 
 
 (From the Spectator, No. 465, 1712) 
 The spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky. 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim: 
 The unwearied sun from day to day 5 
 Does his Creator's power display, 
 And publishes to every land 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 1 A distinguished physician, and friend of Swift, Pope, 
 etc. See Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, p. 304. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 10 
 And nightly to the listening earth 
 Repeats the story of her birth; 
 Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
 And all the planets, in their turn. 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 15 
 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball? 
 What though nor real voice nor sound 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found? 20 
 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 For ever singing, as they shine, 
 "The hand that made us is Divine." 
 
 CATO'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 (From Cato, 1713) 
 
 Cato. It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st 
 
 well!— 
 Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
 This longing after immortality? 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror. 
 Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul 5 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 
 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 
 'Tis heaven itself, that points out an hereafter, 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 10 
 Through what variety of untried being. 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we 
 
 pass! 
 The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before 
 
 me; 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
 Here Willi hold. If there's a power above us 15 
 (And that there is all nature cries aloud 
 Through all her works), he must delight in 
 
 virtue; 
 And that which he delights in must be happy. 
 But when? or where?— This world was made for 
 
 Caesar. 19 
 
 I'm weary of conjectures — This must end 'em. 
 Laying his hand on his sword. 
 
 Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, 
 My bane and antidote are both before me: 
 This in a moment brings me to an end; 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 25 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years. 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth. 
 Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 30 
 
 The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 
 What means this heaviness that hangs upon 
 me? 
 This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? 
 Nature, oppressed and harassed out with 
 
 care, 
 Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour 
 her, 35 
 
296 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 That my awakened soul may take her flight. 
 Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, 
 An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
 Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of 'em. 
 Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. 40 
 
 aHeranuer ^ope 
 
 1688-1744 
 
 THE RAPE OF THE LOCRi 
 
 (Final version published 1717) 
 
 Canto I 
 
 What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, 
 What mighty contests rise from trivial things, 
 I sing.— This verse to Gary 11, Muse! is due; 
 This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view; 
 Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 5 
 If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 
 Say what strange motive, goddess! could com- 
 pel 
 A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? 
 O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, 
 Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 10 
 
 In tasks so bold, can little men engage. 
 And in soft bosoms, dwells such mighty rage? 
 Sol through white curtains shot a tim'rous 
 ray, 
 And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day; 
 Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing 
 shake, 15 
 
 And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: 
 Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the 
 
 ground. 
 And the pressed watch returned a silver sound. 
 Belinda still her downy pillow pressed. 
 Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest: 
 'Twas he had summoned to her silent bed 2 1 
 The morning dream that hovered o'er her head, 
 A youth more glitt'ring than a birth-night^ 
 
 beau, 
 (That ev'n in slumber caused her cheek to glow) 
 Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, 25 
 And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say. 
 
 "Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care 
 Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! 
 If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought, 
 Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught; 
 Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, 31 
 The silver token, and the circled green, 
 Or virgins visited by angel-pow'rs. 
 With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly 
 flow'rs; ^ 34 
 
 Hear and believe! thy own importance know, 
 Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. 
 
 ' This poem was written at the request of a Mr. Caryl. 
 One Lord Petre had contrived to abstract a lock of 
 Mistress Arabella Fermor's hair, and as a result, the 
 families of the daring lord and the offended beauty had 
 become estranged. Mr. Caryl, anxious to restore iieace, 
 asked Pope to write a poem which should suggest to both 
 sides the absurdity of quarreling over so trifling an 
 affair. 
 
 * The dressing at the court balls pven to celebrate the 
 birthdays of members of the royal family was unusually 
 splendid. 
 
 Some secret truths, from learned pride con- 
 cealed, 
 To maids alone and children are revealed. 
 What though no credit doubting wits may 
 
 give? 
 The fair and innocent shall still believe. 40 
 Know then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly, 
 The light militia of the lower sky: 
 These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, 
 Hang o'er the box,^ and hover round the ring. 
 Think what an equipage thou hast in air, 45 
 And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 
 As now your own, our beings were of old. 
 And once inclosed in woman's beauteous mould ; 
 Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 
 From earthly vehicles to these of air. 50 
 
 Think not, when woman's transient breath is 
 
 fled. 
 That all her vanities at once are dead; 
 Succeeding vanities she still regards. 
 And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the 
 
 cards. 
 Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 55 
 
 And love of ombre, after death survive. 
 For when the fair in all their pride expire, 
 To their first elements, their souls retire: 
 The sprites of fiery termagants in flame 
 Mount up, and take a salamander's name. 60 
 Soft yielding minds to water glide away. 
 And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea. 
 The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome. 
 In search of mischief still on earth to roam. 
 The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, 65 
 And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 
 
 "Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste 
 Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced: 
 For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 
 Assume what sexes and what shapes they 
 
 please. 70 
 
 What guards the purity of melting maids, 
 In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, 
 Safe from the treach'rous friend, the dariog 
 
 spark. 
 The glance by day, the whisper in the dark. 
 When kind occasion prompts their warm dcj 
 
 sires, 75 
 
 When music softens, and when dancing fires? 
 
 'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know. 
 
 Though honour is the word with men below. 
 
 Some nymphs there are, too conscious of 
 
 their face, 
 For life predestined to the gnomes' embrace. 80 
 These swell their prospects and exalt their 
 
 pride. 
 When offers are disdained, and love denied: 
 Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, 
 While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping 
 
 train. 
 And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 85 
 And in soft sounds, 'Your Grace' salutes their 
 
 ear. 
 'Tis these that early taint the female soul, 
 Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, 
 
 ' " The Box, at the theatre, and the Ring in Hyde Park 
 are frequently mentioned as the two principal places for 
 the display of beauty and fashion." (Elwin). 
 
ALEXANDER POPE 
 
 29: 
 
 Teach infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know, 
 
 And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 90 
 
 "Off, when the world imagine women stray, 
 
 The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their 
 
 way; 
 Through all the giddy circle they pursue, 
 And old impertinence expel by new. 
 What tender maid but must a victim fall 95 
 To one man's treat, but for another's ball? 
 When Florio speaks what virgin could with- 
 stand, 
 If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? 
 With varying vanities, from ev'ry part. 
 They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; 
 Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword- 
 knots strive, 101 
 Beaus banish beaus, and coaches coaches drive. 
 This erring mortals levity may call; 
 Oh blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it all. 
 
 "Of these am 1, who thy protection claim, 105 
 A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
 Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, 
 In the clear mirror of thy ruling star 
 1 saw, alas! some dread event impend, 
 Ere to the main this morning sun descend. 110 
 But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where: 
 Warned by the sylph, oh pious maid, beware! 
 This to disclose is all thy guardian can: 
 Beware of all, but most beware of man I " 
 
 He said ; when Shock, who thought she slept 
 
 too long, 1 1 5 
 
 Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his 
 
 tongue. 
 'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true. 
 Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux; 
 Wounds, charms, and ardours, were no sooner 
 
 read, 
 But all the vision vanished from thy head. 120 
 And now, unveiled, the toilet stands dis- 
 played, 
 Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
 First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores, 
 With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs. 
 A heaV'nly image in the glass appears, 125 
 
 To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; 
 'Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side. 
 Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
 Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
 The various off 'rings of the world appear; 130 
 From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
 And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil. 
 This casket India's glowing gems unlocks. 
 And all Arabia breathes from yonder box, 
 The tortoise here and elephant unite, 135 
 
 Transformed to combs, the speckled and the 
 
 white. 
 Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
 Puffs, powders, patches. Bibles, billets-doux. 
 Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; 
 The fair each moment rises in her charms, 140 
 Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace, 
 And calls forth all the wonders of her face; 
 Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. 
 And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
 The busy sylphs surround their darling care, 
 These set the head, and those divide the hair, 
 
 Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the 
 gown; 147 
 
 And Betty's praised for labors not her own. 
 
 Canto II 
 Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain. 
 The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
 Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
 Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
 Fairy nymphs, and well-dressed youths around 
 her shone, 5 
 
 But ev'ry eye was fixed on her alone. 
 On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
 Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
 Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 
 Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those. 10 
 Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; 
 Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 
 And, hke the sun, they shine on all alike. 
 Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
 Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to 
 hide; I6 
 
 If to her share some female errors fall. 
 Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. 
 
 This nymph, to the destruction of mankind. 
 Nourished two locks, which graceful hung 
 behind 20 
 
 In equal curls, and well conspired to deck, 
 With shining ringlets, the smooth iv'ry neck. 
 Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 
 And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
 With hairy springes we the birds betray, 25 
 Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey. 
 Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare. 
 And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
 
 Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks ad- 
 mired ; 
 He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 30 
 Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way, 
 By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; 
 For when success a lover's toil attends, 
 Few ask, if fraud or force attained his ends. 
 
 For this, ere Phcebus rose, he had implored 
 Propitious heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r adored, 36 
 But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built, 
 Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 
 There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, 
 And all the trophies of his former loves; 40 
 With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre, 
 And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the 
 
 fire. 
 Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 
 Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: 
 The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his 
 pray'r, . ^5 
 
 The rest, the winds dispersed in empty air. 
 
 But now secure the painted vessel glides. 
 The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides: 
 While melting music steals upon the sky, 
 And softened sounds along the waters die; 50 
 Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, 
 Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
 ill but the sylph— with careful thoughts op- 
 
 Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. 
 
298 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 He summons strait his denizens of air; 55 
 
 The lucid squadrons round the sails repair: 
 Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, 
 That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. 
 Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, 
 Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; GO 
 Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, 
 Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light, 
 Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, 
 Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew, 
 Dipped m the richest tincture of the skies, 65 
 Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes; 
 While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings. 
 Colours that change whene'er they wave their 
 
 wings. 
 Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 
 Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd; 70 
 His purple pinions opening to the sun. 
 He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: 
 "Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give 
 
 ear! 
 Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear! 
 Ye know the spheres and various tasks as- 
 signed 75 
 By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. 
 Some in the fields of purest ether play, 
 And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. 
 Some guide the course of wandering orbs on 
 
 high. 
 Or roll the planets through the boundless sky; 80 
 Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 
 Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 
 Or suck the mists in grosser air below, 
 Or dip their pinions in the painted bow. 
 Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 85 
 Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
 Others on earth o'er human race preside. 
 Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: 
 Of these the chief the care of nations own, 
 And guard with arms divine the British throne. 
 "Our humbler province is to tend the fair, 91 
 Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care; 
 To save the powder from too rude a gale. 
 Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale; 
 To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs, 95 
 To steal from rainbows ere they drop in show'rs 
 A brighter wash to curl their waving hairs, 
 Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; 
 Nay, oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, 
 To change a flounce, or add a furbelow . l oo 
 
 "This day, black omens threat the brightest 
 
 fair 
 That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; 
 Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight; 
 But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in 
 
 night. 
 Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law. 
 Or some frail China jar receive a flaw; 106 
 
 Or stain her honour, or her new brocade; 
 Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade; 
 Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; 
 Or whether heav'n has doom'd that Shock 
 
 must fall. 110 
 
 Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: 
 The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care; 
 The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; 
 
 And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; 
 
 Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock; 115 
 
 Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 
 
 "To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, 
 We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: 
 Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail. 
 Though stiff with hoops and armed with ribs of 
 
 whale; 
 Form a strong line about the silver bound, 121 
 And guard the wide circumference around. 
 
 "Whatever spirit, careless of his charge. 
 His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large. 
 Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his 
 sins, 125 
 
 Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; 
 Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie. 
 Or wedged, whole ages in a bodkin's eye; 
 Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, 
 While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; 
 Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r, 131 
 Shrink his thin essence like a ri veiled flower; 
 Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel 
 The giddy motion of the whirling mill, 
 In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, 135 
 And tremble at the sea that froths below!" 
 
 He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend: 
 Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; 
 Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; 
 Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; 140 
 With beating hearts the dire event they wait. 
 Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. 
 
 Canto HI 
 Close by those meads, for ever crowned with 
 
 flow'rs. 
 Where Thames with pride surveys his rising 
 
 tow'rs. 
 There stands a structure of majestic frame, 
 Which from the neighb'ring Hampton* takes 
 
 its name. 
 Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
 Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; 6 
 Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms 
 
 obey, 
 Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes 
 
 tea. 
 Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort. 
 To taste a while the pleasures of a court; 10 
 In various talk th' instructive hours they passed ; 
 Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; 
 One speaks the glory of the British Queen, 
 And one describes a charming Indian screen; 
 A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; 15 
 At ev'ry word a reputation dies. 
 Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 
 With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 
 
 Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, 
 The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; 20 
 The hungry judges soon the sentence sign. 
 And wretches hang that jury-men may dine; 
 The merchant from th' Exchange returns in 
 
 peace, \ 
 
 And the long labours of the toilet cease. 
 Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 25 
 Burns to encounter two advent'rous knights, 
 ' The Royal pa' ace of Hampton C!ourt. 
 
ALEXANDER POPE 
 
 299 
 
 At ombre^ singly to decide their doom; 
 
 And swells her breast with conquests yet to 
 
 come. 
 Straight the three bands prepare in arms to 
 
 join, 
 Each band the number of the sacred nine. 30 
 Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard 
 Descend, and sit on each important card: 
 First Ariel perched upon a Matadore, 
 Then each according to the rank they bore; 
 For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 35 
 Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 
 
 Behold four kings in majesty revered, 
 With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; 
 And four fair queens whose hands sustain a 
 
 flow'r, 
 Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r; 40 
 Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band; 
 Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand; 
 And parti-coloured troops, a shining train, 
 Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. 
 The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: 
 Let spades be trumps! she said, and trumps 
 
 they were. 46 
 
 Now move to war her sable Matadores, 
 In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
 Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! 
 Led off two captive trumps, and swept the 
 
 board. 50 
 
 As many more Manillio forced to yield, 
 And marched a victor from the verdant field. 
 Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard 
 Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. 
 With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, 55 
 The hoary majesty of spades appears. 
 Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed. 
 The rest his many coloured robe concealed. 
 The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, 
 Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 60 
 
 Ev'n mighty Pam," that kings and queens o'er- 
 
 threw, 
 And mowed down armies in the fights of loo, 
 Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid. 
 Falls undistinguished by the victor spade! 
 
 Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; 65 
 Now to the baron fate inclines the field. 
 His warlike Amazon her host invades, 
 Th' imperial consort of the crown of spades. 
 The club's black tyrant first her victim died. 
 Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous 
 
 pride: 70 
 
 What boots the regal circle on his head, 
 His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; 
 That long behind he trails his pom.pous robe, 
 And of all monarchs only grasps the globe? 
 
 The baron now his diamonds pours apace! 75 
 Th' embroidered king who shows but half his 
 
 face. 
 And his refulgent queen, with pow'rs combined, 
 Of broken troops, an easy conquest find. 
 Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen. 
 With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. 
 » A game of cards of Spanish origin played by three 
 persons, the one naming the trump being opposed to the 
 other two. The names of some of the cards are given in 
 the passage following. 
 
 '^ The highest card in the game of Loo. 
 
 Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, 81 
 Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons. 
 With like confusion different nations fly. 
 Of various habit, and of various dye; 
 The pierced battalions disunited fall, 85 
 
 In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them 
 
 all. 
 The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, 
 And wins (oh shameful chance!) the queen of 
 
 hearts. 
 At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, 
 A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 90 
 She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill. 
 Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.^ 
 And now (as oft in some distempered state) 
 On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate: 
 An ace of hearts steps forth : the king unseen 95 
 Lurked in her hand, an(i mourned his captive 
 
 queen: 
 He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, 
 And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. 
 The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; 
 The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. lOO 
 Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate. 
 Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 
 Sudden these honours shall be snatched away. 
 And cursed for ever this victorious day. 
 
 For lo! the board with cups and spoons is 
 
 crowned, 105 
 
 The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; 
 On shining altars of japan they raise 
 The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: 
 From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide. 
 While China's earth receives the smoking 
 
 tide: no 
 
 At once they gratify their scent and taste, 
 And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
 Straight hover round the fair her airy band; 
 Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned. 
 Some o'er her lap their careful plumes dis- 
 played, 115 
 Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
 Coffee (which makes the politician wise, 
 And see through all things with his half-shut 
 
 eyes) 
 Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain 
 New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. 120 
 Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, 
 Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! 
 Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, 
 She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! 
 
 But when "to mischief mortals bend their 
 
 will, 
 How soon they find fit instrument of ill ! 1 2G 
 Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
 A two-edged weapon from her shining case: 
 So ladies in romance assist their knight, 
 Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. 130 
 He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends 
 The little engine on his fingers' ends; 
 This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 
 As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. 
 Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair; 135 
 A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the 
 
 hair; 
 
 ' Failure to secure the requisite tricks. 
 
300 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 And thrice they twitched the diamond in her 
 
 ear; 
 Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe 
 
 drew near. 
 Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
 The close recesses of the virgin's thought; 140 
 As on the nosegay in her breast reclined,. 
 He watched th' ideas rising in her mind. 
 Sudden he viewed in spite of all her art. 
 An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 
 Amazed, confused, he found his pow'r expired. 
 Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. 146 
 The peer now spreads the glitt'ring forfex 
 
 wide 
 T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. 
 Ev'n then, before the fatal engine closed, 
 A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; 150 
 Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in 
 
 twain, 
 (But airy substance soon unites again,) 
 The meeting points the sacred hair dissever 
 From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! 
 Then flashed the Hving hghtning from her 
 
 eyes, 155 
 
 And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. 
 Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast. 
 When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe 
 
 their last; 
 Or when rich China vessels fall'n from high, 
 In glitt'ring dust, and painted fragments lie! 160 
 "Let wreaths of triumph now my temples 
 
 twine," 
 (The victor cried,) "the glorious prize is mine! 
 While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, 
 Or in a coach and six the British fair, 
 As long as Atalantis^ shall be read, 165 
 
 Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, 
 While visits shall be paid on solemn days. 
 When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze, 
 While nymphs take treats, or assignations give. 
 So long my honour, name, and praise shall 
 
 live!" 170 
 
 What time would spare, from steel receives 
 
 its date, 
 And monuments, like men, submit to fate! 
 Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, 
 And strike to dust th' imperial tow'rs of Troy; 
 Steel could the works of mortal pride con- 
 found. 
 And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 176 
 WTiat wonder then, fair nymph! thy hair should 
 
 feel 
 The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel? 
 
 Canto IV 
 But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed, 
 And secret passions laboured in her breast. 
 Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, 
 Not scornful virgins who their charms survive. 
 Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, 5 
 Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, 
 Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, 
 Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinned awry. 
 E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 
 As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair. 10 
 « A popular book of the day. 
 
 For, that sad moment, when the sylphs with- 
 drew. 
 And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
 Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, 
 As ever suHied the fair face of light, 
 Down to the central earth, his proper scene, 15 
 Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 
 Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, 
 And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. 
 No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, 
 The dreaded east is all the wind that blows, 20 
 Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air. 
 And screened in shades from day's detested 
 
 glare. 
 She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, 
 Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. 
 Two handmaids wait the throne; alike in 
 place, 25 
 
 But diff'ring far in figure and in face. 
 Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid. 
 Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed; 
 With store of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and 
 
 noons. 
 Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. 30 
 
 There Affectation, with a sickly mien. 
 Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, 
 Practised to lisp and hang the head aside. 
 Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, 
 On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 35 
 Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show. 
 The fair ones feel such maladies as these, 
 When each new night-dress gives a new disease. 
 
 A constant vapour o'er the palace flies; 
 Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; 40 
 Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades. 
 Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. 
 Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling 
 
 spires. 
 Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires; 
 Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 45 
 And crystal domes, and angels in machines. 
 Unnumbered throngs on ev'ry side are seen, 
 Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. 
 Here living tea-pots stand, .one arm held 
 
 out, 
 One bent; the handle this, and that the spout; 
 A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks; 51 
 Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pye talks; 
 Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, 
 And maids turned bottles call aloud for corks. 
 Safe past the gnome through this fantastic 
 band, 55 
 
 A branch of healing spleen wort in his hand. 
 Then thus addressed the pow'r — "Hail, way- 
 ward queen! 
 Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen; 
 Parent of vapours and of female wit, 
 Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit, 60 
 
 On various tempers act by various ways, 
 Make some take physic, others scribble plays; 
 Who cause the proud their visits to delay. 
 And send the godly in a pet to pray; 
 A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains, 65 
 And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. 
 But, oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace- 
 Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, 
 
ALEXANDER POPE 
 
 301 
 
 Like citron- waters^ matrons' cheeks inflame, 
 Or change complexions at a losing game; .... 
 Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude, 73 
 Or discompos'd the head-dress of a prude, 
 Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease, 75 
 
 Which not the tears of brightest eyes could 
 
 ease, 
 Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin, 
 That single act gives half the world the spleen." 
 
 The goddess with a discontented air 
 Seems to reject him, though she grants his 
 , pray'r. 80 
 
 A wond'rous bag with both her hands she 
 
 binds, 
 Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; 
 There she collects the force of female lungs, 
 Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of 
 
 tongues, 
 A phial next she fills with fainting fears, 85 
 Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and rlowing tears. 
 The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away. 
 Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to 
 
 day. 
 Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he 
 
 found- 
 Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. 90 
 Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, 
 And all the furies issued at the vent. 
 Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, 
 And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
 *'0 wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and 
 
 cried, 95 
 
 (While Hampton's echoes "Wretched maid!" 
 
 replied,) 
 "Was it for this you took such constant care 
 The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? 
 For this your locks in paper durance bound? 
 For this with tort'ring irons wreathed around? 
 For this with fillets strained your tender 
 
 head. 
 And bravely bore the double loads of lead? 102 
 Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair. 
 While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! 
 Honour forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine 105 
 Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 
 Methinks already I your tears survey, 
 Already hear the horrid things they say, 
 Already see you a degraded toast, 
 And all your honour in a whisper lost! no 
 
 How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 
 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! 
 And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize. 
 Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, 
 And heightened by the diamond's circling rays. 
 On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? 1X6 
 
 Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow. 
 And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;^° 
 Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, 
 Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!" 
 She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, 121 
 And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: 
 
 ^ A drink composed of wine with the rind of lemons and 
 citrons in it. 
 
 "> i. e., within the sound of the bells of St. Mary le Bow, 
 an old and famous church in the heart of London. In 
 Pope's time the old part of London in the vicinity of this 
 church was avoided by fashion and the "wits." 
 
 (Sir Plume," of amber snufif-box justly vain, 
 And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) 
 With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, 
 He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, 126 
 And thus broke out — "My Lord, why, what 
 
 the devil! 
 Zounds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must b& 
 
 civil. 
 Plague on 't! 'tis past a jest — nay prithee, pox! 
 Give her the hair" — ^he spoke, and rapped his 
 
 box. 130 
 
 "It grieves me much," replied the peer 
 
 again, 
 "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain, 
 But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear, 
 (Which never more shall join its parted hair; 
 Which never more its honours shall renew, 135 
 Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew) 
 That, while my nostrils draw the vital air. 
 This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." 
 He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph 
 
 spread. 
 The long-contended honours of her head. 140 
 But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so; 
 He breaks the phial whence the sorrows flow. 
 Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, 
 Her eyes half-languishing, half-drowned in 
 
 tears; 
 On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, 
 Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said. 
 "For ever cursed be this detested day, 147 
 Which snatched my best, my fav'rite curl 
 
 away! 
 Happy! ah ten times happy had I been. 
 If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen! 
 Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 151 
 
 By love of courts to num'rous ills betrayed. 
 Oh had I rather unadmired remained 
 In some lone isle, or distant northern land. 
 Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, 155 
 Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste 
 
 boheal^^ 
 There kept my charms concealed from mortal 
 
 eye. 
 Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 
 What moved my mind with youthful lords to 
 
 roam? 
 Oh had I stayed, and said my pray'rs at home! 
 'Twas this, the morning omens seemed to tell. 
 Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box 
 
 fell; . ^ 162 
 
 The tott'ring china shook without a wind, 
 Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most un- 
 kind! 
 A sylph too warned me of the threats of fate, 165 
 In mystic visions, now beheved too late! 
 See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! 
 My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine 
 
 spares: 
 These in two sable ringlets taught to break. 
 Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170 
 The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone. 
 And in its fellows' fate foresees its own; 
 
 11 Sir George Brown. ... ^ 
 
 12 The name given to the finest tea of that timei Frc 
 novinced Bohay, as tea was pronounced tay. 
 
302 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands. 
 And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands, 
 Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize 175 
 Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!" 
 
 Canto V 
 She said: the pitying audience melt in tears, 
 But fate and Jove had stopped the baron's ears. 
 In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, 
 For who can move when fair Belinda fails? 
 Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain, 5 
 While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. 
 Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan; 
 Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began : 
 ^"Say, why are beauties praised and honoured 
 
 most, 
 The wise man's passion, and the vain man's 
 toast? 10 
 
 Why decked with all that land and sea afford, 
 Why angels called, and angel-like adored? 
 Why round our coaches crowd the white- 
 gloved beaux, 
 Why bows the side-box from" its inmost rows? 
 How vain are all these glories, all our pains, _ 15 
 Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains; 
 That men may say, when we the front box 
 
 grace. 
 Behold the first in virtue as in face! 
 Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, 
 Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age 
 away ; 20 
 
 Who would not scorn what housewife's cares 
 
 produce, 
 Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? 
 To patch, nay ogle, might becom.e a saint, 
 Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. 
 But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, 25 
 Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to gray; 
 Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade. 
 And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; 
 What then remains but well our pow'r to use, 
 And keep good-humour, still whate'er we lose? 
 And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail. 
 When airs, and flights, and screams, and scold- 
 ing fail, .32 
 Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; 
 Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the 
 soul." 
 So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; 
 Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude. 36 
 "To arms, to arms! " the fierce virago cries. 
 And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 
 All side in parties, and begin th' attack; 
 Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones 
 crack; 40 
 Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise. 
 And base and treble voices strike the skies. 
 No common weapons in their hands are found. 
 Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. 
 So when bold Homer makes the gods en- 
 gage, 45 
 And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage; 
 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; 
 And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: 
 
 " In the theatres the gentlemen occupied the side, and 
 the ladies, the front boxes. 
 
 Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all 
 
 around. 
 Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps re- 
 sound: 50 
 Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground 
 
 gives way. 
 And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! 
 
 Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height 
 Clapped his glad wings, and sate to view the 
 
 fight. 
 Propped on their bodkin spears, the sprites 
 survey 55 
 
 The growing combat, or assist the fray. 
 
 While through the press enraged Thalestris 
 flies. 
 And scatters death around from both her eyes, 
 A beau and witling perished in the throng. 
 One died in metaphor, and one in song. oo 
 
 "O cruel nymph! a living death I bear," 
 Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. 
 A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward cast, 
 "Those eyes are made so killing" — was his 
 
 last. 
 Thus on Meander's flow'ry margin lies 05 
 
 Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. 
 
 When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa 
 down, 
 Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown; 
 She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, 
 But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70 
 
 Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air. 
 Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; 
 The doubtful beam long nods from side to 
 
 side; 
 At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. 
 
 See fierce Belinda on the baron flies, 75 
 
 With more than usual lightning in her eyes: 
 Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try. 
 Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
 But this bold lord with manly strength endued, 
 She with one finger and a thumb suJDdued ; 80 
 Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
 A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; 
 The gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just. 
 The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
 Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows. 
 And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 86 
 
 " Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda cried, 
 And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
 (The same, his ancient personage to deck, 89 
 Her great-great-gran dsi re wore about his neck, 
 In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, 
 Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown:- 
 Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew. 
 The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; 
 Then in a bodkin'* graced her mother's hairs, 95 
 Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 
 
 "Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting foe! 
 Thou by some other shalt be laid as low : 
 Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind; ^ 
 
 All that I dread is leaving you behind! lOO 
 Rather than so, ah let me still survive. 
 And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive." 
 
 "Restore the lock!" she cries; and all around 
 "Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound. 
 
 1* A large ornamental hairpin. 
 
ALEXANDER POPE 
 
 303 
 
 Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 105 
 
 Roared for the handkerchief that caused his 
 
 pain. 
 But see how oft' ambitious aims are crossed, 
 And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! 
 The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with 
 
 pain, 
 In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: no 
 With such a prize no mortal must be blest, 
 So heav'n decrees: with heav'n who can con- 
 test? 
 Some thought it mounted to the lunar 
 sphere, 
 Since all things lost on earth are treasured 
 
 there. 
 There heroes' wits are kept in pond'roua 
 vases, 115 
 
 And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. 
 There broken vows, and death-bed alms are 
 
 found. 
 And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, 
 The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs. 
 The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120 
 Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea. 
 Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 
 But trust the Muse — she saw it upward 
 rise, 
 Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes: 
 (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns with- 
 drew, 125 
 To Proculus alone confessed in view) 
 A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, 
 And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
 Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, 
 The heav'ns bespangling with disheveled light. 
 The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 131 
 And pleased pursue its progress through the 
 
 skies. 
 This the beau monde shall from the Mall 
 
 survey, 
 And hail with music its propitious ray; 
 This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take, 135 
 And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake;^^ 
 This Partridge^^ soon shall view in cloudless 
 
 skies, 
 When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; 
 And hence th' egregious wizard shall fore- 
 doom 
 The fate of Louis, ^^ and the fall of Rome. 140 
 Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy 
 ravished hair. 
 Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! 
 Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, 
 Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost. 
 For after all the murders of your eye, 145 
 
 When, after millions slain, yourself shall die; 
 When those fair suns shall set, as set they 
 
 must, 
 And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, 
 This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame, 
 And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 
 
 15 A "small oblong piece of water near the Pimlico gate 
 of St. James' Park." Croker. 
 
 w John Partridge, an almanac maker and astrologer, 
 noted for his ridiculous predictions; v. p. 321, and notes 
 1 and 3. 
 
 " Louis XIV, King of France, 1643-1715. 
 
 ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UN- 
 FORTUNATE LADY 
 
 (1717) 
 
 What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light 
 
 shade 
 Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 
 'Tis she! — but why that bleed ing'bosom gored? 
 Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? 
 Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly ! tell, 5 
 
 Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well? 
 To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, 
 To act a lover's or a Roman's part? 
 Is there no bright reversion in the sky, 
 For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10 
 Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire 
 Above the vulgar flight of low desire? 
 Ambition first sprung from your blessed abodes; 
 The glorious fault of angels and of gods: 
 Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15 
 And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. 
 Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age. 
 Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage: 
 Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years 
 Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20 
 Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep. 
 And, close confined to their own palace, sleep). 
 From these perhaps (ere nature bade her 
 
 die) 
 Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky. 
 As into air the purer spirits flow, 25 
 
 And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below; 
 So flew the soul to its congenial place, 
 Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. 
 
 But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, 
 Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood ! 30 
 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, 
 These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; 
 Cold is that breast which warmed the world be- 
 fore. 
 And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. 
 Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, 35 
 
 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children 
 
 fall: 
 On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, 
 And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; 
 Their passengers shall stand, and pointing say, 
 (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40 
 "Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies 
 
 steeled, 
 "And cursed with hearts unknowing how to 
 
 yield." 
 Thus unlamented pass the proud away, 
 The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! 
 So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow 
 For others' good, or melt at others' woe. 46 
 
 What can atone, oh ever-injured shade! 
 Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? 
 No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear 
 Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful 
 
 bier. -"^O 
 
 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed. 
 By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, 
 By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, 
 By strangers honoured and by strangers 
 
 mourned ! 
 
304 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 What though no friends in sable weeds appear, 
 Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year. 
 And bear about the mockery of woe 57 
 
 To midnight dances, and the public show? 
 What though no weeping loves thy ashes 
 
 grace. 
 Nor polished marble emulate thy face? 60 
 
 What though no sacred earth allow thee room, 
 Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb? 
 Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be 
 
 dressed. 
 And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: 
 There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 
 There the first roses of the year shall blow ; 66 
 While angels with their silver wings o'ershade 
 The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made. 
 So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, 
 What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and 
 
 fame. 70 
 
 How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, 
 To whom related, or by whom begot; 
 A heap of dust alone remains of thee; 
 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! 
 Poets themselves must fall like those they 
 
 sung, 75 
 
 Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful 
 
 tongue. 
 Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, 
 iShall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; 
 Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, 
 And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, 
 Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, 81 
 
 The muse forgot, and thou beloved no more! 
 
 UNIVERSAL PRAYER 
 
 (Published 1738) 
 
 Father of all! in ev'ry age, 
 
 In ev'ry clime adored. 
 By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
 
 Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 
 
 Thou Great First Cause, least understood! 5 
 
 Who all my sense confined 
 To know but this, that Thou art good. 
 
 And that myself am blind; 
 
 Yet gave me in this dark estate, 
 
 To see the good from ill: 10 
 
 And binding nature fast in fate, 
 
 Left free the human will. 
 
 What conscience dictates to be done, 
 
 Or warns me not to do. 
 This teach me more than hell to shun, 15 
 
 That, more than heav'n pursue. 
 
 What blessings thy free bounty gives 
 
 Let me not cast away; 
 For God is paid when man receives: 
 
 T' enjoy is to obey. 20 
 
 Yet not to earth's contracted span 
 
 Thy goodness let me bound, 
 Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 
 
 When thousand worlds are round: 
 
 Let not this weak, unknowing hand 25 
 
 Presume thy bolts to throw. 
 And deal damnation round the land 
 
 On each I judge thy foe. 
 
 If I am right, thy grace impart 
 
 Still in the right to stay: 30 
 
 If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 
 To find that better way. 
 
 Save me alike from foolish pride, 
 
 Or impious discontent, 
 At aught thy wisdom has denied, 35 
 
 Or aught thy goodness lent. 
 
 Teach me to feel another's woe, 
 
 To hide the fault I see; 
 That mercy I to others show, 
 
 That mercy show to me. 40 
 
 Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
 Since quickened by thy breath : 
 
 Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go, 
 Through this day's life or death. 
 
 This day be bread and peace my lot: 45 
 
 All else beneath the sun. 
 Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. 
 
 And let thy will be done. 
 
 To Thee, whose temple is all space. 
 
 Whose altar, earth, sea, skies, 50 
 
 One chorus let all being raise; 
 All nature's incense rise! 
 
 EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOTi 
 
 BEING THE PROLOGDE TO THE SATIRES 
 
 (Published 1735) 
 
 P. Shut, shut the door, good John!^ fatigued I 
 
 said: 
 Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. 
 The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt. 
 All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out: 
 Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 
 They rave, recite, and madden round the land. 
 What walls can guard me, or what shades can 
 
 hide? 
 They pierce my thickets, through my grot^ they 
 
 glide. 
 By land, by water, they renew the charge, 
 They stop the chariot, and they board the 
 
 barge. 10 
 
 No place is sacred, not the church is free, 
 Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: 
 Then from the Mint^ walks forth the man of 
 
 rhyme, 
 Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time. 
 
 ' A Scotch physician, wit. and author, who had become 
 physician in ordinary to the Queen. He was one of the 
 inner circle of London wits, intimate with Pope. Swift, 
 Gay. and others. As the poem intimates, he was Pope's 
 own physician. 
 
 2 Pope's faithful servant, John Searle, 
 
 3 Pope's famous grotto at Twickenham was really a 
 tunnel, adorned with pieces of spar, mirrors, etc., iea(iing 
 under a public road that intersected the poet's grounds. 
 
 * A district in Southwark, so called from a Mint estab- 
 lished there by Henry VIII. As persons were exempt from 
 arrest within this district, it became a refuge for insolvent 
 debtors, criminals and poor authors. 
 
ALEXANDER POPE 
 
 305 
 
 Is there a parson, much be-mus'd^ in beer, 
 A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer; 16 
 
 A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, 
 Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? 
 Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, 
 
 scrawls 
 With desperate charcoal round his darkened 
 
 walls! 20 
 
 All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain 
 Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. 
 Arthur,^ whose giddy son neglects the laws, 
 Imputes to me and my damned works the 
 
 cause: 
 Poor Cornus^ sees his frantic wife elope, 25 
 
 And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. 
 
 Friend to my life! (which did not you pro- 
 long, 
 The world had wanted many an idle song), 
 What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? 
 Cr which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 30 
 A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,^ 
 If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. 
 Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! 
 Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: 
 To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, 35 
 And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. 
 I sit with sad civility, I read 
 With honest anguish, and an aching head; 
 And drop at last, but in unwilling ears. 
 This saving counsel — "Keep your piece nine 
 
 years." 40 
 
 "Nine years!" cried he, who, high in Drury 
 
 Lane,^ 
 Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken 
 
 pane, 
 Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term 
 
 ends,^° 
 Obliged by hunger and request of friends: 
 "The piece you think is incorrect? why take 
 
 it; 45 
 
 I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make 
 
 it." 
 Three things another's modest wishes bound. 
 My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. 
 Pitholeon^^ sends to me: "You know his 
 
 grace, 
 I want a patron; ask him for a place." 50 
 
 Pitholeon libelled me — "but here's a letter 
 Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. 
 Dare you refuse him? CurlP^ invites to dine; 
 J^e'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." 
 
 Bless me! a packet. " 'Tis a stranger sues, 55 
 A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse." 
 
 6 Befogged, muddled. 
 
 * Arthur Moore, a prominent man in politics and 
 society. His son was a dissipated fop who had excited 
 Pope's resentment. 
 
 ^ Presumably. Lord Robert Walpole. 
 
 8 Ruined, undone. 
 
 » A fashionable quarter in the days of the Stuarts, it 
 bad become the abode of vice, poverty, and poor authors 
 even before Pope's lime. 
 
 "0 i. e., before the end of the Trinity Term of the Lon- 
 don Courts, which about coincided with the end of the 
 London Season. 
 
 " Referred to by Horace as a poet who gloried in mix- 
 ing Greek and Latin in his epigrams. 
 
 12 A bookseller with whom Pope was on bad terms for 
 ■twenty years. 
 
 If I dislike it, "Furies, death, and rage!" 
 If I approve, "Commend it to the stage." 
 There (thank my stars) my whole commission 
 
 ends. 
 The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 60 
 Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll 
 
 print it. 
 
 And shame the fools — your interest, sir, with 
 Lintot."i3 
 
 Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too 
 
 much: 
 "Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." 
 All my demurs but double his attacks: 65' 
 
 At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." 
 Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door: 67 
 "Sir, let me see your works and you no 
 
 more." . . . 
 One dedicates in high heroic prose, 1 09 
 
 And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: 
 One from all Grub Street^* will my fame defend. 
 And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. 
 This prints my letters, that expects a bribe. 
 And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe!" 
 There are who to my person pay their court: 
 I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am 
 
 short. 
 Ammon's great son^^ one shoulder had too 
 
 high, — 117 
 
 Such Ovid's nose, — and, "sir, you have an eye." 
 Go on, obliging creatures, make me see 
 All that disgraced my betters met in me. 120 
 Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 
 "Just so immortal Maro^^ held his head:" 
 And, when I die, be sure you let me know 
 Great Homer died three thousand years ago. 
 Why did I write? what sin to me unknown 
 Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own? 126 
 As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
 I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. 
 I left no calling for this idle trade, 
 No duty broke, no father disobeyed: 130 
 
 The muse but served to ease some friend, not 
 
 wife. 
 To help me through this long disease, my life; 
 To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, 133 
 And teach the being you preserved to 
 
 bear. . . . 
 Soft were my numbers; who could take 
 
 offence 147 
 
 While pure description held the place of 
 
 sense? . . . 
 Did some more sober critic come abroad — 157 
 If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. 
 Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence. 
 And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 160 
 Commas and points they set exactly right. 
 And 't were a sin to rob them of their mite. . . . 
 Were others angry — I excused them too; 173 
 Well might they rage, I gave them but their 
 
 due. 
 A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; 175 
 But each man's secret standard in his mind, 
 
 " Bernard Lintot. a leading bookseller, whom Pope at- 
 tacks in the Dunciad. 
 
 i< A street frequented by obscure authors. 
 
 "5 Alexander the Great, who boasted that he was son 
 of the Egyptian god Ammon. "Virgil. 
 
306 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, 
 This, who can gratify, for who can guess? 
 The bard^^ whom pilfered Pastorals renown, 
 Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown, 180 
 Just writes to make his barrenness appear. 
 And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines 
 
 a-year; 
 He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, 
 Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: 
 And he, who now to sense, now nonsense lean- 
 ing, 185 
 Means not, but blunders round about a mean- 
 ing; 
 And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 
 It is not poetry but prose run mad: 
 All these, my modest satire bade translate. 
 And owned that nine such poets made a Tate.^* 
 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and 
 chafe! 191 
 And swear, not Addison^^ himself was safe. 
 Peace to all such! but were there one whose 
 fires 
 True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; 
 Blest with each talent, and each art to please, 
 And born to write, converse, and live with ease: 
 Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 197 
 Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, 
 View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, 
 And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; 200 
 Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, 
 And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 
 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike. 
 Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike. 
 Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, 205 
 A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; 
 Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged. 
 And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; 
 Like Cato, give his little senate laws. 
 And sit attentive to his own applause; 210 
 While wits and templars every sentence raise. 
 And wonder with a foolish face of praise — 
 Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? 
 Who would not weep, if Atticus where he? 
 
 "IN VAIN, IN VAIN" 
 
 (From The Dunciad,^ Bk. IV., 1742) 
 
 In vain, in vain, the all-composing Hour 
 Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the Pow'r. 
 She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold 
 Of Night primaeval and of Chaos old! 630 
 
 Before her. Fancy's gilded clouds decay. 
 And all its varying Rain-bows die away. 
 Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires. 
 The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. 
 
 " i. e., Ambrose Philips (1675?-1749), a poet, and one 
 of Pope's many enemies. 
 
 isNahum Tate (1652-1715), succeeded Shadwell as 
 poet laureate in 1692. 
 
 i» This concluding passage refers to Addison. 
 
 1 Pope made many enemies, and while the Dunciad, or 
 epic of Dunces, is one of the most famous and brilliant of 
 English satires, it is also a malicious and too often un- 
 worthy attack upon Pope's literary contemporaries. In 
 the first three books (1728), the prize for dullness is given 
 to Lewis Theobald, an early editor of Shakespeare, but in 
 a fourth book, added in 1742, Pope's anger led him to de- 
 pose Theobald and put Colley Gibber in his place. 
 
 As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, 635 
 The sick'ning stars fade off th'ethereal plain; 
 As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand opprest, 
 Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest; 
 Thus at her felt approach, and secret might. 
 Art after Art goes out, and all is Night. 640 
 See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled. 
 Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! 
 Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before. 
 Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. 
 Physic of Metaphysic begs defense, 645 
 
 And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! 
 See Mystery to Mathematics fly ! 
 In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. 
 Religion blushing veils her sacred fires. 
 And unawares Morality expires. 650 
 
 For public Flame, nor private, dares to shine; 
 Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine! 
 Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor'd; 
 Light dies before thy uncreating word; 
 Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain faU 655 
 And universal Darkness buries All! 
 
 AN ESSAY ON MAN,i 
 
 IN FOUR EPISTLES 
 
 TO 
 
 HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE 
 
 (Selections) 
 
 Written in the Year 1732 
 
 Epistle I 
 
 Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things 
 To low ambition and the pride of kings. 
 Let us, since life can little more supply 
 Than just to look about us and to die, 
 Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; 5 
 A mighty maze! but not without a plan; 
 A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous 
 
 shoot; 
 Or garden tempting with forbidden fruit. 
 Together let us beat this -ample field, 
 Try what the open, what the covert yield; 10 
 The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore, 
 Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; 
 Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies. 
 And catch the manners living as they rise; 
 Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; 
 But vindicate the ways of God to man. 16 
 
 Say first, of God above or man below. 
 What can we reason but from what we know? 
 Of man, what see we but his station here. 
 From which to reason, or to which refer? 20 
 Through worlds unnumbered though the God 
 
 be known, 
 'Tis ours to trace Him only in our own. 
 He, who through vast immensity can pierce, 
 See worlds on worlds compose one universe, \ 
 
 ^The Essay on Man is a versified treatise in four 
 Epistles, on the moral order of the world. "The argument 
 is supposed to have been supphed to Pope by his friend 
 Lord Bolingbroke, to whom the work is addressed. 
 
ALEXANDER POPE 
 
 307 
 
 Observe how system into system runs, 25 
 
 What other planets circle other suns, 
 What varied being peoples every star, 
 May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. 
 But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, 
 The strong connections, nice dependencies, 30 
 Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 
 Looked through, or can a part contain the 
 whole? 
 Is the great chain that draws all to agree. 
 And drawn supports, upheld by God or thee? 
 
 Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst 
 thou find, 35 
 
 Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind? 
 First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess. 
 Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less? 
 Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made 
 Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade! 40 
 Or ask of yonder argent fields above 
 Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove! 
 
 Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed 
 That wisdom infinite must form the best. 
 Where all must full or not coherent be, 45 
 
 And all that rises rise in due degree, 
 Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain 
 There must be somewhere such a rank as man: 
 And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) 
 Is only this, if God has placed him wrong. 50 
 
 Respecting man, whatever wrong we call. 
 May, must be right, as relative to all. 
 In human works, though labored on with 
 
 pain, 
 A thousand movements scarce one purpose 
 
 gain; 
 In God's, one single can its end produce; 55 
 Yet serves to second too some other use. 
 So man, who here seems principal alone. 
 Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown. 
 Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 
 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 60 
 
 When the proud steed shall know why man 
 restrains 
 His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; 
 When the dull ox, why now he breaks the 
 
 clod. 
 Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god; 
 Then shall man's pride and dullness compre- 
 hend 65 
 His actions,' passions', being's, use and end; 
 Why doing, suff'ring, checked, impelled; and 
 
 why 
 This hour a slave, the next a deity. 
 
 Then say not man's imperfect, Heaven in 
 fault; 
 Say rather man's as perfect as he ought: 70 
 His knowledge measured to his state and place. 
 His time a moment, and a point his space. 
 If to be perfect in a certain sphere. 
 What matter, soon or late, or here or there? 
 The blest to-day is as completely so, 75 
 
 As who began a thousand years ago. 
 
 Heaven from all creatures hides the book of 
 fate, 
 All but the page prescribed, their present state; 
 
 From brutes what men, from men what spirits 
 
 know; 
 Or who could sufifer being here below? 80 
 
 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. 
 Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
 Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food. 
 And hcks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
 Oh blindness to the future! kindly given, 85 
 That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven : 
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
 A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurled. 
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90 
 Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions 
 soar; 
 Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore. 
 What future bliss He gives not thee to know, 
 But gives that hoj^e to be thy blessing now. 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast; 95 
 Man never is, but always to be, blest. 
 The soul, uneasy, and confined from home. 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
 Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; lOO 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the solar walk or milky way; 
 Yet simple Nature to his hope has given. 
 Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler 
 
 heaven; 
 Some safer world in depth of woods embraced. 
 Some happier island in the watery waste. 106 
 Where slaves once more their native land be- 
 hold. 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for 
 
 gold. 
 To be, contents his natural desire; 
 He asks no angel's wings, no seraph's fire; lio 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky. 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 
 Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense, 
 Weigh thy opinion against Providence; 
 Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, 115 
 Say, Here He gives too little, there too much! 
 Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust. 
 Yet cry. If man's unhappy, God's unjust; 
 If man alone engross not Heaven's high care. 
 Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 120 
 Snatch from His hand the balance and the rod, 
 Re-judge His justice, be the god of God. 
 In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; 
 All quit their sphere and rush into the skies! 
 Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 125 
 Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
 Aspiring to be gods if angels fell, 
 Aspiring to be angels men rebel: 
 And who but wishes to invert the laws 
 Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause. 130 
 
 Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, 
 Earth for whose use? Pride answers, "'Tis for 
 
 mine! 
 For me kind Nature wakes her genial power. 
 Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower; 
 Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew, 135 
 The juice nectareous and the balmy dew; 
 
308 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 For me the mine a thousand treasures brings; 
 For me health gushes from a thousand springs; 
 Seas roll to waft me, suns to Hght me rise; 
 My footstool earth, my canopy the skies! " 140 
 
 But errs not Nature from this gracious end, 
 From burning suns when livid deaths descend, 
 When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests 
 
 sweep 
 Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? 
 "No," 'tis replied, "thefirst Almighty Cause 
 Acts not by partial but by general laws: 146 
 The exceptions few; some change since all 
 
 began; 
 And what created perfect?" — Why then man? 
 If the great end be human happiness, 
 Then Nature deviates; and can man do less? 150 
 As much that end a constant course requires 
 Of showers and sunshine, as of man's desires: 
 As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, 
 As men forever temperate, calm, and wise. 
 If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's 
 
 design, 155 
 
 Why then a Borgia^ or a Catiline?^ 
 Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning 
 
 forms. 
 Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the 
 
 storms, 
 Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind, 
 Or turns young Ammon* loose to scourge man- 
 kind? 160 
 From pride, from pride our very reasoning 
 
 springs; 
 Account for moral, as for natural things: 
 Why charge we Heaven in those, in these 
 
 acquit? 
 In both to reason right is to submit. 
 
 Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, 165 
 Were there all harmony, all virtue here; 
 That never air or ocean felt the wind; ^ 
 That never passion discomposed the mind. 
 But all subsists by elemental strife; 
 And passions are the elements of life. 170 
 
 The general order, since the whole began. 
 Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. 
 
 What would this man? Now upward will he 
 soar. 
 And httle less than angel, would be more! 
 Now looking downwards, Just as grieved ap- 
 pears 175 
 To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. 
 Made for his use, all creatures if he call. 
 Say what their use, had he the powers of all: 
 Nature to these without profusion kind. 
 The proper organs, proper powers assigned ; 180 
 Each seeming want compensated of course. 
 Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force: 
 All in exact proportion to the state; 
 Nothing to add, and nothing to abate: 
 Each beast, each insect happy in its own: 185 
 Is Heaven unkind to man, and man alone? 
 
 2 Caesar Borgia, son of Pope Alexander VI. 
 a monster of wickedness. 
 
 3 A well-known conspirator. 
 
 4 Alexander the Great. Cf. p. 305, n. 15. 
 
 He was 
 
 Shall he alone, whom rational we call, 
 Be pleased with nothing, if not blessed with all? 
 The bliss of man (could oride that blessing 
 find). 
 Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 190 
 No powers of body or of soul to share, 
 But what his nature and his state can bear. 
 Why has not man a microscopic eye? 
 For this plain reason, man is not a fly. 
 Say what the use, were finer optics given, 195 
 To inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? 
 Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, 
 To smart and agonize at every pore? 
 Or quick effluvia darting through the brain. 
 Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 200 
 
 If Nature thundered in his opening ears, 
 And stunned him with the music of the spheres, 
 How would he wish that Heaven had left him 
 
 still 
 The whispering zephyr and the purling rill! 
 Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 205 
 Alike in what it gives, and what denies? 
 
 Far as creation's ample range extends, 
 The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends. 
 Mark how it mounts to man's imperial race, 
 From the green myriads in the peopled grass; 
 What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme. 
 The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: 
 Of smell, the headlong lioness between, 213 
 
 And hound sagacious on the tainted green: 
 Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, 215 
 To that which warbles through the vernal wood! 
 The spider's touch how exquisitely fine! 
 Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: 
 In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true 
 From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew? 
 How instinct varies in the groveling swine, 221 
 Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine! 
 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier! 
 Forever separate, yet for ever near! 
 Remembrance and reflection, how allied; 225 
 What thin partitions sense from thought divide; 
 And middle natures, how they long to join. 
 Yet never pass the insuperable line! 
 Without this just gradation, could they be 
 Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230 
 The powers of all subdued by thee alone, 
 Is not thy reason all these powers in one? 
 
 See, through this air, this ocean, ard this 
 earth. 
 All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
 Above, how high progressive life may go! 235 
 Around, how wide! how deep extend below! 
 Vast chain of being! which from God began. 
 Natures ethereal, human, angel, man. 
 Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, 
 No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee, 240 
 From thee to nothing. On superior powers 
 Were we to press, inferior might on ours: \ 
 
 Or in the full creation leave a void. 
 Where, one step broken, the great scale's de- 
 stroyed : 
 From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
 Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 
 
JOHN GAY 
 
 309 
 
 And if each system in gradation roll 247 
 
 Alike essential to the anaazing whole, 
 The least confusion but in one, not all 
 That system only, but the whole must fall. 250 
 Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly. 
 Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; 
 Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, 
 Being on being wrecked, and world on world; 
 Heaven's whole foundations to their center nod, 
 And Nature tremble to the throne of God! 256 
 All this dread order break — for whom? for thee? 
 Vile worm! — Oh! madness! pride! impiety! 
 
 What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread. 
 Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head? 260 
 What if the head, the eye, or ear repined ' 
 To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? 
 Just as absurd for any part to claim 
 To be another in this general frame; 
 Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains 265 
 The great directing Mind of all ordains. 
 
 All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
 Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; 
 That, changed through all, and yet in all the 
 
 same, 
 Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame, 270 
 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
 Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees. 
 Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
 Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 
 Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
 As full, as perfect in a hair as heart; 276 
 
 As full, as perfect in vile man that mourns, 
 As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: 
 To Him no high, no low, no great, no small; 
 He fills. He bounds, connects, and equals all. 280 
 
 Cease then, nor Order imperfection name: 
 Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
 Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree 
 Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on 
 
 thee. 
 Submit: in this or any other sphere, 285 
 
 Secure to be as blessed as thou canst bear; 
 Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
 Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
 All nature is but art unknown to thee; 
 All chance, direction which thou cast not see; 
 All discord, harmony not understood; 291 
 
 All partial evil, universal good; 
 And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite. 
 One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. 
 
 1688-1732 
 FABLE XVni 
 
 THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODT AND 
 EVERYBODY 
 
 (From Fables, 1727) 
 
 Lest men suspect your tale untrue. 
 Keep probability in view. 
 The traveller leaping o'er those bounds. 
 The credit of his book confounds. 
 
 Who with his tongue hath armies routed, 5 
 Makes ev'n his real courage doubted. 
 But flattery never seems absurd; 
 The flatter'd always take your word: 
 Impossibilities seem just: 
 They take the strongest praise on trust, lo 
 Hyperboles, though ne'er so great. 
 Will still come short of self-conceit. 
 
 So very like a Painter drew. 
 That every eye the picture knew; 
 He hit complexion, feature, air, , is 
 
 So just, the life itself was there. 
 No flattery with his colours laid. 
 To bloom restor'd the faded maid; 
 He gave each muscle all its strength; 
 The mouth, the chin, the nose's length; 20 
 His honest pencil touch'd with truth, 
 And mark'd the date of age and youth. 
 
 He lost his friends, his practice fail'd; 
 Truth should not always be reveal'd; 
 In dusty piles his pictures lay, 25 
 
 For no one sent the second pay. 
 Two bustos,^ fraught with every grace, 
 A Venus' and Apollo's face, 
 He plac'd in view; resolv'd to please. 
 Who ever sat he drew from these, 30 
 
 From these corrected every feature. 
 And spirited each awkward creature. 
 
 All things were set; the hour was come. 
 His palette ready o'er his thumb; 
 My Lord appear'd; and, seated right, 35 
 In proper attitude and light, 
 The Painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece. 
 Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece, 
 Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air; 
 "Those eyes, my Lord, the spirit there, 40 
 Might well a Raphael's hand require, 
 To give them all the native fire; 
 The features, fraught with sense and wit. 
 You'll grant are very hard to hit: 
 But yet with patience you shall view, 45 
 As much as paint and art can do." 
 
 Observe the work. My Lord replied, 
 "Till now I thought my mouth was wide; 
 Besides, my nose is somewhat long; 
 Dear, sir, for me, 'tis far too young!" 50 
 
 "Oh! pardon me, (the artist cried) 
 In this we Painters must decide. 
 The piece ev'n common eyes must strike, 
 I warrant it extremely like." 
 
 My Lord examin'd it a-new; 55 
 
 No looking-glass seem'd half so true. 
 
 A lady came, with borrow'd grace. 
 He froni his Venus form'd her face. 
 Her lover prais'd the Painter's art; 
 So like the picture in his heart! 60 
 
 To every age some charm he lent; 
 Ev'n beauties were almost content. 
 
 Through all the town his art they prais'd; 
 His custom grew, his price was rais'd. 
 Had he the real likeness shown, 65 
 
 Would any man the picture own? 
 But when thus happily he wrought, 
 Each found the likeness in his thought. 
 
 i Busts. 
 
310 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 ON A LAP DOG 
 
 Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no 
 
 more! 
 Ye Muses! mourn, ye Chambermaids! deplore;:*. 
 Unhappy Shock! Yet more unhappy fair, 
 Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care. 
 Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck, 5 
 And tie the favorite ribband round his neck; 
 No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy 
 
 haii^, 
 And comb the wavings of his pendent ear. 
 Let cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid! 
 All mortal pleasures in a moment fade: 10 
 
 Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd. 
 And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy 'd. 
 
 Methinks I see her frantic with despair, 
 Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing 
 
 hair; 
 Her Mechlin pinners,^ rent, the floor bestrow, 15 
 And her torn face gives real signs of woe. 
 Hence, Superstition! that tormenting guest, 
 That haunts with fancied fears the coward 
 
 breast; 
 No dread events upon this fate attend. 
 Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend. 
 Though certain omens oft forwarn a state, 21 
 And dying lions show the monarch's fate. 
 Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise? 
 For when a lap dog falls, no lover dies. 
 
 Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing 
 
 tears, 25 
 
 Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares. 
 In man you'll find a more substantial bhss. 
 More grateful toying and a sweeter kiss. 
 
 He's dead. Oh ! lay him gently in the ground ! 
 And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd. 30 
 Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid. 
 Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man be- 
 
 tray'd. 
 
 BLACK EYED SUSAN 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moored, 
 The streamers waving in the wind, 
 
 When Black-eyed Susan came aboard, 
 "Oh! where shall I my true love find? 
 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 5 
 
 If my sweet William sails among the crew?'* 
 
 William, who high upon the yard 
 Rocked with the billow to and fro, 
 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard 
 
 He sighed and cast his eyes below; 10 
 
 The cord slides swiftly through his glowing 
 hands. 
 
 And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. 
 
 So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
 Shuts close his pinions to his breast — 
 
 If chance his mate's shrill call he hear— 15 
 And drops at once into her nest. 
 
 The noblest captain in the British fleet 
 
 Might envy WiUiam's lips those kisses sweet. 
 
 ^ The long flaps belonging to a lady's headdress of that 
 period. They hung down upon either side of the face. 
 
 "O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain; 20 
 
 Let me kiss off that falling tear; 
 
 We only part to meet again. 
 Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
 "Believe not what the landsmen say, 25 
 
 Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; 
 
 They'll teU thee, sailors, when away. 
 In every port a mistress find; 
 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
 
 For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 30 
 
 "If to fair India's coast we sail, 
 Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; 
 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. 
 Thy skin is ivory so white. 
 
 Thus every beauteous object that I view, 35 
 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 
 
 "Though battle call me from thy arms, 
 Let not my pretty Susan mourn; 
 
 Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
 William shall to his dear return. 40 
 
 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 
 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's 
 eye." 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word; 
 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread; 
 No longer must she stay abroad; 45 
 
 They kissed — she sighed — ^he hung his head. 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, 
 ' "Adieu!" she cries, and waved her lily hand. 
 
 TRIVIA, OR THE ART OF WALKING 
 
 THE STREETS OF LONDON 
 
 Book I. Selections. (1716) 
 
 Through winter streets to steer your course, 
 
 aright. 
 How to walk clean by day, and safe by night, 
 How jostling crowds, with prudence to decline. 
 When to assert^ the wall, and when resign, 
 I sing: thou. Trivia !2 goddess, aid my song, 5 
 Through spacious streets conduct thy bajrd 
 
 along; 
 By thee transported, I securely stray 
 Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way, 
 The silent court and opening square explore. 
 And long perplexing lanes untrod before. 10 
 To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken 
 
 ways. 
 Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays; 
 For thee the sturdy paver thumps the ground. 
 Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound; 
 For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide 15 
 Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside. 
 My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame, 
 From the great theme to build a glorious name, 
 
 * To lay claim to; i. e. to take the best part of the walk 
 next to the houses and farthest from the gutter. 
 
 2 From the Latin trivium, crossroads. Gay addresses 
 Trivia as the goddess either of the streets or of trimal 
 things. , 
 
JOHN GAY 
 
 311 
 
 To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown, 
 And bind my temples with a civic crown ; 20 
 But more, my country's love demands the 
 
 lays; 
 My country's be the profit; mine the prajse. 
 
 The changing weather certain signs reveal. 
 Ere winter sheds her snow, or frosts con- 
 geal, 
 You'll see the coals in brighter flame as- 
 pire, 25 
 And sulphur tinge with blue the rising fire; 
 Your tender shins the scorching heat decline, 
 And at the dearth of coals the poor repine; 
 Before her kitchen hearth the nodding dame, 
 In flannel mantle wrapt, enjoys the flame; 30 
 Hovering upon her feeble knees she bends, 
 And all around the grateful warmth ascends. 
 Nor do less certain signs the Town advise 
 Of milder weather and serener skies. 
 The ladies, gaily dress'd, the MalP adorn 35 
 With various dyes, and paint the sunny mom; 
 The wanton fawns with frisking pleasure 
 
 range. 
 And chirping sparrows greet the welcome 
 
 change; 
 Not that their minds with greater skill are 
 
 fraught. 
 Endued by instinct, or by reason taught, 40 
 The seasons operate on every breast; 
 'Tis hence that fawns are brisk, and ladies 
 
 drest. 
 When on his box the nodding coachman snores. 
 And dreams of fancied fares; when tavern- 
 doors - , 
 The chairmen idly crowd, then ne'er refuse 45 
 To trust thy busy steps in thinner shoes. 
 But when the swinging signs your ears offend 
 With creaking noise, then rainy floods im- 
 pend; 
 Soon shall the kennels swell with rapid 
 
 streams. 
 And rush in muddy torrents to the Thames. 50 
 The bookseller, whose shop's an open square. 
 Foresees the tempest, and with early care 
 Of learning strips the rails: the rowing crew, 
 To tempt a fare, clothe all their tilts* in 
 
 blue. 
 On hosiers' poles depending stockings tied, 55 
 Flag with the slacken'd gale from side to 
 
 side. 
 Church-monuments foretell the changing air; 
 Then Niobe dissolves into a tear. 
 And sweats with secret p;rief. You'll hear the 
 
 sounds 
 
 Of whistling winds, ere krnnels break their 
 
 bounds; 60 
 
 Ungrateful odours common sewers diffuse. 
 
 And dropping vaults distil unwholesome 
 
 dews. 
 Ere the tiles rattle with the smoking shower, 
 And spouts on heedless men their torrents 
 pour. 
 
 ' An Avenue on the north of St. James' Park, London. 
 * Awnings or covers which the watermen placed over 
 their boats on the Thames. 
 
 Book II. Selections 
 
 Thus far the Muse has trac'd, in useful lays, 65 
 The proper implements for wintry ways; 
 Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes 
 To read the various warnings of the skies. 
 Now, venture. Muse! from home to range the 
 
 town. 
 And for the public safety risk thine own. 70 
 For ease and for despatch the morning's 
 
 best; 
 No tides of passengers the street molest: 
 You'll see a draggled damsel here and there. 
 From Bilfingsgate^ her fishy traffic bear: 
 On doors the sallow milkmaid chalks her 
 
 gains; 
 Ah ! how unlike the milkmaid of the plains! 76 
 Before proud gates attending asses^ bray. 
 Or arrogate with solemn pace the way; 
 These grave physicians, with their milky cheer, 
 The love-sick maid and dwindling beau re- 
 pair. 80 
 Here rows of drummers stand in martial 
 
 file. 
 And with their vellum thunder shake the 
 
 pile, 
 To greet the new-made bride. Are sounds like 
 
 these 
 The proper prelude to a state of peace? 
 Now industry awakes her busy sons; 85 
 
 Full charg'd with news the breathless hawker 
 
 runs; 
 Shops open, coaches roll, carts shake the 
 
 ground. 
 And all the streets with passing cries resound. 
 If cloth'd in black you tread the busy 
 
 town. 
 Or if distinguished by the reverend gown, 90 
 Three trades avoid. Oft in the mingling press 
 The barber's apron soils the sable dress: 
 Shun the perfumer's touch with cautious eye; 
 Nor let the baker's step advance too high. 
 Ye walkers too, that youthful colours wear, 95 
 Three sullying trades avoid with equal care, 
 The little chimney-sweeper skulks along, 
 And marks with sooty stains the heedless 
 
 throng; 
 When small-coal murmurs in the hoarser throat, 
 From smutty dangers guard thy threaten' d 
 
 coat; 100 
 
 The dust-man's cart offends thy clothes and 
 
 eyes. 
 When through the street a cloud of ashes 
 
 flies; 
 But whether black or lighter dyes are worn, 
 The chandler's basket, on his shoulder borne, 
 With tallow spots thy coat; resign the way, 105 
 To shun the surly butcher's greasy tray; 
 Butchers! whose hands are dy'd with blood's 
 
 foul stain. 
 And always foremost in the hangman's train. 
 
 Let due civilities be strictly paid; 
 The wall surrender to the hooded maid; no 
 
 * A district in London along the Thames, which was the 
 centre of the fish trade. 
 
 « Asses' milk was in great demand in the early 18th cen- 
 tury. 
 
312 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Nor let thy sturdy elbow's hasty rage SDaUtCl WttOt 
 
 Jostle the feeble steps of trembling age: 
 
 And when the porter bends beneath his load, 1659 (?)-1731 
 
 And pants for breath, clear thou the crowded 
 
 „ road: .,,.,,. ^A TRUE RELATION OF THE APPARI- 
 
 But, above all, the groping blind direct, lis "^ TION OF MRS. VEAL 
 
 And from the pressing throng the lame protect. ' ' 
 
 You'll sometimes meet a fop, of nicest tread. 
 
 Whose mantling peruke veils his empty head: '^^^ ^ext day after her death, to mrs. 
 
 At every step he dreads the wall to lose, bargrave, at canterbury, the eighth 
 
 And risks, to save a coach, his red-heel'd jq . of September, 1705, which apparition 
 
 shoes; 120 recommends the perusal of drelin- 
 
 Him, like the miller, pass with caution by, court's book op consolations against 
 
 Lest from his shoulder clouds of powder fly: the fears of death. 
 But when the bully, with assuming pace, 
 
 Cocks his broad hat, edg'd round with tarnished rp^^ Preface 
 
 lace, ^^ . 
 
 Yield not the way; defy his strutting pride, 125 This relation is matter of fact, and attended 
 
 And thrust him to the muddy kennel's^ side: with such circumstances as may induce any 
 
 He never turns again, nor dares oppose, reasonable man to believe it. It was sent by 
 
 But mutters coward curses as he goes. a gentleman, a justice of peace at Maidstone, 
 When waggish boys the stunted besom ply ^^f. ^7*' f ^ ,^ ^^^^ intelligent person, to his 
 
 To rid the slabby pavement, pass not by 130 ^"^^d in London, as it is here worded; which 
 
 Ere thou hast held their hands; some heedless discourse is attested by a very sober and 
 
 flirt understanding gentleman, who had it from 
 
 Will overspread thy calves with spattering dirt, his kinswoman, who lives in Canterbury, 
 Where porters hogsheads roll from carts aslope, 25 within a few doors of the house in which the 
 
 Or brewers down steep cellars stretch the rope, within-named Mrs, Bargrave lived; and who 
 
 Where counted billets are by carmen tosst, 135 jj^ believes to be of so discerning a spirit, as 
 
 ^^^itru^I If ^ step, and walk without the post. ^^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ 
 
 What though the gathering mire thy feet ... , ^ *; ,. '' .. : .^ t i 4.. 
 
 besmear? & & j positively assured him that the whole matter 
 
 The voice of industry is always near. 30 as it is related and laid down is really true, and 
 
 Hark! the boy calls thee to his destin'd stand, what she herself had in the same words, as 
 And the shoe shines beneath his oily hand. 140 near as may be, from Mrs. Bargrave's own 
 
 mouth, who, she knows, had no reason to 
 Now, heav'n-born Charity! thy blessing shed, invent and publish such a story, or any design 
 Bid meagre Want uprear her sickly head: 35 to forge and tell a He, being a woman of much 
 Bid ^shnjering limbs be warm; let Plenty s honesty and virtue, and her whole life a course. 
 
 In hum'ble roofs make glad the needy soul. f '^ Y^'^"?! ?'!^^' ^^! ""fu"!^!? ""'^ ''''?-^* 
 
 See, see! the heav'n-born maid her blessings to make of it is to consider that there is a life 
 
 shed; 145 to come after this, and a just God who will 
 
 Lo! meagre Want uprears her sickly head; 40 retribute to every one according to the deeds 
 Cloth'd are the naked, and the needy glad, done in the body, and therefore to reflect 
 
 While selfish Avarice alone is sad. upon our past course of life we have led in 
 
 Proud coaches pass regardless of the moan the world; that our time is short and uncer- 
 SruM^^I^ orphans and the widow s groan, 150 ^ain; and that if we would escape the punish- 
 While charity still moves the walker s mind, _ Irxu ji j -au 1 e 
 
 His liberal purse relieves the lame and blind. ^' ^^^^ ^^ /^^ ^"^^^1^ and receive the reward of 
 Judiciously thy halfpence are bestow'd, the righteous, which is the laying hold of eter- 
 
 Where the laborious beggar sweeps the road. nal life, we ought, for the time t^ come to re- 
 
 Whate'er you give, give ever at demand, 155 turn to God by a speedy repentance, ceasing 
 Nor let old age long stretch his palsied hand. to do evil, and learning to do well; to seek after 
 
 Those who give late are importun'd each day, 50 God early, if haply He may be found of us. 
 And still are teas'd because they still delay. and lead such lives for the future as may be 
 
 If e'er the miser durst his farthings spare, ^^jj pleasing in His sight. 
 
 He thinly spreads them through the public *- » 
 
 square, 160 A Relation, &c 
 
 Where, all beside the rail, rang'd beggars he, rw^, . , . . . „ . 
 
 And from each other catch the doleful cry; 55 This thing is so rare in all its circumstances, 
 With Heav'n, for two-pence, cheaply wipes and on so good authority, that my reading 
 
 his score, and conversation have not given me anything 
 
 Lifts up his eyes, and hastes to beggar more, like it. It is fit to gratify the most ingenious 
 
 7 Gutter, and serious inquirer. Mrs. Bargrave is the 
 
DANIEL DEFOE 313 
 
 person to whom Mrs. Veal appeared after greee, till at last Mrs. Bargrave had not seen 
 her death; she is my intimate friend, and I can her in two years and a half; though about a 
 avouch for her reputation for these last fifteen twelvemonth of the time Mrs. Bargrave had 
 or sixteen years, on my own knowledge; and been absent from Dover, and this last half- 
 I can confirm the good character she had from 5 year had been in Canterbury about two months 
 her youth to the time of my acquaintance; of the time, dwelling in a house of her 
 though since this relation she is calumniated own. 
 
 by some people that are friends to the brother In this house, on the 8th of September, 1705, 
 of Mrs. Veal who appeared, who think the she was sitting alone, in the forenoon, thinking 
 relation of this appearance to be a reflection, lo over her unfortunate life, and arguing herself 
 and endeavour what they can to blast Mrs. into a due resignation to Providence, though 
 Bargrave's reputation, and to laugh the story her condition seemed hard. "And," said she, 
 out of countenance. But by the circumstances "I have been provided for hitherto, and doubt 
 thereof, and the cheerful disposition of Mrs. not but I shall be still; and am well satisfied 
 Bargrave, notwithstanding the ill-usage of a 15 that my afflictions shall end when it is most 
 very wicked husband, there is not the least fit for me;" and then took up her sewing-work, 
 sign of dejection in her face; nor did I ever which she had no sooner done but she hears a 
 hear her let fall a desponding or murmuring knocking at the door. She went to see who 
 expression; nay, not when actually under her was there, and this proved to be Mrs. Veal, her 
 husband's barbarity, which I have been wit- 20 old friend, who was in a riding-habit; at that 
 ness to, and several other persons of undoubted moment of time the clock struck twelve at 
 reputation. noon. 
 
 Now you must know Mrs. Veal was a maiden "Madam," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I am sur- 
 
 gentle woman of about thirty .years of age, prised to see you, you have been so long a 
 and for some years last past had been troubled 25 stranger;" but told her she was glad to see 
 with fits, which were perceived coming on by her, and oflfered to salute her, which Mrs. 
 her going off from her discourses very abruptly Veal complied with, till their hps abnost 
 to some impertinence. She was maintained touched; and then Mrs. Veal drew her hand 
 by an only brother, and kept his house in across her own eyes and said, "I am not very 
 Dover. She was a very pious woman, and 30 well," and so waived it. She told Mrs. Bar- 
 ber brother a very sober man, to all appear- grave she was going a journey, and had a 
 ance; but now he does all he can to null or great mind to see her first. "But," says Mrs. 
 quash the story. Mrs. Veal was intimately Bargrave, "how came you to take a journey 
 acquainted with Mrs. Bargrave from her alone? I am amazed at it, because I know 
 childhood. Mrs. Veal's circumstances were 35 you have a good brother." "Oh," says Mrs. 
 then mean; her father did not take care of Veal, "I gave my brother the slip, and came 
 his children as he ought, so that they were away, because I had so great a desire to see 
 exposed to hardships; and Mrs. Bargrave in you before I took my journey." So Mrs. Bar- 
 those days had as unkind a father, though she grave went in with her into another room 
 wanted neither for food nor clothing, whilst 40 within the first, and Mrs. Veal set her down 
 Mrs. Veal wanted for both, insomuch that in an elbow-chair, in which Mrs. Bargrave 
 she would often say, "Mrs. Bargrave, you are was sitting when she heard Mrs. Veal knock, 
 not only the best, but the only friend I have Then says Mrs. Veal, "My dear friend, I am 
 in the world; and no circumstance in life shall come to renew our old friendship again, and 
 ever dissolve my friendship." They would 45 beg your pardon for my breach of it; and if 
 often condole each other's adverse fortunes, you can forgive me, you are the best of women." 
 and read together, "Drelincourt upon Death," ^ "Oh," says Mrs. Bargrave, "do not mention 
 and other good books; and so, like two Chris- such a thing. I have not had an uneasy 
 tian friends, they comforted each other under thought about it; I can easily forgive it." 
 their sorrow. 50 "What did you think of me?" said Mrs. Veal. 
 
 Some time after Mr. Veal's friends got him Says Mrs. Bargrave, "I thought you were 
 a place in the custom-house at Dover, which like the rest of the world, and that prospeTity 
 occasioned Mrs. Veal, by little and little, to had made you forget yourself and me." Then 
 fall off from her intimacy with Mrs. Bargrave, Mrs. Veal reminded Mrs. Bargrave of the 
 though there never was any such thing as a 55 many friendly offices she did in her former days, 
 quarrel; but an indifferency came on by de- and much of the conversation they had with 
 
 each other in the times of their adversity; 
 
 1 Consolations against the Fear of Death, an English what books they read, and what COmfort in 
 
 deTgtman. "' " ^"'^ '''' '^^''''' Drelincourt. a French ^^^^-^^^^^ they received from " Drelincourt's 
 
314 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Book of Death," which was the best, she said, Mrs. Bargrave, "but I have the verses of my 
 on that subject ever written. She also men- own writing out." "Have you?" says Mrs. 
 tioned Dr. Sherlock,^ the two Dutch books Veal; "then fetch them." Which she did 
 which were translated, written upon Death, from above-stairs, and offered them to Mrs. 
 and several others; but Drelincourt, she said, 5 Veal to read, who refused, and waived the 
 had the clearest notions of death and of the thing, saying holding down her head would 
 future state of any who had handled that make it ache; and then desired Mrs. Bargrave 
 subject. Then she asked Mrs. Bargrave to read them to her, which she did. As they 
 whether she had Drelincourt. She said, were admiring "Friendship" Mrs. Veal said, 
 "Yes." Says Mrs. Veal, "Fetch it." And 10 "Dear Mrs. Bargrave, I shall love you for 
 so Mrs. Bargrave goes up stairs and brings it ever." In these verses there is twice used the 
 down. Says Mrs. Veal, "Dear Mrs. Bargrave, word Elysian. "Ah!" says Mrs. Veal, "these 
 if the eyes of our faith were as open as the eyes poets have such names for heaven!" She 
 of our body, we should see numbers of angels would often draw her hand across her own 
 about us for our guard. The notions we have 15 eyes and say, "Mrs. Bargrave, do not you 
 of heaven now are nothing like to what it is, think I am mightily impaired by my fits?" 
 as Drelincourt says. Therefore be comforted "No," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I think you look 
 under your afflictions, and believe that the as well as ever I knew you." 
 Almighty has a particular regard to you, and After all this discourse, which the appari- 
 that your afflictions are marks of God's favour; 20 tion put in much finer words than Mrs. Bar- 
 and when they have done the business they grave said she could pretend to, and as much 
 are sent for, they shall be removed from you. more than she can remember, for it cannot be 
 An believe me, my dear friend, believe what thought that an hour and three-quarters' con- 
 I s y to you, one minute of future happiness versation coul4 be retained, though the main 
 will infinitely reward you for all your suffer- 25 of it she thinks she does, she said to Mrs. Bar- 
 ings; for I can never believe" (and claps her grave she would have her write a letter to her 
 hands upon her knees with great earnestness, brother, and tell him she would have him give 
 which indeed ran through most of her discourse) rings to such and such, and that there was a 
 "that ever God will suffer you to spend all purse of gold in her cabinet, and that she would 
 your days in this afflicted state; but be as- 30 have two broad pieces given to her cousin 
 sured that your afflictions shall leave you, or Watson. 
 
 you them, in a short time." She spake in Talking at this rate, Mrs. Bargrave thought 
 that pathetical and heavenly manner that that a fit was coming upon her, and so placed 
 Mrs. Bargrave wept several times, she was herself in a chair just before her knees, to keep 
 so deeply affected with it. 35 her from falling to the ground, if her fits should 
 
 Then Mrs. Veal mentioned Dr. Horneck's occasion it (for the elbow-chair, she thought, 
 "Ascetick,"' at the end of which he gives an would keep her from falling on either side); 
 account of the hves of the primitive Chris- and to divert Mrs. Veal, as she thought, took 
 tians. Their pattern she recommended to hold of her gown-sleeve several times and 
 our imitation, and said, "Their conversation 40 commended it. Mrs. Veal told her it was a 
 was not like this of our age; for now," says scoured silk, and newly made up. But for 
 she, "there is nothing but frothy, vain dis- all this, Mrs. Veal persisted in her request, 
 course, which is far different from theirs. Theirs and told Mrs. Bargrave that she must not deny 
 was to edification, and to build one another her, and she would have her tell her brother all 
 up in faith; so that they were not as we are, 45 their conversation when she had an oppor- 
 nor are we as they were; but," said she, "we tunity. "Dear Mrs. Veal," said Mrs. Bargrave, 
 ought to do as they did. There was a hearty "this seems so impertinent that I cannot tell 
 friendship among them; but where is it now how to comply with it; and what a mortifying 
 to be found?" Says Mrs. Bargrave, "It is story will our conversation be to a young 
 hard indeed to find a true friend in these days." 50 gentleman? Why," says Mrs. Bargrave, "it 
 Says Mrs. Veal, "Mr. Norris has a fine copy is much better, methinks, to do it yourself." 
 of verses, called 'Friendship in Perfection,' "No," says Mrs. Veal, "though it seems im- 
 which I wonderfully admire. Have you seen pertinent to you now, you will see more reason 
 the book?" says Mrs. Veal. "No," says for it hereafter." Mrs. Bargrave then, to satisfy 
 
 "William Sherlock, D.D. (1641-1707), author of 55 her importunity, was going to fetch a pen and 
 
 numerous works on theological and political questions, :^u u,,f ytj,^ Vp^I <saiH "T,pf if nlnn^ nnw Knf 
 wrote .4 Practical Discourse Concerning Death; A Discourse 7^' ^^^ ^^^^^' ^ ^^^ ^^^"' ^®^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^' "^^ 
 of the Immortality of the Soul and Future State (1705), and do it when I am gone; but yOU must be SUre to 
 
 '""^f w^p'^^'TceiL^'b; Anthony Horneok, D. D., do it; " which wa^ one of the last things she en- 
 Ijond. 1681. joined her at parting. So she promised her. 
 
DANIEL DEFOE 315 
 
 Then Mrs. Veal asked for Mrs. Bargrave's her it was scoured. Then Mrs. Watson cried 
 daughter. She said she was not at home, out, " You have seen her indeed, for none knew 
 "but if you have a mind to see her," says but Mrs. Veal and myself that the gown was 
 Mrs. Bargrave, "I'll send for her." "Do," scoured." And Mrs. Watson owned that she 
 says Mrs. Veal. On which she left her, and 5 described the gown exactly; "for," said she, 
 went to a neighbour's to see for her; and by "I helped her to make it up." This Mrs. Wat- 
 the time Mrs. Bargrave was returning, Mrs. son blazed all about the town, and avouched 
 Veal was got without the door into the street, the demonstration of the truth of Mrs. Bar- 
 in the face of the beast-market, on a Saturday grave's seeing Mrs. Veal's apparition; and 
 (which is market-day), and stood ready to 10 Captain Watson carried two gentlemen im- 
 part. As soon as Mrs. Bargrave came to her, mediately to Mrs. Bargrave's house to hear 
 she asked her why she was in such haste. She the relation from her own mouth. And when 
 said she must be going, though perhaps she it spread so fast that gentlemen and persons 
 might not go her journey until Monday; and of quality, the judicious and sceptical part of 
 told Mrs. Bargrave she hoped she should see 15 the world, flocked in upon her, it at last be- 
 her again at her cousin Watson's before she came such a task that she was forced to go out 
 went whither she was going. Then she said of the way; for they were in general extremely 
 she would take her leave of her, and walked well satisfied of the truth of the thing, and 
 from Mrs. Bargrave in her view, till a turning plainly saw that Mrs. Bargrave was no hy- 
 interrupted the sight of her, which was three- 20 pochondriac, for she always appears with such 
 quarters after one in the afternoon. a cheerful air and pleasing mien, that she has 
 
 Mrs. Veal died the 7th of September, at gained the favour and esteem of all the gentry, 
 twelve o'clock at noon, of her fits, and had and it is thought a great favour if they can but 
 not above four hours' sense before death, in get the relation from her own mouth. I should 
 which time she received the sacrament. The 25 have told you before that Mrs. Veal told Mrs. 
 next day after Mrs. Veal's appearing, being Bargrave that her sister and brother-in-law 
 Sunday, Mrs. Bargrave was so mightily indis- were just come down from London to see her. 
 posed with a cold and a sore throat, that she Says Mrs. Bargrave, "How came you to order 
 could not go out that day; but on Monday matters so strangely?" "It could not be 
 morning she sent a person to Captain Watson's 30 helped," said Mrs. Veal. And her brother 
 to know if Mrs. Veal was there. They won- and sister did come to see her, and entered the 
 dered at Mrs. Bargrave's inquiry, and sent her town of Dover just as Mrs. Veal was expiring, 
 word that she was not there, nor was expected. Mrs. Bargrave asked her whether she would 
 At this answer, Mrs. Bargrave told the maid drink some tea. Says Mrs. Veal, "I do not 
 she had certainly mistook the name or made 35 care if I do; but I'll warrant you this mad 
 some blunder. And though she was ill, she fellow" (meaning Mrs. Bargrave's husband) 
 put on her hood, and went herself to Captain "has broken all your trinkets." "But," says 
 Watson's, though she knew none of the family, Mrs. Bargrave, "I'll get something to drink 
 to see if Mrs. Veal was there or not. They in for all that." But Mrs. Veal waived it, 
 said they wondered at her asking, for that she 40 and said, "It is no matter; let it alone;" and 
 had not been in town; they were sure, if she so it passed. 
 
 had, she would have been there. Says Mrs. All the time I sat with Mrs. Bargrave, which 
 
 Bargrave, "I am sure she was with me on was some hours, she recollected fresh sayings 
 Saturday almost two hours." They said it of Mrs. Veal. And one material thing more 
 was impossible; for they must have seen her, 45 she told Mrs. Bargrave — that old Mr. Breton 
 if she had. In comes Captain Watson while allowed Mrs. Veal ten pounds a year, which 
 they are in dispute, and said that Mrs. Veal was was a secret, and unknown to Mrs. Bargrave 
 certainly dead, and her escutcheons^ were till Mrs. Veal told it her. Mrs. Bargrave 
 making. This strangely surprised Mrs. Bar- never varies in her story, which puzzles those 
 grave, when she sent to the person immediately 50 who doubt of the truth or are unwilling to 
 who had the care of them, and found it true, believe it. A servant in the neighbour's yard 
 Then she related the whole story to Captain adjoining to Mrs. Bargrave's house heard her 
 Watson's family, and what gown she had talking to somebody an hour of the time Mrs. 
 on, and how striped, and that Mrs. Veal told Veal was with her. Mrs. Bargrave went out 
 
 55 to her next neighbour's the very moment she 
 
 «An escutcheon or hatchment, (see Cent. Diet.), "an parted with Mrs. Veal, and told her what 
 
 Scd' SeveS't!" :°. "^T'sSu°a?e' tSSet^'Z ravishing conversation she had with an old 
 
 diagonally and bearing the arms of a deceased person. friend, and told the whole of it. DrelmCOUrt S 
 
 S^hfch^rp'eJsonwe"."''""'^''^^^^^^ "Book of Doath" is, since this happened. 
 
316 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 bought up strangely. And it is to be observed Now, why Mr. Veal should think this rela- 
 
 that, notwithstanding all the trouble and tion a reflection, as it is plain he does by his 
 fatigue Mrs. Bargrave has undergone upon endeavouring to stifle it, I cannot imagine, 
 this account, she never took the value of a because the generality believe her to be a good 
 farthing, nor suffered her daughter to take 5 spirit, her discourse was so heavenly. Her 
 anything of anybody, and therefore can have two great errands were to comfort Mrs. Bar- 
 no interest in telling the story. grave in her affliction, and to ask her forgive- 
 But Mr. Veal does what he can to stifle the ness for the breach of friendship, and with a 
 matter, and said he would see Mrs. Bargrave; pious discourse to encourage her. So that 
 but yet it is certain matter of fact that he has 10 after all to suppose that Mrs. Bargrave could 
 been at Captain Watson's since the death of hatch such an invention as this from Friday 
 his sister, and yet never went near Mrs. Bar- noon to Saturday noon, supposing that she 
 grave; and some of his friends report her to be knew of Mrs. Veal's death the very first mo- 
 a liar, and that she knew of Mr. Breton's ten ment, without jumbhng circumstances, and 
 pounds a year. But the person who pretends 15 without any interest too, she must be more 
 to say so has the reputation of a notorious witty, fortunate, and wicked too than any in- 
 liar among persons whom I know to be of different person, I dare say, will allow. I 
 undoubted credit. Now, Mr. Veal is more of asked Mrs. Bargrave several times if she was 
 a gentleman than to say she lies, but says a sure she felt the gown. She answered modestly, 
 bad husband has crazed her. But she needs 20 ''If my senses are to be relied on, I am sure 
 only present herseK and it will effectually con- of it." I asked her if she heard a sound when 
 fute that pretence. Mr. Veal says he asked she clapped her hands upon her knees. She 
 his sister on her death-bed whether she had a said she did not remember she did, but said 
 mind to dispose of anything, and she said no. she appeared to be as much a substance as I 
 Now, the things that Mrs. Veal's apparition 25 did, who talked with her. "And I may," said 
 would have disposed of were so trifling, and she, "be as soon persuaded that your appari- 
 nothing of justice aimed at in their disposal, tion is talking to me now as that I did not 
 that the design of it appears to me to be only really see her; for I was under no manner of 
 in order to make Mrs. Bargrave so to demon- fear, and received her as a friend, and parted 
 strate the truth of her appearance, as to satisfy 30 with her as such. I would not," says she, "give 
 the world of the reahty thereof as to what she one farthing to make any one believe it; I 
 had seen and heard, and to secure her reputa- have no interest in it. Nothing but trouble is 
 tion among the reasonable and understanding entailed upon me for a long time, for aught I 
 part of mankind. And then again Mr. Veal know; and had it not come to light by acci- 
 owns that there was a purse of gold; but it was 35 dent, it would never have been made public." 
 not found in her cabinet, but in a comb-box. But now she says she will make her own private 
 This looks improbable; for that Mrs. Watson use of it, and keep herself out of the way as 
 owned that Mrs. Veal was so very careful of much as she can; and so she has done since, 
 the key of the cabinet that she would trust She says she had a gentleman who came thirty 
 nobody with it; and if so, no doubt she would 40 miles to her to hear the relation, and that she 
 not trust her gold out of it. And Mrs. Veal's told it to a room full of people at a time. Sev- 
 often drawing her hand over her eyes, and eral particular gentlemen have had the story 
 asking Mrs. Bargrave whether her fits had from Mrs. Bargrave's own mouth, 
 not impaired her, looks to me as if she did it This thing has very much affected me, and 
 on purpose to remind Mrs. Bargrave of her 45 1 am as well satisfied as I am of the best 
 fits, to prepare her not to think it strange that grounded matter of fact. And why we should 
 she should put her upon writing to her brother dispute matter of fact because we cannot solve 
 to dispose of rings and gold, which looks so things of which we have no certain or demon- 
 much like a dying person's request; and it strative notions, seems strange to me. Mrs. 
 took accordingly with Mrs. Bargrave, as the 50 Bargrave's authority and sincerity alone would 
 effects of her fits coming upon her; and was have been undoubted in any other case, 
 one of the many instances of her wonderful 
 
 love to her and care of her that she should not THE PLAGUE IN LONDON 
 
 be affrighted, which indeed appears in her whole 
 
 management, particularly in her coming to 55 (From A Journal of the Plague Year, ^ 1722) 
 her in the daytime, waiving the salutation, But now the fury of the distemper increased 
 
 and when she was alone, and then the manner to such a degree, that even the markets were 
 of her parting to prevent a second attempt to but very thinly furnished with provisions, or 
 salute her. i The full title of De Foe's " History of the Plague," as 
 
DANIEL DEFOE 317 
 
 frequented with buyers, compared to what is impossible to describe the variety of pos- 
 they were before; and the Lord mayor caused tures in which the passions of the poor people 
 the country people who brought provisions, would express themselves, 
 to be stopped in the streets leading into the Passing through Token House Yard, in 
 
 town, and to sit down there with their goods, 5 Lothbury, of a sudden a casement violently 
 where they sold what they brought, and went opened just over my head, and a woman gave 
 immediately away; and this encouraged the three frightful screeches, and then cried, ''Oh! 
 country people greatly to do so, for they sold death, death, death!" in a most inimitable 
 their provisions at the very entrances into the tone, and which struck me with horror, and a 
 town, and even in the fields; as, particularly 10 chillness in my very blood. There was nobody 
 in the fields beyond Whitechapel, in Spital- to be seen in the whole street, neither did any 
 fields. Note, those streets, now called Spital- other window open, for people had no curiosity 
 fields, were then, indeed, open fields: also, in now in any case, nor could anybody help 
 St. George's Fields, in Southwark; in Bunhill one another; so I went on to pass into Bell 
 Fields, and in a great field, called Wood's Close, 15 Alley. ... As this puts me upon mention- 
 near Islington; thither the lord mayor, alder- ing my walking the streets and fields, I cannot 
 men, and magistrates, sent their officers and omit taking notice what a desolate place the 
 servants to buy for their families, themselves city was at that time. The great street I lived 
 keeping within doors as much as possible, and in, which is known to be one of the broadest of 
 the like did many other people; and after this 20 all the streets of London, I mean of the sub- 
 method was taken, the country people came urbs as well as the liberties, ^ all the side where 
 with great cheerfulness, and brought provi- the butchers lived, especially without the bars, 
 sions of all sorts and very seldom got any harm; was more like a green field than a paved street, 
 which I suppose added also to that report of and the people generally went in the middle 
 their being miraculously preserved. 25 with the horses and carts. It is true, that the 
 
 As for my little family, having thus, as I farthest end, towards Whitechapel church, 
 have said, laid in a store of bread, butter, was not all paved, but even the part that was 
 cheese, and beer, I took my friend and physi- paved was full of grass also; but this need not 
 cian's advice, and locked myself up, and my seem strange, since the great streets within 
 family, and resolved to suffer the hardship of 30 the city, such as Leadenhall Street, Bishops- 
 living a few months without fresh meat, rather gate Street, Cornhill, and even the Exchange 
 than purchase it by the hazard of our lives. itself had grass growing in them in several 
 
 But, though I confined my family, I could places; neither cart nor coach was seen in the 
 not prevail upon my unsatisfied curiosity to streets from morning till evening, except some 
 stay within entirely myself; and, though 1 35 country carts to bring roots and beans, or 
 generally came frighted and terrified home, peas, hay, and straw, to the market, and those 
 yet I could not restrain; only, that indeed I but very few compared to what was usual. As 
 did not do it so frequently as at first. for coaches, they were scarce used but to carry 
 
 I had some little obligations indeed upon people to the pest house and to other hospitals, 
 me, to go to my brother's house, which was 40 and some few to carry physicians to such places 
 in Coleman Street parish, and which he had as they thought fit to venture to visit; for 
 left to my care; and I went at first every day, really coaches were dangerous things, and 
 but afterwards only once or twice a week. people did not care to venture into them, be- 
 
 In these walks I had many dismal scenes cause they did not know who might have been 
 before my eyes; as, particularly, of persons 45 carried in them last; and sick infected people 
 falling dead in the streets, terrible shrieks and were, as I have said, ordinarily carried in 
 screechings of women, who, in their agonies, them to the pest houses, and sometimes people 
 would throw open their chamber windows, expired in them as they went along. ... As 
 and cry out in a dismal surprising manner. It the desolation was greater during those ter- 
 , . ., , u * oOrible times, so the amazement of the people 
 
 It IS often called, will help to explain Its general character. . ' +kr.„Qonfi uTinppniintflhlp 
 
 A Journal 0/ the Plague Year, being observations or memo- mcreased; and a tfiOUSand UnaCCOUniaDie 
 
 rials of the most remarkable occurrences, as well Public as things they WOUld do in the Violence of their 
 
 Private, which happened in London during the last Great . /= -^ . ,. , , oomo in +hf» ao-nnip*! of 
 
 Visitation in i665~Written by a citizen who continued all fright, as Others did the same m tfie agomes 01 
 the while in London. Never made public before. their distemper; and this part was Very aff ect- 
 
 The Plague began in the autumn of 1664 (De Foe be- G^r^o won<- ronrmo- nnd crvinff and 
 
 gins his journal in September of that year), and while it o5 mg. Some went roarmg, ana crying, anu 
 
 had begun to abate by the middle of September. 1665 wringing their hands along the street; some 
 fL%.l/S;!'^J.rtS^'&Z!f^!£''ir^'^''B\p wouM go praying aad lifting up their, hands 
 
 Plague nearly one hundred thousand persons are said to ^q heaven, calling upon God for mercy. i 
 of^i^SdoL^'"^' ""' ^^""^ """^'^^^^ °^ ^^' ^''^''^ population ^ . J^ ^^^,^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^.^^ .^^^ 
 
318 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 cannot say, indeed, whether this was not in When I came to the post-house, as I went to 
 their distraction; but, be it so, it was still an put in my letter, I saw a man stand in one 
 indication of a more serious mind, when they corner of the yard and talking to another at 
 had the use of their senses, and was much a window, and a third had opened a door 
 better, even as it was, than the frightful yell- 5 belonging to the oflBce. In the middle of the 
 ings and cryings that every day, and especially yard lay a small leather purse, with two keys 
 in the evenings, were heard in some streets, hanging at it, with money in it, but nobody 
 I suppose the world has heard of the famous would meddle with it. I asked how long it 
 Solomon Eagle, an enthusiast; he, though had lain there; the man at the window said it 
 not infected at all, but in his head, went about, 10 had lain almost an hour, but they had not 
 denouncing of judgment upon the city in a meddled with it, because they did not know 
 frightful manner; sometimes quite naked, and but the person who dropt it might come back 
 with a pan of burning charcoal on his head, to look for it. I had no such need of money. 
 What he said or pretended, indeed, I could not nor was the sum so big, that I had any inclina- 
 learn. l5tion to meddle with it, or to get the money 
 
 I will not say whether the clergyman was at the hazard it might be attended with; so 
 distracted or not, or whether he did it out of I seemed to go away,^ when the man who had 
 pure zeal for the poor people, who went every opened the door said he would take it up; but 
 eveping through the streets of Whitechapel, so that if the right owner came for it he should 
 and, with his hands lifted up, repeated that 20 be sure to have it. So he went in and fetched 
 part of the liturgy of the church, continually, a pail of water, and set it down hard by the 
 "Spare us, good Lord; spare thy people whom purse, then went again and fetched some 
 thou hast redeemed with thy most precious gunpowder, and cast a good deal of powder 
 blood;" I say, I cannot speak positively of upon the purse, and then made a train from 
 these things, because these were only the dismal 25 that which he had thrown loose upon the purse; 
 objects which represented themselves to me the train reached about two yards; after this 
 as I looked through my chamber windows, for he goes in a third time, and fetches out a pair 
 I seldom opened the casements, while I con- of tongs red-hot, and which he had prepared, 
 fined myself within doors during that most I suppose, on purpose; and first setting fire to 
 violent raging of the pestilence, when, indeed, 30 the train of powder, that singed the purse 
 many began to think, and even to say, that and also smoked the air sufficiently. But he 
 there would none escape; and, indeed, I began was not content with that, but he then takes 
 to think so too, and, therefore kept within up the purse with the tongs, holding it so 
 doors for about a fortnight, and never stirred long till the tongs burnt through the purse, 
 out. But I could not hold it. Besides, there 35 and then he shook the money out into the pail 
 were some people, who, notwithstanding the of water, so he carried it in. The money, as 
 danger, did not omit publicly to attend the I remember, was about thirteen shillings, and 
 worship of God, even in the most dangerous some smooth groats and brass farthings, 
 times. And, though it is true that a great Much about the same time, I walked out 
 many of the clergy did shut up their churches 40 into the fields towards Bow; for I had a great 
 and fled, as other people did, for the safety mind to see how things were managed in the 
 of their lives, yet all did not do so; some ven- river and among the ships; and as I had some 
 tured to officiate, and keep up the assemblies concern in shipping, I had a notion that it 
 of the people by constant prayers, and some- had been one of the best ways of securing one's 
 times sermons or brief exhortations to repent- 45 self from the infection to have retired into a 
 ance and reformation; and this as long as they ship; and, musing how to satisfy my curiosity 
 would hear them. And dissenters did the like in that point, I turned away over the fields, 
 also, and even in the very churches where the from Bow to Bromley and down to Blackwall, 
 parish ministers were either dead or fled; nor to the stairs that are there for landing or 
 was there any room for making any difference 50 taking water, 
 at such a time as this was. Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank 
 
 It pleased God that I was still spared, and or sea-wall, as they call it, by himself. I 
 very hearty and sound in health, but very walked awhile also about, seeing the houses 
 impatient of being pent up within doors with- all shut up; at last I fell into some talk, at a 
 out air, as I had been for fourteen days or 55 distance, with this poor man. First I asked 
 thereabouts; and I could not restrain myself, how people did thereabouts? "Alas! sir," says 
 but I would go and carry a letter for my brother he, "almost desolate, all dead or sick: here 
 to the post-house; then it was, indeed, that I are very few families in this part, or in that 
 observed a profound silence in the streets. » Pretended to go away. 
 
DANIEL DEFOE 319 
 
 village," pointing at Poplar, "where half of anchor," pointing down the river a good way 
 them are not dead already, and the rest sick." below the town; "and do you see," says he, 
 Then he, pointing to one house, "They are "eight or ten ships lie at the chain there, and 
 all dead," said he, "and the house stands open; at anchor yonder," pointing above the town, 
 nobody dares go into it. A poor thief," says 5 "All those ships have families on board, of 
 he, "ventured in to steal something, but he their merchants and owners, and such-like, 
 paid dear for his theft, for he was carried to who have locked themselves up, and live on 
 the churchyard too, last night." Then he board, close shut in, for fear of the infection; 
 pointed to several other houses. "There," says and I tend on them to fetch things for them, 
 he, "they are all dead, the man and his wife and 10 carry letters, and do what is absolutely neces- 
 five children. There," says he, "they are shut sary, that they may not be obliged to come on 
 up; you see a watchman at the door;" and shore; and every night 1 fasten my boat on 
 so, of other houses. "Why," says I, "what board one of the ship's boats, and there I sleep 
 lo you here all alone?" "Why," says he, "I by myself, and, blessed be God, I am preserved 
 ^,m a poor desolate man; it hath pleased God 1 15 hitherto." 
 
 Jim not yet visited, though my family is, and "Well," said I, "friend, will they let you 
 
 one of my children dead." "How do you come on board after you have been on shore 
 mean then," said I "that you are not visited?" here, when this has been such a terrible place, 
 
 .Vhy," says he "that is my house," pointing and so infected as it is?" 
 ^o a very little, low, boarded house, "and 20 "Why, as to that," said he, "I very seldom 
 there my poor wife and two children live," go up the ship side, but deliver what I bring 
 said he, "if they may be said to live; for my to their boat, or lie by the side and they hoist 
 wife and one of the children are visited, but I it on board : if I did I think they are in no 
 do not come at them." And with that word danger from me, for I never go into any house 
 I saw the tears run very plentifully down his 25 on shore, or touch anybody, no, not of my 
 face; and so they did down mine too, I assure own family; but I fetch provisions for them." 
 you. "Nay," says I, "but that may be worse, 
 
 "But," said I, "why do you not come at for you must have those provisions of some- 
 them? How can you abandon your own flesh body or other; and since all this part of the 
 and blood?" "Oh, sir," says he, "the Lord 30 town is so infected, it is dangerous so much as 
 forbid; I do not abandon them; I work for to speak with anybody; for the village," said 
 them as much as I am able; and, blessed I, "is as it were the beginning of London, 
 be the Lord, I keep them from want." And though it be at some distance from it." 
 with that I observed he lifted up his eyes "That is true," added he, "but you do not 
 to heaven with a countenance that presently 35 understand me right. I do not buy provisions 
 told me I had happened on a man that was for them here; I row up to Greenwich, and buy 
 no hypocrite, but a serious, religious, good fresh meat there, and sometimes I row down 
 man; and his ejaculation was an expression the river to Woolwich and buy there; then I 
 of thankfulness, that in such a condition as go to single farm houses on the Kentish side, 
 he was in, he should be able to say his family 40 where I am known, and buy fowls, and eggs 
 did not want. "Well," says I, "honest man, and butter, and bring to the ships as they 
 that is a great mercy, as things go now with direct me, sometimes one, sometimes the other, 
 the poor. But how do you live then, and how I seldom come on shore here; and I came only 
 are you kept from the dreadful calamity that now to call my wife and hear how my little 
 is now upon us all?" "Why, sir," says he, "1 45 family do, and give them a little money which 
 am a waterman, and there is my boat," says I received last night." 
 
 he, "and the boat serves me for a house; I "Poor man," said I, "and how much hast 
 work in it in the day, and I sleep in it in the thou gotten for them?" 
 night, and what I get I lay it down upon that "I have gotten four shillings," said he, 
 stone," says he, showing me a broad stone on 50 "which is a great sum, as things go now with 
 the other side of the street, a good way from poor men; but they have given me a bag of 
 his house; "and then," says he, "I halloo and bread, too, and a salt fish, and some flesh; so 
 call to them till I mal^e them hear, and they all helps out." 
 come and fetch it." "Well," said I, "and have you given it them 
 
 "Well, friend," says I, "but how can you 55 yet?" 
 get money as a waterman? Does anybody "No," said he, "but I have called, and my 
 
 go by water these times?" "Yes, sir," says wife has answered that she cannot come out 
 he, "in the way I am employed there does, yet, but in half an hour she hopes to come. 
 Do you see there," says he, "five ships lie at and I am waiting for her. Poor woman!" 
 
320 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 says he, "she is brought sadly down; she has called him; "Hark thee, friend," said I, "come 
 had a swelling, and it is broke, and I hope she hither, for I believe thou art in health, that I 
 will recover, but I fear the child will die; but may venture thee;" so I pulled out my hand, 
 it is the Lord!" Here he stopt, and wept very which was in my pocket before. "Here," 
 much. 5 says I, "go and call thy Rachel once more, 
 
 "Well, honest friend," said I, "thou hast and give her a little more comfort from me. 
 a sure comforter, if thou hast brought thyself God will never forsake a family that trusts 
 to be resigned to the will of God; he is dealing in him as thou dost;" so I gave him four other 
 with us all in judgment." shillings, and bid him go lay them on the stone, 
 
 "Oh, sir," says he, "it is infinite mercy if lO and call his wife, 
 any of us are spared; and who am I to repine!" I have not words to express the poor man's 
 
 "Say'st thou so," said I, "and how much thankfulness, neither could he express it him- 
 less is my faith than thine?" And here my self but by tears running down his face. He 
 heart smote me, suggesting how much better called his wife, and told her God had moved the 
 this poor man's foundation was, on which he 15 heart of a stranger, upon hearing their condi- 
 stayed in the danger, than mine; that he had tion, to give them all that money, and a great 
 nowhere to fly; that he had a family to bind deal more such as that he said to her. The 
 him to attendance, which I had not; and mine woman, too, made signs of the like thankful- 
 was mere presumption, his a true dependance, ness, as well to heaveii as to me, and joyfully 
 and a courage resting on God; and yet, that 20 picked it up; and I parted with no money all 
 he used all possible caution for his safety. that year that I thought better bestowed. 
 
 I turned a little way from the man, while 
 these thoughts engaged me; for, indeed, I tn |% A-Nfrn'f 
 
 could no more refrain from tears than he. Jl^^^^^V^^ ^uJttt 
 
 At length, after some further talk, the poor 25 1667-1745 
 
 woman opened the door, and called, "Robert, 
 
 Robert;" he answered and bid her stay a few MEDITATION UPON A BROOMSTICK 
 moments, and he would come; so he ran down 
 
 the common stairs to his boat, and fetched up (1704) 
 
 a sack in which was the provisions he had 30 This single stick, which you now behold 
 brought from the ships; and when he returned, ingloriously lying in that neglected corner, I 
 he hallooed again; then he went to the great once knew in a flourishing state in a forest; it 
 stone which he showed me, and emptied the was full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs; 
 sack, and laid all out, everything by them- but now, in vain does the busy art of man pre- 
 selves, and then retired; and his wife came 35 tend to vie with nature, by tying that withered 
 with a little boy to fetch them away; and he bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk; it is now, 
 called, and said such a captain had sent such at best, but the reverse of what it was, a tree 
 a thing, and such a captain such a thing, and turned upside down, the branches on the earth, 
 at the end adds, "God has sent it all, give and the root in the air; it is now, handled by 
 thanks to Him." When the poor woman had 40 every dirty wench, condemned to do her drud- 
 taken up all, she was so weak she could not gery, and by a capricious kind of fate, destined 
 carry it at once in, though the weight was not to make other things clean, and be nasty itself; 
 much neither; so she left the biscuit, which was at length, worn to the stumps in the service 
 in a httle bag, and left a little boy to watch it, of the maids, it is either thrown out of doors, 
 till she came again. 45 or condemned to the last use, of kindling a fire. 
 
 "Well, but," says I to him, "did you leave When I beheld this, I sighed, and said within 
 her four shillings, too, which you said was myself. Surely mortal Man is a Broomstick! 
 your week's pay? " Nature sent him into the world strong and 
 
 "Yes, yes," says he, "you shall hear her lusty, in a thriving condition, wearing his own 
 own it." So he calls again, "Rachel, Rachel," 50 hair on his head, the proper branches of this 
 which, it seems was her name, "did you take reasoning vegetable, until the axe of intem- 
 up the money?" "Yes," said she. "How perance has lopped off his green boughs, and 
 much was it?" said he. "Four shillings and left him a withered trunk; he then flies to art, 
 a groat," said she. "Well, well," says he, and puts on a perriwig, valuing himself upon 
 "the Lord keep you all;" and so he turned to 55 an unnatural bundle of hairs (all covered with 
 go away. powder) that never grew on his head; but now, 
 
 As I could not refrain from contributing should this our broomstick pretend to enter 
 tears to this man's story, so neither could I the scene, proud of those birchen spoils ii^ 
 refrain my charity for his assistance; so I never bore, and all covered with dust, though 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT S21 
 
 the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, that way may be excused for thinking so, when 
 we should be apt to ridicule and despise its he sees in how wretched a manner that noble 
 vanity. Partial judges that we are of our own art is treated by a few mean, illiterate traders 
 excellencies, and other men's defaults! between us and the stars, who import a yearly 
 
 But a broomstick, perhaps you will say, is 5 stock of nonsense, lies, folly, and impertinence, 
 an emblem of a tree standing on its head; and which they offer to the world as genuine from 
 pray "what is a man but a topsy-turvey crea- the planets, though they descend from no 
 ture, his animal faculties perpetually mounted greater a height than their own brains, 
 on his rational, his head where his heels should I intend in a short time to publish a large 
 
 be, grovelling on the earth! And yet, with all 10 and rational defence of this art, and therefore 
 his faults, he sets up to be a universal reformer shall say no more in its justification at present 
 and corrector of abuses, a remover of griev- than that it has been in all ages defended by 
 ances, rakes into every slut's corner of nature, many learned men, and among the rest by 
 bringing hidden corruptions to the light, and Socrates himself, whom I look upon as undoubt- 
 raises a mighty dust where there was none 15 edly the wisest of uninspired mortals; to which 
 before; sharing deeply all the while in the very if we add that those who have condemned this 
 same pollutions he pretends to sweep away: art, though otherwise learned, having been 
 his last days are spent in slavery to women, such as either did not apply their studies this 
 and generally the least deserving; till worn to way, or at least did not succeed in their ap- 
 the stumps, like his brother besom, he is either 20 plications, their testimony will not be of much 
 kicked out of doors, or made use of to kindle weight to its disadvantage, since they are liable 
 flames for others to warm themselves by. to the common objection of condemning what 
 
 they did not understand. 
 PREDICTIONS FOR THE YEAR 1708: ^^^ ^^ I ^t ^^^ offended, or do I think it 
 
 TTTi- • mi T»-r ^t A J rro. T^ r\c rT^^, ^5 au mjury to the art, when I see the common 
 Wherein The Month, And The Day Of The ^^^^^^^ ^ -^^ ^^^ students in astrology, the 
 
 Month, Are Set Down, The Persons Philomaths,^ and the rest of that tribe, treated 
 
 Named, And The Great Actions And ^y ^-^^ ^^^ ^-^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^_ 
 
 Events Of Next Year Particularly ^empt, but rather wonder, when I observe 
 
 Related, As They Will Come 3^ gentlemen in the country, rich enough to serve 
 
 „, ... . _, T W.^^^^ 1 r,f T? 1 A ^^® nation in Parhament, poring in Partridge's 
 
 Written to Prevent The People Of England Almanac' to find out the events of the year 
 
 From Being Further Imposed On By ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ abroad, not daring to propose a 
 Vulgar Almanac-Makera. hunting-match till Gadbury^ or he have fixed 
 
 By IsAAK BiCKERSTAFF, Esq.^ 35 the weather. 
 
 I have considered the gross abuse of astrology I will allow either of the two I have men- 
 in this kingdom, and upon debating the matter tioned, or any other of the fraternity, to be 
 with myself, I could not possibly lay the fault not only astrologers, but conjurers too, if I 
 upon the art, but upon those gross impostors do not produce a hundred instances in all their 
 who set up to be the artists. I know several 40 almanacs to convince any reasonable man 
 learned men have contended that the whole that they do not so much as understand corn- 
 is a cheat; that it is absurd and ridiculous to mon grammar and syntax; that they are not 
 imagine the stars can have any influence at able to spell any word out of the usual road, 
 all upon human actions, thoughts, or inclina- nor, even in their prefaces to write common 
 tions; and whoever has not bent his studies 45 sense or intelligible English. Then for their 
 
 iTtTu a -t^ * *i, ^ w +>,^ K«i;«f ;r, observations and predictions, they are such as 
 
 1 When Swift wrote these predichons the belief in ^^ j. •„ +u^ 
 
 fortune-tellers and astrologers was very general, and Will equally SUlt any age or country m tne 
 
 numbers of impostors took advantage of the popular ^orld. "This month a certain great person 
 
 creduhty. Not content with the patronage of those who . , , j .r • i «^„ '> 
 
 consulted them personally, some of these astrologers pub- Will be threatened With deatn or SlCkness. 
 
 lished their "predictions" in almanacs, which were 50 This the newspapers will tell them; for there 
 
 bought by people of the poorer classes, or circulated out- r? i j. xt. j r xi, « +1.-.+ ^« ^«r.+Vv 
 
 side of London. Swift's attention having been attracted we find at the end of the year that no montn 
 
 by one of these prophetic almanacs (the MerUnus Litera- passes without the death of SOme person of 
 
 tus for 1707, published by John Partridge), he wrote his «^ , ., l 
 
 Predictions, humorously exposing the folly of the preva- 2 Lovers of learning, philosophers. 
 
 lent superstition, as well as holding up poor Partridge to » "Doctor" John Partridge (1644-1715), now remem- 
 
 ridicule. After writing his Predictions, Swift, casting bered chiefly through Swift's satires, abandoned his 
 
 about for a pseudonym, happened to see the name occupation of cobbler to become an astrologer and 
 
 Bickerstaff on a locksmith's sign. The name appealed to almanac-maker. Swift ridiculed Partridge in a series of 
 
 him, and he made his prophecies as Isaak Bickerstaff, papers (of which the above is one), besides writing a 
 
 Esq. The success of Swift's pamphlet made the name of Gruh Street Elegy on the Supposed Death of Partridne. 
 Bickerstaff familiar to the world of London, and Steele, * John Gadbury, an almanac-maker and fortune-teller of 
 
 taking advantage of its popularity, assumed it when he the latter 17th century. An almanac bearing his name 
 
 began the publication of The Tatler in 1709. was published for some yeara after hia death. 
 
322 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 note; and it would be hard if it should be other- they happened — that is, I gave them papers 
 wise, when there are at least two thousand sealed up, to open at such a time, after which 
 persons of note in this kingdom, many of them they were at liberty to read them; and there 
 old, and the almanac-maker has the liberty of they found my predictions true in every ar- 
 choosing the sickliest season of the year where 5 tide, except one or two very minute, 
 he may fix his prediction. Again, "This month As for the few following predictions I now 
 
 an eminent clergyman will be preferred;" of offer the world, I forbore to pubhsh them till 
 which there may be many hundreds, half of I had perused the several almanacs for the 
 them with one foot in the grave. Then "Such year we are now entered upon. I found them 
 a planet in such a house shows great machina- lO all in the usual strain, and 1 beg the reader 
 tions, plots, and conspiracies, that may in will compare their manner with mine. And 
 time be brought to light;" after which, if we here I make bold to tell the world that I lay 
 hear of any discovery, the astrologer gets the the whole credit of my art upon the truth of 
 honour; if not, his predictions still stand good, these predictions; and I will be content that 
 And at last, "God preserve King William from 15 Partridge, and the rest of his clan, may hoot 
 all his open and secret enemies. Amen;" when me for a cheat and impostor if I fail in any 
 if the King should happen to have died, the single particular of moment. I believe any 
 astrologer plainly foretold it; otherwise it man who reads this paper will look upon me 
 passes but for the pious ejaculation of a loyal to be at least a person of as much honesty and 
 subject; though it unluckily happened in 20 understanding as a common maker of al- 
 some of their almanacs that poor King WiUiam manacs. I do not lurk in the dark; I am not 
 was prayed for many months after he was wholly unknown in the world; I have set my 
 dead, because it fell out that he died about the name at length, to be a mark of infamy to 
 beginning of the year. mankind, if they shall find I deceive them. 
 
 To mention no more of their impertinent 25 In one thing I must desire to be forgiven, 
 predictions, what have we to do with their that I talk more sparingly of home affairs; as 
 advertisements about "pills and drinks for it will be imprudence to discover secrets of 
 disease," or their mutual quarrels in verse and State, so it might be dangerous to my person; 
 prose of Whig and Tory, wherewith the stars but in smaller matters, and such as are net 
 have little to do? 30 of public consequence, I shall be very free; 
 
 Having long observed and lamented these, and the truth of my conjectures will as much 
 and a hundred other abuses of this art, too appear from these as the other. As for the 
 tedious to repeat, I resolved to proceed in a most signal events abroad, in France, Flanders, 
 new way, which I doubt not will be to the gen- Italy, and Spain, I shall make no scruple to 
 eral satisfaction of the kingdom. I can this 35 predict them in plain terms: some of them are 
 year produce but a specimen of what I design of importance, and I hope I shall seldom mis- 
 for the future, having employed most part take the day they will happen; therefore I 
 of my time in adjusting and correcting the think good to inform the reader that I shall all 
 calculations I made for some years past, be- along make use of the Old Style observed in 
 cause I would offer nothing to the world of 40 England,^ which I desire he will compare with 
 which I am not as fully satisfied as that I am that of the newspapers at the time they relate 
 now alive. For these two last years I have the actions I mention. 
 
 not failed in above one or two particulars, and I must add one word more. I know it has 
 
 those of no very great moment. 1 exactly been the opinion of several learned persons, 
 foretold the miscarriage at Toulon, with all 45 who think well enough of the true art of as- 
 its particulars, and the loss of Admiral Shovel, ^ trology, that the stars do only incline, and not 
 though I was mistaken as to the day, placing force the actions or wills of men; and there- 
 that article about thirty-six hours sooner than fore, however I may proceed by right rules, 
 it happened; but upon reviewing my schemes, yet I cannot in prudence so confidently assure 
 I quickly found the cause of that error. I 50 the events will follow exactly as I predict them, 
 likewise foretold the Battle of Almanza^ to I hope I have maturely considered this ob- 
 
 the very day and hour, with the loss on both jection, which in some cases is of no little 
 sides, and the consequences thereof, all which weight. For example: a man may, by the in- 
 I showed to some friends many months before fluence of an overruling planet, be disposed or 
 
 55 inclined to lust, rage, or avarice, and yet by 
 
 6 Sir Cloudesley Shovel, a gallant English admiral. He tlie force of reason overcome that evil influ- 
 
 was ship-wrecked and drowned on the Scilly Islands in i,,- ,i t- a j^ -i j. 
 
 1707, after an unsuccessful expedition against Toulon. Cnce; and this waS the case 01 feOCrates: but aS 
 
 « A victory of the French ;ind Spanish over the British 
 and their allies, Aprii 25, 1707, in the " War of the Sijanish " The New Style (or new system of chronology) was not 
 
 Succession." adopted in England until 1751. 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT 323 
 
 the great events of the world usually depend no very busy month in Europe, but very 
 
 upon numbers of men, it cannot be expected signal for the death of the Dauphin, which 
 
 they should all unite to cross their inclinations will happen on the 7th, after a short fit of 
 
 for pursuing a general design wherein they sickness, and grievous torments with the 
 
 unanimously agree. Besides, the influence of 5 strangury. He dies less lamented by the 
 
 the stars reaches to many actions and events Court than the kingdom. . . . 
 
 which are not any way in the power of reason, I shall add but one prediction more, and 
 
 as sickness, death, and what we commonly that in mystical terms, which shall be included 
 
 'Call accidents, with many more, needless to in a verse out of Virgil — 
 
 But now it is time to proceed to my predic- "^^^f ^^V^ ^f,i'^2/^' ^^ «^^^^« ?^^ ^'^^^^ ^^^^ 
 tions, which I have begun to calculate from ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^««- 
 
 the time that the sun enters into Aries; and Upon the 25th day of this month, the ful- 
 
 this I take to be properly the beginning of filling of this prediction will be manifest to 
 the natural year. I pursue them to the time 15 everybody. 
 
 that he enters Libra, or somewhat more, which This is the furthest I have proceeded in my 
 
 is the busy period of the year. The remainder calculations for the present year. I do not 
 I have not yet adjusted, upon account of pretend that these are all the great events 
 several impediments needless here to men- which will happen in this period, but that those 
 tion; besides, I must remind the reader again 20 1 have set down will infallibly come to pass, 
 that this is but a specimen of what I design It will perhaps still be objected why I have not 
 in succeeding years to treat more at large, spoke more particularly of affairs at home, or 
 if I may have liberty and encouragement. of the success of our armies abroad, which 
 
 My first prediction is but a trifle, yet I will I might, and could very largely have done; 
 mention it, to show how ignorant those sottish 25 but those in power have wisely discouraged 
 pretenders to astrology are in their own con- men from meddling in public concerns, and I 
 cerns. It relates to Partridge, the almanac- was resolved by no means to give the least 
 maker. I have consulted the star of his na- offence. This I will venture to say, that it 
 tivity by my own rules, and find he will in- will be a glorious campaign for the Allies, 
 fallibly die upon the 29th of March next, about 30 wherein the English forces, both by sea and 
 eleven at night, of a raging fever; therefore I land, will have their full s}vare of honour; that 
 advise him to consider of it, and settle his Her Majesty Queen Anne will continue in 
 affairs in time. health and prosperity; and that no ill accident 
 
 The month of Apn7 will be observable for will arrive to any in the chief Ministry, 
 the death of many great persons. On the 4th 35 As to the particular events I have men- 
 will die the Cardinal de Noailles, Archbishop tioned, the reader may judge by the fulfilling 
 of Paris; on the 11th, the young Prince of of them, whether I am on the level with com- 
 Asturias, son to the Duke of Anjou; on the mon astrologers, who, with an old paltry cant, 
 14th, a great peer of this realm will die at his and a few pothooks for planets, to amuse the 
 country house; on the 19th, an old layman of 40 vulgar, have, in my opinion, too long been 
 great fame for learning; and on the 23rd, an suffered to abuse the world; but an honest 
 eminent goldsmith in Lombard Street. I physician ought not to be despised because 
 could mention others, both at home and there are such things as mountebanks. I hope 
 abroad, if I did not consider such events of I have some share of reputation, which I would 
 very little use or instruction to the reader, 45 not willingly forfeit for a frolic or humour, and 
 or to the world. I believe no gentleman who reads this paper 
 
 As to public affairs: On the 7th of this month will look upon it to be of the same cast or 
 there will be an insurrection in Dauphin^ mould with the common scribbles that are 
 occasioned by the oppressions of the people, every day hawked about. My fortune haa 
 which will not be quieted in some months. 50 placed me above the little regard of writing for 
 
 On the 15th will be a violent storm on the a few pence, which I neither value nor want; 
 south-east toast of France, which will destroy therefore, let not wise men too hastily con- 
 many of their ships, and some in the very demn this essay, intended for a good design, to 
 harbour. cultivate and improve an ancient art, long 
 
 The 19th will be famous for the revolt of a 55 in disgrace, by having fallen into mean, un- 
 whole province or kingdom, excepting one skilful hands. A little time will determine 
 city, by which the affairs of a certain prince in whether I have deceived others or myself; and 
 the Alliance will take a better face. s^j^^^ ^^^^^ ^,I ^e another Tethys and another 
 
 May, against common conjectures, will be Argo which shall carry chosen heroes. iEcZ. iv.. 34 
 
324 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 I think it is no very unreasonable request that sent thrice every day one servant or other to 
 men would please to suspend their judgments inquire after his health, and yesterday, about 
 till then. I was once of the opinion with those four in the afternoon, word was brought me 
 who despise all predictions from the stars, "that he was past hopes;" upon which, I 
 till the year 1686 a man of quality showed me, 5 prevailed with myself to go and see him, partly 
 written in his album, that the most learned out of commiseration, and I confess, partly 
 astronomer, Captain Halley,^ assured him, out of curiosity. He knew me very well, 
 he would never believe anything of the stars' seemed surprised at my condescension, and 
 influence if there were not. a great revolution made me compliments upon it as well as he 
 in England in the year 1688. Since that time 10 could in the condition he was. The people 
 I began to have other thoughts, and after about him said he had been for some time 
 eighteen years' diligent study and application, delirious; but when I saw him, he had his un- 
 I think I have no reason to repent of my pains, derstanding as well as ever I knew, and spoke 
 I shall detain the reader no longer than to let strong and hearty, without any seeming un- 
 him know that the account I design to give 15 easiness or constraint. After I had told him 
 of next year's events shall take in the principal how sorry I was to see him in those melancholy 
 affairs that happened in Europe; and if I be circumstances, and said some other civilities 
 denied the liberty of offering it to my own coun- suitable to the occasion, I desired him to tell 
 try, I shall appeal to the learned world, by me freely and ingenuously, whether the pre- 
 publishing it in Latin, and giving order to 20 dictions Mr. Bickerstaff had published relating 
 have it printed in Holland. to his death had not too much affected and 
 
 worked on his imagination. He confessed he 
 
 rT^Ty^^ An/-tr^^^/^T>TTOTT^v/rT-.ATr^> r^-c^ rT^^^^:^ ^^^ often had it in his head, but never with 
 
 ^tT,J^ XS A ^ wJSSt;^ ™"c^ apprehension, till about a fortnight be- 
 
 FIRST OF MR. BICI^Rb 1 AFl? b 25 fore; since which time it had the perpetual pos- 
 
 PREDICllONb: session of his mind and thoughts, and he did 
 
 Being an Account of the Death of Mr. Partridge verily believe was the true natural cause of 
 
 the Almanac-Maker, upon the 29th instant his present distemper: "For," said he, "I am 
 
 T X x^ ^ T^ i- XT TTT -xx • thoroughly persuaded, and I think I have 
 
 In a Letter to a Person of Honour, Written mg^^^^ g^^d reasons, that Mr. Bickerstaff spoke 
 
 ^ ^^^ altogether by guess, and knew no more what 
 
 My Lord, — In obedience to your lordshit^'s will happen this year than I did myself." 
 commands, as well as to satisfy my own curios- I told him his discourse surprised me, and 
 
 ity, I have for some days past inquired con- I would be glad he were in a state of health 
 stantly after Partridge the almanac-maker, 35 to be able to tell me what reason he had to 
 of whom it was foretold in Mr. Bickerstaff's be convinced of Mr. Bickerstaff's ignorance. 
 Predictions, published about a month ago, He replied, "I am a poor, ignorant fellow, 
 that he should die the 29th instant, about bred to a mean trade, yet I have sense enough 
 eleven at night, of a raging fever. I had some to know that all pretences of foretelling by 
 sort of knowledge of him when I was employed 40 astrology are deceits, for this manifest reason, 
 in the Revenue, because he used every year because the wise and the learned, who can only 
 to present me with his almanac, as he did other judge whether there be any truth in this 
 gentlemen, upon the score of some little gra- science, do all unanimously agree to laugh at 
 tuity we gave him. I saw him accidentally and despise it; and none but the poor ignorant 
 once or twice about ten days before he died, 45 vulgar give it any credit, and that only upon 
 and observed he began very much to droop the word of such silly wretches as I and my 
 and languish, though I hear his friends did fellows, who can hardly write or read." I then 
 not seem to apprehend liim in any danger, asked him why he had not calculated his own 
 About two or three days ago he grew ill, was nativity, to see whether it agreed with Bicker- 
 confined first to his chamber, and in a few 50 staff's prediction, at which he shook his head 
 hours after to his bed, where Dr. Case^ and and said, "Oh, sir, this is no time for jesting, 
 Mrs. Kirleus^ were sent for, to visit and to but for repenting those fooleries, as I do now 
 prescribe to him. Upon this intelligence I from the very bottom of my heart." "By 
 
 » Edmund Halley fl65&-1742), a celebrated astronomer, what I can gather from you," said I, "the ob- \ 
 fellow of the Royal Society and friend of Sir Isaac New- 55 servations and predictions you printed with 
 ton. His prediction of the return of a certain comet (now -, „ „ ^^„„ .•^»,^„;+:^^ ^ +u, 
 
 known as "Halley's comet") in 175S, was exactly fulfilled. YouT almanacs were mere impositions on the 
 
 1 A famous astrologer and quack practitioner of Queen people." He replied, "If it were otherwise, I 
 
 ^°°®if *^"?f • , tT^ r^u V ^ r A should havo the less to answer for. We have a 
 
 * The widow of a son of Dr. Thomas Kirleus, a London . . „ ^, ., . . - 
 
 physician. common form for all those thmgs; as to fore- 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT 325 
 
 telling the weather, we never meddle with that I began to conceive hopes of getting my 
 that, but leave it to the printer, who takes it liberty in a short time. I took all possible 
 out of any old almanac as he thinks fit; the methods to cultivate this favorable disposition, 
 rest was my own invention, to make my al- The natives came, by degrees, to be less ap- 
 manac sell, having a wife to maintain, and no 5 prehensive of any danger from me. I would 
 other way to get my bread; for mending old sometimes lie down, and let five or six of them 
 shoes is a poor livelihood; and," added he, dance on my hand; and at last the boys and 
 sighing, "I wish I may not have done more girls would venture to come and play at hide- 
 mischief by my physic than my astrology; and-seek in my hair. I had now made a good 
 though I had some good receipts from my 10 progress in understanding and speaking their 
 grandmother, and my own compositions were language. The emperor had a mind one day 
 such as I thought could at least do no hurt." to entertain me with several of the country 
 I had some other discourse with him, which shows, wherein they exceed all nations I have 
 now I cannot call to mind; and I fear I have known, both for dexterity and magnificence, 
 already tired your lordship. I shall only add 15 I was diverted with none so much as that of 
 one circumstance, that on his death-bed he the rope-dancers, performed upon a slender 
 declared himself a Nonconformist, and had a white thread, extended about two foot and 
 fanatic preacher to be his spiritual guide, twelve inches from the ground. Upon which 
 After half an hour's conversation I took my I shall desire liberty, with the reader's pa- 
 leave, being almost stifled by the closeness of 20 tience, to enlf jge a little, 
 the room. I imagined he could not hold out This diversion is only practised by those 
 long, and therefore withdrew to a little coffee- persons who are candidates for great employ- 
 house hard by, leaving a servant at the house ments and high favor at court. They are 
 with orders to come immediately and tell me, trained in this art from their youth, and are 
 as near as he could, the minute when Part- 25 not always of noble birth or liberal education, 
 ridge should expire, which was not above two When a great office is vacant, either by death 
 hours after, when, looking upon my watch, or disgrace (which often happens), five or six 
 I found it to be above five minutes after seven; of those candidates petition the emperor to 
 by which it is clear that Mr. Bickerstaff was entertain his majesty and the court with a 
 mistaken almost four hours in his calculation. 30 dance on the rope; and whoever jumps the 
 In the other circumstances he was exact highest without falling, succeeds in the oflSce. 
 enough. But whether he has not been the Very often the chief ministers themselves are 
 cause of this poor man's death, as well as the commanded to show their skill, and to con- 
 predictor, may be very reasonably disputed, vince the emperor that they have not lost their 
 However, it must be confessed the matter is 35 faculty. Flimnap, the treasurer, is allowed to 
 odd enough, whether we should endeavor to cut a caper on the straight rope, at least an 
 account for it by chance, or the effect of imag- inch higher than any other lord in the whole 
 ination. For my own part, though I believe empire. I have seen him do the summerset 
 no man has less faith in these matters, yet I several times together, upon a trencher fixed 
 shall wait with some impatience, and not with- 40 on the rope, which is no thicker than a common 
 out some expectation, the fulfiUing of Mr. pack-thread in England. My friend Reldresal, 
 Bickerstaff's second prediction, that the Car- principal secretary for private affairs, is, in 
 dinal de Noailles is to die upon the 4th of April, my opinion, if I am not partial, the second 
 and if that should be verified as exactly as this after the treasurer; the rest of the great oflScers 
 of poor Partridge, I must own I should be 45 are much upon a par. 
 
 wholly surprised, and at a loss, and should These diversions are often attended with 
 
 infallibly expect the accomplishment of all fatal accidents, whereof great numbers are 
 
 the rest. on record. I myself have seen two or three 
 
 * candidates break a limb. But the danger is 
 
 GULLIVER AMONG THE 50much greater when the ministers themselves 
 
 TTTTTPTTTTATM«;i 21^® commanded to show their dexterity; for, 
 
 i^ij^i^iruiiAiNo ^y contending to excel themselves and their 
 
 (From The Travels of Lemuel Gulliver, 1726) fellows, they strain so far that there is hardly 
 
 My gentleness and good behavior had gained one of them who hath not received a fall, and 
 
 so far on the emperor and his court, and in- 55 some of them two or three. I was assured 
 
 deed upon the army and people in general, ^^nths later he was shipwrecked on the way to the East 
 
 1 Lemuel Gulliver, the honest, matter-of-fact, and Indies, and found himself in the country of Lilhput, 
 
 typically middle-class hero of Swift's story, after taking which was inhabited by a diminutive race of men, not 
 
 several voyages as ship's surgeon, sailed from Bristol, more than six inches high. After various adventures ne 
 
 May 4, 1699, on a voyage to the South Seas. Six . met the Emperor of Lilliput, and went to the Court. 
 
326 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 that, a year or two before my arrival, Flimnap stood erect, and extended it on all sides, till it 
 would have infaUibly broke his neck if one of was as tight as the top of a drum; and the 
 the king's cushions, that accidentally lay on four parallel sticks, rising about five inches 
 the ground, had not weakened the force of higher than the handkerchief, served as ledges 
 his fall. 5 on each side. When I had finished my work, 
 
 There is likewise another diversion, which I desired the emperor to let a troop of his best 
 is only shown before the emperor and empress, horse, twenty-four in number, come and exer- 
 and first minister, upon particular occasions, cise upon this plain. His majesty approved of 
 The emperor lays on a table three fine silken the proposal, and I took them up, one by one, 
 threads of six inches long; one is blue, the other 10 in my hands, ready mounted and armed, with 
 red, and the third green. These threads are the proper oflBcers to exercise them. As soon 
 proposed as prizes for those persons whom the as they got into order they divided into two 
 emperor hath a mind to distinguish by a pe- parties, performed mock skirmishes, discharged 
 culiar mark of his favor. The ceremony is blunt arrows, drew their swords, fled and pur- 
 performed in his majesty's great chamber of 15 sued, attacked, and retired, and, in short, dis- 
 state, where the candidates are to undergo a covered the best military discipline I ever 
 trial of dexterity, very different from the beheld. The parallel sticks secured them and 
 former, and such as I have not observed the their horses from failing over the stage; and 
 least resemblance of in any other country of the emperor was so much delighted that he 
 the old or the new world. The emperor holds 20 ordered this entertainment to be repeated 
 a stick in his hands, both ends parallel to the several days, and once was pleased to be lifted 
 horizon, while the candidates advancing, one up and give the word of command; and with 
 by one, sometimes leap over the stick, some- great difficulty persuaded even the empress 
 times creep under it, backward and forward, herself to let me hold her in her close chair 
 several times, according as the stick is advanced 25 within two yards -X)f the stage, from whence 
 or depressed. Sometimes the emperor holds she was able to take a full view of the whole 
 one end of the stick, and his first minister the performance. It was my good fortune that no 
 other; sometimes the minister has it entirely ill accident happened in these entertainments; 
 to himself. Whoever performs his part with only once a fiery horse, that belonged to one 
 most agility, and holds out the longest in leap- 30 of the captains, pawing with his hoof, struck a 
 ing and creeping, is rewarded with the blue hole in my handkerchief, and his foot slipping, 
 colored silk; and red is given to the next, and he overthrew his rider and himself; but I im- 
 the green to the third, which they all wear mediately relieved them both, and covering 
 girt twice round about the middle; and you the hole with one hand, I set down the troop 
 see few great persons about this court who are 35 with the other, in the same manner as I took 
 not adorned with one of these girdles. them up. The horse that fell was strained in 
 
 The horses of the army, and those of the the left shoulder, but the rider got no hurt; 
 royal stables, having been daily led before me, and I repaired my handkerchief as well as I 
 were no longer shy, but would come up to could: however, I would not trust to the 
 my very feet without starting. The riders 40 strength of it any more in such dangerous 
 would leap them over my hand, as I held it on enterprises, 
 the ground; and one of the emperor's hunts- 
 men, upon a large courser, took my foot, shoe 
 
 and all, which was indeed a prodigious leap. HOW GULLIVER CONQUERED THE 
 I had the good fortune to divert the emperor 45 FLEET OF THE BLEFUSCUDIANS 
 one day after a very extraordinary manner. 
 
 I desired he would order several sticks of two The empire of Blefuscu is an island, situated 
 
 foot high, and the thickness of an ordinary to the northeast of Lilliput, from which it is 
 cane, to be brought me; whereupon »his maj- parted only by a channel of eight hundred 
 esty commanded the master of his woods to so yards wide. I had not yet seen it, and upon 
 give directions accordingly; and the next this notice of an intended invasion I avoided 
 morning six woodmen arrived with as many appearing on that side of the coast, for fear 
 carriages, drawn by eight horses to each. I of being discovered by some of the enemy's 
 took nine of these sticks, and fixing them ships, who had received no intelligence of me; 
 firmly in the ground in a quadrangular figure, 55 all intercourse between the two empires hav- 
 two foot and a half square, I took four other ing been strictly forbidden during the war, 
 sticks, and tied them parallel at each corner, upon pain of death, and an embargo laid by 
 about two foot from the ground; then I fas- our emperor upon all vessels whatsoever. I 
 tened my handkerchief to the nine sticks that communicated to his majesty a project I had 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT 327 
 
 formed, of seizing the enemy's whole fleet; the cord, and, leaving the hooks fixed to the 
 which, as our scouts assured us, lay at anchor ships, I resolutely cut with my knife the cables 
 in the harbor, ready to sail with the first fair that fastened the anchors, receiving about 
 wind. 1 consulted the most experienced sea- two hundred shots in my face and hands; then 
 men upon the depth of the channel, which 5 1 took up the knotted end of the cables, to 
 they had often plumbed; who told me that in which my hooks were tied, and with great ease 
 the middle, at high-water, it was seventy drew fifty of the enemy's largest men-of-war 
 glumgluffs deep, which is about six foot of after me. 
 
 European measure; and the rest of it fifty The Blefuscudians, who had not the least 
 
 glumglujlfs at most. I walked toward the lo imagination of what I intended, were at first 
 northeast coast, over against Blefuscu, and, confounded with astonishment. They had 
 lying down behind a hillock, took out my small seen me cut the cables, and thought my design 
 pocket perspective glass, and viewed the was only to let the ships run adrift, or fall foul 
 enemy's fleet at anchor, consisting of about on each other; but when they perceived the 
 fifty-men-of-war, and a great number of trans- 15 whole fleet moving in order, and saw me pull- 
 ports: I then came back to my house, and ing at the end, they set up such a scream of 
 gave order (for which I had a warrant) for a grief and despair that it is almost impossible 
 great quantity of the strongest cable and bars to describe or conceive. When I had got out 
 of iron. The cable was about as thick as pack- of danger I stopped a while to pick out the 
 thread, and the bars of the length and size of 20 arrows that stuck in my hands and face; and 
 a knitting-needle. I trebled the cable to make rubbed on some of the same ointment that was 
 it stronger, and for the same reason I twisted given me at my first arrival, as I have formerly 
 three of the iron bars together, bending the mentioned. I then took off my spectacles, 
 extremities into a hook. Having thus fixed and, waiting about an hour, till the tide was 
 fifty hooks to as many cables, I went back to 25 a little fallen, I waded through the middle 
 the northeast coast, and, putting off my coat, with my cargo, and arrived safe at the royal 
 shoes, and stockings, walked into the sea, in port of Lilliput. 
 
 my leathern jerkin, about half an hour before The emperor and his whole court stood on 
 
 high-water. I waded with what haste I could, the shore, expecting the issue of this great 
 and swam in the middle about thirty yards, 30 adventure. They saw the ships move forward 
 till I felt ground. I arrived at the fleet in in a large half-moon, but could not discern 
 less than half an hour. The enemy was so me, who was up to my breast in water. When 
 frighted when they saw me that they leaped I advanced to the middle of the channel they 
 out of their ships, and swam to shore, where were yet more in pain, because I was under 
 there could not be fewer than thirty thousand 35 water to my neck. The emperor concluded 
 souls: I then took my tackling, and, fastening me to be drowned, and that the enemy's fleet 
 a hook to the hole at the prow of each, I tied was approaching in a hostile manner; but he 
 all the cords together at the end. While I was was soon eased of his fears: for, the channel 
 thus employed the enemy discharged several growing shallower every step I made, I came 
 thousand arrows, many of which stuck in my 40 in a short time within hearing, and, holding 
 hands and face; and, besides the excessive up the end of the cable by which the fleet was 
 smart, gave me much disturbance in my work, fastened, I cried in a loud voice, "Long live 
 My greatest apprehension was for mine eyes, the most puissant Emperor of Lilliput!" This 
 which I should have infallibly lost, if I had great prince received me at my landing with 
 not suddenly thought of an expedient. I kept, 45 all possible encomiums, and created me a nardac 
 among other little necessaries, a pair of spec- upon the spot, which is the highest title of 
 tacles in a private pocket, which, as I observed honor among them, 
 before, had escaped the emperor's searchers. 
 
 These I took out, and fastened as strongly as ^ VOYAGE TO BROBDIGNAG^ 
 
 I could upon my nose, and, thus armed, went 50 
 
 on boldly with my work, in spite of the enemy's On the 16th day of June, 1703, a boy on 
 arrows, many of which struck against the the topmast discovered land. On the 17th we 
 glasses of my spectacles, but without any other came in full view of a great island, or continent 
 
 effect further than a little to discompose them. , Gulliver returned safely from Lilliput, but after being 
 
 I had now fastened all the hooks, and, taking 55 home for two months prew- restless and left England in a 
 
 the knot in my hand, began to pull; but not ^l^^^Z.^rouiol^ti, ^iXS^^^^Strl 
 
 a ship would stir, for they were all too fast driven eastward for such a distance "that the <'ldest 
 
 held by their anchors, so that the bold part ^l^Z'^''%f"^i'rli^"dri^!;^''Smyt^^^to 
 of my enterprise remained. I therefore let go Brobdignag— the land of the giants. 
 
328 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 (for we knew not whether), on the south side ordinary spire steeple, and took about ten 
 whereof was a small neck of land jutting out yards at every stride, as near as I could guess, 
 into the sea, and a creek too shallow to hold a I was struck with the utmost fear and astonish- 
 ship of above one hundred tons. We cast ment, and ran to hide myself in the corn, from 
 anchor within a league of this creek, and our 5 whence I saw him at the top of the stile, look- 
 captain sent a dozen of his men well armed ing back into the next field on the right hand, 
 in the long-boat, with vessels for water, if any and heard him call in a voice many degrees 
 could be found. I desired his leave to go with louder than a speaking-trumpet; but the noise 
 them, that I might see the country, and make was so high in the air that at first I certainly 
 what discoveries I could. When we came to 10 thought it was thunder. Whereupon seven 
 land we saw no river or spring, nor any sign monsters, like himself, came toward him with 
 of inhabitants. Our men therefore wandered reaping hooks in their hands, each hook about 
 on the shore to find out some fresh water near the largeness of six scythes. These people 
 the sea, and I walked alone about a mile on were not so well clad as the first, whose serv- 
 the other side, where I observed the country 15 ants or laborers they seemed to be; for, upon 
 all barren and rocky. I now began to be some words he spoke, they went to reap the 
 weary, and, seeing nothing to entertain my corn in the field where I lay. I kept from 
 curiosity, I returned gently down toward the them at as great a distance as I could, but was 
 creek; and the sea being full in my view, I saw forced to move with extreme difficulty, for 
 our men already got into the boat, and rowing 20 the stalks of the corn were sometimes not above 
 for fife to the ship. I was going to halloo after a foot distant, so that I could hardly squeeze 
 them, although it had been to little purpose, my body betwixt them. However, I made a 
 when I observed a huge creature walking after shift to go forward till I came to a part of the 
 them in the sea, as fast as he could; he waded field where the corn had been laid by the rain 
 not much deeper than his knees, and took 25 and wind. Here it was impossible for me to 
 prodigious strides; but our men had got the advance a step; for the stalks were so inter- 
 start of him half a league, and the sea there- woven that I could not creep through, and the 
 abouts being full of sharp pointed rocks, the beards of the fallen ears so strong and pointed 
 monster was not able to overtake the boat, that they pierced through my clothes into my 
 This I was afterward told, for I durst not stay 30 flesh. At the same time I heard the reapers 
 to see the issue of that adventure; but ran as not above an hundred yards behind me. Being 
 fast as I could the way I first went, and then quite dispirited with toil, and wholly overcome 
 climbed up a steep hill, which gave me some by grief and despair, I lay down between two 
 prospect of 'the country. I found it fully culti- ridges, and heartily wished I might there end 
 vated; but that which first surprised me was 35 my days. I bemoaned my desolate widow and 
 the length of the grass, which in those grounds fatherless children. I lamented my own folly 
 that seemed to be kept for hay was above and willfulness in attempting a second voyage, 
 twenty foot high. against the advice of all my friends and rela- 
 
 I fell into a highroad, for so I took it to be, tions. In this terrible agitation of mind I 
 though it served to the inhabitants only as a 40 could not forbear thinking of Lilliput, whose 
 footpath through a field of barley. Here I inhabitants looked upon me as the greatest 
 walked on for some time, but could see little prodigy that ever appeared in the world; where 
 on either side, it being now near harvest, and I was able to draw an imperial fleet in my hand, 
 the corn rising at least forty foot. I was an and perform those other actions which will 
 hour walking to the end of this field, which 45 be recorded forever in the chronicles of that 
 was fenced in wdth a hedge of at least one empire, while posterity shall hardly believe 
 hundred and twenty foot high, and the trees them, although attested by millions. I re- 
 80 lofty that I could make no computation of fleeted what a mortification it must prove to 
 their altitude. There was a stile to pass from me to appear as inconsiderable in this nation 
 this field into the next. It had four steps, and 50 as one single Lilliputian would be among us. 
 a stone to cross over when you came to the But this I conceived was to be the least of 
 uppermost. It was impossible for me to climb my misfortunes; for, as human creatures are 
 this stile, because every step was six foot high, observed to be more savage and cruel in pro- 
 and the upper stone above twenty. I was portion to their bulk, what could I expect but 
 endeavoring to find some gap in the hedge, 55 to be a morsel in the mouth of the first amongv 
 when I discovered one of the inhabitants in these enormous barbarians that should happen ) 
 the next field, advancing toward the stile, of to seize me? Undoubtedly philosophers are 
 the same size with him whom I saw in the sea in the right when they tell us that nothing is 
 pursuing our boat. He appeared as tall as an great or little otherwise than by comparison. 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT 329 
 
 It might have pleased fortune to let the Lilli- servant could give him, took a piece of a small 
 putians find some nation, where the people straw, about the size of a walking-staff, and 
 were as diminutive with respect to them as therewith lifted up the lappets of my coat; 
 they were to me. And who knows but that which, it seems, he thought to be some kind 
 even this prodigious race of mortals might be 5 of covering that nature had given me. He 
 equally overmatched in some distant part of blew my hairs aside to take a better view of 
 the world, whereof we have yet no discovery. my face. He called his hinds about him, and 
 
 Scared and confounded as I was, I could not asked them, as I afterward learned, whether 
 forbear going on with these reflections, when they had ever seen in the fields any little crea- 
 one of the reapers, approaching within ten yards lo ture that resembled me? He then placed me 
 of the ridge where I lay, made me apprehend softly on the ground upon all four, but I got 
 that with the next step I should be squashed immediately up and walked slowly backward 
 to death under his foot, or cut in two with his and forward, to let those people see I had no 
 reaping-hook. And therefore when he was intent to run away. They all sate down in a 
 again about to move, I screamed as loud as 15 circle about me, the better to observe my mo- 
 fear could make me; whereupon the huge tions. I pulled off my hat, and made a low 
 creature trod short, and, looking round about bow toward the farmer. I fell on my knees, 
 under him for some time, at last espied me as and lifted up my hands and eyes, and spoke 
 1 lay on the ground. He considered awhile, several words as loud as I could; I took a purse 
 with the caution of one who endeavors to lay 20 of gold out of my pocket, and humbly pre- 
 hold on a small dangerous animal in such a sented it to him. He received it on the palm 
 manner that it may not be able either to scratch of his hand, then applied it close to his eye to 
 or to bite him, as I myself have sometimes see what it was, and afterward turned it several 
 done with a weasel in England. At length times with the point of a pin (which he took 
 he ventured to take me . up behind, by the 25 out of his sleeve), but could make nothing of 
 middle, between his forefinger and thumb, and it. Whereupon I made a sign that he should 
 brought me within three yards of his eyes, place his hand on the ground. 1 then took 
 that he might behold my shape more perfectly, the purse, and opening it, poured all the gold 
 I guessed his meaning, and my good fortune into his palm. There were six Spanish pieces 
 gave me so much presence of mind that I re- 30 of four pistoles each, besides twenty or thirty 
 solved not to struggle in the least as he held smaller coins. I saw him wet the tip of his 
 me in the air above sixty foot from the ground, little finger upon his tongue, and take up one 
 although he grievously pinched my sides, for of my largest pieces, and then another; but 
 fear I should slip through his fingers. All I he seemed to be wholly ignorant what they 
 ventured was to raise mine eyes toward the 35 were. He made me a sign to put them again 
 sun, and place my hands together in a sup- into my purse, and the purse again into my 
 plicating posture, and to speak some words pocket, which, after offering to him several 
 in an humble, melancholy tone, suitable to times, I thought it best to do. 
 the condition I then was in; for I apprehended The farmer, by this time, was convinced I 
 every moment that he would dash me against 40 must be a rational creature. He spoke often 
 the ground, as we usually do any little hateful to me; but the sound of his voice pierced my 
 animal which we have a mind to destroy. But ears like that of a water-mill, yet his words were 
 my good star would have it that he appeared articulate enough. I answered as loud as I 
 pleased with my voice and gestures, and began could in several languages, and he often laid 
 to look upon me as a curiosity, much wonder- 45 his ear within two yards of me; but all in vain, 
 ing to hear me pronounce articulate words, for we were wholly unintelligible to each other, 
 although he could not understand them. In He then sent his servants to their work, and 
 the meantime I was not able to forbear groan- taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, he 
 ing and shedding tears, and turning my head doubled, and spread it on his left hand, which 
 toward my sides; letting him know as well as 50 he placed flat on the ground, with the palm 
 I could how cruelly I was hurt by the pressure upward, making me a sign to step into it, as I 
 of his thumb and finger. He seemed to appre- could easily do, for it was not above a foot in 
 hend my meaning; for, lifting up the lappet of thickness. I thought it my part to obey; and 
 his coat, he put me gently into it, and im- for fear of falling laid myself at full length upon 
 mediately ran along with me to his master, 55 the handkerchief, with the remainder of which 
 who was a substantial farmer, and the same he lapped me up to the head for further se- 
 person I had first seen in the field. curity, and in this manner carried me home 
 
 The farmer having (as I supposed by their to his house. There he called his wife, and 
 talk) received such an account of me as his showed me to her; but she screamed and ran 
 
330 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 back, as women in England do at the sight of lature; to be members of the highest court of 
 a toad or spider. However, whe.n she had judicature, from whence there can be no ap- 
 awhile seen my behavior, and how well I ob- peal; and to be champions always ready for 
 served the signs her husband made, she was the defence of their prince and country, by 
 soon reconciled, and by degrees grew extremely 5 their valor, conduct, and fidehty. That these 
 tender of me. . . . were the ornament and bulwark of the king- 
 
 The king, who, . . . was a prince of ex- dom, worthy followers of their most renowned 
 cellent understanding, would frequently order ancestors, whose honor have been the reward 
 that I should be brought in my box, and set of their virtue, from which their posterity were 
 upon the table in his closet : he would then lo never once known to degenerate. To these 
 command me to bring one of my chairs out were joined several holy persons, as part of 
 of the box, and sit down within three yards' that assembly, under the title of bishops; 
 distance upon the top of the cabinet, which whose peculiar business it is to take care of 
 brought me almost to a level with his face, religion, and of those who instruct the people 
 In this manner I had several conversations 15 therein. These were searched and sought out 
 with him. I one day took the freedom to through the whole nation, by the prince and 
 tell his majesty that the contempt he dis- his wisest counselors, among such of the priest- 
 covered toward Europe, and the rest of the hood as were most deservedly distinguished 
 world, did not seem answerable to those ex- by the sanctity of their lives and the depth of 
 cellent quahties of mind that he was master 20 their erudition; who were indeed the spiritual 
 of; that reason did not extend itself with the fathers of the clergy and the people, 
 bulk of the body; on the contrary, we observed That the other part of the parliament con- 
 
 in our country that the tallest persons were sisted of an assembly called the House of 
 usually least provided with it; that among Commons, who were all principal gentlemen, 
 other animals, bees and ants had the reputa- 25 freely picked and culled out by the people 
 tion of more industry, art, and sagacity, than themselves, for their great abilities and love 
 many of the larger kinds; and that, as incon- of their country, to represent the wisdom of 
 siderable as he took me to be, I hoped I might the whole nation. And that these two bodies 
 live to do his majesty some signal service, made up the most august assembly in Europe; 
 The king heard me with attention, and began 30 to whom, in conjunction with the prince, the 
 to conceive a much better opinion of me than whole legislature is committed, 
 he had ever before. He desired I would give I then descended to the courts of justice; 
 
 him as exact an account of the government of over which the judges, those venerable sages 
 England as I possibly could; because, as fond and interpreters of the law, presided, for de- 
 as princes commonly are of their own customs 35 termining the disputed rights and properties 
 (for so he conjectured of other monarchs by my of men, as well as for the punishment of vice 
 former discourses), he should be glad to hear and protection of innocence. I mentioned the 
 of anything that might deserve imitation. prudent management of our treasury; the 
 
 Imagine with thyself, courteous reader, how valor and achievements of our forces, by sea 
 often I then wished for the tongue of Demos- 40 and land. I computed the number of our 
 thenes or Cicero, that might have enabled me people by reckoning how many millions there 
 to celebrate the praise of my own dear native might be of each religious sect, or political 
 country in a style equal to its merits and party, among us. I did not omit even our 
 felicity. sports and pastimes, or any other particular 
 
 I began my discourse by informing his maj- 45 which I thought might redound to the honor 
 esty that our dominions consisted of two of my country. And I finished all with a 
 islands, which composed three mighty king- brief historical account of affairs and events 
 doms, under one sovereign, besides our plan- in England for about an hundred years past, 
 tations in America. I dwelt long upon the This conversation was not ended undfer five 
 
 fertility of our soil, and the temperature of 50 audiences, each of several hours; and the king 
 our climate. I then spoke at large upon the heard the whole with great attention, fre- 
 constitution of an English parhament; partly quently taking notes of what I spoke, as well 
 made up of an illustrious body, called the as memorandums of all questions he intended 
 House of Peers; persons of the noblest blood, to ask me. 
 
 and of the most ancient and ample patrimonies. 55 When I had put an end to these long dis-V 
 I described that extraordinary care always courses, his majesty, in a sixth audience, con- n 
 taken of their education in arts and arms, to suiting his notes, proposed many doubts, 
 qualify them for being counselors both to the queries, and objections upon every article, 
 king and kingdom; to have a share in the legis- He asked what methods were used to culti- 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT 331 
 
 vate the minds and bodies of our young no- and wrong, and what degree of expense? 
 bility, and in what kind of business they com- Whether advocates and orato^ had liberty 
 monly spent the first and teachable part of to plead in causes manifestly known to be un- 
 their lives? What course was taken to supply just, vexatious, or oppressive? Whether party, 
 that assembly, when any noble family became 5 in religion or politics, were observed to be 
 extinct? What qualifications were necessary of any weight in the scale of justice? Whether 
 in those who are to be created new lords; those pleading orators were persons educated 
 whether the humor of the prince, a sum of in the general knowledge of equity, or only in 
 money to a court lady or a prime minister, provincial, national, and other local customs? 
 or a design of strengthening a party opposite lo Whether they or their judges had any part in 
 to the public interest, ever happened to be mo- penning those laws, which they assumed the 
 tives in those advancements? What share of liberty of interpreting and glossing upon at 
 knowledge these lords had in the laws of their their pleasure? Whether they had ever, at 
 country, and how they came by it, so as to different times, pleaded for and against the 
 enable them to decide the properties of their 15 same cause, and cited precedents to prove con- 
 fellow-subjects in the last resort? Whether trary opinions? Whether they were a rich 
 they were always so free from avarice, partiali- or a poor corporation? Whether they received 
 ties, or want, that a bribe, or some other any pecuniary reward for pleading or deliver- 
 sinister view, could have no place among them? ing their opinions? And particularly, whether 
 Whether those holy lords I spoke of were 20 they were ever admitted as members in the 
 always promoted to that rank upon account lower senate? 
 
 of their knowledge in religious matters, and He fell next upon the management of our 
 the sanctity of their lives; had never been com- treasury; and said he thought my memory 
 pliers with the times, while they were common had failed me, because I computed our taxes 
 priests; or slavish prostitute chaplains to some 25 at about five or six millions a year, and when 
 nobleman, whose opinions they continued I came to mention the issues, he found they 
 servilely to follow, after they were admitted sometimes amounted to more than double; 
 into that assembly? for the notes he had taken were very particular 
 
 He then desired to know what arts were in this point, because he hoped, as he told 
 practiced in electing those whom I called 30 me, that the knowledge of our conduct might 
 commoners; whether a stranger, with a strong be useful to him, and he could not be deceived 
 purse, might not influence the vulgar voters in his calculations. But, if what I told him 
 to choose him before their own landlord, or were true, he was still at a loss how a kingdom 
 the most considerable gentleman in the neigh- could run out of its estate, like a private person, 
 borhood? How it came to pass that people 35 He asked me who were our creditors, and 
 were so violently bent upon getting into this where we found money to pay them? He 
 assembly, which I allowed to be a great trouble wondered to hear me talk of such chargeable 
 and expense, often to the ruin of their famihes, and expensive wars. That certainly we must 
 without any salary or pension; because this be a quarrelsome people, or hve among very 
 appeared such an exalted strain of virtue and 40 bad neighbors, and that our generals must 
 public spirit, that his majesty seemed to doubt needs be richer than our kings. He asked what 
 it might possibly not be always sincere. And business we had out of our own islands, unless 
 he desired to know whether such zealous gen- upon the score of trade, or treaty, or to defend 
 tlemen could have any views of refunding the coasts with our fleet? Above all, he was 
 themselves for the charges and trouble they 45 amazed to hear me talk of a mercenary stand- 
 were at, by sacrificing the pubhc good to the ing army in the midst of peace and among a 
 designs of a weak and vicious prince, in con- free people. He said if we were governed by 
 junction with a corrupted ministry. He mul- our own consent, in the persons of our repre- 
 tiplied his questions, and sifted me thoroughly sentatives, he could not imagine of whom we 
 upon every part of this head, proposing num- 50 were afraid, or against whom we were to fight; 
 berless inquiries and objections, which I think and would hear my opinion, whether a private 
 it not prudent or convenient to repeat. man's house might not better be defended by 
 
 Upon what I said in relation to our courts of himself, his cl^idren and family, than by half 
 justice, his majesty desired to be satisfied in a dozen rascals, picked up at a venture m the 
 several points: and this I was the better able 55 streets for small wages, who might get an 
 to do, having been formerly almost ruined by hundred times more by cutting their throats. 
 a long suit in the Chancery, which was decreed He laughed at my odd kind of arithmetic, 
 
 for me, with costs. He asked what time was as he was pleased to call it, in reckonmg the 
 usually spent in determining between right numbers of our people, by a computation 
 
332 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 drawn from the several sects among us in reli- try; or counselors, for their wisdom. As for 
 gion and politics. He said he knew no reason yourself," continued the king, ''who have 
 why those who entertain opinions prejudicial spent the greatest part of your life in travelling, 
 to the public should be obliged to change, I am well disposed to hope you may hitherto 
 or should not be obliged to conceal them. And, 5 have escaped many vices of your country, 
 as it was tyranny in any government to require But, by what I have gathered from your own 
 the first, so it was weakness not to enforce the relation, and the answers I have with much 
 second; for a man may be allowed to keep pains wringed and extorted from you, I can- 
 poisons in his closet, but not to vend them not but conclude the bulk of your natives to 
 about for cordials. 10 be the most pernicious race of little odious 
 
 He observed, that, among the diversions of vermin that Nature ever suffered to crawl 
 
 our nobility and gentry, I had mentioned gam- upon the surface of the earth." 
 ing: he desired to know at what age this en- 
 tertainment was usually taken up, and when 
 
 it was laid down; how much of their time it 15 31O0^l) jSDDi^Ott 
 'employed; whether it ever went so high as to 
 
 affect their fortunes; whether mean, vicious 1672-1719 
 
 people, by their dexterity in that art, might «OFTTY THF POFT 
 
 not arrive at great riches, and sometimes keep ^^^ ^^^ ^^^' ^"^ ^^^^ 
 
 our very nobles in dependence, as well as 20 (7^/^^ Taller, No. 163, 1709-1711) 
 habituate them to vile companions; wholly 
 
 take them from the improvement of their Idem inficeto est inficelior rure, 
 
 minds, and force them, by the losses they have 'SmwZ poemata attigit; neque idem unquam 
 
 received, to learn and practice that infamous ^^i^^ eslheatus, ac poema quum scnbU: 
 de teritv UDon others? 2' ^^^ gaudet m se, tamque se ipse miratur. 
 
 „ yP • -^T i, 1- Nimirum idem omnes fallimur; neque est quis- 
 
 He was perfectly astonished with the his- ouam 
 
 torical account I gave him of our affairs dur- Quem non in aliqua re videre Suffnum 
 ing the last century; protesting, it was only a Possis — 
 
 heap of conspiracies, rebellions, murders, mas- Catul. de Suffeno, xx, 14. 
 
 sacres, revolutions, banishments — the very 30 
 
 worst effects that avarice, faction, hypocrisy, (Suffenus has no more wit than a mere clown 
 
 perfidiousness, cruelty, rage, madness, hatred, when he attempts to write verses; and yet he is 
 envy, lust, malice, or ambition could produce, never happier than when he is scribbling: so 
 His majesty, in another audience, was at much does he admire himself and his composv- 
 the pains to recapitulate the sum of all I had 35 tions. And, indeed, this is the foible of every 
 spoken; compared the questions he made with one of us; for there is no man living who is not 
 the answers I had given; then, taking me into a Suffenus in one thing or other.) 
 his hands, and stroking me gently, delivered 
 
 himself in these words, which I shall never WilVs Coffee-house, April 24- 
 
 forget, nor the manner he spoke them in: "My 40 I yesterday came hither^ about two hours 
 little friend Grildrig, you have made a most ad- before the company generally make their ap- 
 mirable panegyric upon your country; you have pearance, with a design to read over all the 
 clearly proved that ignorance, idleness, and newspapers; but upon my sitting down, I was 
 vice are the proper ingredients for qualifying a accosted by Ned Softly, who saw me from a 
 legislator; the laws are best explained, inter- 45 corner in the other end of the room, where I 
 preted and applied, by those whose interests found he had been writing something. "Mr. 
 and abilities lie in perverting, confounding, and Bickerstaff,"^ says he, "I observe by a late 
 eluding them. I observe among you some lines paper of yours, that you and I are just of a 
 of an institution, which, in its original, might humour; for you must know, of all imperti- 
 have been tolerable, but these half-erased, and 50 nences, there is nothing which I so much hate 
 the rest wholly blurred and blotted by cor- as news. I never read a gazette in my life; 
 ruptions. It doth not appear from all you and never trouble my head about our armies, 
 have said how any one perfection is required, whether they win or lose; or in what part of 
 toward the procurement of any one station the world they lie encamped." Without giv- 
 
 among you; much less, that men are ennobled 55 1 since the days of Dryden (who patronized it res- 
 
 On account of their virtue; that priests are ularly) Will's Cofee-House, on the north side of Russell 
 
 , ,« ,1. ., i" . IT street near Covent uarden, was a famous resort for the 
 
 advanced for their piety or learning; soldiers, critics and the wits of the town. 
 
 for their conduct or valor; judges, for their /P^'^j'.^® ^¥"^1 ^^^^l", adopted as the pseudonym 
 .... ^ e ^1 \ e li^ • of the Editor of the Toiler. V. note on Bwkerstaff, 
 
 integrity; senators, for the love of their coun- p. 321. and n. 1, suwa. 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON 333 
 
 ing me time to reply, he drew a paper of verses shaking me by the hand, "everybody knows 
 
 out of his pocket, telling me, "That he had you to be a judge of these things; and, to tell 
 
 something which would entertain me more you truly, I read over Roscommon's^ transla- 
 
 agreeably; and that he would desire my judg- tion of Horace's 'Art of Poetry' three several 
 
 ment upon every line, for that we had time 5 times before I sat down to write the sonnet 
 
 enough before us until the company came in." which I have shown you. But you shall hear 
 
 Ned Softly is a very pretty poet, and a great it again, and pray observe every line of it, 
 
 admirer of easy lines. Waller is his favourite:^ for not one of them shall pass without your 
 
 and as that admirable writer has the best and approbation. 
 
 worst verses of any among our great English 10 ^^^^^ ^^ ^ .^ , 
 
 poets, Ned Softly has got all the bad ones with- ^ 
 
 out book; which he repeats upon occasion, to "This is," says he, "when you have your 
 
 show his reading, and garnish his conversa- garland on; when you are writing verses." 
 
 tion. Ned is indeed a true English reader, To which I rephed, "I know your meaning: 
 
 incapable of relishing the great and masterly 15 a metaphor!" "The same," said he, and 
 
 strokes of this art; but wonderfully pleased went on. 
 
 with the little Gothic ornaments of epigram- a i ^ a. i j- i. 
 
 ^ ,. , -i. 4. -4. J ^uu^ -^iitl tune your soft melodious notes, 
 
 matical conceits, turns, points, and quibbles, "^ 
 
 which are so frequent in the most admired of "Pray observe the gliding of that verse; 
 
 our English poets, and practised by those who 20 there is scarce a consonant in it : I took care 
 want genius and strength to represent, after to make it run upon liquids. Give me your 
 the manner of the ancients, simplicity in its opinion of it." "Truly," said I, "I think it 
 natural beauty and perfection. as good as the former." "I am very glad to 
 
 Finding myself unavoidably engaged in hear you say so," says he; "but mind the next 
 such a conversation, I was resolved to turn my 25 ^^ • . <• -i at- 
 
 pain into a pleasure, and to divert myself as ^ou seem a sister of the Nine, 
 
 well as I could with so very odd a fellow. "That is," says he, "you seem a sister of 
 
 "You must understand," says Ned, "that the Muses; for, if you look into ancient au- 
 the sonnet* I am going to read to you was thors, you will find it was their opinion, that 
 written upon a lady who showed me some 30 there were nine of them." "I remember it 
 verses of her own making, and is, perhaps, the very well," said I; "but pray proceed." 
 best poet of our age. But you shall hear it." r\ n-u i, f ^e • ij.- i. 
 
 Upon which he began to read as follows: ^^ ^^^^"^ «^1^ ^^ petticoats. 
 
 "Phoebus," says he, "was the god of Poetry. 
 
 TO MIRA, ON HER INCOMPARABLE 35 These little instances, Mr. Bickerstaff show 
 
 POEMS ^ gentleman s reading. Then to take on from 
 
 / the air of learning, which Pha^bus and the 
 
 1 Muses have given to this first stanza, you may 
 When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine, observe, how it falls all of a sudden into the 
 
 And tune your soft melodious notes, 40famihar — 'in petticoats!'" 
 
 You seem a sister of the Nine, /-. t.i- i. > u? • xa- a. 
 
 Or Phoebus' seK in petticoats. Or Phcebus self in petticoats. 
 
 2 "Let us now," says I, "enter upon the sec- 
 i ^ , . end stanza; I find the first line is still a con- 
 
 I fancy, when your song you smg, ^^ tinuation of the metaphor. 
 
 Your song you sing with so mucn art, 
 Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing; I fancy when your song you sing. 
 
 For, ah! it wounds me like his dart. ^. .,„ i^.i^ u 
 
 "It IS very right," says he; "but pray ob- 
 
 "Why," says I, "this is a little nosegay of serve the turn of words in those two lines. I 
 
 conceits, a very lump of salt: every verse hath 50 was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and 
 
 something in it that piques; and then the dart have still a doubt upon me whether, in the 
 
 in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in second line it should be— 'Your song you sing; 
 
 the tail of an epigram (for so I think you critics or, You sing your song? ' You shall hear them 
 
 call it) as ever entered into the thought of a both: — 
 
 poet/' "Dear Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, 55 ^ , ,o it 
 
 ^ ] 6 Wentworth Dillon. Earl of Roscommon, nephew of 
 
 » Edmund Waller (1605-1687), was looked up to as a the famous Thomas Wentworth. Earl of Strafford, and a 
 
 great refiner of language and style, and as a master of contemporary of Waller. Besides his translation of the 
 
 English versification ^ "^ Ars Poetira ( 1 (580) . he wrote an essay On Translated Verse. 
 
 * In Addison's time the sonnet form was neglected, and which influenced Dryden.and which teaches the impor- 
 
 t,he wor4 Sonnet was applied loosely to any short poem. tance of following set rules m poetical compoaition. 
 
334 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 I fancy, when your song you sing. my papers, and receiving my morning lectures 
 
 (Your song you smg with so much art); with a becoming seriousness and attention. 
 
 or, My publisher tells me that there are already 
 
 I fancy, when your song you sing, ^ ^^\^^ *^?f ^,^^ ^^ *^^^ distributed every day; 
 
 (You sing your song with so much art). ^ ^° ^^^* " I allow twenty readers to every paper, 
 
 which I look upon as a modest computation, 
 "Truly," said I, "the turn is so natural I may reckon about threescore thousand dia- 
 eitlier way, that you have made me almost ciples in London and Westminster, ^ who I 
 giddy with it." "Dear sir," said he, grasping hope will take care to distinguish themselves 
 me by the hand, "you have a great deal of 10 from the thoughtless herd of their ignorant 
 patience; but pray what do you think of the and unattentive brethren. Since I have raised 
 next verse?" to myself so great an audience, I shall spare no 
 
 -Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing. Jf ^!^^ *^ °^^!^^ ^^^'\ instruction agreeable, and 
 
 their diversion useful. For which reasons I 
 
 "Think!" says I; "I think you have made 15 shall endeavour to enliven morality with wit, 
 Cupid look like a little goose." "That was and to temper wit with morality, that my read- 
 my meaning," says he: "I think the ridicule ers may, if possible, both ways find their ad- 
 is well enough hit off. But we come now to count in the speculation of the day.^ And to 
 the last, which sums up the whole matter. the end that their virtue and discretion may 
 
 „ 1 , .^ 1 ^^^ 1- J jT 20 not be short, transient, intermitting starts of 
 
 For, ah! it wounds me like his dart. .i. i-iTi. ijj. e i r^ • 
 
 j.yjL, ciix. xo vYwi^ v*o o VIC* V. thought. I have resolved to refresh their mem- 
 
 "Pray how do you like that Ahf doth it not ories from day to day, till I have recovered 
 
 make a pretty figure in that place? Ah! — it them out of that desperate state of vice and 
 
 looks as if I felt the dart, and cried out at being folly into which the age is fallen. The mind 
 
 pricked with it. 25 that lies fallow but a single day, sprouts up in 
 
 „ T , .^ 1 Ti 1 • J i follies that are only to be killed by a constant 
 
 For, ah! it wounds me like his dart. ^^^ assiduous culture. It was said of Socrates 
 
 "My friend Dick Easy," continued he, that he brought philosophy down from heaven, 
 "assured me he would rather have written to inhabit among men; and I shall be ambi- 
 that Ah! than to have been the author of the 30 tious to have it said of me, that I have brought 
 ^neid. He indeed objected, that I made philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools 
 Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines, and and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, 
 
 like a dart in the other- But as to that " at tea-tables, and in coffee-houses.' 
 
 "Oh! as to that," says I, "it is but supposing I would, therefore, in a very particular 
 
 Cupid to be like a porcupine, and his quills 35 manner, recommend these my speculations 
 and darts will be the same thing." He was to all well-regulated famihes, that set apart 
 going to embrace me for the hint; but half a an hour in every morning for tea and bread 
 dozen critics coming into the room, whose and butter; and would earnestly advise them 
 faces he did not like, he conveyed the sonnet for their good, to order this paper to be punc- 
 into his pocket, and whispered me in the ear, 40 tually served up, and to be looked upon as a 
 he would show it me again as soon as his man part of the tea-equipage, 
 had written it over fair. Sir Francis Bacon observes,^ that a well 
 
 written book, compared with its rivals and 
 
 ttt:^ rMiTTTio-T. r\T? n^xr^:> oT>-c^r^rr \ rr^r\Ty antagonists, is like Moses's serpent, that im- 
 
 THE OBJECT OF THE SPECTATOR 45 mediately swallowed up and devoured those 
 
 {The Spectator, No. 10, 1711-1714) ^^ ^^- Egyptians. I shall not be so vain as to 
 
 think, that where the Spectator appears, the 
 Non aliter quam qui adverso vix flumine lemhum other public prints will vanish; but shall leave 
 Remigiis subigit: si brachia forte remisit, it to my reader's consideration, whether it is 
 
 A tque ilium in jyrceceps prono rapit alveus amni. -q 
 
 ViRG. ^ Addison's "London" is the modern "City," the part 
 
 of London lying to the East of the Temple and comprising 
 ry 1 1 , , 7 , the commercial and money-making part of the metropolis. 
 
 So the boat S brawny crew the current stem, "Westminster" corresponds to the modern "West 
 
 And, slow advancing, struggle with the stream: End," the quarter west of the Temple "which spends 
 
 But if they slack their hands, or cease to strive, ?eXLoSn?pp^ 93-94) regulates fashion. ( v. Baede- 
 
 Then down the flood with headlong haste they 55 2 i. e., shall find something to interest them in the dia- 
 drive. cussion, etc. 
 
 DRYnFM ^ ^^" '^^^^ Macaulay says of his History of England: 
 
 "I shall not be satisfied unless I produce something which 
 It is with much satisfaction that I hear this shall for a few days supersede the last fashionable novel 
 ., . . . 1,1 c, ,1 on the tables of young ladies, 
 
 great City inquiring day by day after these * Advancement of Learning, Bk.lI,Introd.,^U, 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON 335 
 
 not much better to be let into the knowledge have often thought there has not been suflScient 
 of one's self, than to hear what passes in Mus- pains taken in finding out proper employments 
 covy^ or Poland; and to amuse ourselves with and diversions for the fair ones. Their amuse- 
 such writings as tend to the wearing out of ments seem contrived for them, rather as they 
 ignorance, passion, and prejudice, than such 5 are women, than as they are reasonable crea- 
 as naturally conduce to inflame hatreds, and tures, and are more adapted to the sex than 
 make enmities irreconcilable. to the species. The toilet is their great scene 
 
 In the next place, I would recommend this of business, and the right adjusting of their 
 paper to the daily perusal of those gentlemen hair the principal employment of their lives, 
 whom I cannot but consider as my good broth- lo The sorting of a suit of ribbons is reckoned a 
 ers and allies, I mean the fraternity of spec- very good morning's work; and if they make 
 tators, who Uve in the world without having an excursion to a mercer's^ or a toy-shop, ^^ so 
 anything to do in it; and either by the afflu- great a fatigue makes them unfit for anything 
 ence of their fortunes, or laziness of their dis- else all the day after. ^^ Their more serious 
 positions, have no other business with the 15 occupations are sewing and embroidery, and 
 rest of mankind but to look upon them. Under their greatest drudgery the preparation of 
 this class of men are comprehended all contem- jelUes and sweet-meats. This I say, is the 
 plative tradesmen, titular physicians,^ Fellows state of ordinary women; though I know there 
 of the Royal Society, Templars that are not are multitudes of those of a more elevated 
 given to be contentious,^ and statesmen that 20 life and conversation, that move in an exalted 
 are out of business; in short, every one that sphere of knowledge and virtue, that join all 
 considers the world as a theatre, and desires the beauties of the mind to the ornaments 
 to form a right judgment of those who are the of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and respect, 
 actors on it. as well as love, into their male beholders. I 
 
 There is another set of men that I must like- 25 hope to increase the number of these by pub- 
 wise lay a claim to, whom I have lately called hshing this daily paper, which I shall always 
 the blanks of society, as being altogether un- endeavour to make an innocent, if not an 
 furnished with ideas, till the business and improving entertainment, and by that means 
 conversation of the day has supplied them, at least divert the minds of my female readers 
 I have often considered these poor souls with 30 from greater trifles. At the same time, as I 
 an eye of great commiseration, when I have would fain give some finishing touches to those 
 heard them asking the first man they have which are already the most beautiful pieces in 
 met with, whether there was any news stirring, human nature, I shall endeavour to point out 
 and, by that means, gathering together ma- all those imperfections that are the blemishes, 
 terials for thinking. These needy persons do 35 as well as those virtues which are the embellish- 
 not know what to talk of till about twelve ments of the sex. In the meanwhile I hope 
 o'clock in the morning; for, by that time, they these my gentle readers, who have so much 
 are pretty good judges of the weather, know time on their hands, will not grudge throwing 
 which way the wind sits, and whether the away a quarter of an hour in a day on this 
 Dutch maiP be come in. As they lie at the 40 paper, since they may do it without any hin- 
 mercy of the first man they meet, and are drance to business. 
 
 grave or impertinent all the day long, accord- I know several of my friends and well-wishers 
 ing to the notions which they have imbibed are in great pain for me, lest I should not be 
 in the morning, I would earnestly entreat able to keep up the spirit of a paper which I 
 them not to stir out of their chambers till they 45 oblige myself to furnish every day: but to 
 have read this paper, and do promise them make them easy in this particular, I will 
 that I will daily instil into them such sound promise them faithfully to give it over as 
 and wholesome sentiments, as shall have a soon as I grow dull. This I know will be a 
 good effect on their conversation for the ensu- matter of great raillery to the small wits; who 
 ing twelve hours. 50 will frequently put me in mind of my promise, 
 
 But there are none to whom this paper will desire me to keep my word, assure me that it 
 be more useful than to the female world. I is high time to give over, with many other 
 
 little pleasantries of the like nature, which 
 
 » Russia. ■ h • 1 h f ^^^ °^ ^ ^^**^® smart genius cannot forbear 
 
 '^/e^'.^^la^^rTwlthou^t^much^fa^cSce^Tawyer^ were 55 throwing out against their best friends, when 
 
 called "Templars" because they lived in the "Temple," they have SUch a handle given them of being 
 
 originally a lodge of the Knights Templar. "^ . 
 
 8 In the spring of 1711 Marlborough had been sent to » A dealer in silks, or small wares. 
 
 Flanders, and at the time this paper was written English- lo A shop for the sale of millinery nbbons, brocades, 
 
 men were looking for news of a decisive victory over the embroidery," etc. 
 
 French. " All the rest of the day. 
 
336 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 witty. But let them remember that I do in every shovelful of it that was thrown up, 
 hereby enter my caveat^^ against this piece the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed 
 of raillery. with a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that 
 
 some time or other had a place in the composi- 
 
 THOUGHTS IN WESTMINSTER consider with myself what innumerable mul- 
 
 Atlliliii titudes of people lay confused together under 
 
 {The Spectator, No. 26, March 30, 1711) *^® pavement of that ancient cathedral; how 
 
 men and women, friends and enemies, priests 
 Pallida mors oBQiu) pulsat pede pauperum tabemas 10 a,nd soldiers, monks and prebendaries, ^ were 
 
 Regumque turres. heate sexti, crumbled amongst one another, and blended 
 
 VitcB summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare together in the same common mass; how 
 
 JamteTremet nox, fabulcEqy^ manes, ^^^^i^^' strength, and youth, with old age 
 
 Et domusexilis Plutonia—-- weakness, and deformity, lay undistmguished 
 
 jjoR, 1^ 1^ ^^^ same promiscuous heap of matter. 
 
 After having thus surveyed this great maga- 
 
 With equal foot, rich friend, impartial fate zine of mortality, as it were in the lump, I 
 
 Knocks at the cottage and the palace gate: examined it more particularly by the accounts 
 
 "^InVrK^^^^^^^^ ^ I ^-nd on several of the monuments 
 
 Night soon will seize, and you must quickly go ^0 which are raised m every quarter of that an- 
 Tostary'd ghosts, and Pluto's house below. cient fabric. Some of them were covered 
 
 Creech. with such extravagant epitaphs, that, if it 
 
 were possible for the dead person to be ac- 
 
 When I am in a serious humour, I very often quainted with them, he would blush at the 
 walk by myself in Westminster Abbey; where 25 praises which his friends have bestowed upon 
 the gloominess of the place, and the use to him. There are others so excessively modest, 
 which it is applied, with the solemnity of the that they deliver the character of the person 
 building, and the condition of the people who departed in Greek or Hebrew, and by that 
 lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind means are not understood once in a twelve- 
 of melancholy, or rather thoughtf ulness, that 30 month. In the poetical quarter,' I found there 
 is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a were poets who had no monuments, and monu- 
 whole afternoon in the churchyard, the clois- ments which had no poets. I observed indeed, 
 ters, and the church, amusing myself with that the present war^ had filled the church 
 the tombstones and inscriptions that I met with many of these uninhabited monuments, 
 with in those several regions of the dead. Most 35 which had been erected to the memory of per- 
 of them recorded nothing else of the buried sons whose bodies were perhaps buried in the 
 person, but that he was born upon one day, plains of Blenheim,^ or in the bosom of the 
 and died upon another: the whole history of ocean. 
 
 his life being comprehended in those two cir- I could not but be very delighted with several 
 
 cumstances, that are common to all mankind. 40 modern epitaphs, which are written with 
 I could not but look upon these registers of great elegance of expression and justness of 
 existence, whether of brass or marble, as a thought, and therefore do honour to the living 
 kind of satire upon the departed persons; who as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very 
 had left no other memorial of them but that apt to conceive an idea of the ignorance or the 
 they were born and that they died. They 45 politeness of a nation, from the turn of their 
 put me in mind of several persons mentioned public monuments and inscriptions, they 
 in the battles of heroic poems, who have sound- should be submitted to the perusal of men 
 ing names given them, for no other reason but of learning and genius, before they are put in 
 that they may be killed, and are celebrated execution. Sir Cloudesly Shovel's ^ monument 
 for nothing but being knocked on the head. 50 has very often given me great offence : instead 
 The life of these men is finely described in 
 
 holy writ by "the path of an arrow,"i which is 'A prebend is one who receives an allotted stipend 
 
 -,•,■,■, J jii. (or income) from the revenues of a cathedral or collegiate 
 
 immediateiy closed up and lost. church for the performance of certain ecclesiastical duties. 
 
 Upon my going into the church, I entertained , 'J^^^ ''poets; comer'' in the south transept of the 
 
 II. ^;^ ,1 ^^ ' f 1 Abbey, where Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, and other \ 
 
 myself with the digging of a grave; and saw 55 great poets are buried. 
 
 ,oTiT • T 1 << xM • X- CI 1 • ^ The "War of the Spanish Succession," which was 
 
 12 Warmng. In, law a caveat is a notice filed m a i^gg^n in the year of Queen Anne's accession (1702) and 
 
 P^P'\c office,, wkich prevents proceedings being m- lasted practically through the whole of her reign, 
 
 stituted in a giv«n case, without warmng to the filer of the 5 ^ little village in Bavaria, near which Marlborough 
 
 caveat. ^„j^ ^ h^ most famous of his series of victories in 1704. 
 
 1 Wisdom of Solomon, v, 12, e V. note on Admiral Shovel, p. 322. 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON 337 
 
 of the brave rough English Admiral, which all of us be contemporaries, and make our ap- 
 
 was the distinguishing character of that plain pearance together, 
 gallant man, he is represented on his tomb by 
 the figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, 
 
 and reposing himself upon velvet cushions 5 T Anv'cj inTTPMAT 
 
 under a canopy of state. The inscription is ^^^ ^^^^ LADY S JOURNAL 
 
 answerable to the monument; for instead of {The Spectator, No. 322, March II, 1712) 
 
 celebrating the many remarkable actions he ^ ^ ^^^^ ^ modofcBmina. 
 
 had performed in the service of his country, Vir« 
 
 it acquaints us only with the manner of hisio „ ,. 
 
 death, in which it was impossible for him to Sometimes a man, sometimes a woman. 
 
 reap any honour. The Dutch, whom we are The journal with which I presented my 
 
 apt to despise for want of genius, show an reader on Tuesday last,^ has brought me in 
 
 infinitely greater taste of antiquity and polite- several letters, with accounts of many private 
 ness^ in their buildings and works of this na- 15 lives cast into that form. I have the Rake's 
 
 ture, than what we meet with in those of our Journal, the Sot's Journal, and among several 
 
 own country. The monuments of their ad- others a very curious piece, entitled — ''The 
 
 mirals, which have been erected at the public Journal of a Mohock." 2 By these instances 
 
 expense, represent them like themselves; and I find that the intention of my last Tuesday's 
 are adorned with rostral crowns^ and naval 20 paper has been mistaken by many of my 
 
 ornaments, witii beautiful festoons of seaweed, readers. I did not design so much to expose 
 
 shells, and coral. vice as idleness, and aimed at those persons 
 
 But to return to our subject. I have left who pass away their time rather in trifle and 
 
 the repository of our English kings for the impertinence, than in crimes and immoralities, 
 contemplation of another day, when I shall 25 Offences of this latter kind are not to be dallied 
 
 find my mind disposed for so serious an amuse- with, or treated in so ludicrous a manner. In 
 
 ment. I know that entertainments of this short, my journal only holds up folly to the 
 
 nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts light, and shews the disagreeableness of such 
 
 in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations; actions as are indifferent in themselves, and 
 but for my own part, though I am always 30 blamable only as they proceed from creatures 
 
 serious, I do not know what it is to be melan- endowed with reason. 
 
 choly; and can therefore take a view of nature My following correspondent, who calls her- 
 
 in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same self Clarinda, is such a journalist as I require: 
 
 pleasure as in her most gay and delightful she seems by her letter to be placed in a modish 
 ones. By this means I can improve myself 35 state of indifference between vice and virtue, 
 
 with those objects which others consider with and to be susceptible of either, were there 
 
 terror. When I look upon the tombs of the proper pains taken with her. Had her journal 
 
 great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when been filled with gallantries, or such occurrences 
 
 I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every as had shewn her wholly divested of her nat- 
 inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with40ural innocence, notwithstanding it might have 
 
 the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my been more pleasing to the generaUty of readers, 
 
 heart melts with compassion; when I see the I should not have published it; but as it is 
 
 tomb of the parents themselves, I consider only the picture of a life filled with a fashion- 
 
 the vanity of grieving for those whom we must able kind of gaiety and laziness, I shall set 
 quickly follow; when I see kings lying by 45 down five days of it, as I have received it from 
 
 those who deposed them, when I consider the hand of my fair correspondent, 
 rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men 
 
 that divided the world with their contests Dear Mr. Spectator, 
 
 and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and as- You having set your readers an exercise in 
 tonishment on the little competitions, fac-50one of your last week's papers, I have por- 
 tions, and debates of mankind. When I read formed mine according to your orders, and here- 
 the several dates on the tombs, of some that with send it you enclosed. You must know, 
 died yesterday, and some six hundred years Mr. Spectator, that I am a maiden lady of a 
 ago, I consider that great day when we shall , ^j^^ p^p^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ 317^ contains some speci- 
 
 7 i. e., culture, good taste, elegance. Cf. the expression men passages from the Journal of a typical man-about- 
 
 " polite learning." town, "of greater consequence in his own eyes than m the 
 
 8i. e., crowns adorned with figures of prows of ships eyes of the world." . . «, 
 
 (Lat. rostrum, a beak, a prow), like those conferred by 2 The Mohocks were bands of aristocratic ruffians, 
 
 the Romans for a naval victory. (F. Stanley's Memorials who called themselves after the Mohawk tnbe of Indians. 
 
 of Westminster Abbey, II, 108, for comment on this They infested the streets of London after nightfall, and 
 
 " plaint' ve wish " of Addison's. played cruel and barbarous tncks upon the passers by. 
 
338 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 good fortune, who have had several matches Faddle promises me her woman to cut my hair, 
 
 offered me for these ten years last past, and Lost five guineas at crimp.'" 
 
 have at present warm applications made to Twelve o'clock at night. Went to bed. 
 
 me by a very pretty fellow. As I am at my Friday. Eight in the morning. A-bed. Read 
 
 own disposal, I come up to town every winter, 5 over all Mr. Froth's letters. 
 
 and pass my time in it, after the manner you Ten o'clock. Staid within all day, not at 
 
 will find in the following jouraal, which I home. 
 
 begun to write upon the very day after your From ten to twelve. In conference with 
 
 Spectator upon that subject. my mantua-maker. Sorted a suit of ribbons. 
 
 Tuesday night. Could not go to sleep till 10 Broke my blue china cup. 
 one in the morning for thinking of my jour- From twelve to one. Shut myself up in my 
 
 nal. chamber, practised Lady Betty Modely's 
 
 Wednesday. From eight till ten. Drank skuttle." 
 two dishes of chocolate in bed, and fell asleep One in the afternoon. Called for my flow- 
 after them. 15 ered handkerchief. Worked half a violet-leaf 
 
 From ten to eleven. Eat a slice of bread and in it. Eyes ached and head out of order, 
 butter, drank a dish of bohea,' read the Spec- Threw by my work, and read over the remain- 
 tator. ing part of Aurengzebe. 
 
 From eleven to one. At my toilette, tried From three to four. Dined. 
 
 a new head.* Gave orders for Veny^ to be 20 From four to twelve. Changed my mind, 
 combed and washed. Mem. I look best in dressed, went abroad, and played at crimp till 
 blue. midnight. Found Mrs. Spitely at home. Con- 
 
 From one till half an hour after two. Drove versation: Mrs. Brilliant's necklace false 
 to the Change. Cheapened^ a couple of fans. stones. Old Lady Loveday going to be married 
 
 Till four. At dinner. Mem. Mr. Froth 25 to a young fellow that is not worth a groat. ^^ 
 passed by in his new liveries. Miss Prue gone into the country. Tom Town- 
 
 From four to six. Dressed, paid a visit to ley has red hair. Mem. Mrs. Spitely whis- 
 old Lady Blithe and her sister, having be- pered in my ear that she had something to 
 fore heard they were gone out of town that tell me about Mr. Froth, I am sure it is not 
 day. 30 true. 
 
 From six to eleven. At Basset.^ Mem. Between twelve and one. Dreamed that 
 Never set again upon the ace of diamonds. Mr. Froth lay at my feet, and called me In- 
 
 Thursday. From eleven at night to eight damora.^' 
 in the morning. Dreamed that I punted^ to Saturday. Rose at eight o'clock in the 
 Mr. Froth. 35 morning. Sat down to my toilette. 
 
 From eight to ten. Chocolate. Read two From eight to nine. Shifted a patch for 
 
 acts in Aurengzebe^ a-bed. half an hour before I could determine it. 
 
 From ten to eleven. Tea-table. Read the Fixed it above my left eyebrow, 
 playbills. Received a letter from Mr. Froth. From nine to twelve. Drank my tea, and 
 Mem. Locked it up in my strong box. 40 dressed. 
 
 Rest of the morning. Fontange, the tire- From twelve to two. At chapel. A great 
 
 woman, her account of my Lady Blithe's wash, deal of good company. Mem. The third air in 
 Broke a tooth in my little tortoise shell comb, the new opera. Lady Blithe dressed frightfully. 
 Sent Frank to know how my Lady Hectic From three to four. Dined. Miss Kitty 
 
 rested after her monkey's leaping out at win- 45 called upon me to go to the opera, before I 
 dow. Looked pale. Fontagne tells me my was risen from table, 
 glass is not true. Dressed by three. From dinner to six. Drank tea. Turned 
 
 From three to four. Dinner cold before I off a footman for being rude to Veny. 
 sat down. Six o'clock. Went to the opera. I did not 
 
 From four to eleven. Saw company. Mr. 50 see Mr. Froth till the beginning of the second 
 Froth's opinion of Milton. His account of the act. Mr. Froth talked to a gentleman in a 
 Mohocks. His fancy for a pin-cushion. Pic- black wig. Bowed to a lady in the front box. 
 ture in the lid of his snuff-box. Old Lady Mr. Froth and his friend clapped Nicolini** 
 
 » Tea. Bohea is the name (slightly modified) of certain lo A game of cards, 
 hill-ranges in China on which the tea-shrub is largely 55 n A spelHng of scuiiZe; applied to a mincing gait affected Y 
 
 grown. by ladies of fashion. "She quitted the shop with an *. 
 
 * Head-dress. ^ Clarinda's lap-dog. ^ Bought. easy scuttle." Spectator, No. 536. " 
 
 "> A game of cards very popular in England in Addison's '^ a silver coin of small value, 
 
 time. 1' The heroine of Aurengzebe. 
 
 8 To punt, to play at basset, or ombre. " A famous Neapolitan actor and singer. ( V. Spectator, 
 
 » A play by Dryden. No. 13.) 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON 339 
 
 in the third act. Mr. Froth cried out Ancora.^s gjj^ ROGER AT CHURCH 
 
 Mr. Froth led me to my chair. I think he ,„, „ ^ . ^^ ,.^ ,, 
 
 squeezed my hand. ^^^ Spectator, No. 112, Monday, July 9, 1711) 
 
 Eleven at night. Went to bed. Melancholy I am always very well pleased with a coun- 
 
 dreams. Methought Nicolini said he was 5 try Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the 
 Mr. Froth. seventh day were only a human institution, it 
 
 Sunday. Indisposed. would be the best method that could have 
 
 Monday. Eight o'clock. Waked by Miss been thought of for the polishing and civilizing 
 Kitty. Aurengzebe lay upon the chair by me. of mankind. It is certain the country people 
 Kitty repeated without book the eight best 10 would soon degenerate into a kind of savages 
 lines in the play. Went in our mobs^^ to the and barbarians, were there not such frequent 
 dumb man^^ according to appointment. Told returns of a stated time, in which the whole 
 me that my lover's name began with a G. village meet together with their best faces, 
 Mem. The conjurer was within a letter of and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with 
 Mr. Froth's name, &c. 15 one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their 
 
 Upon looking back into this my journal, duties explained to them, and join together in 
 I find that I am at a loss to know whether I adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday 
 pass my time well or ill; and indeed never clears away the rust of the whole week, not 
 thought of considering how I did it before I only as it refreshes in their minds the notions 
 par used your speculation upon that subject. 20 of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon 
 I scarce find a single action in these five days appearing in their most agreeable forms, and 
 that I can thoroughly approve of, except the exerting all such quahties as are apt to give 
 working upon the violet-leaf, which I am re- them a figure in the eye of the village. A 
 solved to finish the first day I am at leisure, country fellow distinguishes himself as much 
 As for Mr. Froth and Veny, I did not think 25 in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon the 
 they took up so much of my time and thoughts Change, the whole parish politics being gen- 
 as I find they do upon my journal. The latter erally discussed in that place either after 
 of them I will turn off, if you insist upon it; sermon or before the bell rings, 
 and if Mr. Froth does not bring matters to a My friend Sir Roger, being a good church- 
 
 conclusion very suddenly, I will not let my 30 man, has beautified the inside of his church 
 life run away in a dream. Your humble serv- with several texts of his own choosing; he has 
 ant, Clarinda. likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and 
 
 railed in the communion table at his own ex- 
 
 To resume one of the morals of my first pense. He has often told me, that at his com- 
 paper, and to confirm Clarinda in her good 35 ing to his estate he found his parishioners very 
 inclinations, I would have her consider what irregular; and that in order to make them 
 a pretty figure she would make among pos- kneel and join in the responses, he gave every 
 terity, were the history of her whole life pub- one of them a hassock and a common-prayer 
 lished like these five days of it. I shall con- book: and at the same time employed an 
 elude my paper with an epitaph written by an 40 itinerant singing master, who goes about the 
 uncertain author^^ on Sir Philip Sidney's sister, country for that purpose, to instruct them 
 a lady who seems to have been of a temper rightly in the tunes of the psalms; upon which 
 very much different from that of Clarinda. they now very much value themselves, and 
 The last thought of it is so very noble, that I indeed outdo most of the country churches 
 dare say my reader will pnrdon me the quo- 45 that I have ever heard. 
 
 tation. As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole con- 
 
 gregation, he keeps them in very good order. 
 On the Countess Dowager op Pembroke and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides 
 ^, J ,, ,, . , , . himself; for if by chance he has been surprised 
 
 Y^derneaththismaym^^^^ ^^ ^^ recovering 
 
 f 2e^ '/S.^ &:S motker: out of it he stands up and looks about hi.^a^^^^ 
 
 Death, ere thou hast kiWd another, if he sees anybody else noddmg, either wakes 
 
 Fair and learned and good as she, them himself, or sends his servants to them. 
 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee. Several other of the old knight's particularities 
 
 - The Italian form of "Encore." 55 break out upon these occasions : sometimes 
 
 16 A TO06 was a kind of cap, or hood. he will be lengthening out a verse in the smgmg- 
 
 " Duncan Campbell a fortune-t^eller said to be deaf j j^ jf ^ minute after the rest of the 
 
 and dumb, and supposed to have the gift of second sight. pbdiiiib, iidu. <x "'" . . ^i.-^«„ 
 
 '8 This epitaph, formerly ascribed to Ben Jonson, is congregation have done With it, SOmCtimes, 
 
 now believed to have been ^T^tten by Wilham Browne. ^ ^ . je^sed with the matter of hlS 
 
 {Y^ Schelhng.^ Elizabethan Lyrics, note, p. 4>i^)' wiiv^i* nv. ^o t^ 
 
340 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 devotion, he pronounces "Amen" three or that the Squire has not said his prayers either 
 
 four times to the same prayer; and sometimes in public or private this half year; and that the 
 
 stands up when everybody else is upon their parson threatens him, if he does not mend his 
 
 knees, to count the congregation, or see if any manners, to pray for him in the face of the 
 
 of his tenants are missing. 5 whole congregation. 
 
 I was yesterday very much surprised to Feuds of this nature, though too frequent 
 
 hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, in the country, are very fatal to the ordinary 
 
 calling out to one John Matthews to mind people; who are so used to be dazzled with 
 
 what he was about, and not disturb the con- riches, that they pay as much deference to 
 
 gregation. This John Matthews it seems is 10 the understanding of a man of an estate, as 
 
 remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at of a man of learning; and are very hardly 
 
 that time was kicking his heels for his diver- brought to regard any truth, how important 
 
 sion. This authority of the knight, though soever it may be that is preached to them, when 
 
 exerted in that odd manner which accom- they know there are several men of five hun- 
 
 panies him in all circumstances of life, has a I5dred a year who do not believe it. 
 very good effect upon the parish, who are not 
 polite enough to see anything ridiculous in 
 
 his behaviour; besides that the general good ^If KtCl^artl ^tttlt 
 sense and worthiness of his character, makes 
 
 his friends observe these little singularities as 20 1671-1729 
 
 qualitl'es! '"''''' ""' ""^ *^'' ^''""^ """ ""'"^ ON TRUE DISTINCTION 
 
 As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody (y;^^ rp^^l^^^ ^^ gg^ September 17, 1709) 
 
 presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of 
 
 the church. The knight walks down from his 25 • • • Quid oporiet 
 
 seat in the chancel between a double row of Nosfacere, a vulgo huge lategue remotos? 
 
 his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each B-on. 1 Sat. vi, 17. 
 
 side; and every now and then inquires how But how shall we, who differ far and wide, 
 such an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father From the mere vulgar, this great point decide. 
 do, whom he does not see at church; which is 30 Francis. 
 
 understood as a secret reprimand to the person 
 
 that is absent. It is, as far as it relates to our present being, 
 
 The chaplain has often told me, that upon the great end of education to raise ourselves 
 a catechizing day, when Sir Roger has been above the vulgar; but what is intended by the 
 pleased with a boy that answers well, he has 35 vulgar, is not, methinks, enough understood, 
 ordered a bible to be given him next day for In me, indeed, that word raises a quite dif- 
 his encouragement; and sometimes accom- ferent idea from what it usually does in others; 
 panies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother, but perhaps that proceeds from my being old, 
 Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a and beginning to want the relish of such satis- 
 year to the clerk's place; and that he may en- 40 factions as are the ordinary entertainment of 
 courage the young fellows to make themselves men. However, such as my opinion is in this 
 perfect in the church service, has promised case, I will speak it; because it is possible that 
 upon the death of the present incumbent, who turn of thought may be received by others, 
 is very old, to bestow it according to merit. who may reap as much satisfaction from it 
 
 The fair understanding between Sir Roger 45 as I do myself, 
 and his chaplain, and their mutual concur- It is to me a very great meanness, and some- 
 rence in doing good, is the more remarkable, thing much below a philosopher, which is 
 because the very next village is famous fbr the what I mean by a gentleman, to rank a man 
 differences and contentions that rise between among the vulgar for the condition of life he 
 the parson and the Squire, who live in a per- 50 is in, and not according to his behaviour, his 
 petual state of war. The parson is always thoughts, and sentiments, in that condition, 
 preaching at the Squire, and the Squire to be For if a man be loaded with riches and honours, 
 revenged on the parson, never comes to church, and in that state of life has thoughts and in- 
 The Squire has made all his tenants atheists clinations below the meanest artificer; is not 
 and tithe-stealers; while the parson instructs 55 such an artificer, who, within his power, is 
 them every Sunday in the dignity of his order, good to his friends, moderate in his demands 
 and insinuates to them in almost every sermon, for his labour, and cheerful in his occupation, 
 that he is a better man than his patron. In very much superior to him who lives for no 
 short, matters are come to such an extremity, other end but to serve himself, and assumes a 
 
SIR RICHARD STEELE 
 
 341 
 
 preference in all his words and actions to those 
 who act their part with much more grace than 
 himself? Epictetus has made iise of the simili- 
 tude of a stage-pla3^ to human life with much 
 spirit. "It is not," says he, "to be considered 
 among the actors, who is prince, or who is 
 beggar, but who acts prince or beggar best."^ 
 (The circumstance of life should not be that 
 which gives us place, but our behaviour in 
 
 the last office done to a man whom I had al- 
 ways very much admired, and from whose 
 action I had received more strong impressions 
 of what is great and noble in human nature, 
 5 than from the arguments of the most solid 
 philosophers, or the descriptions of the most 
 charming poets I had ever read. As the rude 
 and untaught multitude are no way wrought 
 upon more effectually, than by seeing public 
 
 that circumstance is what should be our solid 10 punishments and executions; so men of letters 
 distinction. Thus a wise man should think and education feel their humanity most for- 
 no man above him or below him, any further cibly exercised, when they attend the obsequies 
 than it regards the outward order or discipline of men who had arrived at any perfection in 
 of the world: for, if we conceive too great an liberal accomplishments. Theatrical action 
 idea of the eminence of our superiors, or sub- 15 is to be esteemed as such, except it be objected 
 ordination of our inferiors, it will have an ill that we cannot call that an art which cannot 
 effect upon our behaviour to both. He who be attained by art. Voice, stature, motion, 
 thinks no man above him but for his virtue, and other gifts, must be very bountifully be- 
 none below him but for his vice, can never be stowed by nature, or labour and industry will 
 obsequious or assuming in a wrong place; but 20 but push the unhappy endeavourer in that way 
 will frequently emulate men in rank below the further off his wishes. 
 him, and pity those above him. Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be 
 
 This sense of mankind^ is so far from a level- recorded with the same respect as Roscius'^ 
 ling principle, that it only sets us upon a true among the Romans. The greatest orator' has 
 basis of distinction, and doubles the merit of 25 thought fit to quote his judgment, and cele- 
 such as become their condition. A man in brate his life. Roscius was the example to all 
 power, who can, without the ordinary prepos- that would form themselves into proper and 
 sessions which stop the way to the true knowl- winning behaviour. His action was so well 
 edge and service of mankind, overlook the adapted to the sentiments he expressed, that 
 little distinctions of fortune, raise obscure 30 the youth of Rome thought they wanted^ only 
 merit, and discountenance successful indesert, to be virtuous, to be as graceful in their ap- 
 has, in the minds of knowing men, the figure of pearance as Roscius. The imagination took a 
 an angel rather than a man; and is above the lovely impression of what was great and good; 
 rest of men in the highest character he can be, and they, who never thought of setting up for 
 even that of their benefactor. 35 the art of imitation, became themselves in- 
 
 imitable characters. 
 
 There is no human invention so aptly cal- 
 culated for the forming a freeborn people as 
 that of % theater. Tully^ reports, that the 
 40 celebrated player of whom I am speaking, 
 used frequently to say, "The perfection of an 
 actor is only to become what he is doing." 
 Young men, who are too unattentive to receive 
 lectures, are irresistibly taken with perform- 
 45 ances. Hence it is, that I extremely lament the 
 little relish the gentry of this nation have, at 
 present, for the just and noble representations 
 iii some of our tragedies. The operas, which 
 Having received notice, that the famous are of late introduced ,« can leave no trace 
 actor, Mr. Betterton, ^ was to be interred this 50 behind them that can be of service beyond the 
 evening in the cloisters near Westminster- 2 Quintus Roscius Gallus, a famous RomaD «ctor A 
 abbey, I was resolved to walk thither; and see ^^^l^^^^^^^ -- P"^''«^«^ ^^ '''' ^°^'^^^' ^"""^ 
 
 3 Cicero, who defended Roscius in an oration Pro 
 Quinto Roscio Comaedo. ' 
 
 * i. e., needed, required. . * i- e.. Cicero. 
 
 « The modern opera originated in Italy toward the 
 close of the sixteenth century. It began to be cultivated 
 in France and Germany about 1650. and was introduced 
 into England toward the end of the century. Steele's 
 sympathies are with the old traditions of the English 
 stage, and he regrets the popularity of the lighter opera, 
 with its singing and dancing. 
 
 ON THE FUNERAL OF BETTERTON 
 
 (The Taller, No. 167, May 4, 1710) 
 
 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures, 
 Quam quae sunt oculis suhmissa fidelibus. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 . . . What we hear, 
 With weaker passion will affect the heart, 
 Than when the faithful eye beholds the part. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 1 V. Epictetus' Enchiridion, Cap. XVII., and cf. Pope, 
 Essay on Man, iv., 193. 
 
 " Honour and shame from no condition rise:^^ 
 Act well your part, there all the honour lies.' 
 2 This estimate of mankind. 
 
 1 Thomas Betterton, the foremost actor on the English 
 stage from the Restoration untij his retirement in 1710. 
 He was a friend of Dryden, and Pepys. Pope and Steele 
 agree in their admiration of his acting. 
 
342 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSt)N 
 
 present moment. To sing and to dance, are To their eternal night! Out, out, short candle, 
 accomplishments very few have any thoughts Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
 of practising; but to speak justly, and move That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 gracefully, is what every man thinks he does ^^ *^^^ ^ ^^^ ^^ more.» 
 perform, or wishes he did. 5 
 
 I have hardly a notion, that any performer -DTT-nnT t Trn-rrrnvTa 
 
 of antiquity could surpass the action of Mr. KiLCULLiLCllUJNb 
 
 Betterton in any of the occasions in which he (The Taller, No. 181, June 6, 1710) 
 
 has appeared on our stage. The wonderful 
 
 agony which he appeared in, when he examined 10 •• • ^^f' nifallor, adesl, quern semper acerhum 
 the circumstance of the handkerchief in OtheUo; -^^^^^^ honoralum, sic dii vdnislis hahebo 
 the mixture of love that intruded upon his ^^^* ^' ^' 
 
 mind, upon the innocent answers Desdemona ^^ ^y, ^;^e j.i^^g ^^y ^.^^^^^ ij^ y^^^^ 
 
 makes, betrayed m his gesture such a variety A day far ever sad, for ever dear. 
 
 and vicissitude of passions, as would admonish 15 Dryden. 
 
 a man to be afraid of his own heart; and per- 
 fectly convince him, that it is to stab it, to There are those among mankind, who can 
 admit that worst of daggers, jealousy. Who- enjoy no relish of their being, except the world 
 ever reads in his closet this admirable scene, is made acquainted with all that relates to 
 will find that he cannot, except he has as 20 them, and think everything lost that passes 
 warm an imagination as Shakespeare himself, unobserved; but others find a solid delight in 
 find any but dry, incoherent, and broken sen- stealing by the crowd, and modelling their 
 tences: but a reader that has seen Betterton life after such a mnaner, as is as much above 
 act it, observes, there could not be a word the approbation as the practice of the vulgar, 
 added; that longer speeches had been unnat-25Life being too short to give instances great 
 ural, nay, impossible, in Othello's circum- enough of true friendship or good-will, some 
 stances. The charming passage in the same sages have thought it pious to preserve a 
 tragedy, where he tells the manner of winning certain reverence for the manes^ of their de- 
 the affection of his mistress, was urged with ceased friends; and have withdrawn them- 
 so moving and graceful an energy, that, while 30 selves from the rest of the world at certain 
 I walked in the cloisters, I thought of him seasons, to commemorate in their own thoughts 
 with the same concern as if I waited for the such of their acquaintance who have gone 
 remains of a person who had in real life done before them out of this life. And indeed, when 
 all that I had seen him represent. The gloom we are advanced in years, there is not a more 
 of the place, and faint lights before the cere- 35 pleasing entertainment, than to recollect in 
 mony appeared, contributed to the melan- a gloomy moment the many we have parted 
 choly disposition I was in; and I began to be with, that have been dear and agreeable to 
 extremely afflicted that Brutus and Cassius us, and to cast a melancholy thought or two 
 had any difference;^ that Hotspur's gallantry^ after those, with whom, perhaps, we have 
 was so unfortunate; and that the mirth and40indulged ourselves in whole nights of mirth 
 good humour of Falstaff could not exempt him and jollity. With such inclinations in my 
 from the grave. Nay, this occasion, in me who heart I went to my closet yesterday in the 
 look upon the distinctions amongst men to be evening, and resolved to be sorrowful; upon 
 merely scenical, raised reflections upon the which occasion I could not but look with dis- 
 emptiness of all human perfection and great- 45 dain upon myself, that though all the reasons 
 ness in general; and I could not but regret, which I had to lament the loss of many of 
 that the sacred heads which lie buried in the my friends are now as forcible as at the mo- 
 neighbourhood of this little portion of earth, ment of their departure, yet did not my heart 
 in which my poor old friend is deposited, are swell with the same sorrow which I felt at the 
 returned to dust as well as he, and that there 50 time; but I could, without tears, reflect upon 
 is no difference in the grave betwee^, the many pleasing adventures I have had with 
 imaginary and the real monarch. This made some, who have long been blended with com- 
 me say of human life itself, with Macbeth, mon earth. Though it is by the benefit of 
 
 nature, that length of time thus blots out the 
 
 To-morrow, to-morrow, and to-morrow, 55 9 a misquotation of the immortal passage in Act V., v. 
 
 Creeps in a stealing pace from day to day Steele lived in an age that produced and tolerated "ver- 
 
 To the last mompnt of rpoordpd time' ^''^^'^ .. ^^ Shakespeare. Steele here quotes from Daven- 
 
 X j^^/^S*^ momeni 01 recoraea ume . ^^^j. ,g "version," but not with absolute accuracy. 
 
 And all our yesterdays have hghted fools, 1 The shades, or spirits, of the dead, which were hon- 
 ored by the Romans as the tutelary divinities of their 
 
 » Julius Caesar, IV., iii, ^I K. Hen. IV, V., iv. families. *. 
 
SIR RICHARD STEELE 343 
 
 violence of afflictions; yet, with tempers too insnared me into ten thousand calamities* 
 much given to pleasure, it is almost necessary and from whence T. can reap no advantage, 
 to revive the old places of grief in our memory; except it be, that, in such a humour as I am 
 and ponder step by step on past life, to lead now in, I can the better indulge myself in the 
 the mind into that sobriety of thought which 5 softness of humanity, and enjoy that sweet 
 poises the heart, and makes it beat with due anxiety which arises from the memory of past 
 time, without being quickened with desire, afflictions. 
 
 or retarded with despair, from its proper and We, that are very old, are better able to 
 equal motion. When we wind up a clock that remember things which befel us in our distant 
 is out of order, to make it go well for the future, 10 youth, than the passages of later days. For 
 we do not immediately set the hand to the this reason it is, that the companions of my 
 present instant, but we make it strike the round strong and vigorous years present themselves 
 of all its hours, before it can recover the regu- more immediately to me in this office of sorrow, 
 larity of its time. Such, thought I, shall be Untimely and unhappy deaths are what we 
 my method this evening; and since it is that 15 are most apt to lament; so little are we able 
 day of the year which I dedicate to the memory to make it indifferent when a thing happens, 
 of such in another life as I much delighted though we know it must happen. Thus we 
 in when living, an hour or two shall be sacred groan under life, and bewail those who are 
 to sorrow and their memory, while I run over relieved from it. Every object that returns 
 all the melancholy circumstances of this kind 20 to our imagination raises different passions 
 which have occurred to me in my whole life. according to the circumstance of their depar- 
 
 The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was ture. Who can have lived in an army, and in 
 upon the death of my father, at which time I a serious hour reflect upon the many gay and 
 was not quite five years of age; but was rather agreeable men that might long have flourished 
 amazed at what all the house meant, than 25 in the arts of peace, and not join with the im- 
 possessed with a real understanding why precations of the fatherless and widow on the 
 nobody was willing to play with me. I remem- tyrant to whose ambition they fell sacrifices? 
 ber I went into the room where his body lay, But gallant men, who are cut off by the sword, 
 and my mother sat weeping alone by it. I had move rather our veneration than our pity; 
 my battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating 30 and we gather relief enough from their own 
 the coffin, and calling Papa; for, I know not contempt of death, to make that no evil, which 
 how, I had some slight idea that he was locked was approached with so much cheerfulness, 
 up there. My mother catched me in her arms, and attended with so much honour. But 
 and, transported beyond all patience^ of the when we turn our thoughts from the great 
 silent grief she was before in, she almost smoth- 35 parts of life on such occasions, and instead of 
 ered me in her embraces; and told me in a lamenting those who stood ready to give death 
 flood of tears, ''Papa could not hear me, and to those from whom they had the fortune to 
 would play with me no more, for they were receive it; I say, when we let our thoughts 
 going to put him under ground, whence he wander from such noble objects, and consider 
 could never come to us again." She was a 40 the havoc which is made among the tender 
 very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and and the innocent, pity enters with an unmixed 
 there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the softness, and possesses all our souls at once, 
 wildness of her transport; which, methought, Here (were there words to express such 
 
 struck me with an instinct of sorrow, that, sentiments with proper tenderness) I should 
 before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, 45 record the beauty, innocence, and untimely 
 seized my very soul, and has made pity the death, of the first object my eyes ever beheld 
 weakness of my heart ever since. The mind in with love. The beauteous virgin! how igno- 
 infancy is, methinks, hke the body in embryo; rantly did she charm, how carelessly excel? 
 and receives impressions so forcible, that they Oh Death! thou hast right to the bold, to the 
 are as hard to be removed by reason, as any 50 ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty; 
 mark with which a child is born is to be taken but why this cruelty to the humble, to the 
 away by any future application. Hence it is, meek, to the undiscerning, to the thoughtless? 
 that good-nature in me is no merit; but having Nor age, nor business, nor distress, can erase 
 been so frequently overwhelmed with her tears the dear image from my imagination. In the 
 before I knew the cause of any affliction, or 55 same week, I saw her dressed for a ball, and 
 could draw defences from my own judgment, in a shroud. How ill did the habit of death 
 I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an become the pretty trifler? I still behold the 
 
 unmanly gentleness of mind, which has since smiling earth A large train of disasters 
 
 2 Endurance. were coming on to my memory, when my 
 
344 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 servant knocked at my closet-door, and inter- fought a duel upon his first coming to town, 
 rupted me with a letter, attended with a ham- and kicked Bully Dawson^ in a public coffee- 
 per of wine, of the same sort with that which house for calling him youngster. But being 
 is to be put to sale on Thursday next, at Garra- ill-used by the above mentioned widow, he 
 way's coffee-house.^ Upon the receipt of it, 5 was very serious for a year and a half; and 
 I sent for three of my friends. We are so though, his temper being naturally jovial, he 
 intimate, that we can be company in whatever at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, 
 state of mind we meet, and can entertain each and never dressed afterward. He continues 
 other without expecting always to rejoice, to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut 
 The wine we found to be generous and warm- 10 that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, 
 ing, but with such a heat as moved us rather which, in his merry humours, he tells us, has 
 to be cheerful than frolicksome. It revived been in and out twelve times since he first wore 
 the spirits, without firing the blood. We com- it. 'Tis said Sir Roger grew humble in his 
 mended it until two of the clock this morning; desires after he had forgot this cruel beauty. 
 and having to-day met a little before dinner, 15 He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, 
 we found, that though we drank two bottles and hearty; keeps a good house both in town 
 a man, we had much more reason to recollect and country; a great lover of mankind; but 
 than forget what had passed the night before. there is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour 
 
 that he is rather beloved than esteemed. His 
 THE SPECTATOR CLUB 20 tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, 
 
 (From The Spectator, 1711-12) f" ^^^ ^^^^S ^^^7 f f ^^« 1°^^ *« ^^jJ^^ 
 
 ^ . . *"® young men are glad of his company. When 
 
 Ast Alii sex he comes into a house, he calls the servants 
 
 Et plures uno condamant ore."- by their names, and talks all the way up-stairs 
 
 ^^* 25 to a visit. I must not omit that Sir Roger is 
 Friday, March 2, 1711. a justice of the quorum^ that he fills the chair 
 
 The first of our society is a gentlemen of at a quarter-session with great abilities, > and 
 Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a baronet, three months ago gained universal applause 
 his name Sir Roger de Coverley. His great- by explaining a passage in the game act. 
 grandfather was inventor of that famous 30 The gentleman next in esteem and authority 
 country-dance which is called after him. All among us is another bachelor, who is a member 
 who know that shire are very well acquainted of the Inner Temple,^ a man of great probity, 
 with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He wit, and understanding; but he has chosen his 
 is a gentleman that is very singular in his be- place of cesidence rather to obey the direction 
 haviour, but his singularities proceed from his 35 of an old humoursome father than in pursuit 
 good sense, and are contradictions to the of his own inclinations. He was placed there 
 manners of the world only as he thinks the to study the laws of the land, and is the most 
 world is in the wrong. However, this humour learned of any of the house in those of the stage, 
 creates him no enemies, for he does nothing Aristotle and Longinus are much better under- 
 with sourness or obstinacy; and his being 40 stood by him than Littleton or Coke.^ The 
 unconfined to modes and forms makes him father sends up every post questions relating 
 but the readier and more capable to please to marriage articles, leases, and tenures in 
 and oblige all who know him. When he is in the neighbourhood, all which questions he 
 town, he lives in Soho Square. It is said he agrees with an attorney to answer and take 
 keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was 45 care of in the lump. He is studying the pas- 
 crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow sions themselves when he should be inquiring 
 of the next county to him. Before this dis- into the debates among men which arise from 
 appointment Sir Roger was what you call a them. He knows the argument of each of the 
 
 fine gentleman, had often supped with my 3 a noted sharper, and a contemporary of Rochester 
 
 Lord Rochester and Sir George Etheridge,^ 50 ^"d Etheridge. ^ , • , r^, , , 
 
 , _, „ J , ^, f a.1. • • I • Sir Roger was not only a justice of the peace, or local 
 
 "bo called from the name of the original proprietor magistrate, for his county, but he was one of those 
 Thomas Gar away. It was one of the famous and fashion- specially named in the commission authorizing the hold- 
 able coffee-houses of the day. _ jng of the court. Magistrates so specially commissioned 
 
 1 But six others and more call out with one voice. were called "justices of the quorum" from the words of 
 
 Sat., vii., 166. the writ: Quorum aliquem vestrum unum esse volumics, etc. 
 
 ^ John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680), a witty ^i. e., a London barrister. The Inner Temple was one 
 
 but shameless courtier and versifier at the court of of the four legal societies which possessed the right of 
 
 Charles II. He died at thirty-one, exhausted by his admitting applicants to the bar. 
 
 wild and reckless life. V. his Epitaph on Charles II, p. 280, 8 Two celebrated judges and legal writers. Littleton's 
 
 supra. Sir George Etheridue (1635?-1691), a dramatist of important work on Tenures (i. e. the law of real estate) 
 
 the Restoration period, Uke his friend Rochester, had was translated and edited by Coke, and this book, 
 
 naany of the worst traits of the "fine gentleman" of that familiarly known as "Coke upon Littleton," became a 
 
 time. standard legal text-book. 
 
SIR RICHARD STEELE 345 
 
 orations of Demosthenes and TuUy, but not one be richer than other kingdoms by as plain 
 case in the reports of our own courts. No one methods as he himself is richer than other men; 
 ever took hini for a fool; but none, except though at the same time I can say this of him, 
 his intimate friends, know that he has a great that there is not a point in the compass but 
 deal of wit. This turn makes him at once 5 blows home a ship in which he is an owner, 
 both disinterested and agreeable; as few of Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room, sits 
 his thoughts are drawn from business, they Captain Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, 
 are most of them fit for conversation. His good understanding, but invincible modesty, 
 taste of books is a little too just for the age He is one of those that deserve very well, but 
 he lives in; he has read rJl, but approves of 10 are very awkward in putting their talents 
 very few. His familiarity v/ith the customs, within the observation of such as should take 
 manners, actions, and writings of the ancients notice of them. He was some years a captain, 
 makes him a very deUcate observer of what and behaved himself with great gallantry in 
 occurs to him in the present world. He is an several engagements and at several sieges; but, 
 excellent critic, and the time of the play is 15 having a small estate of his own, and being 
 his hour of business; exactly at five he passes next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way of 
 through New Inn,^ crosses through Russell life in which no man can rise suitably to his 
 Court, and takes a turn at Will's^ till the play merit, who is not something of a courtier as 
 begins; he has his shoes rubbed and his perri- well as a soldier. I have heard him often la- 
 wig powdered at the barber's as you go into 20 ment that in a profession where merit is placed 
 the Rose.^ It is for the good of the audience in so conspicuous a view, impudence should 
 when he is at a play, for the actors have an get the better of modesty. When he had talked 
 ambition to please him. to this purpose, I never heard him make a 
 
 The person of next consideration is Sir An- sour expression, but frankly confess he had 
 drew Freeport, a merchant of great eminence 25 left the world because he was not fit for it. A 
 in the city of London, a person of indefatigable strict honesty, and an even, regular behaviour, 
 industry, strong reason, and great experience, are in themselves obstacles to him that must 
 His notions of trade are noble and generous, press through crowds who endeavour at the 
 and (as every rich man has usually some sly same end with himself, the favour of a com- 
 way of jesting which would make no great 30 mander. He will, however, in his way of talk 
 figure were he not a rich man), he calls the sea excuse generals for not disposing according to 
 the British Common. He is acquainted with men's desert or inquiring into it; "for," says 
 commerce in all its parts, and will tell you that he "that great man who has a mind to help 
 it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend me has as many to break through to come at 
 dominion by arms; for true power is to be got 35 me as I have to come at him." Therefore he 
 by power and industry. He will often argue will conclude that the man who would make a 
 that if this part of our trade were well culti- figure, especially in a military way, must get 
 vated, we should gain from one nation; and over all false modesty, and assist his patron 
 if another, from another. I have heard him against the importunity of other pretenders 
 prove that diligence makes more lasting ac- 40 by a proper assurance in his own vindication, 
 quisitions than valour, and that sloth has He says it is a civil cowardice to be backward 
 ruined more nations than the sword. He in asserting what you ought to expect, as it is 
 abounds in several frugal maxims, among a military fear to be slow in attacking when 
 which the greatest favourite is, "A penny it is your duty. With this candour does the 
 saved is a penny got." A general trader of 45 gentleman speak of himself and others. The 
 good sense is pleasanter company than a same frankness runs through all his conversa- 
 general scholar; and Sir Andrew having a tion. The military part of his life has furnished 
 natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity him with many adventures, in the relation of 
 of his discourse gives the same pleasure that which he is very agreeable to the company; 
 wit would in another man. He has made his 50 for he is never overbearing, though accustomed 
 fortunes himself, and says that England may to command men in the utmost degree below 
 
 ■^ , ^ , . , ,T ,^, ^ • • n him; nor ever too obsequious, from a habit 
 
 7 One of the les9 important Inns of the court, ongmally . ' . u-^i,u, oU^tt^ K;r« 
 
 a hostelry. Sir Thomas More studied law for a time of obeymg men highly abOVe mm. 
 
 in this Inn. . «. , , But that our society may not appear a set 
 
 ^Will's Coffee-House. There were two coffee-houses of . , . , '^i-^A ^,WU +V.« ,,r.llr.», 
 
 this name, Sne frequented by members of the legal 55 of humourists unacquamted With the gallan- 
 profession. the other (and the more celebrated one) the \xie^ and pleasures of the age, we have among 
 resort of the wits, on Russell Street. The Templar, who is , t, , ^tm, tt^^^^^^^u „ /ro«f1oTr,aTi 
 
 represented as preferring literature to law, appears (from US the gallant Will HoneyCOmb, a gentleman 
 the hint Steele gives us of the locality) to have chosen the ^Jjq, according to his years, should be in the 
 
 ^^"a tavern near Drury Lane Theatre. decline of his life; but, having been very careful 
 
346 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 of his person, and always had a very easy for- vances others. He seldom introduces the 
 tune, time has made but very little impression, subject he speaks upon; but we are so far gone 
 either by wrinkles on his forehead or traces in in years that he observes, when he is among us, 
 his brain. His person is well turned and of a an earnestness to have him fall on some divine 
 good height. He is very ready at that sort of 5 topic, which he always treats with much au- 
 discourse with which men usually entertain thority, as one who has no interest in this 
 women. He has all his life dressed very well, world, as one who is hastening to the object of 
 and remembers habits as others do men. He all his wishes, and conceives hope from his 
 can smile when one speaks to him, and laughs decays and infirmities. These are my ordinary 
 easily. He knows the history of every mode, 10 companions, 
 and can inform you from which of the French 
 
 king's wenches our wives and daughters had rrJJ^r,rT^T^^Jr\^sJT xr o 
 
 this manner of curling their hair, and that ON TESTIMONIALS 
 
 way of placing their hoods, whose frailty was ^rpf^^ Spectator, No. 493, September 25, 1712) 
 covered by such a sort of petticoat, and whose 15 
 
 vanity to show her foot made that part of the Qualem commendes etiam atque etiam adspice, ne 
 dress so short in such a year. In a word, all ^^ox 
 
 his conversation and knowledge has been in IncutmrU aliena tibi peccata pudorem. 
 the female world. As other men of his age xiOR. 
 
 will take notice to you what such a ^^^^^ter 20 Commend not, Hill a man is thorougMy known; 
 said upon such an occasion, he will tell you, A rascal prais'd, you make his faults your own. 
 when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court. Anon. 
 
 such a woman was then smitten, another was 
 
 taken with him at the head of his troop in the It is no unpleasant matter of speculation to 
 
 Park. In all these important relations he has 25 consider the recommendatory epistles that 
 ever about the same time received a kind glance pass round this town from hand to hand, and 
 or a blow of a fan from some celebrated beauty, the abuse people put upon one another in 
 mother of the present Lord Such-a-one. If that kind. It is indeed come to that pass, that, 
 you speak of a young commoner that said a instead of being the testimony of merit in the 
 lively thing in the House, he starts up: "He 30 person recommended, the true reading of a 
 has good blood in his veins; Tom Mirabell letter of this sort is, "The bearer hereof is 
 begot him; the rogue cheated me in that affair; so uneasy to me, that it will be an act of charity 
 that young fellow's mother used me more like in you to take him off my hands; whether you 
 a dog than any woman I ever made advances prefer hilh or not, it is all one; for I have no 
 to." This way of talking of his, very much 35 manner of kindness for him, or obhgation to 
 enlivens the conversation among us of a more him or his; and do what you please as to that." 
 sedate turn, and I find that there is not one As negligent as men are in this respect, a point 
 of the company but myself, who rarely speak of honour is concerned in it; and there is 
 at all, but speaks of him as of that sort of man nothing a man should be more ashamed of, 
 who is usually called a well-bred, fine gentle- 40 than passing a worthless creature into the 
 man. To conclude his character, where women service or interests of a man who has never 
 are not concerned, he is an honest, worthy man. injured you. The women indeed are a little 
 I cannot tell whether I am to account him too keen in their resentments to trespass often 
 whom I am next to speak of as one of our com- this way; but you shall sometimes know, that 
 pany, for he visits us but seldom; but when 45 the mistress and the maid shall quarrel, and 
 he does, it adds to every man else a nejn enjoy- give each other very free language, and at last 
 ment of himself. He is a clergyman," a very the lady shall be pacified to turn her out of 
 philosophic man, of general learning, great doors, and give her a very good word to any 
 sanctity of life, and the most exact good breed- body else. Hence it is that you see, in a yeai 
 ing. He has the misfortune to be of a very 50 and a half's time, the same face a domestic in 
 weak constitution, and consequently cannot all parts of the town. Good-breeding and good- 
 accept of such cares and business as prefer- nature lead people in a great measure to this 
 ments in his function would oblige him to; he injustice: when suitors of no consideration will 
 is therefore among divines what a chamber- have confidence enough to press upon their 
 counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of 55 superiors, those in power are tender of speaking 
 his mind and the integrity of his life create the exceptions they have agamst them, and 
 him followers as being eloquent or laud^" ad- are mortgaged into promises out of their im- 
 
 ,„. ^, , J -. *u • I K patience of importunity. In this latter case, 
 
 "1. e., as others are advanced »y their eloquence or by f" .-. ^ /.. .^, ,, 
 
 the praise of those about them. it would be a very useful inquiry to know the 
 
SIR RICHARD STEELE 347 
 
 history of recommendations. There are, you know I hve in taverns; he is an orderly sober 
 must know, certain abettors of this way of rascal, and thinks much to sleep in an entry 
 torment, who make it a profession to manage until two in the morning. He told me one 
 the affairs of candidates. These gentlemen day, when he was dressing me, that he won- 
 let out their impudence to their clients, and 5 dered I was not dead before now, since I went 
 supply any 'defective recommendation, by to dinner in the evening, and went to supper at 
 informing how such and such a man is to be two in the morning. We were coming down 
 attacked. They will tell you, get the least Essex-street one night a little flustered,^ and 
 scrap from Mr. Such-a-one, and leave the rest I was giving him the word to alarm the watch ;2 
 to them. When one of these undertakers has 10 he had the impudence to tell me it was against 
 your business in hand, you may be sick, absent the law. You that are married, and live one 
 in town or country, and the patron shall be day after another the same way, and so on 
 worried, or you prevail. I remember to have the whole week, I dare say will like him, and 
 been shown a gentleman some years ago, who he will be glad to have his meat in due season, 
 punished a whole people for their facility in 15 The fellow is certainly very honest. My 
 giving their credentials. This person had service to your lady. Yours, 
 belonged to a regiment which did duty in the "J. T." 
 
 West Indies, and, by the mortality of the 
 
 place, happened to be commanding-officer in Now this was very fair dealing. Jack knew 
 
 the colony. He oppressed his subjects with 20 very well, that though the love of order made 
 great frankness, till he became sensible that a man very awkward in his equipage, it was a 
 he was heartily hated by every man under his valuable quality among the queer people who 
 command. When he had carried his point to live by rule; and had too much good sense and 
 be thus detestable, in a pretended fit of dis- good-nature to let the fellow starve, because 
 humour, and feigned uneasiness of living where 25 he was not fit to attend his vivacities. 
 he found he was so universally unacceptable, I shall end this discourse with a letter of 
 
 he communicated to the chief inhabitants a recommendation from Horace to Claudius 
 design he had to return for England, provided Nero.^ You will see in that letter a slowness 
 they would give him ample testimonials of to ask a favour, a strong reason for being un- 
 their approbation. The planters came into 30 able to deny his good word any longer, and 
 it to a man, and, in proportion to his deserving that it is a service to the person to whom he 
 the quite contrary, the words justice, gener- recommends, to comply with what is asked: 
 osity, and courage, were inserted in his com- all which are necessary circumstances both 
 mission, n'^t omitting the general good-liking in justice and good-breeding, if a man would 
 of people of all conditions in the colony. The 35 ask so as to have reason to complain of a de- 
 gentleman returns for England, and within a nial; and indeed a man should not in strictness 
 few months after came back to them their ask otherwise. In hopes the authority of 
 governor, on the strength of their own testi- Horace, who perfectly understood how to 
 monials. live with great men, may have a good effect 
 
 Sych a rebuke as this cannot indeed happen 40 towards amending this facility in people of 
 to easy recommenders, in the ordinary course condition, and the confidence of those who 
 of things, from one hand to another; but how apply to them without merit, I have translated 
 would a man bear to have it said to him, "The the epistle, 
 person I took into confidence on the credit you 
 
 gave him, has proved false, unjust, and has not 45. '^^ Claudius nero 
 
 answered any way, the character you gave me "Sir, 
 of him?" "Septimius, who waits upon you with this, 
 
 I cannot but conceive very good hopes of is very well acquainted with the place you are 
 that rake Jack Toper of the Temple, for an pleased to allow me in your friendship. For 
 honest scrupulousness in this point. A friend 50 when he beseeches me to recommend him 
 of his meeting with a servant that had formerly to your notice, in such a manner as to be re- 
 lived with Jack, and having a mind to take him, ceived by you, who are delicate in the choice 
 sent to him to know what faults the fellow had, of your friends and domestics, he knows our 
 since he could not please such a careless fellow intimacy, and understands my ability to serve 
 as he was. His answer was as follows: — 65 him better than I do myself. I have defended 
 
 „-,. 1 Confused with drink. 
 
 ' Sir, 2 i. e., telling him to create a disturbance, or play some 
 
 "TKr^moa fViaf li'irorl wi*+Vi TY1P wfl<3 fiimpH mad prank, that would call out the watch; the police. 
 
 i nomas that lived Wltn me was turnea ^ Tiberius Claudiua Nero, a step-son of Augustus; ». 
 
 away because he was too good for me. You Hor., Evist., I, ix. 
 
348 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 myself against his ambition to be yours, as 
 long as I possibly could; but fearing the impu- 
 tation of hiding my power in you out of mean 
 and selfish considerations, I am at last pre- 
 vailed upon to give you this trouble. Thus to 
 avoid the appearance of a greater fault, I 
 have put on this confidence. If you can for- 
 give this transgression of modesty in behalf of 
 a friend, receive this gentleman into your 
 interests and friendship, and take it from me 
 that he is an honest and a brave man." 
 
 ^tnt^ g>t* Jloljn, Wiiitonnt 
 Bolmgbrokei 
 
 1678-1751 
 
 FROM REFLECTIONS UPON EXILE 
 
 (1716) 
 
 Dissipation of mind, and length of time, are 
 the remedies to which the greatest part of 
 mankind trust in their afflictions. But the 
 first of these works a temporary, the second 
 a slow, effect: and both are unworthy of a wise 
 man. Are we to fly from ourselves that we 
 may fly from our misfortunes, and fondly to 
 imagine that the disease is cured, because we 
 find means to get some moments of respite 
 from pain? Or shall we expect from time, the 
 physician of brutes, a Ungering and uncertain 
 deliverance? Shall we wait to be happy till 
 we can forget that we are miserable, and owe 
 to the weakness of our faculties a tranquillity 
 which ought to be the effect of their strength? 
 Far otherwise. Let us set all our past and our 
 present afflictions at once before our eyes. Let 
 us resolve to overcome them, instead of flying 
 from them, or wearing out the sense of them by 
 long and ignominious patience. Instead of 
 palliating remedies, let us use the incision- 
 knife and the caustic, search the wound to the 
 bottom, and work an immediate and radical 
 cure. 
 
 The recalling of former misfortunes serves 
 to fortify the mind against latter. He must 
 blush to sink under the anguish of one wound, 
 who surveys a body seamed over with the scars 
 of many, and who has come victorious out of 
 r 
 
 ^ Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, wit, politi- 
 cian, and philosopher, the friend of Pope, the political 
 ally of Swift, and the political antagonist of Walpole, 
 was one of the most brilliant figures in the England of 
 Queen Anne. Shortly before the Queen's death, he was 
 prominent in an intrigue to secure the succession of the 
 Stuarts, and after the triumph of the house of Hanover, 
 in 1715, he was compelled to take refuge in France. It 
 was during this enforced residence abroad, after the 
 collapse of his political schemes that, endeavoring, or 
 perhaps affecting to console himself with philosophy, he 
 wrote his Reflections Upon Exile. 
 
 all the conflicts wherein he received them. Let 
 sighs and tears, and fainting under the lightest 
 strokes of adverse fortune, be the portion of 
 those unhappy people whose tender minds a 
 5 long course of felicity has enervated: while 
 such, as have passed through years of calamity, 
 bear up, with a noble and immovable con- 
 stancy, against the heaviest. Uninterrupted 
 misery has this good effect, as it continually 
 
 10 torments, it finally hardens. 
 
 Such is the language of philosophy: and 
 happy is the man who acquires the right of 
 holding it. But this right is not to be acquired 
 by pathetic discourse. Our conduct can alone 
 
 15 give it us; and therefore, instead of presuming 
 on our strength, the surest method is to con- 
 fess our weakness, and, without loss of time, 
 to apply ourselves to the study of wisdom. 
 This was the advice which the oracle gave to 
 
 20 Zeno,^ and there is no other way of securing 
 our tranquillity amidst all the accidents to 
 which human life is exposed. Philosophy has, 
 I know, her Thrasos,^ as well as war: and among 
 her sons many there have been, who, while 
 
 25 they aimed at being more than men, became 
 something less. The means of preventing this 
 danger are easy and sure. It is a good rule to 
 examine well before we addict ourselves to 
 any sect: but I think it is a better rule, to ad- 
 
 30 diet ourselves to none. Let us hear them all, 
 with a perfect indifferency, on which side the 
 truth lies: and, when we come to determine, 
 let nothing appear so venerable to us as our 
 own understandings. Let us gratefully accept 
 
 35 the help of every one who has endeavoured to 
 correct the vices, and strengthen the minds 
 of men; but let us choose for ourselves, and 
 jdeld universal assent to none. Thus, that I 
 may instance the sect already mentioned, 
 
 40 when we have laid aside the wonderful .and 
 surprising sentences, and all the paradoxes of 
 the Portique,^ we shall find in that school such 
 doctrines as our unprejudiced reason submits 
 to with pleasure, as nature dictates, and as 
 
 45 experience confirms. Without this precaution, 
 we run the risk of becoming imaginary kings, 
 
 2 A Greek stoic philosopher of the third century. 
 Upon Zeno's consulting the oracle, what course was 
 fittest for a man to take that intended to regulate and 
 50 govern his life after the best manner? the Deity re- 
 turned for answer that he should keep consortship with 
 the dead. Upon which he fell to reading the lives of the 
 ancients. "Life of Zeno," in Diogenes Laertius' Lives of 
 the Philosophers. 
 
 3i. e., her men like Thrasos, a blustering, braggart, 
 captain in one of Terence's comedies. Cf. thrasonical, 
 boasting, vain-glorious. 
 
 * i. e., the Portico, or the Porch. The school of philos- 
 ophy founded by Zeno of Cyprus, was called Stoic, 
 from the Greek word Stoa, a porch, because Zeno taught 
 in a famous portico in Athens, known as the "Painted 
 Porch," or "the Porch." Hence paradoxes of the 
 Portique =paradoxe8 of the stoics, or of the philosophers 
 of the Porch. 
 
HENRY ST. JOHN, VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE 349 
 
 and real slaves. With it we may learn to assert dained. But the greatest part of their ordi- 
 
 our native freedom, and live independent on nances are abrogated by the wise. 
 
 fortune. Rejecting therefore the judgment of those 
 
 In order to which great end, it is necessary who determine according to popular opinions, 
 that we stand watchful, as sentinels, to dis- 5 or the first appearances of things, let us ex- 
 cover the secret wiles and open attacks of amine what exile really is. It is then, a change 
 this capricious goddess, before they reach us. of place; and, lest you should say that I di- 
 Where she falls upon us unexpected, it is hard minish the object, and conceal the most shock- 
 to resist; but those who wait for her, will repel ing parts of it, I add, that this change of place 
 her with ease. The sudden invasion of an lo is frequently accompanied by some or all of 
 enemy overthrows such as are not on their the following inconveniences: by the loss of 
 guard; but they who foresee the war, and the estate which we enjoyed, and the rank 
 prepare themselves for it before it breaks out, which we held; by the loss of that considera- 
 stand, without diflficulty, the first and the tion and power which we were in possession 
 fiercest onset. I learned this important lesson 15 of; by a separation from our family and our 
 long ago, and never trusted to fortune even friends; by the contempt which we may fall 
 while she seemed to be at peace with me. The into; by the ignominy with which those who 
 riches, the honours, the reputation, all the have driven us abroad, will endeavour to sully 
 advantages which her treacherous indulgence the innocence of our characters, and to justify 
 poured upon me, I placed so, that she might 20 the injustice of their own conduct. . . . 
 snatch them away without giving me any dis- Banishment, with all its train of evils, is 
 turbance. I kept a great interval between so far from being the cause of contempt, that 
 me and them. She took them, but she could he who bears up with an undaunted spirit 
 not tear them from me. No man suffers by against them, while so many are dejected by 
 bad fortune, but he who has been deceived 25 them, erects on his very misfortunes a trophy 
 by good. If we grow fond of her gifts, fancy to his honour: for such is the frame and temper 
 that they belong to us, and are perpetually of our minds, that nothing strikes us with 
 to remain with us, if we lean upon them, and greater admiration than a man intrepid in the 
 expect to be considered for them; we shall midst of misfortunes. Of all ignominies an 
 sink into all the bitterness of grief, as soon as 30 ignominious death must be allowed to be the 
 these false and transitory benefits pass away, greatest; and yet where is the blasphemer who 
 as soon as our vain and childish minds, un- will presume to defame the death of Socrates? 
 fraught with solid pleasures, become destitute This saint entered the prison with the same 
 even of those which are imaginary. But if countenance with which he reduced thirty 
 we do not suffer ourselves to be transported 35 tyrants, and he took off ignominy from the 
 by prosperity, neither shall we be reduced by place:for how could it be deemed a prison when 
 adversity. Our souls will be of proof against Socrates was there? Phocion^ was led to ex- 
 the dangers of both these states: and, having ecution in the same city. All those who met 
 explored our strength, we shall be sure of it; the sad procession, cast their eyes to the ground, 
 for in the midst of felicity, we shall have tried 40 and with throbbing hearts bewailed, not the 
 how we can bear misfortune. innocent man, but Justice herself, who was in 
 
 It is much harder to examine and judge, him condemned. Yet there was a wretch 
 than to take up opinions on trust; and there- found, for monsters are sometimes produced 
 fore the far greatest part of the world borrow, in contradiction to the ordinary rules of nature, 
 from others, those which they entertain con- 45 who spit in his face as he passed along. Phocion 
 cerning all the affairs of life and death. Hence wiped his cheek, smiled, turned to the magis- 
 it proceeds that men are so unanimously eager trate, and said, "Admonish this man not to 
 in the pursuit of things, which, far from having be so nasty for the future." 
 any inherent real good, are varnished over Ignominy then can take no hold on virtue; 
 with a specious and deceitful gloss, and contain 50 for virtue is in every condition the same, and 
 nothing answerable to their appearances, challenges the same respect. We applaud 
 Hence it proceeds, on the other hand, that, the world when she prospers; and when she 
 in those things which are called evils, there is falls into adversity we applaud her. Like the 
 nothing so hard and terrible as the general cry temples of the gods, she is venerable even m 
 of the world threatens. The word exile comes 55 her ruins. After this must it not appear a 
 indeed harsh to the ear, and strikes us hke a ^ ^^ Athenian statesman «ind soldier, who helped to de- 
 melancholy and execrable sound, through a feat the Spartans in a sea-fight ofif Naxos, and who re- 
 , . . ,.1 u^,,^ v^u;+„olKr Dulsed on land the army of Philip of Macedon. Coming, 
 
 certam persuasion which men have habitually fater, into opposition to Demosthenes, he was falsely ac 
 concurred in. Thus the multitude has or- cused of treason and executed at Athens, B. C. 317. 
 
350 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 degree of madness to defer one moment ac- pitch of nature and truth. A spirit of opposi- 
 quiring the only arms capable of defending tion to another doctrine, which grew into great 
 us against attacks which at every moment we vogue while Zeno flourished, might occasion 
 are exposed to? Our being miserable, or not this excess. Epicurus^'^ placed the sovereign 
 miserable, when we fall into misfortunes, 5 good in pleasure. His terms were wilfully, or 
 depends on the manner in which we have accidentally mistaken. His scholars might 
 enjoyed prosperity. If we have applied our- help to pervert his doctrine, but rivalship 
 selves betimes to the study of wisdom, and enflamed the dispute; for in truth there is not 
 to the practice of virtue, these evils become so much difference between stoicism reduced 
 indifferent; but if we have neglected to do so, 10 to reasonable intelhgible terms, and genuine 
 they become necessary. In one case they are orthodox epicurism, as is imagined. The 
 evils, in the other they are remedies for greater felicis animi immoto. tranquillitas,^^ and the 
 evils than themselves. Zeno^ rejoiced that a voluntas of the latter, are near enough a-kin: 
 shipwreck had thrown him on the Athenian and I much doubt whether the firmest hero of 
 coast: and he owed to the loss of his fortune 15 the Portique would have borne a fit of the 
 the acquisition which he made of virtue, of stone, on the principles of Zeno, with greater 
 wisdom, of immortality. There are good and magnanimity and patience than Epicurus did 
 bad airs for the mind, as well as for the body, on those of his own philosophy. However, 
 Prosperity often irritates our chronical dis- Aristotle took a middle way, or explained him- 
 tempers, and leaves no hopes of finding any 20 self better, and placed happiness in the joint 
 specific but in adversity. In such cases banish- advantages of the mind, of the body, and of 
 ^ent is like change of air, and the evils we fortune. They are reasonably joined; but cer- 
 suffer are like rough i|;iedicines applied to tain it is, that they must not be placed on an 
 inveterate diseases. What Anacharsis' said equal foot. We can much better bear the 
 of the vine, may aptly enough be said of pros- 25 privation of the last, than of the others; and 
 perity. She bears the three grapes of drunken- poverty itself, which mankind is so afraid of, 
 ness, of pleasure, and of sorrow: and happy it per Tnare pauperism fugiens, per saxa, per ignes,^^ 
 is if the last can cure the mischief which the is surely preferable to madness, or the stone, 
 former work. When aflQictions fail to have though Chrysippu^^^ thought it better to live 
 their due effect, the case is desperate. They 30 mad, than not to live! If banishment there- 
 are the last remedy which indulgent Provi- fore, by taking from us the advantages of for- 
 dence uses: and if they fail, we must languish tune, cannot take from us the more valuable 
 and die in misery and contempt. Vain men! advantages of the mind and the body, when we 
 how seldom do we know what to wish or to have them; and if the same accident is able to 
 pray for? When we pray against misfortunes, 35 restore them to us, when we have lost them, 
 and when we fear them most, we want them banishment is a very slight misfortune to those 
 most. It was for this reason that Pythagoras who are already under the dominion of reason, 
 forbid his disciples to ask anything in particular and a very great blessing to those who are 
 of God. The shortest and the best prayer still plunged in vices which ruin the health 
 which we can address to him, who knows our 40 both of body and mind. It is to be wished for, 
 wants, and our ignorance in askiiig,^ is this: in favour of such as these, and to be feared 
 "Thy will be done." by none. If we are in this case, let us second 
 
 Tully^ says, in some part of his works, that the designs of Providence in our favour, and 
 as happiness is the object of all philosophy, make some amends for neglecting former 
 so the disputes among philosophers arise from 45 opportunities by not letting slip the last. Si 
 their different notions of the sovereign good. Tiolis sanvs, curres hydropicusM We may 
 Reconcile them in that point, you reconcile shorten the evils which we might have pre- 
 them in the rest. The school of Zeno placed vented, and as we get the better of our dis- 
 this sovereign good in naked virtue, and wound 
 the principle up to an extreme beyond the50.."^^»<^"^ 1342-270 BC.) was the founder of th» 
 
 ^ ^ ^ •' "Epicurean School of philosophy. His teachings were 
 
 , . almost directly opposed to those of Zeno and other 
 
 \Zeno of Cyprus, the founder of the Stoic school of Stoic philosophers. 
 
 philosophy. ""The immovable serenity of the happy soul." 
 
 7 A Scythian philosopher, who resided for some time in Marcus Aurelius. Epictetus. Seneca, and the other Stoic 
 
 Athens. Diogenes Laertius reports him as saying "That philosophers, laid great stress on the attainment of a 
 
 the vine bears three sorts of clusters: the first, of pleasure, lofty tranquility of mind, which all earthly shocks or 
 
 the second, of debauchery, and the third, of discontent accidents would be powerless to disturb. 
 
 and repentance." _ 12 "piying poverty through the sea, through the rocks, 
 
 8 This expression occurs in a prayer in the church of through the flames." 
 
 England service: "Almighty God, . . . who knoweth '* A Stoic philosopher who resided in Athens, and lived 
 
 our necessities before we ask, and our ignorance in asking," about 200 B. C. 
 
 etc. 1* " If you are unwilling when well, you shall run when 
 
 •Cicero, whose full name was Marcus TuUius Cicfro. you are dropsical." 
 
HENRY ST. JOHN, VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE 351 
 
 orderly passions, and vicious habits, we shall Rural amusements, and philosophical medita- 
 feel our anxiety diminish in proportion. All tions, will make your hours glide smoothly 
 the approaches to virtue are comportable. on; and if the indulgence of Heaven has given 
 With how much joy will the man, who im- you a friend like LcbUus,^^ nothing is wanting 
 proves his misfortunes in this manner, dis- 5 to make you completely happy, 
 cover that those evils, which he attributed to These are some of those reflections which 
 
 his exile, sprung from his vanity and folly, may serve to fortify the mind under banish- 
 and vanish with them! He will see that, in ment, and under the other misfortunes of life, 
 his former temper of mind, he resembled the which it is every man's interest to prepare for, 
 effeminate princess ^^o could drink no water 10 because they are common to all men: I say, 
 but that of the river Choaspes; or the simple they are common to all men; because even 
 queen, i« in qne of the tragedies of Euripides, they who escape them are equally exposed to 
 who complained bitterly, that she had not them. The darts of adverse fortune are always 
 lighted the nuptial torch, and that the river levelled at our heads. Some reach us, some 
 Ismenus had not furnished the water at her 15 graze against us, and fly to wound our neigh- 
 son's wedding. Seeing his former state in this bours. Let us therefore impose an equal 
 ridiculous light, he will labour on with pleasure temper on our minds, and pay without mur- 
 to wards another as contrary as possible to it; muring the tribute which we owe to humanity, 
 and when he arrives there, he will be convinced The winter brings cold, and we must freeze, 
 by the strongest of all proofs, his own experi- 20 The summer returns with heat, and we must 
 ence, that he was unfortunate because he was melt. The inclemency of the air disorders our 
 ^'^icious, not because he was banished. health, and we must be sick. Here we are ex- 
 
 If I was not afraid of being thought to refine pgsed to wild beasts, and there to men more 
 <;oo much, I would venture to put some ad- savage than the beasts; and if we escape the 
 vantages of fortune, which are due to exile, 25 inconveniencies and dangers of the air and the 
 into the scale against those which we lose by earth, there are perils by water and perils by 
 exile. If you are wise, your leisure will be fire. This established course of things it is 
 worthily employed, and your retreat will add not in our power to change; but it is in our 
 new lustre to your character. Imitate Thucyd- power to assume such a greatness of mind as 
 ides in Thracia, or Xenophon in his little farm 30 becomes wise and virtuous men ; as may en- 
 at Scillus. In such a retreat you may sit able us to encounter the accidents of life with 
 down, like one of the inhabitants of Elis, who fortitude, and to conform ourselves to the 
 judged of the Olympic games, without taking order of nature, who governs her great king- 
 any part in them. Far from the hurry of the dom, the world, by continual mutations. Let 
 world, and almost an unconcerned spectator 35 us submit to this order, let us be persuaded 
 of what passes in it, having paid in a public life that whatever does happen ought to happen, 
 '^hat you owed to the present age, pay in a and never be so foolish as to expostulate with 
 private life what you owe to posterity. Write nature. The best resolution we can take is to 
 as you live, without passion; and build your suffer what we cannot alter, and to pursue, 
 reputation, as you build your happiness, on 40 without repining, the road which Providence, 
 the foundations of truth. If you want the who directs everything, has marked out to 
 talents, the inclination, or the necessary ma- us: for it is not enough to follow; and he is 
 terials for such a work, fall not however into but a bad soldier who sighs, and marches 
 sloth. Endeavour to copy after the example on with reluctancy. We must receive the 
 of Scijrio^'' at Linturnum. Be able to say to 45 orders with spirit and cheerfulness, and not 
 yourself, endeavour to sink out of the post which is 
 
 assigned us in this beautiful disposition of 
 Innocuas amo delidas dodamque quietem.^^ things, whereof even our sufferings make a 
 
 necessary part. Let us address ourselves to 
 
 »5The water of the Choaspes "was so pure that the ^q Qq^j ^j^q governs all, as Cleanthes^'^ did in 
 Persian kings used to carry it with them in silver vessels , , i • i i„ „^„„«„ xTTliioli oro oth'tio- in 
 
 when on foreign expeditions." The allusion in the text those admirable verses, which are going to 
 
 seems to have been suggested by a passage in Plutarch's Iq^q part of their grace and energy m my 
 
 Morals, in which, after declaring that we should be |^ . « +v,Qr« 
 
 thankful for those restrictions which we impose on our- translation 01 tnem. 
 
 selves. Plutarch adds — " yet we mock the Persian Kings, • j <■ i,-_ *u„ „„^» 
 
 for that (if it be true which is reported of them) they " Gains Lcelius, whose wisdom gained for him the name 
 
 drijik of all the water only of the river Choaspes," etc. of Sapius, a philosopher, orator, and lover ot country iile, 
 
 16 Jocaste, in The Phoenician Virgins of Euripides. and a close friend of, Scipio Afncanus, the younger. 
 
 " Publius Cornelius Scipio, the conqueror of Hannibal, Lcelius is given a prominent part in Uicero s dialogue on 
 
 who gained the name of ^/ricanus. In spite of his great Friendship (De Amicitia). ,. . , , ,_ 
 
 services, he lost the popular favor, and was forced to ^o A Stoic philosopher; disciple and successor of Zeno. 
 
 retire to his country place at Liternum. . His Hymn to Jupiter is all that remains of his numerous 
 
 w " I love harmless pleasures and learned quiet." works. 
 
352 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Parent of nature! master of the world! 
 Where'er thy Providence directs, behold 
 My steps with cheerful resignation turn. 
 Fate leads the wiUing, drags the backward on. 
 Why should I grieve, when grieving I must 
 
 bear? 
 Or take with guilt, what guiltless I might share? 
 
 Thus let us speak, and thus let us act. Resigna- 
 tion to the will of God is true magnanimity. 
 But the sure mark of a pusillanimous and base 
 spirit, is to struggle against, to censure the 
 order of Providence, and instead of mending 
 our own conduct, to set up for correcting that 
 of our Maker. 
 
 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE 
 ROMANTIC SCHOOL 
 
 1679-1718 
 
 A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH 
 
 (PubUshed, 1721) 
 By the blue taper's trembhng light, 
 No more I waste the wakeful night, 
 Intent with endless view to pore 
 The schoolmen and the sages o'er: 
 Their books from wisdom widely stray, 5 
 Or point at best the longest way. 
 I'll seek a readier path, and go 
 Where wisdom's surely taught below. 
 
 How deep yon azure dyes the sky, 
 
 Where orbs of gold unnumber'd he, lo 
 
 While through their ranks in silver pride 
 
 The nether crescent seems to glide! 
 
 The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, 
 
 The lake is smooth and clear beneath, 
 
 Where once again the spangled show 15 
 
 Descends to meet our eyes below. 
 
 The grounds which on the right aspire, 
 
 In dimness from the view retire: 
 
 The left presents a place of graves. 
 
 Whose wall the silent water laves. 20 
 
 That steeple guides thy doubtful sight 
 
 Among the livid gleams of night. 
 
 There pass, with melancholy state. 
 
 By all the solemn heaps of fate. 
 
 And think, as softly-sad you tread 25 
 
 Above the venerable dead, 
 
 "Time was, like thee they life possest, 
 
 And time shall be, that thou shalt rest." 
 
 Those graves, with bending osier bound. 
 
 That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 30 
 
 Quick to the glancing thought disclose. 
 
 Where toil and poverty repose. 
 
 The flat smooth stones that bear a name, 
 
 The chisel's slender help to fame, 
 
 (Which ere our set of friends decay 35 
 
 Their frequent steps may wear away), 
 
 A middle race of mortals own, 
 
 Men, half ambitious, all unknown. 
 
 The marble tombs that rise on high. 
 
 Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 40 
 
 Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones. 
 
 Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones. 
 
 These, all the poor remains of state. 
 
 Adorn the rich, or praise the great; 
 
 Who while on earth in fame they live, 45 
 
 Are senseless of the fame they give. 
 
 Hah! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, 
 The bursting earth unveils the shades! 
 All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, 
 5 They rise in visionary crowds, so 
 
 And all with sober accent cry, 
 "Think, mortal, what it is to die." 
 
 Now from yon black and funeral yew. 
 
 That bathes the charnel-house with dew, 
 
 Methinks I hear a voice begin; 55 
 
 (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, 
 
 Ye tolling clocks, no time resound 
 
 O'er the long lake and midnight ground!) 
 
 It sends a peal of hollow groans, 
 
 Thus speaking from among the bones. 60 
 
 "When men my scythe and darts supply. 
 
 How great a king of fears am I ! 
 
 They view me like the last of things: 
 
 They make, and then they dread, my stings. 
 
 Fools! If you less provok'd your fears, 65 
 
 No more my spectre form appears. 
 
 Death's but a path that must be trod, 
 
 If man would ever pass to God; 
 
 A port of calms, a state of ease 
 
 From the rough rage of swelhng seas. 70 
 
 "Why then thy flowing sable stoles, 
 Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles. 
 Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds. 
 Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds. 
 And plumes of black, that, as they tread, 75 
 Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead? 
 
 " Nor can the parted body know, 
 
 Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe. 
 
 As men who long in prison dwell. 
 
 With lamps that glimmer round the cell, 80 
 
 Whene'er their suffering years are run. 
 
 Spring forth to greet the glittering sun : 
 
 Such joy, though far transcending sense. 
 
 Have pious souls at parting hence. 
 
 On earth, and in the body plac'd, 85 
 
 A few and evil years they waste; 
 
 But when their chains are cast aside, 
 
 See the glad scene unfolding wide, 
 
 Clap the glad wing, and tower away, 
 
 And mingle with the blaze of day." 90 
 
 A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT 
 
 (Published, 1721) 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace of mind! 
 Sweet delight of human kind! 
 Heavenly-born, and bred on high. 
 To crown the favorites of the sky 
 
THOMAS PARNELL 
 
 353 
 
 With more of happiness below, 
 Than victors in a triumph know! 
 Whither, O whither art thou fled, 
 To lay thy meek, contented head; 
 What happy region dost thou please 
 To make the seat of calms and ease! 
 
 10 
 
 Ambition searches all its sphere 
 
 Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. 
 
 Encreasing Avarice would find 
 
 Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd. 
 
 The bold adventurer ploughs his way 15 
 
 Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, 
 
 To gain thy love; and then perceives 
 
 Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
 
 The silent heart, which grief assails, 
 
 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 20 
 
 Sees daisies open, rivers run. 
 
 And seeks, as I have vainly done. 
 
 Amusing thought; but learns to know 
 
 That solitude's the nurse of woe. 
 
 No real happiness is found 25 
 
 In trailing purple o'er the ground; 
 
 Or in a soul exalted high. 
 
 To range the circuit of the sky. 
 
 Converse with stars above, and know 
 
 All nature in its forms below; 30 
 
 The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 
 
 And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace, appear! 
 This world itself, if thou art here, 
 Is once again with Eden blest, 
 And man contains it in his breast. 
 
 35 
 
 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
 
 I sung my wishes to the wood, 
 
 And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd 
 
 The branches whisper as they wav'd : 40 
 
 It seem'd, as all the quiet place 
 
 Confess'd the presence of the Grace. 
 
 When thus she spoke-" Go rule thy will, 
 
 Bid thy wild passions all be still, 
 
 Know God — and bring thy heart to know 45 
 
 The joys which from reUgion flow: 
 
 Then every Grace shall prove its guest, 
 
 And I'll be there to crown the rest." 
 
 Oh! by yonder mossy seat. 
 
 In my hours of sweet retreat, 50 
 
 Might I thus my soul employ. 
 
 With sense of gratitude and joy! 
 
 Rais'd as ancient prophets were. 
 
 In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer; 
 
 Pleasing all men, hurting none, 55 
 
 Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone: 
 
 Then while the gardens take my sight, 
 
 With all the colours of delight; 
 
 While silver waters glide along. 
 
 To please my ear, and court my song; 60 
 
 I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, 
 
 And thee, great source of nature, sing. 
 
 The sun that walks his airy way. 
 To light the world, and give the day; 
 The moon that shines with borrow'd Hght; 05 
 The stars that gild the gloomy night; 
 The seas that roll unnumber'd waves; 
 The wood that spreads its shady leaves; 
 The field whose ears conceal the grain. 
 The yellow treasure of the plain; 70 
 
 All of these, and all I see. 
 Should be sung, and sung by me: 
 They speak their maker as they can, 
 But want and ask the tongue of man. 
 
 Go search among your idle dreams, 73 
 
 Your busy or your vain extremes; 
 And find a life of equal bliss, 
 Or own the next begun in this. 
 
 A HYMN FOR MORNING 
 
 See, the star that leads the day, 
 
 Rising shoots a golden ray, 
 
 To make the shades of darkness go 
 
 From Heaven above and earth below, 
 
 And warn us early with the sight 5 
 
 To leave the beds of silent night, 
 
 From an heart sincere and sound, 
 
 From its very deepest ground. 
 
 Send devotion up on high, 
 
 Wing'd with heat, to reach the sky. 10 
 
 See the time for sleep has run. 
 
 Rise before or with the sun, 
 
 Lift thine hands, and humble pray 
 
 The Fountain of eternal day^ 
 
 That as the light serenely fair 15 
 
 Illustrates all the tracts of air. 
 
 The sacred Spirit so may rest 
 
 With quickening beams upon thy breast, 
 And kindly clean it all within 
 
 From darker blemishes of sin, 20 
 
 And shine with grace, until we view 
 
 The realm it gilds with glory too. 
 
 See the day that dawns in air. 
 
 Brings along its toil and care, 
 
 From the lap of Night it springs 25 
 
 With heaps of business on its wings; 
 
 Prepare to meet them in a mind 
 
 That bows submissively resign'd, 
 
 That would to works appointed fall. 
 
 And knows that God has order'd all. 3G 
 
 And whether with a small repast 
 
 We break the sober morning fast, 
 
 Or in our thoughts and houses lay 
 
 The future methods of the day. 
 
 Or early walk abroad to meet 36 
 
 Our business, with industrious feet, 
 
 Whate'er we think, whate'er we do, 
 
 His glory still be kept in view. 
 
 O Giver of eternal bliss! 
 
 Heavenly Father! grant me this, 40 
 
 Grant it all as well as me. 
 
 All whose hearts are fix'd on Thee, 
 
 Who revere thy Son above, 
 
 Who thy sacred Spirit love. 
 
354 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 1681-1765 
 
 ON LIFE, DEATH AND IMMORTALITY 
 
 (From The Complaint; or Night Thoughts, 
 1742-1745) 
 
 Tir'd Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! 
 He, like the world, his ready visit pays 
 Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he for- 
 sakes : 
 Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 
 And lights on lids unsully'd with a tear. ... 5 
 
 Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, 
 In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
 Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. 
 Silence, how dead! and darkness, how pro- 
 found ! 
 Nor eye, nor list'ning ear, an object finds; 10 
 Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulse 
 Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause; 
 An awful pause! prophetic of her end. 
 And let her prophecy be spon fulfill'd: 
 Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. 15 
 Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins 
 P>om ancient Night, who nurse the tender 
 
 thought 
 To reason, and on reason build resolve, 
 (That column of true majesty in man), 
 Assist me: I will thank you in the grave; 20 
 
 The grave, your kingdom: there this frame 
 
 shall fall 
 A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 
 But what are ye? — 
 
 Thou who didst put to flight 
 Primeval silence, when the morning stars, 25 
 Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball; 
 
 Thou! whose word from solid darkness 
 
 struck 
 That spark, the sun; strike wisdom from my 
 
 soul; 
 My soul, which flies to Thee, her trust, her 
 
 treasure. 
 As misers to their gold, while others rest. 30 
 
 Through this opaque of nature, and of soul, 
 This double night, transmit one pitying ray, 
 To lighten and to cheer. O lead my mind, 
 (A mind that fain would wander from its woe), 
 Lead it through various scenes of life and 
 death; 35 
 
 And from each scene, the noblest truths in- 
 spire. 
 Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song: 
 Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will 
 Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve 
 Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear; 40 
 Nor let the phial of thy veng'ance, pour'd 
 On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain. 
 
 The bell strikes one. We take no note of 
 time, 
 But from its loss. To give it then a tongue. 
 Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 45 
 
 1 feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 
 
 It is the knell of my departed hours: 
 
 Where are they; with the years beyond the 
 
 flood. 
 It is the signal that demands dispatch. 
 How much is to be done? my hopes and fears 50 
 Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge 
 Look down — on what? a fathomless abyss; 
 A dread eternity! how surely mine! 
 And can eternity belong to me. 
 Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? 55 
 
 How poor, how rich, how abject, how august. 
 
 How complicate, how wonderful, is man! 
 
 How passing wonder HE, who made him such! 
 
 Who center'd in our make such strange ex- 
 tremes! 
 
 From diff 'rent natures marvellously mix'd, 60 
 
 Connexion exquisite of distant worlds ! 
 
 Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! 
 
 Midway from nothing to the Deity! 
 
 A beam ethereal, sully'd, and absorpt! 
 
 Tho' sully'd and dishonour'd, still divine! 65 
 
 Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
 
 An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! 
 
 Helpless immortal! insect infinite! 
 
 A worm! a god! — I tremble at myself, 
 
 And in myself am lost ! At home a stranger, 70 
 
 Thought wanders up and down, surpriz'd, 
 aghast. 
 
 And wond'ring at her own: how reason reels! 
 
 O what a miracle to man is man ! 
 
 Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what 
 dread! 
 
 Alternately transported, and alarm'd! 75 
 
 What can preserve my life? or what destroy? 
 
 An angel's arm can't snatch me from the 
 grave; 
 
 Legions of angels can't confine me there. . . . 
 
 War, famine, pest, volcano, storm, and fire, 
 Intestine broils, oppression, with her heart 80 
 Wrapt ug^in triple brass, besiege mankind. 
 God's image, disinherited of day, a 
 Here, plung'd in mines, forgets af sun was 
 
 made; 
 There, beings deathless as their haughty lord, 
 Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life; 85 
 
 And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair; 
 Some, for hard masters, broken under arms, 
 In battle lopt away with half their limbs. 
 Beg bitter bread through realms their valour 
 
 sav'd. 
 If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom. 90 
 
 Want, and incurable disease (fell pair!) 
 On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize 
 At once, and make a refuge of the grave. 
 How groaning hospitals eject their dead! 
 What numbers groan for sad admission there! 95 
 What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-fed, 
 Solicit the cold hand of charity ! 
 To shock us more, solicit it in vain ! 
 Ye silken sons of pleasure! since in pains 
 You rue more modish visits, visit here, lOO 
 
 And breathe from your debauch: give, and re- 
 duce 
 Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but, so great 
 Your impudence, you blush at what is right. > . . 
 
ALLAN RAMSAY 
 
 355 
 
 By Nature's law, what may be, may be now; 
 There's no prerogative in human hours. 105 
 
 In human hearts what bolder thought can rise 
 Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn? 
 Where is to-morrow? In another world. 
 For numbers this is certain; the reverse 
 Is sure to none : and yet on this perhaps, 110 
 
 This peradventure, infamous for lies, 
 As on a rock of adament, we build 
 Our mountain hopes; spin our eternal schemes, 
 As we the fatal sisters could out-spin, 
 And, big with life's futurities, expire. lis 
 
 Not ev'n Philander had bespoke his shroud. 
 Nor had he cause; a warning was deny'd, 
 How many fall as sudden, not as safe! 
 As sudden, though for years admonish'd, home. 
 Of human ills, the last extreme beware; 120 
 
 Beware, Lorenzo! a slow sudden death. 
 How dreadful that deliberate surprise! 
 Be wise to-day, 'tis madness to defer; 
 Next day the fatal precedent will plead; 
 Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. 125 
 Procrastination is the thief of time; 
 Year after year it steals, till all are fled. 
 And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
 The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
 If not so frequent, would not this be strange? 130 
 That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. 
 
 Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 
 The palm, "That all men are about to live," 
 For ever on the brink of being born. 
 All pay themselves the compliment to think 135 
 They, one day, shall not drivel; and their pride 
 On this reversion takes up ready praise; 
 At least, their own, their future selves ap- 
 plauds. 
 How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! 
 Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's 
 vails; 140 
 
 That lodg'd in Fate's, to wisdom they consign; 
 The thing they can't but purpose, they post- 
 pone; 
 'Tis not in Folly, not to scorn a fool; 
 And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
 All promise is poor dilatory man, 145 
 
 And that thro' every stage; when young, in- 
 deed, 
 In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 
 Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish 
 As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise: 
 At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 150 
 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; 
 At fifty, chides his infamous delay. 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; 
 In all the magnanimity of thought 
 Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same. 
 
 And why? because he thinks himself im- 
 mortal. 156 
 All men think all men mortal, but themselves; 
 Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fate 
 Strikes through their wounded hearts the 
 sudden dread: 
 
 But their hearts wounded, like the wounded 
 air, 160 
 
 Soon close; where pass'd the shaft, no trace is 
 found. 
 
 As from the wing no scar the sky retains; 
 
 The parted wave no furrow from the keel; 
 
 So dies in human hearts the thought of death. 
 
 Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature sheds 
 
 O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 166 
 
 George Berlkele^ 
 
 1685-1753 
 
 VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANT- 
 ING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA 
 
 The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime. 
 
 Barren of every glorious theme. 
 In distant lands now waits a better time, 
 
 Producing subjects worthy fame: 
 
 In happy climes, where from the genial sun 5 
 And virgin earth such scenes ensue. 
 
 The force of art by nature seems outdone. 
 And fancied beauties by the true: 
 
 In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 
 
 Where nature guides, and virtue rules, 10 
 
 Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
 The pedantry of courts and schools: 
 
 There shall be sung another golden age. 
 The rise of empire and of arts, 
 
 The good and great inspiring epic rage. 
 The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 
 
 15 
 
 Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; 
 
 Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
 When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 
 
 By future poets shall be sung. 20 
 
 Westward the course of empire takes its way; 
 
 The four first acts already past, 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 
 
 Time's noblest offspring is the last. 
 
 aUan Hamsfa^ 
 
 1686-1758 
 
 AN ODE TO PH— 1 
 
 (1721) 
 
 Look up to Pentland's tow'ring top. 
 Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw, 
 
 O'er ilka cleugh,^ ilk scar,^ and slap,^ 
 As high as any Roman wa'.^ 
 
 1 Evidently a reminiscence of Horace, Odes, Book I, C 
 » Gorge, or ravine. ' ^rn 
 
 * A narrow pass between mils. * W all. 
 
356 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 DriviDg their baws^ frae whins' or tee, 5 
 
 There's no nae gowfers^ to be seen, 
 
 Nor douffer fowk wysing a-jee^ 
 
 The byast bouls^^ on Tamson's green. 
 
 Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs,^^ 
 
 And beek^^ i\^q house baith but and ben; 10 
 
 That mutchkin^^ stoup it hands but dribs, ^^ 
 Then let's get in the tappit hen.^^ 
 
 Good claret best keeps out the cauld, 
 And drives away the winter soon; 
 
 It makes a man baith gash^^ and bauld, 15 
 And heaves his saul beyond the moon. . . . 
 
 Be sure ye dinna quat^' the grip 
 
 Of ilka joy when ye are young. 
 Before auld age your vitals nip. 
 
 And lay ye twafold o'er a rung.^^ 20 
 
 SONG "MY PEGGY IS A YOUNG THING" 
 
 (From The Gentle Shepherd, 1725) 
 
 My Peggy is a young thing, 
 Just enter'd in her teens, 
 Fair as the day and sweet as May, 
 Fair as the day and always gay. 
 
 My Peggy is a young thing, 5 
 
 And I'm nae very auld. 
 Yet well I like to meet her at 
 The wauking of the fauld.^ 
 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 
 Whene'er we meet alane, 
 I wish nae mair to lay my care, — 
 I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare. 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, ^ 
 
 To a' the lave^ I'm cauld. 
 But she gars^ a' my spirits glow, 
 At wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy smiles sae kindly. 
 
 Whene'er I whisper love. 
 
 That I look down on a' the town, — 
 
 That I look down upon a crown. 
 
 My Peggy smiles sae kindly. 
 
 It makes me blithe and bauld. 
 And naething gies me sic delyte. 
 As wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 My Peggy sings sae saftly. 
 When on my pipe I play. 
 By a' the rest it is confest, — 
 By a' the rest that she sings best. 
 My Peggy sings sae saftly. 
 
 And in her sangs are tauld, 30 
 
 Wi' innocence, the wale* o' sense. 
 At wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 « Balls. 7 Furze bushes. 8 Golfers. 
 
 » More sober or sedate folk, directing or sending to one 
 side. 
 
 *<> The bowls or balls, used in the game of bowling. 
 
 J' Poke the grate. 
 
 12 Warm the house, both outer and inner room. 
 
 " Pint. 1* Drops. ** Quart measure. 
 
 " Sagacious. " Quit. ^^ Doubled over a staff. 
 
 1 Watching of the fold. ^ The rest, the others. 
 
 ' Makes. * Pick, i. e. the best. 
 
 William §)omert)ilU 
 
 1692-1742 
 
 FIELD-SPORTS 
 
 (From The Chase, Pub. 1742) 
 
 'Tis instinct that directs the jealous hare 
 To choose her soft abode: With step revers'd 
 She forms the doubling maze: then, ere the 
 
 morn 
 Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close 
 recess. 
 As wandering shepherds on th' Arabian 
 plains 5 
 
 No settled residence observe, but shift 
 Their moving camp, now on some cooler hill 
 With cedars crown'd, court the refreshing 
 
 breeze; 
 And then, below, where trickling streams distil 
 From some penurious source, their thirst 
 allay, 10 
 
 And feed their fainting flocks: so the wise hares 
 Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious eye 
 Should mark their haunts, and by dark treach- 
 erous wiles, 
 Plot their destruction; or perchance in hopes 
 Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead, 1 5 
 Or matted blade, wary and close they sit. 
 When spring shines forth, season of love and 
 
 joy, 
 
 In the moist marsh, 'mong beds of rushes hid. 
 They cool their boiling blood: When summer 
 
 suns 
 Bake the cleft earth, to thick wide waving 
 
 fields 20 
 
 Of corn fuU grown they lead their helpless 
 
 young: 
 But when autumnal torrents and fierce rains 
 Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank 
 Their forms they delve, and cautiously avoid 
 The dripping covert: Yet when winter's cold 25 
 Their limbs benumbs, thither with speed re- 
 
 turn'd 
 In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking creep 
 Among the wither'd leaves; thus changing still, 
 As fancy prompts them, or as food invites. 
 But every season carefully observ'd, 30 
 
 Th' inconstant winds, the fickle element. 
 The wise experienc'd huntsman soon may find 
 His subtle, various game, nor waste in vain 
 His tedious hours, till his impatient hounds. 
 With disappointment vex'd, each springing 
 
 lark 35 
 
 Babbling pursue, far scatter'd o'er the fields. 
 
 Now golden Autumn from her open lap 
 Her fragrant bounties showers; the fields are 
 
 shorn; 
 Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer views 
 The rising pyramids that grace his yard, 40 
 
 And counts his large increase; his barns are 
 
 stor'd 
 And groaning staddles^ bend beneath their load. 
 All now is free as air, and the gay pack 
 In the rough bristly stubbles range unblam'd; 
 
 1 Props. 
 
JOHN DYER 
 
 357 
 
 No widow's tears o'erflow, no secret curse 45 
 Swells in the farmer's breast, which his pale lips 
 Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord aw'd: 
 But courteous now he levels every fence, 
 Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud, 
 Charm'd with the rattling thunder of the 
 field. 50 
 
 Oh bear me, some kind power invisible! 
 To that extended lawn, where the gay court 
 View the swift racers, stretching to the goal; 
 Games more renown'd, and a far nobler train, 
 Than proud Elean fields^ could boast of old. 55 
 Oh! were a Theban lyre not wanting here, 
 And Pindar's voice, to do their merit right ! 
 Or to those spacious plains, where the strain'd 
 
 eye 
 In the wide prospect lost, beholds at last 
 Sarum's^ proud spire, that o'er the hills as- 
 cends, 60 
 And pierces through the clouds. Or to thy 
 
 downs, 
 Fair Cotswold, where the well-breath'd beagle 
 
 climbs 
 With matchless speed, thy green aspiring brow. 
 And leaves the lagging multitude behind. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE AUTHOR'S ELBOW 
 CHAIR NEW-CLOTHED 
 
 My dear companion, and my faithful friend! 
 
 If Orpheus taught the hstening oaks to bend; 
 
 If stones and rubbish, at Amphion's call, 
 
 Danc'd into form, and built the Theban wall; 
 
 Why shouldst not thou attend my humble 
 lays, 5 
 
 And hear my grateful harp resound thy praise? 
 True, thou art spruce and fine, a very beau; 
 
 But what are trappings and external show? 
 
 To real worth alone I make my court, 
 
 Knaves are my scorn, and coxcombs are my 
 sport. 10 
 
 6nce I beheld thee far less trim and gay; 
 
 Ragged, disjointed, and to worms a prey; 
 
 The safe retreat of every lurking mouse; 
 
 Derided, shunn'd; the lumber of my house! 
 
 Thy robe how chang'd from what it was be- 
 fore! 15 
 
 Thy velvet robe, which pleas'd my sires of yore! 
 
 'Tis thus capricious fortune wheels iis round; 
 
 Aloft we mount— then tumble to the ground. 
 
 Yet grateful then, my constancy I prov'd ; 
 
 I knew thy worth ; my friend in rags I lov'd ; 20 
 
 I lov'd thee more; nor like a courtier, spurn'd 
 
 My benefactor, when the tide was turn'd. 
 
 with conscious shame, yet frankly, I confess. 
 
 That in my youthful days— I lov'd thee less. 
 
 Wliere vanity, where pleasure call'd, I stray'd; 
 
 And every wayward appetite obey'd. 26 
 
 But sage experience taught me how to prize 
 
 Myself; and how, this world; she bade me rise 
 
 To nobler flights regardless of a race 
 
 Of factious emmets ; pointed where to place 30 
 
 2 The Olympic games were held on a site which hat! 
 belonged to the Eleans, the inhabitants of Elis, Greece. 
 
 a The old name for Salisbury; its "spire" is one of the 
 beauties of Salisbury Cathedral. 
 
 My bliss, and lodg'd me in thy soft embrace. 
 
 Here on thy yielding down I sit secure; 
 And, patiently, what Heaven has sent endure; 
 From all the futile cares of business free; 
 Not fond of life, but yet content to be: 35 
 
 Here mark the fleeting hours; regret the past; 
 And seriously prepare to meet the last. 
 
 So safe on shore the pension'd sailor lies; 
 And all the malice of the storm defies: 
 With ease of body blest, and peace of mind, 
 Pi ti es the restless crew he lef t behind ; 41 
 
 Whilst, in his cell, he meditates alone 
 On his great voyage, to the world unknown. 
 
 0. 1698-1758 
 GRONGAR HILLi 
 
 (1727) 
 Silent Nymph, with curious eye! 
 Who, the purple ev'ning, lie 
 On the mountain's lonely van, 
 Beyond the noise of busy man, 
 Painting fair the form of things, 5 
 
 While the yellow linnet sings. 
 Or the tuneful nightingale 
 Charms the forest with her tale; 
 Come, with all thy various dues, 
 Come, and aid thy sister Muse; 10 
 
 Now while Phoebus, riding high, 
 Gives lustre to the land and sky, 
 Grongar Hill invites my song; 
 Draw the landscape bright and strong; 
 Grongar, in whose mossy cells, 15 
 
 Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; 
 Grongar, in whose silent shade, 
 For the modest Muses made, 
 So oft I have, the ev'ning still, 
 At the fountain of a rill 20 
 
 Sat upon a flow'ry bed. 
 With my hand beneath my head. 
 While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 
 Over mead and over wood. 
 From house to house, from hill to hill, 25 
 Till Contemplation had her fill. 
 
 About his chequer'd sides I wind. 
 And leave his brooks and meads behind. 
 And groves and grottoes where I lay, 
 And vistoes shooting beams of day. 30 
 
 Wide and wider spreads the vale. 
 As circles on a smooth canal: 
 The mountains round, unhappy fate! 
 Sooner or later, of all height. 
 Withdraw their summits from the skies, 35 
 And lessen as the others rise: 
 Still the prospect wider spreads, 
 Adds a thousand woods and meads; 
 Still it widens, widens still, 
 And sinks the newly-risen hill. 40 
 
 Now I gain the mountain's brow, 
 What a landscape lies below! 
 No clouds, no vapours intervene; 
 But the gay, the open scene, 
 
 1 Dyer was born at the foot of Grongar Hill, Canaar- 
 thensbire, South Wales. 
 
358 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Does the face of Nature show, 45 
 
 In all the hues of heaven's bow, 
 And, swelling to embrace the light, 
 Spreads around beneath the sight. 
 
 Old castles on the cliffs arise, 
 Proudly tow'ring in the skies; 60 
 
 Rushing from the woods, the spires 
 Seem from hence ascending fires; 
 Half his beams Apollo sheds 
 On the yellow mountain-heads. 
 Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 55 
 
 And glitters on the broken rocks. 
 
 Below me trees unnumber'd rise. 
 Beautiful in various dyes; 
 The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
 The yellow beech, the sable-yew, 60 
 
 The slender fir, that taper grows. 
 The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs, 
 And beyond the purple grove. 
 Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! 
 Gaudy as the op'ning dawn, 65 
 
 Lies a long and level lawn, 
 On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
 Holds and charms the wand'ring eye: 
 Deep are his feet in Towy's flood. 
 His sides are cloth'd with waving wood, 70 
 And ancient towers crown his brow. 
 That cast an awful look below; 
 Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. 
 And with her arms from falHng keeps; 
 So both a safety from the wind 75 
 
 On mutual dependence find. 
 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode; 
 'Tis now th' apartment of the toad; 
 And there the fox securely feeds, 
 And there the pois'nous adder breeds, 80 
 Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds ;^ 
 While, ever and anon, there falls 
 Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls. 
 Yet Time has seen, that hfts the low, 
 And level lays the lofty brow, 85 
 
 Has seen this broken pile compleat, 
 Big with the vanity of state: 
 But transient is the smile of Fate! 
 A little rule, a little sway, 
 A sunbeam in a winter's day, 90 
 
 Is all the proud and mighty have 
 Between the cradle and the grave. 
 
 And see the rivers how they run 
 Thro' woods and meads, in shade and sun! 
 Sometimes swift and sometimes slow, 95 
 Wave succeeding wave, they go 
 A various journey to the deep. 
 Like human hfe, to endless sleep: 
 Thus is Nature's vesture wrought. 
 To instruct our wand'ring thought; 100 
 
 Thus she dresses green and gay. 
 To disperse our cares away. 
 
 Ever charming, ever new, 
 When will the landscape tire the view! 
 The fountain's fall, the river's flow, 105 
 
 The woody valleys warm and low; 
 The windy summit, wild and high. 
 Roughly rushing on the sky! 
 The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r, 
 The naked rock, the shady bow'r; no 
 
 The town and village, dome and farm, 
 Each gives each a double charm. 
 As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 
 
 See on the mountain's southern side, 
 Where the prospect opens wide, 115 
 
 Where the ev'ning gilds the tide. 
 How close and small the hedges lie! 
 What streaks of meadows cross the eye! 
 A step, methinks, may pass the stream. 
 So little distant dangers seem; 120 
 
 So we mistake the future's face, 
 Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass; 
 As yon summits soft and fair, 
 Clad in colours of the air, 
 Which, to those who journey near, 125 
 
 Barren, brown, and rough appear. 
 Still we tread the same coarse way; 
 The present's still a cloudy day. 
 
 O may I with myself agree. 
 And never covet what I see; 130 
 
 Content me with an humble shade, 
 My passions tam'd, my wishes laid; 
 For while our wishes wildly roll. 
 We banish quiet from the soul; 
 'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 135 
 
 And misers gather wealth and care. 
 
 Now, ev'n now, my joys run high. 
 As on the mountain-turf I lie; 
 While the wanton Zephyr sings. 
 And in the vale perfumes his wings; 140 
 
 While the waters murmur deep; 
 While the shepherd charms his sheep; 
 While the birds unbounded fly. 
 And with music fill the sky. 
 Now, ev'n now, my joys run high. 145 
 
 Be full, ye courts; be great who will; 
 Search for peace with all your skill; 
 Open wide the lofty door, 
 Seek her on the marble floor. 
 In vain you search, she is not there; 150 
 
 In vain ye search the domes of care! 
 Grass and flowers quiet treads. 
 On the meads and mountain-heads, t^ 
 Along with pleasure, close ally'd. 
 Ever by each other's side; 155 
 
 And often, by the murmuring rill. 
 Hears the thrush, while all is still. 
 Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 
 
 AN EPISTLE 
 
 TO A FRIEND IN TOWN 
 
 Have my friends in the town, in the gay busy 
 town. 
 
 Forgot such a man as John Dyer? 
 Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown. 
 
 Whose bosom no pageantries fire? 4 
 
 No matter, no matter — content in the shades — \ 
 (Contented! — why everything charms me) 
 
 Fall in tunes all adown the great steep, ye 
 cascades! 
 Till hence rigid virtue alarms me: 
 
JOHN DYER 
 
 369 
 
 Till outrage arises, or misery needs 
 The swift, the intrepid avenger; 
 
 Till sacred rehgion or liberty bleeds. 
 Then mine be the deed and the danger. 
 
 10 
 
 Alas! what a folly, that wealth and domain 
 
 We heap up in sin and in sorrow! 
 Immense is the toi,l, yet the labour how vain ! 15 
 
 Is not life to be over to-morrow? 
 
 Then glide on my moments, the few that I have, 
 Smooth-shaded, and quiet, and even. 
 
 While gently the body descends to the grave, 
 And the spirit arises to heaven. 20 
 
 THE FLEECE 
 
 (1757) 
 
 (Selections, from Book I) 
 
 Ah! gentle Shepherd! thine the lot to tend, 
 Of all that feel distress, the most assail'd, 
 Feeble, defenceless: lenient be thy care; 
 But spread around thy tend'rest diligence 
 In flow'ry spring-time, when the new-dropp'd 
 
 lamb, 5 
 
 Tott'ring with weakness by his mother's side, 
 "7eels the fresh world about him; and each 
 
 thorn. 
 Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet: 
 O ! guard his meek sweet innocence from all 
 Th' innumerous ills that rush around his life; 10 
 Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons 
 
 prone. 
 Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain; 
 Observe the lurking crows; beware the brake. 
 There the sly fox the careless minute waits; 
 Nor trust thy neighbour's dog, nor earth, nor 
 
 sky: 15 
 
 Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide. 
 Eurus oft slings his hail; the tardy fields 
 Pay not their promis'd food; and oft the dam 
 O'er her weak twins with empty udder mourns, 
 Or fails to guard when the bold bird of prey 20 
 Ahghts, and hops in many turns around. 
 And tires her, also turning: to her aid 
 Be nimble, and the weakest, in thine arms. 
 Gently convey to the warm cot, and oft. 
 Between the lark's note and the nightingale's, 25 
 His hungry bleating still with tepid milk : 
 In this soft office may thy children join, 
 And charitable habits learn in sport :^ 
 Nor yield him to himself ere vernal airs 
 Sprinkle thy Uttle croft with daisy flowers : 30 
 Nor yet forget him; life has rising ills: 
 Various as ether is the past'ral care: 
 Thro' slow experience, by a patient breast, 
 The whole long lesson gradual is attain'd, 
 By precept after precept, oft receiv'd 35 
 
 With deep attention; such as Nuceus^ sings 
 To the full vale near Soar's^ enamour'd brook, 
 While all is silence: sweet Hinclean swain! 
 Whom rude obscurity severely clasps: 
 
 1 Mr. Joseph Nutt, an apothecary at Hinckley. Lat. 
 nuceus, of a nut tree. 
 
 2 A river in Leicestershire. 
 
 The Muse, howe'er, will deck thy simple cell 40 
 With purple violets and primrose flowers, 
 Well-pleas'd thy faithful lessons to repay. . . . 
 
 Could I recall those notes which once the 
 
 Muse 
 Heard at a shearing near the woody sides 
 Of Blue-topp'd Wreakin!^ Yet the carols 
 
 sweet 45 
 
 Thro' the deep maze of the memorial cell 
 Faintly remurmur. First arose in song 
 Hoar-headed Damon, venerable swain! 
 The soothest shepherd of the flow'ry vale, 
 * ' This is no vulgar scene ; no palace roof 50 
 
 Was e'er so lofty, nor so nobly rise 
 Their polish'd pillars as these aged oaks, 
 Which o'er our Fleecy wealth and harmless 
 
 sports 
 Thus have expanded wide their shelt'ring 
 
 arms, 
 Thrice told an hundred summers. Sweet 
 
 Content, 55 
 
 Ye geutle shepherds! pillow us at night." 
 
 ''Yes, tuneful Damon, for our cares are short, 
 Rising and falling with the cheerful day," 
 Colin reply 'd; "and pleasing weariness 
 Soon our unacjiing heads to sleep inclines. 60 
 Is it in cities so? where, poets tell. 
 The cries of Sorrow sadden all the streets, 
 And the diseases of intemp'rate wealth. 
 Alas! that any ills from wealth should rise! 
 "May the sweet nightingale on yonder 
 
 spray, 65 
 
 May this clear stream, these lawns, those snow- 
 white lambs, 
 Which, with a pretty innocence of look. 
 Skip on the green, and race in little troops; 
 May that great lamp which sinks behind the 
 
 hills. 
 And streams around variety of lights, 70 
 
 Recall them erring! this is Damon's wish." 
 "Huge Bredon's * stony summit once I 
 
 climb'd 
 After a kidling: Damon, what a scene! 
 What various views unnumber'd spread be- 
 neath ! 
 Woods, tow'rs, vales, caves, dells, cliffs, and 
 
 torrent floods, 75 
 
 And here and there, between the spiry rocks, 
 The broad flat sea. Far nobler prospects these 
 Than gardens black with smoke in dusty 
 
 towns. 
 Where stenchy vapours often blot the sun: 
 Yet, flying from his quiet, thither crowds 80 
 Each greedy wretch for tardy-rising wealth, 
 Which comes too late; that courts the taste in 
 
 vain, 
 Or nauseates with distempers. Yes, ye Rich ! 
 Still, still be rich, if thus ye fashion life; 
 And piping, careless, silly shepherds we, 85 
 
 We silly shepherds, all intent to feed 
 Our snowy flocks, and wind the silky Fleece!" 
 "Deem not, however, our occupation mean," 
 Damon reply'd, "while the Supreme accounts 
 
 » A high hill in Shropshire. 
 
 * A hill on the borders of Montgomeryshire. 
 
360 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Well of the faithful shepherd, rank'd alike 90 
 With king and priest: they also shepherds are; 
 For so th' all-Seeing styles them, to remind 
 Elated man, forgetful of his charge." 
 
 TO AURELIA 
 
 See, the flowery Spring is blown, 
 
 Let us leave the smoky Town: 
 
 From the Mall, and from the Ring,^ 
 
 Every one has taken wing; 
 
 Cloe, Strephon, Corydon, 5 
 
 To the meadows all are gone; 
 
 What is left you worth your stay? 
 
 Come, Aurelia, come away. 
 
 Come, Aurelia, come and see 
 
 What a lodge I've dress'd for thee, 10 
 
 But the seat you cannot see, 
 
 'Tis so hid with jessamy, 
 
 With the vine that o'er the walls, 
 
 And in every window, crawls; 
 
 Let us there be blithe and gay! 15 
 
 Come, AureUa, come away. 
 
 Come with all thy sweetest wiles, 
 
 With thy graces and thy smiles; 
 
 Come, and we will merry be, 
 
 Who shall be so blest as we? 20 
 
 We will frolic all the day. 
 
 Haste, Aurelia, while we may: 
 
 Ay! and should not life be gay? 
 
 Yes, Aurelia, come away. 
 
 blames? tCljom^on 
 
 1700-1748 
 
 SPRING 
 
 (1728) 
 
 (From The Seasons) 
 
 Come, gentle Spring, etherial mildness, come. 
 And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud. 
 While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower 
 Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend. . . . 
 And see where surly Winter passes off, 1 1 
 
 Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts: 
 His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill. 
 The shatter'd forest, and the ravag'd vale; 
 While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch. 
 Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost, 16 
 
 The mountains lift their green heads to the sky. 
 As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd. 
 And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze, 
 Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets 
 Deform the day delightless ; so that scarce 2 1 
 The bittern knows his time, with bill engulf'd 
 To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore 
 The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath. 
 And sing their wild notes to the listening 
 waste. 25 
 
 1 The Mall, a shady walk in St. James's Park, and the 
 Ring, in Hyde Park, London, were places of fashionable 
 resort. 
 
 At last from Aries ^ rolls the bounteous Sun. 
 And the bright BulP receives him. Then no 
 
 more 
 Th' expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with 
 
 cold; 
 But, full of life and vivifying soul, 
 Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them 
 
 thin, i 30 
 
 Fleecy and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven. 
 Forth fly the tepid airs; and unconfin'd. 
 Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays. 
 Joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives 
 Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers 35 
 
 Drives from their stalls, to where the well-us'd 
 
 plough 
 Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost. 
 There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke 
 They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil, 
 Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark. 40 
 Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share 
 The master leans, removes th' obstructing clay, 
 Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the 
 
 glebe. 
 While thro' the neighb'ring fields the sower 
 
 stalks, 
 With measur'd step; and liberal throws the 
 
 grain 45 
 
 Into the faithful bosom of the ground : 
 The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene. 
 Be gracious. Heaven! for now laborious Man 
 Has done his part. Ye fostering l^eezes, blow! 
 Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend! 
 And temper all, thou world-reviving sun, 51 
 Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live 
 In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride. 
 Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear: 
 Such themes as these the rural Maro^ sung 55 
 To wide imperial Rome, in the full height 
 Of elegance and taste, by Greece refin'd. 
 In ancient times, the sacred plough employ'd 
 The kings and awful fathers of mankind : 
 And some, with whom compar'd your insect- 
 tribes 60 
 Are but the beings of a summer's day, 
 Have held the scale of empire, rul'd the storm 
 Of mighty war; then, with victorious hand, 
 Disdaining little delicacies, seiz'd 
 The plough, and greatly independent, scorn'd 65 
 All the vile stores Corruption can bestow. 
 
 Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough; 
 And o'er your hills, and long-withdrawing vales, 
 Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun, 
 Luxuriant and unbounded : as the Sea, 70 
 
 Far thro' his azure turbulent domain. 
 Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores 
 Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports; 
 So with superior boon may your rich soil, 
 Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour 75 
 O'er every land, the naked nations clothe. 
 And be th' exhaustless granary of a world! . . . 
 From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill, 
 Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs 88 
 
 1-2 Aries, the Ram, is the first of the Zodiac Signs, and 
 Taurus, the Bull, the second. The date the poet indi- 
 cates is the latter part of April. 
 
 * Vergil, whose full name was Publius Vergilius Maro. 
 
JAMES THOMSON 
 
 361 
 
 And swells, and deepens, to the cherish'd eye. 
 The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves 90 
 Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, 
 Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd, 
 In full luxuriance to the sighing gales; 
 Where the deer rustle through the twining 
 
 brake, 
 And the birds sing conceal'd. At once array'd 95 
 In all the colours of the flushing year, 
 By Nature's swift and secret-working hand. 
 The garden glows, and fills the liberal air 
 With lavish fragrance; while the promis'd fruit 
 Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd, 100 
 
 Within its crimson fold. Now from the tow|i. 
 Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome 
 
 damps. 
 Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields. 
 Where freshness breathes, and dash the trem- 
 bling drops 
 From the bent bush, as thro' the verdant maze 
 Of sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk ; 1 06 
 Or taste the smell of dairy, or ascend 
 Some eminence, Augusta,^ in thy plains. 
 And see the country, far diffused around, 
 One boundless blush, one white empurpled 
 shower no 
 
 Of mingled blossoms; where the raptur'd eye 
 Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath 
 The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. 
 
 SUMMER 
 
 (1727) 
 From brightening fields of ether fair disclos'd. 
 Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes. 
 In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's 
 
 depth: 
 He comes attended by the sultry Hours, 
 And ever-fanning breezes, on his way; 5 
 
 While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring, 
 Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies. 
 All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves. 
 
 Hence, let me haste into the mid- wood shade, 
 Where scarce a sunbeam wanders thro' the 
 gloom; 10 
 
 And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink 
 Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak 
 Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large. 
 And sing the glories of the circling year. ... 14 
 
 Now swarms the village o'er the joyful 
 mead: 352 
 
 The rustic youth, brown with meridian toil. 
 Healthful and strong; full as the sumnaer rose 
 Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid, 355 
 Half naked, swelling on the sight, and all 
 Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek. 
 E'en stooping age is here; and infant hands 
 Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load 
 O'ercharg'd, amid the kind oppression roll. 360 
 Wide flies the tedded grain ;i all in a row 
 Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field. 
 
 * London. (See Dryden's Mac-Flecknoe, p. 
 - ■ ■ the 
 
 275, and 
 
 n. 7). in Thomson's time many elevations on the outskirts 
 of London afforded a good view of the fields. 
 >i. e., grain which is spread to dry. 
 
 They spread their breathing harvest to the sun, 
 That throws refreshful round a rural smell. 
 Or, as they take the green-appearing ground,365 
 And drive the dusky wave along the mead. 
 The russet hay-cock rises thick behind. 
 In order gay : While, heard from dale to dale, 
 Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice 
 Of happy labour, love, and social glee. 370 
 
 Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band. 
 They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog 
 Compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook 
 Forms a deep pool: this bank abrupt and high. 
 And that fair spreading in a pebbled shore. 375 
 Urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil. 
 The clamour much, of men, and boys, and 
 
 dogs, 
 Ere the soft fearful people to the flood 
 Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain. 
 On some impatient seizing, hurls them in: 380 
 Embolden 'd then, nor hesitating more. 
 Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave. 
 And, panting, labour to the farther shore. 
 Repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece 
 Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt 
 The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream ; 386 
 Heavy, and dripping to the breezy brow 
 Slow move the harmless race; where, as they 
 
 spread 
 Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray. 
 Inly disturb'd, and wond'ring what this wild 390 
 Outrageous tumult means, their loud com- 
 plaints 
 The country fill; and, tost from rock to rock, 
 Incessant bleatings run around the hills. 
 At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks 
 Are in the wattled pen innumerous press'd, 395 
 Head above head: and, rang'd in lusty rows. 
 The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding 
 
 shears. 
 The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores. 
 With all her gay-drest maids attending round. 
 One, chief, in gracious dignity enthron'd, 400 
 Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and 
 
 rays 
 Her smiles, sweet beaming, on her shepherd 
 
 king; 
 While the glad circle round them yield their 
 
 souls 
 To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 (1730) 
 
 Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, 
 While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain. 
 Comes jovial on; the Doric reed^ once more, 
 Well pleas'd, I tune. Whate'er the Wintry 
 
 frost , 
 
 Nitrous prepar'd, the various-blossom d Spring 
 Put in white promise forth; and Summer's 
 
 suns . 6 
 
 Concocted strong; rush boundless now to view, 
 Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious 
 
 theme. ... 8 
 
 1 The pipe, or oaten reed, of the poet. 
 
362 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 But see, the fading many-colour'd woods, 949 
 Shade deepening over shade, the country round 
 Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk, and 
 
 dun, 
 Of every hue, from wan declining green 
 To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse, 
 Low-whispering, lead into their leaf-strown 
 
 walks, 
 And give the season in its latest view. 955 
 
 Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm 
 Fleeces unbounded ether ;2 whose least wave 
 Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn 
 The gentle current; while, illumin'd wide, 
 The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, 960 
 And thro' their lucid veil his soften'd force 
 Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the 
 
 time, 
 For those whom Wisdom and whom Nature 
 
 charm, 
 To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, 
 And soar above this little scene of things ; 965 
 To tread low- though ted Vice beneath their 
 
 feet; 
 To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 
 And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. 
 
 Thus solitary, and in pensive guise. 
 Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead, 970 
 
 And thro' the sadden'd grove, where scarce is 
 
 heard 
 One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil. 
 Haply some widow'd songster pours his plaint, 
 Far, in faint warblings, thro' the tawny copse; 
 While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, 975 
 And each wild throat, whose artless strains so 
 
 late 
 Swell'd all the music of the swarming shades, 
 Robb'd of their tuneful souls, now shivering 
 
 sit 
 On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock; 
 With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, 
 And nought save chattering discord in their 
 
 note. 981 
 
 Oh, let not, aim'd from some inhuman eye. 
 The gun the music of the coming year 
 Destroy; and harmless, unsuspecting harm, 
 Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey, 985 
 
 In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground! 
 
 The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, 
 A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf 
 Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; 
 Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, 990 
 And slowly circles thro' the waving air. 
 But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs 
 Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams; 
 Till chok'd, and matted with the dreary shower, 
 The forest-walks, at every rising gale, 995 
 
 Roll wide the wither'd waste, and whistle 
 
 bleak. 
 Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields: 
 And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race 
 Their sunny robes resign. Even what remain'd 
 Of stronger fruits fall from the naked tree; looo 
 And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around 
 The desolated prospect thrills the soul. 
 
 2 The calm spreads over the atmosphere as sofi as a 
 fleece of wool. 
 
 WINTER 
 
 (1726) 
 
 See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year, 
 Sullen and sad, with all his rising train — 
 Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my 
 
 theme; 
 These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought. 
 And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred 
 glooms! 5 
 
 Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot, 
 Pleas'd have I, in my cheerful morn of life. 
 When nurs'd by careless Solitude I liv'd. 
 And sung of Nature with unceasing joy, — 
 Pleas'd have I wander'd through your rough 
 domain; lo 
 
 Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure; 
 Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst; 
 Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd, 
 In the grim evening sky. Thus pass'd the 
 
 time, 
 Till through the lucid chambers of the South 
 Look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out, and 
 smil'd. ... 16 
 
 The keener tempests conie: and fuming^ dun 
 From all the livid East, or piercing North, 224 
 Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb 
 A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congeal'd. 
 Heavy they roll their fleecy world along, 
 And the sky saddens with the gather'd storm. 
 Thro' the hush'd air the whitening shower de- 
 scends, 
 At first thin-wavering; till at last the flakes 230 
 Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the 
 
 day 
 With a continual flow. The cherish'd fields 
 Put on their winter-robe of purest white. 
 'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow 
 
 melts 
 Along the mazy current. Low the woods 235 
 Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid Sun 
 Faint from the West emits his evening ray, 
 Earth's universal face, deep-hid, and chill, 
 Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 
 The works of Man. Drooping, the labourer-o:^ 
 Stands cover'd o'er with snow, and then de- 
 mands 24^ 
 The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 
 Tam'd by the cruel season, crowd around 
 The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
 Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 245 
 The red-breast, sacred to the household gods, 
 Wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky, 
 In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
 His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
 His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 250 
 Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights 
 On .the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the 
 
 floor. 
 Eyes all the smiling family askance. 
 And pecks, and starts, and wonders where be is: 
 Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 25« 
 Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
 Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The haire 
 Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
 * The dark colored clouds fume or swirl from the Bastc 
 
JAMES THOMSON 
 
 363 
 
 By death in various forms — dark snares, and 
 
 dogs, 
 And more unpitying men — the garden seeks,260 
 Urg'd on by fearless want. The bleating kind 
 Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening 
 
 earth, 
 With looks of dumb despair; then, sad-dispers'd 
 Dig for the wither'd herb thro' heaps of 
 
 snow. ... 264 
 
 Ah ! little think the gay licentious proud, 322 
 Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround; 
 They who their thoughtless hours in giddy 
 
 mirth 
 And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; — 325 
 
 Ah! little think they, while they dance along. 
 How many feel, this very moment, death 
 And all the sad variety of pain. 
 How many sink in the devouring flood, 
 Or more devouring flame; how many bleed, 330 
 By shameful variance betwixt man and man: 
 How many pine in want and dungeon glooms. 
 Shut from the common air, and common use 
 Of their own limbs: How many drink the 
 
 cup 
 Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 335 
 
 Of misery: sore pierc'd by wintry winds, 
 How many shrink into the sordid hut 
 Of cheerless poverty: how many shake 
 With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, — 
 Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; 
 Whence tumbled headlong from the height of 
 
 life, 341 
 
 They furnish matter for the tragic Muse: 
 Ev'n in the vale where wisdom loves to dwell, 
 With Friendship, Peace, and Contemplation 
 
 join'd. 
 How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop 
 In deep-retir'd distress: how many stand 346 
 Around the death-bed of their dearest friends. 
 And point the parting anguish. Thought fond 
 
 man 
 Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills. 
 That one incessant struggle render life, 350 
 
 One scene of toil, of suff'ring, and of fate; 
 Vice in his high career would stand appall'd. 
 And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think; 
 The conscious heart of Charity would warm, 
 And her wide wish Benevolence dilate; 355 
 
 The social tear would rise, the social sigh; 
 And into clear perfection, gradual bliss. 
 Refining still, the social passions work. 
 And here can I forget the generous band,^ 
 Who, touch'd with human woe, redressive 
 
 search'd 360 
 
 Into the horrors of the gloomy jail? 
 Unpitied and unheard, where misery moans; 
 Where Sickness pines; where Thirst and Hun- 
 ger burn, 
 And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice. 
 While in the land of liberty— the land 365 
 
 Whose every street and public meeting glow 
 With open freedom— little tyrants rag'd; 
 
 2 A Parliamentary Committee, appointed at the 
 instance of Oglethorpe to investigate the condition of the 
 Fleet and Marshalaea prisons, 1729. 
 
 Snatch'd the lean morsel from the starving 
 
 mouth; 
 Tore from cold wintry limbs the tatter'd weed; 
 Even robb'd them of the last of comforts, 
 
 sleep; 370 
 
 The free-born Briton to the dungeon chain'd, 
 Or, as the lust of cruelty prevail'd. 
 At pleasure mark'd him with inglorious stripes; 
 And crush'd out lives, by secret barbarous 
 
 ways. 
 That for their country would have toil'd, or 
 
 bled. 375 
 
 Oh great design! if executed well, 
 With patient care and wisdom-temper'd zeal. 
 Ye sons of mercy! yet resume the search; 
 Drag forth the legal monsters into light. 
 Wrench from their hands Oppression's iron 
 
 rod, 380 
 
 And bid the cruel feel the pangs they give. 
 Much still untouched remains; in this rank 
 
 age. 
 Much is the patriot's weeding hand requir'd. 
 The toils of law, — what dark insidious men 
 Have cumbrous added, to perplex the truth, 385 
 And lengthen simple justice into trade, — 
 How glorious were the day that saw these 
 
 broke. 
 And every man within the reach of right! 
 
 RULE BRITANNIA 
 
 (1740) 
 
 When Britain first at Heaven's command 
 
 Arose from out the%azure main, 
 This was the charter of her land. 
 
 And guardian angels sung the strain: 
 Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves I 5 
 
 Britons never shall be slaves. 
 
 The nations not so blest as thee 
 Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 
 
 While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
 The dread and envy of them all. 10 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise, \ 
 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke; 
 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; XI 
 
 All their attempts to bend thee down 
 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame. 
 And work their woe and thy renown. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign; 
 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shme; 20 
 All thine shall be the subject main, 
 
 And every shore it circles thine! 
 
 The Muses, still with Freedom found, 
 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair; 
 Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown d 21 
 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair:— 
 Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the wavtsi 
 
 Britons never shall be slavesi 
 
364 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 THE CiVSTLE OF INDOLENCE 
 
 (1748) 
 
 (Selections) 
 
 The castle hight^ of indolence, 
 
 And its false luxury; 
 Where for a Utile time, alas! 
 
 We liv'd right jollily. 
 
 O mortal man, who livest here by toil, 
 
 Do not complain of this thy hard estate; 
 
 That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 
 
 Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; 
 
 And, certes, there is for it reason great; 5 
 
 For, though sometimes it makes thee weep 
 
 and wail. 
 And curse thy star, and early drudge and 
 
 late, 
 Withouten that would come an heavier bale, 
 Loose Ufe, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 
 
 II 
 In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, lo 
 
 With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, 
 A most enchanting wizard did abide. 
 Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere 
 
 found. 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; 
 And there a season atween June and May, 15 
 Half prankt with spring, with summer half 
 
 imbrown'd, 
 A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
 No living wight could work, ne cared even for 
 
 play. 
 
 Ill 
 Was nought around but images of rest: 
 Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns 
 
 between; 20 
 
 And flowery beds that slumbrous influence 
 
 kest,2 
 From poppies breath'd; and beds of pleasant 
 
 green, 
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
 Meantime, unnumber'd glittering streamlets 
 
 play'd. 
 And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ;25 
 That, as they bicker'd through the sunny 
 
 glade, 
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling 
 
 murmur' made. 
 
 Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills. 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the vale. 
 And flocks loud-bleating from the distant 
 ^ h|Us> 30 
 
 Aud vacant shepherds piping in the dale: 
 And now and then sweet Philomel would wail 
 Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep. 
 That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 35 
 1 et all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 
 
 » Called. s q^^^ 
 
 Full in the passage of the vale above, 
 A sable, silent, solemn forest stood; 
 Where nought but shadowy forms was 
 
 to move. 
 
 As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood: 40 
 And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
 Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro. 
 Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; 
 And where this valley winded out, below. 
 The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely 
 heard, to flow. 45 
 
 VI 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy-nead it was, 
 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut 
 
 eye; 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass. 
 Forever flushing round a summer-sky: 
 There eke the soft delights, that witchingly50 
 Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
 And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh; 
 But whate'er smack'd of noyance, or unrest, 
 Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest. 
 
 VII 
 
 The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease, 55 
 Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
 Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees. 
 That half shut out the beams of Phoebus 
 
 bright, 
 And made a kind of checker'd day and night; 
 Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, 60 
 Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight 
 Was plac'd; and to his lute, of cruel fate. 
 And labour harsh, complain'd, lamenting man's 
 estate. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Thither continual pilgrims crowded still. 
 From all the roads of earth that pass there 
 by: 05 
 
 For, as they chanc'd to breathe on neigh- 
 bouring hill. 
 The freshness of this valley smote their eye. 
 And drew them ever and anon more nigh; 
 'Till cluster'ng round th' enchanter false 
 
 they hung, 
 Ymolten with his syren melody; 70 
 
 While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he 
 flung, 
 And to the trembling chords these tempting 
 verses sung: 
 
 IX 
 
 "Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! 
 See all but man with unearn'd pleasure gay- 
 See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, 75 
 Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! 
 What youthful bride can equal her array? \ 
 
 Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? ^ 
 
 From mead to mead with gentle wing to ' 
 
 stray. 
 From flower to flower on balm}'^ gales to fly, so 
 Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 
 
JAMES THOMSON 
 
 365 
 
 "Behold the merry minstrels of the mom, 
 The swarming songsters of the careless grove, 
 Ten thousand throats! that, from the flower- 
 ing thorn. 
 Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of 
 love; 85 
 
 Such grateful kindly raptures them emove: 
 They neither plough, nor sow; ne, fit for 
 
 flail. 
 E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they 
 
 drove; 
 Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, 
 Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the 
 vale. 90 
 
 XI 
 
 "Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall 
 Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, 
 Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, 
 And of the vices, an inhuman train. 
 That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: 95 
 For when hard-hearted Interest first began 
 To poison earth, Astrcea left the plain; 
 Guile, violence, and murder seiz'd on man, 
 And, for soft milky streams, with blood the 
 rivers ran. 
 
 "Come, ye, who still the cumbrous load of 
 life 100 
 
 Push hard up hill; but, as the farthest steep 
 You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, 
 Down thunders back the stone with mighty 
 
 sweep. 
 And hurls your labours to the valley deep. 
 For ever vain: come, and withouten fee 105 
 I in obUvion will your sorrows steep, 
 Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea 
 Of full delight: O come, ye weary wights, to 
 me! 
 
 xm 
 "With me, you need not rise at early dawn, 
 To pass the joyless day in various stounds;' 
 Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn, ill 
 And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds; 
 Or through the city take your dirty rounds. 
 To cheat, and dun. and lie, and visit pay; 
 Now flattering base, now giving secret 
 wounds; 115 
 
 Or prowl in courts of law for human prey. 
 In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad high- 
 way. 
 
 XIV 
 
 "No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call. 
 From village on to village sounding clear; 
 To tardy swain no shrill-voic'd matrons 
 squall; 120 
 
 No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear; 
 No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith 
 
 » Troubles, efforts. 
 
 Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers 
 
 start. 
 With sounds that are a misery to hear: 
 But all is calm, as would delight the heart 125 
 Of Sybarite'^ of old, all nature, and all art. . . . 
 
 XIX 
 
 * * O grievous folly ! to heap up estate, 1 63 
 
 Losing the days you see beneath the sun; 
 
 When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate, 
 
 And gives th' untasted portion you have 
 won itj6 
 
 With ruthless toil, and many a wretch un- 
 done 
 
 To those who mock you, gone to Pluto's 
 reign. 
 
 There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows 
 dun: 
 
 But sure it is of vanities most vain, 170 
 
 To toil for what you here untoiling may ob- 
 tain." 
 
 XX 
 
 He ceas'd. But still their trembling ears 
 
 retain'd 
 The deep vibrations of his witching song : 
 That, by a kind of magic power, constrain'd 
 To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng. 
 Heaps pour'd on heaps, and yet they slipt 
 
 along, 177 
 
 In silent ease: as when beneath the beam 
 
 Of summer-moons, the distant woods among, 
 
 Or by some flood all silver'd with the gleam. 
 
 The soft-embodied Fays through airy portal 
 
 stream. 
 
 XXI 
 
 By the smooth demon so it order'd was, 182 
 And here his baneful bounty first began: 
 Though some there were who would not 
 
 further pass. 
 And his alluring baits suspected han . ^ 185 
 
 The wise distrust the too fair-spoken man. 
 Yet through the gate they cast a wishful eye 
 Not to move on, perdie,^ is all they can; 
 For do their very best they cannot fly, 189 
 But often each way look, and often sorely sigh. 
 
 XXII 
 
 When this the watchful wizard saw. 
 
 With sudden spring he leaped upon them 
 
 straight; 
 And soon as touch'd by his unhallow d paw. 
 They found themselves within the cursed 
 
 gate; 195 
 
 Full hard to be repass'd, like that of fate. 
 Not stronger were of old the giant-crew, 
 Who sought to pull high Jove from regal 
 
 state ; 
 Though feeble wretch he seem'd, of sallow 
 
 hue: 200 
 
 Certes, who bides his grasp, will that encounter 
 
 * Inhabitants of Sybaris, a Greek city in southern Italy, 
 were proverbial for their luxurious living. 
 
 *Have. • « Truly. 
 
366 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Mean time the master-porter wide displayed 
 
 Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns; 
 
 Wherewith he those who enter'd in, ar- 
 ray 'd 231 
 
 Loose, as the breeze that plays along the 
 downs, 
 
 And waves the summer-woods when evening 
 frowns. 
 
 fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, 
 But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns, 
 And heightens ease with grace. This done, 
 
 right fain, 236 
 
 Sir porter set him down, and turned to sleep 
 again. . . . 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 This rite performed, all inly pleas'd and still, 
 Withouten tromp,^ was proclamation made. 
 "Ye sons of INDOLENCE, do what you 
 
 will; 258 
 
 "And wander where you list, thro' hall or 
 
 glade! 
 "Be no man's pleasure for another staid; 
 "Let each as likes him best his hours employ, 
 "And curs'd be he who minds his neighbour's 
 
 trade! 
 "Here dwells kind ease and unreproving joy: 
 "He little merits bliss who others can annoy." 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Straight of these endless numbers, swarming 
 round, 265 
 
 As thick as idle motes in sunny ray. 
 Not one eftsoons in view was to be found. 
 But every man stroU'd off his own glad way. 
 Wide o'er this ample court's blank area, 
 With all the lodges that thereto pertain'd, 270 
 No living creature could be seen to stray; 
 While solitude, and perfect silence reign'd: 
 So that to think you dreamt you almost was 
 constrain'd. 
 
 XXX 
 
 As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles, 
 Plac'd far amid the melancholy main, 275 
 (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles; 
 Or that aerial beings sometimes deign 
 To stand, embodied, to our senses plain) 
 Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, 
 The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, 
 A vast assembly moving to and fro : 281 
 
 Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous 
 show. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound! 
 Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways. 
 And all the widely-silent places round, 285 
 Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays 
 What never yet was sung in mortal lays. 
 But how shaU I attempt such arduous string, 
 
 1 who have spent my nights, and nightly 
 days, 289 
 
 In this soul-deadening place, loose-loitering? 
 Ah! how shall I for this uprear my moulted 
 wing? 
 
 ^ Trump, trumpet. 
 
 Come on, my muse, nor stoop to low despair. 
 Thou imp of Jove, touch'd by celestial fire! 
 Which yet shall sing of war, and actions 
 fair, 294 
 
 Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire; 
 Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre; 
 Thou yet shall tread in tragic pall the stage. 
 Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire. 
 The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, 299 
 I)ashing corruption down through every worth- 
 
 AGE OF JOHNSON 
 g>amuri 31ot)n0on 
 
 1709-1784 
 LONDON: A POEM 
 
 (1738) 
 
 IN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE 
 OF JUVENAL 
 
 — Quis iniquae 
 Tarn patiens urbis, tarn ferreus ut teneat sef 
 
 Juv. 1. 30, 1. 
 (Who so patient of the unjust town, so unfeeling 
 as to restrain himself?) 
 
 Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel. 
 When injured Thales^ bids the town farewell. 
 Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice com- 
 mend, 
 (I praise the hermit, but regret the friend,) 
 Who now resolves, from vice and London far, 5 
 To breathe in distant fields a purer air; 
 And, fix'd on Cambria's^ solitary shore, 
 Give to St. David^ one true Briton more. 
 
 For who would leave, unbrib'd, Hibernia's 
 land," 
 Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand?^ 
 There none are swept by sudden fate away, ] i 
 But all, whom hunger spares, with age decay: 
 Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire, 
 And now a rabble rages, now a fire; 
 Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay, 15 
 And here the fell attorney prowls for prey; 
 Here falling houses thunder on your head. 
 And here a female atheist talks you dead. 
 
 While Thales waits the wherry that contains 
 Of dissipated wealth the small remains, 20 
 
 On Thames's banks in silent thought we stood. 
 Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood; 
 Struck with the seat that gave Eliza^ birth. 
 We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth ; 
 In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew, 25 
 And call Britannia's glories back to view; 
 Behold her cross triumphant on the main. 
 The guard of Commerce and the dread of Spain, 
 
 1 Presumably Johnson's unfortunate friend Richard 
 Savage, the poet, who was forced to retire from London V 
 to Swansea in Wales. . ^ 
 
 2 Ancient name of Wales. 
 
 3 Patron saint of Wales. 
 
 * Ireland. 
 
 * In Johnson's time, one of the most fashionable streets 
 of London. 
 
 « Queen Elizabeth was born at Greenwich, 1533. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON 
 
 367 
 
 Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd,^ 
 Or English honour grew a standing jest. 30 
 
 A transient calm the happy scenes bestow, 
 And for a moment lull the sense of woe. 
 At length awaking, with contemptuous frown 
 Indignant Thales eyes the neighb'ring town. 
 "Since worth," he cries, "in these degen'rate 
 
 days, _ 35 
 
 Wants ev'n the cheap reward of empty praise; 
 In those curs'd walls, devote to vice and gain. 
 Since unrewarded science^ toils in vain; 
 Since hope but soothes to double my distress. 
 And ev'ry moment leaves my little less; 40 
 
 While yet my steady steps no staff sustains. 
 And life still vig'rous revels in my veins. 
 Grant me, kind Heaven, to find some happier 
 
 place. 
 Where honesty and sense are no disgrace ; 
 Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers 
 
 play, 45 
 
 Some peaceful vale with Nature's paintings 
 
 gay, 
 Where once the harass'd Briton found repose. 
 And safe in poverty defy 'd his foes ; 
 Some secret cell, ye Pow'rs indulgent give. 
 
 Let live here, for has learn'd to live. 50 
 
 Here let those reign, whom pensions can incite 
 To vote a patriot black, a courtier white; 
 Explain their country's dear-bought rights 
 
 away. 
 And plead for pirates in the face of day; 
 With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth, 55 
 And lend a lie the confidence of truth. 
 Let such raise palaces, and manors buy. 
 Collect a tax, or farm a lottery;^ 
 With warbling eunuchs fill our licensed stage, i° 
 And lull to servitude a thoughtless age. 60 
 
 "Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride 
 
 shall hold? 
 What check restrain your thirst of pow'r and 
 
 gold? 
 Behold rebellious Virtue quite o'erthrown, 
 Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your 
 
 own. 
 To such the plunder of a land is giv'n, 65 
 
 When public crimes inflame the wrath of 
 
 Heav'n; 
 But what, my friend, what hope remains for me, 
 Who start at theft, and blush at perjury? 
 Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he 
 
 smg. 
 
 70 
 
 To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing; 
 A statesman's logic unconvinc'd can hear. 
 And dare to slumber o'er the Gazetteer;" 
 
 ' Excise duties, which began in the reign of Charles I., 
 -cvere very unpopular in England, and in 1733 Walpole s 
 Excise Bill was withdrawn in consequence of general 
 opposition. 
 
 * Learning, knowledge. 
 
 9 To take the profits or proceeds by a lottery, on pay- 
 ment of a fixed sum. Lotteries were most popular at 
 the time and even came to be established by acts of 
 Parliament. , , ^ , 
 
 •0 The famous Playhouse Bill had recently been enacted, 
 declaring that "every actor without a legal settlement or 
 license from the Lord Chamberlain should be deemed a 
 rogue and a vagabond." , 
 
 11 The official newspaper, containmg announcements ot 
 pensions, promotions, etc. 
 
 Despise a fool in half his pension dress'd, 
 
 And strive in vain to laugh at Clodio's jest.^'' 
 
 "Others, with softer smiles and subtler art, 75 
 Can sap the principles, or taint the heart; 
 With more address a lover's note convey, 
 Or bribe a virgin's innocence away. 
 Well may they rise, while I, whose rustic 
 
 tongue 
 Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, 80 
 Spum'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy, 
 Live unregarded, unlamented die. 
 
 "For what but social guilt the friend endears? 
 Who shares OrgiHo's^^ crimes, his fortune 
 
 shares. 
 But thou, should tempting villany present 85 
 All Marlb'rough^'^ hoarded, or all ViUiers^^ 
 
 spent. 
 Turn from the glitt'ring bribe thy scornful eye. 
 Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy, 
 The peaceful slumber, self-approving day, 
 Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. 90 
 
 "The cheated nation's happy fav'rites, see! 
 Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me! 
 London! the needy villain's gen'ral home. 
 The common sewer of Paris and of Rome; 
 With eager thirst, by folly or b^ fate, 95 
 
 Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state. 
 Forgive my transports on a theme like this, 
 I cannot bear a French metropolis. 
 
 "Illustrious Edward! 16 from the realms of 
 day. 
 The land of heroes and of saints survey; lOO 
 Nor hope the British lineaments to trace. 
 The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace; 
 But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, 
 Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; 
 Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away, 105 
 
 Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey. 
 
 "All that at home no more can beg or steal. 
 Or Hke a gibbet ^^ better than a wheel ;i8 
 Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court, 
 Their air, their dress, their poHtics import ; no 
 Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay. 
 On Britain's fond credulity they prey. 
 No gainful trade their industry can 'scape. 
 They sing, they dance, clean shoes, theu: 
 
 fiddles scrape: 
 All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows, 1 15 
 
 And, bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. 
 
 "Ah! what avails it that, from slav'ry far, 
 I draw the breath of life in English air ; 
 Was early taught a Briton's right to prize. 
 And lisp the tale of Henry's victories;!^ 120 
 
 12 There is a bragging character of this name, given to 
 strange oaths, in Cibber's play. Love nmkes a Man. 
 Johnson may, however, have had one of his own con- 
 temporaries in mind. . , , i^u 
 
 13 A personification of the pride of wealth. . , , 
 
 H The Duke of Marlborough (d. 1722) who has been 
 called "the greatest and meanest of mankind. 
 
 15 George Villiers. Duke of Buckingham (d. 1687) was 
 one of the most extravagant and profligate of the courtiers 
 
 16 Edward IIL, illustrious because of his exploits in 
 
 "^fv^fs^The Gibbet was an English, the wheel a French mode 
 
 of execution. . „ • n * a „;« 
 
 19 Henry V.'s victories in France, especially at Agm- 
 
 court. 
 
368 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 If the giill'd conqueror receives the chain. 
 And flattery prevails when arms are vain? 
 
 "Studious to please, and ready to submit, 
 The supple Gaul was born a parasite: 
 Still to his int'rest true, where'er he goes, 125 
 Wit, brav'ry, worth, his lavish tongue bestows; 
 In ev'ry face a thousand graces shine, 
 From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine. 
 These arts in vain our rugged natives try, 
 Strain out with falt'ring diffidence a lie, 130 
 
 And gain a kick for awkward flattery. 
 
 "Besides, with justice, this discerning age 
 Admires their wondrous talents for the stage: 
 Well may they venture on the mimic's art. 
 Who play from mom till night a borrow' d 
 part; 135 
 
 Practis'd their master's notions to embrace, 
 Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face; 
 With ev'ry wild absurdity comply. 
 And view each object with another's eye; 
 To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 
 To pour at will the counterfeited tear ; 14 1 
 
 And, as their patron hints the cold or heat, 
 To shake in dog days, in December sweat. 
 
 "How, when competitors like these contend, 
 Can surly Virtue hope to fix a friend? 145 
 
 Slaves that with serious impudence beguile. 
 And lie without a blush, without a smile; . . . 
 Can Balbo's^" eloquence applaud, and swear 150 
 He gropes^i his breeches with a monarch's air! 
 
 "For arts Uke these preferr'd, admir'd, 
 caress'd. 
 They first invade your table, then your breast; 
 Explore your secrets with insidious art. 
 Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the 
 heart; 155 
 
 Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay. 
 Commence your lords, and govern or betray. 
 
 " By numbers here from shame or censure free. 
 All crimes are safe but hated poverty: 
 This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 160 
 
 This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse. 
 The sober trader at a tatter' d cloak 
 Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke; 
 With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze. 
 And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 165 
 Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd. 
 Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest; 
 Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous 
 
 heart. 
 Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart, 
 
 "Has Heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor, 170 
 No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore? 
 No secret island in the boundless main? 
 No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain? 
 Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore. 
 And bear Oppression's insolence no more. 175 
 This mournful truth is everywhere confess'd, 
 Slow rises worth, by poverty depress'd : 
 But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold. 
 Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are 
 
 sold: 
 Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, 180 
 The groom retails the favors of his lord. 
 
 ** Lat. batbiis, stammering, stuttering. 
 *i Takes hold of. Examines by touch. 
 
 " But hark ! th' affrighted crowd's tumultuo 
 
 cries 
 Roll through the streets, and thunder to the 
 
 skies: 
 Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and 
 
 pow'r. 
 Some pompous palace, or some blissful bow'r. 
 Aghast you start, and scarce with aching 
 
 sight ^ 186 
 
 Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous 
 
 light; 
 Swift from pursuing horrors take your way. 
 And leave your little all to flames a prey; 
 Then through the world a wretched vagrai:t 
 
 roam, 190 
 
 For where can starving Merit find a home? 
 In vain your mournful narrative disclose. 
 While all neglect, and most insult your woes. 
 "Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth 
 
 confound, 
 And spread his flaming palace on the ground, 193 
 Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies. 
 And public mournings pacify the skies; 
 The laureat tribe22 in venal verse relate, 
 How Virtue wars with persecuting fate; 
 With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd 
 
 band 200 
 
 Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land. 
 See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come. 
 And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome; 
 The price of boroughs and of souls restore, 
 And raise his treasures higher than before : 205 
 Now blessed with all the baubles of the great. 
 The polish'd marble and the shining plate, 
 Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire, 
 And hopes from angry Heaven another fire. 
 "Could'st thou resign the park and play con- 
 tent, 210 
 For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent; 
 There might'st thou find some elegant retreat, 
 Some hireling senator's deserted seat; 
 And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling 
 
 land. 
 For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand; ^s 
 There prune thy walks, support thy drooping 
 
 flow'rs, 216 
 
 Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bow'rs; 
 And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford, 
 Despise the dainties of a venal lord: 
 There ev'ry bush with Nature's music rings, 220 
 There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings; 
 On all thy hours security shall smile. 
 And bless thine ever\ing walk and morning toil. 
 "Prepare for death, if here at night you 
 
 roam. 
 And sign your will before you sup from home. 
 Some fiery fop, with new commission vain, 220 
 Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man; 
 Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast, 
 Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest. 
 Yet ev'n these heroes, mischievously gay, 233 
 Lords of the street, and terrors of the way ; 
 
 22 The crowd of poetasters who sought favor by flat- 
 tering the great in verae. 
 
 23 The mansions and palaces of the wealthy on the 
 Strand. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON 
 
 369 
 
 Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine, 
 Their prudent insults to the poor confine; 
 Afar they mark the flambeau's bright ap- 
 proach. 
 And shun the shining train and golden coach. 235 
 "In vain, these dangers past, your doors you 
 close. 
 And hope the balmy blessings of repose; 
 Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, 
 The midnight murd'rer bursts the faithless 
 
 bar; 
 I nvades the sacred hour of silent rest, 240 
 
 And plants, unseen, a dagger in your breast. 
 "Scarce can our fields, such crowds at 
 Tyburn24 die, 
 With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. 
 Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band. 
 Whose ways and means support the sinking 
 land: 245 
 
 Lest ropes be wanting in the temptmg sprmg. 
 To rig another convoy for the king.^^ 
 
 "A single gaol, in Alfred's golden reign, 
 Could half the nation's criminals contain; 
 Fair Justice, then, without constraint ador'd. 
 Held high the steady scale, but sheath'd the 
 sword; ^ 251 
 
 No spies were paid, no special juries known; 
 Blest age! but ah, how difl'rent from our own! 
 "Much could I add, but see the boat at hand. 
 The tide retiring calls me from the land : 255 
 Farewell! — When youth, and health, and for- 
 tune spent, 
 Thou fly'st for refuge to the wilds of Kent 
 And, tir'd like me with follies and with crimes. 
 In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times; 
 Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid, 
 Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade; 
 In Virtue's cause once more exert his rage, 262 
 Thy satire point, and animate thy page." 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 spoken by mr. garrick at the opening op 
 The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, 1747 
 
 When Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous 
 
 foes 
 First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare 
 
 rose; 
 Each change of many-color'd life he drew. 
 Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new: 
 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, 5 
 And panting Time toil'd after him in vain. 
 His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth impress d. 
 And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast. 
 Then Jonson came, instructed from the 
 
 school. 
 To please in method, and invent by rule ; 10 
 
 His studious patience and laborious art, 
 By regular approach , assail' d the heart : 
 Cold Approbation gave the ling'rmg bays, 
 For those, who durst not censure, scarce could 
 
 praise. 
 
 2* The chief place of execution in London. . 
 
 25 A reference to the frequent and unpopular visits ot 
 George II. to his continental possessions. 
 
 A mortal born, he met the gen'ral doom, 15 
 
 But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb. 
 
 The wits of Charles found easier ways to 
 
 fame, 
 Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakespeare's 
 
 flame. 
 Themselves they studied; as they felt, they 
 
 writ; 
 Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. 20 
 
 Vice always found a sympathetic friend; 
 They pleas'd their age, and did not aim to 
 
 mend. 
 Yet bards like these aspir'd to lasting praise. 
 And proudly hoped to pimp in future days. 
 Their cause was gen'ral, their supports were 
 
 strong, 25 
 
 Their slaves were willing, and their reign was 
 
 long: 
 Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense be- 
 
 tray'd, 
 And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid. 
 
 Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as 
 
 refin'd. 
 For years the power of Tragedy declined ; 30 
 From bard to bard the frigid caution crept. 
 Till Declamation roar'd whilst Passion slept; 
 Yet still did Virtue deign the state to tread. 
 Philosophy remain'd, though Nature fled. 
 But forc'd, at length, her ancient reign to 
 
 quit, 35 
 
 She saw great Faustus^ lay the ghost of Wit; 
 Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful day. 
 And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her 
 
 sway. 
 
 But who the coming changes can presage, 
 
 And mark the future periods of the Stage? 40 
 
 Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore. 
 
 New Behns,2 new Durfeys,' yet rfemain in 
 
 store; 
 Perhaps where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet 
 
 died, 
 On flying cars new sorcerers may ride: 
 Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of 
 
 chance?) 45 
 
 Here Hunt* may box, or Mahomet^ may 
 
 dance. 
 Hard is his lot that here by Fortune plac d 
 Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; 
 With ev'ry meteor of caprice must play, 
 And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. 50 
 Ah! let not Censure term our fate our choice, 
 The stage but echoes back the public voice; 
 The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, 
 For we that live to please, must please to live. 
 Then prompt no more the follies you de- 
 
 crv ^^ 
 
 As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die; 
 
 1 The story of Dr. Faustus was made the subject of a 
 farcical pantomime by Thurmond, produced at Drury 
 Lane in 1724. Similar farces were much in vogue tor 
 several seasons in London, and were satirized by Pope m 
 the/)uncmd,III,11.233,ff. ,. , , , -v.. 
 
 2 Aphra Behn (1640-1689), a novelist and playwright. 
 Her plays were noted for their low moral tone. 
 
 3 Thomas Durfey (1653-1723) a minor poet, and a 
 writer of comedies and songs. 
 
 * Hunt was a famous boxer on the stage. 
 6 Mahomet, a famous rope-dancer. 
 

 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign com- 
 mence 
 Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense; 
 To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of 
 
 Show, 
 For useful Mirth and salutary Woe; 60 
 
 Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age. 
 And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage. 
 
 31ot)n annsftrong 
 
 1709-1779 
 
 THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH 
 
 (1744) 
 Ye, who amid this feverish world would wear 
 A body free of pain, of cares a mind; 
 Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air; 
 Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke 
 And volatile corruption, from the dead, 5 
 
 The dying, sick'ning and the living world 
 Exhal'd, to sully Heaven's transparent dome 
 With dim mortality. It is not air 
 That from a thousand lungs reeks back to thine. 
 Sated with exhalations rank and fell, 10 
 
 The spoils of dunghills, and the putrid thaw 
 Of nature; when from shape and texture she 
 Relapses into fighting elements: 
 It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass 
 Of all obscene, corrupt, offensive things. 15 
 
 Much moisture hurts; but here a sordid bath. 
 With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more 
 The soUd frame, than simple moisture can. 
 Besides, immur'd in many a sullen bay 
 That never felt the freshness of the breeze, 20 
 This slumb'ring deep remains, and ranker 
 
 grows 
 With sickly rest; and (though the lungs abhor 
 To drink the dun fuliginous abyss) ^ 
 Did not the acid vigor of the mine, 
 Roll'd from so many thundering chimneys, 
 
 tame 25 
 
 The putrid steams that overswarm the sky; 
 This caustic venom would perhaps corrode 
 Those tender cells that draw the vital air, 
 In vain with all their unctuous rills bedew'd. . . . 
 While yet you breathe, away; the rural wilds 
 Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales; 35 
 The woods, the streams, and each ambrosial 
 
 breeze 
 That fans the ever undulating sky; 
 A kindly sky! whose fost'ring pow'r regales 
 Man, beast, and all the vegetable reign. ... 39 
 Behold the laborer of the glebe, who toils 
 In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies! 
 Save but the grain from mildews and the flood, 
 Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend. 45 
 He knows no laws by Esculapius'^ given; 
 He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogs 
 Infest, nor those envenom'd shafts that fly 
 When rabid Sirius^ fires th' autumnal noou . 
 
 » Dark, sooty abyss. 
 
 » A physician mentioned by Homer, afterwards con- 
 sidered to be the god of medicine. 
 » The dog-star. 
 
 His habit pure with plain and temperate meals, 
 Robust with labour, and by custom steel'd 51 
 To every casualty of varied life; 
 Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast, 
 And uninfected breathes the mortal south. 
 
 Such the reward of rude and sober life; 55 
 
 Of labor such. By health the peasant's toil 
 Is well repaid : if exercise were pain 
 Indeed, and temperance pain. By arts like 
 
 these 
 Laconia" nurs'd of old her hardy sons; 
 And Rome's unconquer'd legions urg'd their 
 
 way 60 
 
 Unhurt, through every toil, in every clime. 
 
 Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid 
 
 nerves 
 Grow firm, and gain a^more compacted tone; 
 The greener juices, are by toil subdu'd, 
 Mellow'd and subtiliz'd, the vapid old 65 
 
 Expell'd, and all the rancor of the blood. 
 Come, my companions, ye who feel the charms 
 Of Nature and the year; come, let us stray 
 Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk. 
 Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan 70 
 The fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm, 
 And shed a charming langour o'er the soul. 
 Nor when bright Winter sows with prickly 
 
 frost 
 The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth 
 Indulge at home; nor even when Eurus' blasts 75 
 This way and that convolve the lab'ring woods. 
 My liberal walks, save when the skies in rain 
 Or fogs relent, no season should confine 
 Or to the cloister'd gallery or arcade. 
 Go, climb the mountain; from th' ethereal 
 
 source 80 
 
 Imbibe the recent gale. The cheerful mom 
 Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting 
 
 steed. 
 Already, see, the deep-mouth'd beagles catch 
 The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport 
 Intent, with emulous impatience try 85 
 
 Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler prey 
 Delight you more, go chase the desperate deer; 
 And through its deepest solitude awake 
 The vocal forest with the jovial horn. 
 
 But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale 90 
 Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue, 
 Not less delightful, the prolific stream 
 Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er 
 A stony channel rolls its rapid maze. 
 Swarms with the silver fry. Such, through the 
 
 bounds 95 
 
 Of pastoral Stafford, ^ runs the brawling Trent; 
 Such Eden,8 sprung from Cumbrian mountains; 
 
 such 
 The Esk, o'erhung with woods; and such the 
 
 stream 
 On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air, 
 Liddel;^ till now, except in Doric lays lOO 
 
 Tun'd to her murmurs by her love-sick swains. 
 Unknown in song; though not a purer stream, 
 
 * Sparta. * Used for Staffordshire. 
 
 « A small river in Cumberland. 
 
 ^ A small river in Roxburgshire. Armstrong was born 
 at Castleton in that shire. 
 
WILLIAM SHENSTONE 
 
 371 
 
 Through meads more flowery, or more romantic 
 
 groves, 
 Rolls toward the western main. Hail, sacred 
 
 flood! 
 May still thy hospitable swains be blest 105 
 
 In rural innocence; thy mountains still 
 Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods 
 For ever flourish ; and thy vales look gay 
 With painted meadows, and the golden grain ! 
 Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new, 
 Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys. 
 In thy transparent eddies have I lav'd: 112 
 Oft trac'd with patient steps thy fairy banks, 
 With the well-imitated fly to hook 
 The eager trout, and with the slender line 1 15 
 And yielding rod solicit to the shore 
 The struggling, panting prey: while vernal 
 
 clouds 
 And tepid gales' obscur'd the ruffled pool. 
 And from the deeps called forth the wanton 
 
 swarms. 
 Form'd on the Samian school,^ or those of 
 
 Ind, 120 
 
 There are who think these pastimes scarce 
 
 humane: 
 Yet in my mind (and not relentless) 
 His life is pure that wears no fouler stains. . . . 
 
 Ah! in what perils is vain life engag'd! 
 What slight neglects, what trivial faults 
 
 destroy 125 
 
 The hardiest frame! of indolence, of toil, 
 We die; of want, of superfluity : 
 The all-surrounding Heaven, the vital air. 
 Is big with death. And, thoi^gh the putrid 
 
 South 
 Be shut : though no convulsive agony 130 
 
 Shake, from the deep foundations of the world, 
 Th' imprisoned plagues; a secret venom oft 
 Corrupts the air, the water, and the land. 
 What livid deaths has sad Bysantium seen! 
 How oft has Cairo, with a mother's woe, 135 
 Wept o'er her slaughter'd sons, and lonely 
 
 streets! 
 Even Albion, girt with less malignant skies, 
 Albion the poison of the gods has drunk. 
 And felt the sting of monsters all her own. 
 
 William ^\)m&tont 
 
 1714-1763 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS 
 (From The Schoolmistress, 1742) 
 Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn. 
 To think how modest worth neglected lies! 
 While partial fame doth with her blast adorn 
 Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp dis- 
 guise; . 
 Deeds of iU sort, and mischievous emprize! 5 
 Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try 
 To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies; 
 Such as I oft have chanced to espy. 
 Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 
 
 8 The school of Pythagoras, who prescribed abstinence 
 from animal food, as did many of the Hindus and Bud- 
 dhists. 
 
 In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire, 10 
 Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to 
 
 fame. 
 There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire, 
 A matron old, whom we school-mistress name; 
 Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; 
 They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 15 
 Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame; 
 And oft times, on vag'ries idly bent, 
 For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely 
 
 shent.^ 
 
 And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. 
 Which learning near her little dome* did 
 
 stowe; 20 
 
 Whilom a twig of small regard to see. 
 Though now so wide its waving branches 
 
 flow; 
 And work the simple vassal mickle woe; 
 For not a wind might curl the leaves that 
 
 blew. 
 But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse 
 
 beat low; 25 
 
 And, as they look'd, they found their horror 
 
 grew. 
 And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view. 
 
 So have I seen (who has not, may conceive), 
 A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd; 
 So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 30 
 Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast; 
 They start, they stare, they wheel, they look 
 
 aghast; 
 Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy 
 May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste! 
 Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, 35 
 
 Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. 
 
 Near to his dome is found a patch so green, 
 On which the tribe their gambols do display; 
 And at the door impris'ning board is seen. 
 Lest weakly wights of smaller size should 
 stray; 40 
 
 Eager, perdie,^ to bask in sunny day! 
 The noises intermix'd, which thence resound, 
 Do learning's little tenement betray: 
 Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look pro- 
 found. 
 And eyes her fairy throng, and turns hW wheel 
 around. 45 
 
 Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
 Emblem right meet of decency does yield: 
 Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trow, 
 As is the hare-bell that adorns the field: 
 And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 50 
 Tway^ birchen sprays; with anxious fear en- 
 
 twin'd; 
 With dark distrust, and sad repentance 
 
 fill'd; 
 And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction 
 join'd. 
 And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement un- 
 kind. . . . 
 
 1 Disgraced. 
 ' Forsooth. 
 
 2 Home. 
 *Two. 
 
372 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; 
 A russet kirtle fene'd the nipping air; 65 
 
 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 
 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair; 
 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare; 
 And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around, 
 Through pious awe, did term it passing rare! 
 For they in gaping wonderment abound, 71 
 And think, no doubt, she been the greatest 
 wight* on ground. 
 
 Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth, 
 
 Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; 
 
 Goody," good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, for- 
 sooth, 75 
 
 Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; 
 
 Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right 
 dear! 
 
 Ne would esteem him act as mought behove. 
 
 Who should not honour'd eld with these 
 revere;^ 
 
 For never title yet so mean could prove, 
 
 But there was eke a mind which did that title 
 
 love. 81 
 
 One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 
 The plodding pattern of the busy dame; 
 Which ever and anon, impell'd by need, 84 
 Into her school, begirt with chickens, came! 
 Such favour did her past deportment claim: 
 And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground 
 Fragment of bread, she would collect the 
 
 same; 
 For well she knew, and quaintly could ex- 
 pound, 
 What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb 
 she found. 90 
 
 Herbs too she knew, and well of each could 
 
 speak 
 That in her garden sipt the silv'ry dew; 
 Where no vain flow'r disclos'd a gaudy streak; 
 But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, 94 
 Of grey renown, within those borders grew: 
 The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 
 Fresh balm, and marygold of cheerful hue; 
 The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; 
 And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to 
 
 rhyme. ... 99 
 
 In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem,^ 
 By the sharp tooth of cank'ring eld defac'd, 
 In which, when he receives his diadem. 
 Our sov'reign prince and liefest liege is plac'd, 
 The matron sat; and some with rank she 
 
 grac'd, 140 
 
 (The source of children's and of courtier's 
 
 pride!) 
 Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there 
 
 pass'd; 
 And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, 
 But love each other dear, whatever them betide 
 
 * Person. 
 
 • Goodwife: i7oasip= godmother, also a term of respect 
 Have revered honored old age with these. 
 
 » In a chair like that in which the English Kings are 
 crowned, containing the Stone of Scone. It was the stone, 
 however, not the chair which was of Scottish origin or 
 
 Right well she knew each temper to descry; 
 To thwart the proud, and the submiss to 
 
 raise; i46 
 
 Some with vile copper prize exalt on high, 
 And some entice with pittance small of 
 
 praise! 
 And other some with baleful sprig she 
 
 'frays :9 
 Ev'n absent, she the reins of pow'r doth hold. 
 While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she 
 
 sways; isi 
 
 Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, 
 
 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene 
 
 unfold. 
 
 Lo now with state she utters the command! 
 Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; 155 
 Their books of stature small they take in 
 
 hand. 
 Which with pellucid horn^° secured are; 
 So save from finger wet the letters fair: 
 The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
 St. George's high achievements does declare; 
 On which thilk wight^^ that has y-gazing 
 
 been, lei 
 
 Kens the forth-coming rod, impleasing sight, I 
 
 ween! 
 
 Ah luckless he, and bom beneath the beam 
 
 Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write! 
 
 As erst the bard^^ by Mulla's silver stream, 
 
 Oft, as he told of deadly dolourous plight, 166 
 
 Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. 
 
 For brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
 
 To loose the brogues,^' the stripling's late 
 
 dehght! 
 And down they drop; appears his dainty 
 
 skin, 170 
 
 Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.^^ 
 
 O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, 
 His little sister doth his peril see: 
 All playful as she sat, she grows demure; 
 She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; 175 
 She meditates a pray 'r to set him free : 
 Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, 
 (If gentle pardon could with dames agree), 
 To her sad grief that dwells in either eye, 
 And wrings her so that all for pity she could 
 die. 180 
 
 No longer can she now her shrieks command; 
 And hardly she forbears, thro' awful fear, 
 To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous 
 
 hand, 
 To stay harsh justice in its mid career. 
 On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear! 185 
 (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!) 
 She sees no kind domestic visage near, 
 And soon a flood of tears begins to flow; 
 And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 
 
 » Terrifies. 
 
 1" School books were generally protected by a covering 
 of transparent horn. 
 
 " Each one. " Spenser. " Trousers. " Ermine. 
 
WILLIAM SHI^NSTONE 
 
 373 
 
 But ah! what pen his piteous plight may 
 
 trace? 190 
 
 Or what device his loud laments explain? 
 The form uncouth of his disguised face? 
 The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? 
 The plenteous show'r that does his cheek dis- 
 
 tain?i5 195 
 
 When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, 
 
 Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain; 
 
 Or when from high she levels well her aim, 
 
 And, thro' the thatch, his cries each falling 
 
 stroke proclaim. 
 
 The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, 
 Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle 
 
 care: 20i 
 
 By turns, astony'd, ev'ry twig survey, 
 And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, 
 
 beware; 
 Knowing, I wist, how each the same may 
 
 share; 
 Till fear has taught them a performance 
 
 meet. 
 And to the well-known chest the dame re- 
 pair; " 206 
 Whence oft with sugar'd cates^^ ghe doth 'em 
 
 greet, 
 And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly 
 
 sweet! . . . 
 
 His face besprent" with liquid crystal shines. 
 His blooming face that seems a purple 
 
 flow'r, 
 Which low to earth its drooping head de- 
 clines, 220 
 All smeared and sully'd by a vernal show'r. 
 O the hard bosoms of despotic pow'r! 
 All, all, but she, the author of his shame, 
 All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour: 
 Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow'r, 
 shall claim, 225 
 If so I deem aright, transcending worth and 
 fame. 
 
 Behind some door, in melancholy thought, 
 Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; 
 Ne for his fellow's joyaunce careth aught, 
 But to the wind all merriment resigns; 230 
 And deems it shame, if he to peace inclines; 
 And many a sullen look askance is sent, 
 Which for his dame's annoyance he designs; 
 And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, 
 The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past 
 resent. 235 
 
 Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be! 
 But if that pride it be, which thus mspires, 
 Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see. 
 Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires: 
 Ah ! better far than all the muses' lyres, 24 
 All coward arts, is valour's gen'rous heat; 
 The firm fix'd breast which fit and right re- 
 
 Like Vernon's^^ patriot soul; more justly 
 great 
 Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow'ry false 
 deceit. 
 
 Yet nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits 
 
 appear 
 
 245 
 
 quires, 
 
 15 Discolor. 
 
 w Dainties. 
 
 " Besprinkled. 
 
 Ev'n now sagacious foresight points to show 
 A little bench of heedless bishops here. 
 And there a chancellor in embryo. 
 Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so. 
 As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er 
 
 shall die! 250 
 
 Tho' now he crawl along the ground so low. 
 Nor weeting*^ how the muse should soar on 
 
 high, 
 Wisheth, poor starv'ling elf! his paper-kite may 
 
 fly. 
 
 And this perhaps, who, cens'ring the design. 
 Low lays the house which that of cards doth 
 build, 255 
 
 Shall Dennis"^ be! if rigid fates incline, 
 And many an epic to his rage shall yield; 
 And many a poet quit th' Aonian field ;2i 
 And, sour'd by age, profound he shall ap- 
 pear, 
 As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd 260 
 Surveys mine work; and levels many a sneer, 
 And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What 
 stuff is here? " 
 
 But now Dan Phophus"^^ gains the middle sky. 
 And liberty unbars her prison-door; 
 And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 265 
 And now the grassy cirque han^^ cover'd o'er 
 With boistrous revel-rout and wild uproar; 
 A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, 
 Heav'n shield their short-liv'd pastimes, I im- 
 plore! 
 For well may freedom, erst so dearly won,270 
 Appear to British elf more gladsome than the 
 sun. 
 
 Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade; 
 And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest 
 
 flow'rs; 
 For when my bones in grass-green sods are 
 
 laid; 
 For never may ye taste more careless hours 
 In knightly castles, or in ladies bow'rs. 276 
 O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! 
 But most in courts where proud ambition 
 
 tow'rs; 
 Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can 
 
 spring 
 Beneath the pompous dome of kesar^* or of 
 
 king. 280 
 
 18 Edward Vernon (1684-1757) an English naval com- 
 mander and member of Parliament. He gained distinc- 
 tion by the capture of Porto Bello in 1739, and of Carta- 
 gena in 1740; he was made an Admiral in 1745. 
 
 19 Knowing. , , . . , . . ^ 
 
 20 John Demis, whom Pope had satirized in the Dun- 
 ciad. 
 
 21 The field of poetry. 
 
 22 The sun; Dan, an abbreviation of dominus, =rmaster, 
 or sir; Cf . Dan Chaucer, and the Spanish don. 
 
 23 Have. ** Kaiser, Csesar. 
 
374 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom! I retire 
 
 From flatt'ry, cards, and dice, and din; 
 
 Nor art thou found in mansions higher 
 Than the low cot, or humble inn. 
 
 'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign; 5 
 And ev'ry health which I begin. 
 
 Converts dull port to bright champaign e; 
 Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. 
 
 I fly from pomp, I fly from plate! 
 
 I fly from falsehood's specious grin! 10 
 Freedom I love, and form I hate. 
 
 And choose my lodgings at an inn. 
 
 Here, waiter, take my sordid ore. 
 
 Which lacqueys else might hope to win; 
 
 It buys what courts have not in store; 15 
 It buys me freedom, at an inn. 
 
 Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round. 
 Where'er his stages may have been. 
 
 May sigh to think he still has found 
 The warmest welcome, at an inn. 20 
 
 1728-1774 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 
 
 (1770) 
 
 Sweet Auburn!^ loveliest village of the plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring 
 
 swain. 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. 
 And parting sunmier's Ungering blooms de- 
 
 lay'd: 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could 
 
 please, 
 How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green. 
 Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! 
 How often have I paus'd on every charm, 
 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm , i o 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 The decent church that topt the neighbouring 
 
 hill. 
 The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the 
 
 shade. 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made! 
 How often have I blest the coming day 15 
 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 
 * Some of the details of the poem are thought to have 
 been suggested by the village of Lissoy in Ireland, where 
 Goldsmi til's childhood was spent; but in his account of 
 the desertion of the village, the poet is true to conditions 
 that actually prevailed in England at that time. Through- 
 out the land a new aristocracy of wealth was pushing 
 aside the small farmer (11. 270-280); the harvests were 
 correspondingly diminished; and even the commons, 
 formerly opened to the poor, were shut off, or "denied" 
 (1. 307). Luxury, which Goldsmith regards as the source 
 of national corruption, was also increasing in consequence 
 of a rapid growth in material prosperity. 
 
 And all the village train from labour free, 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading 
 
 tree; 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade. 
 The young contending as the old survey'd, 20 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
 
 round! 
 And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd. 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd; 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown 25 
 By holding out to tire each other down. 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 While secret laughter titter' d round the place, 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
 The matron's glance that would those looks 
 
 reprove. 30 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village! sports 
 
 like these. 
 With sweet succession, taught even toil to 
 
 please; 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 
 
 shed; 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms 
 
 are fled. 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
 drawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green: 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries: 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 
 
 hand. 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 50 
 III fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
 Where wealth accumulates and men decay; 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — • 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has 
 
 made — 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55 
 When once destroy'd, can never be supphed. 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its man : 
 For him light labour spread her wholesome 
 
 store, 
 Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no 
 
 more; 
 His best companions, innocence and health, 61 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swair : 
 Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose, 65 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
 And every want to opulence allied, 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
 Those calm desires that ask'd but Httle room, 70 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 375 
 
 Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful 
 
 scene, 
 Liv'd in each look and brighten 'd all the 
 
 green — 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 75 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
 Ami !st thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
 And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
 Whore once the cottage stood, the hawthorn 
 grew, 80 
 
 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain . 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my 
 
 share — 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 85 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close, 
 And keep the fla*iie from wasting by repose. 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn' d 
 skill, 90 
 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
 And as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 95 
 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine! 
 How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 100 
 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations 
 
 try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
 Nor surly porter stands, in guilty state, 105 
 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate; 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend. 
 Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
 While resignation gently slopes the way, 110 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 
 close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
 There as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
 The mingUng notes came soften 'd from be- 
 low: _ 116 
 The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. 
 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 The playful children just let loose from school, 
 The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisper- 
 ing wind, 121 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant 
 
 mind — 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And fili'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 1 25 
 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 
 For all the bloomy flush of life is fled — 
 
 All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 130 
 
 She, wretched matron — forc'd in age, for bread. 
 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — 
 
 She only left of all the harmless train, i35 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain! 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden 
 
 smil'd, 
 And still where many a garden-flower grows 
 
 wild, 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis- 
 close. 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 140 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his 
 
 place; 
 Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power 145 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
 More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train. 
 He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their 
 
 pain; iso 
 
 The long-remember'd beggar was his guest. 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims al- 
 
 low'd; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away. 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields 
 
 were won. 
 Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to 
 
 glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 1 60 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 
 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for 
 
 all: 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
 Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay 'd, 
 The reverend champion stood: at his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
 Comfort came down the trembHng wretch to 
 
 raise, 175 
 
 And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorn 'd the venerable place; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. 
 And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 181 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
 
376 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATPI OF JOHNSON 
 
 Even children foUow'd, with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's 
 
 smile: 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, 185 
 Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares dis- 
 
 trest. 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were 
 
 given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 
 
 storm, 190 
 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
 
 spread. 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the 
 
 way,^ 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 195 
 The village master taught his little school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew: 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn' d to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 200 
 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 205 
 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declar'd how much he knew; 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too. 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides 
 
 presage, 
 And even the story ran that he could gauge. 210 
 In arguing too the parson own'd his skill. 
 For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still; 
 While words of learned length and thundering 
 
 sound 
 Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around; 
 And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew 
 That one small head could carry all he knew.2i6 
 
 But past is all his fame : the very spot. 
 Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing 
 
 eye, 220 
 
 Low lies that house where nui>-brown draughts 
 
 inspir'd. 
 Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd. 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks pro- 
 found. 
 And news much older than their ale went 
 
 round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 
 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place: 
 The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the 
 
 door; 
 The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 230 
 The pictures plac'd for ornament and use. 
 The twelve good rules, 2 the royal game of 
 
 goose; 
 
 'Twelve rules of conduct, ascribed to Charles 1 and 
 frequently displayed in public houses and inns. 
 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day. 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel 
 
 gay, 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,235 
 Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
 Vain transitory splendours! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair 24 1 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to 
 hear; 246 
 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing tg be prest. 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 
 
 Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art; 
 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born 
 sway; 256 
 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd. 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd. 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 261 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; 
 And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy? 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 267 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; 
 Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound. 
 And rich men flock from all the world around; 
 Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 276 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
 Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their 
 growth; 280 
 
 His seat, where solitary spots are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
 While thus the land, adorn 'd for pleasure, all 285 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
 Slights every borrow'd charm that dress sup- 
 plies, 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 290 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are 
 
 frail. 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 377 
 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress: 
 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd; 295 
 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; 
 
 While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling 
 
 land. 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to 
 
 save, 301 
 
 The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 
 
 Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside. 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 305 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped — what waits him there? 
 To see prof usion that he must not share ; 310 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; 
 To see each joy the sons of pleasure know. 
 Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps 
 
 display, 
 There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where pleasure holds her midnight 
 
 reign, 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous 
 
 train ; 320 
 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing 
 
 square, 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah, turn thine 
 
 eyes 325 
 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
 Has wept at tales of inrocence distrest; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; 
 Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled — 331 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 
 And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the 
 
 shower. 
 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335 
 
 She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest 
 
 train. 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
 Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 340 
 Ah, no! To distant cHmes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 Through torrid tracts with faintmg steps they 
 
 Where wild Altama^ murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charm'd 
 before, 345 
 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore: 
 
 » The river AUamaha, or Alahamha, in Georgia. 
 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day; 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 350 
 
 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance 
 
 crown 'd. 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The ratthng terrors of the vengeful snake; 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless pre:$^, 
 And savage men more murderous still than 
 
 they; 356 
 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 
 Far different these from every former scene, 
 The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 360 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
 That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that 
 
 parting day. 
 That call'd them from their native walks away; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 365 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd 
 
 their last, 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main; 
 And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
 The good old sire th*^ first prepar'd to go 371 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe; 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a 
 
 tear. 
 And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O Luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 385 
 How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 390 
 
 At every draught more large and large they 
 
 grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe; 
 Till sapp'd their strength, and every part un- 
 sound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 Even now the devastation is begun , 395 
 
 And half the business of destruction done; 
 Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural Virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 
 
 sail 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 
 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, 
 And kind connubial Tenderneae are there: 
 
378 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 And Piety with wishes placed above, 405 
 
 And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; 
 Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 409 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 
 Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
 Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me 
 
 so; 
 Thou guide by which the noble arts excel, 415 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 
 Farewell! and O where'er thy voice be tried. 
 On Torno's* chfifs or Pambamarca's^ side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow. 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
 Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 
 Teach him, that states of native strength 
 
 possest, 425 
 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift 
 
 decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430 
 
 THE HERMIT 
 
 A BALLAD 
 
 (1766) 
 
 "Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 
 And guide my lonely way. 
 To where yon taper cheers the valo 
 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 "For here forlorn and lost I tread, 5 
 
 With fainting steps and slow; 
 
 Where wilds, immeasurably spread. 
 Seem length'ning as I go." 
 
 "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
 "To tempt the dangerous gloom; lo 
 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 "Here to the houseless child of want 
 
 My door is open still; 
 And though my portion is but scant, is 
 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 "Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 
 Whate'er my cell bestows. 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare. 
 
 My blessing and repose. 20 
 
 "No flocks that range the valley free 
 
 To slaughter I condemn; 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 
 I leam to pity them. 
 
 * Possibly the river Tornea, flowing into the Gulf of 
 Bothnia; or Lake Tornea in Northern Sweden. 
 ' Said to be a mountain near Quito, Ecuador. 
 
 "But from the mountain's grassy side 25 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring; 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits suppHed, 
 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 "Then pilgrim, turn; thy cares forego; 
 
 All earth-bom cares are wrong; 30 
 
 Man wants but httle here below. 
 
 Nor wants that Uttle long." 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell: 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 35 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay, 
 A refuge to the neighb'ring poor 
 
 And strangers led astray. 40 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 
 Required a master's care; 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 45 
 
 To take their evening rest, 
 The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest: 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 
 And gaily pressed, and smiled; 50 
 
 And, skill'd in legendary lore. 
 
 The hngering hours beguiled. 
 
 Around in sympathetic mirth 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries; 
 The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 55 
 
 The crackhng faggot flies. 
 
 But nothmg could a charm impart 
 
 To soothe the stranger's woe; 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 
 And tears began to flow. 60 
 
 His rising cares the Hermit spied. 
 
 With answering care opprest; 
 "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
 
 "The sorrows of thy breast? 
 
 "From better habitations spurn'd, 65 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove? 
 Or grieve for friendship unretum'd 
 
 Or unregarded love? 
 
 "Alas! the joys that Fortune brings 
 Are trifling, and decay; 70 
 
 And those who prize the paltry things, 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 "And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 75 
 
 But leaves the wretch to weep? 
 
PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, LORD CHESTERFIELD 379 
 
 "And love is still an emptier sound, 
 The modem fair-one's jest; 
 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 
 And spurn the sex," he said; 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 
 His love-lorn guest betray'd. 
 
 Surprised he sees new beauties rise, 85 
 
 Swift manthng to the view : 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast. 
 
 Alternate spread alarms; 90 
 
 The lovely stranger stands confest 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 "And ah! forgive a stranger rude, 
 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried; 
 *' Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 93 
 
 Where heaven and you reside. 
 
 "But let a maid thy pity share, 
 Whom love has taught to stray; 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 
 Companion of her way. 100 
 
 "My father lived beside the Tyne; 
 
 A wealthy lord was he; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, — 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 "To win me from his tender arms, 
 
 Unnumber'd suitors came; 
 Who praised me for imputed charms. 
 
 And felt or feign'd a flame. 
 
 "Till quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He left me to my pride; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 135 
 
 80 In secret, where he d'ed. 
 
 "But mine the sorrow, mine th« fault, 
 
 And well my life shall pay; 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 
 And stretch me where he lay. 140 
 
 "And there forlorn, despairing hid, 
 
 I'll lay me down and die; 
 'Twas so for me that Edwin did. 
 
 And so for him will I." 
 
 "Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried, 145 
 And clasp'd her to his breast: 
 
 The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, — 
 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. 
 
 "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 150 
 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Restored to love and thee. 
 
 "Thus let me hold thee to my heart. 
 
 And every care resign; 
 And shall we never, never part, 155 
 
 My hfe — ^my all that's mine? 
 
 "No, never from this hour to part. 
 
 We'll live and love so true. 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too." 160 
 
 105 
 
 "Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 With richest proffers strove; 
 
 Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd 
 But never talk'd of love. 
 
 "In humble, simplest habit clad. 
 No wealth nor power had he; 
 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 "And when beside me in the dale 
 
 He carroll'd lays of love. 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
 
 And music to the grove. 
 
 "The blossom opening to the day, 
 
 The dews of heaven refined. 
 Could nought of purity display. 
 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 "The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 With charms inconstant shine; 
 
 Their charms were his, but, woe to me! 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 "For still I tried each fickle art. 
 
 Importunate and vain; 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 
 I triumph'd in his pain : 
 
 pijilip Dormer ^tanliope, 
 iioro €^mtxMr}^ 
 
 1694-1773 
 
 MANNERS MAKYTH MAN 
 
 (Letter LXXIV., from Letters to His Son, 1774) 
 
 Spa, 25th July, 1741. 
 Dear Boy — I have often told you in my 
 former letters (and it is most certainly true) 
 that the strictest and most scrupulous honour 
 5 and virtue can alone make you esteemed and 
 valued by mankind; that parts and learning 
 can alone make you admired and celebrated 
 by them; but that the possession of lesser tal- 
 ents was most absolutely necessary towards 
 10 making you liked, beloved, and sought after 
 in private life. Of these lesser talents good 
 breeding is the principal and most necessary 
 one, not only as it is very important in itself, 
 
 »A well known wit, politician, orator, and "fine- 
 ^^^ gentleman," in the age of Pope and of Johnson. He was a 
 typical product of early 18th century England, in which 
 essential coarseness and materialism were too often 
 covered with a superficial veneer of polish and refinement. 
 His early repulse of Dr. Johnson, and belated offer of 
 patronage occasioned Johnson's famous letter of rebuke, 
 which is given on p. 385. His Letters, which were not 
 130 written for publication but intended to serve as a practical 
 guide to his son in conduct and manners, reflect with a 
 terrible truthfulness the views and standards of their 
 author. 
 
 110 
 
 115 
 
 120 
 
380 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 but as it adds lustre to the more solid advan- From this account of what you should not 
 tages both of the heart and mind. I have often do, you may easily judge of what you should 
 touched upon good breeding to you before; so do; and a due attention to the manners of 
 that this letter shall be upon the next necessary people of fashion, and who have seen the world, 
 qualification to it, which is a genteel, easy 5 will make it habitual and familiar to you. 
 manner, and carriage, wholly free from those There is likewise an awkwardness of expres- 
 
 odd tricks, ill habits, and awkwardnesses, sion and words, most carefully to be avoided; 
 which even many very worthy and sensible such as false Enghsh, bad pronunciation, old 
 people have in their behaviour. However sayings, and common proverbs; which are so 
 trifling a genteel manner may sound, it is of 10 many proofs of having kept bad and low com- 
 very great consequence towards pleasing in pany. For example; if, instead of saying that 
 private life, especially the women; which, one tastes are different, and that every man has 
 time or other, you will think worth pleasing; his own peculiar one, you should let off a prov- 
 and I have known many a man from his awk- erb, and say. That what is one man's meat is 
 wardness, give people such a dislike of him at 15 another man's poison; or else. Everyone as 
 first, that all his merit could not get the better they like, as the good man said when he kissed 
 of it afterwards. Whereas a genteel manner his cow; everybody would be persuaded that 
 prepossesses people in your favour, bends them you had never kept company with anybody 
 towards you, and makes them wish to Uke you, above footmen and housemaids. 
 Awkwardness can proceed from two causes; 20 Attention will do all this; and without atten- 
 either from not having kept good company, tion, nothing is to be done; want of atten- 
 or from not having attended to it. As for your tion, which is really want of thought, is either 
 keeping good company, I will take care of folly or madness. You should not only have 
 that; do you take care to observe their ways attention to everything, but a quickness of 
 and manners, and to form your own upon 25 attention, so as to observe, at once, all the 
 them. Attention is absolutely necessary to people in the room; their motions, their looks, 
 this, as indeed it is for everything else; and a and their words, and yet without staring at 
 man without attention is not fit to live in the them, and seeming to be an observer, this 
 world. When an awkward fellow first comes quick and unobserved observation is of in- 
 into the room, it is highly probable, that his 30 finite advantage in life, and is to be acquired 
 sword gets between his legs, and throws him with care; and, on the contrary, what is called 
 down, or makes him stumble at least; wheii he absence, which is a thoughtlessness, and want 
 has recovered this accident, he goes and places of attention about what is doing, makes a man 
 himself in the very place of the whole room so like either a fool or a madman, that, for my 
 where he should not; then he soon lets his hat 35 part, I see no real difference. A fool never has 
 fall down, and, in taking it up again, throws thought; a madman has lost it; and an absent 
 down his cane; in recovering his cane, his hat man is, for the time, without it. 
 falls down a second time; so that he is a quarter Adieu! Direct your next to me, Chez Mon- 
 of an hour before he is in order again. If he ^eur Chabert, Banquier, d Paris; and take care 
 drinks tea or coffee, he certainly scalds his 40 1 find the improvements I expect, at my return, 
 mouth, and lets either the cup or the saucer 
 
 fall, and spills the tea or coffee in his breeches. STYT F 
 
 At dinner, his awkwardness distinguishes it- 
 self particularly as he has more to do: there he (From Letter CCIII) 
 holds his knife, fork, and spoon differently from 45 I have written to you so often of late upon 
 other people; eats with his knife to the great good breeding, address, les manihres lianies,^ 
 danger of his mouth, picks his teeth with his the graces, etc. that I shall confine this letter 
 fork, and puts his spoon which has been in his to another subject, pretty near akin to them, 
 throat twenty times, into the dishes again. If and which, I am sure, you are full as deficient 
 he is to carve, he can never hit the joint; but, 50 in; I mean, style. 
 
 in his vain efforts to cut through the bone. Style is the dress of thoughts; and let them 
 
 scatters the sauce in everybody's face. He be ever so just, if your style is homely, coarse, 
 generally daubs himself with soup and grease, and vulgar, they will appear to as much dis- 
 though his napkin is commonly stuck through advantage, and be as ill received as your per- 
 a button-hole and tickles his chin. ... All 55 son, though ever so well proportioned, would, 
 this, I own, is not in any degree criminal; but if dressed in rags, dirt, and tatters. It is not 
 It IS highly disagreeable and ridiculous in com- every understanding that can judge of matter; 
 pany, and ought most carefully to be avoided but every ear can and does judge more or less 
 
 by whoever desires to please. x Pleasing manners. 
 
PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, LORD CHESTERFIELD 381 
 
 of style; and were I either to speak or write to A person of the House of Commons, speak- 
 
 the public, I should prefer moderate matter, ing two years ago upon naval affairs, asserted 
 adorned with all the beauties and elegancies that we had then the finest navy wpon the face 
 of style, to the strongest matter in the world, of the yearlh. This happy mixture of blunder 
 ill-worded and ill-delivered. Your business 5 and vulgarism, you may easily imagine, was 
 is Negotiation abroad, and Oratory in the matter of immediate ridicule; but I can assure 
 House of Commons at home. What figure you that it continues so still, and will be re- 
 can you make in either case if your style be membered as long as he lives and speaks. An- 
 inelegant, I do not say bad? Imagine your- other, speaking in defence of a gentleman 
 self writing an office-letter to a Secretary of 10 upon whom a censure was moved, happily 
 State, which letter is to be read by the whole said that he thought that gentleman was 
 Cabinet Council, and very possibly afterwards more liable to be thanked and rewarded, than 
 laid before Parliament; any one barbarism, censured. You know, I presume, that liable 
 solecism, or vulgarism in it would, in a very can never be used in a good sense, 
 few days, circulate through the whole king- 15 You have with you three or four of the best 
 dom to your disgrace and ridicule. For in- English authors, Dryden, Atterbury,^ and 
 stance; I will suppose you had written the Swift; read them with the utmost care, and 
 following letter from the Hague; to the Secre- with a particular care to their language, and 
 tary of State at London; and leave you to they may possibly correct that curious in- 
 suppose the consequences of it. 20 felicity of diction, which you acquired at West- 
 
 My Lord — I had last night, the honour of minster. Mr. Harte* excepted, I will admit 
 your Lordship's letter of the 24th; and will that you have met with very few English 
 set about doing the orders contained therein; abroad who could improve your style; and 
 and if so be that I can get that affair done by with many, I dare say, who speak as ill as 
 the next post, I will not fail for to give your 25 yourself, and it may be worse; you must there- 
 Lordship an account of it by next post. I have fore take the more pains, and consult your 
 told the French Minister, as how, that if that authors and Mr. Harte the more. I need 
 affair be not soon concluded, your Lordship not tell you how attentive the Romans and 
 would think it all long of him; and that he must Greeks, particularly the Athenians were to 
 have neglected for to have wrote to his Court 30 this object. It is also a study among the Ital- 
 about it. I must beg leave to put your Lord- ians and the French, witness their respective 
 ship in mind, as how, that I am now full three Academies and Dictionaries, for improving 
 quarters in arrear; and if so be that I do not and fixing their languages. To our shame be 
 very soon receive at least one half year, I shall it spoken, it is less attended to here than in 
 cut a very bad figure; for this here place is very 35 any polite country; but that is no reason why 
 dear. I shall be vastly beholden to your Lord- you should not attend to it; on the contrary 
 ship for that there mark of your favour; and it will distinguish you the more. Cicero says, 
 so I rest, or remain, Your, etc. very truly, that it is glorious to excel other 
 
 You will tell me, possibly that this is a men in that very article, in which men excel 
 caricatura of an illiberal and inelegant style; 40 brutes, speech. 
 
 I Avill admit it: but I assure you, at the same Constant experience has shown me, that 
 
 time, that a despatch with less than half these great purity and elegance of style, with a 
 faults would blow you up forever. It is by no graceful elocution, cover a multitude of faults 
 means sufficient to be free from faults in speak- in either a speaker or a writer. For my own 
 ing and writing; you must do both correctly 45 part, I confess (and I believe most people are 
 and elegantly. In faults of this kind it is not of my mind) that if a speaker should ungrace- 
 ille optimus qui minimis urgetur;^ but he is fully mutter or stammer out to me the sense 
 unpardonable that has any at all, because it is of an angel, deformed by barbarisms and 
 his own fault: he need only attend to, observe, solecisms, or larded with vulgarisms, he should 
 and imitate the best authors. 50 never speak to me a second time, if I could 
 
 It is a very true saying, that a man must be help it. Gain the heart, or you gam nothmg; 
 born a poet, but that he may make himself an , the eyes and the ears are only the road to the 
 orator; and the very first principle of an ora- heart. Merit and knowledge will not gam 
 tor is, to speak his own language, particularly, hearts though they will secure them when 
 
 with the utmost purity and elegance. A man 55 s Frauds Atterbury (16G2-1732), a prominent preacher, 
 
 .„ , » . ^ '^ , -^ „ f^^^i^^ and clever writer and controversialist. He was the 
 
 Will be forgiven, even great errors, in a lOreign fnend of Pope, Swift, Bolingbroke, and other distin- 
 
 language ; but in his own even the least slips are guished men of his tirne. 
 
 • ii f • 1 1 1 1 i? J -J- 1 J * Waller Harte (c. 1707-1774), who was tutor to Chea- 
 
 JUStly laid hold or and ridlCUlea. terfield's son. He wrote various poems and essays, and a 
 
 2 He ia the best who is the least burdened. History of Gustavus A dolphus. 
 
382 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 gained. Pray have that truth ever in your As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, 
 mind. Engage the eyes by your address, air, Prince of Denmark, began, Partridge was all 
 and motions; soothe the ears by the elegance attention, nor did he break silence till the 
 and harmony of your diction; the heart will entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked 
 certainly follow, and the whole man or woman 5 Jones, "What man was that in the strange 
 will as certainly follow the heart. I must dress; something," said he, "like what I have 
 repeat it to you over and over again, that with seen in a picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?" 
 all the knowledge which you may have at Jones answered, "That is the ghost." To 
 present or hereafter acquire, and with all the which Partridge replied, with a smile, "Per- 
 merit that ever man had, if you have not a lo suade me to that, sir, if you can. Though I 
 graceful address, hberal and engaging manners, can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my life, 
 a prepossessing air, and a good degree of elo- yet I am certain I should know one if I saw 
 quence in speaking and writing, you will be him, better than that comes to. No, no, sir, 
 nobody; but will have the daily mortification of ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that, 
 seeing people, with not one-tenth part of your 15 neither." In this mistake, which caused much 
 merit or knowledge, get the start of you and laughter in the neighbourhood of Partridge, he 
 disgrace you both in company and in business, was suffered to continue, till the scene between 
 
 the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave 
 Jt)ntt^ iFiri5ittS *^^* credit to Mr. Garrick,^ which he had 
 
 20 denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a 
 
 1707-1754 trembling, that his knees knocked against each 
 
 PARTRIDGE AT THE PLAY other. Jones asked him what was the matter, 
 
 and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon 
 (From Tom Jones, 1749) th^ stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now 
 
 Mr. Jones having spent three hours in read- 25 it is what you told me. I am not afraid of 
 ing and kissing the aforesaid letter, ^ and being anything; for I know it is but a play. And if it 
 at last, in a state of good spirits, from the last- was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at 
 mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry such a distance, and in so much company; and 
 an appointment, which he had before made, yet if I was frightened, I am not the only 
 into execution. This was, to attend Mrs. 30 person." "Why, who," cries Jones, "dost thou 
 Miller, and her younger daughter, into the take to be such a coward here besides thyself ? " 
 gallery at the playhouse and to admit Mr. "Nay, you may call me coward, if you will; 
 Partridge^ as one of the company. For as but if that little man there upon the stage is 
 Jones had really that taste for humour which not frightened, I never saw any man frightened 
 many affect, he expected to enjoy much enter- 35 in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you! Ay, to 
 tainment in the criticisms of Partridge, from be sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud 
 whom he expected the simple dictates of nature, have mercy upon such foolhardiness! — What- 
 unimproved, indeed, but likewise unadulter- ever happens, it is good enough for you. — 
 ated, by art. Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon. 
 
 In the first row then of the first gallery did 40 Nay, perhaps it is the devil — for they say he 
 Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, can put on what likeness he pleases. — Oh! here 
 and Partridge, take their places. Partridge he is again. — No farther! No, you have gone 
 immediately declared it was the finest place far enough already; farther than I'd have gone 
 he had ever been in. When the first music for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to 
 was played he said, "It was a wonder how so 45 speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hush! dear 
 many fiddlers could play at one time, without sir, don't you hear him?" And during the 
 putting one another out." While the fellow whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes 
 was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to partly fixed on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, 
 Mrs. Miller, "Look, look. Madam, the very and with his mouth open; the same passions 
 picture of the man in the end of the common- 50 which succeeded each other in Hamlet, suc- 
 prayer book before the gunpowder-treason ceeding likewise in him. 
 
 service." Nor could he help observing with a When the scene was over Jones said, "Why, 
 sigh, when all the candles were lighted, "That Partridge, you exceed my expectations. You 
 here were candles enow burnt in one night, to enjoy the play more than I conceived possible." 
 keep an honest poor family for a whole twelve- 55 
 
 month." ^ David Garrick (1717-79), the friend of Johnson, 
 
 Reynolds, and Goldsmith, and the greatest English actor 
 
 1. e., a letter from Sophia Western, with whom Tom of his time. Garrick began his career on the stage in 
 
 Jones, the hero of the story, is m love. 1741. his Richard III, produced in that year, was imme- 
 
 * A country barber and schoolmaster, who has become diately successful; he played many and varied parts, and 
 
 the follower and companion of Tom Jones. _ retired from the stage in 1776. 
 
HENRY FIELDING 383 
 
 "Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are doings. Ay, go about your business, I hate 
 not afraid of the devil, I can't help it; but to the sight of you." 
 
 be sure, it is natural to be surprised at such Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, 
 
 things, thought I know there is nothing in which Hamlet introduces before the king, 
 them: not that it was the ghost that surprised 5 This he did not at first understand, till Jones 
 me, neither; for I should have known that to explained it to him; but he no sooner entered 
 be only a man in a strange dress; but when I into the spirit of it, than he began to bless 
 saw the little man so frightened himself, it himself that he had never committed murder, 
 was that which took hold of me." "And dost Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, 
 thou imagine then, Partridge," cries Jones, 10 "If she did not imagine the king looked as if 
 "that he was really frightened?" "Nay, sir," he was touched; though he is," said he, "a 
 said Partridge, "did not you yourself observe good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. 
 afterwards, when he found it was his own Well, I would not have so much to answer for 
 father's spirit, and how he was murdered in as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a 
 the garden, how his fear forsook him by de- 15 much higher chair than he sits upon. No 
 grees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow as wonder he run away; for your sake I'll never 
 it were, just as I should have been, had it been trust an innocent face again." 
 my own case? But hush! O la! what noise is The grave digging scene next engaged the 
 
 that? There he is again — Well, to be certain, attention of Partridge, who expressed much 
 though I know there is nothing at all in it, 20 surprise at the number of skulls thrown upon 
 I am glad I am not down yonder, where those the stage. To which Jones answered, "That 
 men are." Then turning his eyes upon Ham- it was one of the most famous burial-places 
 let, "Ay, you may draw your sword; what about town." "No wonder then," cried Part- 
 signifies a sword against the power of the ridge, "that the place is haunted. But I never 
 devil?" 25 saw in my life a worse grave-digger. I had a 
 
 During the second act. Partridge made very sexton, when I was clerk, that should have 
 few remarks. He greatly admired the fineness dug three graves while he is digging one. The 
 of the dresses; nor could he help observing fellow handles a spade as if it was the first time 
 upon the king's countenance. "Well," said he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you 
 he, "how people may be deceived by faces? 30 may sing. You had rather sing than work, 
 Nulla fides fronti'^ is, I find, a true saying. Who I believe." Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull, 
 would think, by looking in the king's face, he cried out, "Well, it is strange to see how 
 that he had ever committed a murder?" He fearless some men are: I never could bring 
 then enquired after the ghost; but Jones, who myself to touch anything belonging to a dead 
 intended he should be surprised, gave him no 35 man, on any account. He seemed frightened 
 other satisfaction, than "that he might possibly enough too, at the ghost, I thought. Nerrw 
 see him again soon, and in a flash of fire." omnibus horis sapit."^ 
 
 Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this; Little more worth remembering occurred 
 and now, when the ghost made his next ap- during the play, at the end of which Jones 
 pearance. Partridge cried out, "There, sir, 40 asked him, "Which of the players he had 
 now; what say you now? is he frightened now, liked best?" To this he answered with some 
 or no? As much frightened as you think me, appearance of indignation at the question, 
 and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. "The king without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. 
 I would not be in so bad a condition as What's Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you are not 
 his name, squire Hamlet, is there, for all the 45 of the same opinion with the town; for they 
 world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit? are all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the 
 As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him best player who ever was on the stage." "He 
 sink into the earth." "Indeed, you saw right,* the best player!" cries Partridge, with a con- 
 answered Jones. "Well, well," cried Part- temptuous sneer, "why, I could act as well 
 ridge, "I know it is only a play: and besides, 50 as he myself. I am sure if I had seen a ghost, 
 if there was anything in all that. Madam I should have looked in the very same manner. 
 Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, and done just as he did. And then, to be 
 you would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil sure, in that scene, as you call it, between him 
 was here in person. There, there, ay, no and his mother, where you told me he acted 
 wonder you are in such a passion, shake the 55 so fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that is, 
 vile wretch to pieces. If she was my own any good man, that had such a mother, would 
 mother, I would serve her so. To be sure all have done just exactly the same. I know you 
 duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked are only joking with me; but indeed, Madam, 
 « Do not trust in the face. 6 No one is wise at all times. . 
 
384 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 though I was never at a play in London, yet loud huntsman, or the formal parson, the 
 I have seen acting before in the country; and roar of obstreperous jollity, or the dulness of 
 the king for my money; he speaks all his words prudential instruction; without any retreat, 
 distinctly, half as loud again as the other, but to the gloom of solitude, where they will 
 Anybody may see he is an actor." 5 yet find greater inconveniences, and must 
 
 Thus ended the adventure of the playhouse, learn, however unwillingly, to endure them- 
 where Partridge had afforded great mirth, selves. 
 
 not only to Jones and Mrs. Miller, but to all In winter, the life of the polite and gay may 
 who sat within hearing, who were more at- be said to roll on with a strong and rapid 
 tentive to what he said, than to anything that 10 current; they float along from pleasure to 
 passed on the stage. pleasure, without the trouble of regulating 
 
 He durst not go to bed all that night, for their own motions, and pursue the course of 
 fear of the ghost; and for many nights after the stream in all the felicity of inattention; 
 sweated two or three hours before he went to content that they find themselves in progres- 
 sleep, with the same apprehensions, and waked 15 sion, and careless whither they are going. But 
 several times in great horrors, crying out, the months of summer are a kind of sleeping 
 "Lord have mercy upon us! There it is." stagnation, without wind or tide, where they 
 
 are left to force themselves forward by their 
 
 own labour, and to direct their passage by 
 
 ^atnUCl 31Ol)n0On 20 their own skill; and where, if they have not 
 
 some internal principle of activity, they must 
 1709-1784 ^je stranded upon shallows, or lie torpid in a 
 
 perpetual calm. 
 THE LADY'S MISERY IN A rpj^ej.^ are, indeed, some to whom this uni- 
 
 SUMMER RETIREMENT 25versal dissolution of gay societies affords a 
 
 (TheRambler, No. 124, Saturday, May25, 1751) welcome opportunity of quitting, without dis- 
 grace, the post which they have found them- 
 The season of the year is now come, in which selves unable to maintain; and of seeming to 
 the theatres are shut, and the card-tables retreat only at the call of nature, from assem- 
 forsaken; the regions of luxury are for a while 30 blies where, after a short triumph of un con- 
 unpeopled, and pleasure leads out her votaries tested superiority, they are overpowered by 
 to groves and gardens, to still scenes and er- some new intruder of softer elegance, or 
 ratic ^ gratifications. Those who have passed sprightlier vivacity. By these, hopeless of 
 many months in a continual tumult of diver- victory, and yet ashamed to confess a con- 
 sion; who have never opened their eyes in the 35 quest, ^ the summer is regarded as a release 
 morning but upon some new appointment; nor from the fatiguing service of celebrity, a dis- 
 slept at night without a dream of dances, mission to more certain joys, and a safer 
 music, and good hands, or of soft sighs, and empire. They now solace themselves with the 
 humble supplications; must now retire to influence which they shall obtain, where they 
 distant provinces, where the syrens of flattery 40 have no rival to fear; and with the lustre which 
 are scarcely to be heard, where beauty sparkles they shall effuse, when nothing can be seen 
 without praise or envy, and wit is repeated of brighter splendour. They imagine, while 
 only by the echo. they are preparing for their journey, the ad- 
 
 As I think it one of the most important miration with which the rustics will crowd 
 duties of social benevolence, to give warning of 45 about them; plan the laws of a new assembly; 
 the approach of calamity, when, by timely or contrive to delude provincial ignorance with 
 prevention, it may be turned aside, or, by a fictitious mode. A thousand pleasing ex- 
 preparatory measures, be more easily endured, pectations swarm in the fancy; and all the 
 I cannot feel the increasing warmth, or observe approaching weeks are filled with distinc- 
 the lengthening days, without considering the 50 tions, honours, and authority, 
 condition of my fair readers, who are now But others, who have lately entered the 
 preparing to leave all that has so long filled world, or have yet had no proofs of its incon- 
 up their hours, all from which they have been stancy and desertion, are cut off, by this cruel 
 accustomed to hope for delight; and who, till interruption, from the enjoyment of their 
 fashion proclaims the liberty of returning to 55 prerogatives, and doomed to lose four months 
 the seats of mirth and elegance, must endure in unactive obscurity. Many complaints do 
 the rugged 'squire, the sober housewife, the vexation and desire extort from those exiled 
 
 1 Lat. errare, to wander, then to stray, hence literally, 2 Conquest has here a passive sense; ashamed to confess 
 
 the pleasure of roaming. that they have been conquered. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON 385 
 
 tyrants of the town, against the unexorable virtue, though they have been dissipated by 
 sun, who pursues his course without any regard neghgence, or misled by example; and who 
 to love or beauty; and visits either tropic^ at would gladly find the way to rational happi- 
 the stated time, whether shunned or courted, ness, though it should be necessary to struggle 
 deprecated or implored. 5 with habit, and abandon fashion. To these 
 
 To them who leave the places of public many arts of spending time might be recom- 
 resort in the full bloom of reputation, and mended, which would neither sadden the pres- 
 withdraw from admiration, courtship, submis- ent hour with weariness, nor the future with 
 sion, and applause; a rural triumph can give repentance. 
 
 nothing equivalent. The praise of ignorance, 10 It would seem impossible to a solitary specu- 
 and the subjection of weakness, are little re- latist,^ that a human being can want employ- 
 garded by beauties who have been accus- ment. To be born in ignorance with a ca- 
 tomed to more important conquests, and more pacity of knowledge, and to be placed in the 
 valuable panegyrics. Nor indeed should the midst of a world filled with variety, perpetually 
 powers which have made havoc in the theatres, 15 pressing upon the senses, and irritating curios- 
 or borne down rivalry in courts, be degraded ity, is surely a suflBcient security against the 
 to a mean attack upon the untravelled heir, languishment of inattention. Novelty is in- 
 or ignoble contest with the ruddy milk-maid. deed necessary to preserve eagerness and 
 
 How then must four long months be worn alacrity; but art and nature have stores in- 
 away? Four months, in which there will be 20 exhaustible by human intellects; and every 
 no routs,^ no shews, no ridottos;^ in which moment produces something new to him, who 
 visits must be regulated by the weather, and has quickened his faculties by diligent ob- 
 assemblies will depend upon the moon! The servation. 
 
 Platonists^ imagine, that the future punish- Some studies, for which the country and 
 
 ment of those who have in this Hfe debased 25 the summer afford particular opportunities, 
 their reason by subjection to their senses, and I shall perhaps endeavour to recommend in a 
 have preferred the gross gratifications of lewd- future essay; but if there be any apprehen- 
 ness and luxury, to the pure and sublime feHcity sion^ not apt to admit unaccustomed ideas, 
 of virtue and contemplation, will arise from or any attention so stubborn and inflexible, 
 the predominance and solicitations of the same 30 as not easily to comply with new directions, 
 appetites, in a state which can furnish no even these obstructions cannot exclude the 
 means of appeasing them. I cannot but sus- pleasure of apphcation; for there is a higher 
 pect that this month, bright with sun-shine, and nobler employment, to which all faculties 
 and fragrant with perfumes; this month, are adapted by him who gave them. The 
 which covers the meadow with verdure, and 35 duties of religion, sincerely and regularly per- 
 decks the gardens with all the mixtures of formed, will always be sufficient to exalt the 
 colorific radiance; this month, from which meanest, and to exercise the highest under- 
 the man of fancy expects new infusions of standing. That mind will never be vacant, 
 imagery, and the naturalist hew scenes of which is frequently recalled, by stated duties, 
 observation; this month will chain down mul-40to meditations on eternal interests; nor can 
 titudes to the Platonic penance of desire with- any hour be long, which is spent in obtaining 
 out enjoyment, and hurry them from the some new qualification for celestial happiness, 
 highest satisfactions, which they have yet 
 
 learned to conceive, into a state of hopeless LETTER TO LORD CHESTERFIELD^ 
 wishes, and pining recollection, where the eye 45 
 
 of vanity will look round for admiration to no "My Lord, "February 7, 1755. 
 
 purpose, and the hand of avarice shuffle cards "I have been lately informed, by the pro- 
 
 in a bower with ineffectual dexterity. prietor of the World, that two papers, in which 
 
 From the tediousness of this melancholy my Dictionary is recommended to the public, 
 
 suspension of life, I would willingly preserve 50 t a philosopher, a theori.-^er; almost obs. 
 those who are exposed to it, only by inexperi- ' i- e.. any whose apprehension is not apt, etc. 
 
 enee; who want not inclination to wisdom or .o^^feSd'^'SbSa^^t ?,Jm S '?hl'pipt?atioi''o?^ 
 
 » In the astronomical tropics, circles in the celestial large a book was expensive as well as laborious, and 
 
 sfphere, 233^° distant from the equator, called from the Johnson made some effort to secure the patronage of 
 
 signs of the zodiac through which they pass Capricorn Lord Chesterfield for his important undertaking. John- 
 
 and Cancer. son's overtures were rejected in a manner that, to his 
 
 * Noisy entertainments. sturdy and independent temper, seemed insulting. Shortly 
 
 * Dancing parties: an Italian word. before the publication of the Dictionary, Chesterfield 
 6 For the Platonic doctrine of future rewards and wrote two notices of the forthcoming book, whereupon 
 
 punishments see Jowett's translation of the Phaedo, near Johnson addressed him in the famous letter, which has 
 the close, §131. Cf. also the close of the Republic, been called The Declaration of Independence ioT Axxthon v. 
 Milton's Comus, lines 461-475, and the Spectator, No. 90. Chesterfield, p. 379, n. I, 
 
386 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 were written by your Lordship. To be so COLLINS 
 
 distinguished, is an honour, which, being very ^.^^^ ^^^ ^^^^g 
 
 httle accustomed to favours from the great, ^ 
 
 I know not well how to receive, or in what William Collins was born^ at Chichester, 
 
 terms to acknowledge. 5 on the twenty-fifth day of December, about 
 
 "When, upon some slight encouragement, 1720. His father was a hatter of good reputa- 
 I first visited your Lordship, I was over- tion. He was in 1733, as Dr. Warton^ has 
 powered, like the rest of mankind, by the en- kindly informed me, admitted scholar of Win- 
 chantment of your address, and could not Chester College,' where he was educated by 
 forbear to wish that I might boast myself Le 10 Dr. Burton. His English exercises were better 
 vainqueur du vainqueur de la ierre; — that I than his Latin. 
 
 might obtain that regard for which I saw the He first courted the notice of the pubhc by 
 world contending; but I found my attendance some verses to a "Lady weeping," published in 
 so little encouraged, that neither pride nor "The Gentleman's Magazine." 
 modesty would suffer me to continue it. When 15 In 1740, he stood first in the list of the 
 1 had once addressed your Lordship in public, scholars to be received in succession at New 
 I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a College, but unhappily there was no vacancy, 
 retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. He became a Commoner^ of Queen's College, 
 I had done all that I could; and no man is probably with a scanty maintenance; but was, 
 well pleased to have his all neglected, be it 20 in about half a year, elected a Demy^ of Mag- 
 ever so little. dalen College, where he continued till he had 
 
 "Seven years, my Lord, have now past, taken a Bachelor's degree, and then suddenly 
 since I waited in your outward rooms, or was left the University; for what reason I know not 
 repulsed from your door; during which time that he told. 
 
 I have been pushing on my work through 25 He now (about 1744) came to London a 
 difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, literary adventurer, with many projects in his 
 and have brought it, at last, to the verge of head, and very Httle money in his pocket. He 
 publication, without one act of assistance, designed many works; but his great fault was 
 one word of encouragement, or one smile of irresolution; or the frequent calls of immediate 
 favour. Such treatment I did not expect, 30 necessity broke his scheme, and suffered him 
 for I never had a Patron before. to pursue no settled purpose. A man doubtful 
 
 "The shepherd in Virgil grew at last ac- of his dinner, or trembling at a creditor, is not 
 quainted with Love, and found him a native much disposed to abstracted meditation, or 
 of the rocks. remote inquiries. He published proposals for 
 
 "Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks 35 a "History Of The Revival Of Learning;" 
 with unconcern on a man struggling for life and I have heard him speak with great kindness 
 in the water, and, when he has reached ground, of Leo the Tenth,^ and with keen resentment 
 encumbers him with help? The notice which of his tasteless successor. But probably not a 
 you have been pleased to take of my labours, page of his history was ever written. He 
 had it been early, had been kind, but it has 40 planned several tragedies, but he only planned 
 been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot them. He wrote now and then odes and other 
 enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart poems; and did something, however little, 
 it; till I am known, and do not want it. I About this time I fell into his company, 
 
 hope it is no very cynical asperity not to con- His appearance was decent and manly; his 
 fess obligations where no benefit has been re- 45 knowledge considerable, his views extensive, 
 ceived, or to be unwilling that the public his conversation elegant, and his disposition 
 should consider me as owing that to a Patron, i Collins was born Dec. 25th. 1721. 
 which Providence has enabled me to do for ,1P,^: Joaeph Warton (i722-i8qo). was a schoolfellow 
 
 ■If of Collins at Winchester, and his life-long friend. 
 
 W^yseil. 3 Winchester School, or the College of St. Mary Winton, 
 
 "Having carried on my work thus far with 50 o°<^ o^*^® '^^d'^s English public schools, it was founded 
 
 riAi ui- X- X J? e ^ • towards the end of the 14th century, by William of 
 
 so little Obligation to any favourer Ot learning, Wykeham, who was also the founder of New College, 
 
 I shall not be disappointed though I should Oxford. A certain number of New College scholarships 
 
 1 J ., .- , , ., , -.11 ,. are open to the Winchester students. 
 
 conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for * Queen's College, Oxford. A Commoner at Oxford is a 
 
 I have been long wakened from that dream of student who does not depend on the endowmnent for 
 
 v^^^ • 1 • 1 T u i J If -0.1- support, but pays for his own board. 
 
 nope, m which 1 once boasted myself with so 55 5 a Demy is the holder of one of certain scholarships at 
 
 much exultation my Lord Magdalen (one of the most beautiful of the Oxford col- 
 
 <<T7 T J !-• > ' 1. -L. 11 leges); the Demys are so called because their allowance 
 
 I our Lordship S most humble was about half that of a Fellow. 
 
 "Most obedient servant, * Pope from 1513-21, distinguished for his encourage- 
 
 <,o 1 )' ment of art and letters, when the Renaissance was at its 
 
 "bAMDEL Johnson. height. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON 387 
 
 cheerful. By degrees I gained his confidence; somewhat obstructed in its progress by devia- 
 and one day was admitted to him when he tion in quest of mistaken beauties, 
 was immured by a baihff/ that was prowHng "His morals were pure, and his opinions 
 
 in the street. On this occasion recourse was pious; in a long continuance of poverty, and 
 had to the booksellers, who, on the credit of a 5 long habits of dissipation, it cannot be expected 
 translation of Aristotle's "Poetics," which he that any character should be exactly uniform, 
 engaged to write with a large commentary, There is a degree of want by which the freedom 
 advanced as much money as enabled him to of agency is almost destroyed; and long associa- 
 escape into the country. He showed me the tion with fortuitous companions will at last re- 
 guineas safe in his hand. Soon afterwards his 10 lax the strictness of truth, and abate the fervour 
 uncle, Mr. Martin, a lieutenant-colonel, left of sincerity. That this man, wise and virtuous, 
 him about two thousand pounds; a sum which as he was, passed always unentangled through 
 Collins could scarce think exhaustible, and the snares of life, it would be prejudice and te- 
 which he did not live to exhaust. The guineas merity to aflSrm; but it may be said that at least 
 were then repaid, and the translation neglected. 15 he preserved the source of action unpolluted. 
 
 But man is not born for happiness. Collins, that his principles were never shaken, that his 
 who, while he studied to live, felt no evil but distinctions of right and wrong were never con- 
 poverty, no sooner lived to study than his life founded, and that his faults had nothing of ma- 
 was assailed by more dreadful calamities, lignity or design, but proceeded from some 
 disease, and insanity. 20 unexpected pressure, or casual temptation. 
 
 Having formerly written his character,^ while "The latter part of his life cannot be remem- 
 
 perhaps it was yet more distinctly impressed bered but with pity and sadness. He lan- 
 upon my memory, I shall insert it here. guished some years under that depression of 
 
 " Mr. Colhns was a man of extensive litera- mind which enchains the faculties without 
 ture, and of vigorous faculties. He was ac- 25 destroying them, and leaves reason the knowl- 
 quainted not only with the learned tongues, edge of right without the power of pursuing it. 
 but with the Italian, French, and Spanish These clouds which he perceived gathering on 
 languages. He had employed his mind chiefly his intellects,^" he endeavoured to disperse by 
 on the works of fiction, and subjects of fancy; travel, and passed into France; but found him- 
 and, by indulging some peculiar habits of 30 self constrained to yield to his malady, and 
 thought, was eminently delighted with those returned. He was for some time confined in a 
 flights of imagination which pass the bounds of house of lunatics, and afterwards retired to the 
 nature, and to which the mind is reconciled care of his sister in Chichester, where death, 
 only by a passive acquiescence in popular in 1756," came to his relief, 
 traditions. He loved fairies, genii, giants, and 35 "After his return from France, the writer 
 monsters; he delighted to rove through the of this character paid him a visit at Islington, 
 meanders^ of enchantment, to gaze on the where he was waiting for his sister, whom he 
 magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by had directed to meet him: there was then 
 the waterfalls of Elysian gardens. nothing of disorder discernible in his mind by 
 
 "This was however the character rather of 40 any but himself; but he had withdrawn from 
 his inclination than his genius; the grandeur study, and travelled with no other book than 
 of wildness, and the novelty of extravagance, an English Testament, such as children carry 
 were always desired by him, but not always to the school: when his friend took it into his 
 attained. Yet, as diligence is never wholly hand, out of curiosity to see what companion 
 lost, if his efforts sometimes caused harshness 45 a Man of Letters had chosen, 'I have but one 
 and obscurity, they likewise produced in hap- book,' said Collins, 'but that is the best.'" 
 pier moments sublimity and splendour. This Such was the fate of Collins, with whom I 
 
 idea which he had formed of excellence led once delighted to converse, and whom I yet 
 him to oriental fictions and allegorical imagery, remember with tenderness. ^ 
 
 and perhaps, while he was intent upon de-50 He was visited at Chichester, m his last 
 scription, he did not sufficiently cultivate sen- illness, by his learned friends. Dr. Warton and 
 timent. His poems are the productions of a his brother; to whom he spoke with disappro- 
 mind not deficient in fire, nor unfurnished bation of his Oriental Eclogues, ^^ as not suf- 
 
 With knowledge either of books or life, but lopjural, like "wits." The 18th century writers 
 
 M. e.. for his debts. The "Debtors' Act" in 1869 sometimesused the plural where we use the singular. 
 
 abolished imprisonment for debt in England. " Johnson is wrong in the date. Collins died June 12tb. 
 
 8 Johnson's Character of Collins appeared m the I'^p- . ,. . , „ . p^t^^,,^, ;„ I7d9 onrl rpnnh 
 
 PolU^U^endar, 1763. and was inserted as part of the ,,,;^;Xlished^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 •i.e., the mazes, or windings; from the river Meander " brother " was Thomas Warton, author of the History oj 
 in Asia Minor, noted for its tortuous course. English Poetry. 
 
388 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 ficiently expressive of Asiatic manners, and his account of the "Little Club,"i compared 
 called them his Irish Eclogues. He showed himself to a spider, and by another is described 
 them at the same time, an ode inscribed to Mr. as protuberant behind and before. He is said 
 John Home,^' on the superstitions of the High- to have been beautiful in his infancy; but he 
 lands; which they thought superior to his 5 was of a constitution originally feeble and weak ; 
 other works, but which no search has yet and, as bodies of a tender frame are easily 
 found. ^* distorted, his deformity was probably in part 
 
 His disorder was no alienation of mind, but the effect of his application. His stature was 
 general laxity and feebleness, a deficiency so low,^ that, to bring him to a level with 
 rather of his vital than his intellectual powers. 10 common tables, it was necessary to raise his 
 What he spoke wanted neither judgment nor seat. But his face was not displeasing, and 
 spirit; but a few minutes exhausted him, so his eyes were animated and vivid, 
 that he was forced to rest upon the couch, till By natural deformity, or accidental distor- 
 a short cessation restored his powers, and he tion, his vital functions were so much dis- 
 was again able to talk with his former vigour. 15 ordered, that his life was "long disease."^ His 
 
 The approaches of this dreadful malady he most frequent assailment was the headache, 
 began to feel soon after his uncle's death; and, which he used to relieve by inhaling the steam 
 with the usual weakness of men so diseased, of coffee, which he very frequently required, 
 eagerly snatched that temporary relief with Most of what can be told concerning his 
 
 which the table and the bottle flatter and 20 petty peculiarities was communicated by a fe- 
 seduce. But his health continually declined, male domestic of the Earl of Oxford,^ who knew 
 and he grew more and more burthensome to him perhaps after the middle of life. He was 
 himself. then so weak as to stand in perpetual need of 
 
 To what I have formerly said of his writings female attendance; extremely sensible of cold, 
 may be added, that his diction was often harsh, 25 so that he wore a kind of fur doublet,^ under a 
 unskilfully laboured, and injudiciously selected, shirt of very coarse warm linen with fine 
 He affected the obsolete when it was not sleeves. When he rose, he was invested in 
 worthy of revival; and he puts his words out bodice made of stiff canvas, being scarcely 
 of the common order, seeming to think, with able to hold himself erect till they were laced, 
 some later candidates for fame, that not to 30 and he then put on a flannel waistcoat. One 
 write prose is certainly to write poetry. His side was contracted. His legs were so slender, 
 lines commonly are of slow motion, clogged that he enlarged their bulk with three pair of 
 and impeded with clusters of consonants. As stockings, which were drawn on and off by 
 men are often esteemed who cannot be loved, the maid; for he was not able to dress or un- 
 so the poetry of Collins may sometimes extort 35 dress himself, and neither went to bed nor rose 
 praise when it gives little pleasure. without help. His weakness made it very 
 
 Mr. ColUns's first^^ production is added here diflScult for him to be clean, 
 from the "Poetical Calendar," His hair had fallen almost all away; and he 
 
 TO MISS AURELiA c R, ON HER WEEPING AT ^^f^ ^^ ^j^® Sometimes with Lord Oxford, 
 
 HER sister's wedding 40 privately, in a velvet cap. His dress of cere- 
 
 Cease, fau- Aurelia, cea^e to mourn; ""^"^ ^^ ^^^^^' ^'^^ ^ ^^^"^^g'' ^^^ ^ ^'^^^^ 
 
 Lament not Hannah's happy state; ^^21 • , , ^ ^ 
 
 You may be happy in your turn, ^'^^ indulgence and accommodation which 
 
 And seize the treasure you regret. his sickness required, had taught him all the 
 
 ixr-^i- T -^ J TT 1 4^ unpleasing and unsocial qualities of a valetudin- 
 
 With Love umted Hymen stands, ary man. He expected that every thing should 
 
 And softly whispers to vour charms. — ■ xu- i. i.ii 
 
 " Meet but your lover in my bands, ^T "^^^ *"" }'^ -if '^ .""l ^""T"'' ^' \ ^^^^^' 
 
 You'U find your sister m his arms." ^^^^^ P^^®°* ^^^^ ^o^ ^^^^ ^^^ c^^' ^^s an 
 
 unresisted dominion in the nursery. 
 50 
 THE CHARACTER OF POPE ^ A club of men under five feet in height, described by 
 
 Pope in the Guardian, Nos. 91 and 92. 
 (From the same) ' Pope was 4 ft. 6 in. in height. 
 
 * rope s own expression {v. p. 305, supra) : 
 
 The person of Pope is well known not to have "The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, 
 
 been formed by the nicest model. He has, in ^'^•' '''''' '^'' ''''''''''' '"'iJ^Slr^T^Z.. i, 13I. 
 
 ^^John 7/ome (1722-1808), a Scotch clergyman who < Edward Harley, Second Earl of Oxford, friend, 
 
 was censured by his presbytery for writing plays. admirer, and correspondent of Pope. 
 
 • I } Y^ u * published in 1788, and has since been ^ The doublet, originally an outer coat, had become an 
 
 included m the editions of Collins' poetry. undergarment in King Charles's time. 
 
 ^•700 u-i^^,?'^ ^""^ Ge/i«emart's Magazine for January, « a wig that has the hair gathered and tied at the back 
 
 769, while Collins was still at school. with a ribbon. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON 389 
 
 Cest que Venfant toujours est homme, that his sensuality shortened his life will not 
 
 C est que I homme est toujour enfant J be hastily concluded, when it is remembered 
 
 When he wanted to sleep he "nodded in that a conformation so irregular lasted six 
 company;" and once slumbered at his own and fifty years, notwithstanding such per- 
 table while the Prince of Wales was talking of 5 tinacious diligence of study and meditation, 
 
 poetry .8 ^ In all his intercourse with mankind, he had 
 
 The reputation which his friendship gave great delight in artifice, and endeavoured to 
 
 procured him many invitations; but he was a attain all his purposes by indirect and unsus° 
 
 very troublesome inmate. He brought no pected methods, "He hardly drank tea with- 
 
 servant, and had so many wants, that a numer- 10 out a stratagem."^^ jf^ ^t the house of friends, 
 
 ous attendance was scarcely able to supply he wanted any accommodation, he was not 
 
 them. Wherever he was he left no room for willing to ask for it in plain terms, but would 
 
 another, because, he exacted the attention, mention it remotely as something convenient; 
 
 and employed the activity, of the whole family, though, when it was procured, he soon made 
 
 His errands were so frequent and frivolous, 15 it appear for whose sake it had been recom- 
 
 that the footmen in time avoided and neg- mended. Thus he teased Lord Orrery^^ till he 
 
 lected him; and the Earl of Oxford discharged obtained a screen. He practised his arts on 
 
 some of the servants for their resolute refusal such small occasions, that Lady Bolingbroke 
 
 of his messages. The maids, when they had used to say, in a French phrase, that " he played 
 
 neglected their business, alleged that they had 20 the politician about cabbages and turnips." 
 
 been employed by Mr. Pope. One of his con- His unjustifiable impression of the "Patriot 
 
 stant demands was of coffee in the night, and King,"^^ as it can be imputed to no particular 
 to the woman that waited on him in his cham- motive, must have proceeded from his general 
 
 ber he was very burthensome: but he was habit of secrecy and cunning; he caught an 
 
 careful to recompense her want of sleep; and 25 opportunity of a sly trick, and pleased himself 
 
 Lord Oxford's servant declared, that in the with the thought of outwitting Bolingbroke. 
 
 house where her business was to answer his In familiar or convivial conversation, it 
 
 call, she would not ask for wages. does not appear that he excelled. He may be 
 
 He had another fault, easily incident to said to have resembled Dryden, as being not 
 those who, suffering much pain, think them- 30 one that was distinguished by vivacity in 
 
 selves entitled to what pleasures they can company. It is remarkable, that so near his 
 
 snatch. He was too indulgent to his appetite: time,^^ so much should be known of what he 
 
 he loved meat highly seasoned and of strong has written, and so little of what he has said: 
 
 taste; and, at the intervals of the table, amused traditional memory retains no sallies of raillery, 
 
 himself with biscuits and dry conserves. If he 35 nor sentences of observation; nothing either 
 
 sat down to a variety of dishes, he would op- pointed or solid, either wise or merry. One 
 
 press his stomach with repletion; and though apothegm only stands upon record. When 
 
 he seemed angry when a dram was offered an objection, raised against his inscription for 
 
 him, did not forbear to drink it. His friends, Shakespeare, i" was defended by the authority 
 
 who knew the avenues to his heart, pampered 40 ,, ^,,ributed to Lady Maiy Wortley Montague. V. 
 
 him with presents of luxury, which he did not p. 390, n. 19. 
 
 suffer to stand neglected. The death of great ,Zitrs^^:i,'^;,^/S,i!^li°r''' "™^-«^' "'' ""' 
 
 men is not always proportioned to the lustre ha political essay written by Henry St. John, first 
 
 of fhpir livpq Hnnnibfll savq Tnvenal did Viscount Bolingbroke (1678-1751). "The Patriots" was 
 
 Ot tneir lives. llanniDal, says JUVenai, aia ^ name given to a faction of the Whig party in the reigns 
 
 not perish by the javelin or the sword; the 45 of George I, and George II, opposed to the rule of Wal- 
 
 slaughters of Cannae were revenged by a ring.» P*^ ?°f .Sid t^er^ThX^', ta''^X%l 
 
 The death of Pope was imputed by some ot Patriot King in defence of their principles. Not deeming 
 
 hi'«5 fripnrl"? to i m'lvpr ^flllppnfln in which it ^* ^^^^ at the time to publish the essay broadcast, he 
 
 niS irienas to a silver saucepan, in wmca lu entrusted the manuscript to Pope, who was to have a few 
 
 Iwas his delight to heat potted^" lampreys. ^^ copies printed for distribution among Bolingbroke's 
 
 Thnf hp lnvpf^ inn wpH in pat is certain* but 50 fiends, and Pope, according to Johnson, "assured him 
 
 inat ne lovea too wen to eat, is certam, uubou^j^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ printed than were allowed." 
 
 ' There is always a man in the infant, When, soon after Pope's death, it was discovered that 
 
 There is always an infant in the man. 1500 copies had been printed and secretly kept by the 
 
 8 This occurred after the accession of George 11, in 1727, printer at Pope's request, Bolingbroke's indignation 
 when Frederick (who died before his father in 1751) was knew no bounds, and he publicly attacked the memory 
 Prince of Wales. He frequently dined at Pope's house. of his former friend. 
 
 9 Hannibal after the Carthaginian campaign became a i* Pope died 1744. The Lives of the Poets appeared in 
 fugitive in Asia Minor. Fearing arrest and death, he 1781. 
 
 took poison which he always carried with him in a ring. is "When Dr. Meade once urged to our author the 
 
 So that it may be said the ring, in causing the death of authority of Patrick, the dictionary-maker, against the 
 
 Hannibal avenged the slaughter of Cannse. latinity of the expression, 'amor publicum' which be had 
 
 1" Preserved. used in an inscription, he replied that he would allow a 
 
 " The lamprey, when full grown resembles an eel, and dictionary-maker to understand a single word, but not 
 
 iri considered a delicacy. two words put together." Warton. 
 
390 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 of "Patrick,"" he replied — horresco refer ens^^ — Of this fortune, which, as it arose from public 
 that "he would allow the publisher of a Die- approbation, was very honourably obtained, 
 tionary to know the meaning of a single word, his imagination seems to have been too full; 
 but not of two words put together." it would be hard to find a man, so well entitled 
 
 He was fretful and easily displeased, and 5 to notice by his wit, that ever delighted so 
 allowed himself to be capriciously resentful, much in talking of his money. In his letters, 
 He would sometimes leave Lord Oxford si- and in his poems, his garden and his grotto, ^^ 
 lently, no one could tell why, and was to be his quincunx 22 and his vines, or some hints off 
 courted back by more letters and messages his opulence, are always to be found. The 
 than the footmen were willing to carry. The 10 great topic of his ridicule is poverty; the crimes 
 table was indeed infested by Lady Mary with which he reproaches his antagonists are 
 Wortley,^^ who was the friend of Lady Oxford, their debts, their habitation in the Mint,^^ 
 and who, knowing his peevishness, could by and their want of a dinner. He seems to be 
 no intreaties be restrained from contradicting of an opinion not very uncommon in the 
 him, till their disputes were sharpened to 15 world, that to want money is to want every 
 such asperity, that one or the other quitted thing, 
 the house. Next to the pleasure of contemplating his 
 
 He sometimes condescended to be jocular possessions, seems to be that of enumerating 
 with servants or inferiors; but by no merri- the men of high rank with whom he was ac- 
 ment, either of others or his own, was he ever 20 quainted, and whose notice he loudly pro- 
 seen excited to laughter. claims not to have been obtained by any prac- 
 
 Of his domestic character, frugality was a tices of meanness or severity; a boast which 
 part eminently remarkable. Having deter- was never denied to be true, and to which very 
 mined not to be dependent, he determined not few poets have ever aspired. Pope never set 
 to be in want, and therefore wisely and mag- 25 genius to sale, he never flattered those whom he 
 nanimously rejected all temptations to expense did not love, nor praised those whom he did 
 unsuitable to his fortune. This general care not esteem. Savage^^ however remarked, that 
 must be universally approved; but it some- he began a little to relax his dignity when he 
 times appeared in petty artifices of parsimony, wrote a distich for his "Highness's dog."^^ 
 such as the practice of writing his compositions 30 His admiration of the great seems to hayg 
 on the back of letters, as may be seen in the increased in the advance of life. He passed 
 remaining copy of the " Iliad, "^o by which over peers and statesmen to inscribe his " Iliad " 
 perhaps in five years five shillings were saved; to Congreve,^^ with a magnanimity of which 
 or in a niggardly reception of his friends, and the praise had been complete, had his friend's 
 scantiness of entertainment, as, when he had 35 virtue been equal to his wit. Why he was 
 two guests in his house, he would set at supper chosen for so great an honour, it is not now 
 a single pint upon the table; and, having him- possible to know; there is no trace in literary 
 self taken two small glasses, would retire; and history of any particular intimacy between 
 say, "Gentlemen, I leave you to your wine." them. The name of Congreve appears in the 
 Yet he tells his friends, that "he has a heart 40 Letters among those of his other friends, but 
 for all, a house for all, and whatever they may without any observable distinction or conse- 
 think, a fortune for all." quence. 
 
 He sometimes, however, made a splendid To his latter works, however, he took care 
 
 dinner, and is said to have wanted no part of to annex names dignified with titles, but was 
 the skill or elegance which such performances 45 not very happy in his choice: for, except Lord 
 require. That this magnificence should be ,, _,, ., . a, • , , ^ , , ^ , 
 
 ti-^ J- 1 J au i. u i- J. J -j^i 21 The grotto at Twickenham was a tunnel decorated 
 
 Otten displayed, that Obstmate prudence with with shells, looking glasses, and minerals, connecting 
 which he conducted his affairs would not per- Pope's grounds which lay on either side of the London 
 mit: for his revenue, certain and casual, ^°^2 Groups of five trees (Lat. ^Mtn^we) planted in squares, 
 amounted only to about eight hundred pounds 50 0°^ ^^ e,^^!>, cpmer, and one in the middle. 
 
 Pi-i, VJ1 r* IP ^^A building m Southwark, London, where debtors 
 
 a year, Ot which however he declares himself formerly found shelter, and immunity from arrest. 
 able to assign one hundred to charity. " Richard Samge (1698-1743), a poet who is remem- 
 
 bered chiefly through Johnson's Life of Savage. 
 25 " I am his Highness dog at Kew, 
 y Samuel Patrick (1684-1748), a classical scholar, and Pray tell me. Sir, whose dog are you?" 
 
 editor of Greek and Latin dictionaries. ^Congreve (1670-1792), writer of comedies that 
 
 18 " I shudder to relate." reflect the brilliancy, the wit, but also the coarseness and ■ 
 
 }^ Lady Mary Wortley (Montague) 1689-1762. A moral callousness of the Augustan age. Macaulay has 
 brilliant member of the literary circle to which Pope explained why Pope should have dedicated his Iliad to 
 belonged. She was a leader in London society, a friend of Congreve. Whigs and Tories had vied in their patronage 
 Queen Caroline, she wrote poetry, and is remembered for of the translation, and to avoid offence to either party it 
 her Ijetters, was necessary to find some person who was at once 
 
 20 Preservea in the British Museum. eminent and neutral. Congreve united these requisites. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON 391 
 
 Bathurst,'" none of his noble friends were such man's thoughts, while they are general, are 
 as that a good man would wish to have his right; and most hearts are pure, while tempta- 
 intimacy with them known to posterity; he tion is away. It is easy to awaken generous 
 can derive little honour from the notice of sentiments in privacy; to despise death when 
 Cobham,28 Burlington, ^^ or Bolingbroke. 5 there is no danger; to glow with benevolence 
 
 Of his social qualities, if an estimate be when there is nothing to be given. While such 
 made from his Letters, an opinion too favour- ideas are formed they are felt; and self-love 
 able cannot easily be formed; they exhibit a does not suspect the gleam of virtue to be the 
 perpetual and unclouded effulgence of general meteor of fancy. 
 
 benevolence, and particular fondness. There 10 If the letters of Pope are considered merely 
 is nothing but hberality, gratitude, constancy, as compositions, they seem to be premeditated 
 and tenderness. It has been so long said as and artificial. It is one thing to write, because 
 to be commonly believed, that the true charac- there is something which the mind wishes to 
 ters of men may be found in their Letters, and discharge; and another to soHcit the imagina- 
 that he who writes to his friend lays his heart 15 tion, because ceremony or vanity require 
 open before him. But the truth is, that such something to be written. Pope confesses his 
 were the simple friendships of the Golden early Letters to be vitiated with affectation 
 Age, and are now the friendships only of chil- and ambition: to know whether he disentangled 
 dren. Very few can boast of hearts which they himself from those perverters of epistolatory 
 dare lay open to themselves, and of which, 20 integrity, his book and his life must be set in 
 by whatever accident exposed, they do not comparison. 
 
 shun a distinct and continued view; and, cer- One of his favourite topics is contempt of 
 
 tainly, what we hide from ourselves we do not his own poetry. For this, if it had been real, 
 show to our friends. There is, indeed, no he would deserve no commendation; and in 
 transaction which offers stronger temptation 25 this he was certainly not sincere, for his high 
 to fallacy and sophistication than epistolary value of himself was sufficiently observed; and 
 intercourse. In the eagerness of conversation of what could he be proud but of his poetry? 
 the first emotions of the mind often burst out He writes, he says, when he has "just nothing 
 before they are considered; in the tumult of else to do;" yet Swift complains that he was 
 business, interest and passion have their gen- 30 never at leisure for conversation because he 
 uine effect; but a friendly Letter is a calm had "always some poetical scheme in his 
 and deliberate performance in the cool of lei- head." It was punctually required that his 
 sure, in the stillness of solitude, and surely no writing-box should be set upon his bed before 
 man sits down to depreciate by design his own he rose; and Lord Oxford's domestic related, 
 character. 35 that, in the dreadful winter of 1740, ^"^ she was 
 
 Friendship has no tendency to secure verac- called from her bed by him four times in one 
 ity; for by whom can a man so much wish to night, to supply him with paper, lest he should 
 be thought better than he is, as by him whose lose a thought. 
 
 kindness he desires to gain or keep? Even in He pretends insensibility to censure and 
 
 writing to the world there is less constraint; 40 criticism, though it was observed by all who 
 the author is not confronted with his reader, knew him that every pamphlet disturbed his 
 and takes his chance of approbation among quiet, that his extreme irritability laid him 
 the different dispositions of mankind; but a open to perpetual vexation; but he wished to 
 Letter is addressed to a single mind, of which despise his critics, and therefore hoped that 
 the prejudices and partialities are known; and 45 he did despise them. 
 
 must therefore please, if not by favouring As he happened to live in two reigns^^ when 
 them, by forbearing to oppose them. the Court paid little attention to poetry, he 
 
 To charge those favourable representations, nursed in his mind a foolish disesteem of King, 
 which men give of their own minds, with the and proclaims that "he never sees Courts." 
 guilt of hypocritical falsehood, would show 50 Yet a little regard shown him by the Prince of 
 more severity than knowledge. The writer Wales melted his obduracy; and he had not 
 
 commonly beheves himself. Ahnost every sointheGen^eman'sMa^a^tneof January 3rd. 1740. we 
 
 read, "This month the frost, which began the 26th of last, 
 
 ^ Allen Bathurst (1682-1775), first Earl Bathurst, a grew more severe than has been known since the memora- 
 
 prominent Tory statesman, a friend of Pope and Swift. ble winter of 1715-lG." . . . "The Thames represented a 
 
 ^Sir Richard Temple, Viscount Cobham (1669-1749), a snowy field." . . . "The rivers Severn, Tyne, the Avon 
 
 statesman and soldier, who broke with Walpole and the by Bristol, the rivers of Forth, Tay, etc. m Scotland, and 
 
 King as a result of his opposition to the South Sea Com- the Liffey by Dublin, were all frozen up like the Thames, 
 pany. ^^ The greater part of Pope's literary career was 
 
 » Richard Boyle, third Earl of Burlington (1695-1753), included within the reigns of the first two Georges (1714- 
 
 celebrated for his cultivation of the Italian style of 27-60). Neither Georgcl, who could not speak English, 
 
 architecture. oor George 1 1 , were patrons of literature. 
 
392 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 much to say when he was asked by his Royal lest "a glut of the world should throw him 
 Highness, "How he could love a Prince while back upon study and retirement." To this 
 he disliked Kings? " Swift answered, with great propriety, that 
 
 He very frequently professes contempt of Pope had not yet acted or suffered enough in 
 the world, and represents himself as looking 5 the world, to have become weary of it. And, 
 on mankind sometimes with gay indifference, indeed, it must have been some very powerful 
 as on emmets^ 2 of a hillock, below his serious reason that can drive back to solitude him who 
 attention; and sometimes with gloomy indig- has once enjoyed the pleasures of society. 
 nation, as on monsters more worthy of hatred In the letters both of Swift and Pope there 
 
 than of pity. These were dispositions appar- 10 appears such narrowness of mind, as makes 
 ently counterfeited. How could he despise them insensible of any excellence that has not 
 those whom he lived by pleasing, and on whose some affinity with their own, and confines 
 approbation his esteem of himself was super- their esteem and approbation to so small a 
 structcd? Why should he hate those to whose number, that whoever should form his opinion 
 favour he owed his honour and his ease? Of 15 of their age from their representation, would 
 things that terminate in human life, the world suppose them to have lived among igHorance 
 is the proper judge; to despise its sentence, if and barbarity, unable to find among their 
 it. were possible, is not just; and if it were just, contemporaries either virtue or intelligence, 
 is not possible. Pope was far enough from and persecuted by those that could not under- 
 this unreasonable temper: he was sufficiently 20 stand them. 
 
 a fool to Fame, and his fault was, that he pre- When Pope murmurs at the world, when 
 
 tended to neglect it. His levity and his sullen- he professes contempt of fame, when he speaks 
 ness were only in his Letters; he passed through of riches and poverty, of success and disap- 
 common life sometimes vexed, and sometimes pointment, with negligent indifference, he cer- 
 pleased with the natural emotions of common 25 tainly does not express his habitual and settled 
 men. resentments, but either wilfully disguises his 
 
 His scorn of the Great is repeated too often own character, or, what is more likely, invests 
 to be real; no man thinks much of that which himself with temporary qualities, and sallies 
 he despises; and as falsehood is always in out in the colours of the present moment. His 
 danger of inconsistency, he makes it his boast 30 hopes and fears, his joys and sorrows, acted 
 at another time that he lives among them. strongly upon his mind; and, if he differed 
 
 It is evident that his own importance swells from others, it was not by carelessness; he was 
 often in his mind. He is afraid of writing, irritable and resentful; his mahgnity to Phil- 
 lest the clerks of the Post-office should know lips,^^ whom he had first made ridiculous, and 
 his secrets; he has many enemies; he considers 35 then hated for being angry, continued too long, 
 himself as surrounded by universal jealousy; Of his vain desire to make Bentley'^ contempt- 
 rafter many deaths, and many dispersions, ible, I never heard any adequate reason. He 
 two or three of us," says he, "may still be was sometimes wanton in his attacks; and, 
 brought together, not to plot, but to divert before Chandos,^^ Lady Wortley, and Hill,^^ 
 ourselves, and the world too, if it pleases;" 40 was mean in his retreat. 
 
 and they can live together, and "show what The virtues which seem to have had most 
 
 friends wits may be, in spite of all the fools of his affection were liberality and fidelity of 
 in the world." All this while it was likely that friendship, in which it does not appear that he 
 the clerks did not know his hand: he certainly was other than he describes himself. His for- 
 had no more enemies than a public character 45 tune did not suffer his charity to be splendid 
 Hke his inevitably excites; and with what de- and conspicuous; but he assisted Dodsley^^ 
 gree of friendship the wits might live, very with a hundred pounds, that he might open a 
 few were so much fools as ever to enquire. shop; and, of the subscription of forty pounds 
 
 Some part of this pretended discontent he 33 Ambrose Phillips (1671-1749) a writer of pastorals. 
 
 learned from Swift, and expresses it, I think, 50 H? ^?^ known as Namby-Pamby Phillips and Pope re- 
 
 . £ ,1 • ■,- J .,1 tained the name for him as bemg appropriate to his 
 
 most frequently m his correspondence with feeble style of poetry. 
 
 him. Swift's resentment was unreasonable, , ^* Richard Bentley (1662-1742), one of the foremost 
 
 V i •, • -r> > .1 ' classical scholars of his time. Pope attacked Bentlev in 
 
 but It was sincere; Pope S was the mere mim- his Satires, but Bentley 's scholarship was proof against 
 
 ickry of his friend, a fictitious part which he such attacks. „ , ^ „ ,,...,. 
 
 1 i. 1 r r -J. L !-• TTTi 1 * In his poem on False Taste, Pope had criticised the 
 
 began to play before it became him. When he 55 house, furniture, and gardens of "Timon." generally be- 
 Was only twenty-five years old, he related that lieved to represent the Duke of Chandos, who had hospi- 
 "a glut of study and retirement had thrown 36Aaron//iZ/ (1685-1750) was one of the pigmy authors 
 
 him on the world," and that there was danger satirized in r/ie Dunciad . ,, 
 
 ° 37 A publisher whom Pope assisted, being pleased wxtb \ 
 
 *2 An older form of ant. his poem The Toy Shop. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON 393 
 
 a year that he raised for Savage,^^ twenty were to himself. He examined lines and words with 
 paid by himself. He was accused of loving minute and punctilious observation, and re- 
 money; but his love was eagerness to gain, not touched every part with indefatigable diligence, 
 solicitude to keep it. till he had left nothing to be forgiven. 
 
 In the duties of friendship he was zealous 5 For this reason he kept his pieces very long 
 and constant; his early maturity of mind in his hands, while he considered and recon- 
 commonly united him with men older than sidered them. The only poems which can be 
 himself, and therefore, without attaining any supposed to have been written with such rc- 
 considerable length of life, he saw many com- gard to the times as might hasten their publi- 
 panions of his youth sink into the grave; but location, were the two satires of "Thirty-eight; "^^ 
 it does not appear that he lost a single friend of which Dodsley told me that they were 
 by coldness or by injury;^^ those who loved brought to him by the author, that they might 
 him once, continued their kindness. His un- be fairly copied. ''Almost every line," he said, 
 grateful mention of Allen in his will, was the "was then written twice over; I gave him a 
 effect of his adherence to one whom he had 15 clean transcript, which he sent some time after- 
 known much longer, and whom he naturally wards to me for the press, with almost every 
 loved with greater fondness.^" His violation of line written twice over a second time." 
 the trust reposed in him by Bolingbroke could His declaration, that his oare for his works 
 
 have no motive inconsistent with the warmest ceased at their publication, was not strictly 
 affection; he either thought the action so near 20 true. His parental attention never abandoned 
 to indifferent that he forgot it, or so laudable them; what he found amiss in the first edition, 
 that he expected his friend to approve it. . . . he silently corrected in those that followed. He 
 
 Integrity of understanding and nicety of appears to have revised the "Iliad," and freed 
 discernment were not allotted in a less pro- it from some of its imperfections; and the " Es- 
 portion to Dryden than to Pope. The rectitude 25 say on Criticism" received many improve- 
 of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by ments after its first appearance. It will sel- 
 the dismission^^ of his poetical prejudices, and dom be found that he altered without adding 
 the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged clearness, elegance, or vigour. Pope had per- 
 numbers. But Dryden never deserved to haps the judgment of Dryden; but Dryden 
 apply all the judgment that he had. He wrote, 30 certainly wanted the diligence of Pope, 
 and professed to write, merely for the people; In acquired knowledge, the superiority must 
 
 and when he pleased others, he contented him- be allowed to Dryden, whose education was 
 self. He spent no time in struggles to rouse more scholastic, and who, before he became an 
 latent powers; he never attempted to make author, had been allowed more time for study 
 that better which was already good, nor often, 35 with better means of information. His mind 
 to mend what he must have known to be faulty, has a larger range, and he collects his images 
 He wrote, as he tells us with very little con- and illustrations from a more extensive cir- 
 sideration; when occasion or necessity called cumference of science. Dryden knew more of 
 upon him, he poured out what the present man in his general nature, and Pope in his 
 moment happened to supply, and, when once 40 local manners. The notions of Dryden were 
 it had passed the press, ejected it from his formed by comprehensive speculation; and 
 mind; for, when he had no pecuniary interest, those of Pope by minute attention. There is 
 he had no further solicitude. more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, 
 
 Pope was not content to satisfy; he desired and more certainty in that of Pope, 
 to excel, and therefore always endeavoured to 45 Poetry was not the sole praise of either; for 
 do his best; he did not court the candour,^^ ^^^^ both excelled likewise in prose; but Pope did 
 dared the judgment of his reader, and expect- not borrow his prose from his predecessor, 
 ing no indulgence from others, he showed none The style of Dryden is capricious and varied; 
 
 88 Savage had rendered Pope some service by procuring that of Pope is cautiouS and uniform. Dryden 
 information concerning the "dunces" whom Pope at- 50 observes'*^ the motions of his OWn mind; Pope 
 ^'^^sg JohSsonTppJrently overlooked the quarrel of Pope constrains his mind to llis Own rules of COmpo- 
 
 with Addison. sition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and 
 
 «The one whom Pope loved with a greater fonmness -j n • 1 „^^^4.u ,,^;f^«,v, .^^A 
 
 was Martha Blount, whom but for his physical weakness rapid; Pope IS always smooth, unitorm, ana 
 
 he would have married. Pope was under obligations to gentle Drvden's page is a natural field, 
 Mr. Allen of Bath, and Martha Blount refused to accept ^^ ° . '. , .-^ ,.,.'' ° _ , ^:„^„„:fi«^ u,, +Uo 
 
 any legacy from Pope unless he would promise to first 55 rismg mto inequalities, and diversitiea by tne 
 
 make good in his will what he owed Mr. Allen. Pope varied exuberance of abundant vegetation; 
 
 accordingly left £150 to Mr. Allen, that being what he ^ „ . , ^ c x 
 
 thought he ov/ed him. *' Now known as the Epilogue to the battres, but first 
 
 *' In present use "dismissal." entitled One Thousand Seven Hundred and Thirty-eight, 
 
 ^2 Candour in 18th century use meant indulgence, from the year of publication, 
 
 kindness, and not honesty and openness, as now. " i. e., obeys, follows. Cf. observe a rule. 
 
394 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, such griefs evacuate themselves best by that 
 and levelled by the roller. particular channel: and, accordingly, we find 
 
 Of genius, that power which constitutes a that David wept for his son Absalom, Adrian 
 poet; that quahty without which judgment is for his Antinous, Niobe for her children, and 
 cold, and knowledge is inert; that energy which 5 that Apollodorus and Crito both shed tears for 
 collects, combines, amplifies, and animates; Socrates before his death, 
 the superiority must, with some hesitation, be My father managed his aflBictions otherwise; 
 
 allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred, and indeed differently from most men, either 
 that of this poetical vigour Pope had only a ancient or modern; for he neither wept it away 
 little, because Dryden had more; for every lo as the Hebrews and the Romans, — nor slept 
 other writer since Milton must give place to it off, as the Laplanders, — nor hanged it, as 
 Pope; and even of Dryden it must be said, the English, — nor drowned it, as the Germans; 
 that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not nor did he curse nor damn it, nor excom- 
 better poems. Dryden's performances were municate it, nor rhyme it, nor lillibullero^ it 
 always hasty, either excited by some external 15 — He got rid of it however, 
 occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity; Will your worships give me leave to squeeze 
 
 he composed without consideration, and pub- in a story between these two pages? 
 lished without correction. What his mind When Tully^ was bereft of his dear daughter 
 could supply at call, or gather in one excur- Tullia, at first he laid it to his heart, — he lis- 
 sion, was all that he sought, and all that he 20 tened to the voice of nature, and modulated his 
 gave. The dilatory caution of Pope enabled own unto it. — O, my Tullia! — my daughter! 
 him to condense his sentiments, to multiply my child! — Still, still, still, it was, O, my Tullia! 
 his images, and to accumulate all that study — my Tullia! Methinks I see my Tullia, I hear 
 might produce, or chance might supply. If the my Tullia, I talk with my Tullia. — But as 
 flights of Dryden therefore are higher. Pope 25 soon as he began to look into the stores of 
 continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden's philosophy, and consider how many excellent 
 fire the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is things might be said upon the occasion, — 
 more regular and constant. Dryden often nobody upon earth can conceive, says the great 
 surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls orator, how happy, how joyful it made me. 
 below it. Dryden is read with frequent as- 30 My father was as proud of his eloquence as 
 tonishment, and Pope with perpetual delight. Marcus Tullius Cicero could be for his life; 
 This parallel will, I hope, when it is well and, for aught I am convinced of to the con- 
 considered, be found just; and if the reader trary, at present, with as much reason: it was, 
 should suspect me, as I suspect myself, of indeed, his strength, — and his weakness too. — 
 some partial fondness for the memory of Dry- 35 His strength, for he was by nature eloquent; 
 den, let him not too hastily condemn me; for and his weakness, for he was hourly a dupe to 
 meditation and inquiry may, perhaps, show it; and, provided an occasion in life would but 
 him the reasonableness of my determination. permit him to show his talents, or say either 
 
 a wise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one — (bating 
 
 40 the case of a systematic misfortune) — he had 
 
 tLaUl^niC^ ^tttXit all he wanted. A blessing which tied up my 
 
 ^^^^^^'^ tongue, and a misfortune which set it 
 
 i/id- /O'l loose with a good grace, were pretty equal: 
 
 MR qWATvjnv OM TTTQ QniNT'C! m?AT-TT sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the 
 
 MR. SHANDY ON HIS SONS DEATH 45 better of the two; for instance, where the 
 
 (From Tristram Shandy, 1759-67) pleasure of the harangue was as ten, and the 
 
 pain of the misfortune was as five, — my father 
 
 And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of gained half in half; and consequently was as 
 a one too; — so look to yourselves. well again off as if it had never befallen him. . . 
 
 'Tis either Plato, or Plutarch, or Seneca, or 50 Now let us go back to my brother's death. 
 Xenophon, or Epictetus, or Theophrastus, or Philosophy has a fine saying for everything. 
 
 Lucian, — or some one, perhaps, of later date; — For Death, it has an entire set: the misery 
 either Cardan or Budaeus, or Petrarch, or was they all at once rushed so into my father's 
 Stella, — or possibly it may be some divine head that 'twas difficult to string them to- 
 or father of the church; St. Austin, or St. 55 gether, so as to make anything of a consistent 
 Cyprian, or Bernard — who affirms that it is ,. , , u .-^ r-,,-:, » 
 
 „„ • - ,-11 J < 1 -J 1 k. e., make a popular song about it. LiUibullero waa 
 
 an irresistible and natural passion to weep the name of a song directed against the Irish Roman 
 for the loss of our friends or children; — and Catholics, and immensely popular in England during the 
 
 Seneca (I'm positive) tells us somewhere that ^a^Cicero? ° 
 
LAURENCE STERNE 395 
 
 show out of them,— He took them as they disturb his soul for the loss of a child, when 
 came. so much as this lies awfully buried in his 
 
 " 'Tis an inevitable chance,— the first statute presence! Remember, said I to myself agam,— 
 in Magna Charta;— it is an everlasting act of remember thou art a man." 
 parliament, my dear brother,— ^Zi must die. 5 Now, my uncle Toby knew not that this 
 
 "If my son could not have died, it had been last paragraph was an extract of Servius Sul- 
 matter of wonder, not that he is dead. picius's consolatory letter to TuUy:— he had 
 
 "Monarchs and princes dance in the same as little skill, honest man, in the fragments as 
 ring with us. he had in the whole pieces of antiquity :— and 
 
 "To die is the great debt and tribute dueioas my father, whilst he was concerned in the 
 unto nature, tombs and monuments, which Turkey trade, had been three or four different 
 should perpetuate our memories, pay it them- times in the Levant, in one of which he had 
 selves; and the proudest pyramid of them all, stayed a whole year and a half at Zant, my 
 which Wealth and Science have erected, has uncle Toby naturally concluded that, m some 
 lost its apex, and stands obtruncated in the 15 one of these periods, he had taken a trip across 
 travellers' horizon."— (My father found he the Archipelago into Asia; and that all this 
 got great ease, and went on.) "Kingdoms and sailing affair, with .Egina behind, and Megara 
 provinces, and towns and cities, have they before, and Pyrseus on the right hand, etc., 
 not their periods? and when those principles was nothing more than the true course of my 
 and powers which at first cemented and put 20 father's voyage and reflections. — 'Twas cer- 
 them together have performed their several tainly in his manner;— and many an under- 
 evolutions, they fall back"— Brother Shandy, taking critic would have built two stories 
 said my uncle Toby, laying down his pipe at higher upon worse foundations And pray 
 the word evolutions— Revolutions, I meant brother, quoth my uncle Toby, laying the end 
 quoth my father— by Heaven! I meant revolu- 25 of his pipe upon my father's hand, ma kindly 
 tions brother Toby;— evolutions is nonsense— way of interruption— but waiting till h^ad 
 'Tis not nonsense,-said my uncle Toby— finished the account,-What year of our ^ord 
 But is it not nonsense to break the thread of was this?— 'Twas no year of our Lord, replied 
 such a discourse upon such an occasion? cried my father— That's impossible, cried my uncle 
 my father;-do not, dear Toby, continued he, 30 Toby-Simpleton! said my father,- twas 
 taking him by the hand, do not-do not, I forty years before Christ was born 
 beseech thee, interrupt me at this crisis. My My uncle Toby had but two things for it, 
 uncle Toby put his pipe in his mouth. either to suppose his brother to be the Wander- 
 
 " Where is Troy and Mycenae, and Thebes, ing Jew,-or that his misfortunes had dis- 
 and Delos, Persepolis and Agrigentum?" con- 35 ordered his brain. "May the Lord of heaven 
 tinned my father, taking up his book of post- and earth protect him and restore him said 
 roads « which he had laid down.-" What is my uncle Toby, praymg silently for my father, 
 become, brother Toby, of Nineveh and Babylon, and with tears m his eyes, 
 of Cizycum and Mitylene? the fairest towns My father placed ^he *ears to a proper 
 that ever the sun rose upon are now no more; 40 account, and went on with his harangue witti 
 the names only are left; and those (for many of great spirit. ^ ^ ^. aa. Ur^Mh^v 
 
 them are wrong spelt) are faUing themselves "There is not such great o^^s brother 
 by piecemeal to deW, and in length of time Toby, betwixt good and ^J^ '. J^^.^^.^i^ 
 Jll be forgotten, and involved with every- magmes." (This way osettmgoff^ b^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 jEgina towards Megara," (When 
 been, thought my uncle Toby,) "I began to himself. better- 
 
 view the country round about, ^glna was 60 "My son is dead! -«> J""f ^^^fbjo^e 
 behind me, Megiia was before, Pyra;us on the 'tis a shame m such a tempest, to have but one 
 right hand, Corinth on the left. What flourish- anchor. ,„„„„„, f„™ ,„l be it so — 
 
 ing towns now prostrate upon the earth! „" But he is gone forever from us b^its^^^^ 
 xfas! Ala;, said I to myself, that man fould He^s^go f-J -^ L^^^^stt ris^^f^otl 
 ,Li!^'4S^ ,rXKberto!d?ake??^then= '' ^ More he was surfeited ;-f rem a banquet 
 
 that Mr. Shandy was "busy calculating the expense of his v^f Qj-e he had got drunken. 
 
 S\^etclrvS,'?ht'ic'?u»h?sl?.r?h''^&Tis ^ "tL Thradans wept when a child was 
 
 Eictured as sitting with a map, "and a, book ofposi-roads , "—(And we were very near it, quoth my 
 efore him, and a pair of compasses in his hand. ooru, ^.r».iiw j 
 
298 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 imck Toby) "and feasted and made merry other for which I shall get clapped up into 
 when a man went out of the world; and with the BastHe, and that I shall live there a couple 
 reason— Death opens the gates of fame, and of months entirely at the King of France's 
 shuts the gate of envy after it;— it unlooses the expense— I beg pardon, said Eugenius drily; 
 chain of the captive;— and puts the bonds- 5 really I had forgotten that resource, 
 man's task into another man's hands. Now the event that I had treated gaily 
 
 "Shew me the man who knows what life is, came seriously to my door, 
 who dreads it, — and I'll shew thee a prisoner Is it folly, or nonchalance, or philosophy, 
 who dreads his liberty."— or pertinacity;— or what is it in me, that after 
 
 Is It not better, my dear brother Toby— (for 10 all, when La Fleur had gone down stairs, and 
 mark — our appetites are but diseases) — is it I was quite alone, I could not bring down my 
 not better not to hunger at all, than to eat?— mind to think of it otherwise than I had then 
 not to thirst at all than to take physic to cure spoken of it to Eugenius? 
 ^^^ . And as for the Bastile — the terror is in the 
 
 Is it not better to be freed from cares and 15 word. — Make the most of it you can, said I 
 agues,— from love and melancholy,— and the to myself, the Bastile is but another word for 
 other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a a tower;— and a tower is but another word for 
 galled traveller who comes weary to his. inn, a house you can't get out of. — Mercy on the 
 to be bound to begin his journey afresh? gouty! for they are in it twice a year.— But 
 
 There is no terror, brother Toby, in its looks 20 with nine livres a day, and pen and ink and 
 but what it borrows from groans and convul- paper and patience, albeit a man can't get out, 
 sions— and the blowing of noses and the wiping he may do very well within,— at least for a 
 away of tears with the bottom of curtains in a month or six weeks; at the end of which, if he 
 dying man's room.— Strip it of these,— what is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears, 
 is it?- 'Tis better in battle than in bed, said 25 and he comes out a better and wiser man than 
 my uncle Toby. — Take away its hearses, its he went in. 
 
 mutes, and its mourning, its plumes, escutch- I had some occasion (I forget what) to step 
 
 eons, and other mechanic aids-What is it?— into the court-yard, as I settled this account; 
 Better m battle? Contmued my father, smiling, and remember I walked down stairs in no small 
 for he had absolutely forgotten my brother 30 triumph with the conceit of my reasoning — 
 Bobby— it IS terrible no way— for consider, Beshrew the som6re pencil ! said I, vauntingly— 
 brother Toby,— when we are— death is not;^ for I envy not its power, which paints the evils 
 and when death is— we are no^.— My uncle of life with so hard and deadly a colouring, 
 loby laid down his pipe, to consider the propo- The mind sits terrified at the objects she has 
 sition; my father's eloquence was too rapid to 35 magnified herself, and blackened; reduce them 
 stayforanyman;— away it went— and hurried to their proper size and hue, she overlooks 
 my uncle Toby s ideas along with it. them.— 'Tis true, said I, correcting the propo- 
 
 l^or this reason, contmued my father, 'tis sition— the Bastile is not an evil to be despised 
 worthy to recollect how little alteration, in But strip it of its towers— fill up the foss— un- 
 seat men, the approaches of death have made— 40 barricade the doors— call it simply a confine- 
 Vespasian died in a jest,— Galba with a sen- ment, and suppose 'tis some tyrant of a dis- 
 tence;-Saptimus Severus in a despatch;— temper-and not a man, which holds you in 
 Tiberius m dissimulation;— and Caesar Au- it-the evil vanishes, and you bear the other 
 gustus m a compliment— I hope 'twas a sin- half without complaint 
 
 cere one,-quoth my uncle Toby. 45 I was interrupted in the hey-day of this 
 
 Twas to his wife,-said my father. soliloquy, with the voice which I took to be of 
 
 a child, which complained "it could not get 
 THE STARLING out." — I looked up and down the passage, 
 
 and, seeing neither man, woman, nor child, 
 
 (From A Sentimental Journey,^ 1768) ^ ^ ^^^^ out without further attention. 
 
 r, , , ,^ . , ^ . In my return back through the passage, I 
 
 But you dont consider, Eugenius, said I, heard the same words repeated twice over- 
 
 that before I have been three days in Paris, and, looking up, I saw it was a starling hung 
 
 1 shall take care to say or do something or in a little cage— "I can't get out— I can't get 
 
 person named Yorir.k, the descendant of Yorink the stood looking at the bird; and to cvcrv person 
 
 lellow of infinitA vuit " in u„r,^i^t n,,* v__- i_ !,_ xi « 1 ,1 .. :: ^ . 
 
 5i'r°"w.,?i/tr iT'^s^'-rnf £,c,f^l" ^gSSl,^^^? 7''^^"'.' '^"^"^'^ the passage, it ran fluttering 
 
 Yonck 3 friend and adviser, and has just offered to lend . ^"^ ^^^^ towards which they approached it, 
 
 irn money. ^j^jj ^j^g g^^^^ lamentation of his captivity,— 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 397 
 
 "I can't get out," said the starling — God help my gratitude and esteem, the only tributes a 
 thee! said I, — but I'll let thee out, cost what it poor philosophic wanderer can return. Sure 
 will, so I turned about the cage to get the door; fortune is resolved to make me unhappy' 
 it was twia^d and double twisted so fast with when she gives others a power of testifying 
 wire ther&4ifns no getting it open without pull- 5 their friendship by actions, and leaves me only 
 ing the cage to pieces. — I took both hands to it. words to express the sincerity of mine. 
 
 The bird flew to the place where I was at- My passage by sea from Rotterdam to Eng- 
 
 tempting his deliverance, and, thrusting his "land was more painful to me than all the jour- 
 head through the trellis, pressed his breast neys I ever made on land. I have traversed 
 against it, as if impatient. I fear, poor crea-iothe immeasurable wilds of Mogul Tartary; 
 ture, said I, I cannot set thee at liberty. — felt all the rigours of Siberian skies; I have 
 "No," said the starling; 'T can't get out — I had my repose a hundred times disturbed by 
 can't get out." invading savages, and have seen, without 
 
 I vow I never had any affections more ten- shrinking, the desert sands rise like a troubled 
 derly awakened; nor do I remember an incident 15 ocean all around me; against these calamities 
 in my life where the dissipated spirits, to which I was armed with resolution ; but in my passage 
 my reason had been a bubble, were so rudely to England, though nothing occurred that 
 call'd home. Mechanical as the notes were, gave the mariners any uneasiness, to one who 
 yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted, was never at sea before, all was a subject of 
 that in one moment they overthrew all my 20 astonishment and terror. To find the land 
 systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and disappear, to see our ship mount the waves, 
 I heavily walked upstairs, unsaying every swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow, to hear 
 word I had said in going down them. the wind howling through the cordage, to feel 
 
 Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, a sickness which depresses even the spirits of 
 
 said I, still thou art a bitter draught! and, 25 the brave; these were unexpected distresses, 
 
 though thousands in all ages have been made and consequently assaulted me unprepared to 
 
 to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that receive them. 
 
 account. 'Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious You men of Europe think nothing of a 
 
 goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom voyage by sea. With us of China, a man who 
 
 all, in public or in private, worship, whose 30 has been from sight of land is regarded upon 
 
 taste is grateful, and will ever be so, till Nature his return with admiration. I have known some 
 
 herself shall change. No tint of words can spot provinces where there is not even a name for 
 
 thy snowy mantle, no chymic power turn thy the Ocean. What a strange people, therefore, 
 
 sceptre into iron; — with thee to smile upon am I got amongst, who have founded an em- 
 
 him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier 35 pire on this unstable element, who build cities 
 
 than his monarch, from whose Court thou art upon billows that rise higher than the moun- 
 
 exiled. Gracious Heaven! cried I, kneeling tains of Tipertala, and make the deep more 
 
 down upon the last step but one in my ascent, formidable than the wildest tempest. 
 
 grant me but health, thou great Bestower of Such accounts as these, I must confess, were 
 
 it, and give me but this fair goddess as my 40 my first motives for seeing England. These 
 
 companion, — and shower down thy mitres, if induced me to take a journey of seven hundred 
 
 it seem good unto thy Divine Providence, painful days, in order to examine its opulence, 
 
 upon those heads which are aching for them. buildings, sciences, arts, and manufactures, 
 
 on the spot. Judge then my disappointment 
 
 dlMtfri<>t* /fX<<i1^<yYMt#-fi 45 on entering London, to see no signs of that 
 
 mim mmmitl) ^p^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^U^^^ ^^ abroad: wherever 
 
 1728-1774 I turn, I am presented with a gloomy solemnity 
 
 in the houses, the streets, and the inhabitants; 
 
 IMPRESSIONS OF A CHINESE ^one of that beautiful gilding which makes a 
 
 TRAVELLER 50 principle ornament in Chinese architecture. 
 
 (From Citizen of the World, (1760-61) Letter IV) The streets of Nankin are sometimes strewed 
 
 _ ^. ^ ,, , . with gold-leaf; very different are those of 
 
 From Lien Chi Altangi, to , Merchant 
 
 in Amsterdam, Citizen of the World, were first . published serially in a 
 
 paper called the Public Ledger. They are a remarkable 
 
 Friend of my Heart, London. 55 plea for a tolerant and sympathetie attitude toward 
 
 Mm, thp nmnn'i nf r^Pnro rP<it iinnn fhll dwelUnn remote and alien nations and they maintain that under- 
 
 M ay me wings OJ peace rest upon my aweuing, ^eath all superficial differences men everywhere arci 
 
 and the shield of conscience preserve thee from essentially the same. "The truth is," says Goldsmith in 
 
 vice and misery! For all thy favours accept gS'^rde^^s'^S^^In^lnt^^'Snif oT^^^^^ 
 
 1 These letters, afterwards collected and entitled The mark the distinctions among mankind." 
 
398 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 London; in the midst of their pavements, a so remote a region as this to which I have 
 great lazy puddle moves lazily along; heavy wandered, I should gladly send it; but, instead 
 laden machines, with wheels of unwieldy of this, you must be contented with a renewal 
 thickness, crowd up every passage; so that a of my former professions, and an imperfect 
 stranger, instead of finding time for observa- 5 account of a people with whom I am as yet 
 tion, is often happy if he has time to escape superficially acquainted. The remarks of a 
 from being crushed to pieces. man who has been but three days in the coun- 
 
 The houses borrow very few ornaments try, can only be those obvious circumstances 
 from architecture; their chief decoration seems which force themselves upon the imagination. 
 to be a paltry piece of painting hung out at 10 I consider myself here as a newly created being 
 their doors or windows, at once a proof of their introduced into a new world; every object 
 indigence and vanity: their vanity, in each strikes with wonder and surprise. The imagi- 
 having one of those pictures exposed to public nation, still unsated, seems the only active 
 view: and their indigence, in being unable to principle of the mind. The most trifling oc- 
 get them better painted. In this respect, 15 currences give pleasure, till the gloss of novelty 
 the fancy of their painters is also deplorable, is worn away. When I have ceased to wonder, 
 Could you believe it? I have seen five black I may possibly grow wise; I may then call 
 lions and three blue boars in less than a cir- the reasoning principle to my aid, and compare 
 cuit of half a mile; and yet you know that those objects with each other, which were 
 animals of these colours are no where to be 20 before examined without reflection, 
 found except in the wild imaginations of Behold me then in London, gazing at the 
 
 Europe. strangers, and they at me; it seems they find 
 
 From these circumstances in their build- somewhat absurd in my figure; and had I been 
 ings, and from the dismal looks of the inhabit- never from home, it is possible I might find an 
 ants, I am induced to conclude that the nation 25 infinite fund of ridicule in theirs; but by long 
 is actually poor; and that, like the Persians, travelling I am taught to laugh at folly alone, 
 they make a splendid figure everywhere but at and to find nothing truly ridiculous but villany 
 home. The proverb of Xixofou is, that a and vice. 
 
 man's riches may be seen in his eyes; if we When I had just quitted my native country, 
 
 judge of the English by this rule, there is not 30 and crossed the Chinese wall, I fancied every 
 a poorer nation under the sun. deviation from the customs and manners of 
 
 I have been here but two days, so will not China was a departing from nature. I smiled 
 be hasty in my decisions. Such letters as I at the blue lips and red foreheads of the 
 shall write to Fipsihi in Moscow, I beg you'll Tonguese;^ and could hardly contain when I 
 endeavour to forward with all diligence; I shall 35 saw the Daures^ dress their heads with horns, 
 send them open, in order that you may take The Ostiacs^ powdered with red earth; and the 
 copies or translations, as you are equally Calmuck* beauties, tricked out in all the finery 
 versed in the Dutch and Chinese languages, of sheepskin, appeared highly ridiculous: but 
 Dear friend, think of my absence with regret, I soon perceived that the ridicule lay not in 
 as I sincerely regret yours; even while I write, 40 them but in me; that I falsely condemned 
 I lament our separation. Farewell. others for absurdity, because they happened 
 
 to differ from a standard originally founded 
 J J in prejudice or partiality. 
 
 Lietter 111 j ^^^ ^^^ pleasure therefore in taxing the 
 
 From Lien Chi Altangi, to the care of Fipsihi, ^5 English with departing from nature in their 
 resident in Moscow, to be forwarded by the external appearance, which is all I yet know of 
 Russian caravan to Fum Hoam, First Presi- ^^^^^ character: it is possible they only en- 
 dent of the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin in deavour to improve her simple plan, since 
 China. every extravagance in dress proceeds from a 
 
 50 desire of becoming more beautiful than nature 
 Think not, O thou guide of my youth! that made us; and this is so harmless a vanity, that 
 absence can impair my respect, or interposing I not only pardon but approve it. A desire to 
 trackless deserts blot your reverend figure be more excellent than others, is what actually 
 from my memory. "The farther I travel I feel makes us so; and as thousands find a livelihood 
 the pain of separation with stronger force; 55 i The people of the r<m^a, or Friendly Islands, in the 
 Those ties that bind me to my native country SouUi Pacific. . , , 
 
 anA -trr^i, ^r.^ ^<--n ,, I. 1 -D 2 The people of Dauria, a mountainous region of aouth- 
 
 and you, are still unbroken. By every remove, eastern Siberia, on the Chinese frontier. 
 
 I only drag a greater length of chain. ^ A people of western Siberia of Finnish stock. 
 
 r'rviil^ T fi'^A «,,„i,4. 4.U 4. 'i-i.- If * A nomadic people of Mongolian stock, now dwelling 
 
 UOUld 1 nnd aught worth transmittmg from in certain parts of China, Siberia, and Russia. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 399 
 
 in society by such appetities, none but the the small-footed perfections of an Eastern 
 ignorant inveigh against them. beauty, how is it possible I should have eyes 
 
 You are not insensible, most reverend Fum for a woman whose feet are ten inches long? 
 Hoam, what numberless trades, even among I shall never forget the beauties of my native 
 the Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of 5 city of Nanfew. How very broad their faces! 
 each other. Your nose-borers, feet-swathers, how very short their noses! how very httle their 
 tooth-stainers, eyebrow-pluckers, would all eyes! how very thin their lips! how very black 
 want bread, should their neighbours want their teeth! the snow on the tops of Bao is not 
 vanity. These vanities, however, employ fairer than their cheeks; and their eyebrows 
 much fewer hands in China than in England; 10 are small as the line by the pencil of Quamsi. 
 and a fine gentleman or a fine lady here, dressed Here a lady with such perfections would be 
 up to the fashion, seems scarcely to have a frightful; Dutch and Chinese beauties, in- 
 single Hmb that does not suffer some distortion deed, have some resemblance, but English 
 from art. women are entirely difi'erent; red cheeks, big 
 
 To make a fine gentleman, several trades 1 5 eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness, 
 are required, but chiefly a barber. You have are not only seen here, but wished for; and 
 undoubtedly heard of the Jewish champion, then they have such masculine feet, as actually 
 whose strength lay in his hair. One would serve some for walking! 
 
 think that the English were for placing all Yet uncivil as nature has been, they seem 
 
 wisdom there. To appear wise, nothing more 20 resolved to outdo her in unkindness; they use 
 is requisite here than for a man to borrow hair white powder, blue powder, and black powder, 
 from the heads of all his neighbours, and clap for their hair, and a red powder for the face on 
 it like a bush on his own; the distributors of some particular occasions. 
 law and physic stick on such quantities, that They like to have the face of various colours, 
 
 it is almost impossible, even in idea, to dis-25as among the Tartars of Koreki, frequently 
 tinguish between the head and the hair. sticking on, with spittle, little black patches 
 
 Those whom I have been now describing on every part of it, except on the tip of the 
 affect the gravity of the lion; those I am going nose, which I have never seen with a patch. 
 to describe, more resemble the pert vivacity of You'll have a better idea of their manner of 
 smaller animals. The barber, who is still 30 placing these spots, when I have finished the 
 master of the ceremonies, cuts their hair close map of an English face patched up to the 
 to the crown; and then with a composition of fashion, which shall shortly be sent to increase 
 meal and hog's-lard, plasters the whole in your curious collection of paintings, medals, 
 such a manner as to make it impossible to and monsters. 
 
 distinguish whether the patient wears a cap or 35 But what surprises more than all the rest is 
 a plaster; but, to make the picture more per- what I have just now been credibly informed 
 fectly striking, conceive the tail of some beast, by one of this country. "Most ladies here," 
 a greyhound's tail, or a pig's tail, for instance, says he, "have two faces; one face to sleep in, 
 appended to the back of the head, and reaching and another to show in company: the first is 
 down to the place where tails in other animals 40 generally reserved for the husband and family 
 are generally seen to begin; thus betailed and at home; the other put on to please strangers 
 bepowdered, the man of taste fancies he im- abroad: the family face is often indifferent 
 proves in beauty, dresses up his hard-featured enough, but the out-door one looks something 
 face in smiles, and attempts to look hideously better; this is always made at the toilet, where 
 tender. Thus equipped, he is qualified to make 45 the looking-glass and toad-eater^ sit in council, 
 love, and hopes for success more from the and settle the complexion of the day." 
 powder on the outside of his head, than the I can't ascertain the truth of this remark; 
 sentiments within. however, it is actually certain, that they wear 
 
 Yet when I consider what sort of a creature more clothes within doors than without; and 
 the fine lady is to whom he is supposed to pay 50 I have seen a lady, who seemed to shudder at 
 his addresses, it is not strange to find him thus a breeze in her own apartment, appear half 
 equipped in order to please. She is herself naked in the streets. 
 
 every whit as fond of powder, and tails, and The English seem as silent as the Japanese, 
 hog's-lard, as he. To speak my secret senti- yet vainer than the inhabitants of Siam. Upon 
 ments, most reverend Fum, the ladies here are 55 my arrival, I attributed that reserve to mod- 
 horribly ugly; I can hardly endure the sight of esty, which I now find has its origin in pride, 
 them; they no way resemble the beauties of Condescend to address them first, and you are 
 China; the Europeans have quite a different sure of their acquaintance: stoop to flattery, 
 idea of beauty from us. When I reflect on 6Toady:anobseqmousatteadant. 
 
400 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 and you conciliate their friendship and esteem. "It is not so much our liberties as our religion, 
 
 They bear hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the that would suffer by such a change; ay, our 
 
 miseries of life without shrinking; danger religion, my lads. May the devil sink me into 
 
 only calls forth their fortitude; they even exult flames (such was the solemnity of his adjura- 
 
 in calamity; but contempt is what they can- 5tion), if the French should come over, but our 
 
 not bear. An Englishman fears contempt religion would be utterly undone." So saying, 
 
 more than death; he often flies to death as a instead of a libation, he applied the goblet to 
 
 refuge from its pressure; and dies when he his lips, and confirmed his sentiments with a 
 
 fancies the world has ceased to esteem him. ceremony of the most persevering devotion. 
 Pride seems the source not only of their 10 
 
 ro^^ln^Si^laa U tugft T'lotr A VISIT TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 king as his friend, but to acknowledge no other (Letter XIII. from the same) 
 
 master than the laws which he himself has 
 
 contributed to enact. He despises those na- 15 I am just returned from Westminster Abbey, 
 tions, who, that one may be free, are all con- the place of sepulture for the philosophers, 
 tent to be slaves; who first lift a tyrant into heroes, and kings of England. What a gloom 
 terror, and then shrink under his power as if do monumental inscriptions and all the ven- 
 delegated from Heaven. Liberty is echoed erable names of deceased merit inspire! Im- 
 in all their assemblies; and thousands might 20 agine a temple marked with the hand of antiq- 
 be found ready to offer up their lives for the uity, solemn as religious awe, adorned with 
 sound, though perhaps not one of all the num- all the magnificence of barbarous profusion, 
 ber understands its meaning. The lowest dim windows, fretted pillars, long colonnades, 
 mechanic, however, looks upon it as his duty and dark ceilings. Think then, what were my 
 to be a watchful guardian of his country's 25 sensations at being introduced to such a scene. 
 freedom, and often uses a language that might I stood in the midst of the temple, aiid threw 
 seem haughty, even in the mouth of the great my eyes round on the walls filled with the 
 emperor, who traces his ancestry to the moon, statues, the inscriptions, and the monuments 
 A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, of the dead. 
 
 I could not avoid stopping in order to listen 30 Alas, I said to myself, how does pride attend 
 to a dialogue which I thought might afford the puny child of dust even to the grave! 
 me some entertainment. The conversation Even humble as I am, I possess more conse- 
 was carried on between a debtor through the quence in the present scene than the greatest 
 grate of his prison, a porter, who had stopped to hero of them all; they have toiled for an hour 
 rest his burden, and a soldier at the window. 35 to gain a transient immortahty, and are at 
 The subject was upon a threatened invasion length retired to the grave, where they have 
 from France,^ and each seemed extremely no attendant but the worm, none to flatter 
 anxious to rescue his country from the im- but the epitaph. 
 
 pending danger. "For my part," cries the As I was indulging such reflections, a gentle- 
 
 prisoner, "the greatest of my apprehensions 40 man dressed in black, perceiving me to be a 
 is for our freedom; if the French should con- stranger, came up, entered into conversation, 
 quer, what would become of English liberty? and politely offered to be my instructor and 
 My dear friends, Liberty is the Enghshman's guide through the temple. If any monument, 
 prerogative; we must preserve that at the said he, should particularly excite your curios- 
 expense of our lives; of that the French shall 45 ity, I shall endeavour to satisfy your demands, 
 never deprive us; it is not to be expected that I accepted with thanks the gentleman's offer, 
 men who are slaves themselves would preserve adding, that "I was come to observe the 
 our freedom should they happen to conquer."— policy, the wisdom, and the justice of the Eng- 
 "Ay, slaves," cries the porter, "they are all lish, in conferring rewards upon deceased merit, 
 slaves, fit only to carry burdens, every one of 50 If adulation like this, continued I, be properly 
 them. Before I would stoop to slavery, may conducted, as it can in no ways injure those 
 this be my poison (and he held the goblet in who are flattered, so it may be a glorious incen- 
 his hand), may this be my poison— but I would tive to those who are now capable of enjoying 
 sooner list for a soldier." it. It is the duty of every good government 
 
 The soldier, taking the goblet from his 55 to turn this monumental pride to its own ad- 
 friend, with much awe fervently cried out, vantage, to become strong in the aggregate 
 
 ' T^e Seven Years War (1756-67) in which England from the weakness of the individual. If none 
 E-glfn3T;rrj^p3rt',h7, T^iTZerZTrZt ^-.t the truly great have a place in this awful 
 and Indian War) and In India. repository, a temple like this wiil give the 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 401 
 
 finest lessons of morality, and be a strong in- solved to keep them company now they are 
 centive to true ambition. I am told, that dead. 
 
 none have a place here but characters of the As we walked along to a particular part of 
 
 most distinguished merit." The man in black the temple, there, says the gentleman, pointing 
 seemed impatient at my observations, so I 5 with his finger, that is the poet's corner ;2 there 
 discontinued my remarks, and we walked on you see the monuments of Shakespeare, and 
 together to take a view of every particular Milton, and Prior, and Drayton.^ Drayton, 
 monument in order as it lay. I replied, I never heard of him before, but I 
 
 As the eye is naturally caught by the finest have been told of one Pope,* is he there? It 
 objects, I could not avoid being particularly 10 is , time enough, replied my guide, these hun- 
 curious about one monument which appeared dred years, he is not long dead, people have 
 more beautiful than the rest; that, said I to not done hating him yet. Strange, cried I, 
 my guide, I take to be the tomb of some very Can any be found to hate a man, whose life 
 great man. By the peculiar excellence of the was wholly spent in entertaining and instruct- 
 workmanship, and the magnificence of the 15 ing his fellow creatures? Yes, says my guide, 
 design, this must be a trophy raised to the they hate him for that very reason. There are 
 memory of some king who has saved his coun- a set of men called answerers of books, who 
 try from ruin, or lawgiver, who has reduced take upon them to watch the republic of let- 
 his fellow-citizens from anarchy into just ters, and distribute reputation by the sheet; 
 subjection. — It is not requisite, replied my 20 they are incapable of giving pleasure them- 
 companion smiling, to have such quahfications selves, and hinder those that would. These 
 in order to have a very fine monument here, answerers have no other employment but to 
 More humble abilities will suffice. What, I cry out Dunce, and Scribbler, to praise the 
 suppose then, the gaining two or three battles, dead, ai;id revile the living, to grant a man of 
 or the taking half a score towns, is thought a 25 confessed abilities some small share of merit, 
 sufficient qualification? Gaining battles, or to applaud twenty blockheads in order to gain 
 taking towns, replied the man in black, may the reputation of candour, and to revile the 
 be of service; but a gentleman may have a moral character of the man whose writings 
 very fine monument here without ever seeing they cannot injure. Such wretches are kept in 
 a battle or a siege. This then is the monument 30 pay by some mercenary bookseller, or more 
 of some poet, I presume, of one whose wit has frequently, the bookseller himself takes this 
 gained him immortality? No, sir, ^replied my dirty work off their hands, as all that is re- 
 guide, the gentleman who lies here never made quired is to be very abusive and very dull; 
 verses; and as for wit, he despised it in others, every Poet of any genius is sure to find such 
 because he had none himself. Pray tell me 35 enemies, he feels, though he seems to despise 
 theninaword, ssiid I peevishly, what is the great their malice; they make him miserable here, 
 m^n who lies here particularly remarkable for? and in the pursuit of empty fame, at last he 
 Remarkable, sir! said my companion; why, gains solid anxiety. 
 
 sir, the gentleman that lies here is remarkable, Has this been the case with every poet I see 
 
 very remarkable — for a tomb in Westminster 40 Aere? cried I. — Yes, with every mother's son 
 Abbey. But, head of my Anceslors\^ how has of them, replied he, except he happened to be 
 he got here? I fancy he could never bribe the born a mandarine.^ If he has much money, 
 guardians of the temple to give him a place, he may buy reputation from your book- 
 Should he not be ashamed to be seen among com- answerers, as well as a monument from the 
 pany, ivhere even moderate merit would look like 45 guardians of the temple. But are there not 
 infamy? I suppose, replied the man in black, some men of distinguished taste, as in China, 
 the gentleman was rich, and his friends, as is who are willing to patronise men of merit and 
 usual in such a case, told him he was great, soften the rancour of malevolent dulness? 
 He readily believed them; the guardians of 2 in the south-transept of the Abbey. Cf. Irving's 
 the temple, as they got by the self-delusion, 50 description ^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 were ready to believe him too; so he paid his then Prior and Drayton, minor poets, would be more 
 ^r^r^^^r f n,^ o fir.o T« rwTii 1 rr, oTi + • ciT^H tliP worW- famous than Shakespeare and Milton, neither of whom 
 money tor a fane monument, ana tne WOrK- ^^ ^^^^^ .^ Westminster Abbey, though they have 
 
 man, as you see, has made him one the most monuments there. 
 
 beautiful. Think not, however, that this gen- T^iShr, Sol^ev^r. SaoluM oTtheVaWlSS 
 
 tleman is singular in his desire of being buried 55 contemporaries, but because he desired to rest near his 
 
 among the great; there are several others in J-^,?,'Jrip,f„^.'.?iJ„T''<;„e"'thlr^^ld'o^^^^^ 
 
 the temple, who, hated and shunned by the Westminster Abbey." „ 
 
 great while alive, have come here, fully re- ^^tc^''^ct:"iil,:S^'tt ^.rll^^X^^^^h^r, 
 
 1 Allusion to the ancestor-worship of the Chinese. of the English nobility by the Chinese traveller. 
 
432 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 I own there are many, replied the man in in that chair the kings of England were crowned, 
 black, but, alas! sir, the book-answerers crowd you see also a stone underneath, and that stone 
 about them, and call themselves the writers is Jacob's pillow. I could see no curiosity 
 of books; and the patron is too indolent to dis- either in the oak chair or the stone; could I, 
 tinguish; thus poets are kept at a distance, 5 indeed, behold one of the old kings of England 
 while their enemies eat up all their rewards seated in this, or Jacob's head laid upon the 
 at the mandarine's table. other, there might be something curious in 
 
 Leaving this part of the temple, we made up the sight; but in the present case, there was no 
 to an iron gate,^ through which my companion more reason for my surprise, than if I should 
 told me we were to pass in order to see the lO pick a stone from their streets, and call it a 
 monuments of the kings. Accordingly I curiosity, merely because one of the kings 
 marched up without further ceremony, and happened to tread upon it as he passed in a 
 was going to enter, when a person who held procession. 
 
 the gate in his hand, told me I must pay first. From hence our conductor led us through 
 
 I was surprised at such a demand; and asked 15 several dark walks and winding ways, uttering 
 the man whether the people of England kept a lies, talking to himself, and flourishing a wand 
 show? whether the paltry sum he demanded which he held in his hand. He reminded me 
 was not a national reproach? whether it was of the black magicians of Kobi.^^ After we 
 not more to the honour of the country to let had been almost fatigued with a variety of 
 their magnificence or their antiquities be 20 objects, he, at last, desired me to consider at- 
 openly seen, than thus meanly to tax a curiosity tentively a certain suit of armour, which seemed 
 which tended to their own honour? As for to show nothing remarkable. This armour, 
 your questions, replied the gate-keeper, to be said he, belonged to General Monk.^' Very 
 sure they may be very right, because I don't surprising, that a general should wear armour. 
 understand them, but, as for that there three- 25 And pray, added he, observe this cap, this is 
 pence, I farm it^ from one, who rents it from General Monk's cap. Very strange indeed, 
 another, who hires it from a third, who leases very strange, that a general should have a cap 
 it from the guardians of the temple, and we also! Pray, friend, what might this cap have 
 all must live. I expected upon paying here to cost originally? That, sir, says he, I don't 
 see something extraordinary, since what I had 30 know, but this cap is all the wages I have for 
 seen for nothing filled me with so much sur- my trouble. A very small recompense truly, 
 prise; but in this I was disappointed; there said I. Not^so very small, rephed he, for every 
 was little more within than black coflSns, rusty gentleman puts some money into it, and I 
 armour, tattered standards, and some few spend the money. What, more money! still 
 slovenly figures in wax.^ I was sorry I had 35 more mxyney! Every gentleman gives some- 
 paid, but I comforted myself by considering thing, sir. I'll give thee nothing, returned I; 
 it would be my last payment. A person at- the guardians of the temple should pay you 
 tended us, who, without once blushing, told your wages, friend, and not permit you to 
 an hundred lies; he talked of a lady who died squeeze thus from every spectator. When we 
 by pricking her finger,^ of a king with a golden 40 pay our money at the door to see a show, we 
 head,^° and twenty such pieces of absurdity; never give more as we are going out. Sure the 
 Look ye there, gentlemen, says he, pointing to guardians of the temple can never think they 
 an old oak chair," there's a curiosity for ye; get enough. Show me the gate; if I stay longer, 
 
 I may probably meet with more of those 
 
 «The south gate of the "ambulatory" separating the 4c pppip„:j,Qf:„„i Uf^„cT€,-^ 
 kings' tombs from the body of the church, /fee of 6d. is ^^ ®^^?^^^^\^^^\^®Sg^^S- . . 
 
 still charged for admission to the chapels, which are only Thus leaving the temple precipitately, I 
 
 ''°7a;°fortheHg^h^t?o"cXtit. ^^t^r^^d *« W lodgiugs, in Order to ruminate 
 
 8 It was formerly customary to place in the Abbey wax OVer what was great, and to despise what was 
 
 effigies of famous personages buried there. These effigies mAfln in fhp nnnnrrPnr>P« nf +>ip H« v 
 
 had been carried on a chariot before the body at the ™®3^ ^^ ^'^^ Occurrences Ol tne day. 
 funeral. 
 
 •The figure of Elizabeth Russell, referred to by the 
 Spectator (329) as "that martyr to good housewifery, who 
 
 died by the prick of a needle." 12 Kobi or Gobi is a great desert in the northern part of 
 
 10 One of the kings, whose head had been stolen toward China, 
 
 the end of Henry Vlllth's reign. 13 General Monk, the restorer of the Stuarts, is buried io 
 
 " The famous coronation chair. Henry Vllth's Chapel. 
 
EDMUND BURKE 403 
 
 CDntUnD llBttJ^f My Lords, Mr. Hastings pleads one constant 
 
 1729-1797 
 WARREN HASTINGS^ 
 
 merit to justify those acts,— namely, that they 
 produce an increase of the pubHc revenue; and 
 accordingly he never sells to any of those 
 5 wicked agents any trusts whatever in the 
 (From Sveech in Overling the Impeachment, country, that you do not hear that it will con- 
 Fourth Day: Tuesday, February 19, 1788) siderably tend to the mcrease of the revenue. 
 
 Your Lordships will see, when he sold to wicked 
 My Lords,2 you have heard the proceedings men the province of Bahar^ in the same way 
 of the court before which Gunga Govind Sing' lo in which Debi Sing had this province of Dinage- 
 thought proper to appeal, in consequence of pore,^ that consequences of a horrid and 
 the power and protection of Mr. Hastings atrocious nature, though not to so great an 
 being understood to exist after he left India, extent, followed from it. I will just beg leave 
 and authenticated by his last parting deed, to state to your Lordships, that the kingdom 
 Your Lordships will judge by that last act of 15 of Bahar is annexed to the kingdom of Bengal; 
 Mr. Hastings what the rest of his whole life was. that this kingdom was governed by another 
 My Lords, I do not mean now to go further Provincial Council; that he turned out that 
 than just to remind your Lordships of this, Provincial Council, and sold that government 
 that Mr. Hastings's government was one whole to two wicked men:^ one of no fortune at all, 
 system of oppression, of robbery of individuals, 20 and the other of a very suspicious fortune; 
 of destruction of the public, and of suppression one a total bankrupt, the other justly excom- 
 of the whole system of the English govern- municated for his wickedness in his country, 
 ment, in order to vest in the worst of the na- and then in prison for misdemeanors in a 
 tives all the powers that could possibly exist subordinate situation of government. Mr. 
 in any government, — in order to defeat the 25 Hastings destroyed the Council that imprisoned 
 ends which all governments ought in common him; and, instead of putting one of the best 
 to have in view. Thus, my Lords, I show you and most reputable of the natives to govern 
 at one point of view what you are to expect it, he takes out of prison this excommunicated 
 from him in all the rest. I have, I think, made wretch, hated by God and man, — this bank- 
 out as clear as can be to your Lordships, so 30 rupt, this man of evil and desperate character, 
 far as it was necessary to go, that his bribery this mismanager of the public revenue in an 
 and peculation was not occasional, but habit- inferior station; and, as he had given Bengal 
 ual, — that it was not urged upon him at the to Gunga Govind Sing,^ he gave this province to 
 moment, but was regular and systematic. I Rajahs Kelleram and Cullian Sing. It was 
 have shown to your Lordships the operation 35 done upon this principle, that they would in- 
 of such a system * on the revenues. crease and very much better the revenue. 
 
 These men seemed to be as stragge instru- 
 Un 1786 Burke presented to the House of Commons ments for improving a revenue as ever were 
 
 twenty-two articles charging Hastmgs with high cnmes ^ „° • ^„ 4.U« ^,r>.r^^^ Ko,t«ti 
 
 and misdemeanors. A year later the House appointed chosen, I SUppOSe, smce the WOrld began. 
 
 a committee of nine prosecutors, of which Burke was ^q perhaps their merit was giving a bribe of 
 Hots2'orLo;d/&erSch\V»Tad\rn\e'a1?BuAl 40,000!.' to Mr. Hastings. Haw be disposed 
 
 made the opening speech, from the conclusion of which ^f j^ j don't know. He says, "I disposed of it 
 
 this_sejecUon is^taken.^^ House of Lords, which was sitting to the public, and it was in a case of emergency." 
 
 as a court to hear the impeachment of Warren Hastings, you will see in the COUrse of this businesS the 
 Governor-General of British India from 1773-85. The ^ u ^ e ^u^j- ^«of«r,«a- fr^r- irr»ii wi'll qpp 
 
 East-India Company, chartered by Parliament, con- 45 falsehood of that pretence, tor yoU Will ses, 
 trolled the English trade and part of the government of though the obligation is given for it aS a rOUnd 
 
 JSf^JdTvlftll^ir'S ?.ln°cfaf,n"fo°Slm°.'n?SVh'e'& sum of money, that the payment was not ac- 
 
 great provinces of Bengal, Bahar, and Orissa. The Com- comolished till a VCar after; that therefore it 
 
 panv was controlled by the Court of Proprietors or ^ -^ 
 
 stock holders, who chose a Court of Directors. These « V. note 2, supra. , , r> • r / • x • 
 
 were sSppos;d to adm^ the affairs of the company, J A dispute^ about the succession "fJ«i"f«,^P"°^ff> "> 
 
 but the real power rested in the Supreme Council in this independent Province was submitted to Hastings. 
 
 I dia appointed by Parliament in 1773. and later by the who decided in favour of a child and assuming an unjust 
 
 directors."^ It consisted of the Governor-General. Warren authority, appointed as guardian or ete^ward one of 
 
 Hastings, and four other members. Hastings was there- Gunga's men named Debi bing. The Rajah s income 
 
 fore resDonsible to Parliament for maladministration. was at once decreased, a large revenue was paid to the 
 
 lore responsime to rarua Councils of East India Company and probably a still larger one to 
 
 Revcnu/in the six ProviSces of Bengal, Bahar. Orissa Debi Sing, for by cruel persecution he exacted a land 
 
 Madras, Bombay, Bencoolen, and appointed a general tax of 600 per cent per annu in. 
 
 committee of Revenue composed of four members. ^ Ra ahs Kelleram and Culian Sing, whom Burke 
 
 ThTs commiUee wis rellly s^Eservient to its secretary. mentions further on.-both friends of Gunga Govind 
 
 Gunya Govind Sing, a native who had been appointed by bing 
 
404 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 could not answer any immediate exigence of magistrate. Not only the worst men will be 
 the Company. Did it answer in an increase thus chosen, but they will be restrained by no 
 of the revenue? The very reverse. Those dread whatsoever in the execution of their 
 persons who had given this bribe of 40,000L worst oppressions. Their protection is sure, 
 at the end of that year were found 80,000Z. in 5 The authority that is to restrain, to control, 
 debt'" to the Company. The Company always to punish them is previously engaged; he has 
 loses, when Mr. Hastings takes a bribe; and his retaining fee for the support of their crimes, 
 when he proposes an increase of the revenue, Mr. Hastings never dared, because he could 
 the Company loses often double. But I hope not, arrest oppression in its course, without 
 and trust your Lordships will consider this 10 drying up the source of his own corrupt emolu- 
 idea of a monstrous rise of rent, given by men ment. Mr. Hastings never dared, after, the 
 of desperate fortunes and characters, to be one fact, to punish extortion in others, because he 
 of the grievances instead of one of the advan- could not, without risking the discovery of 
 tages of this system. bribery in himself. The same corruption, the 
 
 It has been necessary to lay these facts be- 15 same oppression, and the same impunity will 
 fore you (and I have stated them to your reign through all the subordinate grada- 
 Lordships far short of their reality, partly tions. 
 
 through my infirmity, and partly on account A fair revenue may be collected without the 
 of the odiousness of the task of going through aid of wicked, violent, and unjust instru- 
 things that disgrace human nature), that you20ments. But when once the line of just and 
 may be enabled fully to enter into the dreadful legal demand is transgressed, such instruments 
 consequences which attend a system of bribery are of absolute necessity; and they comport 
 and corruption in a Governor-General. On a themselves accordingly. When we know that 
 transient view, bribery is rather a subject of men must be well paid (and they ought to be 
 disgust than horror, — the sordid practice of a 25 well paid) for the performance of honorable 
 venal, mean, and abject mind; and the effect duty, can we think that men will be found to 
 of the crime seems to end with the act. It commit wicked, rapacious, and oppressive acts 
 looks to be no more than the corrupt transfer with fidelity and disinterestedness for the sole 
 of property from one person to another, — at emolument of dishonest employers? No: they 
 worst a theft. But it will appear in a very 30 must have their full share of the prey, and the 
 different light, when you regard the considera- greater share, as they are the nearer and more 
 tion for which the bribe is given, — namely, necessary instruments of the general extortion, 
 that a Governor-General, claiming an arbi- We must not, therefore, flatter ourselves, when 
 trary power^^ in himself, for that consideration Mr. Hastings takes 40,000Z. in bribes for Din- 
 delivers up the properties, the liberties, and 35 agepore and its annexed provinces,^^ that from 
 the lives, of an whole people to the arbitrary the people nothing more than 40,000Z. is ex- 
 discretion ^f any wicked and rapacious person, torted. I speak within compass, four times 
 who will be sure to make good from their blood forty must be levied on the people; and these 
 the purchase he has paid for his power over violent sales, fraudulent purchases, confisca- 
 them. It is possible that a man may pay a 40 tions, inhuman and unutterable tortures, im- 
 bribe merely to redeem himself from some prisonment, irons, whips, fines, general despair, 
 evil. It is bad, however, to live under a power general insurrection, the massacre of the 
 whose violence has no restraint except in its oflBcers of revenue by the people, the massacre 
 avarice. But no man ever paid a bribe for a of the people by the soldiery, and the total 
 power to charge and tax others, but with a 45 waste and destruction of the finest provinces 
 view to oppress them. No man ever paid a in India, are things of course, — and all a 
 bribe for the handling of the public money, necessary consequence involved in the very 
 but to peculate from it. When once such substance of Mr. Basting's bribery, 
 offices become thus privately and corruptly I therefore charge Mr. Hastings with having 
 venal, the very worst men will be chosen (as 50 destroyed, for private purposes, the whole 
 Mr. Hastings has in fact constantly chosen system of government by the six Provincial 
 the very worst); because none but those who Councils, which he had no right to destroy, 
 do not scruple the use of any means are capable, I charge him with having delegated to others^' 
 
 consistently with profit, to discharge at once that power which the act of Parliament had 
 the rigid demands of a severe public revenue 55 directed him to preserve unalienably in himself, 
 and the private bribes of a rapacious chief I charge him with having formed a com- 
 
 •0 i. e., they had not paid in the stated amount of rev- 
 enue for their Province. . ^^ Edrackpore and Rungpore. 
 
 " Hastings claimed arbitrary power, aymg stress on is i. e., to the Committee of Revenue, the power of con 
 
 the great distance between India and England. ^_ trolling the Revenue. 
 
EDMUND BURKE 406 
 
 mittee** to be mere instruments and tools, at My Lords, is it a prosecutor you want? You 
 the enormous expense of 62,000L per annum. have before you the Commons of Great Britain 
 
 I charge him with having appointed a person as prosecutors; and I beheve, my Lords, that 
 their dewan^^ to whom these Englishmen were the sun, in his beneficent progress round the 
 to be subservient tools, — whose name, to his 5 world, does not behold a more glorious sight 
 own knowledge, was, by the general voice of than that of men, separated from a remote 
 India, by the general recorded voice of the people by the material bounds and barriers 
 Company, by recorded official transactions, of Nature, united by the bond of a social and 
 by everything that can make a man known, moral community, — all the Commons of Eng- 
 abhorred, and detested, stamped with infamy; 10 land resenting, as their own, the indignities 
 and with giving him the whole power which and cruelties that are offered to all the people 
 he had thus separated from the Council- of India. 
 
 General, and from the Provincial Councils. Do we want a tribunal? My Lords, no ex- 
 
 I charge him with taking bribes of Gunga ample of antiquity, nothing in the modern 
 
 Govind Sing. 15 world, nothing in the range of human imagina- 
 
 I charge him with not having done that tion, can supply us with a tribunal hke this. 
 
 bribe-service which fidelity even in iniquity My Lords, here we see virtually, in the mind's 
 
 requires at the hands of the worst of men. eye, that sacred majesty of the crown, under 
 
 I charge him with having robbed those whose authority you sit, and whose power you 
 
 people^" of whom he took the bribes. 20 exercise. We see in that invisible authority, 
 
 I charge him with having fraudulently what we all feel in reality and life, the benef- 
 
 alienated the fortunes of widows. icent powers and protecting justice of his 
 
 I charge him with having, without right. Majesty. We have here the heir-apparent^^ to 
 
 title, or purchase, taken the lands of orphans, the crown, such as the fond wishes of the 
 
 and given them to wicked persons under him. 25 people of England wish an heir-apparent of 
 
 I charge him with having removed the nat- the crown to be. We have here all the branches 
 
 ural guardians^^ of a minor Rajah, and with of the royal family, in a situation between 
 
 having given that trust to a stranger, Debi majesty and subjection, between the sovereign 
 
 Sing, whose wickedness was known to himself and the subject,— offering a pledge in that 
 
 and all the world, and by whom the Rajah, his 30 situation for the support of the rights of the 
 
 family, and dependants were cruelly oppressed, crown and the hberties of the people, both 
 
 I charge him with having committed to the which extremities they touch. My Lords, wc 
 
 management of Debi Sing three great prov- have a great hereditary peerage here,— those 
 
 inces;^8 and thereby with having wasted the who have their own honor, the honor of their 
 
 country, ruined the landed interest, cruelly 35 ancestors and of their posterity to guard, 
 
 harassed the peasants, burnt their homes, and who will justify, as they have always 
 
 seized their crops, tortured and degraded their justified, that provision in the Constitution 
 
 persons, and destroyed the honor of the whole by which justice is made an hereditary office. 
 
 female race of that country. My Lords, we have here a new nobility, who 
 
 In the name of the Commons of England, 40 have risen and exalted themselves by various 
 
 I charge all this villany upon Warren Hastings, merits,— by great military services which have 
 
 in this last moment of my application to you. extended the fame of this country from the 
 
 My Lords, what is it that we want here to a rising to the setting sun. We have those who, 
 
 great act of national justice? Do we want a by various civil merits and various civil talents, 
 
 cause my Lords? You have the cause of op- 45 have been exalted to a situation which they 
 
 pressed princes, of undone women of the first well deserve, and m which they will justify 
 
 rank, of desolated provinces, and of wasted the favor of their sovereign, and the good 
 
 ki ngdoms opinion of their fellow-subjects, and make them 
 
 Do you want a criminal, my Lords? When was rejoice to see those virtuous characters that 
 
 there so much iniquity ever laid to the charge of 50 were the other day upon a level with them 
 
 any one? No, my Lords, you must not look to now exalted above them m rank but feeling 
 
 punish any other such delinquent from India, with them in sympathy what they felt in 
 
 Warren Hastings has not left substance enough common with them before. We have persons 
 
 in India to nourish such another delinquent. exalted from the practice ?f the law, from the 
 
 " i. e.. of revenue, consisting of four men with salaries, 55 place in which they admmistered high, though 
 
 amounting to 62.000 £. The cost of living m India made subordinate, justice, to a seat here, to enhghten 
 ""SttewS: G?;S» S'S^.'''*^ *■ "' ""''"°"- with their knowledge and to strengthen with 
 
 i« By renting their lands to Gunga. 
 
 !! ^A^- ^i« uncle and his mother. p . j ^ , afterwards George IV 
 
 18 Dinagepare, Edrackpore, and Rungpore, x ue jr imv^c w. 
 
406 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 their votes those principles which have dis- REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION 
 tinguished the courts in which they have IN FRANCE 
 
 presided. . 
 
 My Lords, you have here also the lights of v.i«»wy 
 
 our religion, you have the bishops of England. 5 (Selections) 
 
 My Lords, you have that true image of the 
 
 primitive Church, in its ancient form, in its On the forenoon of the fourth of November 
 ancient ordinances, purified from the supersti- last, ^ Doctor Richard Price, ^ a Non-Conforming 
 tions and the vices which a long succession of minister of eminence, preached at the Dissent- 
 ages will bring upon the best institutions. 10 ing meeting-house of the Old Jewry,^ to his 
 You have the representatives of that religion club* or society, a very extraordinary miscel- 
 which says that their God is love, that the laneous sermon, in which there are some good 
 very vital spirit of their institution is charity, — moral and rehgious sentiments, and not ill 
 a religion which so much hates oppression, expressed, mixed up with a sort of porridge 
 that, when the God whom we adore appeared 15 of various political opinions and reflections: 
 in human form, He did not appear in a form of but the Revolution in France is the grand 
 greatness and majesty, but in sympathy with ingredient in the caldron. I consider the 
 the lowest of the people, and thereby made it address transmitted^ by the Revolution So- 
 a firm and ruling principle that their welfare ciety to the National Assembly, through Earl 
 was the object of all government, since the 20 Stanhope,^ as originating in the principles of 
 Person who was the Master of Nature chose the sermon, and as a corollary from them. . . . 
 to appear Himself in a subordinate situation. Before I read that sermon, I really thought 
 
 These are the considerations which influence I had lived in a free country; and it was an 
 them, which animate them, and will animate error I cherished, because it gave me a greater 
 them, against all oppression, — knowing that 25 liking to the country I lived in. I was, indeed, 
 He who is called first among them, and first aware that a jealous, ever-waking vigilance, 
 among us all, both of the flock that is fed and to guard the treasure of our liberty, not only 
 of those who feed it, made Himself "the serv- from invasion, but from decay and corruption, 
 ant of all."^ was our best wisdom and our first duty. How- 
 
 My Lords, these are the securities which we 30 ever, I considered that treasure rather as a 
 have in all the constituent parts of the body of possession to be secured than as a prize to be 
 this House. We know them, we reckon, we contended for. I did not discern how the 
 rest upon them, and commit safely the inter- present time came to be so very favourable to 
 ests of India and of humanity into your hands, all exertions' in the cause of freedom. The 
 Therefore it is with confidence, that, ordered 35 present time differs from any other only by 
 by the Commons, the circumstance of what is doing in France. 
 
 I impeach Warren Hastings, Esquire, of If the example of that nation is to have an 
 high crimes and misdemeanors. influence on this, I can easily conceive why 
 
 I impeach him in the name of the Commons some of their proceedings which have an un- 
 of Great Britain in Parliament assembled, 40 pleasant aspect, and are not quite reconcilable 
 whose Parliamentary trust he has betrayed. to humanity, generosity, good faith, and jus- 
 
 I impeach him in the name of all the Com- tice, are palhated with so much milky good- 
 mons of Great Britain, whose national charac- nature towards the actors, and borne with so 
 ter he has dishonored. much heroic fortitude towards the sufferers. 
 
 I impeach him in the name of the people of 45 It is certainly not prudent to discredit the 
 India, whose laws, rights, and liberties he has authority of an example we mean to follow. 
 
 subverted, whose properties he has destroyed, i The Reflections were published in November, 1790. 
 
 whose country he has laid waste and deso- "^ *^® ^°™ ^^ ^ letter to Mr. Dupont, "a young gentle- 
 
 1 j._ man at Paris." 
 
 ^^^^- 2 Dr. Richard Price (1723-91), wrote on political and 
 
 I impeach him in the name and by virtue 50 financial questions and is best known as the author of 
 
 of, those eternal laws of justice which he has l\r„'Ski?g^"oiTdlpVd^y"pttT^^ "^ " >"" 
 
 violated. '.An old London street, so called from the synagogue 
 
 I impeach him in the name of human nature ^ m. |. °the Revolution Society, it was formed in com- 
 itself, which he has cruelly outraged, injured memoration of the English Revolution of 1688, but it 
 onA r^r^r^^r^r,r,^A ' ^ u 4.1. . ' ' ' Sympathized wlth the Ffcnch Revolutiou. 
 
 ana oppressed, m both sexes, m every age, 55 » An address of sympathy to the National Assembly of 
 
 rank, situation, and condition of life. France. , „ , 
 
 6 Charles Stanhope, third Earl Stanhope (1753-1816), 
 ^ »o L Cor., ix., 19. referring there to St. Paul and not to ^'hairman of the Revolution Society 
 Christ. Dr- Price had invited the consideration of his hearers 
 
 "to the favorableness of the present times to all exertions 
 
 in the cause of liberty." 
 
EDMUND BURKE 407 
 
 But allowing this, we are led to a very natural delightful vision. I saw her just above the 
 question: — What is that cause of liberty, and horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated 
 what are those exertions in its favour, to which sphere she just began to move in, — glittering 
 the example of France is so singularly aus- Hke the morning-star, full of life and splendour 
 picious? Is our monarchy to be annihilated, 5 and joy. Oh! what a revolution! and what an 
 with all the laws, all the tribunals, and all the heart must I have, to contemplate without 
 ancient corporations of the kingdom? Is emotion, that elevation, and that fall! Little 
 every landmark of the country to be done did I dream, when she added titles of venera- 
 away in favour of a geometrical and arith- tion to those of enthusiastic, distant, respect- 
 metical constitution?^ Is the House of Lords 10 ful love, that she should ever be obliged to 
 to be voted useless? Is Episcopacy to be carry the sharp antidote against disgrace con- 
 abolished? Are the Church lands to be sold cealed in that bosom! little did I dream that 
 to Jews and jobbers, or given to bribe new- I should have Hved to see such disasters fallen 
 invented municipal repubhcs'' into a partici- upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation 
 pation in sacrilege? Are all the taxes to be 15 of men of honour, and of cavaliers! I thought 
 voted grievances, and the revenue reduced ten thousand swords must have leaped from 
 to a patriotic contribution or patriotic pres- their scabbards to avenge even a look that 
 ents? Are silver shoe-buckles to be substituted threatened her with insult. But the age of 
 in the place of the land-tax and the malt-tax, chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, econo- 
 for the support of the naval strength of this 20 mists, and calculators has succeeded; and the 
 kingdom. Are all orders, ranks, and distinc- glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, 
 tions to be confounded, that out of universal never more, shall we behold that generous 
 anarchy, joined to national bankruptcy, three loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submis- 
 or four thousand democracies^" should be sion, that dignified obedience, that subordina- 
 formed into eighty-three, and that they may 25 tion of the heart, which kept alive, even in ser- 
 all, by some sort of unknown attractive power, vitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom! 
 be organized into one? For this end is the The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence 
 army to be seduced from its discipline and its of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and 
 fidelity, first by every kind of debauchery, and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that 
 then by the terrible precedent of a donative^i 30 sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, 
 in the increase of pay? Are the curates j;o be which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired 
 seduced from their bishops by holding out to courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which 
 them the delusive hope of a dole out of the ennobled whatever it touched, and under which 
 spoils of their own order? Are the citizens of vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its 
 London to be drawn from their allegiance by 35grossness! 
 
 feeding them at the expense of their feUow- This mixed system of opinion and senti- 
 subjects? Is a compulsory paper currency to ment had its origin in the ancient chivalry; 
 be substituted in the place of the legal coin of and the principle, though varied in its appear- 
 this kingdom? Is what remains of the plun- ance by the varying state of human affairs, 
 dered stock of puljHc revenue to be employed 40 subsisted and influenced through a long sue- 
 in the wild project of maintaining two armies cession of generations, even to the time we live 
 to watch over and to fight with each other? in. If it should ever be totally extinguished, 
 If these are the ends and means of the Revolu- the loss, I fear, will be great. It is this which 
 tion Society, I admit that they are well as- has given its character to modern Europe. It 
 sorted; and France may furnish them for both 45 is this which has distinguished it under all its 
 with precedents in point. ^^ ^ , , forms of government, and distinguished it to 
 
 It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I its advantage, from the states of Asia, and 
 saw the queen of France, then the Dauphiness,^^ possibly from those states which flourished in 
 at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this the most brilliant periods of the antique world, 
 orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more 50 It was this, which, without confounding ranks, 
 
 had produced a noble equality, and handed it 
 
 8 On the abolition of the old provinces by the National down through all the gradations of SOcial life. 
 Assembly. France was divided into eighty-three depart- ^^ ^^^ ^^.^ ^^.^.^^ ^^.^^ mitigated kings into 
 
 'i.e., self-governing republics. Companions, and raised private men to be 
 
 10 i. e., the English municipalities. Burke, with many ^ n •,i i • „ wruUr^^^i- fr^yr^o, r>7. r,r,r>r>ai 
 
 others, thought that France would break up into a num- 55 fellows With kmgS. Without iorce or oppOSl- 
 
 ber of independent republics. tion, it subdued the fierceness of pride and 
 
 !5 EveTv^'Jneof Burke's questions is suggested by some pOWer; it oWiged sovereigns tO SUbmit tO the 
 specific proceeding or occurrence in France, and for a full gQf^ collar of SOcial esteem, compelled steni 
 
 "'SSS^An'toinStl'^""'' '"'"' '''""'^ '' "''■ authority to submit to elegance, and gave a 
 
408 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 domination, vanquisher of laws, to be subdued Society is, indeed, a contract." Subordinate 
 by manners. contracts for objects of mere occasional in- 
 
 But now all is to be changed. All the pleas- terest may be dissolved at pleasure; but the 
 ing illusions which make power gentle and state ought not to be considered as nothing 
 obedience liberal, which harmonized the dif- 5 better than a partnership agreement in a trade 
 ferent shades of life, and which by a bland of pepper and coffee, calico or tobacco, or some 
 assimilation incorporated into politics the other such low concern, to be taken up for a 
 sentiments which beautify and soften private little temporary interest, and to be dissolved 
 society, are to be dissolved by this new con- by the fancy of the parties. It is to be looked 
 quering empire of light and reason. All the lo on with other reverence ; because it is not a 
 decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn off. partnership in things subservient only to the 
 All the superadded ideas furnished from the gross animal existence of a temporary and 
 wardrobe of a moral imagination, which the perishable nature. It is a partnership in all 
 heart owns and the understanding ratifies, as science, a partnership in all art, a partnership 
 necessary to cover the defects of our naked, 15 in every virtue and in all perfection. As the 
 shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity ends of such a partnership cannot be obtained 
 in our own estimation, are to be exploded in many generations, it becomes a partnership 
 as a ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated not only between those who are living, but 
 fashion. between those who are living, those who are 
 
 On this scheme of things, a king is but a 20 dead, and those who are to be born. Each 
 man, a queen is but a woman, a woman is but contract of each particular state is but a clause 
 an animal, — and an animal not of the highest in the great primeval contract of eternal so- 
 order. All homage paid to the sex in general ciety, linking the lower with the higher natures, 
 as such, and without distinct views, is to be connecting the visible and invisible world, 
 regarded as romance and folly. Regicide, and 25 according to a fixed compact sanctioned by 
 parricide, and sacrilege, are but fictions of the inviolable oath which holds all physical 
 superstition, corrupting jurisprudence by des- and all moral natures each in their appointed 
 troying its simplicity. The murder of a king, place, 
 or a queen, or a bishop, or a father, are only 
 common homicide, — and if the people are by 30 
 
 any chance or in any way gainers by it, a sort 4 LETTER TO A NOBLE LORD^ 
 
 of homicide much the most pardonable, and 
 
 into which we ought not to make too severe a (1795) 
 
 scrutiny. . . . (Abridged) 
 
 I flatter myself that I love a manly, moral, 35 
 regulated liberty, as well as any gentleman of My Lord,^— I could hardly flatter myself 
 that society, be he who he will; and perhaps with the hope that so very early in the season 
 I have given as good proofs of my attachment I should have to acknowledge obligations to 
 to that cause, in the whole course of my public the Duke of Bedford and to the Earl of Lauder- 
 conduct. I think I envy liberty as little as 40 dale. These noble persons have lost no time 
 they do to any other nation. But I cannot 
 
 afsinrl fnrwnrd nnH rn'vP r^raicA r»r Womo +rw "Burke adapts to his own use some of the ideas of 
 Stana lorwara, ana give praise or blame to Rousseau's celebrated book, Lc Con<ra< SociaZ. published 
 anything which relates to human actions and in 1762. Locke and Rousseau thought that society was 
 hiimnn r»nnpprn«? nn n <?imnlp ^n(^\Kr nf +>ip r^V. formed by a definite conscious act, that it was a contract 
 numan concerns on a simple view Ot tne Ob- or convention between governors and governed. Burke 
 ject, as it stands stripped of every relation, in 45 admits the principle of the contract, but makes a pro- 
 all the nakedness and solitude of metaphysical founder application of it. 
 abstraction. Circumstances (which with some to riLi^rtm^'Sliament^^b^ellTh^^^^^^^ 
 
 gentlemen pass for nothing) give in reality to y^&r. Hisson, Richard Burke, was nominated and elected 
 
 every political principle its distinguishing colour Si fte=dd" BuX'fe tS^^^"^""iT.lLluTi%t 
 
 and discriminating effect. The circumstances 50 ^^^°'"® ^® ^^^ taken his seat m the House, Richard 
 «•.,«,, I, .> J. ««.«J^.» «,,^« , • •! J Ti' 1 I. Burke died, and Edmund Burke retired to his estate at 
 are what render every civil and political scheme Beaconsfield a broken man, with no further desire for the 
 beneficial or noxious to mankind. Abstract- perage, which his son's death made him regard as a 
 o^l,r o»^r^«l,;«« .,^,,^«^^^^+ „ ^11 I'u J. hollow aud useless honor. Pitt, who knew that Burke 
 edly Speakmg, government, as well as liberty, was in financial straits, had procured a pension of twenty- 
 is good; yet could I, in common sense, ten five hundred pounds a year for him from the Crown. The 
 
 ^ran^ r.^^ v.^,,^ f^^:^u^^.^A 17 ^ I, grant was opposed by the Duke of Bedford, and the 
 
 years ago, have felicitated France on her en- 55 Eari of Lauderdale on the ground that it was not sanc- 
 
 joyment of a government, (for she then had a tioned by Parliament. Their attack was answered by 
 
 „ „_„ _,\ .,1 , • . 1 . .1 , Burke in A Letter to a Noble Lord. 
 
 government), without inquiry what the nature 2 Burke's Letter is addressed to Earl Fitz-WilUam 
 
 of that government was, or how it was ad- (1748-1833), a leader of the Irish Whigs, nephew and 
 
 T«;n;ofoi.orl9 ^^" to the Marquis of Rockingham, under whom Burke 
 
 mmisterear . . , had entered pubUc life. 
 
EDMUND BURKE 409 
 
 in conferring upon me that sort of honour which manner in which the benefit was conferred. It 
 it is alone within their competence, and which came to me, indeed, at a time of Hfe, and in a 
 it is certainly most congenial to their nature state of mind and body, in which no circum- 
 and their manners, to bestow. stance of fortune could afford me any real 
 
 To be ill spoken of, in whatever language 5 pleasure. But this was no fault in the royal 
 they speak, by the zealots of the new sect' in donor, or in his ministers, who were pleased, in 
 philosophy and politics, of which these noble acknowledging the merits of an invalid servant 
 persons think so charitably, and of which of the public, to assuage the sorrows of a deso- 
 others think so justly, to me is no matter of late old man. 
 
 uneasiness or surprise. To have incurred the lo It would ill become me to boast of anything, 
 displeasure of the Duke of Orleans^ or the It would as ill become me, thus called upon, to 
 Duke of Bedford, to fall under the censure of depreciate the value of a long life spent with 
 the Citizen Brissot,^ or of his friend the Earl of unexampled toil in the service of my country. 
 Lauderdale, I ought to consider as proofs, not Since the total body of my services, on account 
 the least satisfactory, that I have produced 15 of the industry which was shown in them, and 
 some part of the effect I proposed by my en- the fairness of my intentions, have obtained 
 deavours. I have laboured hard to earn what the acceptance of my sovereign, it would be 
 the noble Lords are generous enough to pay. absurd in me to range myself on the side of the 
 Personal offence I have given them none. The Duke of Bedford and the Corresponding So- 
 part they take against me is from zeal to the 20 ciety,i° or, as far as in me lies, to permit a dis- 
 cause. It is well, — it is perfectly well. I have pute on the rate at which the authority ap- 
 to do homage to their justice. I have to thank pointed by our Constitution^^ to estimate such 
 the Bedfords and the Lauderdales for having things has been pleased to set them, 
 so faithfully and so fully acquitted towards me Loose libels ought to be passed by in silence 
 whatever arrear of debt was left undischarged 25 and contempt. By me they have been so 
 by the Priestleys and the Paines.^ . . . always. I knew, that, as long as I remained in 
 
 In one thing I can excuse the Duke of Bed- public, I should live down the calumnies of 
 ford for his attack upon me and my mortuary malice and the judgments of ignorance. If I 
 pension.^ He cannot readily comprehend the happened to be now and then in the wrong, 
 transaction he condemns. What I have ob- 30 (as who is not?) like all other men, I must bear 
 tained was the fruit of no bargain, the produc- the consequence of my faults and my mistakes, 
 tion of no intrigue, the result of no compromise, The hbels of the present day are just of the 
 the effect of no solicitation. The first sugges- same stuff as the libels of the past But they 
 tion of it never came from me, mediately or derive an importance from the rank of the 
 immediately, to his Majesty or any of his 35 persons they come from, and the gravity of 
 ministers. It was long known that the instant the place where they were uttered. In some 
 my engagements would permit it, and before way or other I ought to take some notice of 
 the heaviest of all calamities^ had forever them. To assert myself thus traduced is not 
 condemned me to obscurity and sorrow, I had vanity or arrogance. It is a demand of justice; 
 resolved on a total retreat. I had executed 40 it is a demonstration of gratitude. If I am 
 that design. I was entirely out of the way of unworthy, the ministers are worse than prod- 
 serving or of hurting any statesman or any igal. On that hypothesis, I perfectly agree 
 party, when the ministers so generously and with the Duke of Bedford. 
 so nobly carried into effect the spontaneous For whatever I have been (I am now no more) 
 
 bounty of the crown. Both descriptions^ have 45 I put myself on my country. I ought to be 
 acted as became them. When I could no longer allowed a reasonable freedom, because I stand 
 serve them, the ministers have considered my upon my deliverance ;i2 and no culprit ought 
 situation. When I could no longer hurt them, to plead in irons. Even in the utmost latitude 
 the revolutionists have trampled on my in- of defensive liberty, I wish to preserve all pos- 
 firmity. My gratitude, I trust is equal to the 50 sible decorum. Whatever it may be in the 
 
 8 The sympathizers with the French Revolution. eyes of these noble persons themselves, to mc 
 
 4 A wealthy French aristocrat, who joined the ranks of their situation calls for the mOSt profound 
 
 6 Jeln^Pierre^Brissot, a leader of the moderate Repub- respect. If I should happen to trespass a littl(\ 
 
 licans in France, who were called Brissotins or Girondists. which I trust I shall not, let it always be SUp- 
 
 Lauderdale made his acquaintance in 1792. 
 
 6 The more radical sympathizers with the Revolution. , i- • . 
 
 7 A pension given to one who is as good as dead. lo The London Corresponding Society was a political 
 
 8 The death of his only son Richard to whom Burke organization with liberal principles. u tti v. 
 would have transmitted the peerage had he obtained it. " i. e., the King and the ministers; a flmg at the French 
 
 • i. e., the ministers of the Crown and the members of constitution, 
 the party whom Burke had "hurt," viz. the Revolu- 12 i. e., I insist upon my legal nght to be heard; I appeal 
 
 tionists. tothe jury of public opinion. 
 
410 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 posed that a confusion of characters may pro- At every step of my progress in life, (for in 
 duce mistakes, — that, in the masquerades of every step was I traversed and opposed,) and 
 the grand carnival of our age, whimsical ad- at every turnpike^^ I met, I was obliged to 
 ventures happen, odd things are said and pass show my passport, and again and again to 
 off. If I should fail a single point in the high 5 prove my sole title to the honour of being useful 
 respect I owe to those illustrious persons, I to my country, by a proof that I was not wholly 
 cannot be supposed to4mean the Duke of Bed- unacquainted with its laws, and the whole 
 ford and the Earl of Lauderdale of the House of system of its interests both abroad and at 
 Peers, but the Duke of Bedford and the Earl of home. Otherwise, no rank, no toleration even, 
 Lauderdale of Palace Yard,^^ — ^\^q Dukes and 10 for me. I had no arts but manly arts. On 
 Earls of Brentford. ^^ There they are on the them I have stood, and, please God, in spite 
 pavement; there they seem to come nearer to of the Duke of Bedford and the Earl of Lauder- 
 my humble level, and, virtually at least, to have dale, to the last gasp will I stand. . . . 
 waived their high privilege. . . . The Duke of Bedford conceives that he is 
 
 His Grace thinks I have obtained too much. 15 obliged to call the attention of the House of 
 I answer, that my exertions, whatever they Peers to his Majesty's grant to me, which he 
 have been, were such as no hopes of pecuniary considers as excessive^^ and out of all bounds, 
 reward could possibly excite; and no pecuniary I know not how it has happened, but it 
 
 compensation can possibly reward them. Be- really seems, that, whilst his Grace was medi- 
 tween money and such services, if done by abler 20 tating his well-considered censure upon me, 
 men than I am, there is no common principle he fell into a sort of sleep. Homer nods,^^ and 
 of comparison: they are quantities incom- the Duke of Bedford may dream, and as 
 mensurable. Money is made for the comfort dreams (even his golden dreams) are apt to be 
 and convenience of animal life. It cannot be ill-pieced and incongruously put together, his 
 a reward for what mere animal life must, 25 Grace preserved his idea of reproach to me, but 
 indeed, sustain, but never can inspire. With took the subject-matter from the crown grants 
 submission to his Grace, I have not had more to his own family. This is "the stuff of which 
 than sufficient. ^5 As to any noble use, I trust his dreams are made." 20 In that way of putting 
 I know how to employ as well as he a much things together his Grace is perfectly in the 
 greater fortune than he possesses. In a more 30 right. The grants to the House of Russell^i 
 confined application, I certainly stand in need were so enormous as not only to outrage econ- 
 of every kind of relief and easement much omy, but even to stagger credibility. The 
 more than he does. When I say I have not Duke of Bedford is the leviathan22 among all 
 received more than I deserve, is this the Ian- the creatures of the crown. He tumbles about 
 guage I hold to your Majesty? No! Far, very 35 his unwieldy bulk, he plays and frolics in the 
 far, from it! Before that presence I claim no ocean of the royal bounty. Huge as he is, and 
 merit at all. Everything towards me is favour whilst "he lies floating many a rood," he is still 
 and bounty. One style to a gracious benefac- a creature. His ribs, his fins, his whalebone, 
 tor; another to a proud and insulting foe. ... his blubber, the very spiracles through which 
 
 I was not, Hke his Grace of Bedford, swad- 40 he spouts a torrent of brine^s agamst his origin, 
 died and rocked and dandled into a legislator: and covers me all over with the spray, every- 
 "Nitor in adversum"^^ is the motto for a man thing of him and about him is from the throne, 
 like me. I possessed not one of the qualities Is it for him to question the dispensation of the 
 nor cultivated one of the arts, that recommend royal favour? 
 
 men to the favour and protection of the great. 45 I really am at a loss to draw any sort of 
 I was not made for a minion or a tool. As little „ /^ • • „ -^ . t j r . x-, ^ r ■, 
 
 J.J T r n J. I. J. J i? • • ±^ 1 i 1 " Unginally it meant a kind of fwrn stile made of pi«es 
 
 aid 1 tOllOW the trade 01 wmnmg the hearts by to obstruct the passage of an enemy, and Burke had in 
 
 imposing on the understandings of the people. ™^°^*^^^ ^^^^y ^^^^}j}^n 
 
 D r- ^ 18 -phe grant was 2500£. 
 
 i» In allusion to Horace's well-known line in the Ars 
 
 " The PaZace Fard is a courtyard OMfstde the Houses of Poetica, 359, "Sometimes even the good Homer nods." 
 
 Parliament. Hence, by Bedford and Lauderdale of the 20 "We are such stuff as dreams are made on." Teni' 
 
 Palace Yard, Burke means they should be regarded simply pest IV, i. 157. 
 
 as men, and not as members of the House of Peers; con- 21 John Russell, the founder of the house of Russell, was 
 
 sidered outetde or apart from their official position. a gentleman of the chamber to Henry VIII, and was 
 
 " In The Rehearsal, a farce by the Duke of Bucking- awarded large grants out of the plunder of the monas- 
 
 ham, the Two Kings of Brentford always appear together teries. 
 
 and do exactly the same thing. Brentford is a little 22 " That sea-beast 
 
 village near London, and the ludicrous incongruity of Leviathan, which God of all His works 
 
 the title has made the two Kings of Brentford a byword. Created hugest that swims the ocean stream." 
 
 "Whatever may be our theory of Edmund Burke's Par. Lost, \,20\. 
 
 financial resources and speculations, it is certain that 23 AH that the Duke of Dedford possessed was derived 
 
 from 1769 he was never free from the annoyance of debt. from Crown grants to his ancestors; in opposing a similar 
 
 i« I make my way against adverse circumstance. Ovid, grant to Burke, the Duke therefore "spouted against his 
 
 Mela. II, 73. prigifl." 
 
EDMUND BURKE 4U 
 
 parallel between the public merits of his Grace, amble of a patent ^^^ or the inscription on a 
 by which he justifies the grants he holds, and tomb. With them every man created a peer 
 these services of mine, on the favourable con- is first an hero ready-made. They judg* of 
 struction of which I have obtained what his every man's capacity for office by the offices 
 Grace so much disapproves. In private hfe she has filled; and the more offices, the more 
 I have not at all the honour of acquaintance ability. Every general officer with them is 
 with the noble Duke; but 1 ought to presume, a Marlborough, ^s every statesman a Burleigh,^^ 
 and it costs me nothing to do so, that he every judge a Murray^^ or a Yorke.^^ They, 
 abundantly deserves the esteem and love of who alive, were laughed at or pitied by all 
 all who live with him. But as to pubhc service, lo their acquaintance, make as good a figure as 
 why, truly, it would not be more ridiculous for the best of them in the pages of Guillim,^^ 
 me to compare myself, in rank, in fortune, in Edmondson, and Collins. ^^ To these recorders 
 splendid descent, in youth, strength, or figure, so full of good-nature to the great and pros- 
 with the Duke of Bedford, than to make a perous, I would willingly leave the first Baron 
 parallel between his services and my attempts is Russell and Earl of Bedford, and the merits 
 to be useful to my country. It would not be of his grants. But the aulnager,^^ the weigher, 
 gross adulation, but uncivil irony, to say that the meter of grants, will not suffer us to ac- 
 he has any public merit of his own to keep alive quiesce in the judgment of the prince reigning 
 the idea of the services by which his vast at the time when they were made. They are 
 landed pensions were obtained. My merits, 20 never good to those who earn them. Well, 
 whatever they are, are original and personal: then, since the new grantees have war made 
 his are derivative. It is his ancestor, the on them by the old, and that the word of the 
 original pensioner, that has laid up this in- sovereign is not to be taken, let us turn our 
 exhaustible fund of merit which makes his eyes to history, in which great men have always 
 Grace so very delicate and exceptions about the 2S a pleasure in contemplating the heroic origin 
 merit of all other grantees of the crown. Had of their house. 
 
 he permitted me to remain in quiet, I should The first peer of the name, the first pur- 
 have said, '"Tis his estate: that's enough. It chaser of the grants,^^ was a Mr. Russell, a 
 is his by law: what have I to do with it or its person of an ancient gentleman's family, raised 
 history?" He would naturally have said, on 30 by being a minion of Henry the Eighth. As 
 his side, '"Tis this man's fortune. He is as there generally is some resemblance of charac- 
 good now as my ancestor was two hundred ter to create these relations, the favourite was 
 and fifty years ago. I am a young man with in all likelihood much such another as his 
 very old pensions; he is an old man with very master. The first of those immoderate grants 
 young pensions: that's all." 35 was not taken from the ancient demesne of 
 
 Why will his Grace, by attacking me, force the crown, but from the recent confiscation 
 me reluctantly to compare my httle merit with of the ancient nobility of the land. The lion, 
 that which obtained from the crown those having sucked the blood of his prey, threw 
 prodigies of profuse donation by which he the offal carcass to the jackal in waiting, 
 tramples on the mediocrity of humble and 40 Having tasted once the food of confiscation, 
 laborious individuals? I would willingly leave the favourites became fierce and ravenous, 
 him to the Herald's College, 2* which the This worthy favourite's first grant was from 
 philosophy of the sans culottes,^^ (prouder by the lay nobility.^s The second, infinitely im- 
 far than all the Garters, and Norroys, and proving on the enormity of the first, was from 
 Clarencieux, and Rouge Dragons, that ever4S 
 pranced in a procession of what his friends "The official document granting the privileges of 
 
 1, • ■ 11 . \ Ml 1 V T- -iU nobility. 
 
 call aristocrats and despots) will abolish Wltri 'is Duke of Marlborough (1050-1722), the victor of 
 
 contumely and scorn. These historians, re- ^'-^f^^'- g^X"^ ^52^^^^^^^^^ Elizabethan 
 
 corders, and blazoners of virtues and arms, statesman. 
 
 differ wholly from that other description of 50 ,„ » "^"J^g^^X^o"^™™ °ai ^.r''" "'"""'''• ""' 
 
 historians, who never assign any act ot poll- 31 p/^vip y^Aic (1690-1764), first Earl of Hardwicke, a 
 
 ticians to a good motive. These gentle his- -l?-^<]rf ^ "ii'rS^ 
 
 torians, on the contrary, dip their pens m Heralds. 
 
 r.r.tVii'Tio- Knf +liP mi'Ilr nf Viiimqn kindnesses 33 CoMiVis compiled a Peerage of England. 
 
 notning but tne milK 01 numan Kinunebs,. ^^ ^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ examined cloth and affixed a 
 
 They seek no further for merit than the pre- 55 ggal in guaranty of its quality or measure {Cent. Diet). 
 
 The office existed until the reign of William III. 
 
 24 Heralds College or College of Arms, was instituted in 35 A legal phrase, here signifying the first in the family 
 
 the 15th century in England for the purpose of granting to hold the grants. , u- f •*■ +t, r,^- «f 
 
 armorial bearings and tracing and preserving genealogies. 36 Ring Henry VIII gave to hia favorite the manor of 
 
 " Without breecheb, a name given in derision to the Amersham m Bucks, part of the estate of the Duke ol 
 Erench rabble ^ Macbeth, I, v. 19. Buckingham who was executed for treason m 1521. 
 
412 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 the plunder of the church. In truth, his Grace domain that still is under the protection, and 
 is %omewhat excusable for his dislike to a the larger that was once under the protection, 
 gra!iit like mine, not only in its quantity, but of the British crown.*' 
 in its kind, so different from his own. His founder's merits were, by arts in which 
 
 Mine was from a mild and benevolent sov- 5 he served his master and made his fortune, to 
 ereign: his from Henry the Eighth. bring poverty, wretchedness, and depopulation 
 
 Mine had not its fund in the murder of any on his country. Mine were under a benevolent 
 innocent person of illustrious rank, or in the prince, in promoting the commerce, manufac- 
 pillage of any body of unoffending men. His tures, and agriculture, of his kingdom, — in 
 grants were from the aggregate and consoli- 10 which his Majesty shows an eminent example, 
 dated funds of judgments iniquitously legal," who even in his amusements is a patriot, and 
 and from possessions voluntarily surrendered in hours of leisure an improver of his native 
 by the lawful proprietors with the gibbet at soil, 
 their door. His founder's merit was the merit of a gentle- 
 
 The merit of the grantee whom he derives 15 man raised by the arts of a court and the pro- 
 from was that of being a prompt and greedy tection of a Wolsey to the eminence of a great 
 instrument of a levelling tyrant, who oppressed and potent lord. His merit in that eminence 
 all descriptions of his people, but who fell with was, by instigating a tyrant to injustice, to 
 particular fury on everything that was great provoke a people to rebellion. My merit was 
 and noble. Mine has been in endeavouring 20 to awaken the sober part of the country, that 
 to screen every man, in every class, from op- they might put themselves on their guard 
 pression, and particularly in defending the against any one potent lord, or any greater 
 high and eminent, who, in the bad times of number of potent lords, or any combination 
 confiscating princes, confiscating chief gover- of great leading men of any sort, if ever they 
 nors, or confiscating demagogues, are the most 25 should attempt to proceed in the same courses, 
 exposed to jealousy, avarice, and envy. but in the reverse order, — that is, by instigat- 
 
 The merit of the original grantee of his ing a corrupted populace to rebellion, and, 
 Grace's pensions was in giving his hand to the through that rebellion, introducing a tyranny 
 work, and partaking the spoil, with a prince yet worse than the tyranny which his Grace's 
 who plundered a part of the national Church 30 ancestor supported, and of which he profited 
 of his time and country. Mine was in defend- in the manner we behold in the despotism of 
 ing the whole of the national Church of my Henry the Eighth. 
 
 own time and my own country, and the whole The political merit of the first pensioner of 
 
 of the national Churches of all countries, from his Grace's house, was that of being concerned 
 the principles and the examples which lead to 35 as a councillor of state in advising, and in his 
 ecclesiastical pillage, thence to a contempt of person executing, the conditions of a dis- 
 all prescriptive titles, thence to the pillage of honourable peace with France, ^^ — the sur- 
 all property, and thence to universal desola- rendering the fortress of Boulogne, then our 
 tion. outguard on the Continent. By that surrender, 
 
 The merit of the origin of his Grace's fortune 40 Calais, the key of France, and the bridle in 
 was in being a favourite and chief adviser to a the mouth of that power, was not many years 
 prince who left no liberty to their native coun- afterwards finally lost. My merit has been in 
 try. 38 My endeavour was to obtain hberty for resisting the power and pride of France, under 
 the municipal coun try ^^ in which I was born, any form of its rule; but in opposing it with 
 and for all descriptions and denominations in 45 the greatest zeal and earnestness, when that 
 it. Mine was to support with unrelaxing vigi- rule appeared in the worst form it could as- 
 lance every right, every privilege, every fran- sume, — the worst indeed which the prime cause 
 chise, in this my adopted, my dearer, and more and principle of all evil could possibly give it. 
 comprehensive country; and not only to pre- It was my endeavour by every means to excite 
 serve those rights in this chief seat of empire, 50 a spirit in the House, where I had the honour 
 but in every nation, in every land, in every of a seat, for carrying on with early vigour 
 climate, language, and religion, in the vast and decision the most clearly just and neces- 
 sary war that this or any nation ever carried 
 
 a,^S5\t&e°„VvTtSr^U''thfS?iiSusfyTeSl" 0°' ■» ""^^^ *« ^'^^^ "^ '^'"'^J^ ^'°'^ *>>" 'T, 
 proceedings of Empson and Dudley, and inherited by 55 yoke of its power, and from the more dreadful 
 
 "'a^LU^grammar. Their refers to Henry VIII and contagion of its principles -to preserve, while 
 
 Russell. 40 An allusion to the loss of the American colonies. 
 
 35 Ireland. Burke evidently means a land which is a *> Boulogne, which had been taken by Henry VIII in 
 
 separate and distinct country, but not a sovereign nation, 1544, was restored to the French in 1550. The loss of 
 
 like England. Calais in 1558 is said to have caused Queen Mary's death. 
 
EDMUND BURKE 413 
 
 they can be preserved, pure and untainted, forefathers in that long series have degenerated 
 the ancient, inbred integrity, piety, good na- into honour and virtue. Let the Duke of 
 ture, and good humour of the people of Eng- Bedford (I am sure he will) reject with scorn 
 land, ^2 from the dreadful pestilence which, and horror, the counsels of the lecturers, those 
 beginning in France, threatens to lay waste 5 wicked panders to avarice and ambition, who 
 the whole moral and in a great degree the would tempt him, in the troubles of his coun- 
 whole physical world, having done both in the try, to seek another enormous fortune from the 
 focus of its most intense malignity. forfeitures of another nobility and the plunder 
 
 The labours of his Grace's founder merited of another Church. Let him (and I trust that 
 the "curses, not loud, but deep,"^' of the Com- loyet he will) employ all the energy of his youth 
 mons of England, on whom he and his master and all the resources of his wealth to crush 
 had effected a complete Parliamentary Reform,*^ rebellious principles which have no foundation 
 by making them, in their slavery and humilia- in morals, and rebellious movements that have 
 tion, the true and adequate representatives of no provocation in tyranny, 
 a debased, degraded, and undone people. My 15 Then will be forgot the rebeUions which, 
 merits were in having had an active, though by a doubtful priority in crime, his ancestor 
 not always an ostentatious share, in every one had provoked and extinguished. On such a 
 act, without exception, of undisputed consti- conduct in the noble Duke, many of his coun- 
 tutional utility in my time and in having trymen might, and with some excuse might, 
 supported, on all occasions, the authority, 20 give way to the enthusiasm of their gratitude, 
 the efficiency, and the privileges of the Com- and, in the dashing style of some of the old 
 mons of Great Britain. I ended my services declaimers, cry out, that, if the Fates had 
 by a recorded and fully reasoned assertion on found no other way*^ in which they could give 
 their own journals of their constitutional rights, a Duke of Bedford and his opulence as props 
 and a vindication of their constitutional con- 25 to a tottering world, then the butchery of the 
 duct. I laboured in all things to merit their Duke of Buckingham might be tolerated; it 
 inward approbation, and (along with the as- might be regarded even with complacency, 
 sistants of the largest, the greatest, and best whilst in the heir of confiscation they saw the 
 of my endeavours) I received their free, un- sympathizing comforter of the martyrs, who 
 biassed, public, and solemn thanks. 30 suffer under the cruel confiscation of this day, 
 
 Thus stands the account df the compara- whilst they beheld with admiration his zealous 
 tive merits of the crown grants which compose protection of the virtuous and loyal nobility of 
 the Duke of Bedford's fortune as balanced France, and his manly support of his brethren, 
 against mine. In the name of common sense, the yet standing nobihty and gentry of his 
 why should the Duke of Bedford think that 35 native land. Then his Grace's merit would be 
 none but the House of Russell are entitled to pure and new and sharp, as fresh from the 
 the favour of the crown? Why should he imag- mint of honour. As he pleased, he might re- 
 ine that no king of England has been capable fleet honour on his predecessors, or throw it 
 of judging of merit but King Henry the Eighth? forward on those who were to succeed him. 
 Indeed, he will pardon me, he is a httle mis- 40 He might be the propagator of the stock of 
 taken: all virtue did not end in the first Earl honour, or the root of it, as he thought proper, 
 of Bedford; all discernment did not lose its Had it pleased God to continue to me« the 
 vision when his creator closed his eyes. Let hopes of succession, I should have been, ac- 
 him remit his rigour on the disproportion be- cording to my mediocrity and the mediocrity 
 tween merit and reward in others, and they 45 of the age I live in, asort of founder of a family: 
 will make no inquiry into the origin of his for- I should have left a son, who, in all the points 
 tune. They will regard with much more satis- in which personal merit can be viewed, m 
 faction, as he will contemplate with infinitely science, in erudition, in genius, m taste, in 
 more advantage, whatever in his pedigree has honour, in generosity, in humanity, m every 
 been dulcified by an exposure to the influence 50 liberal sentiment and every liberal accomplish- 
 of heaven in a long flow of generations from the ment, would not have shown himself inferior 
 hard, acidulous, metalHc tincture of the spring, to the Duke of Bedford, or to any of those 
 It is little to be doubted that several of his whom he traces in his line His Grace very 
 
 soon would have wanted all plausibility in his 
 ,."I^^^?o^iS.S:tlrl!A:nS^^^ upon that provision which belonged 
 
 Sbu^^ef C\r ^^thTnCr^^^^^^ pT^tte^'l^ ^ « Burke has in mind a passage from Lucan's PW«a. 
 ""'^f^Marb^h'v 'Si '27 '" »"* if our Fates severely have decreed ,, 
 
414 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 more to mine than to me. He would soon have to show that he was not descended, as the 
 suppUed every deficiency, and symmetrized Duke of Bedford would have it, from an un- 
 every disproportion. It would not have been worthy parent. 
 
 for that successor to resort to any stagnant, The crown has considered me after long 
 
 wasting reservoir of merit in me, or in any an- 5 service : the crown has paid the Duke of Bed- 
 cestry. He had in himself a salient, living ford by advance. He has had a long credit for 
 spring of generous and manly action. Every any service which he may perform hereafter, 
 day he lived he would have repurchased the He is secure, and long may he be secure, in his 
 bounty of the crown, and ten times more, if advance, whether he performs any services 
 ten times more he had received. He was made 10 or not. But let him take care how he endangers 
 a public creature, and had no enjoyment what- the safety of that Constitution which secures 
 ever but in the performance of some duty. At his own utility or his own insignificance, or 
 this exigent moment the loss of a finished man how he discourages those who take up even 
 is not easily supplied. puny arms to defend an order of things which, 
 
 But a Disposer whose power we are little 15 like the sun of heaven, shines aHke on the 
 able to resist, and whose wisdom it behooves us useful and the worthless. His grants are en- 
 not at all to dispute, has ordained it in another grafted in the pubhc law of Europe, covered 
 manner, and (whatever my querulous weakness with the lawful hoar of innumerable ages, 
 might suggest) a far better. The storm has They are guarded by the sacred rules of pre- 
 gone over me; and I lie like one of those old20scription,^9 found in that full treasury of juris- 
 oaks which the late hurricane has scattered prudence from which the jejuneness and penury 
 about me. I am stripped of all my honours, of our municipal law has by degrees been en- 
 I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate riched and strengthened. This prescription 
 on the earth. There, and prostrate there, I I had my share^" (a very full share) in bringing 
 most unfeignedly recognize the Divine justice, 25 to its perfection. The Duke of Bedford will 
 and in some degree submit to it. But whilst stand as long as prescriptive law endures, — as 
 I humble myself before God I do not know long as the great, stable laws of property, 
 that it is forbidden to repel the attacks of common to us with all civilized nations, are 
 unjust and inconsiderate men. The patience of kept in their integrity, and without the smallest 
 Job is proverbial. After some of the convulsive 30 intermixture of the laws, maxims, principles, or 
 struggles of our irritable nature, he submitted precedents of the Grand Revolution. They 
 himself, and repented in dust and ashes. But are secure against all changes but one. The 
 even so, I do not find him blamed for repre- whole Revolutionary system, institutes,^^ di- 
 hending, and with a considerable degree of gest, code, novels, text, gloss, comment, are 
 verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbours 35 not only the same, but they are the very re- 
 of his who visited his dunghill to read moral, verse, and the reverse fundamentally, of all 
 political, and economical lectures on his misery, the laws on which civil life has hitherto been 
 I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies upheld in all the governments of the world, 
 in the gate.'*^ Indeed, my lord, I greatly de- The learned professors of the Rights of Man 
 ceive myself, if in this hard season^^ j would 40 regard prescription not as a title to bar all 
 give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called claim set up against old possession, but they 
 fame and honour in the world. This is the look on prescription as itself a bar against the 
 appetite* but of a few. It is a luxury, it is a possessor and proprietor. They hold an im- 
 privilege, it is an indulgence for those who are memorial possession to be no more than a 
 at their ease. But we are all of us made to shun 45 long continued and therefore an aggravated 
 disgrace, as we are made to shrink from pain injustice. 
 
 and poverty and disease. It is an instinct; and Such are their ideas, such their religion, and 
 
 under the direction of reason, instinct is always such their law. But as to our country and our 
 in the right. I live in an inverted order. They race, as long as the well-compacted structure 
 who ought to have succeeded me are gone 50 ,„, , x-xi • ux • r , 
 
 u^f ^ Til. 1 1. ij I. u J. *' In law a title or nght accruing from long continued 
 
 before me. They who should have been to use or possession. 
 
 me as posterity are in the place of ancestors. ^.^''^"rke assisted in the passage of an act known as 
 T ^„,« +^ +u 1 i 1 i." / I,' u i. S'^ George Temples Nullem Tempus Act, according to 
 
 1 owe to the dearest relation (which ever must which undisputed possession of land for sixty years con- 
 subsist in memorv) that act of piety which he stituted in itself a deed to the land which even the Crown 
 „ ^, 1 1 1 fix x'xxi.- could not assail or annul. 
 
 would have performed to me: I owe it to him 55 ai Legal terms. The collection of Roman Laws made 
 
 by the Emperor Justinian (A. D. 534 and known as the 
 
 " Psalms, cxxvii, 3-a, " Lo, children are an heritage of Justmian Code, consisted of the Pandects or Digest) 
 the Lord; . . . they shall speak with thine enemies in (abstracts of legal opinions), the Institutes or Laws, and 
 the gate." the Novels (supplemental ordinances or const it utions)., 
 
 ^8 It was a period of great financial depression. In 1795 The whole formed the Corpus Juris Civilis, or Civil Law. \ 
 Burke had published Thoughts and Details on Scarcity. A j/ioss is a marginal note upon the text of the laws. 
 
WILLIAM COWPER 415 
 
 of our Church and State, the sanctuary, the count, and its sword as a make-weight to throw 
 holy of hoHes of that ancient law, defended into the scale, shall be introduced into our 
 by reverence, defended by power, a fortress city by a misguided populace, set on by proud 
 at once and a temple, shall stand inviolate on great men, themselves blinded and intoxicated 
 the brow of the British Sion, — as long as the 5 by a frantic ambition, we shall all of us perish 
 British monarchy, not more limited than and be overwhelmed in a common ruin. If a 
 fenced by the orders of the state, shall, like great storm blow on our coast, it will cast the 
 the proud Keep of Windsor, rising in the maj- whales on the strand, as well as the peri- 
 esty of proportion, and girt with the double winkles.*^ His Grace will not survive the poor 
 belt of its kindred and coeval towers, as long 10 grantee he despises, — no, not for a twelve- 
 as this awful structure shall oversee and guard month. If the great look for safety in the 
 the subjected land, — so long the mounds and services they render to this Gallic cause, it is 
 dikes of the low, fat, Bedford leveP^ ^[]\ have to be foolish even above the weight of privilege 
 nothing to fear from all the pickaxes of all the allowed to wealth. If his Grace be one of these 
 l(^vcllers of France. As long as our sovereign 15 whom they endeavour to proselytize, he ought 
 ]( rd the king, and his faithful subjects, the to be aware of the character of the sect whose 
 L M- ds and commons of this realm, — the triple doctrines he is invited to embrace. With them 
 cord which no man can break, — the solemn, insurrection is the most sacred of revolutionary 
 sworn, constitutional frank-pledge^^ of this duties to the state. Ingratitude to benefactors 
 nation, — the firm guarantees of each other's 20 is the first of revolutionary virtues. Ingrati- 
 being and each other's rights, — the joint and tude is, indeed, their four cardinal virtues^^ 
 several securities, each in its place and order, compacted and amalgamated into one; and he 
 for every kind and every quality of property will find it in everything that has happened 
 and of dignity, — as long as these endure, so since the commencement of the philosophic 
 long the Duke of Bedford is safe, and we are 25 Revolution to this hour. If he pleads the 
 all safe together, — the high from the blights merit of having performed the duty of insur- 
 of envy and the spoliations of rapacity, the • rection against the order he lives in, (God for- 
 low from the iron hand of oppression and the bid he ever should!) the merit of others will be 
 insolent spurn of contempt. Amen! and so to perform the duty of insurrection against 
 be it! and so it will be, — 30 him. If he pleads (again God forbid he should, 
 
 and I do not suspect he will) his ingratitude to 
 Dum domus Mnece Capitolt immobili saxum the crown for its creation of his family, others 
 
 Accolet, imperiumque pater Romanus hahehit.^^ will plead their right and duty to pay him in 
 > kind. They will laugh, indeed they will laugh. 
 
 But if the rude inroad of Gallic tumult," with 35 at his parchment and his wax. His deeds will 
 its sophistical rights of man to falsify the ac- be drawn out with the rest of the lumber of 
 ^2 "The great Bedford level which compviBea upward of his evidence-room, and burnt to the tune of 
 
 800,000 acres and extends into six counties, with its Qa ira^ in the COUrtS of Bedford^^ (then Equal- 
 princnpie area in Cambridgeshire, is the largest tract of •+ \ tt 
 f<n-Iand in the Kingdom." Duke of Bedford: The Story of Ity; JlOUSe. 
 a Great Agricultural Estate. ^ . . 40 
 
 ^3 Among the early English each household in a tithing 
 or aggregation of ten families was responsible for the ^l^tlltwvM- /ITAtnti^l* 
 
 offences of the other households and bound to give satis- WltUalU VlbVlUIJ.PI^I' 
 
 faction for any injury done. This system of common 
 
 responsibility was known as a frank-pledge, or the pledge 1731—1800 
 
 of freemen. Burke represents the Crown, the Parliament, 
 
 and the People, the "triple cord which no man can t T7"T"T't?dc3 T?"Dr\A/r ni MTT'V 
 
 bref-k," as bound to each other by a similar pledge of 45 Lili/illLKb J^KUiVl UliiNHil 
 
 mutual obligation and responsibility. , „„„„»t i 
 
 " As long as the house of ^neas holds the immovable TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN 
 
 Of the Capitol hill, and the grand old Roman con- October 31, 1779. 
 
 tinues to rule. ^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^ y^^ jy^^^ Friend— I wrote my last letter 
 
 55 An allusion to the story of Brennus the Gaul, whose gg merely to inform yOU that I had nothing tO 
 
 night attack upon the Capitol (390 B. C.) was frustrated ^ „ snails 
 
 by the cackling of the geese of Juno and the bravery of „ "ancient philosophy were justice, prudence, 
 
 Ahmhus Capitolmus. After a six-months siege the tpmnprancp and fortitude 
 
 garrison bought Brennus off with one thousand Pounds of ^^^P^^HpenkS words of a popular song of the French 
 
 god. When the gold was being weighed, a Roman t,^^,^^;^!^ meaning "That will go." 
 
 tribune according to the story, remonstrated against the ^^The London mansion of the Duke of Bedford, which 
 
 use of false weights by the Gauls. Brennus threw his ^ ^;^J occupied the north side of Bloomsbury Square. 
 
 sword into the scale with the exclamation Vce metis! J^^^s torn down by the Duke of Bedford soon after the 
 
 (Woe to the conquered !), In Burke's pregnant allusion ^^^f ,f^Vt?oS of Burke's letter and Russell Square laid out 
 
 tlie English Constitution is the Capitol endangered by the P" Ua «ifp^ ^"^^"^ 
 
 Gallic invasion of revolutionary ideas. The French «» ^^ ^^^e. , , . , pt^ ™o= +v,o o^t, nf 
 
 theories of the " Rights of Man" are the "false weights" i One o Cowper's dearest. friends. _He^^^« *°« ^°^ ?{ 
 
 and the Reign of Terror, with its violence and bloodshed, Rev. Morley and Mary Un win who exercised a great and 
 
 is the sword thrown into the scale. helpful influence on Cowper a lite. 
 
416 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 say, in answer to which you have said nothing, to degenerate into declamation. Oh! I could 
 I admire the propriety of your conduct, though thrash his old jacket till I made his pension* 
 I am a loser by it. I will endeavour to say jingle in his pockets. 
 
 something now, and shall hope for something I could talk a good while longer, but I have 
 in return. 5 no room. Our love attends yourself, Mrs. 
 
 I have been well entertained with Johnson's Unwin, and Miss Shuttle worth, not forgetting 
 biography, 2 for which I thank you: with one the two miniature pictures at your elbow, 
 exception, and that a swinging one, I think Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 he has acquitted himself with his usual good , 
 
 sense and sufficiency. His treatment of Milton 10 ^o the rev. john Newton^ 
 
 is unmerciful to the last degree. A pensioner^ May 3, 1780. 
 
 is not likely to spare a republican, and the Dear Sir — You indulge me in such a variety 
 Doctor, in order, I suppose to convince his of subjects, and allow me such a latitude of 
 royal patron of the sincerity of his monarchical excursion in this scribbling employment, that 
 principles, has belaboured that great poet's 15 1 have no excuse for silence. I am much obliged 
 character with the most industrious cruelty, to you for swallowing such boluses as I send 
 As a man, he has hardly left him the shadow you, for the sake of my gilding, and verily be- 
 6f one good quality. Churlishness in his pri- lieve I am the only man alive from whom they 
 vate life, and a rancorous hatred of everything would be welcome to a palate like yours. I wish 
 royal in his pubUc, are the two colours with 20 1 could make them more splendid than they 
 which he has smeared all the canvas. If he are, more alluring to the eye at least, if not 
 had any virtues, they are not to be found in more pleasing to the taste; but my gold-leaf 
 the Doctor's picture of him, and it is well for is tarnished, and has received such a tinge 
 Milton that some sourness in his temper is the from the vapours that are ever brooding over 
 only vice with which his memory has been 25 my mind, that I think that no small proof of 
 charged; it is evident enough that if his biog- your partiality to me that you will read my 
 rapher could have discovered more he would letters. I am not fond of long-winded meta- 
 not have spared him. As a poet, he has treated phors; I have always observed that they halt 
 him with severity enough, and has plucked one at the latter end of their progress, and so does 
 or two of the most beautiful feathers out of 30 mine. I deal much in ink, indeed, but not such 
 his Muse's wing, and trampled them under ink as is employed by poets and writers of 
 his great foot. He has passed sentence of essays. Mine is a harmless fluid, and guilty of 
 condemnation upon Lycidas, and has taken no deceptions but such as may prevail without 
 occasion, from that charming poem, to expose the least injury to the person imposed on. I 
 to ridicule (what is indeed ridiculous enough) 35 draw mountains, valleys, woods, and streams, 
 the childish prattlement of pastoral composi- and ducks, and dab-chicks. ^ I admire them 
 tions, as if Lycidas was the prototype and myself, and Mrs. Unwin admires them; and 
 pattern of them all. The liveliness of the her praise and my praise put together are fame 
 description, the sweetness of the numbers, the enough for me. Oh! I could spend whole days 
 classical spirit of antiquity, that prevails in it, 40 and moonlight nights in feeding upon a lovely 
 go for nothing. I am convinced, by the way, prospect! My eyes drink the rivers as they 
 that he has no ear for poetical numbers, or flow. If every human being upon the earth 
 that it was stopped by prejudice against the could think, for one quarter of an hour, as I 
 harmony of Milton's. Was there ever any- have done for many years, there might perhaps 
 thmg so delightful as the music of the Paradise 45 be many miserable men among them, but not 
 Lostf It is Uke that of a fine organ, has the an unawakened one would be found, from the 
 fullest and the deepest tones of majesty, with Arctic to the Antarctic circle. At present, the 
 all the softness and elegance of the Dorian difference between them and me is greatlv to 
 flute; variety without end, and never equaUed, their advantage. I delight in baubles, "and 
 unless perhaps by Virgil. Yet the Doctor 50 know them to be so; for rested in, and viewed 
 has little or nothing to say upon this copious without a reference to their Author, what is 
 theme, but talks something about the unfitness the earth, what are the planets, what is the 
 of the English language for blank verse, and sun itself but a bauble? Better for a man 
 how apt It is, m the mouth of some readers, never to have seen them, or to see them with 
 in\?f6.'^T:U'trofth^^£ioi^^^^^^^ f^f ?^^ brute stupid and unconscious of 
 
 Johnson had agreed to furnish for an edition of the ^'^^^ ^^ Denolds, than not to be able to say, 
 h^thliS^''- '^H^ prefaces collected and published i John Newton (1725-1807) , an English clergyman and 
 
 y^^' * A newly hatched chick. v 
 
EDWARD GIBBON 417 
 
 ^ ' The Makerof all these wonders is my friend." that leads to Dropshort — a little before she 
 Their eyes have never been opened to see that came to the house, he got the start and turned 
 they are trifles; mine have been, and will be her; she pushed for the town again, and soon 
 till they are closed forever. They think a fine after she entered it sought shelter in Mr. Wag- 
 estate, a large conservatory, a hothouse rich 5 staff's tanyard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's — 
 as a West Indian garden, things of conse- Sturge's harvest men were at supper, and saw 
 quence: visit them with pleasure, and muse her from the opposite side of the way. There 
 upon them with ten times more. I am pleased she encountered the tan-pits full of water; and 
 with a frame of four hghts, doubtful whether while she was struggling out of one pit and 
 the few pines it contains will ever be worth a 10 plunging into another, and almost drowned, 
 farthing; amuse myself with a greenhouse one of the men drew her out by the ears and 
 which Lord Bute's gardener could take upon secured her. She was then well washed in a 
 his back and walk away with; and when I have bucket, to get the hme out of her coat, and 
 paid it the accustomed visit, and watered it, brought home in a sack at ten o'clock, 
 and given it air, I say to myself — ' 'This is not 15 This frohc cost us four shillings, but you 
 mine, 'tis a plaything lent me for the present; may believe we did not grudge a farthing of it. 
 I must leave it soon." W. C. The poor creature received only a little hurt in 
 
 one of her claws, and in one of her ears, and is 
 TO THE SAME j^q^ almost as well as ever. 
 
 August 21, 1780. 20 I do not call this an answer to your letter, 
 The following occurrence ought not to be but such as it is I send it, presuming upon that 
 passed over in silence, in a place where so few interest which I know you take in my minutest 
 notable ones are to be met with. Last Wednes- concerns, which I cannot express better than 
 day night, while we were at supper, between in the words of Terence, a little varied — Nihil 
 the hours of eight and nine, I heard an unusual 25 mei a te alienum putas.^ 
 noise in the back parlour, as if one of the hares Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 was entangled, and endeavouring to disengage 
 
 herself. I was just going to rise from the table ™ ™b same (extract) 
 
 •when it ceased. In about five minutes a voice June 12, 1793. 
 
 on the outside of the parlour door inquired 30 As to myself, I have always the same song to 
 if one of my hares had got away. I immediately sing — well in body, but sick in spirit: sick 
 rushed into the next room, and found that my nigh unto death. 
 
 poor favorite Puss^ had made her escape. She "Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 had gnawed in sunder the strings of the lattice- God, or the sweet approach of heavenly day, 
 work, with which I thought I had sufficiently 35 Or sight of cheering truth, or pardon seal'd, 
 secured the window, and which I preferred to Or joy, or hope; or Jesus' face divine; 
 any other sort of blind, because it admitted ^^^ ^loud, i etc. 
 
 plenty of air. From thence I hastened to the I could easily set my complaint to Milton's 
 kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable Thomas tune, and accompany him through the whole 
 Freeman, who told me, that having seen her, 40 passage, on the subject of a blindness more 
 just after she dropped into the street, he at- deplorable than his; but time fails me. 
 tempted to cover her with his hat, but she 
 screamed out, and leaped directly over his 
 
 head. I then desired him to pursue as fast as CEOtDatD ^ibbOH 
 
 possible, and added Richard Golem en to the 45 17'^7-17Q4 
 
 chase, as being nimbler, and carrying less 
 
 weight than Thomas; not expecting to see her q^^^q^ IS INSPIRED TO WRITE 
 
 agam, but desirous to learn, if possible, what ^jg HISTORY 
 
 became of her. In something less than an 
 
 hour Richard returned, almost breathless, 50 (From Autobiography) 
 
 with the following account. That soon after 
 
 he began to run, he left Tom behind him, and June, 1765. 
 
 came in sight of a most numerous hunt of The pilgrimage to Italy, which I now accom- 
 
 men, women, children, and dogs; and that he plished, had long been the object of my curious 
 did his best to keep back the dogs, and presently 55 ^^- Yc>u tbink n^o^.f ^^^^^^^^ 
 
 outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at Terence- Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum. puto 
 
 last disputed between himself and Puss— she ^JrnThuStyV"'''^''^ °°*^'°^ ^''''° *° ""^ ""'^'^'^ ''°''' 
 ran right through the town, and down the lane ''"^^ l^gnificlnt paraphrase of Par. Lost, III. 41-45. 
 1 i. e., one of his pet hares. V. p. 223, supra. 
 
418 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 devotion. The passage of Mount Cenis, the contagion of mystery and magic, which pol- 
 regular streets of Turin, the Gothic cathedral luted the groves of the academy; but he im- 
 of Milan, the scenery of the Boromean Islands, bibed the spirit, and imitated the method of 
 the marble palaces of Genoa, the beauties of his dead and living masters, who attempted to 
 Florence, the wonders of Rome, the curiosities 5 reconcile the strong and subtile sense of Aris- 
 of Naples, the galleries of Bologna, the sin- tatle with the devout contemplation and sub- 
 gular aspect of Venice, the amphitheatre of lime fancy of Plato. After his return to Rome, 
 Verona, and the Palladian architecture of and his marriage with the daughter of his friend, 
 Vicenza, are still present to my imagination, the patrician Symmachus, Boethius still con- 
 I read the Tuscan writers on the banks of the 10 tinued, in a palace of ivory and marble, to 
 Arno; but ray conversation was with the dead prosecute the same studies. The church was 
 rather than the living, and the whole College edified by his profound defence of the orthodox 
 of Cardinals was of less value in my eyes than creed against the Arian, the Eutychian, and 
 the transfiguration of Raphael, the Apollo of the Nestorian heresies; and the Catholic unity 
 the Vatican, or the massy greatness of the 15 was explained or exposed in a formal treatise 
 Coliseum. It was at Rome, on the fifteenth of by the indifference of three distinct though 
 October, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins consubstantial persons. For the benefit of his 
 of the Capitol, while the barefooted friars were Latin readers, his genius submitted to teach the 
 singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter, that first element of the arts and sciences of Greece, 
 the idea of writing the decline and fall of the 20 The geometry of Euclid, the music of Pythag- 
 City first started to my mind. After Rome oras, the arithmetic of Nicomachus, the 
 has kindled and satisfied the enthusiasm of the mechanics of Archimedes, the astronomy of 
 Classic pilgrim, his curiosity for all meaner Ptolemy, the theology of Plato, and the logic 
 objects insensibly subsides. of Aristotle, with the commentary of Porphyry, 
 
 25 were translated and illustrated by the inde- 
 
 fatigable pen of the Roman senator. And he 
 
 BOETHIUS alone was esteemed capable of describing the 
 
 (From The Decline and Fall of the Roman wonders of art, a sun-dial, a water-clock or a 
 
 Empire 1776-88) sphere which represented the motions of the 
 
 ' 30 planets. From these abstruse speculations. 
 
 The senator Boethius^ is the last of the Boethius stooped, or to speak more truly he 
 Romans whom Cato or Tully could have ac- rose to the social duties of public and pri- 
 knowledged for their countryman. As a vate life; the indigent were relieved by his 
 wealthy orphan, he inherited the patrimony liberality; and his eloquence, which flattery 
 and honors of the Anician family, a name 35 might compare to the voice of Demosthenes 
 ambitiously assumed by the kings and em- or Cicero, was uniformly exerted in the cause 
 perors of the age; and the appellation of Man- of innocence and humanity. Such conspicuous 
 lius asserted his genuine or fabulous descent merit was felt and rewarded by a discerning 
 from a race of consuls and dictators, who had prince; the dignity of Boethius was adorned 
 repulsed the Gauls from the Capitol, and sacri- 40 with the titles of consul and patrician, and his 
 ficed their sons to the discipline of the republic, talents were usefully employed in the impor- 
 In the youth of Boethius, the studies of Rome tant station of master of the offices. Notwith- 
 were not totally abandoned; a Virgil is now standing the equal claims of the East and West, 
 extant, corrected by the hand of a consul; his two sons were created, in their tender youth, 
 and the professors of grammar, rhetoric, and 45 the consuls of the same year. On the memor- 
 jurisprudence, were maintained in their privi- able day of their inauguration, they proceeded 
 leges and pensions by the liberality of the in solemn pomp from their palace to the forum 
 Goths. But the erudition of the Latin Ian- amidst the applause of the senate and people; 
 guage was insuflicient to satiate his ardent and their joyful father, the true consul of 
 curiosity; and Boethius is said to have em- 50 Rome, after pronouncing an oration in the 
 ployed eighteen laborious years in the schools praise of his royal benefactor, distributed a 
 of Athens, which were supported by the zeal, triumphal largess in the games of the circus, 
 the learning and the diligence of Proclus and Prosperous in his fame and fortunes, in his 
 his disciples. The reason and piety of their pitblic honors and private alliances, in the 
 Roman pupil were fortunately saved from the 55 cultivation of science and the consciousness of 
 
 ^AniciusManliusSeverinus Boethius (cA75-52^A.BX T'"^''^' Boethius might have been styled 
 
 author of The Consolation of Philosophy. He was consul happy, if that prCCariOUS epithet COUld be 
 
 in 510, and was put to death on a charge of treason by cofplv nnnliprl bpfnrp flip Inest fprm nf tVip lifp 
 
 Theodoric the Ostrogoth, who ruled over the kingdom .^^ appiiea Deiore tne last term Ot tHe llle 
 
 of the East-Goths (which included Italy), 493-527 A. D. of man. 
 
EDWARD GIBBON 419 
 
 A philosopher, liberal of his wealth and of an unattainable blessing; but they would 
 parsimonious of his time, might be insensible to have shown less indulgence to the rash confes- 
 the common allurements of ambition, the thirst sion of Boethius, that had he known of a con- 
 of gold and employment. And some credit may spiracy, the tyrant never should. The advo- 
 be due to the asseveration of Boethius, that 5 cate of Albinus was soon involved in the danger 
 he had reluctantly obeyed the divine Plato, and perhaps the guilt of his client; their signa- 
 who enjoins every virtuous citizen to rescue ture (which they denied as a forgery) was 
 the state from the usurpation of vice and ig- aflSxed to the original address, inviting the 
 norance. For the integrity of his public con- emperor^ to deliver Italy from the Goths; and 
 duct he appeals to the memory of his country. 10 three witnesses of honorable rank, perhaps of 
 His authority had restrained the pride and infamous reputation, attested the treasonable 
 oppression of the royal oflScers, and his elo- designs of the Roman patrician. Yet his 
 quence had delivered Paulianus from the dogs innocence must be presumed, since he was de- 
 of the palace.2 He had always pitied, and prived by Theodoric of the means of justifica- 
 often relieved, the distress of the provincials, 15 tion, and rigorously confined in the tower of 
 whose fortunes were exhausted by public and Pavia, while the senate, at the distance of five 
 private rapine; and Boethius alone had courage hundred miles, pronounced a sentence of con- 
 to oppose the tyranny of the Barbarians, fiscation and death against the most illustrious 
 elated by conquest, excited by avarice, and, of its members. At the command of the Bar- 
 as he complains, encouraged by impunity. 20 barians, the occult science of a philosopher was 
 In these honorable contests his spirit soared stigmatized with the names of sacrilege and 
 above the consideration of danger, and perhaps magic. A devout and dutiful attachment to 
 of prudence; and we may learn from the ex- the senate was condemned as criminal by the 
 ample of Cato, that a character of pure and trembling voices of the senators themselves; 
 inflexible virtue is the most apt to be misled 25 and their ingratitude deserved the wish or 
 by prejudice, to be heated by enthusiasm, and prediction of Boethius, that, after him none 
 to confound private enmities with public should be found guilty of the same offence, 
 justice. The disciple of Plato might exaggerate While Boethius, oppressed with fetters, ex- 
 
 the infirmities of nature, and the imperfections pected each moment the sentence or the stroke 
 of society; and the mildest form of a Gothic 30 of death, he composed, in the tower of Pavia, 
 kingdom, even the weight of allegiance and the Consolation of Philosophy; a golden volume, 
 gratitude, must be insupportable to the free not unworthy of the leisure of Plato or Tully, 
 spirit of a Roman patriot. But the favor and but which claims incomparable merit from the 
 fidelity of Boethius declined in just proportion barbarism of the times and the situation of the 
 with the public happiness; and an unworthy 35 author. The celestial guide, whom he had so 
 colleague was imposed, to divide and control long invoked at Rome and Athens, now con- 
 the power of the master of the oflBces. In the descended to illumine his dungeon, to revive 
 last gloomy season of Theodoric, he indignantly his courage, and to pour into his wounds her 
 felt that he was a slave; but as his master had salutary balm. She taught him to compare 
 only power over his life, he stood without 40 his long prosperity and his recent distress, and 
 arms and without fear against the face of an to conceive new hopes from the inconstancy of 
 angry Barbarian, who had been provoked to fortune. Reason had informed him of the pre- 
 believe that the safety of the senate was in- carious condition of her gifts; experience had 
 compatible with his own. The senator Al- satisfied him of their real value; he had en- 
 binus^ was accused and already convicted 45 joyed them without guilt; he might resign 
 on the presumption of hoping, as it was said, them without a sigh, and calmly disdain the 
 the hberty of Rome. "If Albinus be criminal," impotent mahce of his enemies, who had left 
 exclaimed the orator, "the senate and myself him happiness, since they had left him virtue, 
 are all guilty of the same crime. If we are From the earth, Boethius ascended to heaven 
 innocent, Albinus is equally entitled to the 50 in search of the Supreme Good; explored the 
 protection of the laws." These laws might metaphysical labyrinth of chance and destiny, 
 not have punished the simple and barren wish of prescience and free will, of time and eternity; 
 
 2 The attacks of Boethius on corruption and misgovern- and generously attempted to reconcile the 
 
 ment, aroused the enmity of the evil men who finally perfect attributes of the Deity with the ap- 
 
 ?^^ty,i'^unStrZi^o°Ln!iJ'^ll£^:Z65p<.vent disorders of his moral and physical 
 
 calculated to provoke these palatince canes (dogs of the government. Such topicS of COnsolatlon SO 
 palace), as Boethius calls them, to measures of revenge. °u„- ,,„ or^^.ao-n^ nr sn nh«?f rn^p irp inpffpctlial 
 
 3 His defence of Albinus was one of the chief causes of obvious, SO vague, or SO aDstruse, are meneciuai 
 
 the downfall of Boethius. By saving Albinus from pun- . . t t- t *u h ^- t? ct^,.r. 
 
 ishment. Boethius incurred the hatred of a certain m- * Jiistm I, Emperor of the Byzantine, or iiastern, 
 
 former named Cyprianus. Empire, 518—527. 
 
420 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 ^ subdue the feelings of human nature. Yet unshaken above the floods of the Nile. A com- 
 the sense of misfortune may be diverted by plex figure of various and minute parts is more 
 the labor of thought; and the sage who could accessible to injury and decay; and the silent 
 artfully combine in the same work the various lapse of time is often accelerated by hurricanes 
 riches of philosophy, poetry, and eloquence, 5 and earthquakes, by fires and inundations, 
 must already have possessed the intrepid The air and earth have doubtless been shaken; 
 calmness which he affected to seek. Suspense, and the' lofty turrets of Rome have tottered 
 the worst of evils, was at length determined from their foundations; but the Seven Hills 
 by the ministers of death, who executed, and do not appear to be placed on the great cavities 
 perhaps exceeded, the inhuman mandate of 10 of the globe; nor has the city, in any age, been 
 Theodoric. A strong cord was fastened round exposed to the convulsions of nature, which, 
 the head of Boethius, and forcibly tightened, in the climate of Antioch, Lisbon, or Lima,^ 
 till his eyes almost started from their sockets; have crumbled in a few moments the works of 
 and some mercy may be discovered in the ages into dust. Fire is the most powerful agent 
 milder torture of beating him with clubs tiU he 15 of life and death: the rapid mischief may be kin- 
 expired. But his genius survived to diffuse a died and propagated by the industry or negli- 
 ray of knowledge over the darkest ages of the gence of mankind; and every period of the 
 Latin world; the writings of the philosopher Roman annals is marked by the repetition of 
 were translated by the most glorious of the similar calamities. A memorable conflagration, 
 English kings,^ and the third emperor by the 20 the guUt or misfortune of Nero's reign, contin- 
 name of Otho removed to a more honorable ued, though with unequal fury, either six, or 
 tomb the bones of a Catholic saint,^ who from nine days. Innumerable buildings, crowded in 
 his Arian persecutors, had acquired the honors close and crooked streets, suppHed perpetual 
 of martyrdom, and the fame of miracles. fuel for the flames; and when they ceased, four 
 
 25 only of the fourteen regions were left entire; 
 
 three were totally destroyed, and seven were 
 
 rr^rm /-» a ttcitio /-vt-i mTTTi "dtttat r\-o deformcd by the rclics of smoking and lacerated 
 
 THE CAUSES OF THE RUIN OF edifices. In the fuU meridian of empire, the 
 
 ROME metropolis arose with fresh beauty from her 
 
 (From the same) 30 ashes, yet the memory of the old deplored 
 
 their irreparable losses, the arts of Greece, the 
 After a diligent inquiry, I can discern four trophies of victory, the monuments of primitive 
 principal causes of the ruin of Rome, which or fabulous antiquity. In the days of distress 
 continued to operate in a period of more than and anarchy, every wound is mortal, every 
 a thousand years. I. The injuries of time and 35 fall irretrievable; nor can the damage be re- 
 nature. II. The hostile attacks of the Bar- stored either by the pubUc care of government, 
 barians and Christians. III. The use and or the activity of private interest. Yet two 
 abuse of the materials. And, IV. The domestic causes may be alleged, which render the calam- 
 quarrels of the Romans. I. The art of man ity of fire more destructive to a flourishing 
 is able to construct monuments far more per- 40 than a decayed city. 1. The more combustible 
 manent than the narrow span of his own exist- materials of brick, timber, and metals, are 
 ence; yet these monuments like himseK, are first melted or consumed; but the flames may 
 perishable and frail; and in the boundless play without injury or effect on the naked walls, 
 annals of time, his life and his labors must and massy arches, that have been despoiled of 
 equally be measured as a fleeting moment. 45 their ornaments. 2. It is among the common 
 Of a simple and solid edifice, it is not easy, and plebeian habitations, that a mischievous 
 however, to circumscribe the duration. As spark is most easily blown to a conflagration; 
 the wonders of ancient days, the pyramids, but as soon as they are devoured, the greater 
 attracted the curiosity of the ancients; a hun- edifices, which have resisted or escaped, are 
 dred generations, the leaves of autumn, have 50 left as so many islands in a state of solitude and 
 dropped into the grave; and after the fall of safety. From her situation, Rome is exposed 
 the Pharaohs and Ptolemies, the Caesars and to the danger of frequent inundations. With- 
 cahphs, the same pyramids stand erect and out excepting the Tyber, the rivers that descend 
 
 6 Alfred. The Great. V. p. 21, supra. ^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^ide of the Apennine have a short 
 
 « "After his death Boethius came to be regarded by 55 and irregular course; a shallow stream in the 
 
 the church of Rome as a martyr for the orthodox faith, onmrnpr }ipqf«5- nn iTnnpfnnn«? tnrrpnf wVipn it 
 
 and was canonized as St. Severinus. Many works on summer neatS, an impetUOUS torrent, wnen It 
 
 doctrinal theology have been attributed to him, but mod- i Antioch has suffered repeatedly from earthquakes; 
 
 ern scholars are not agreed as to his authorship of them, Lisbon was nearly destroyed by earthquake in 1755, some 
 
 nor even as to his having been a Christian at all." W, J. twenty years before Gibbon began to publish his History; 
 
 Sedgefield. Lima suffered severely from an earthquake in 1746. 
 
EDWARD GIBBON 421 
 
 is swelled in the spring or winter, by the fall the Ghibelines,^ the Colonna and Ursini;^ and 
 of rain, and the melting of the snows. When if much has escaped the knowledge, and much 
 the current is repelled from the sea by adverse is unworthy of the notice, of history, I have 
 winds, when the ordinary bed is inadequate exposed in the two preceding chapters the 
 to the weight of waters, they rise above the 5 causes and effects of the pubhc disorders. At 
 banks, and overspread, without limits or con- such a time, when every quarrel was decided 
 trol, the plains and cities of the adjacent by the sword, and none could trust their lives 
 country. Soon after the triumph of the first or properties to the impotence of law, the 
 Punic war, the Tyber was increased by unusual powerful citizens were armed for safety, or 
 rains; and the inundation, surpassing all 10 offence, against the domestic enemies whom 
 former measure of time and place, destroyed they feared or hated. Except Venice alone, 
 all the buildings that were situate below the the same dangers and designs were common 
 hills of Rome. According to the variety of to all the free republics of Italy; and the nobles 
 ground, the same mischief was produced by usurped the prerogative of fortifying their 
 different means; and the edifices were either 15 houses, and erecting strong towers, that were 
 swept away by the sudden impulse, or dis- capable of resisting a sudden attack. The cities 
 solved and undermined by the long continu- were filled with these hostile edifices, and the 
 ance, of the flood. Under the reign of Augustus, example of Lucca, which contained three 
 the same calamity was renewed, the lawless hundred towers; her law, which confined their 
 river overturned the palaces and temples on 20 height to the measure of fourscore feet, may 
 its banks; and, after the laboi-s of the emperor be extended with suitable latitude to the more 
 in cleansing and widening the bed that was opulent and populous states. The first step of 
 encumbered with ruins, the vigilance of his the senator Brancaleone* in the establishment 
 successors was exercised by similar dangers of peace and justice, was to demohsh (as we 
 and designs. The project of diverting into new 25 have already seen) one hundred and forty of 
 channels the Tyber itself, or some of the de- the towers of Rome; and, in the last days of 
 pendent streams, was long opposed by super- anarchy and discord, as late as the reign of 
 stition and local interests; nor did the use Martin the Fifth,^ forty-four still stood in 
 compensate the toil and cost of the tardy and • one of the thirteen or fourteen regions of the 
 imperfect execution. The servitude of rivers 30 city. To this mischievous purpose the re- 
 is the noblest and most important victory which mains of antiquity were most readily adapted: 
 man has obtained over the licentiousness of na- ^ the temples and arches afforded a broad and 
 ture; and if such were the ravages of the Tyber solid basis for the new structures of bricV 
 under a firm and active government what could and stone; and we can name the modern tu. 
 oppose, or who can enumerate, the injuries of 35 rets that were raised on the triumphal monu- 
 the city, after the fall of the Western empire? ments of Julius Caesar, Titus, and the Antouines. 
 A remedy was at length produced by the evil With some slight alterations, a theatre, an am- 
 itself: the accumulation of rubbish and earth, phitheatre, a mausoleum, was transformed into 
 that has been washed down from the hills, is a strong and spacious citadel. I need not re- 
 supposed to have elevated the plain of Rome, 40 peat that the mole of Adrian has assumed the 
 fourteen or fifteen feet, perhaps, above the title and form of the Castle of St. Angelo, the 
 ancient level; and the modern city is less Septizonium« of Severus was capable of stand- 
 accessible to the attacks of the river. ... ing against a royal army; the sepulcher of 
 IV. I have reserved for the last, the most Metella has sunk under its outworks; the 
 potent and forcible cause of destruction, the 45 theatres of Pompey and Marcellus were oc- 
 domestic hostifities of the Romans them- cupied by the SaveUi and Ursini families; and 
 selves. Under the dominion of the Greek and the rough fortress has been gradually softened 
 French emperors, the peace of the city was to the splendor and elegance of an Italian 
 disturbed by accidental, though frequent, . ^^^^„„„ 
 seditions: it is from the dechne of the latter, 50 ^^/hj-^rnVT^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 from the beginning of the tenth century, that the popular party, and were on the side of the Pope; the 
 
 we may date the licentiousness of private war, ^^Z:^::;? Sl^S^X^' """""" 7'";°" 
 
 which violated with impunity the laws of the 3 Two noble and influential Italian famihes whose long 
 
 Code and the Gospel, without respecting the ^ifj^^SS^^li^to^^^^^^ 
 majesty of the absent sovereign, or the presence 55 were allied with the Guelphs. 
 
 o«^ r^ar-a^r. r^f fV.o -.nnci. rsf Thn'^f Tn ft Hflrk * Duridolo Bra7ic.ale.one was elected podesia, or senator, 
 
 and person Ot tne vicar Ot <^nnst. in a aark ^^ ^^^^^ .^^ ^253. He repressed the nobles, and forced 
 period of five hundred years, Rome was per- Pope innocent IV to recognize the popular power. 
 
 petually afflicted by the sanguinary quarrels IrhTsS^zinSmtllt. septem-zona), the name given 
 
 of the nobles and the people, the Guelphs and to the monument of the Emperor Septimus Severus. 
 
422 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 palace. Even the churches were encompassed Whatever was precious, or portable, or pro- 
 with arms and bulwarks, and the military en- fane, the statues of gods and heroes, and the 
 gines on the roof of St, Peter's were the terror costly ornaments of sculpture which were cast 
 of the Vatican and the scandal of the Christian in brass, or overspread with leaves of silver and 
 world. Whatever is fortified will be attacked; 6 gold, became the first prey of conquest or 
 and whatever is attacked, may be destroyed, fanaticism, of the avarice of the Barbarians 
 Could the Romans have wrested from the or the Christians. In the massy stones of the 
 Popes the castle of St. Angelo, they had re- Coliseum, many holes are discerned; and the 
 solved by a pubhc decree to annihilate that two most probable conjectures represent the 
 monument of servitude. Every building of 10 various accidents of its decay. These stones 
 defense was exposed to a siege; and in every were connected by solid links of brass or iron, 
 siege the arts and engines of destruction were nor had the eye of rapine overlooked the value 
 laboriously employed. After the death of of the baser metals; the vacant space was 
 Nicholas the Fourth,'^ Rome, without a sov- converted into a fair or market; the artisans of 
 ereign, or a senate, was abandoned six months 15 the Coliseum are mentioned in an ancient sur- 
 to the fury of civil war. "The houses," says vey; and the chasms were perforated or en- 
 a cardinal and poet of the times, "were crushed larged to receive the poles that supported the 
 by the weight and velocity of enormous stones; shops or tents of the mechanic trades. Re- 
 the walls were perforated by the strokes of the duced to its naked majesty, the Flavian amphi- 
 battering-ram ; the towers were involved in 20 theatre was contemplated with awe and ad- 
 fire and smoke; and the assailants were stimu- miration by the pilgrims of the North; and 
 lated by rapine and revenge." The work was their rude enthusiasm broke forth in a sublime 
 consummated by the tyranny of the laws; and proverbial expression which is recorded in the 
 the factions of Italy alternately exercised a eighth century, in the fragments of the vener- 
 blind and thoughtless vengeance on their ad- 25 able Bede: "As long as the Coliseum stands, 
 versaries, whose houses and castles they razed Rome shall stand; when the CoHseum falls, 
 to the ground. In comparing the days of Rome will fall; when Rome falls, the world 
 foreign, with the ages of domestic, hostility, wiU fall." In the modem system of war, a 
 we must pronounce, that the latter have been situation commanded by three hills would not 
 far more ruinous to the city; and our opinion 30 be chosen for a fortress, but the strength of the 
 is confirmed by the evidence of Petrarch, walls and arches could resist the engines of 
 "Behold," says the laureate, "the relics of assault; a numerous garrison might be lodged 
 Rome, the image of her pristine greatness! in the enclosure; and while one faction occupied 
 neither time nor the Barbarian can boast the the Vatican and the Capitol, the other was 
 merit of this stupendous destruction; it was 35 entrenched in the lateran and the Coliseum. . . 
 perpetrated by her own citizens, by the most The use of the amphitheatre was a rare, 
 
 illustrious of her sons; and your ancestors (he perhaps a singular, festival; the demand for 
 writes to a noble Annabaldi) have done with the materials was a daily and continual want 
 battering ram what the Punic hero could not which the citizens could gratify without re- 
 accomplish with the sword. The influence of 40 straint or remorse. In the fourteenth century, 
 the two last principles of decay must in some a scandalous act of concord secured to both 
 degree be multiplied by each other; since the factions the privilege of extracting stones from 
 houses and towers, which were subverted by the free and common quarry of the Coliseum; 
 civil war, required a new and perpetual supply and Poggius laments, that the greater part of 
 from the monuments of antiquity. 45 these stones had been burnt to hme by the 
 
 These general observations may be sepa- folly of the Romans. To check this abuse, 
 rately applied to the amphitheatre of Titus, and to check the nocturnal crimes that might 
 which has obtained the name of the Coliseum, be perpetrated in the vast and gloomy recess, 
 either from its magnitude, or from Nero's Eugenius the Fourth^ surrounded it with a 
 colossal statue; an edifice, had it been left 50 wall; and, by a charter long extant, granted 
 to time and nature, which might perhaps have both the ground and edifice to the monks of an 
 claimed an eternal duration. The curious an- adjacent convent. After his death, the wall 
 tiquaries, who have computed the numbers was overthrown in a tumult of the people; and 
 and seats, are disposed to believe, that above had they themselves respected the noblest 
 the upper row of stone steps the amphitheatre 55 monument of their fathers, they might have 
 was encircled and elevated with several stages justified the resolve that it should never be 
 of wooden galleries, which were repeatedly degraded to private property. The inside was 
 consumed by fire, and restored by the emperors, damaged: but in the middle of the sixteenth 
 
 7 Pope Nicholas IV, died 1292. - a Pope, 1431-1447. 
 
EDWARD GIBBON 423 
 
 century, an era of taste and learning, the are eclipsed by the sun of the Vatican, by the 
 exterior circumference of one thousand six dome of St. Peter, the most glorious structure 
 hundred and twelve feet was still entire and that ever has been applied to the use of reli- 
 in violate; a triple elevation of fourscore arches, gion. The fame of JuHus the Second, Leo the 
 which rose to the height of one hundred and 5 Tenth, and Sixtus the Fifth, is accompanied 
 eight feet. Of the present ruin, the nephews by the superior merit of Bramante and Fon- 
 of Paul the third^ are the guilty agents; and tana, of Raphael and Michael Angelo; and the 
 every traveller who views the Farnese palace same munificence which had been displayed in 
 may curse the sacrilege and luxury of these palaces and temples was directed with equal 
 upstart princes. A similar reproach is applied 10 zeal to revive and emulate the labors of antiq- 
 to the Barberini; and the repetition of injury uity. Prostrate obehsks were raised from the 
 might be dreaded from every reign, till the ground, and erected in the most conspicuous 
 Coliseum was placed under the safeguard of places, of the eleven aqueducts of the Caesars 
 religion by the most hberal of the pontiffs, and consuls, three were restored; the artificial 
 Benedict the Fourteenth, ^° who consecrated 15 rivers were conducted over a long series of 
 a spot which persecution and fable had stained old, or of new arches, to discharge into marble 
 with the blood of so many Christian martyrs, basins a flood of salubrious and refreshing 
 
 When Petrarch first gratified his eyes with waters; and the spectator, impatient to ascend 
 a view of those monuments, whose scattered the steps of St. Peter's, is detained by a column 
 fragments so far surpass the most eloquent 20 of Egyptian granite, which rises between two 
 descriptions, he was astonished at the supine lofty and perpetual fountains, to the height of 
 indifference of the Romans themselves; he one hundred and twenty feet. The map, the 
 was humbled rather than elated by the dis- description, the monuments of ancient Rome, 
 CO very, that, except his friend Rienzi," and have been elucidated by the diligence of the 
 one of the Colonna, a stranger of the Rhone, 25 antiquarian and the student and the footsteps 
 was more conversant with the antiquities than of heroes, the relics, not of superstition, but 
 the nobles and natives of the metropolis. ... of empire, are devoutly visited by a new race 
 
 But the clouds of barbarism were gradually of pilgrims from the remote, and once savage, 
 dispelled; and the peaceful authority of Martin countries of the North. 
 
 the Fifth and his successors restored the orna- 30 Of these pilgrims, and of every reader, the 
 ments of the city as well as the order of the attention will be excited by a History of the 
 ecclesiastical state. The improvements of Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; the 
 Rome, since the fifteenth century, have not greatest, perhaps, and most awful scene in 
 been the spontaneous produce of freedom and the history of mankind. The various causes 
 industry. The fii»t and most natural root 35 and progressive effects are connected with 
 of a great city is the labor and populousness many of the events most interesting in human 
 of the adjacent country, which suppUes the annals: the artful policy of the Caesars, who 
 materials of subsistence, of manufactures, and long maintained the name and image of a free 
 of foreign trade. But the greater part of the RepubUc; the disorders of military despotism; 
 Campagna of Rome is reduced to a dreary and 40 the rise, establishment, and sects of Chris- 
 desolate wilderness: the overgrown estates of tianity; the foundation of Constantinople; the 
 the princes and the clergy are cultivated by division of the monarchy; the invasions and 
 the lazy hands of indigent and hopeless vassals; settlements of the Barbarians of Germany and 
 and the scanty harvests are confined or ex- Scythia; the institutions of the civil law; the 
 ported for the benefit of a monopoly. A second 45 character and religion of Mahomet; the tem- 
 and more artificial cause of the growth of a poral sovereignty of the popes; the restoration 
 metropolis is the residence of a monarch, the and decay of the Western empire of Charle- 
 expense of a luxurious court, and the tributes magne; the crusades of the Latins in the East; 
 of dependent provinces. . . . The ecclesiastical the conquests of the Saracens and Turks; the 
 revenues were more decently employed by 50 ruin of the Greek empire; the State and revolu- 
 the popes themselves in the pomp of the tions of Rome in the middle age. The his- 
 Catholic worship; but it is superfluous to torian may applaud the importance and va- 
 enumerate their pious foundations of altars, riety of his subject; but while he is conscious 
 chapels and churches, since these lesser stars of his own imperfections, he must often accuse 
 
 » Alessandro Farnese, Pope. 1534-1549. 55 the deficiency of his materials. It was among 
 
 10 Benedict XIV, who was Pope from 1740-58, was the ruins of the Capitol that I first conceived 
 Katu'°e. scLlS at/art^f^b^'ltTuTheltS w^ the idea of a work which haa amused and exer- 
 
 interested in the architectural ruins of ancient Rome. cised near twenty years of my life, and whlch, 
 " CoZa di fttenzi (c. 1313-54), the Italian patriot, lived , . , ,,„.^ ,^ „„ ^_-„ «MaVi<>a T 
 
 and died in Rome, his native city. however madequate to my own wisnes, i 
 
424 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 finally deliver to the curiosity and candor pointed sayings, describe his particularities, 
 
 of the public. and boast of his being his guest sometimes till 
 
 Lausanne, June 27, 1787. two or three in the morning. At his house I 
 
 hoped to have many opportunities of seeing 
 5 the sage, as Mr. Sheridan obhgingly assured 
 31^11100 315O0tD0U ™® ^ should not be disappointed. 
 
 When I returned to London in the end of 
 1740-1795 1762, to my surprise and regret I found an irrec- 
 
 oncilable difference had taken place between 
 BOSWELL'S FIRST MEETING WITH lo Johnson and Sheridan. A pension of two hun- 
 DR. JOHNSON dred pounds a year had been given to Sheridan. 
 
 /i?-^^ TAr^ ^t Tr^h^^r.^ i7Qi\ Johnson, who, as has been already mentioned, 
 
 (From. Life of Johnson, 1791) ;, , ^ ,- i^- i r oi. -j > i. 
 
 thought slightmgly of feheridan s art, upon 
 
 This is to me a memorable year; for in it I hearing that he was also pensioned, exclaimed, 
 had the happiness to obtain the acquaintance 15 "What! have they given him a pension? Then 
 of that extraordinary man whose memoirs it is time for me to give up mine." Whether 
 I am now writing; an acquaintance which I this proceeded from a momentary indignation, 
 shall ever esteem as one of the most fortunate as if it were an affront to his exalted merit 
 circumstances in my life. Though then but that a player should be rewarded in the same 
 two-and-twenty, I had for several years read 20 manner with him, or was the sudden effect of 
 his works with delight and instruction, and a fit of peevishness, it was unluckily said, and, 
 had the highest reverence for their author, indeed, cannot be justified. Mr. Sheridan's 
 which had grown up in my fancy into a kind of pension was granted to him not as a player, 
 mysterious veneration, by figuring to myself but as a sufferer in the cause of Government, 
 a state of solemn elevated abstraction, in which 25 when he was manager of the Theatre Royal in 
 I supposed him to live in the immense metrop- Ireland, when parties ran high in 1753. And 
 olis of London. Mr. Gentleman, a native of it must also be allowed that he was a man of 
 Ireland, who passed some years in Scotland literature, and had considerably improved the 
 as a player, and as an instructor in the English arts of reading and speaking with distinctness 
 language, a man whose talents and worth were 30 and propriety. . . . 
 
 depressed by misfortunes, had given me a Mr. Thomas Davies the actor, who then kept 
 
 representation of the figure and manner of a bookseller's shop in Russell Street, Covent 
 Dictionary Johnson! as he was then generally Garden, told me that Johnson was very much 
 called; and during my first visit to London, his friend, and came frequently to his house, 
 which was for three months in 1760, Mr. 35 where he more than once invited me to meet 
 Derrick the poet,^ who was Gentleman's friend him; but by some unlucky accident or other 
 and countryman, flattered me with hopes that he was prevented from coming to us. 
 he would introduce me to Johnson, an honour Mr. Thomas Davies was a man of good un- 
 of which I was very ambitious. But he never derstanding and talents, with the advantage of 
 found an opportunity; which made me doubt 40 a liberal education. Though somewhat pom- 
 that he had promised to do what was not in pous, he was an entertaining companion; and 
 his power; tiU Johnson some years afterwards his literary performances have no inconsider- 
 told me, "Derrick, sir, might very well have able share of merit. He was a friendly and 
 introduced you. I had a kindness for Derrick, very hospitable man. Both he and his wife 
 and am sorry he is dead." 45 (who has been celebrated for her beauty), 
 
 In the summer of 1761 Mr. Thomas Sheri- though upon the stage for many years, main- 
 dan2 was at Edinburgh, and delivered lee- tained an uniform decency of character: and 
 tures upon the English Language and PubHc Johnson esteemed them, and lived in as easy 
 Speaking to large and respectable audiences, an intimacy with them as with any family he 
 I was often in his company, and heard him 50 used to visit. Mr. Davies recollected several 
 frequently expatiate on Johnson's extraordi- of Johnson's remarkable sayings, and was one 
 nary knowledge, talents, and virtues, repeat his of the best of the many imitators of his voice 
 
 and manner while relating them. He increased 
 HegSftS^i^^^L-iTigufriaTeMo^ty "y impatience more and more to see the 
 
 his LeUers, which were commended by Johnson. 55 extraordinary man whose WOrks I highly 
 
 2 r/iom<xs iSAeridan (1721-1788), the second of his name vaIiipH nnrl whnsp ronvpr'^fltmn wnq ri^nnrtf^d 
 
 to gain distinction, was an Irish actor, elocutionist, and vaiuea, ana wnose conversation was reportea 
 
 author. He wrote a life of Swift, and an English Die- to be SO peculiarly excellent. 
 
 tionary. was at one time manager of a theater in Dublin. \f ir,ai nn MnnHav thp Ifith nf Mnv wVipti T 
 
 and in 1745 acted with Garrick. He was the father of ^^ :^7' . , ? -X"^' . , ^X . ^' . \ 
 
 Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the dramatist. was Slttmg m Mr. DavieS S back parloUT, after ]' 
 
JAMES BOSWELL 425 
 
 having drunk tea with him and Mrs. Davies, I had long indulged of obtaining his acquaint- 
 Johnson unexpectedly came into the shop; ance was blasted. And, in truth, had not 
 and Mr. Davies having perceived him through my ardour been uncommonly strong, and my 
 the glass door in the room in which we were resolution uncommonly persevering, so rough 
 sitting, advancing towards us, — he announced 5 a reception might have deterred me for ever 
 his awful approach to me, somewhat in the from making any further attempts. For- 
 manner of an actor in the part of Horatio, tunately, however, I remained upon the field 
 when he addresses Hamlet on the appearance not wholly discomfited; and was soon rewarded 
 of his father's ghost, "Look, my lord, it by hearing some of his conversation. . . . 
 comes." I found that I had a very perfect 10 I was highly pleased with the extraordinary 
 idea of Johnson's figure, from the portrait of vigour of his conversation, and regretted that 
 him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon I was drawn away from it by an engagement 
 after he had published his Dictionary, in the at another place. I had, for a part of the 
 attitude of sitting in his easy chair in deep evening, been left alone with him, and had 
 meditation; which was the first picture his 15 ventured to make an observation now and 
 friend did for him, which Sir Joshua very then, which he received very civilly; so that 
 kindly presented to me, and from which an I was satisfied that though there was a rough- 
 engraving has been made for this work. Mr. ness in his manner there was no ill-nature in 
 Davies mentioned my name, and respectfully his disposition. Davies followed me to the 
 introduced me to him. I was much agitated; 20 door, and when I complained to him a little 
 and recollecting his prejudice against the of the hard blows which the great man had 
 Scotch, of which I had heard much, I said to given me, he kindly took upon him to console 
 Davies, "Don't tell where I come from." me by saying, "Don't be uneasy. I can see 
 "From Scotland," cried Davies roguishly, he Ukes you very well." 
 
 "Mr. Johnson (said I), I do indeed come from 25 A few days afterwards I called on Davies, 
 Scotland, but I cannot help it." I am willing and asked him if he thought I might take 
 to flatter myself that I meant this as fight the Hberty of waiting on Mr. Johnson at his 
 pleasantry to soothe and conciliate him, and chambers in the Temple. He said I certainly 
 not as an humiliating abasement at the expense might, and that Mr. Johnson would take it as 
 of my country. But however that might be, 30 a compliment. So upon Tuesday the 24th 
 this speech was somewhat unlucky; for with of May, ... I boldly repaired to Johnson, 
 that quickness of wit for which he was so re- His chambers were on the first floor of No. 1 
 markable, he seized the expression "come Inner Temple Lane, and I entered with an 
 from Scotland," which I used in the sense of impression given me by the Rev. Dr. Blair' 
 being of that country; and, as if I had said 35 of Edinburgh, who had been introduced to 
 that I had come away from it, or left it, re- him not long before, and described his having 
 torted, "That, sir, I find, is what a very great *' found the Giant in his den;" an expression 
 many of your countrymen cannot help." which, when I came to be pretty well ac- 
 This stroke stunned me a good deal; and when quainted with Johnson, I repeated to him, and 
 we had sat down I felt myself not a little em- 40 he was diverted at this picturesque account 
 barrassed and apprehensive of what might of himself. . . He received me very cour- 
 come next. He then addressed himself to teously;butitmust be confessed that his apart- 
 Davies: "What do you think of Garrick? ment, and furniture, and morning dress were 
 He has refused me an order for the play for sufficiently uncouth. His brown suit of clothes 
 Miss Wilfiams, because he knows the house 45 looked very rusty; he had on a little old 
 will be full, and that an order would be worth shrivelled unpowdered wig, which was too 
 three shillings." Eager to take any opening small for his head; his shirt-neck and knees 
 to get into conversation with him, I ventured of his breeches were loose; his black worsted 
 to say, "O, sir, I cannot think Mr. Garrick stockings ill drawn up; and he had a pair of 
 would grudge such a trifle to you." "Sir, 50 unbuckled shoes by way of slippers. But all 
 (said he, with a stem look) I have known David these slovenly particularities were forgotten 
 Garrick longer than you have done; and I the moment he began to talk. Some gentle- 
 know no right you have to talk to me on the men, whom I do not recollect, were sitting with 
 subject." Perhaps I deserved this check; for him; and when they went away I also rose; 
 it was rather presumptuous in me, an entire 55 but he said to me, "Nay, don't go." "Sir 
 stranger, to express any doubt of the justice (said I), I am afraid that I intrude upon you. 
 
 of the animadversion upon his old acquaint- 3fl^uj;/ifitoir(1718-1800), minister of the High Church, 
 
 ance and pupil. I now felt myself much morti- E^oburgb, pro|j- o^jhe^o"" -?^bf - leuj, m the 
 
 ned, and began to think that the hope wmch Rhetoric, a once famous book. 
 
426 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 It is benevolent to allow me to sit and hear Johnson, though, indeed, upon a smaller 
 you." He seemed pleased with this compli- scale. 
 
 ment, which I sincerely paid him, and an- At this time^ I think he had published noth- 
 Bwered, "Sir, I am obliged to any man who ing with his name, though it was pretty gen- 
 visits me." . . When I rose a second time Serally known that one Dr. Goldsmith was the 
 he again pressed me to stay, which I did. author oi An Inquiry into the Present State of 
 
 He told me that he generally went abroad Polite Learning in Europe, and of The Citizen 
 at four in the afternoon, and seldom came of thz World,'^ a series of letters supposed to be 
 home until two in the morning. I took the written from London by a Chinese. No man 
 liberty to ask if he did not think it wrong to lO had the art of displaying with more advantage 
 live thus, and not make more use of his great as a writer whatever literary acquisitions he 
 talents. He owned it was a bad habit. On made. '^ Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit."^ His 
 reviewing, at the distance of many years, my mind resembled a fertile, but thin soil. There 
 journal of this period, I wonder how, at my was a quick, but not a strong vegetation, of 
 first visit, I ventured to talk to him so freely, 15 whatever chanced to be thrown upon it. No 
 and that he bore it with so much indulgence. deep root could be struck. The oak of the 
 
 Before we parted he was so good as to prom- forest did not grow there; but the elegant 
 
 ise to favour me with his company one evening shrubbery and the fragrant parterre appeared 
 
 at my lodgings; and as I took my leave, shook in gay succession. It has been generally circu- 
 
 me cordially by the hand. It is almost need- 20 lated and believed that he was a mere fool in 
 
 less to add, that I felt no little elation at having conversation; but in truth this has been greatly 
 
 now so happily established an acquaintance exaggerated. He had, no doubt, a more than 
 
 of which I had been so long ambitious. common share of that hurry of ideas which we 
 
 often find in his countrymen, and which some- 
 
 25 times produces a laughable confusion in ex- 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH pressing them. He was very much what the 
 
 /'TTr.^Tv, +v,« aorv,«\ Frcnch call un etourdi.^ and from vanity and 
 
 (r rom the same) , . <. u • • i. 
 
 eager desire of bemg conspicuous wherever 
 
 As Dr. Oliver Goldsmith will frequently he was, he frequently talked carelessly without 
 
 appear in this narrative, I shall endeavour to 30 knowledge of the subject, or even without 
 
 make my readers in some degree acquainted thought. His person was short, his counte- 
 
 with his singular character. He was a native nance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that 
 
 of Ireland, and a contemporary with Mr. of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy 
 
 Burke at Trinity College, Dublin, but did not gentleman. Those who were in any way dis- 
 
 then give much promise of future celebrity. 35 tinguished excited envy in him to so ridiculous 
 
 He, however, observed to Mr. Malone, that an excess that the instances of it are hardly 
 
 "though he made no great figure in mathe- credible. When accompanying two beautiful 
 
 matics, which was a study in much repute young ladies with their mother on a tour in 
 
 there, he could turn an Ode of Horace into France, he was seriously angry that more 
 
 English better than any of them." He after- 40 attention was paid to them than to him; and 
 
 wards studied physic at Edinburgh, and upon once at the exhibition of the Fantoccini^ in 
 
 the Continent, and, I have been informed, London, when those that sat next him ob- 
 
 was enabled to pursue his travels on foot, served with what dexterity a puppet was made 
 
 partly by demanding at Universities to enter to toss a pike, he could not bear that it should 
 
 the lists as a disputant, by which, according 45 have such praise, and exclaimed with some 
 
 to the custom of many of them, he was en- warmth, "Pshaw! I can do it better my- 
 
 titled to the premium of a crown, when luckily seK." 
 
 for him his challenge was not accepted; so He, I am afraid, had no settled system of 
 
 that, as I once observed to Dr. Johnson, he any sort, so that his conduct must not be 
 
 dispitfeti his passage through Europe. He then 50 strictly scrutinised; but his affections were 
 
 came to England, and was employed succes- social and generous, and when he had money 
 
 sively in the capacities of an usher to an acad- he gave it away very liberally. His desire of 
 
 emy, a corrector of the press, a reviewer, and 
 
 a writer for a newspaper. He had sagacity JIa^- l^^^-. v.,- r. j • ,^r« ^ ,• -.^ , 
 
 ^„^„„i . li.* i. -J 1 J. I. ' f 2 The Inquiry was published m 1759; Golcunnith also 
 
 enough to cultivate assiduously the acquaint- 55 published The Bee, a collection of essays, iD the same 
 
 ance of Johnson, and his faculties were gradu- y®"v ^^^ The Citizen of the World, v. p. 397, supra. 
 
 „ii.. -I J u J.1- A. 1 J.- j> 1 He touched nothing that he did not adorn: from 
 
 ally enlarged by the contemplation of such a Dr. Johnson's epitaph on Goldsmith in Weatminster 
 
 model. To me and many others it appeared ■^^4^a^-j^ 
 
 that he studiously copied the manner of 6PuppefB?TAaL/an«ocanorkuttIedoU.orpu*»«*^ 
 
THOMAS GRAY 427 
 
 imaginary consequence predominated over POETS OF THE ROMANTIC 
 
 his attention to truth. When he began to rise SCHOOL 
 
 into notice, he said he had a brother who wa^ 
 
 Dean of Durham, a fiction so easily detected, t!I/bOttia0 <&tdV 
 
 that it was wonderful how he should have 5 >» K 
 
 been so inconsiderate as to hazard it. He 1716-1771 
 
 boasted to me at this time of the power of his ^j^^ ^^ ^ DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
 
 pen m commanding money, which 1 beueve ETON COLLEGE 
 
 was true in a certain degree, though in the 
 
 instance he gave he was by no means correct, lo (1747) 
 
 He told me that he had sold a novel for four Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 hundred pounds. This was his Vicar of Wake- That crown the watry glade, 
 
 field. But Johnson informed me, that he had Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 made the bargain for Goldsmith, and the . ^^^ ^1^^?'^' ^?l^ ^h^?' u 
 
 price was sixty pounds. "And, sir (said he), - ^?t/,^,^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ' 
 
 a sufficient price too, when it was sold,- for q^ g^.^^^^ of 1^^^,^ of mead survey, 
 
 then the fame of Goldsmith had not been Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 
 elevated, as it afterwards was, by his Traveller; Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 and the bookseller had such faint hopes of His silver-winding way: lo 
 
 profit by his bargain, that he kept the manu- 20 
 
 script by him a long time, and did not publish ^' J[^^PP5^ ^1^^?' ^h .P^®^4^S shade, 
 
 it till after the Traveller had appeared. Then, ^ Ah, fields belov d m vain, 
 
 , , ., -J 4. ^^ 4.U ^' Where once my careless childhood stray 'd, 
 
 to be sure, it waa accidentaUy worth more ^ stranger yet to pain! 
 
 ™o°ey. , . , , I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 15 
 
 Mrs. Piozzi« and Sir John Hawkins^ have 25 a momentary bliss bestow, 
 strangely misstated the history of Goldsmith's As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
 situation and Johnson's friendly interference. My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 when this novel was sold. I shall give it au- And, redolent of joy and youth, 
 thentically from Johnson's own exact nar- To breathe a second spring. 20 
 
 ration:— _ ^ ^^ Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 
 "I received one mornmg a message from ^'^^ ^^^^^y ^ sprightly race 
 poor Goldsmith that he was m great distress. Disporting on thy margent green 
 and as it was not in his power to come to me, The paths of pleasure trace, 
 
 begging that I would come to him as soon as Who foremost now delight to cleave 20 
 
 possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised 35 With phant arm thy glassy wave? 
 to come to him directly. I accordingly went The captive linnet which enthral? 
 as soon as I was drest, and found that his ^^^^^^^XSngSe's speed 
 landlady had arrested him for his rent, at ^""of^^tet^h^r^' 
 which he was m a violent passion. 1 per- 
 ceived that he had already changed my guinea, 40 while some on earnest business bent 
 and had got a bottle of Madeira and a glass Their murm'ring labours ply 
 before him. I put the cork into the bottle, 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constrstint, 
 desired he would be calm, and began to talk To sweeten liberty: 
 
 to him of the means by which he might be gome bold adventurers disdain 35 
 
 extricated. He then told me that he had a 45 Th^ l^n^^ts^f their little reign 
 
 , irxi U-I.U A r. A And unknown regions dare descry, 
 
 novel ready for the press, which he produced g^.^ ^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ l^^k behind, 
 
 to me. I looked into it, and saw its ment; told r^hey hear a voice in every wind, 
 
 the landlady I should soon return, and, having And snatch a fearful joy. ^ 40 
 
 gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. 
 
 I brought Goldsmith the money, and he dis- 50 Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 
 
 charged his rent, not without rating his land- Less pleasing when possest; 
 
 lady in a high tone for having used him so The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
 
 .,1 ,f ^ ^ The sunshine of the breast: 
 
 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 45 
 
 Wild wit, invention ever-new, 
 
 •Hester Lynch Salisbury (1741-1821), a friend of 55 And lively cheer of vigour born; 
 
 Johnson, who met her in 1764, shortly after her marriage rpr ^ fVirMin-Vifloaa rlnv fhp pnqv niffht 
 
 to Henry Thrale. In 1784 she married an Italian musi- ^^^ thOUgiltiess aay, me easy nignt, 
 
 cian named Piozzi. She published a book of anecdotes The Spirits pure, the slumbers llgnt, 
 
 and correspondence relating to Johnson. That fly th' approach of morn. 60 
 
 '' One of Johnson's executors, and author of a life of . ,..^ 
 
 Johnson. i Henry VI, who founded Eton College in 1440t 
 
428 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Alas, regardless of their doom 
 
 The little victims play! 
 No sense have they of ills to come, 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day: 
 Yet see how all around 'em wait 66 
 
 The Ministers of human fate, 
 
 And black Misfortune's baleful train! 
 Ah, show them where in ambush stand 
 To seize their prey the murth'rous band! 
 
 Ah, tell them, they are men! 60 
 
 These shall the fury Passions tear, 
 
 The vultures of the mind, 
 Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
 
 And Shame that sculks behind; 
 Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 65 
 Or Jealousy with rankling tooth. 
 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart, 
 And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
 Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, 
 
 And sorrow's piercing dart* 70 
 
 Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 
 
 Then whirl the wretch from high, 
 To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 
 
 And grinning Infamy. 
 The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 75 
 And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, 
 
 That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; 
 And keen Remorse with blood defil'd. 
 And moody Madness laughing wild 
 
 Amid severest woe. 80 
 
 Lo, in the vale of years beneath 
 
 A grisly troop are seen, 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their Queen: 
 This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 85 
 That every labouring sinew strains, 
 
 Those in the deeper vitals rage: 
 Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand, 
 
 And slow-consuming Age. 90 
 
 To each his suff 'rings: all are men, 
 
 Condemn'd alike to groan, 
 The tender for another's pain; 
 
 Th' unfeeling for his own. 
 Yet, ah! why should they know their fate? 95 
 Since sorrow never comes too late. 
 
 And happiness too swiftly flies, 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. 
 No more; where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 'Tis folly to be wise. lOO 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST ^ 
 
 In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, 
 
 And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire: 
 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join; 
 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire: 
 
 * A fellow-atudent of Gray's at Eton, and one of his 
 most intimate friends. West died at the age of 25, June Ist, 
 1742, and the sonnet on his death was written in the fol- 
 lowing August. 
 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine ; 5 
 
 A different object do these eyes require: 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; 
 * And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 
 Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 
 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier 
 men: lo 
 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear : 
 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain: 
 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear. 
 
 And weep the more, because I weep in vain. 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
 CHURCHYARD 
 
 (1751) 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting^ day, 
 The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea. 
 
 The plowman homeward plods his weary way. 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
 sight, 5 
 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain lo 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's 
 shade 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
 heap. 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid 15 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing Mom, 
 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built 
 
 shed. 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly 
 
 bed. 2 20 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 
 
 No children run to hsp their sire's return. 
 Or chmb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 
 broke: 
 How jocund did they drive oiieir team afield I 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy 
 stroke! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 3C 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 1 Here —dying. 
 
 2 This is to be understood literally: it does not mean the ^ 
 grave. 
 
THOMAS GRAY 
 
 429 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike th' inevitable hour. 35 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault. 
 
 If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
 
 vault 
 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of 
 
 praise. 40 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
 Can Honour's voice provoke' the silent dust. 
 
 Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have 
 sway'd. 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living Ijrre. 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 
 
 Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 51 
 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless 
 
 breast 
 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood. 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
 
 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's 
 
 blood. 60 
 
 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command. 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
 And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Their lot forbad : nor circumscrib'd alone 65 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- 
 fin'd; 
 
 Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 71 
 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
 Their sober wishes never learn 'd to stray; 
 
 Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 75 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
 deck'd, 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 
 
 * Call forth, summon. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 
 muse. 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews. 
 
 That teach the rustic morahst to die. 
 
 For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 85 
 
 This pleasirg anxious being e'er resign'd. 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing hng'ring look behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul rehes, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 90 
 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee,* who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead. 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 95 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 
 ''Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. lOO 
 
 "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 
 Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 
 
 Now drooping, woful-wan; like one forlorn, 
 Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless 
 love. 
 
 "One morn I missed him on the custom'd hill. 
 Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; no 
 
 Another came; nor yet beside the rill. 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: 
 
 "The next, with dirges due in sad array 
 Slow through the church-way path we saw 
 him borne: 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the 
 lay. 115 
 
 Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged 
 thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
 A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; 
 
 Fair Science^ frown'd not on his humble birth. 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 120 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
 Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: 
 
 He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear. 
 He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a 
 friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 * i. e., Gray himself. * Kind, or gracious, learning. 
 
430 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 THE BARDi 
 
 (From Odes, 1757) 
 I. 1 
 "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! 
 Confusion on thy banners wait, ' 
 Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing 
 
 They mock the air with idle state. 
 Hehn, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, 5 
 
 Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 
 
 To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 
 From Cambria' s^ curse, from Cambria's 
 tears!" 
 Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested 
 pride 
 Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, 
 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 1 1 
 He wound with toilsome march his long 
 array. 
 Stout Glo'ster^ stood aghast in speechless 
 
 trance: 
 "To arms!" cried Mortimer,'* and couch'd his 
 quiv'ring lance. 
 
 1.2 
 
 15 
 
 On a rock, whose haughty brow 
 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
 
 Robed in the sable garb of woe. 
 With haggard eyes the Poet stood; 
 (Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
 
 Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled 
 air), 20 
 
 And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, 
 Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
 
 "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert 
 cave, 
 Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! 
 O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they 
 wave, 25 
 
 Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs 
 breathe; 
 Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day. 
 To high-born Hoel's* harp, or soft Llewellyn's 
 lay." 
 
 L3 
 "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue. 
 That hush'd the stormy main : 30 
 
 Brave IJrien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 
 Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
 Modred, whose magic song 
 Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd 
 head. 
 On dreary Arvon's shore" they lie, 35 
 
 1 "This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales 
 that Edward I, when he completed the conquest of that 
 country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be 
 put to death." Gray. 
 
 2 Cambria, the ancient name of Wales. 
 
 * Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, who had con- 
 ducted the war in South Wales before joining forces with 
 the king. 
 
 * Edward de Mortimer, who co-operated with the king 
 in North Wales. 
 
 ' Probably Howel ab Owain, a bard of the latter 12th 
 century. For many of the other bards, Gray appears 
 simply to have selected appropriate national names, 
 without having any specific Welsh poet in mind. 
 
 * i. e., on the coast ofiParnarvonshire (Arvon = Carnar- 
 von =Caer-yn-Arvon, tne camp in Arvon). 
 
 Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: 
 Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; 
 
 The f amish'd Eagle screams, and passes by. 
 Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 
 
 Dear, as the Hght that visits these sad 
 
 eyes, 40 
 
 Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 
 
 Ye died amidst your dying country's 
 cries — 
 No more I weep. They do not sleep. 
 
 On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
 I see them sit, they linger yet, .45 
 
 Avengers of their native land: 
 With me in dreadful harmony they join. 
 And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy 
 line." 
 
 n. 1 
 
 " Weave the warp, and weave the woof. 
 The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 50 
 
 Give ample room, and verge enough 
 The characters of hell to trace. 
 Mark the year, and mark the night, 
 When Severn shall re-echo with aftright 
 The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that 
 ring, 55 
 
 Shrieks of an agonizing King!^ 
 
 She-Wolf of France,^ with unrelenting 
 fangs, 
 That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, 
 From thee be born, who o'er thy country 
 hangs 
 The scourge of Heav'n.^ What Terrors round 
 him wait! 60 
 
 Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, 
 And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude be- 
 hind." 
 
 11.2 
 "Mighty Victor, mighty Lord! 
 Low on his funeral couch he lies! 
 
 No pitying heart, no eye, afford 65 
 
 A tear to grace his obsequies. 
 
 Is the sable Warriour fled? 
 Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. 
 The Swarm, that in thy noontide beam were 
 
 bom? 
 Gone to salute the rising Mom. 70 
 
 Fair laughs the Mom, and soft the Zephyr 
 blows. 
 While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
 In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes; 
 
 Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the 
 helm; 
 Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 75 
 That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his even- 
 ing prey." 
 
 IL 3 
 
 "Fill high the sparkling bowl. 
 The rich repast prepare, 
 
 Reft of a crown, he yet may share the 
 feast: 
 
 7 The Severn flows near to Berkeley Castle, where 
 Edward II was murdered. 
 
 8 The French Princess. Isabelle, wife of Edward II, 
 who allied herself with Mortimer to compass the ruin of 
 her husband. ' Edward III. 
 
WILLIAM COLLINS 
 
 431 
 
 Close by the regal chair 80 
 
 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
 A baleful smile upon their baflaed Guest. 
 Heard ye the din of battle bray, 
 
 Lance to lance, and horse to horse? 
 
 Long years of havoc urge their destined 
 course, 85 
 
 And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their 
 way. 
 Ye Towers of JuUus,^" London's lasting 
 shame, 
 With many a foul and midnight murther fed. 
 Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's 
 fame, 
 And spare the meek Usurper's" holy head. 90 
 Above, below, the rose of snow, 
 
 Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: 
 The bristled Boar^^ [^ infant gore 
 
 Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
 Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom 
 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his 
 doom." 96 
 
 III.l 
 "Edward, lo! to sudden fate" 
 (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). 
 
 Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
 (The web is wove . The work is done) . 1 00 
 
 Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn 
 Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: 
 In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, 
 They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
 But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's 
 height 105 
 
 Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts un- 
 roU? 
 Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, 
 
 Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul! 
 No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
 All hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, 
 hail!" 
 
 110 
 
 m. 2 
 
 " Girt with many a Baron bold 
 
 Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 
 And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old 
 In bearded majesty, appear. 
 In the midst a Form divine I^^ 115 
 
 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; 
 Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face, 
 Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 
 What strings symphonious tremble in the air. 
 
 What strains of vocal transport round her 
 play. _ 120 
 
 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin,^^ hear; 
 
 They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
 Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, 
 Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd 
 wings." 
 
 10 The Tower of London, popularly, but erroneously, 
 supposed to have been built by Julius Caesar. 
 
 11 Henry VI. His consort was Margaret of Anjou, 
 and his father, Henry V. 
 
 12 The badge of Richard III. 
 
 13 Eleanor, the Queen of Edward I, died suddenly dur- 
 ing her husband's absence. 
 
 14 Queen Elizabeth. She is of the Briton-line, being the 
 granddaughter of Henry VII, a descendant of the Welsh, 
 :>T British, gentleman Owen Tudor. 
 
 15 A famous British bard of the sixth century. 
 
 IIL3 
 
 ' ' The verse adorn again 125 
 
 Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
 And truth severe, by fairy Fiction arest. 
 
 In buskin'd measures move 
 Pale Grief, and Pleasing Pain, 
 With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
 A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir, 131 
 
 Gales from blooming Eden bear; 
 And distant warblings^^ lessen on my ear, 
 
 That lost in long futurity expire. 
 Fond impious Man, think' st thou, yon sanguine 
 cloud, 135 
 
 Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the 
 Orb of day? 
 To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. 
 
 And warms the nations with redoubled 
 ray. 
 Enough for me: With joy I see 
 
 The different doom our Fates assign. 140 
 Be thine Despair, and sceptr'd Care, 
 To triumph, and to die, are mine." 
 He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's 
 
 height 
 Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless 
 night. 
 
 William CoUittfii 
 
 1721-1759 
 
 ODE TO EVENING 
 
 (From Odes, 1746) 
 
 If aught of oaten stop^ or pastoral song. 
 
 May hope, chaste eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 
 
 Like thy own solemn springs. 
 
 Thy springs, and dying gales, 
 
 O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired 
 
 sun, . 5 
 
 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 
 
 With brede ethereal wove, 
 
 O'erhang his wavy bed: 
 
 Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
 
 With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern 
 
 wing; 10 
 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 
 His small but sullen horn. 
 
 As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : 
 
 Now teach me, maid composed, 15 
 
 To breath some softened strain. 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through thy darken- 
 ing vale. 
 May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit. 
 
 As, musing slow, I hail 
 
 Thy genial loved return ! 20 
 
 ifi i. e., of the poets succeeding Milton, who is referred 
 to in the preceding lines. 
 
 1 Here = the shepherd's pipe of reed, or oateP straw; 
 (Vergil's avena). 
 
432 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 For when thy folding star arising shows 
 His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
 
 The fragrant hours, and elves 
 
 Who slept in flowers the day. 
 
 And many a nymph who wreathes her brows 
 with sedge, 25 
 
 And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier 
 still, 
 The pensive pleasures sweet 
 Prepare thy shadowy car. 
 
 Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety 
 
 lake 
 Cheers the lone heath,' or some time-hallowed 
 pile, 30 
 
 Or up-land fallows grey 
 Reflect its last cool gleam. 
 
 But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
 Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut. 
 
 That from the mountain's side, 35 
 
 Views wilds, and swelling floodJs, 
 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; 
 And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 
 
 Thy dewy fingers draw 
 
 The gradual dusky veil. 40 
 
 While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he 
 
 wont. 
 And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest eve! 
 
 While summer loves to sport 
 
 Beneath thy lingering light; 
 
 While sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves ;4 5 
 Or winter yelling through the troublous air. 
 
 Affrights thy shrinking train. 
 
 And rudely rends thy robes; 
 
 So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed. 
 Shall fancy, friendship, science, rose-lipp'd 
 health, 50 
 
 Thy gentlest influence own. 
 
 And hymn thy favorite name! 
 
 THE PASSIONS 
 
 AN ODE FOR MUSIC 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 When music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 While yet in early Greece she sung. 
 The passions oft, to hear her shell, "^ 
 Thronged around her magic cell, ^ 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 5 
 
 Possest beyond the muse's painting: 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; 
 Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired. 
 Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 10 
 
 From the supporting myrtles round 
 They snatched her instruments of sound; 
 And, as they oft had heard apart 
 Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
 
 > Lyre. The primitive lyre was supposed to have been 
 £nade by stretching strings across the shell of a tortoise. 
 
 Each (for madness ruled the hour) U 
 
 Would prove his own expressive power. 
 First fear, his hand, its skill to try, 
 
 Amid the chords bewildered laid. 
 And back recoiled, he knew not why. 
 
 Even at the sound himself had made. 2C 
 Next anger rushed; his eyes on fire. 
 
 In lightnings owned his secret stings: 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 
 
 And swept, with hurried hand, the strings. 
 
 With woful measures wan despair 25 
 
 Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; 
 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 
 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 
 But thou, O hope, with eyes so fair, 
 
 What was thy delightful measure? 30 
 
 Still it whispered promised pleasure. 
 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong; 
 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
 
 She called on echo still, through all the song; 35 
 
 And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every 
 
 close, 
 
 And hope enchanted smiled, and waved her 
 
 golden hair. 
 And longer had she sung; — ^but, with a frown, 
 Revenge impatient rose: 40 
 
 He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, 
 down; 
 And with a withering look. 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! 45 
 And, ever and anon, he beat 
 The doubling drum, with furious heat; 
 And though sometimes, each dreary pause be- 
 tween, 
 Dejected pity, at his side. 
 
 Her soul-subduing voice applied, 50 
 
 Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, 
 While each strained ball of sight seemed burst- 
 ing from his head. 
 Thy numbers, jealoUsy, to naught were 
 fixed; 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state; 
 Of differing themes the veering song was 
 mixed; 55 
 
 And now it courted love, now raving called 
 on hate. 
 With eyes upraised, as one inspired. 
 Pale melancholy sat retired; 
 And, from her wild sequestered seat, 
 In notes by distance made more sweet, 60 
 
 Poured through the mellow horn her pensive 
 soul: 
 And, dashing soft from rocks around, 
 Bubbling runnels joined the sound; 
 Through glades and glooms the mingled meas- 
 ure stole. 
 Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond 
 delay, 6£ 
 
 Round an holy calm diffusing, 
 Love of peace, and lonely musing. 
 In hollow murmurs died away. 
 
THOMAS PERCY 
 
 433 
 
 But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
 When cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest 
 hue, 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung, 71 
 
 Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
 rung. 
 The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known! 
 The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed 
 queen, 75 
 
 Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen. 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green: 
 Brown exercise rejoiced to hear; 
 
 And sport leapt up, and seized his beecheu 
 spear. 
 Last came joy's ecstatic trial: 80 
 
 He, with viny crown advancing, 
 
 First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; 
 
 But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol. 
 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the 
 
 best; 
 
 They would have thought who heard the 
 
 strain 85 
 
 They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native 
 
 maids. 
 Amidst the festal sounding shades, 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
 
 While, as his flying fingers kissed the 
 
 strings. 
 
 Love framed with mirth a gay fantastic 
 
 round: 90 
 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone im- 
 
 bound; 
 And he, amidst his frolic play, 
 As if he would the charming air repay, 
 Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 
 
 O music! sphere-descended maid, 95 
 
 Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid! 
 
 Why, goddess! why, to us denied, 
 
 Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 
 
 As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
 
 You learned an all-commanding power, 100 
 
 Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared, 
 
 Can well recall what then it heard; 
 
 Where is thy native simple heart. 
 
 Devote to virtue, fancy, art? 
 
 Arise, as in that elder time,^ 105 
 
 Warm, energic, chaste, sublime! 
 
 Thy wonders, in that godhke age, 
 
 Fill thy recording sister's page — 
 
 'Tis said, and I believe the tale. 
 
 Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 110 
 
 Had more of strength, diviner rage. 
 
 Than all which charms this laggard age; 
 
 E''en all at once together found, 
 
 Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
 
 O bid our vain endeavours cease; 115 
 
 Revive the just designs of Greece: 
 
 Return in all thy simple state! 
 
 Confirm the tales her sons relate! 
 
 2 Collins was unaware of the progress which music wag 
 making in England at this time, or else chose to ignore it 
 for the sake of his poetic effect. Most of Handel's greatest 
 works were produced between 1739 and 1751, and his 
 Messiah was received with great enthusiasm in London 
 three years before Collins published hia Odes. 
 
 ODE 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746' 
 
 How sleep the brave who sink to rest, 
 By all their country's wishes blessed! 
 When spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
 Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 
 
 Than fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung; 
 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
 
 There honour comes, a pilgrim grey. 
 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10 
 
 And freedom shall awhile repair. 
 
 To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! 
 
 DIRGE IN CYMBELINE^ 
 
 SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER 
 FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD 
 
 (First published in The Gentleman's Magazine, 
 for October, 1749) 
 
 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 
 
 Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
 Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 
 
 And rifle all the breathing spring. 
 
 No wailing ghost shall dare appear 5 
 
 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; 
 
 But shepherd lads assemble here. 
 And melting virgins own their love. 
 
 No withered witch shall here be seen; 
 
 No goblins lead their nightly crew: 10 
 
 The female fays shall haunt the green. 
 
 And dress thy grave with pearly dew! 
 
 The redbreast oft, at evening hours. 
 
 Shall kindly lend his little aid. 
 With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, 15 
 
 To deck the ground where thou art laid. 
 
 When howling winds and beating rain. 
 In tempests shake the sylvan cell; 
 
 Or 'midst the chase, on every plain. 
 The tender thought on thee shall dwell; 20 
 
 Each lonely scene shall thee restore; 
 
 For thee the tear be duly shed; 
 Beloved till life can charm no more, 
 
 And mourned till pity's self be dead. 
 
 1729-1811 
 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY 
 
 It was a friar of orders gray, 
 Walked forth to tell his beads, 
 
 And he met with a lady fair, 
 Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 
 
 1 In this year England was at war both on the con- 
 tinent and in Scotland. The Jacobite victory of Falkirk 
 was Jan. 17, 1746, and the crushing Jacobite defeat of 
 CuUoden, April 16th of the same year. 
 
 1 V. Cymbeline, Act IV, sc. ii. 
 
434 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 "Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar! 5 
 
 I pray thee tell to me, 
 If ever at yon holy shrine 
 
 My true love thou didst see." , 
 
 "And how should I know your true love 
 From many another one?" 10 
 
 "Oh! by his cockle hat^ and staff, 
 And by his sandle shoon:^ 
 
 "But chiefly by his face and mien, 
 
 That were so fair to view, 
 His flaxen locks that sweetly curled, 15 
 
 And eyne of lovely blue." 
 
 "O lady, he is dead and gone! 
 
 Lady, he's dead and gone! 
 And at his head a green grass turf. 
 
 And at his heels a stone. 20 
 
 "Within these holy cloisters long 
 
 He languished, and he died, 
 Lamenting of a lady's love, 
 
 And 'plaining of her pride. 
 
 "Here bore him barefaced on his bier 25 
 
 Six proper youths and tall; 
 And many a tear bedewed his grave 
 
 Within yon kirkyard wall' 
 
 "And art thou dead, thoU gentle youth — 
 And art thou dead and gone? 30 
 
 And didst thou die for love of me? 
 Break, cruel heart of stone!" 
 
 "O weep not, lady, weep not so. 
 
 Some ghostly counsel seek: 
 Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 35 
 
 Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 
 
 "O do not, do not, holy friar, 
 
 My sorrow now reprove; 
 For I have lost the sweetest youth 
 
 That e'er wan^ lady's love. 40 
 
 "And now, alas! for thy sad loss 
 
 I'll evermore weep and sigh; 
 For thee I only wished to live, 
 
 For thee I wish to die." 
 
 "Weep no more, lady, weep no more; 45 
 
 Thy sorrow is in vain : 
 For violets plucked the sweetest showers 
 
 Will ne'er make grow again. 
 
 "Our joys as winged dreams do fly; 
 
 Why then should sorrow last? ( 60 
 
 Since grief but aggravates thy loss. 
 
 Grieve not for what is past." 
 
 "O say not so, thou holy friar! 
 
 I pray thee say not so; 
 For since my true love died for me, 55 
 
 'Tis meet my tears should flow. 
 
 » Hat bearing a scallop-shelU the sign of a pilgrim. 
 • Sandal = shoes. » Won. 
 
 And will he ne'er come again — 
 
 Will he ne'er come again? 
 Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave. 
 
 For ever to remain. 60 
 
 "His cheek was redder than the rose — 
 
 The comeliest youth was he: 
 But he is dead, and laid in his grave, 
 
 Alas! and woe is me." 
 
 "Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, 65 
 
 Men were deceivers ever; 
 One foot on sea and one on land. 
 
 To one thing constant never. 
 
 "Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. 
 And left thee sad and heavy; 70 
 
 For young men ever were fickle found, 
 Since summer trees were leafy." 
 
 "Now say not so, thou holy friar, 
 
 I pray thee say not so; 
 My love he had the truest heart — 75 
 
 O he was ever true! 
 
 "And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth? 
 
 And didst thou die for me? 
 Then farewell home; for evermore 
 
 A pilgrim I will be. 80 
 
 "But first upon my true-love's grave 
 
 My weary Umbs I'll lay. 
 And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf 
 
 That wraps his breathless clay." 
 
 "Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile 85 
 
 Beneath this cloister wall; 
 The cold wind through the hawthorn blows. 
 
 And drizzly rain doth fall." 
 
 "O stay me not, thou holy friar, 
 
 O stay me not, I pray; 
 No drizzly rain that falls on me. 
 
 Can wash my fault away." 
 
 "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 
 
 And dry those pearly tears; 
 And see, beneath this gown of gray. 
 
 Thy own true love appears. 
 
 "Here forced by grief and hopeless love. 
 
 These holy weeds I sought; 
 And here, amid these lonely walls, 
 
 To end my days I thought. 100 
 
 "But haply, for my year of grace 
 
 Is not yet passed away. 
 Might I still hope to win thy love. 
 
 No longer would I stay." 
 
 90 
 
 95 
 
 "Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 
 
 Once more unto my heart; 
 For since I've found thee, lovely youth. 
 
 We never more will part." 
 
 109 
 
WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 435 
 
 William ctotDper 
 
 1731-1800 
 THE TASK 
 
 (1785) 
 
 (Selections from Book I. The Sofa) 
 
 But though true worth and virtue, in the 
 mild 
 And genial soil of cultivated life, 
 Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only 
 there, 680 
 
 Yet not in cities oft : in proud and gay 
 And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow, 
 As to a common and most noisome sewer. 
 The dregs and feculence of every land. 
 In cities foul example on most minds 685 
 
 Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds 
 In gross and pampered cities sloth and lust, 
 And wantonness and gluttonous excess. 
 In cities vice is hidden v/ith most ease, 
 Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, 
 taught 690 
 
 By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there 
 Beyond the achievement of successful flight. 
 I do confess them nurseries of the arts, 
 In which they flourish most; where, in the 
 
 beams 
 Of warm encouragement, and in the eye 695 
 
 Of public note, they reach their perfect size. 
 Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed 
 The fairest capital of all the world. 
 By riot and incontinence the worst. 
 There, touched by Reynolds,^ a dull blank 
 becomes 700 
 
 A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 
 All her reflected features. Bacon ^ there 
 Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 
 And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. 
 Nor does the chisel occupy alone 705 
 
 The powers of sculpture, but the style as much; 
 Each province of her art her equal care. 
 With nice incision of her guided steel 
 She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil 
 So sterile, with what charms soe'er she will, 710 
 The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. 
 Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, 
 With which she gazes at yon burning disk 
 Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots? 
 In London. Where her implements exact, 715 
 With which she calculates, computes, and scans 
 All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 
 Measures an atom, and now girds a world? 
 In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 
 So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so sup- 
 plied, 720 
 As London, opulent, enlarged, and still 
 Increasing London? Babylon of old 
 Not more the glory of the earth than she, 
 A more accomplished world's chief glory now. 
 
 1 At this time Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792) was at 
 the height of his fame as a painter. 
 
 2 John Bacon (1740-1799), a distinguished sculptor of 
 the day. 
 
 She has her praise. Now mark a spot or 
 
 two 725 
 
 That so much beauty would do well to purge; 
 
 And show this queen of cities, that so fair 
 
 May yet be foul, so witty yet not wise. 
 
 It is not seemly, nor of good report, 
 
 That she is slack in discipline; more prompt 730 
 
 To avenge than to prevent the breach of law; 
 
 That she is rigid in denouncing death 
 
 On petty robbers, and indulges hfe 
 
 And liberty, and oftimes honour too, 
 
 To peculators of the public gold ; 735 
 
 That thieves at home must hang, but he that 
 
 puts 
 Into his overgorged and bloated purse 
 The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. 
 Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, 
 That, through profane and infidel contempt 740 
 Of Holy Writ, she has presumed to annul 
 And abrogate, as roundly as she may, 
 The total ordinance and will of God; 
 Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, 
 And centering all authority in modes 745 
 
 And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites 
 Have dwindled into unrespected forms, 
 And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced. 
 God made the country, and man made the 
 
 town: 
 What wonder then, that health and virtue, 
 
 gifts 750 
 
 That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
 That hfe holds out to all, should most abound 
 And least be threatened in the fields and groves? 
 Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about 
 In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue 755 
 But that of idleness, and taste no scenes 
 But such as art contrives, possess ye still 
 Your element; there only ye can shine. 
 There only minds like yours can do no harm. 
 Our groves were planted to console at noon 760 
 The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve 
 The moonbeam, sliding softly in between 
 The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, 
 Birds warbling all the music. We can spare 
 The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse 
 Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 766 
 Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs 
 Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. 
 There is a public mischief in your mirth. 
 It plagues your country. Folly such as yours 
 Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, 771 
 Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, 
 Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, 
 A mutilated structure, soon to fall. . . . 
 
 Book II. — The Time-piece 
 Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade, _ 
 Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war, 
 Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, 
 My soul is sick with every day's report 6 
 
 Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. 
 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 
 It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
 Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 10 
 
436 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
 He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
 Not coloured like his own, and having power 
 To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 15 
 Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
 Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
 Make enemies of nations who had else 
 Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
 Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; 20 
 And worse than all, and most to be deplored, 
 As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his 
 
 sweat 
 With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart. 
 Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 25 
 
 Then what is man? And what man seeing this, 
 And having human feelings, does not blush 
 And hang his head, to think himself a man? 
 I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
 To carry me, to fan me while 1 sleep, 30 
 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
 That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 Just estimation prized above all price, 
 I had much rather be myself the slave 35 
 
 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on 
 
 him. 
 We have no slaves at home. — Then why abroad? 
 And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England;' if their 
 
 lungs 40 
 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free; 
 They touch our country, and their shackles 
 
 fall. 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then. 
 And let it circulate through every vein 45 
 
 Of all your empire; that where Britain's power 
 Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. . . . 
 
 Book III. — The Garden 
 I was a stricken deer that left the herd 108 
 Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed 
 My panting side was charged, when I with- 
 drew 110 
 To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
 There was I found by One who had Himself 
 Been hurt by the archers. In His side He 
 
 bore. 
 And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
 With gentle force soliciting the darts, 115 
 
 He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me 
 
 live. 
 Since then, with few associates, in remote 
 And silent woods I wander, far from those 
 My former partners of the peopled scene; 
 With few associates, and not wishing more. 120 
 Here much I ruminate, as much I may, 
 With other views of men and manners now 
 Than once, and others of a hfe to come. . . . 
 
 * The question as to whether slaves were legally eman- 
 ripated by being brought to England was judicially 
 Fettled in 1772. In a case decided in that year, the court 
 held that every slave, as .eoou as he lauded on English 
 soil, acquired his freedom. 
 
 Book IV. — The Winter's Evening 
 Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder 
 
 bridge, 
 That with its wearisome but needful length 
 Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 
 Sees her un wrinkled face reflected bright, 
 He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 5 
 
 With spattered boots, strapped waist, and 
 
 frozen locks, 
 News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
 True to his charge, the close-packed load be- 
 hind, 
 Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
 Is to conduct it to the destined inn, 10 
 
 And having dropped the expected bag — pass on. 
 He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. 
 Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief 
 Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some. 
 To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 15 
 
 Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
 Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
 With tears that trickled down the writer's 
 
 cheeks 
 Fast as the periods from his fluent quill. 
 Or charged with amorous sighs of absent 
 
 swains, 20 
 
 Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
 His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
 But oh the important budget! ushered in 
 With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
 What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? 
 Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, 26 
 Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave? 
 Is India free?'* and does she wear her plumed 
 And jewelled turban with a smile of peace. 
 Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, 30 
 The popular harangue, the tart reply. 
 The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 
 And the loud laugh — I long to know them all; 
 I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free. 
 And give them voice and utterance once again. 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters 
 
 fast, 36 
 
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round. 
 And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
 Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
 That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 40 
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in. . . . 
 Oh Winter! ruler of the inverted year, 120 
 Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled. 
 Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy 
 
 cheeks 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other 
 
 snows 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy thronei25 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheals. 
 But urged by storms along its slippery way; 
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem est, 
 And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun 
 A prisoner in the yet undaw^ning east, 130 
 
 Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
 
 * The relation of England to India was one of the 
 important political issues of the time. In 1784 Pitt 
 introduced a bill for the Government of India, and in 
 1786 (a year after the publication of The Task) the trial ol 
 Warren Hastings was begun. 
 
WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 437 
 
 And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
 Down to the rosy west; but kindly still 
 Compensating his loss with added hours 
 Of social converse and instructive ease, 135 
 
 And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
 The family dispersed, and fixing thought. 
 Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
 1 crown thee King of intimate delights, 
 P'ireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 140 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
 Of long uninterrupted evening know. ... 143 
 Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; 
 Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! 
 Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, 245 
 
 With matron step slow moving, while the Night 
 Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand em- 
 ployed 
 In letting fall the curtain of repose 
 On bird and beast, the other charged for man 
 With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; 250 
 
 Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid. 
 Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems; 
 A star or two just twinkling on thy brow 
 Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine 
 No less than hers, not worn indeed on high 255 
 With ostentatious pageantry, but set 
 With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, 
 Resplendent less, but of an ample round. 
 Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary 
 
 calm. 
 Or make me so. Composure is thy gift : 260 
 
 And whether I devote thy gentler hours 
 To books, to music, or the poet's toil; 
 To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; 
 Or twining silken threads round ivory reels, 
 When they command whom man was born to 
 
 please : 265 
 
 I slight thee not, but make thee welcome 
 
 still. . . . 
 In such a world, so thorny, and where none 333 
 Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found, 
 Without some thistly sorrow at its side, 335 
 
 It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
 Against the law of love, to measure lots 
 With less distinguished than ourselves, that 
 
 thus 
 We may with patience bear our moderate ills. 
 And sympathize with others, suffering more. 340 
 111 fares the traveller now, and he that stalks 
 In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. 
 The wain goes heavily, impeded sore 
 By congregated loads adhering close 
 To the clogged wheels; and in its sluggish pace 
 Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow, 346 
 
 The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, 
 While every breath, by respiration strong 
 Forced downward, is consolidated soon 
 Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to 
 
 bear 3.50 
 
 The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night. 
 With half-shut eyes and puckered cheeks, and 
 
 teeth 
 ?resented bare against the storm, plods on. 
 One hand secures his hat, save when with both 
 lie brandishes his pliant length of whip, 355 
 
 Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. 
 Oh happy! and in my account, denied 
 The sensibility of pain with which 
 Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou. 
 Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed 360 
 The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired. 
 The learned finger never need explore 
 Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east. 
 That breathes the spleen, and searches every 
 
 bone 
 Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 365 
 
 Thy davs roll on exempt from household care; 
 Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts. 
 That drag the dull companion to and fro, 
 Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. 
 Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest, 
 Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the 
 
 great, 371 
 
 With needless hurry whirled from place to place. 
 Humane as they would seem, not always show. 
 Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat. 
 Such claim compassion in a night like this, 375 
 And have a friend in every feeling heart. . . . 
 
 Book VI. — The Winter Walk at Noon 
 The night was winter in his roughest mood,57 
 The morning sharp and clear. But now at 
 
 noon. 
 Upon the southern side of the slant hills. 
 And where the woods fence off the northern 
 
 blast, 60 
 
 The season smiles, resigning all its rage. 
 And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
 Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
 The dazzling splendour of the scene below. 
 Again the harmony comes o'er the vale 65 
 
 And through the trees I view the embattled 
 
 tower^ 
 Whence all the music. I again perceive 
 The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
 And settle in soft musings as I tread 
 The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 70 
 Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
 The roof, though moveable through all its 
 
 length 
 As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, 
 And intercepting in their silent fall 
 The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 75 
 No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
 The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
 With slender notes, and more than half sup- 
 pressed : 
 Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
 From spray to spray, where'er he rests he 
 
 shakes 80 
 
 From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, 
 That tinkle in the withered leaves below. 
 Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft. 
 Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
 May think down hours to moments. Here the 
 
 heart . 85 
 
 May give a useful lesson to the head, 
 And learning wiser grow without his books. 
 Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, 
 
 * Supposed to refer to the church at Emberton, about a 
 mile from Olney. 
 
438 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Have oftimes no connection. Knowledge 
 
 dwells 
 In heads replete with thoughts of other men, 90 
 Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
 Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, 
 The mere materials with which wisdom builds, 
 Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its 
 
 place. 
 Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. 95 
 Knowledge is proud that he has learned so 
 
 much; 
 Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. . . . 
 I would not enter on my list of friends 560 
 (Though graced with polished manners and fine 
 
 sense, 
 Yet wanting sensibility) the man 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
 An inadvertent step may crush the snail 
 That crawls at evening in the public path ; 565 
 But he that has humanity, forewarned, 
 Will tread aside, and let the reptile hve. 
 The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. 
 And charged perhaps with venom, that in- 
 trudes, 
 A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 570 
 
 Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, 
 The chamber, or refectory, may die: 
 A necessary act incurs no blame. 
 Not so when, held within their proper bounds, 
 And guiltless of offence, they range the air, 575 
 Or take their pastime in the spacious field: 
 There they are privileged: and he that hunts 
 Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong. 
 Disturbs the economy of nature's realm, 
 Who, when she formed, designed them an 
 
 abode. 580 
 
 The sum is this: if man's convenience, health, 
 Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 
 Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. 
 Else they are all — the meanest things that are — 
 As free to live, and to enjoy that life, 585 
 
 As God was free to form them at the first. 
 Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all. 
 Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons 
 To love it too. The spring-time of our years 
 Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most 590 
 
 By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
 To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots. 
 If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth. 
 Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. 
 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule 595 
 
 And righteous hmitation of its act. 
 By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty 
 
 man. 
 And he that shows none, being ripe in years. 
 And conscious of the outrage he commits. 
 Shall seek it and not find it in his turn. 600 
 
 Distinguished much by reason, and still more 
 By our capacity of grace divine, 
 From creatures that exist but for our sake. 
 Which, having served us, perish, we are held 
 Accountable, and God, some future day, 605 
 Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse 
 Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust. 
 Superior as we are, they yet depend 
 Not more on human help than we on theirs. 
 
 Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were 
 given 610 
 
 In aid of our defects. In some are found 
 Such teachable and apprehensive parts, 
 That man's attainments in his own concerns, 
 Matched with the expertness of the brutes in 
 
 theirs, 
 Are oftimes vanquished and thrown far be- 
 hind. ... 615 
 
 THE BASTILLEi 
 
 (Book V. The Winter Morning Walk) 
 
 Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious 
 more 
 To France than all her losses and defeats. 
 Old or of later date, by sea or land. 
 Her house of bondage, worse than that of old 
 Which God avenged on Pharoah — the Bastille.^ 
 Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts, 81 
 Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair. 
 That monarchs have supplied from age to age 
 With music such as suits their sovereign ears, 
 The sighs and groans of miserable men ! 85 
 
 There's not an English heart that would not 
 
 leap 
 To hear that ye were fallen at last; to know 
 That even our enemies, so oft employed 
 In forging chains for us, themselves were free. 
 For he who values liberty confines 90 
 
 His zeal for her predominance within 
 No narrow bounds; her cause engages him 
 Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. 
 There dwell the most forlorn of human kind. 
 Immured though unaccused, condemned un- 
 tried, 95 
 Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. 
 There, like the visionary emblem seen 
 By him of Baby Ion, ^ fife stands a stump. 
 And filleted about with hoops of brass. 
 Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are 
 gone, 100 
 To count the hour-bell, and expect no change; 
 And ever as the sullen sound is heard, 
 Still to reflect, that though a joyless note 
 To him whose moments all have one dull pace, 
 Ten thousand rovers in the world at large 1 05 
 Account it music; that it summons some 
 To theatre or jocund feast or ball; 
 The wearied hireling finds it a release 
 From labour; and the lover, who has chid 
 Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke no 
 Upon his heart-strings, trembling with de- 
 light:— 
 To fly for refuge from distracting thought 
 To such amusements as ingenious woe 
 Contrives, hard shifting and without her 
 
 tools: — 
 To read engraven on the mouldy walls, 1 15 
 
 In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, 
 A sad memorial, and subjoin his own : — 
 
 1 The Bastille, the famous state prison in Paris, fell 
 before the fury of the mob at the beginning of the French 
 Revolution, 1789. 
 
 2 Nebuchadnezzar, v. Dan. iv., 13-17. 
 
WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 439 
 
 To turn purveyor to an overgorged 
 And bloated spider, till the pampered pest 
 Is made familiar, watches his approach, 120 
 
 Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend: — 
 To wear out time in numbering to and fro 
 The studs that thick emboss his iron door, 
 Then downward and then upward, then aslant, 
 And then alternate, with a sickly hope 125 
 
 By dint of change to give his tasteless task 
 Som(^ relish, till the sum exactly found 
 In all directions, he begins again: — 
 Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around 
 With woes, which who that suffers would not 
 kneel 130 
 
 And beg for exile, or the pangs of death? 
 That man should thus encroach on fellow man, 
 Abridge him of his just and native rights, 
 Eradicate him, tear him from his hold 
 Upon the endearments of domestic life 135 
 
 And social, nip his fruitfulness and use. 
 And doom him for perhaps a heedless word 
 To barrenness, and solitude, and tears, 
 Moves indignation, makes the name of king 
 (Of king whom such prerogative can please) 140 
 As dreadful as the Manichean god,' 
 Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. 
 
 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower 
 Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, 
 And we are weeds without it. 145 
 
 ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S 
 PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK 
 
 THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM 
 (C. 1790) 
 
 O That those lips had language! Life has 
 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 5 
 "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears 
 
 away!" 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blessed be the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 10 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here! 
 Who bidst me honour with an artless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long,^ 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 15 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
 
 And, while that face renews my fihal grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysian revery, 
 A momentary dream, that thou art she. 20 
 
 My mother! when I learnt that thou wast 
 dead. 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
 
 3 Manichaeism, a religious sect that arose in Western 
 Asia in the third century, believing that the body must 
 be subdued, taught and rigidly enforced the most extreme 
 asceticism. 
 
 1 Cowper was six years old when his mother died. 
 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss: 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 26 
 Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 30 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 
 But was it such? It was. — Where thou art 
 
 gone 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more! 35 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my con- 
 cern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wished I long believed, 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 40 
 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 I learnt at last submission to my lot; 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 45 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 
 more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 51 
 'Tis now become a history little known. 
 That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
 Short-lived possession! But the record fair 
 That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, 
 Still outhves many a storm that has effaced 56 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 That thou mightst know me safe and warmly 
 
 laid; 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 60 
 The biscuit, or confectionery plum; 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 
 
 glowed; 
 All this, and more endearing still than all. 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 65 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
 That humour interposed too often makes; 
 All this still legible in memory's page, 
 And still to be so to my latest age. 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 7o 
 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may; 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
 Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed 
 here. 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the 
 hours. 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow- 
 ers, ''^ 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and 
 smile). 
 
440 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 80 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 
 
 here? 
 I would not trust ray heart — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
 But no — what here we call our life is such, 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much, 85 
 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
 (The storms all weathered and the ocean 
 
 crossed) 
 Shoots into port at some well-haven 'd isle, 90 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons 
 
 smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 95 
 So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the 
 
 shore, 
 "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of hfe long since has anchored by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100 
 Always from port withheld, always distressed — 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest- 
 tossed, 
 Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass 
 
 lost. 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
 Yet, Oh, the thought that thou art safe, and 
 
 he! ^ 106 
 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 110 
 The son of parents passed into the skies! 
 And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; 
 To have renewed the joys that once were 
 
 mine, 116 
 
 Without the sin of violating thine: 
 And, while the wings of Fancy still are free. 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 120 
 Thy self removed, thy power to soothe me 
 
 left. 
 
 ON THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL 
 GEORGE"! 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, SEPTEM- 
 BER, 1782, TO THE MARCH IN "SCIPIO" 
 
 Toll for the brave! 
 The brave that are no more! 
 All sunk beneath the wave, 
 Fast by their native shore! 
 
 » The Royal CJeorge was lost off Spithcad, Aug. 29, 
 1792. The ship had been heeled over for repairs. While 
 the crew were at dinner, she was struck by a .sudden 
 squall, and, the leeward deck ports being left open, she 
 rapidly filled and sank. 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave, f 
 
 Whose courage well was tried, 
 Had made the vessel heel. 
 And laid her on her side. 
 
 A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 
 
 And she was overset; lo 
 
 Down went the Royal George, 
 
 With all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave! 
 
 Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 
 
 His last sea-fight is fought; is 
 
 His work of glory done. 
 
 It was not in the battle; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock; 
 
 She sprang no fatal leak; 
 
 She ran upon no rock. 20 
 
 His sword was in its sheath; 
 His fingers held the pen. 
 When Kempenfelt went down 
 With twice four hundred men. 
 
 Weigh the vessel up, 23 
 
 Once dreaded by our foes! 
 And mingle with our cup 
 The tear that England owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound. 
 And she may float again 30 
 
 Full-charged with England's thunder, 
 And plough the distant main. 
 
 But Kempenfelt is gone. 
 
 His victories are o'er; 
 
 And he and his eight hundred 35 
 
 Shall plough the wave no more. 
 
 THE CAST-AWAY 
 
 (March 20, 1799) 
 
 Obscurest night involved the sky, 
 The Atlantic billows roared. 
 When such a destined wretch as I, 
 Washed headlong from on board, 
 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
 His floating home forever left. 
 
 No braver chief could Albion boast 
 Than he with whom he went. 
 Nor ever ship left Albion's coast 
 With warmer wishes sent. 
 He loved them both, but both in vain, 
 Nor him beheld, nor her again. 
 
 Not long beneath the whelming brine, 
 
 Expert to swim, he lay; 
 
 Nor soon he felt his strength decline. 
 
 Or courage die away; 
 
 But waged with death a lasting strife. 
 
 Supported by despair of life. 
 
 He shouted: nor his friends had failed 
 
 To check the vessel's course. 
 
 But so the furious blast prevailed, 
 
 That, pitiless perforce. 
 
 They left their outcast mate behind, 
 
 And scudded still before the wind. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
JAMES BEATTIE 
 
 441 
 
 Some succor yet they could afford ; 25 
 
 And such as storms allow, 
 
 The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 
 
 Delayed not to bestow. 
 
 But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, 
 
 What e'er they gave, should visit more. 30 
 
 Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he 
 
 Their haste himself condemn. 
 
 Aware that flight, in such a sea, 
 
 Alone could rescue them ; 
 
 Yet bitter felt it still to die 35 
 
 Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 
 
 He long survives, who lives an hour 
 
 In ocean, self-upheld: 
 
 And so long he, with unspent power, 
 
 His destiny repelled; 40 
 
 And ever, as the minutes flew, 
 
 Entreated help, or cried — "Adieu!" 
 
 At length, his transient respite past. 
 
 His comrades, who before 
 
 Had heard his voice in every blast, 45 
 
 Could catch the sound no more: 
 
 For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
 
 The stifling wave, and then he sank. 
 
 No poet wept him ; but the page 
 
 Of narrative sincere, 50 
 
 That tells his name, his worth, his age, 
 
 Is wet with Anson's tear:^ 
 
 And tears by bards or heroes shed 
 
 Alike immortalize the dead. 
 
 I therefore purpose not, or dream, 63 
 
 Descanting on his fate. 
 
 To give the melancholy theme 
 
 A more enduring date: 
 
 But misery still delights to trace 
 
 Its semblance in another's case. 60 
 
 No voice divine the storm allayed, 
 
 No light propitious shone. 
 
 When, snatched from all effectual aid, 
 
 We perished, each alone: 
 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 65 
 
 And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. 
 
 William 3\n\in& ^itfele 
 
 1735-1788 
 
 THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE 
 HOUSE! 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true? 
 
 And are ye sure he's weel? 
 Is this a time to think o' wark? 
 
 Mak haste, lay by your wheel; 
 Is this the time to spin a thread, 5 
 
 When Colin's at the door? 
 Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 For there's nae luck about the house. 
 
 There's nae luck at a'; 10 
 
 » The Castaway is founded on an incident related in 
 Anson's narrative of his Voyage Round the World. 
 
 1 Often called The Mariner's Wife. Thia poem, a copy 
 
 There's little pleasure in the house 
 W^hen our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 And gie to me my bigonet,^ 
 
 My bishop's satin gown; 
 For i maun tell the baillie's wife 15 
 
 That Colin's in the town. 
 My Turkey^^ slippers maun gae on, 
 
 My stockings pearly blue; 
 It's a' to pleasure our gudeman. 
 
 For he's baith leal and true. 20 
 
 Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside. 
 
 Put on the muckle pot; 
 Gie little Kate her button gown. 
 
 And Jock his Sunday coat; 
 And mak their shoon as black as slaes,* 25 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw; 
 It's a' to pleasure my gudeman. 
 
 For he's been lang awa'. 
 
 There's twa fat hens upo' the coop. 
 
 Been fed this month and mair; 30 
 
 Mak haste and thraw^ their necks about, 
 
 That Colin weel may fare; 
 And mak our table neat and clean. 
 
 Let everything look braw. 
 For wha tell how CoHn fared 
 
 When he was far awa'? 35 
 
 Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 
 
 His breath like caller air; 
 His very foot has music in't 
 
 As he comes up the stair. 
 And will I see his face again? 40 
 
 And will I hear him speak? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet !^ 
 
 Since Cohn's weel, and weel content, 
 
 I hae nae mair to crave; 45 
 
 And gin I live to keep him sae, 
 
 I'm blest aboon the lave. 
 And will I see his face again? 
 
 And will I hear him speak? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 50 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet. 
 For there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck at a' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house 
 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 55 
 
 blames: llBeattie 
 
 1735-1803 
 
 THE MINSTREL (1771-1774) 
 
 (Selections) 
 
 Book I 
 
 Ah ! who can tell how hard it is to climb 
 
 The steep where Fame's proud temple shines 
 
 afar; 
 Ah ! Who can tell how many a soul sublime 
 Has felt the influence of malignant star, 
 
 of which was found among Mickle's manuscripts has been 
 frequently attributed to Jane Adam, a Scotch school- 
 mistress, and minor poet. * A cap, or head-dress. 
 
 3 Turkish. * Sloes, — the fruit of the blackthorn. 
 
 * Wring. • Weep. 
 
442 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 And waged with Fortune an eternal war; 5 
 
 Check'd by the scofif of Pride, by Envy's 
 
 frown, 
 And Poverty's unconquerable bar. 
 In life's low vale remote has pined alone, 
 Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and un- 
 known! 
 
 And yet the languor of inglorious days, l o 
 
 Not equally oppressive is to all; 
 
 Him, who ne'er listen 'd to the voice of praise, 
 
 The silence of neglect can ne'er appal. 
 
 There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call, 
 
 Would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of 
 
 Fame; 15 
 
 Supremely blest, if to their portion fall 
 Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher 
 
 aim 
 Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines 
 
 proclaim. 
 
 The rolls of fame I will not now explore; 
 Nor need I here describe in learned lay, 20 
 
 How forth the Minstrel far'd in days of yore. 
 Right glad of heart, though homely in array; 
 His waving locks and beard all hoary grey: 
 While from his bending shoulder, decent hung 
 His harp, the sole companion of his way, 25 
 
 Which to the whisthng wind responsive rung: 
 And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. 
 
 Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride. 
 That a poor villager inspires my strain; 
 With thee let Pageantry and Power abide : 30 
 The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; 
 Where through wild groves at eve the lonely 
 
 swain 
 Enraptur'd roves, to gaze on Nature's charms. 
 They hate the sensual and scorn the vain. 
 The parasite their influence never warms, 35 
 Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold 
 
 alarms. . . . 
 
 There hved in Gothic days as legends tell, 9 1 
 A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree; 
 Whose sires, perchance, in Fairy-land might 
 
 dwell, 
 Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; 
 But he, I ween, was of the north countrie ;^ 95 
 A nation fam'd for song, and beauty's charms; 
 Zealous, yet modest, innocent, though free; 
 Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms; 
 Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms. 
 
 The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made, 
 On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock ; 1 01 
 The sickle, scythe, or plow, he never sway'd; 
 An honest heart was almost all his stock; 
 His drink the living water from the rock; 
 The milky dams supplied his board, and lent 
 Their kindly fleece to baffle win ter's shock ; 1 06 
 And he, though oft with dust and sweat be- 
 sprent, ^ 
 Did guide and guard their wanderings, where- 
 soe'er they went. 
 * Scotland. * Besprinkled. 
 
 From labor health, from health contentment 
 
 springs; 
 Contentment opes the source of every joy. 110 
 He envied not, he never thought of kings; 
 Nor from those appetites sustain 'd annoy. 
 That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy : 
 Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes be- 
 guiled; 114 
 He mourn 'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, 
 For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smil'd, 
 And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a 
 child. 
 
 No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, 
 
 Nor blasted were their wedded days with 
 
 strife; 
 Each season look'd delightful as it past, 120 
 
 To the fond husband and the faithful wife. 
 Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd-life 
 They never roam'd; secure beneath the storm 
 Which in Ambition's lofty hand is rife, 
 Where peace and love are canker'd by the 
 
 worm 125 
 
 Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. 
 
 The wight whose tale these artless lines un- 
 fold. 
 
 Was all the offspring of this humble pair: 
 
 His birth no oracle or seer foretold : 
 
 No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, 130 
 
 Nor aught that might a strange event declare. 
 
 You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth; 
 
 The parent's transport, and the parent's care; 
 
 The gossip's^ prayer for wealth, and wit and 
 worth; 
 
 And one long summer-day of indolence and 
 mirth. 135 
 
 And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. 
 
 Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye, 
 
 Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud,^ nor toy. 
 
 Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy; 
 
 Silent when glad ; affectionate though shy; 140 
 
 And now his look was most demurely sad; 
 
 And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew 
 
 why. 
 The neighbors star'd, and sigh'd, yet bless'd 
 
 the lad: 
 Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some 
 
 believ'd him mad. ... 144 
 
 Lo! where the stripling wrapt in wonder, roves 
 Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine; 164 
 And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves. 
 From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine: 
 While waters, woods and winds, in concert 
 
 join, 
 And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
 Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 169 
 
 For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? 
 Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms 
 
 to prize. 
 
 ' Originally, one who stood sponsor for a child at 
 baptism; a godfather, or godmother. {Gotaip mean? 
 literally God-relative) . 
 
 * Glittering trinket, or possibly jest, sport. 
 
JAMES BEATTIE 
 
 443 
 
 And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, 
 When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn, 
 The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain 
 
 grey, 
 And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn : 175 
 Far to the west, the long, long vale withdrawn, 
 Where twihght loves to linger for awhile; 
 And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, 
 And villager abroad at early toil. 
 But lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, 
 
 ocean, smile. 180 
 
 And oft the craggy cliff he lov'd to climb. 
 When all in mist the world below was lost. 
 What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sub- 
 
 hme. 
 Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, 
 And view th' enormous waste of vapor, tost 185 
 In billows, length' ning to th' horizon round, 
 Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now 
 
 emboss'd! 
 And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound. 
 Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar 
 
 profound! ... 189 
 
 When the long-sounding curfew from afar 280 
 Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, 
 Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, 
 Lingering and listening, wander'd down the 
 
 vale. 
 There would he dream of graves, and corses 
 
 pale; 284 
 
 And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng. 
 And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail. 
 Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song. 
 Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering 
 
 isles along. 
 
 Or, when the setting Moon, in crimson dyed, 
 Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, 290 
 To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, 
 Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; 
 And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep 
 A vision brought to his entranced sight. 294 
 
 And first a wildly-murmuring wind 'gan creep 
 Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright. 
 With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of 
 night. 
 
 Anon in view a portal's blazon 'd arch 
 Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold : 299 
 And forth an host of little warriors march, 
 Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. 
 Their look was gentle, their demeanor bold, 302 
 And green their helms, and green their silk 
 
 attire; 
 And here and there, right venerably old. 
 The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warblmg 
 
 wire, 305 
 
 And some with mellow breath the martial pipe 
 
 inspire. . . . 
 
 But who the melodies of mom can tell? 334 
 
 The wild brook babbHng down the mountain- 
 side; 
 The lowing herd; the sheepf old's simple bell; 
 
 The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
 In the lone valley; echoing far and wide 
 The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; 
 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; 340 
 
 The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal 
 grove. 
 
 The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; 
 Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milk-maid 
 
 sings; 
 The whistUng plowman stalks afield; and, 
 
 hark! 345 
 
 Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon 
 
 rings; 
 Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd 
 
 springs; 
 Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; 
 The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; 
 Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 
 And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial 
 
 tour. 351 
 
 O Nature now in every charm supreme! 
 Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! 
 O for the voice and fire of seraphim, 
 To sing thy glories with devotion due! 355 
 
 Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew. 
 From Pyrro's maze,^ and Epicurus^ sty; 
 And held high converse with the godlike few, 
 Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye. 
 Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and 
 melody. 360 
 
 Hence! ye who snare and stupefy the mind. 
 Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane! 
 Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind. 
 Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair 
 
 fane, 365 
 
 And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain ! 
 Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling 
 
 slime 
 First gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse 
 
 should deign, 
 (Though loth on theme so mean to waste a 
 
 rhyme), . .^70 
 
 With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious 
 
 crime. 
 
 But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, 
 Nature's true sons, the friends of man, and 
 
 truth! 
 Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay, 
 Amus'd my childhood., and inform'd my youth. 
 O let your spirit still my bosom soothe, 376 
 
 Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings 
 
 guide! 
 Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth: 
 For well I know, wherever ye reside, 
 There harmony, and peace, and innocence 
 
 abide. . . . 
 
 5 Pyrrho's uncertainty, perplexities, and doubts. 
 Pyrrho (c. 360-c. 270 B. C), was a Greek philosopher, who 
 taught that we had no certain knowledge of the nature of 
 
 6°A^Greek philosopher (342-270 B. C), founder of the 
 Epicurean School. He was popularly supposed to have 
 taught that pleasure and self-mdulgence were the chief 
 objects of man's existence. (Cf. the various meanings of 
 Epicure) . 
 
444 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 THE HERMIT 
 
 (Written c. 1766) 
 
 At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, 
 When nought but the torrent is heard on the 
 
 hill, 
 And nought but the nightingale's song in the 
 
 grove: 
 'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar, 5 
 While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit 
 
 began; 
 No more with himself or with nature at war, 
 He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 
 
 *'Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe, 
 Why, lone Philomela,^ that languishing fall? 10 
 For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 
 And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral. 
 But, if pity inspire you, renew the sad lay, 
 Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to 
 mourn; 
 
 soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass 
 
 away: 15 
 
 Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 
 
 "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky. 
 The Moon half extinguished her crescent dis- 
 plays: 
 But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high 
 She shone, and the planets were lost in her 
 blaze. 20 
 
 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
 The path that conducts thee to splendour 
 
 again: 
 But man's faded glory what change shall renew! 
 Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain! 
 
 " 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: 
 
 1 mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for 
 
 you; ^ 26 
 
 For morn is approaching, your charms to re- 
 store, 
 Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering 
 
 with dew : 
 Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 
 Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save: 30 
 But when shall spring visit the mouldering 
 
 urn! 
 O when shall it dawn on the night of the 
 grave!" 
 
 "'Twas thus, by the glare of false science^ 
 
 betray'd. 
 That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind. 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward 
 
 to shade, 35 
 
 Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
 "O Pity, great Father of light," then I cried, 
 "Thy creature, who fain would not wander 
 
 from thee; 
 Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only canst 
 
 free." 40 
 
 * Or Philomel, the nightingale. 
 ' Knowledge, learning. 
 
 "And darkness and doubt are now flying away; 
 
 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 
 
 So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray. 
 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
 
 See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph de- 
 scending, 45 
 
 And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! 
 
 On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are 
 blending. 
 
 And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. " 
 
 1738-1796 
 
 CARTHON: A POEM 
 
 (Selections from translation of Ossian,^ ed. of 
 1773) 
 
 Tell, said the mighty Fingal, the tale of thy 
 youthful days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the 
 sun, shades the soul of Clessdmmor. Mournful 
 are thy thoughts, alone, on the banks of the 
 5 roaring Lora. Let us hear the sorrow of thy 
 youth, and the darkness of thy days! 
 
 "It was in the days of peace," rephed the 
 great Cless4mmor, "I came in my bounding 
 ship, to Balclutha's walls of towers. The 
 10 winds had roared behind my sails, and Clutha's 
 streams received my dark-bosomed ship. 
 Three days I remained in Reuthamir's halls, 
 and saw his daughter, that beam of light. 
 
 1 In ancient Gaelic tradition, Ossian (or Oison) was 
 famous as a bard and warrior. He was the son of Finn, 
 or Fin (the Fingal of Macpherson's poem), and he lived in 
 the latter half of the third century. In 1762, James 
 Macpherson, a young Scotch schoolmaster, published 
 Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem in Six Books, with other 
 lesser poems. Ancient Gjeiic legends had been preserved 
 in remote parts of Scotland as well as in Ireland, and 
 Macpherson asserted that his book was a translation of 
 certain poems of Osaian, out of the original Gaelic. This 
 claim was contested by Dr. Johnson, and, although the 
 matter has been fully discussed and investigated, the 
 authenticity of Macpherson's so-called "translation," has 
 never been fully established. But, whatever its origin, 
 Macpherson's Ossian, was a widely read and highly in- 
 fluential book, and with all its faults it holds an important 
 place in the rise of romanticism in the 18th century. 
 
 Carthon, one of the short poems of Macpherson's 
 collection, is supposed to be "a tale of the times of old," 
 related by Ossian to Malvina, the betrothed of his 
 dead son, and the companion and comfort of his age. 
 The following story, partly told, and partly implied, forms 
 the basis of the poem. When a young man, Clessdmmor, 
 the uncle of Fingal, came to Balclutha, a British town 
 on the river Clulha, or Clyde. There he married Moina, 
 the daughter of Reuthamir, the chief man of the town, 
 but, having killed a rival in a quarrel ("the son of a 
 stranger"), Clessammor was forced to leave Moina and 
 fly for his life. Carthon, the son of Clessammor and 
 Moina, was born after his father's flight and grew up 
 ignorant of his parentage. While Carthon was a child, 
 Comhal, Fingal's father and the brother-in-law of Cles- 
 sammor, attacks and burns Balclutha, and when Carthon 
 comes to manhood, he resolves to take vengeance for this 
 act of destruction on Comhal's family. Carthon is thus 
 unwittingly involved in a feud with his own kindred, and 
 in an expedition of vengeance, he meets Clessammor in 
 single combat. Both combatants are ignorant of the 
 relationship between them, and Carthon dies by his 
 father's hand. The poem opens on the night before the 
 young hero's death. 
 
JAMES MACPHERSON 445 
 
 The joy of the shell went round, and the thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the 
 aged hero gave the fair. . . . My love for desert come! we shall be renowned in our day! 
 Moina was great: my heart poured forth in The mark of my arm shall be in battle; my 
 joy. V name in the song of bards. Raise the song; 
 
 "The son of a stranger came; a chief who 5 send round the shell: let joy be heard in my 
 loved the white-bosomed Moina. His words hall. When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if 
 were mighty in the hall; he often half-un- thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy bright- 
 sheathed his sword. Where, said he, is the ness is for a season, like Fingal; our fame shall 
 mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer of the survive thy beams! 
 
 heath? Comes he, with his host, to Balclutha, 10 Such was the song of Fingal, in the day of 
 since Clessdmmor is so bold? My soul, I re- his joy. His thousand bards leaned forward 
 plied, O warrior! burns in a light of its own. I from their seats, to hear the voice of the king, 
 stand without fear in the midst of thousands, It was like the music of harps on the gale of 
 though the valiant are distant far. Stranger! the spring. Lovely were thy thoughts, O 
 thy words are mighty, for Clessamor is alone. 15 Fingal! why had not Ossian the strength of 
 But my sword trembles by my side, and longs thy soul? But thou stand est alone, my father! 
 to glitter in my hand. Speak no more of who can equal the king of Selma? . . . 
 Comhal, son of the winding Clutha. Joy rose in Carthon's face; he lifted his heavy 
 
 "The strength of his pride arose. We eyes. He gave his sword to Fingal, to lie 
 fought; he fell beneath my sword. The banks 20 within his hall, that the memory of Balclutha's 
 of Clutha heard his fall; a thousand spears king might remain in Morven. The battle 
 glittered around, I fought; the strangers ceased along the field, the bard had sung the 
 prevailed: I plunged into the stream of Clutha; song of peace. The chiefs gathered round the 
 my white sails rose over the waves, and falling Carthon; they heard his words with 
 bounded on the dark-blue sea. Moina came 25 sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears, 
 to the shore, and rolled the red eye of her while Balclutha's hero spoke. His hair sighed 
 tears: her loose hair flew on the wind; and I in the wind, and his voice was sad and low. 
 heard her mournful, distant cries. Often did "King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in 
 
 I turn my ship; but the winds of the East pre- the midst of my course. A foreign tomb re- 
 vailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I seen, 30 ceives, in youth, the last of Reuthdmir's race, 
 nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell Darkness dwells in Balclutha: the shadows of 
 in Balclutha, for I have seen her ghost. I grief in Crathmo. But raise my remembrance 
 knew her as she came through the dusky night, on the banks of Lora, where my fathers dwelt, 
 along the murmur of Lora; she was like the Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over 
 new moon, seen through the gathered mist: 35 his fallen Carthon." His words reached the 
 when the sky pours down its flaky snow, and heart of Clessdmmor: he fell, in silence on his 
 the world is silent and dark." son. The host stood darkened around; no 
 
 Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, voice is on the plain. Night came, the moon, 
 the praise of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, from the east, looked on the mournful field; 
 with your songs, to our hills; that she may 40 but still they stood, like a silent grove that 
 rest with the fair of Morven, the sunbeams of lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds 
 other days, the delight of heroes of old. I are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain, 
 have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they Three days they mourned above Carthon; 
 
 were desolate. The fire had resounded in the on the fourth his father died. In the narrow 
 halls: and the voice of the people is heard no 45 plain of the rock they lie; a dim ghost defends 
 more. The stream of Clutha was removed their tomb. There lovely Moina is often seen; 
 from its place, by the fall of the walls. The when the sunbeam darts on the rock, and all 
 thistle shook, there, its lonely head: the moss around is dark. There she is seen, Malvina! 
 whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from but not like the daughters of the hill. Her robes 
 the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved 50 are from the stranger's land; and she is still 
 round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of alone! 
 
 Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers. Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded 
 Raise the song of mourning, O bards! over the his bards to mark the day;^ when shadowy 
 land of strangers. They have but fallen before autumn returned ; and often did they mark the 
 us: for one day we must fall. Why dost thou 55 day, and sing the hero's praise. "Who comes so 
 build the hall, son of the winged days? dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy 
 Thou lookest from thy towers today; yet a cloud? Death is trembling in his hand! his 
 few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it eyes are flames of fire! Who roars along 
 howls in thy empty court, and whistles round dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon, king of 
 
446 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 swords! The people fall! see! how he strides, 
 like the sullen ghost of Morven! But there he 
 lies, a goodly oak, which sudden blasts over- 
 turned! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy? 
 When, Carthon,shalt thou arise? Who comes so 5 
 dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy 
 cloud?" Such were the words of the bards, 
 in the day of their mourning: Ossian often 
 joined their voice; and added to their song. 
 My soul has been mournful for Carthon; he 10 
 fell in the days of his youth: and thou, O 
 CIess4mmor! where is thy dwelling in the 
 wind? Has the youth forgot his wound? 
 Flies he, on clouds, with thee? I feel the sun, 
 O Malvina! leave me to my rest. Perhaps 15 
 they may come to my dreams; I think I hear 
 a feeble voice! the beam of heaven delights to 
 shine on the grave of Carthon: I feel it warm 
 around! 
 
 O thou that roUest above, round as the 20 
 shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, 
 O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest 
 forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide them- 
 selves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, 
 sinks in the western wave. But thou thyseK 25 
 mo vest alone: who can be a companion of thy 
 course! The oaks of the mountains fall: the 
 mountains themselves decay with years: the 
 ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon 
 herself is lost in heaven; but thou art forever 30 
 the same; rejoicing in the brightness of thy 
 course. When the world is dark with tempests; 
 when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou 
 lookest in thy beauty, from the clouds, and 
 laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou 35 
 lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no 
 more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the 
 eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates 
 of the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, 
 for a season, thy years will have an end. Thou 40 
 shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice 
 of the morning. Exult thee, O sun! in the 
 strength of thy youth! Age is dark and un- 
 lovely; it is like the ghmmering light of the 
 moon, when it shines through broken clouds, 45 
 and the mist is on the hills; the blast of north 
 is on the plain; the traveller shrinks in the 
 midst of his journey. 
 
 ®t)oma0 Cljactmon 
 
 1752-1770 
 
 MINSTREL'S ROUNDELAY 
 
 (From Mh, 1770) 
 
 O sing unto my roundelay, 
 
 O drop the briny tear with me, 
 
 Dance no more at holy-day, 
 Like a running river be. 
 
 My love is dead, 5 
 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Black his hair as the winter night 
 
 White his skin as the summer snow, 
 Red his face as the morning light, 10 
 
 Cold he lies in the grave below. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, 15 
 
 Quick in dance as thought can be. 
 Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, 
 O he lies by the willow-tree! 
 My love is dead. 
 
 Gone to his death-bed, 20 
 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Hark! the raven flaps his wing 
 
 In the briar'd dell below; 
 Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 
 
 To the nightmares as they go. 25 
 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 See! the white moon shines on high; 
 
 Whiter is my true love's shroud; 30 
 
 Whiter than the morning sky. 
 Whiter than the evening cloud. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 35 
 
 Here upon my true love's grave 
 
 Shall the barren flowers be. laid: 
 Not' one holy Saint to save 
 All the coldness of a maid! 
 
 My love is dead, 40 
 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 With my hands I'll gird the briars 
 
 Round his holy corse to grow. 
 Elfin Faery, hght your fires; 45 
 
 Here my body still shall bow. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 50 
 
 Drain my hearte's blood away; 
 Life and all its good I scorn, 
 Dance by night or feast by day. 
 My love is dead. 
 
 Gone to his death-bed, 55 
 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 THE BALADE OF CHARITIE 
 
 (From Poems collected 1777) 
 In Virgine^ the sultry Sun 'gan sheene 
 
 And hot upon the meads did cast his ray: 
 The apple ruddied from its paly green. 
 
 And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray; 
 
 The pied chelandry^ sang the livelong day : 5 
 
 1 In the Zodiacal aign of Virgo, i. e., in September. 
 
 2 Goldfinch. (Chatterton). 
 
THOMAS CHATTERTON 
 
 447 
 
 'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year, 
 And eke the ground was dight in its most deft 
 aumere.^ 
 
 The sun was gleaming in the mid of day. 
 
 Dead still the air and eke the welkin blue, 
 
 When from the sea arist in drear array 10 
 
 A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue, 
 The which full fast unto the woodland drew, 
 
 Hiding at once the sunne's festive face; 
 
 And the black tempest swelled and gathered up 
 apace. 
 
 Ben eath an holm , ^ fast by a pathway side 15 
 Which did unto Saint Godwyn's convent lead, 
 
 A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide. 
 Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, 
 Long breast-full of the miseries of need. 19 
 
 Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly? 
 
 He had no housen there, nor any convent nigh. 
 
 Look in his gloomed face; his sprite there scan, 
 How woe-begone, how withered, sapless, 
 dead! 
 Haste to thy church-glebe-house, ^ accursed 
 man. 
 Haste to thy coffin, thy sole slumbering-bed ! 
 Cold as the clay which will grow on thy 
 head 26 
 
 Are Charity and Love among high elves; 
 The Knights and Barons live for pleasure and 
 themselves. 
 
 The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall; 
 
 The sunburnt meadows smoke and drink the 
 
 rain; 30 
 
 The coming ghastness* dothe the cattle appal, 
 
 And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain; 
 
 Dashed from the clouds, the waters gush 
 
 again ; 
 
 The welkin^ opes, the yellow levin^ flies. 
 
 And the hot fiery steam in the wide flame- 
 
 lowe dies. 35 
 
 List! now the thunder's rattUng clamouring 
 sound 
 Moves slowly on, and then upswollen clangs, 
 Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, 
 drown'd. 
 Still on the affrighted ear of terror hangs; 
 The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swangs;' 
 Again the levin and the thunder pours, 4 1 
 
 And the full clouds are burst at once in stormy 
 showers. 
 
 Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain. 
 
 The Abbot of Saint Godwyn's convent came; 
 
 His chapournette^o was drenched with the 
 
 rain, 45 
 
 His painted girdle met with mickle shame; 
 
 He backwards told his bederolP^ at the same. 
 
 The storm increased, and he drew aside, 
 
 With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to 
 
 bide. 
 
 ' Here= apparel, mantle. * Holly-tree. 
 * i. e., the grave. s Terror. (Othello, V. i.) 
 
 7 The heaven. 8 Lightning. » Swings. 
 
 10 "A small round hat." (Chatterton). 
 "To tell one's beads backwards was "a figurative 
 expression to signify cursing. ' ' (Chatterton) . 
 
 His copei2 ^ag qH ^f Lincoln cloth so fine, 50 
 
 With a gold button fastened near his chin, 
 
 His autremete^^ was edged with golden twine, 
 
 And his peaked shoe a lordhng's might have 
 
 been; 
 Full well it showed he counted cost no sin: 
 The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight, 
 For the horse-milliner** his head with rosea 
 dight. 5() 
 
 "An alms. Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim 
 said, 
 "O let me wait within your convent-door , 
 
 Till the sun shineth high above our head 
 
 And the loud tempest of the air is o'er. 60 
 
 Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor: 
 
 No house, nor friend, no money in my pouch; 
 
 All that I call my own is this my silver crouch."*^ 
 
 "Varlet," replied the Abbot, ''cease your din; 
 This is no season alms and prayers to give; 65 
 My porter never lets a beggar in ; 
 None touch my ring who not in honour 
 
 live." 
 And now the sun with the black clouds did 
 strive, 
 And shot upon the ground his glaring ray: 
 The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode 
 away. 70 
 
 Once more the sky was black, the thunder 
 
 roU'd: 
 Fast running o'er the plain a priest was 
 
 seen. 
 Not dight full proud nor buttoned up in gold; 
 His cope and jape*^ were grey, and eke were 
 
 clean; 
 A Limitour^^ he was, of order seen ; 75 
 
 And from the pathway side then turned he, 
 Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen 
 
 tree. 
 
 "An alms, Sir Priest," the drooping pilgrim 
 said, 
 "For sweet Saint Mary and your order's 
 sake!" 
 The Limitour then loosened his pouch-thread 80 
 And did thereout a groat of silver take; 
 The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake. 
 "Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care; 
 We are God's stewards all, — nought of our own 
 we bear. 
 
 "But ah ! unhappy pilgrim , learn of me, 85 
 
 Scarce any give a ren troll to their Lord: 
 Here, take my semicope,!^— thou'rt bare, I see; 
 
 " Cloak, mantle. 
 
 1' " A loose white robe worn by priests. ' ' (Chatterton) . 
 
 1* One who supplies trappings for horses. Stevens 
 says, he saw " Horse-milliner" over a shop-door in Bristol, 
 in 1776. Outside the shop stood a wooden horse adorned 
 with ribbons. 
 
 IS Cross, crucifix. 
 
 18 "A short surplice, worn by friars of an mfenor class, 
 and secular priests." (Chatterton). 
 
 1' A friar licensed to beg and limited to a certain speci- 
 fied district. V. p. 66, n. 24, supra. 
 
 18 Short cape. 
 
448 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Tis thine; the SaiDts will give me my re- 
 ward!" 
 He left the pilgrim and his way aborde.^' 
 Virgin and holy Saints who sit in gloure,^" 90 
 Or give the mighty will, or give the good man 
 power. 
 
 But tell thy king, for mine he's not, 
 
 I'd sooner die today 
 Than live his slave, as many are, 
 
 Tho' I should live for aye." 
 
 40 
 
 BRISTOWE TRAGEDY; OR, THE DEATH 
 OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN 
 
 The feathered songster Chanticleer 
 Has wound his bugle horn. 
 
 And told the early villager 
 The coming of the morn: 
 
 King Edward^ saw the ruddy streaks 
 
 Of hght eclipse the gray; 
 And heard the raven's croaking throat 
 
 Proclaim the fated day. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "Thou'rt right," quoth he, "for, by the God 
 That sits enthroned on high! 10 
 
 Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, 
 Today shall surely die." 
 
 IV 
 
 Then with a jug of nappy ale^ 
 
 His knights did on him wait: 
 "Go tell the traitor, that today 15 
 
 He leaves this mortal state." 
 
 Sir Canterlone then bended low, 
 With heart brimful of woe; 
 
 He journeyed to the castle-gate. 
 And to Sir Charles did go. 
 
 VI 
 
 But when he came, his children twain, 
 
 And eke his loving wife, 
 With briny tears did wet the floor, 
 
 For good Sir Charles's Ufe. 
 
 20 
 
 VII 
 
 25 
 
 'O good Sir Charles," said Canterlone, 
 
 "Bad tidings I do bring." 
 Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles, 
 
 "What says thy traitor king? " 
 
 VIII 
 
 "I grieve to tell, before yon sun 
 
 Does from the welkin fly, 30 
 
 He hath upon his honour sworn, 
 
 That thou shalt surely die." 
 
 IX 
 
 "We all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles, 
 
 "Of that I'm not af eared; 
 What boots to live a little space? 35 
 
 Thank Jesu, I'm prepared. 
 
 19 Went on, (Chatterton) 20 Glory. 
 
 1 King Edward IV, 1461-1483. » Strong ale. 
 
 45 
 
 Then Canterlone he did go out. 
 
 To tell the mayor straight 
 To get all things in readiness 
 
 For good Sir Charles's fate. 
 
 XII 
 
 Then Master Canynge^ sought the king. 
 
 And fell down on his knee; 
 "I'm come," quoth he, "unto your grace 
 
 To move your clemency." 
 
 XIII 
 
 Then quoth the king, "your tale speak out, 
 You have been much our friend ; 50 
 
 Whatever your request may be. 
 We will to it attend." 
 
 "My noble liege! all my request 
 
 Is for a noble knight, 
 Who tho' mayhap he has done wrong, 
 
 He thought it still was right. 
 
 55 
 
 "He has a spouse and children twain, 
 
 All ruined are for aye; 
 If that you are resolved to let 
 
 Charles Bawdin die today." 
 
 "Speak not of such a traitor vile," 
 
 The king in fur}' said; 
 "Before the evening star doth shine, 
 
 Bawdin shall lose his head. 
 
 XVII 
 
 "Justice does loudly for him call. 
 
 And he shall have his mead: 
 Speak, Master Canynge! What thing else 
 
 At present do you need?" 
 
 XVIIT 
 
 "My noble liege," good Canynge said, 
 
 "Leave justice to our God, 
 And lay the iron rule aside; 
 
 Be thine the olive rod. 
 
 "Was God to search our hearts and reins, 
 
 The best were sinners great; 
 Christ's vicar only knows no sin. 
 
 In all this mortal state. 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 75 
 
 * William Canynge, a rich merchant, mayor and fore- 
 most citizen, in the reigns of Henry VI and Edward IV, 
 of Chatterton's native city of Bristol. Canynge ia 
 represented as the friend and literary patron of one 
 Thomas Rowley, the "poet-priest." Rowley is put 
 forward as the author of Chatterton's imitations of 
 ancient poetry, which he pretended to have transcribed 
 from old manuscripts. 
 
THOMAS CHATTERTON 
 
 449 
 
 85 
 
 90 
 
 95 
 
 ''Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 
 
 'Twill fast thy crown full sure; 
 From race to race thy family 
 
 All sovereigns shall endure: 
 
 XXI 
 
 " But if with blood and slaughter thou 
 
 Begin thy infant reign, 
 Thy crown upon thy children's brows 
 
 Will never long remain." 
 
 XXII 
 
 "Canynge, away! this traitor vile 
 
 Has scorned my power and me: 
 How canst thou then for such a man 
 
 Entreat my clemency?" 
 
 XXIII 
 
 "My noble liege! the truly brave 
 
 Will valorous actions prize; 
 Respect a brave and noble mind 
 
 Although in enemies." 
 
 XXIV 
 
 "Canynge, away! By God in Heaven 
 
 That did me being give, 
 I will not taste a bit of bread 
 
 Whilst this Sir Charles doth live. 
 
 XXV 
 
 "By Mary, and all Saints in Heaven, 
 
 This sun shall be his last;" 
 Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, 
 
 And from the presence past. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 With heart brimful of gnawing grief, 
 
 He to Sir Charles did go, 
 And sat him down upon a stool. 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 "We all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles; 105 
 
 "What boots it how or when; 
 Death is the sure, the certain fate 
 
 Of all we mortal men. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 "Say, why, my friend, thy honest soul 
 Runs over at thine eye: 110 
 
 Is it for my most welcome doom 
 That thou dost child-like cry?" 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Quoth godly Canynge, "I do weep, 
 
 That thou so soon must die, 
 And leave thy sons and helpless wife; 115 
 
 'Tis this that wets mine eye." 
 
 XXX 
 
 "Then dry the tears that out thine eye 
 
 From godly fountains spring; 
 Death I despise, and all the power 
 
 Of Edward, traitor king. 120 
 
 ' When through the tyrant's welcome means 
 I shall resign my life. 
 
 100 
 
 135 
 
 The God I serve will soon provide 
 For both my sons and wife. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 "Before I saw the lightsome sun, 125 
 
 This was appointed me; 
 Shall mortal man repine or grudge 
 
 What God ordains to be? 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 "How oft in battle have I stood. 
 
 When thousands died around; 130 
 
 When smoking streams of crimson blood 
 
 Imbrued the fattened ground; 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 " How did I know that every dart, 
 
 That cut the airy way, 
 Might not find passage to my heart, 
 
 And close mine eyes for aye? 
 
 "And shall I now, for fear of death, 
 Look wan and be dismayed? 
 
 Nay! from my heart fly childish fear, 
 Be all the man displayed. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 "Ah! godhke Henry!* God forfend. 
 And guard thee and thy son, 
 
 If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not. 
 Why then, his will be done. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 " My honest friend, my fault has been 
 To serve God, and my prince; 
 
 And that I no time-server am. 
 My death will soon convince. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 "In London city was I bom. 
 
 Of parents of great note; 
 My father did a noble arms 
 
 Emblazon on his coat: 
 
 140 
 
 145 
 
 150 
 
 155 
 
 160 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 "I make no doubt but he is gone 
 
 Where soon I hope to go; 
 Where we for ever shall be blest. 
 
 From out the reach of woe; 
 
 XL 
 
 "He taught me justice and the laws 
 
 With pity to unite; 
 And eke he taught me how to know 
 
 The wrong cause from the right: 
 
 XLI 
 
 "He taught me with a prudent hand 
 
 To feed the hungry poor. 
 Nor let my servants drive away 
 
 The hungry from my door: 
 
 * Henry VI (1422-1461). Tyrwhitt points out that 
 Chatterton's ballad was probably suggested by the 
 execution at Bristol of Sir Balwin Fulford, a Lancastrian 
 Knight, in 1461, the year of Edward IV's accession. 
 Henry VI's son. Edward, Prince of Wales, was killed in 
 1471 at the battle of Tewkesbury, or. perhaps, murdered 
 after the fight; Henry VI himself died in the Tower in 
 the same year; he was probably murdered by the com- 
 mands of Edward IV. 
 
450 
 
 DllYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 "And none can say but all my life 
 
 I have his wordes kept; 
 And summed the actions of the day 
 
 Each night before I slept. 
 
 165 "Now death as welcome to me comes, 
 
 As e'er the month of May; 
 Nor would I even wish to live, 
 With my dear wife to stay." 
 
 205 
 
 XLni 
 " I have a spouse, go ask of her, 
 
 If I defiled her bed? 
 I have a king and none can lay 
 
 Black treason on my head. 
 
 LUI 
 
 Quoth Canynge, "'Tis a goodly thing 
 170 To be prepared to die; 
 
 And from this world of pain and grief 
 To God in Heaven to fly." 
 
 210 
 
 " In Lent, and on the holy eve. 
 
 From flesh I did refrain; 
 Why should I then appear dismayed 
 
 To leave this world of pain? 
 
 175 
 
 And now the bell began to toll, 
 
 And clarions to sound; 
 Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet 
 
 A-prancing on the ground: 
 
 215 
 
 XLV 
 
 "No! Hapless Henry! I rejoice, 
 I shall not see thy death; 
 
 Most willingly in thy just cause 
 Do I resign my breath. 
 
 180 
 
 And just before the officers 
 His loving wife came in, 
 
 Weeping unfeigned tears of woe, 
 With loud and dismal din. 
 
 220 
 
 XLVI 
 
 "Oh, fickle people! ruined land! 
 
 Thou wilt know peace no moe; 
 While Richard's sons^ exalt themselves, 
 
 Thy brooks with blood will flow. 
 
 "Say, were ye tired of godly peace, 185 
 
 And godly Henry's reign, 
 That you did chop^ your easy days 
 
 For those of blood and pain? 
 
 "What tho' I on a sledge be drawn, 
 
 And mangled by a hind,^ 190 
 
 I do defy the traitor's power. 
 He cannot harm my mind; 
 
 XLIX 
 
 "What tho' uphoisted on a pole, 
 
 My Hmbs shall rot in air, 
 And no rich monument of brass 195 
 
 Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; 
 
 "Yet in the holy book above, 
 
 Which time can't eat away. 
 There with the servants of the Lord 
 
 My name shall live for aye. 200 
 
 LI 
 
 " Then welcome death! for life eteme 
 
 I leave this mortal life: 
 Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear. 
 
 My sons and loving wife! 
 
 » Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, Hia Sons were 
 Edward IV. George, Duke of Clarence, and Richard III. 
 « Interrupt, cut short. 
 ^ A rustic, a man of the lower class. 
 
 "Sweet Florence! now I pray forbear. 
 
 In quiet let me die; 
 Pray God that every Christian soul 
 
 May look on death as I. 
 
 "Sweet Florence! why these briny tears? 225 
 
 They wash my soul away, 
 And almost make me wish for life, 
 
 With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 " 'Tis but a journey I shall go 
 
 Unto the land of bliss; 
 Now, as a proof of husband's love, 
 
 Receive this holy kiss." 
 
 230 
 
 LIX 
 
 Then Florence, faltering in her say, 
 Trembling these wordes spoke, 
 
 "Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! 
 My heart is well nigh broke: 
 
 235 
 
 "Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go. 
 
 Without thy loving wife? 
 The cruel axe that cuts thy neck. 
 
 It eke shall end my hfe." 
 
 240 
 
 And now the officers came in 
 To bring Sir Charles away, 
 
 Who turned to his loving wife, 
 And thus to her did say: 
 
 LXII 
 
 "I go to life, and not to death; 
 
 Trust thou in God above, 
 And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, 
 
 And in their hearts him love: 
 
 245 
 
THOMAS CHATTERTON 
 
 451 
 
 LXIII 
 
 "Teach them to run the noble race 
 That I their father run; 250 
 
 Florence! should death thee take — adieu! 
 Ye oflacers, lead on." 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 Saint James's Friars marched next, 
 Each one his part did chant; 
 
 Behind their backs six minstrels came, 
 Who tuned the strung bataunt: 
 
 290 
 
 LXIV 
 
 Then Florence raved as any mad, 
 
 And did her tresses tear; 
 "Oh! stay, my husband! lord! and life!" — 255 
 
 Sir Charles then dropped a tear. 
 
 Till, tired out with raving loud, 
 
 She fell upon the floor; 
 Sir Charles exerted all his might. 
 
 And marched from out the door. 260 
 
 Upon a sledge he mounted then 
 With looks full brave and sweet; 
 
 Looks, that displayed no more concern 
 Than any in the street. 
 
 Before him went the council-men, 265 
 
 In scarlet robes and gold, 
 And tassels spangling in the sun, 
 
 Much glorious to behold: 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 The Friars of Saint Augustine next 
 
 Appeared to the sight, 270 
 
 All clad in homely russet weeds 
 Of godly monkish plight: 
 
 LXIX 
 
 In different parts a godly psalm 
 
 Most sweetly they did chant; 
 Behind their backs six minstrels came, 275 
 
 Who tuned the strung bataunt.' 
 
 LXX 
 
 Then five-and-twenty archers came; 
 
 Each one the bow did bend. 
 From rescue of King Henry's friends 
 
 Sir Charles for to defend. 280 
 
 LXXI 
 
 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, 
 
 Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde. 
 By two black steeds in trappings white, 
 
 With plumes upon their head. 
 
 Behind him five-and-twenty more 285 
 
 Of archers strong and stout, 
 With bended bow each one in hand, 
 
 Marched in goodly rout: 
 
 8 Evidently intended to suggest a musical instrument of 
 the viol class. The word bataunt seems to have been 
 invented by Chatterton; perhaps for the sake of the 
 rhyme. 
 
 Then came the mayor and aldermen, 
 
 In cloth of scarlet deck't; 
 And their attending men each one, 295 
 
 Like Eastern princes trick' t: 
 
 LXXV 
 
 And after them a multitude 
 
 Of citizens did throng; 
 The windows were all full of heads, 
 
 As he did pass along. 300 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 And when he came to the high cross, 
 
 Sir Charles did turn and say, 
 "O thou that savest man from sin, 
 
 Wash my soul clean this day!" 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 At the great minster window sat 305 
 
 The king in mickle state, 
 To see Charles Bawdin go along 
 
 To his most welcome fate. 
 
 Soon as the sledge drew nigh enough. 
 
 That Edward he might hear, 310 
 
 The brave Sir Charles he did stand up 
 And thus his words declare: 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 "Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! 
 
 Exposed to infamy; 
 But be assured, disloyal man! 315 
 
 I'm greater now than thee. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 "By foul proceedings, murder, blood. 
 
 Thou wearest now a crown ; 
 And hast appointed me to die. 
 
 By power not thine own. 32Q 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 "Thou thinkest I shall die today; 
 
 I have been dead till now. 
 And soon shall live to wear a crown 
 
 For aye upon my brow; 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 " Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, 325 
 
 Shalt rule this fickle land. 
 To let them know how wide the rule 
 
 'Twixt king and tyrant hand: 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 "Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! 
 
 Shall fall on thy own head—" 
 From out of hearing of the king 
 
 Departed then the sledde. 
 
 33C 
 
452 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, 
 
 He turned his head away, 
 And to his brother Gloucester' 335 
 
 He thus did speak and say: 
 
 xcv 
 The bloody axe his body fair 
 
 Into four parties cut; 
 And every part, and eke his head, 
 
 Upon a pole was put. 
 
 380 
 
 "To him that so-much-dreaded death 
 
 No ghastly terrors bring, 
 Behold the man! he spake the truth, 
 
 He's greater than a king!" 340 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 "So let him die!" Duke Richard said; 
 
 "And may each one our foes 
 Bend down their necks to bloody axe, 
 
 Aud feed the carrion crows." 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 And now the horses gently drew 
 Sir Charles up the high hill; 
 
 The axe did glister in the sun. 
 His precious blood to spill. 
 
 345 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, 
 
 As up a gilded car 
 Of victory by valorous chiefs 
 
 Gained in the bloody war: 
 
 350 
 
 And to the people he did say, 
 
 "Behold you see me die 
 For serving loyally my king, 355 
 
 My king most rightfully. 
 
 xc 
 "As long as Edward rules this land. 
 No quiet you will know; 
 Your sons and husbands shall be slain, 
 And brooks with blood shall flow. 360 
 
 xci 
 "You leave your good and lawful king 
 When in adversity; 
 Like me, unto the true cause stick; 
 And for the true cause die." 
 
 XCII 
 
 Then he, with priests, upon his knees, 365 
 
 A prayer to God did make. 
 Beseeching him unto himself 
 
 His parting soul to take. 
 
 xciu 
 Then, kneeling down he laid his head 
 
 Most seemly on the block; 370 
 
 Which from his body fair at once 
 
 The able headsman struck; 
 
 xciv 
 And out the blood began to flow, 
 And round the scaffold twine; 
 And tears enough to wash't away, 375 
 Did flow from each man's eyne. 
 • Richard, Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard III. 
 
 XCVI 
 
 One part did rot on Kynwulph hill. 
 
 One on the minster tower, 
 And one from off the castle gate 
 
 The crowen did devour; 
 
 XCVII 
 
 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, 385 
 
 A dreary spectacle; 
 His head was placed on the high cross, 
 
 In High-street most noble. 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: 
 
 God prosper long our king, 390 
 
 And grant he may with Bawdin's soul. 
 In heaven God's mercy sing! 
 
 €toxQt Crabbe 
 
 1754-1832 
 
 THE MODERN PASTORAL 
 
 (From The Village, Bk. I. 1783) 
 
 The Village Life, and every care that reigns 
 O'er youthful peasants, and declining swains; 
 What labour yields, and what, that labour past. 
 Age, in its hour of langour finds at last; 
 What form the real picture of the poor, 5 
 
 Demand a song — the Muse can give no more. 
 
 Fled are those times, when, in harmonious 
 strains. 
 The rustic poet praised his native plains: 
 No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse. 
 Their country's beauty or their nymphs' 
 rehearse; lo 
 
 Yet still for these we frame the tender strain. 
 Still in our lays fond Corydons complain. 
 And shepherds* boys their amorous pains re- 
 veal. 
 The only pains, alas! they never feel. 
 
 On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous 
 .reign, 15 
 
 If Tityrus found the Golden Age again. 
 Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong. 
 Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song?i 
 From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, 
 Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way? 
 
 Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains, 21 
 Because the Muses never knew their pains: 
 They boast their peasant's pipes; but peasants 
 
 now 
 Resign their pipes, and plod behind the plow; 
 
 * i. e., the pastoral poems of Vergil, who was born 
 near Mantua. The river Mincio (or Mincius) flows near 
 Vergil's birthplace; Tityrus is the name of a shepherd ^ 
 in Vergil's Eclogues. 
 
GEORGE CRABBE 
 
 453 
 
 And few, amid the rural tribe, have time 25 
 
 To number syllables, and play with rhyme; 
 Save honest Duck,^ what son of verse could 
 
 share 
 The poet's rapture, and the peasant's care? 
 Or the great labours of the field degrade, 
 With the new peril of a poorer trade? 30 
 
 From this chief cause these idle praises 
 
 spring. 
 That themes so easy, few forbear to sing; 
 For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask; 
 To sing of shepherds is an easy task : 
 The happy youth assumes the common strain,35 
 A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain ; 
 With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer, 
 But all, to look like her, is painted fair. 
 
 1 grant indeed that fields and flocks have 
 charms 
 
 For him that grazes or for him that farms ; 40 
 But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace 
 The poor laborious natives of the place. 
 And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray. 
 On their bare heads, and dewy temples play; 
 While some, with feebler hands and fainter 
 hearts, ^ 45 
 
 Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts; 
 Then shall I dare these real ills to hide 
 In tinsel trappings of poetic pride? 
 
 No; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast, 
 Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast; 
 Where other cares than those the Muse re- 
 lates, 51 
 And other shepherds dwell with other mates; 
 By such examples taught, I paint the cot. 
 As Truth will paint it, and as bards will not: 
 Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain, 55 
 To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain: 
 O'ercome by labour, and bow'd down by time, 
 Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? 
 Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread. 
 By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed? 60 
 Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'er- 
 
 power, 
 Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? 
 Lo! where the heath, with withering brake 
 grown o'er. 
 Lends the Hght turf that warms the neigh- 
 bouring poor; 
 From thence a length of burning sand appears, 
 Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd 
 ears; 66 
 
 Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, 
 Reign o'er the land, and rob the bhghted rye: 
 There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar 
 I And to the ragged infant threaten war; 70 
 
 There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil; 
 There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; 
 Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, 
 The sHmy mallow waves her silky leaf; 
 O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a 
 shade, 75 
 
 And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; 
 
 2 Stephen Duck, d. 1756, a self-taught and obscure 
 versiSer, of humble origin, who gave a truthful picture 
 of the farmer's life in a poem called the Thresher's Labour, 
 V. Southey's Lives and Works of our Uneducated Poets. 
 
 With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, 
 And a sad splendour vainly shines around. . . . 
 Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, 85 
 With sullen woe displayed in every face; 
 Who, far from civil arts and social fly, 
 And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye. 
 Here too the lawless merchant of the main 
 Draws from his plow th' intoxicated swain; 90 
 Want only claim'd the labour of the day. 
 But vice now steals his nightly rest away. 
 Where are the swains, who, daily labour 
 
 done. 
 With rural games play'd down the setting 
 
 sun; 
 Who struck with matchless force the bounding 
 
 ball, 95 
 
 Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall; 
 While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong, 
 Engaged some artful stripling of the throng. 
 And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around 
 Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return 'd the 
 
 sound? 100 
 
 Where now are these? — Beneath yon cliff they 
 
 stand. 
 To show the freighted pinnace where to land; 
 To load the ready steed with guilty haste. 
 To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste. 
 Or, when detected, in their straggling course, 105 
 To foil their foes by cunning or by force; 
 Or, yielding part (which equal knaves demand). 
 To gain a lawless passport through the land. 
 Here, wand'ring long, amid these frowning 
 
 fields, 
 I sought the simple life that Nature fields ; no 
 Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her 
 
 place, 
 And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; 
 Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe. 
 The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, ^ 
 Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run 
 
 high. 
 On the tost vessel bend their eager eye. 1 16 
 
 Which to their coast directs its vent'rous 
 
 way; 
 Theirs, or the ocean's, miserable prey. 
 
 As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows 
 
 stand. 
 And wait for favouring winds to leave the 
 
 land; 
 While still for flight the ready wing is spread; 121 
 So waited I the favouring hour, and fled ; 
 Fled from these shores where guilt and famine 
 
 reign. 
 And cried. Ah! hapless they who still remain; 
 Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, 125 
 
 Whose greedy waves devour the lessening 
 
 Till some fierce tide, with more imperious 
 
 sway. 
 Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; 
 When the sad tennant weeps from door to 
 
 door, 
 And begs a poor protection from the poor. . . . 
 
 ' i. e., the bribe given for their votes at a Parliamentary 
 election. By the Act of 1716, a new Parliament had t« 
 be elected at least once in every seven years. 
 
454 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 PETER GRIMES^ 
 
 (From The Borough, Letter XXII, 1810) 
 
 Alas! for Peter, Dot a helping hand, 65 
 
 So was he hated, could he now command; 
 Alone he row'd his boat, alone he cast 
 His nets beside, or made his anchor fast; 
 To hold a rope, or hear a curse was none, — 
 He toil'd, and rail'd; he groan 'd and swore 
 
 alone. 70 
 
 Thus by himself compell'd to live each day, 
 
 To wait for certain hours the tide's delay; 
 
 At the same time the same dull views to see. 
 
 The bounding marsh-bank and the bhghted 
 
 tree; 
 The water only, when the tides were high, 75 
 When low, the mud half-cover'd and haK- 
 
 dry: 
 The sun-burnt tar, that blisters on the planks, 
 And bank side stakes in their uneven ranks; 
 Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float, 
 As the tide rolls by the impeded boat. 80 
 
 When the tides were neap, and, in the sultry 
 
 day. 
 Through the taU bounding mud-banks made 
 
 their way. 
 Which on each side rose sweUing, and below 
 The dark warm flood ran silently and slow; 
 There anchoring, Peter chose from man to 
 
 hide, 85 
 
 There hang his head, and view the lazy tide 
 In its hot shmy channel slowly glide; 
 Where the small eels that left the deeper way 
 For the warm shore, within the shallows play; 
 Where gaping mussels, left upon the mud, 90 
 Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood; — 
 Here dull and hopeless he'd lie down and trace 
 How sidelong crabs had scrawl'd their crooked 
 
 race; 
 Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry 
 Of fishing gull or clanging golden eye;^ 95 
 
 What time the sea-birds to the marsh would 
 
 come. 
 And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home, 
 Gave from the salt-ditch side the bellowing 
 
 boom: 
 He nursed the feelings these dull scenes pro- 
 duce 
 And loved to stop beside the opening sluice; lOO 
 Where the small stream, confined in narrowing 
 
 bound. 
 Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd'ning sound; 
 Where all, presented to the eye or ear, 
 Oppress'd the soul with misery, grief and fear. 
 Besides these objects, there were places 
 
 three, 105 
 
 Which Peter seemed with certain dread to see; 
 
 ' Peter Grimes is a fisherman, ignorant, lawless, avari- 
 cious, and cruel, from his youth. He gets from London 
 a workhouse-boy to help him in his labors, receiving a 
 small sum of money for giving the boy a home. The 
 boy dies from brutality and neglect, and Peter procures 
 another, thus gaining a second fee. This boy also dies, 
 and after that a third boy, in a way that arouses the 
 gravest suspicion. The murder is not proved, but Peter 
 is forbidden to employ another boy, and warned that if 
 he should be again accused he will find no mercy. 
 
 2 A sea-duck. 
 
 When he drew near them he would turn from 
 
 each, 
 And loudly whistle till he pass'd the reach, 
 A change of scene to him brought no rehef; 
 In town, t'was plain, men took him for 0,, 
 
 thief; ^ lib 
 
 The sailors' wives would stop him in the street, 
 And say, "Now, Peter, thou'st no boy to beat: " 
 Infants at play, when they perceived him, ran, 
 Warning each other — "That's the wicked 
 
 man," ' 
 
 He growl'd an oath, and in an angry tone 115 
 Cursed the whole place, and wished to be alone. 
 
 FARMER MOSS'S DAUGHTER 
 
 (From Tales in Verse, 1812) 
 
 To farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down 
 His only daughter, from her school in town ; 
 A tender, timid maid! who knew not how 
 To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow: 
 Smiling she came, with petty talents graced, 5 
 A fair complexion, and a slender waist. 
 
 Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure. 
 Her father's kitchen she could ill endure; 
 Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat, 
 And laid at once a pound upon his plate ; 1 
 
 Hot from the field, her eager brother seized 
 An equal part, and hunger's rage appeased; 
 The air, surcharged with moisture, flagg'd 
 
 around. 
 And the offended damsel sighed and frowned; 
 The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid, 1 5 
 And fancy's sickness seized the loathing maid: 
 But when the men beside their station took, 
 The maidens with them, and with these the 
 
 cook; 
 When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, 
 Fill'd with huge balls of farinaceous food ; 20 
 With bacon, mass saline, where never lean 
 Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen; 
 When from a single horn the party drew 
 Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new; 
 When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a 
 
 stain, 25 
 
 Soil'd by rude hinds^ who cut and come again — 
 She could not breathe, but with a heavy sigh, 
 Rein'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended eye; 
 She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums^ fine, 
 And wonder'd much to see the creatures dine;30 
 When she resolved her father's heart to move, 
 If hearts of farmers were alive to love. 
 She now entreated by herself to sit 
 In the small parlour, if papa thought fit, 
 And there to dine, to read, to work alone : 35 
 "No," said the farmer in an angry tone; 
 "These are your school- taught airs; your 
 
 mother's pride 
 Would send you there; but I am now your 
 
 guide. — 
 Arise betimes, our early meal prepare, 
 And this despatch'd, let business be your 
 
 care; 40 
 
 ' Farm-laborers, rustics. 
 
 2 Pieces (Lat. frustum, a piece, part.) 
 
WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 455 
 
 )ok to the lasses, let there not be one 
 Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done; 
 In every household work your portion take, 
 And what you make not, see that others make: 
 At leisure times attend the wheel, and see 45 
 The whit'ning web be sprinkled on the Lea, 
 When thus employed, should our young neigh- 
 bour view 
 ' A useful lass, you may have more to do." 
 
 William Blate 
 
 1757-1827 
 
 TO THE MUSES 
 
 (From Poetical Sketches, 1783) 
 
 Whether on Ida's shady brow, 
 Or in the chambers of the East, 
 The chambers of the sun that now 
 From ancient melody have ceased; 
 
 Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, 5 
 
 Or the green corners of the earth. 
 
 Or the blue regions of the air. 
 
 Where the melodious winds have birth; . 
 
 Whether on crystal rocks ye rove 
 Beneath the bosom of the sea, 10 
 
 Wandering in many a coral grove; 
 Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; 
 
 How have you left the ancient love 
 That bards of old en joy 'd in you! 
 The languid strings do scarcely move, 15 
 The sound is forced, the notes are few. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Thou fair-haired angel of the evening. 
 
 Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountain, 
 
 light 
 Thy brilliant torch of love; thy radiant crown 
 Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! 
 Smile on our loves; and whilst thou drawest 
 round 5 
 
 The curtains of the sky, scatter thy dew 
 On every flower that closes its sweet eyes 
 In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on 
 The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering 
 
 eyes, 
 And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full 
 soon 10 
 
 Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide. 
 And then the lion glares through the dun forest. 
 The fleeces of our flocks are covered with 
 Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine in- 
 fluence. 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 (From Songs of Innocence, 1787) 
 
 Piping down the valleys wild, 
 Piping songs of pleasant glee. 
 On a cloud I saw a child. 
 And he, laughing, said to me: 
 
 "Pipe a song about a Lamb!" 
 So I piped with merry cheer. 
 ** Piper, pipe that song again;" 
 So I piped: he wept to hear. 
 
 "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; 
 Smg thy songs of happy cheer!" 
 So I sang the same again. 
 While he wept with joy to hear. 
 
 "Piper, sit thee down and write 
 In a book, that all may read." 
 So he vanish'd from my sight; 
 And I plucked a hollow reed, 
 
 And I made a rural pen, 
 And I stain'd the water clear, 
 And I wrote my happy songs 
 Every child may joy to hear. 
 
 THE LAMB 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Little lamb, who made thee? 
 
 Dost thou know who made thee? 
 Gave thee life, and bade thee feed 
 By the stream and o'er the mead; 
 Gave thee clothing of delight, 
 Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
 Gave thee such a tender voice, 
 Making all the vales rejoice? 
 
 Little lamb, who made thee? 
 
 Dost thou know who made thee? 
 
 Little lamb, I'll tell thee; 
 
 Little lamb, I'll tell thee: 
 He is called by thy name, 
 For He calls Himself a Lamb. 
 He is meek, and He is mild. 
 He became a little child. 
 I a child and thou a lamb, 
 We are callM by His name. 
 
 Little lamb, God bless thee! 
 
 Little lamb, God bless thee! 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 The sun descending in the west. 
 The evening star does shine. 
 The birds are silent in their nest, 
 And I must seek for mine. 
 
 The moon, like a flower 
 
 In heaven's high bower, 
 
 With silent delight, 
 
 Sits and smiles on the night. 
 
 Farewell, green fields and happy grove. 
 Where flocks have ta'en delight; 
 Where lambs have nibbled, silent move 
 The feet of angels bright; _ 
 
 Unseen, they pour blessing. 
 
 And joy without ceasing, 
 
 On each bud and blossom. 
 
 And each sleeping bosom. 
 
 10 
 
 13 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
456 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 They look in every thoughtless nest, 
 
 Where birds are covered warm; 
 
 They visit caves of every beast, 
 
 To keep them all from harm. 20 
 
 If they see any weeping 
 That should have been sleeping, 
 They pour sleep on their head. 
 And sit down by their bed. 
 
 When wolves and tigers howl for prey 25 
 They pitying stand and weep, 
 Seeking to drive their thirst away. 
 And keep them from the sheep. 
 
 But if they rush dreadful, 
 
 The angels, most heedful, 30 
 
 Receive each mild spirit. 
 
 New worlds to inherit. 
 
 And there the lion's ruddy eyes 
 
 Shall flow with tears of gold: 
 
 And pitying the tender cries, 35 
 
 And walking round the fold : 
 
 Saying "Wrath by His meekness. 
 
 And by His health, sickness. 
 
 Are driven away 
 
 From our immortal day. 40 
 
 "And now beside thee, bleating lamb, 
 I can lie down and sleep, 
 Or think on Him who bore thy name. 
 Graze after thee, and weep. 
 
 For wash'd in Ufe's river, 45 
 
 My bright mane forever 
 
 Shall shine like the gold, 
 
 As I guard o'er the fold." 
 
 TO THE DIVINE IMAGE 
 (From the same) 
 
 To mercy, pity, peace, and love, 
 
 All pray in their distress. 
 And to these virtues of delight 
 
 Return their thankfulness. 
 
 For mercy, pity, peace, and love, 6 
 
 Is God our Father dear; 
 And mercy, pity, peace, and love, 
 
 Is man. His child and care. 
 
 For Mercy has a human heart. 
 
 Pity, a human face; lo 
 
 And Love, the human form divine; 
 And Peace, the human dress. 
 
 Then every man, of every clime. 
 
 That prays in his distress. 
 Prays to the human form divine; 15 
 
 Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. 
 
 And all must love the human form, 
 
 In heathen, Turk, or Jew; 
 Where mercy, love, and pity dwell. 
 
 There God is dweUing too. 20 
 
 ON ANOTHER'S SORROW 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Can I see another's woe, 
 And not be in sorrow too? 
 Can I see another's grief, 
 And not seek for kind relief? 
 
 Can I see a falling tear, 6 
 
 And not feel my sorrow's share? 
 Can a father see his child 
 Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd? 
 
 Can a mother sit and hear, 
 
 An infant groan, an infant fear? lo 
 
 No, no! never can it be! 
 
 Never, never can it be! 
 
 And can He, who smiles on all, 
 Hear the wren, with sorrow small. 
 Hear the small bird's grief and care, 15 
 Hear the woes that infants bear? 
 
 And not sit beside the nest, 
 Pouring Pity in their breast, 
 And not sit the cradle near. 
 Weeping tear on infant's tear? 20 
 
 And not sit both night and day. 
 Wiping all our tears away? 
 Oh, no! never can it be! 
 Never, never can it be! 
 
 He doth give His joy to all: 25 
 
 He becomes an infant small. 
 He becomes a man of woe, 
 He doth feel the sorrow too. 
 
 Think not thou canst sigh a sigh. 
 And thy Maker is not by: so 
 
 Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
 And thy Maker is not near. 
 
 Oh! He gives to us His joy. 
 
 That our griefs He may destroy. 
 
 Till our grief is fled and gone 35 
 
 He doth sit by us and moan. 
 
 THE TIGER 
 
 (From The Songs of Experience, 1794) 
 
 Tiger, Tiger, burning bright 
 In the forest of the night. 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Framed thy fearful symmetry? 
 
 In what distant deeps or skies 5 
 
 Burned that fire within thine eyes? 
 On what wings dared he aspire? 
 What the hand dared seize the fire? 
 
 And what shoulder, and what art. 
 
 Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 10 
 
 When thy heart began to beat, 
 
 What dread hand and what dread feet? ^ 
 
JANE ELLIOT 
 
 457 
 
 WTiat the hammer, what the chain, 
 Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? 
 What the anvil? What dread grasp 15 
 
 Dared thy deadly terrors clasp? 
 
 When the stars threw down their spears. 
 
 And water'd heaven with their tears. 
 
 Did He smile His work to see? 
 
 Did He who made the lamb make thee? 20 
 
 AH! SUNFLOWER 
 (From the same) 
 
 Ah! Sunflower! weary of time, 
 
 Who countest the steps of the sun, 
 Seeking after that sweet golden prime 
 
 Where the traveller's journey is done; 
 Where the Youth pined away with desire, 
 
 And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, 
 Arise from their graves, and aspire 
 
 Where my sunflower wishes to go! 
 
 SCOTCH SONG WRITERS 
 3Iol)n g>feinner 
 
 1721-1807 
 TULLOCHGORUMi 
 
 Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, 
 And lay your disputes all aside, 
 What signifies 't for folk to chide 
 
 For what's been done before them? 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree. 
 Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree. 
 
 To drop their Whig-mig-morum; 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree. 
 To spend the night in mirth and glee, 
 And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me, 
 
 The reel o' Tullochgorum. 
 
 O, Tullochgorum's my dehght. 
 
 It gars us a' in ane unite. 
 
 And any sumph'^ that keeps up spite, 
 
 In conscience I abhor him. 
 For blythe and cheery we's be a', 
 Blythe and cheery, blythe and cheery, 
 Blythe and cheery we's be a'. 
 As lang as we hae breth to draw, 
 And dance, till we be like to fa', 
 
 The reel of Tullochgorum. 
 
 There needs na' be sae great a phrase, 
 Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 
 I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys' 
 
 For half a hundred score o' 'em. 
 They're doufi"* and dowie^ at the best, 
 Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, 
 
 1 When Skinner wrote this poem, Tullochgorum was 
 not a song but the name of a tune to a Highland reel. 
 Burns pronounced Skinner's Tullochgorum "the best 
 Scotch song Scotland ever saw." 
 
 * Fool, softy. « A Scotch dance resembling the reel. 
 
 * Dull. s Daleful. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 They're douff and dowie at the best 
 Wi' a' their variorium. 30 
 
 They're douff and dowie at the best, 
 
 Their Allegros and a' the rest, 
 
 They canna please a Scottish taste, 
 Gompar'd wi' Tullochgorum. 
 
 Let warldly minds themselves oppress 35 
 Wi' fears of want, and double cess,^ 
 And sullen sots themselves distress 
 
 Wi' keeping up decorum. 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. 
 Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, 40 
 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. 
 
 Like auld Philosophorum? 
 Shall we so sour and sulky sit, 
 Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, 
 Nor ever rise to shake a fit 45 
 
 To the reel of Tullochgorum? 
 
 May choicest blessings still attend 
 Each honest open-hearted friend, 
 And calm and quiet be his end. 
 
 And a' that's good watch o'er him! 50 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 
 And dainties a great store o' 'em; 
 May peace and plenty be his lot. 
 Unstained by any vicious spot! 
 And may be never want a groat 55 
 
 That's fond of Tullochgorum. 
 
 But for the dirty, yawning fool. 
 Who wants to be oppression's tool. 
 May envy gnaw his rotten soul. 
 
 And discontent devour him ! 60 
 
 May dooF and sorrow be his chance, 
 Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance. 
 
 And nane say wae's me for 'im! 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 65 
 Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, 
 Whae'er he be, that winna dance 
 
 The reel of Tullochgorum. 
 
 31ane Clliot 
 
 1727-1805 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST 
 
 I've heard them lilting, 1 at our ewe-milking, 
 
 Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day; 
 
 But now they are moaning, on ilka green 
 
 loaning;^ 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede' away. 
 
 At bughts* in the morning nae blythe lads are 
 scorning; 5 
 
 The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; 
 
 Nae dafling, nae gabbing, but sighing and 
 sabbing. 
 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglin,^ and hies her away. 
 
 « Double taxes. (Cess = a tax) ; i.e., the amount of tax 
 cessed, or assessed, by the Government. 
 ^ Dole, grief. 
 
 1 Singing joyously, 
 
 2 A path left for the cattle between the corn fields. 
 
 3 Withered, faded. 
 
 * Sheep-pens. ^ Milk-pail. 
 
458 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 In hairst,^ at the shearing, nae youths now are 
 
 jeering, 
 The bandsters' are lyart,* and runkled and 
 
 gray; .10 
 
 At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae 
 
 fleechiag* 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies^" are 
 
 roaming 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle" to play; 
 But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie — 15 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the 
 
 Border! 
 The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; 
 The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the 
 
 foremost. 
 The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay. 20 
 
 We'll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking, 
 Women and bairns are heartless and wae; 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning, 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede awiay. 
 
 While waters wimple^ to the sea, ^ 23 
 
 While day blinks in the lift sae nie; 
 Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e*e. 
 Ye aye shall be my dearie. 
 
 1750-1825 
 
 AULD ROBIN GRAY 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, when the 
 
 kye's^ come hame, 
 And a' the weary warld to rest are gane. 
 The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae ma ee, 
 Unkent by my guidman, wha sleeps sound by 
 
 me. 
 
 Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for 
 
 his bride, 5 
 
 But saving ae crown-piece he had naething 
 
 beside; 
 To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to 
 
 sea, 
 And the crown and the pound — they were baith 
 
 for me. 
 
 3l0abel ]pagan 
 
 1740-1821 
 
 CA THE YOWES 
 
 Ca' the yowes^ to the kn ewes'* 
 Ca' them where the heather grows, 
 Ca' them where the burnie rows,^ 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 As I gaed down the water side, 
 There I met my shepherd lad. 
 He rowed me sweetly in his plaid, 
 And he ca'd me his dearie. 
 
 Will ye gang down the water side. 
 And see the waves sae sweetly glide 
 Beneath the hazels spreading wide, 
 The moon it shines fu' clearly. 
 
 I was bred up at nae sic school, 
 My shepherd lad to play the fool; 
 And a' the day to sit in dool. 
 And naebody to see me. 
 
 Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet, 
 Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet. 
 And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, 
 And ye shall be my dearie. 20 
 
 If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
 I'se gang wi' you my shepherd lad; 
 And ye may row me in your plaid, 
 And I shall be your dearie. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 • Harvest. 
 
 8 Gray-haired. 
 
 J** Active young men 
 
 ' Ewes. 2 Knolls. 
 
 ' Men who bind the sheaves. 
 » Coaxing. 
 " Hide-and-seek. 
 
 • The brook rolls. 
 
 He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, 
 When my father brake his arm and the cow 
 was stown^ away; 10 
 
 My mither she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea. 
 And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me. 
 
 My father couldna wark — ^my mother couldna 
 
 spin — 
 I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna 
 
 win; 
 Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' 
 
 tears in his ee, 15 
 
 Said: "Jeanie, O for their sakes, will ye no 
 
 marry me?" 
 
 My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie 
 
 back, 
 But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a 
 
 wrack. 
 His ship was a wrack — why didna Jamie die, 
 Or why am I spared to cry wae is me? 20 
 
 My father urged me sair — my mither didna 
 
 speak, 
 But she looked in my face till my heart was like 
 
 to break; 
 Thy gied him my hand — ^my heart was in the 
 
 sea — 
 And so auld Robin Gray he was guidman to me. 
 
 I hadna been his wife a week but only four, 25 
 When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my 
 
 door, 
 I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think 
 
 it he, 
 Till he said: "I'm come hame, love, to marry 
 thee!" 
 * Ripple. 
 ^Cows. 'Stolen. 
 
CAROLINE OLIPHANT (LADY NAIRN) 
 
 459 
 
 Oh, sair sair did we greet, and miokle say of a', 
 I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa' — 30 
 I wish that I were dead, but I'm na hke to die, 
 For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, 
 waeisme! 
 
 I gang Hke a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, 
 I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. 
 But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, 35 
 
 For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 
 
 Caroline (i^lip^ant (ilati^ jl^atm) 
 
 1766-1845 
 
 THE LAND OF THE LEAL 
 
 I'm wearin' awa', John, 
 
 Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Johu, 
 
 I'm wearin' awa', 
 
 To the land o' the leal.* 
 There's nae sorrow there, John, 5 
 
 There's neither cauld nor care, John, 
 The day is aye Tair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Our bonnie bairn's there, John, 
 
 She was baith gude and fair, John; 10 
 
 And O! we grudged her sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, 
 And joy's a-coming fast, John, 
 The joy that's aye to last 15 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Sae dear's the joy was bought, John, 
 Sae free the battle fought, John, 
 That sinfu' man e'er brought, 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 20 
 
 O, dry your glistening e'e, John I 
 My saul langs to be free, John, 
 And angels beckon me 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 
 O, haud ye leal and true, John! 25 
 
 Your day it's wearin' through, John, 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John, 
 This warld's cares are vain, John, 30 
 
 We'll meet, and we'll be fain. 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 ANONYMOUS 
 
 THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE 
 
 Wha the deil hae we got for a king, 
 But a wee, wee German lairdieU 
 
 An' when we gaed to bring him hame, 
 He was delving in his kail-yardie:^ 
 
 1 Loyal, faithful, true-hearted. 
 
 li. e., George I (1714-1727), Elector of Hanover. 
 Both George I and George II were favorite subjects 
 for ridicule with the Jacobite song-writers. 
 
 * Cabbage-garden. 
 
 Sheughing kail,^ and laying leeks, 5 
 
 Without the hose and but the breeks;* 
 And up his beggar duds he cleeks, 
 The wee, wee German lairdie! 
 
 And he's clappit down in our gudeman's chair, 
 The wee, wee German lairdie! lo 
 
 And he's brought fouth^ o' foreign trash. 
 
 And dibbled^ them in his yardie: 
 He's pu'd the rose o' English loons. 
 And brake the harp o' Irish clowns, 
 But our Scot's thistle will j ag his thumbs, 15 
 The wee, wee German lairdie! 
 
 Come up amang the Highland hills. 
 
 Thou wee, wee German lairdie, 
 And see how Charlie' s^ lang-kail thrive. 
 
 That he dibbled in his yardie: 
 And if a stock ye daur to pu'. 
 Or haud the yoking o' a pleugh, 
 We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou'. 
 Thou wee bit German lairdie! 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 S 
 
 3d 
 
 40 
 
 Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, 
 
 Nae fitting for a yardie; 
 And our norlan' thristles winna pu'. 
 
 For a wee bit German lairdie! 
 And we've the trenching blades o' weir, 
 Wad glib^ ye o' your German gear, 
 And pass ye neath the claymore's sheer 
 
 Thou feckless German lairdie! 
 
 Auld Scotland! thou'rt owre cauld a hole 
 
 For nursing siccan vermin; 
 But the very dogs o' England's court 
 
 Can bark and hcn^l in German! 
 Then keep thy diboie^ i' thy ain hand. 
 
 Thy spade but and thy yardie; 
 For wha the deil now claims your land. 
 
 But a wee, wee German lairdie? 
 
 CHARLIE IS MY DARLING 
 
 'Twas on a Monday morning. 
 
 Right early in the year. 
 That Charlie! came to our town, 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling. 
 
 My darling, my darling, 
 And Charlie he's my darling, 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 As CharHe he came up the gate, 
 His face shone like the day: 
 I grat to see the lad come back 
 That had been lang away. 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling, etc. 
 
 • Ditching cabbage. 
 
 6 Plenty. 
 
 f Charles Edward Stuart, 
 grandson of King James II. 
 
 8 Dgprive. 
 
 » A pointed tool, used to make holes for planting seeds, 
 or "dibbling." 
 
 1 Charles Stuart, "the young Pretender." as his father 
 James Edward Stuart, was called the "Chevalier" by 
 his friends, Charles gained the title of "the young Chev- 
 alier." 
 
 10 
 
 4 Without breeches. 
 6 Planted, 
 'the young Pretender,' 
 
460 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 And ilka bonnie lassie sang, 
 
 As to the door she ran, 15 
 
 Our king shall hae his ain again, 
 
 And Charlie is the man. 
 
 And iUharlie he's my darling, etc. 
 
 Out-owre yon moory mountain, 
 
 • And down yon craigy glen, 20 
 
 Of naething else our lasses sing 
 ^/But Charlie and his men. 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling, etc. 
 
 ^ Our Highland hearts are true gtnd leal. 
 
 And glow without a stain; * 25 
 
 Our Highland swords are metal keen, 
 . Aiid Charlie he's our ain. -. 
 
 * And Charlie he'l5 fh3^ diarlingH 
 My darling, my darling, 
 ' And Charhe he's niy darling, 30 
 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 Robert iFergu00on 
 
 1750-1774 
 
 THE DAFT DAYS 
 
 Now mirk December's dowie^ face 
 Glow'rs ow'r the rigs^ wi' sour grimace, 
 While, thro' his minimum o' space. 
 
 The bleer-ey'd sun, 
 Wi' blinkin' light, and stealin' pace, 5 
 
 His race doth run. 
 
 Frae naked groves nae birdie sings, 
 To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings, 
 The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings 
 
 From Borean cave, 10 
 
 An' dwynin'3 Nature droops her wings, 
 
 Wi' visage grave. 
 
 Mankind but scanty pleasure glean 
 
 Frae snawy hill or barren plain. 
 
 Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train, 15 
 
 Wi' frozen spear, 
 Sends drift ow'r a' his bleak domain. 
 
 And guides the weir.^ 
 
 Auld Reekie!^ thou'rt the canty hole, 
 
 A bield^ for mony a cauldrife^ soul, 20 
 
 Wha snugly at thine ingle loll, 
 
 Baith warm and couth ;8 
 While round they gar the bicker', roll. 
 
 To weet their mouth. . . . 
 
 Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra', 25 
 An' fling your sorrows far awa;' 
 Then come and gie's the tither blaw 
 
 O' reaming ale, 
 Mair precious than the well o' Spa, 
 
 Our hearts to heal. ... 30 
 
 1 Gloomy. 
 
 2 R'dges, hUls. 
 
 * Pining, wasting away. 
 
 *War. 
 
 '- Old smoky, i. e., Edinburgh. • Shelter. 
 
 ^ Chilly. 8 Kind, friendly. 
 
 » Wooden drinking-cup, or bowl. 
 
 Fiddlers, your pins in temper fix. 
 And rozet weel your fiddle-sticks, 
 But banish vile Italian tricks 
 
 Frae out your quorum. 
 Nor fortes wi' pianos mix, 
 
 Gie's Tullochgorum. . . . 
 
 35 
 
 And thou, great god of Aqua Vitae! 
 
 Wha sways the empire o' this city. 
 
 When fou we're sometimes capernoity, ' 
 
 Be thou prepar'd 40 
 
 To hedge us from that black banditti, 
 
 fhf^City-Guard. 
 
 (1759-1796) 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 
 
 (1785) 
 
 "Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the poor." 
 
 Gray. 
 
 My lov'd, iny honour'd, much respected 
 friend!! ay 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays;-w 
 With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,OL> 
 My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
 
 praise iJ^-/ q 
 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,"v~' 5 
 The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; ^ 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless 
 ways, .J^ 
 What Aiken in a cottage would have been;g^ 
 Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there 
 I ween! (V 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;2io 
 
 The short'ning winter-day is near a close; 
 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 
 
 The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
 
 repose: 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 
 This night his weekly moil' is at an end, 15 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
 hoes, 
 Hoping the mom in ease and rest to spend, 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
 hameward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Ben eath the shelter of an aged tree ; 20 
 
 Th' expectant wee-things, toddhn', stacher* 
 
 through 
 
 To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and 
 
 glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonily, 
 
 1 Robert Aiken, a solicitor in Ayr, who was a patron 
 of Burns, and an admirer of his poetry. 
 
 2 A whistling,t rushing sound. (Scotch form of sough.) 
 » Drudgery. * Stagger. 
 
ROBERT BURNS 
 
 461 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's 
 
 smile, 
 
 The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,- 25 
 
 Does a' his weary kiaugh* and care beguile, 
 
 And makes him quite forget his labour and his 
 
 toil. 
 
 Belyve,^ the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 
 Some ca'^ the pleugh, some herd, some ten tie 
 rin 30 
 
 A cannie errand^ to a neebor town : 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman- 
 grown, 
 In youthfu' bloom, — ^love sparkling in her 
 e'e — 
 Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw^ new 
 gown, 
 Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, ^° 35 
 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, 
 And each for other's weelfare kindly 
 spiers :^^ 
 The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 
 fleet: 
 Each tells the uncos^^ that he sees or hears; 
 The parents partial eye their hopeful 
 years; 41 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view; 
 
 The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 45 
 
 Their master's and their mistress's command. 
 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey; 
 
 And mind their labours wi' an eydent^' hand. 
 
 And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk^^ or 
 
 play; 
 
 " And O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 50 
 
 And mind your duty, duly, mom and night; 
 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
 
 Implore His counsel and assisting might: 
 
 They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
 
 aright." 
 
 But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 55 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
 Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor. 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame.- 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 60 
 Wi' heart-struck anxious care enquires his 
 name, 
 While Jenny haflflins^^ is afraid to speak; 
 Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, 
 worthless rake. 
 
 5 Worry, labor. e By-and-bye, presently. 
 
 7 Drive. As in "ca canny," drive slowly, or cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 8 Tentie rin a cannie errond= careful run a frugal errand. 
 » Brave, fipe, gay. i° i. e., hard-won wages. 
 
 11 Enquired. 
 
 12 Strange happenings, little incidents out of the com- 
 mon. " Diligent. 
 
 '* To trifle, or, as we would say, to fool, i* Half. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ;i« 
 
 A strappin youth, he takes the mother's 
 
 eye; 65 
 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en; 
 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
 
 kye.i^ 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 
 
 joy, 
 
 But blate an' laithfu',!^ scarce can weel behave; 
 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 70 
 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 
 
 grave, 
 
 Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like 
 
 the lave.^^ 
 
 Oh, happy lovel where love Uke this is found! 
 Oh, heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond com- 
 pare! 
 I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 75 
 And sage experience bids me this declare; 
 "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
 spare — ■ 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender 
 
 tale, 80 
 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
 
 evening gale." 
 
 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 
 
 A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! 
 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 
 
 Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembhng 
 
 smooth! 86 
 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 
 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
 child? 
 Then paints the ruin'd, maid, and their distrac- 
 tion wild? 90 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple 
 
 board. 
 
 The halesorae parritch, chief o' Scotia's 
 
 food; 
 
 The soupe their only hawkie^" does afford. 
 
 That, 'yont the hallan^i snugly chows her 
 
 cood: 
 The dame brings forth, in compUmental 
 mood, 95 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, 
 fell;22 
 And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid: 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
 How 't was a towmond auld,^^ sin' lint was i' the 
 bell.24 
 
 16 Inside, into the inner room. In two-roomed houses 
 the outer apartment was called the btd, the inner, con- 
 taining the fire-place, ben. 
 
 " Cows. 
 
 ^^ Blate an' laithfu' —shamefaced and reluctant. The 
 youth is hesitating and awkward through shyness and 
 modesty. 
 
 19 The rest, the others. 
 
 20 Cow, more especially a black and white cow. Soupe, 
 i. e., milk. 
 
 21 Partition. 22 Well-saved cheese, strong, pungent. 
 2* Twelve-month old. 24 Since flax was in the flower. 
 
462 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,ioo 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
 The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, 
 The big ha'-bible,^^ ance his father's pride; 
 His bonnet28 rev'rently is laid aside. 
 His lyart haffets^^ wearing thin and bare; 105 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
 
 glide, 
 He wales a portion with judicious care; 
 And "Let us worship God!" he says, with 
 solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple 
 guise. 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
 aim; iiO 
 
 Perhaps "Dundee's"^ wild-warbling meas- 
 ures rise, 
 Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the 
 
 name; 
 Or noble "Elgin" beets^^ the heaven-ward 
 flame, 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: 
 
 Compar'd with these, Italian trills are 
 
 tame; 115 
 
 The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise; 
 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 
 How Abram was the friend of God on high; 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 120 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
 
 Or how the royal bard^° did groaning lie 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and waiUng cry; 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 125 
 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
 shed: 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
 name. 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay His 
 head; 130 
 
 How His first followers and servants sped; 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom^^ pronounc'd 
 by Heaven's command. 135 
 
 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal 
 
 King, 
 The saint, the father, and the husband 
 
 prays: 
 Hope "springs exulting on triumphant 
 
 wing,"32 
 
 « Hall-bible, i. e., house-hold, or family, Bible. 
 
 * In Scotland (as in Shakespeare) bonnet often means 
 a cap, or head-covering, worn by men or boys. In Scott's" 
 well-known song the "Blue Bonnets" =the Scotch. 
 {v. p. 501). 
 
 " Grey temples, i. e., the locks of gray about his tem- 
 ples. 
 
 ^Dundee, Martyrs, and Elgin are among the most 
 familiar and characteristic of the Scottish hymn-tunes. 
 
 » Rouses, fans. so King David. 
 
 »» Rev. xviiL «2 Pope, Windsor Forest, 1. 111. 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in futuw 
 
 days. 
 There, ever bask in uncreated rays, 140 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 In such society, yet still more dear; 
 While circling Time moves round in an eternal 
 sphere; 144 
 
 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art; 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 
 The Power, incens'd, the pageant will 
 desert. 
 The pompous strain , the sacerdotal stole ; 1 50 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart. 
 May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the 
 soul; 
 And in His Book of Life the inmates poor en- 
 roll. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
 
 way; 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 155 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 
 And profifer up to Heaven the warm re- 
 quest. 
 That He who stills the raven's clam'rous 
 nest. 
 And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the 
 best, 160 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide; 
 But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
 preside. 
 
 From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur 
 
 springs, 
 
 That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
 
 abroad: i64 
 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 
 "An honest man's the noblest work of 
 
 God;"» 
 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 
 
 What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous 
 
 load, 169 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd! 
 
 O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
 sent. 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
 content! 175 
 
 And O! may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
 vent 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be 
 rent, 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
 And stand a wall of fire arouad their much- 
 lov'd isle. 180 
 
 ** Pope, Essay on Man, Ep. iv. 247, 
 
ROBERT BURNS 
 
 463 
 
 O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 
 That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wal- 
 lace' heart, 
 Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part: 
 (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, 185 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian and reward!) 
 
 Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert; 
 But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
 guard! 
 
 EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD 
 SCOTTISH BARD 
 
 April 1st, 1785 
 
 While briars and woodbines budding green, 
 And paitricks serai chin' ^ loud at e'en. 
 And morning poussie whidden^ seen, 
 
 Inspire my Muse, 
 This freedom in an unknown frien' 5 
 
 I pray excuse. 
 
 On Fasten-e'en' we had a rockin',* 
 
 To ca' the crack^ and weave our stockin'; 
 
 And there was muckle fun and jokin', 
 
 Ye needna doubt; 10 
 
 At length we had a hearty yokin'' 
 
 At sang about. 
 
 There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
 
 Aboon them a' it pleased me best. 
 
 That some kind husband had addrest 15 
 
 To some sweet wife: 
 It thirl'd^ the heart-strings through the breast, 
 
 A' to the life. 
 
 I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
 What generous manly bosoms feel; 20 
 
 Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele, 
 
 Or Beattie's wark? 
 They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
 
 About Muirkirk. 
 
 It pat me fidgin-f ain^ to hear't, 25 
 
 And sae about him there I spiert;^ 
 Then a' that kenf him round declared 
 
 He had ingine;^" 
 That name excell'd it, few cam near't, 
 
 It was sae fine. 30 
 
 That, set him to a pint of ale. 
 
 And either douce^^ or merry tale. 
 
 Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel, 
 
 Or witty catches: 
 'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale 35 
 
 He had few matches. 
 
 1 Partridges crying. ^ jjare scampering. 
 
 3 The evening before the fast of Lent, or before Ash 
 Wednesday. 
 
 * Evening party. ^ Drive the talk. 
 
 •A turn, or bout. Hearty yokin' corresponds to "a 
 good spell." 
 
 » Thrilled. 8 i. e. it made me impatient. 
 
 • Inquired, i" Genius. ^^ Serious, sober. 
 
 Then up I gat, and swore an aith. 
 
 Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith,^* 
 
 Or die a cadger pownie's^' death. 
 
 At some dike back, 40 
 
 A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 
 
 To hear your crack. ^* 
 
 But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
 
 Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
 
 I to the crambo-jingle fell,^^ 45 
 
 Though rude and rough: 
 Yet croonin' to a body's sel 
 
 Does weel enough. 
 
 I am nae poet, in a sense. 
 
 But just a rhymer, like by chance, 50 
 
 And hae to learning nae pretence. 
 
 Yet what the matter? 
 Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 
 
 I jingle at her. 
 
 Your critic folk may cock their nose, 65 
 
 And say, "How can you e'er propose, 
 You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 
 
 To make a sang?" 
 But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 
 
 Ye're maybe wrang. 60 
 
 What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
 Your Latin names for horns and stools; 
 If honest nature made you fools, 
 
 What sairs^^ your grammars? 
 Ye'd better ta'en up spadds and shools, 65 
 
 Or knappin'-hammers." 
 
 A set o' dull conceited hashes, ^^ 
 Confuse their brains in college classes! 
 They gang in stirks,^^ and come out asses. 
 
 Plain truth to speak; 70 
 
 And syne^" they think to climb Parnassus 
 
 By dint o' Greek! 
 
 Gie me a spark o' Nature's fire! 
 That's a' the learning I desire; 
 Then, though I drudge through dub^i and mire 
 
 At pleugh or cart, _ 76 
 
 My Muse, though hamely in attire, 
 
 May touch the heart. 
 
 80 
 
 Oh for a spunk22 o' Allan's^' glee. 
 Or Fergusson's the bauld and slee,^* 
 Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. 
 
 If I can hit it! 
 That would be lear^^ enough for me, 
 
 If I could get it! 
 
 Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 85 
 
 Though real friends I b'lieve are few, 
 Yet, if your catalogue be fu', 
 
 I' se no insist. 
 But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 
 
 I'm on your list. 90 
 
 " Tackle. " A packman's, or carrier's pony. 
 
 " Talk. " i. e. I fell to making doggerel verses. 
 
 " Serves. " Stone-breakers' hammers. 
 
 18 Blockheads. " Young cattle. ^ Then. 21 Puddle. 
 « Spark. 23 Allan Ramsay. " Sly. ^^ Learning. 
 
464 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 I winna blaw about mysel; 
 
 As ill I like my faiits to tell; 
 
 But friends and folk that wish me well, 
 
 They sometimes roose^ me; 
 Though I maun own, as mony still 95 
 
 As far abuse me. 
 
 There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, 
 
 I hke the lasses — Gude forgie me! 
 
 For mony a plack^^ they wheedle frae me. 
 
 At dance or fair; 100 
 
 Maybe some ither thing they gie me. 
 
 They weel can spare. 
 
 But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
 I should be proud to meet you there; 
 We'se gie ae night's discharge to Care, 105 
 
 If we forgather. 
 And hae a swap o' rhymin' ware 
 
 Wi' ane an ither. 
 
 The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
 And kirsen^s him wi' reekin' water; 110 
 
 Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter,^^ 
 
 To cheer our heart; 
 And faith, we'se be acquainted better 
 
 Before we part. 
 
 Awa' ye selfish war'ly race, 116 
 
 Wha think that havins,^° sense and grace. 
 E'en love and friendship, should give place 
 
 To catch- the-plack!^! 
 I dinna like to see your face. 
 
 Nor hear your crack.'^ 120 
 
 But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
 Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
 Who hold your being on the terms, 
 
 "Each aid the others," 
 Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 125 
 
 My friends, my brothers. 
 
 But, to conclude my long epistle, 
 * As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; 
 Twa lines frae you would gar me fissle,'' 
 
 Who am most fervent, 130 
 
 While I can either sing or whistle, 
 
 Your friend and servant. 
 
 TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN 
 HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, 
 NOVEMBER, 1785 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, 
 O, what a panic's in thy breastie! 
 Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
 
 Wi' bickering brattle I^ 
 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 5 
 
 Wi' murd'ring pattle!^ 
 
 " Praise. » Coin. ^ Christen. 29 Draught. 
 
 *> Manners. " Money-making, "chasing-the-dollar." 
 »» Talk. 83 Fidget, i. e., jump for joy. 
 
 ' Hurrying flight. 
 
 * The stick used to scrape the earth from the plough- 
 share. 
 
 I'm truly sorry man's dominion, 
 Has broken Nature's social union, 
 An' justifies that ill opinion. 
 
 Which maks thee startle 10* 
 At me, thy poor, earth-born companion. 
 
 An' fellow-mortal! 
 
 I doubt na, whyles,' but thou may thieve; 
 What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
 A daimen icker in a thrave^ 15 
 
 'S a sma' request; 
 I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 
 
 And never miss't! 
 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
 
 It's silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 20 
 
 An' naething now to big^ a new ane, 
 
 O' foggage^ green! 
 An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 
 
 Baith snelP an' keen! 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 25 
 An' weary winter comin' fast, 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 
 
 Thou thought to dwell — 
 Till, crash! the cruel coulter past 
 
 Out thro' thy cell. 30 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
 Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, 
 
 But^ house or hald,^ 
 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 35 
 
 An' cranreuch^" cauld! 
 
 But Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
 In proving foresight may be vain ; 
 The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 
 
 Gang aft agley," 
 An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain 
 For promis'd joy! 
 
 40 
 
 Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! 
 
 The present only toucheth thee: 
 
 But, och! I backward cast ray e'e, 45 
 
 On prospects drear! 
 An' forward, tho' I canna see, 
 
 I guess an' fear! 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING 
 ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN 
 APRIL, 1786 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tippM flow'r, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
 For I maun crush araang the stour^ 
 
 Thy slender stem: 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 5 
 
 Thou bonie gem. 
 ' At times, occasionally. 
 
 * An occasional ear in twenty-four sheaves. A thrave 
 consisted of two stooks of corn of twelve sheaves each. 
 
 * Build. 6 Grass growing among the grain. ' Bitter. 
 8 Without. » Home. 'o Hoar-frost. " Awry. 
 
 1 In Scotland slour usually means dust, or moving 
 dust. Here, stour involves the idea of the earth up-turned 
 or disturbed by the plough. 
 
ROBERT BURNS 
 
 465 
 
 Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, 
 The bonie lark, companion meet, 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 
 
 Wi' speckl'd breast! 10 
 
 When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 
 
 The purpling east. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 
 Upon thy early, humble birth; 
 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 15 
 
 Amid the storm. 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
 
 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; 20 
 
 But thou, beneath the random bield'^ 
 
 O' clod or stane. 
 Adorns the histie^ stibble-field, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25 
 
 Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise; 
 But now the share upturns thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies! 30 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid, 
 Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! 
 By love's simplicity betray'd. 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid, 35 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard. 
 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card* 
 
 Of prudent lore, 40 
 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o'er! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
 Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
 By human pride or cunning driv'n, 45 
 
 To mis'ry's brink; 
 Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink! 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn 'st the Daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine — no distant date; 60 
 
 Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom! 
 
 Is there a bard of rustic song. 
 
 Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
 
 That weekly this area throng, 
 
 O, pass not by! 
 But, with a f rater-feeling* strong. 
 
 Here heave a sigh. 
 
 10 
 
 Is there a man, whose judgment clear 
 
 Can others teach the course to steer, 
 
 Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 15 
 
 Wild as the wave, 
 Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 
 
 Survey this grave. 
 
 The poor inhabitant below 
 
 Was quick to learn and wise to know, 20 
 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
 
 And softer flame; 
 But thoughtless follies laid him low, 
 
 And stain'd his name! 
 
 Reader, attend! whether thy soul 
 Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
 Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 
 
 In low pursuit: 
 Know, prudent, cautious self-control 
 
 Is wisdom's root. 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 A PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF 
 VIOLENT ANGUISH 
 
 (1786) 
 
 O Thou Great Being! what Thou art, 
 
 Surpasses me to know; 
 Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 
 
 Are all thy Works below. 
 
 Thy creature here before Thee stands, 5 
 
 All wretched and distrest; 
 Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
 
 Obey Thy high behest. 
 
 Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 
 
 From cruelty or wrath! 
 O, free my weary eyes from tears. 
 
 Or close them fast in death! 
 
 But if I must afflicted be, 
 
 To suit some wise design. 
 Then man my soul with firm resolves, 
 
 To bear and not repine! 
 
 
 15 
 
 A BARD'S EPITAPH 
 
 (1786) 
 
 Is there a whim-inspir6d fool, 
 
 Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
 
 Owre blate^ to seek, owre proud to snool,' 
 
 Let him draw near; 
 And owre this grassy heap sing dool,' 5 
 
 And drap a tear. 
 
 2 Shelter. ' Dry, barren. 
 
 * Probably here = compass. The card, or compass- 
 card, on which the points were given, was often used for 
 the compass itself. 
 
 1 Bashful. 2 To cringe. » A lamentation. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE 
 (1788) 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
 And never brought to mind? 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And auld lang syne! 
 
 Chorus. For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 « Brotherly feeling. 
 
466 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 And surely ye'U be your pint stowp!^ 
 
 And surely I'll be mine! 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes. 
 
 And pou'd the gowans^ fine; 
 But we've wandered mony a weary fit, 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn,' 
 
 Frae morning sun till dine;* 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 And there's a hand, my trusty fere!^ 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine! 25 
 
 And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,^ 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
 BLAW 
 
 (1788) 
 
 Of a' the airts^ the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west, 
 For there the bonie lassie lives. 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best: 
 There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, 5 
 
 And mony a hill between : 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair: 10 
 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air: 
 There's not a bonie flower that springs. 
 
 By fountain, shaw,^ or green; 
 There's not a bonie bird that sings, 15 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 MY BONIE MARY 
 
 (1788) 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 
 
 And fill4<rin a silver tassie;^ 
 That I^ay drink before I go, 
 
 A ^vice to my bonie lassie. 
 The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 5 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonie Mary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 
 
 The glittering spears are ranV:ed ready: lo 
 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar, 
 The battle closes deep and bloody; 
 
 t 
 
 It's not the roar o' sea or shore. 
 Wad mak me langer wish to tarry! 
 
 Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 15 
 It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary! 
 
 THE WOUNDED HARE 
 
 (1789) 
 
 Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art. 
 And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye. 
 May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. 
 
 Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart! 
 
 Go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field ! 5 
 The bitter little that of life remains : 
 No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
 plains 
 
 To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 
 
 Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
 rest, 
 No more of rest, but now the dying bed ! lo 
 The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head. 
 
 The cold earth with tKy bloody bosom prest. 
 
 Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe; 
 
 The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side; 
 
 Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide 
 That life a mother only can bestow i 16 
 
 Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait 
 The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
 I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 
 
 And curse the ruflSan's arm, and mourn thy 
 hapless fate. 20 
 
 AE FOND KISS, AND THEN WE SEVER 
 
 (1791) 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
 Ae farewell, and then for ever! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 5 
 While the star of hope she leaves him? 
 Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy: 
 But to see her was to love her; 
 Love but her, and love for ever. 
 Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
 Had we never lov'd sae blindly. 
 Never met — or never parted. 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 1 Stand for a pint cup. 
 * Paddled in the brook. 
 ' Companion. 
 1 Direction. 
 1 A goblet. 
 
 * Daisies. 
 
 * Dinner time. 
 
 * A hearty draught. 
 
 * Grove or wood. 
 
 Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! 
 
 Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! 
 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 
 Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! 2C 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
 
 Ae farewell, alas, for ever! 
 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 
ROBERT BURNS 
 
 467 
 
 TAM O'SHANTER 
 
 (First published 1791) 
 
 "Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke." 
 Gawin Douglas. 
 
 When chapman billies^ leave the street, 
 
 And drouthy^ neibors, neibors meet; 
 
 As market days are wearing late, 
 
 And folk begin to tak the gate,^ 
 
 While we sit bousing at the nappy,* 5 
 
 An' getting fou^ and unco happy, 
 
 We think na on the lang Scots miles,^ 
 
 The mosses, waters, slaps,'' and stiles, 
 
 That lie between us and bur hame. 
 
 Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, 10 
 
 Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
 
 This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: 
 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 15 
 For honest men and bonie lasses). 
 
 O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
 
 As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! 
 
 She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum;^ 
 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;' 20 
 
 That frae November till October, 
 
 Ae market-day thou wasna sober; 
 
 That ilka melderio wi' the Miller, 
 
 Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
 
 That ev'ry naig was ca'd^^ a shoe on 25 
 
 The Smith and thee gat roarin fou on; 
 
 That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
 
 Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean^^ till Monday; 
 
 She prophesied that late or soon, 
 
 Thou wad be found deep drown'd in Doon, 30 
 
 Or catch'd wi' warlocks^^ i' the mirk,^* 
 
 By AUoway's auld haunted kirk. 
 
 Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,^^ 
 To think how mony counsels sweet, 
 How mony lengthen'd sage advices. 
 The husband frae the wife despises! 
 
 But to our tale: — Ae market night, 
 Tam had got planted unco right. 
 Fast by an ingle, ^^ bleezing finely, 
 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
 And at his elbow, Souter" Johnie, 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: 
 Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; 
 They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
 
 1 Pedlar fellows, pedlars. ^ Thirsty. 
 
 3 Road. * Ale, especially strong ale. « Full. 
 
 « The Scotch mile was several hundred yards longer 
 than the English mile. 
 
 ' Gaps in a hedge or fence. * Scoundrel. 
 
 9 Blatherskite, noisy talker. 
 
 1° i. e. , Every time he took meal to be ground. Melder= 
 the amount of meal ground at one time. , 
 
 Hi. e., every horse that was shod. Co'd=driven; to 
 ca a shoe=to drive, or nail on, a shoe. 
 
 '2 i. e., Jean Kennedy, who kept a public house at the 
 village of Kirkoawald, on the road from Portpatrick to 
 Glasgow. At Kirkoswold, Douglas Graham and John 
 Davidson are buried, the first is thought to have been 
 the original of Tam O' Shanter, the second of SoiUer 
 Johnie. . , . j ., 
 
 " Here, monsters, creatures in league with the devil. 
 
 1* Dark. ^^ Makes me weep. 
 
 M Fire, or fire-place, " Cobbler. 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; 
 And aye the ale was growing better: 
 The Landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
 Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious: 
 The Souter tauld his queerest stories; 
 The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
 The storm without might rair^^ and rustle, 
 Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
 E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy. 
 As bees flee hame wi' lades^^ o' treasure, 53 
 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
 O'er a' the ills o' hfe victorious! 
 
 But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
 You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; 60 
 
 Or like the snow falls in the river, 
 A moment white — then melts forever; 
 Or like the Borealis race. 
 That flit ere you can point their place; 
 Or like the Rainbow's lovely form, 63 
 
 Evanishing amid the storm. — 
 Nae man can tether Time or Tide; 
 The hour approaches Tam maun ride: 
 That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 70 
 And sic a night he taks the road in. 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 
 The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last; 
 The rattling showers rose on the blast; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; 73 
 Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: 
 That night, a child might understand. 
 The deil had business on his hand. 
 
 Weel-mounted on his gray mare Meg, 
 A better never lifted leg, 80 
 
 Tam skelpit^o on thro' dub^i and mire. 
 Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 
 Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet. 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, 
 Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares, 85 
 
 Lest bogles22 catch him unawares; 
 Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh. 
 Where ghaists and houlets^^ nightly cry. 
 
 By this time he was cross the ford, 
 Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;^* 90 
 And past the birks^^ and meikle stane. 
 Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; 
 And thro' the whins, ^a and by the cairn, ^7 
 Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well, 95 
 
 Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. 
 Before him Doon pours all his floods; 
 The doubling storm roars thro' the woods, 
 The Hghtnings flash from pole to pole. 
 Near and more near the thunders roll, 100 
 
 When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
 Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze. 
 Thro' ilka borers the beams were glancing, 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 
 
 18 Roar. " Loads. ^ Dashed, hurried. 
 
 21 Puddle. " Ghosts, hobgoblins. 23 Owls. 
 
 2< Was smothered. " Birches. 
 
 26 Furze. 27 a heap of stones. ® Hole, opening. 
 
468 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!^ 105 
 
 What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 
 Wi' tippenny,'° we fear nae evil; 
 Wi' usquebae,'^ we'll face the devil! 
 The swats sae ream'd^^ in Tammie's noddle, 
 Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,^^ lio 
 
 But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd, 
 Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 
 She ventur'd forward on the light; 
 And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! 
 
 Warlocks and witches in a dance: 115 
 
 Nae cotillion, brent new^^ frae France, 
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 
 Put life and mettle in their heels. 
 A winnock-bunker^* in the east. 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 120 
 A towzie tyke,^^ black, grim, and large. 
 To gie them music was his charge; 
 He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl," 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.^s 
 Coffins stood round, like open presses, 125 
 
 That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses; 
 And (by some devilish cantraipj^ sleight) 
 Each in its cauld hand held a light. 
 By which heroic Tam was able 
 To note upon the haly table, 130 
 
 A murderer's banes, in gibbet-aims; 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; 
 A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab^ did gape; 
 Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; 135 
 
 Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; 
 A garter which a babe had strangled: 
 A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
 Whom his ain son of life bereft, 
 The gray-hairs yet stack to the heft; 140 
 
 Wi' mair of horrible and awfu'. 
 Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tammie glowr'd amaz'd, and curious, 
 The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; 
 The Piper loud and louder blew, 145 
 
 The dancers quick and quicker flew; 
 They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they 
 
 cleekit,*^ 
 Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
 And coost her duddies*^ to the wark, 
 And Unket*' at it in her sark ! ** 150 
 
 Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans," 
 A' plump and strapping in their teens! 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,^ 
 Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! — ^^ 
 Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 155 
 
 That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
 I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles,^' 
 For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!*' 
 
 ^•The personification of barley, or malt, liquor. Cf. 
 Burns* poem John Barleycorn. 
 
 «> Twopenny ale. »> Whiskey. ** Ale so frothed. 
 •* A small Scotch coin. »* Bright, new, = bran-new. 
 " Window-ledge, or seat. » Shaggy cur. 
 
 " Made them scream, or sound shrilly. 
 « Rattle, tremble. » Magic. « Mouth. 
 
 <» Joined hands. <2 Cast off her old clothes. 
 
 " Tripped. " Shirt. « Young girls. 
 « Greasy flannel. *^ i. e., fine linen. 
 
 « Hips. « 
 
 But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
 Rigwoodie^" hags wad spean*^ a foal, 16« 
 
 Louping an' flinging on a crummock,^^ 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
 But Tam kennt what was what fu' brawlie; 
 There was ae winsome wench and waulie,^' 
 That night enlisted in the core, 165 
 
 Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore; 
 (For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
 And perish'd mony a bonie boat. 
 And shook baith meikle corn and bear,^* 
 And kept the country-side in fear) ; 170 
 
 Her cutty sark," o' Paisley harn,^ 
 That while a lassie she had worn, 
 In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
 It was her best, and she was vauntie." 
 Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, 175 
 
 That sark she cof t^^ for her wee Nannie, 
 Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
 Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches! 
 
 But here my Muse her wing maun cour, 
 Sic flights are far beyond her power; 180 
 
 To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
 (A souple jade she was and Strang), 
 And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
 And thought his very een enrich'd: 
 Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, 185 
 And hotch'd^^ and blew wi' might and main: 
 Till first ae caper, syne^" anither, 
 Tam tint" his reason a' thegither, 
 And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" 
 And in an instant all was dark: 190 
 
 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
 When out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,"' 
 When plundering herds assail their byke;" 
 As open pussie's^* mortal foes, 195 
 
 When, pop! she starts before their nose; 
 As eager runs the market-crowd. 
 When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 Wi' mony an eldritch skreich**^ and hollow. 200 
 
 Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'U get thy fairin!«« 
 In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin! 
 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! 
 Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! 
 Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg, 205 
 
 And win the key-stane" o' the brig; 
 There, at them thou thy tail may toss, 
 A running stream they darena cross! 
 But ere the key-stane she could make, 
 The fient a taii^^ she had to shake! 210 
 
 For Nannie, far before the rest. 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
 
 *" Perhaps= wrinkled, withered. *' Wean. 
 
 »« Staff, a witch's stick. »» Strapping. 
 
 " Barley. " Short shirt. 
 
 »« Paisley yarn, i. e., a kind of coarse linen. Paisley 
 is noted for its manufacture of linen, shawls, etc. 
 
 " Proud of it. » Bought. »» Hitched. 
 
 «0Then. "Lost. 
 
 «« Fuss, restlessness. *» Hive. 
 
 «* Pussy =, here, hare, or rabbit. 
 
 •» Ghastly, or unearthly, screech. «• Deserts. 
 
 *' i. e., the middle of the bridge. This was the point of 
 safety, since the pursuing spirits could not pass beyond 
 the middle of the running stream beneath. 
 
 •« i. «., " The devil a bit of a tail." (Fient=fierui, devil). 
 
ROBERT BURNS 
 
 469 
 
 And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle;^^ 
 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle! 
 
 Ae spring brought off her master hale, 215 
 
 But left behind her ain gray tail: 
 
 The carling claught^" her by the rump, 
 
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
 
 Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. 
 Ilk man, and mother's son, take heed: 220 
 Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd, 
 Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind. 
 Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear; 
 Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 
 
 AFTON WATER 
 
 (1791) 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
 
 braes, ^ 
 Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
 
 dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through 
 the glen, 5 
 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
 
 Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
 bear — 
 
 I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills. 
 Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding 
 rills; 10 
 
 There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 
 
 How pleasant thy banks and green valleys 
 
 below. 
 Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 
 
 blow; 
 There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 15 
 The sweet-scented birk^ shades my Mary and 
 
 me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
 And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 
 How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
 As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy 
 clear wave. 20 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
 
 braes, 
 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays: 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
 
 dream! 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY 
 
 (1792) 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery! 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumUe:^ 
 
 «9 Intent. " Clutched. 
 
 » Banks. • Birch. 
 
 1 Muddy. 
 
 There Simmer first unfald her robes, 5 
 
 And there the langest tarry; 
 For there I took the last Farewell 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,« 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom, lo 
 
 As underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasp'd her to my bosom! 
 The golden Hours on angel wings. 
 
 Flew o'er me and my Dearie; 
 For dear to me, as light and life, 15 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace. 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder; 20 
 
 But oh! fell Death's untimely frost. 
 
 That nipt my Flower sae early! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary! 
 
 O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 25 
 
 I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! 
 And clos'd for aye, the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
 And mouldering now in silent dust, 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 30 
 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY AT 
 BANNOCKBURN 
 
 (1793) 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has often led; 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 Or to Victorie! 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour; 5 
 See the front o' battle lour; 
 See approach proud Edward's power — 
 Chains and Slaverie! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave? 
 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave? 10 
 
 Wha sae base as be a slave? 
 
 Let him turn and flee! 
 
 Wha, for Scotland's King and Law, 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 15 
 
 Let him on wi' me! 
 
 By Oppression's woes and pains! 
 By your Sons in servile chains! 
 We will drain our dearest veins. 
 
 But they shall be free! 20 
 
 Lay the proud Usurpers low! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe! 
 Liberty's in every blow!— - 
 
 Let us Do or Die! 
 « Birch. 
 
470 
 
 DRYDEN TO THE DEATH OF JOHNSON 
 
 A RED, RED ROSE 
 
 (1793) 
 
 O my Luve's like a red, red rose, 
 That's newly sprung in June: 
 
 my Luve's like the melodie 
 That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
 
 As fair art thou, my bonie lass, 5 
 
 So deep in luve am I; 
 And I will luve thee still, my dear, 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun: 10 
 
 1 will luve thee still, my dear. 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 
 And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! 
 
 And fare-thee-weel awhile! 
 And I will come again, my Luve, 15 
 
 Though it were ten thousand mile! 
 
 CONTENTED WI' LITTLE AND CANTIE 
 WI' MAIR 
 
 (1794) 
 Contented wi' little, and cantie^ wi' mair. 
 Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care, 
 I gie them a skelp^ as they're creeping alang, 
 Wi' a cog o' gude swats' and an auld Scottish 
 sang. 
 
 Chorus — Contented wi' little, &c. 
 
 I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; 
 But Man is a soger,^ and Life is a faught;^ 7 
 
 My mirth and gude humour are coin in my 
 
 pouch, 
 And my Freedom's my Lairdship nae monarch 
 
 dare touch. 
 
 Contented wi' little, &c. lo 
 
 A towmond^ o' trouble, should that be my fa',^ 
 A night o' gude fellowship sowthers^ it a' : 
 When at the blythe end o' our journey at last, 
 Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has 
 past? 
 
 Contented wi' little, &c. 15 
 
 Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte^ on 
 
 her way; 
 Be 't to me, be 't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: 
 Come Ease, or come Travail, come Pleasure or 
 
 Pain, 
 My warst word is: "Welcome, and welcome 
 
 Contented wi' little, &c. 20 
 
 IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY 
 
 (1795) 
 (Tune— "For a' that") 
 Is there for honest Poverty, 
 
 That hangs his head, an' a' that; 
 The coward slave — we pass him by, 
 We dare be poor for a' that! 
 
 » Merry, cheerful. 2 Slap. » Bowl of good ale. 
 
 * Soldier. 6 Fight. « A twelvemonth. 
 
 ' Fate. 8 Solders. » Stagger and stumble. 
 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 5 
 
 Our toils obscure an' a' that. 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp. 
 
 The Man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine. 
 
 Wear hodden grey,^ an' a' that; lo 
 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 
 A Man's a Man for a' that: 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that 
 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 15 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see you birkie^ ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, an' stares an' a' that; 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 He's but a coof' for a' that: 20 
 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 His ribband, star, an' a' that: 
 The man o' indepeodent mind, 
 
 He looks an' laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 25 
 
 A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 
 Guid faith, he maunna fa'* that! 
 For a' that, an' a that. 
 
 Their dignities an' a' that; 30 
 
 The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth. 
 
 Are higher rank than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may, 
 
 (As come it will for a' that), 
 That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, 35 
 
 May bear the gree, an' a' that. 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 It's coming yet for a' that, 
 That Man to Man, the warld o'er, 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 40 
 
 O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST 
 (1796) 
 
 O wert thou in the cauld blast, 
 
 On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
 My plaidie to the angry airt, 
 
 I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; 
 Or did Misfortune's bitter storms 6 
 
 Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
 Thy bield^ should be my bosom. 
 
 To share it a', to share it a'. 
 
 Or were I in the wildest waste, 
 
 Sae bleak and bare* sae bleak and bare, lo 
 The desert were a Paradise, 
 
 If thou wert there, if thou wert there; 
 Or were I monarch o' the globe, 
 
 Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
 The brightest jewel in my Crown 15 
 
 Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen. 
 
 ^ Hodden grey, a coarse woolen stuff, which (being 
 undyed) retained the natural gray color of the wool. 
 
 2 A conceited, self-assertive man; a "young sport." 
 
 3 Lout, fool. * Try. 
 1 Shelter. 
 
VII. THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 c. 1784-c. 1837 
 
 William ^orOsftDort^ 
 
 1770-1850 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY/ 
 ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE 
 
 DURING A TOUR (July 13, 1798) 
 
 Five years have past; five summers, with the 
 
 length 
 Of five long winters! and again I hear 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain- 
 springs 
 With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 
 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view lo 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- 
 tufts, 
 Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little 
 lines 15 
 
 Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, 
 Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 
 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
 The hermit sits alone. 
 
 These beauteous forms. 
 Through a long absence, have not been to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man[s eye: 25 
 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
 And passing even into my purer mind, 30 
 
 With tranquil restoration: — feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered, acts 35 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. 
 To them I may have owed another gift. 
 Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, 
 
 1 This poem was composed during a short excursion 
 in the valley of the Wye, which Wordsworth made with 
 his sister. He visited the ruins of Tintern Abbey, but the 
 poem, we are told, was composed some miles from the 
 historic ruin, and deals entirely with the beauties of the 
 Wye valley, and apparently with some scenes especially 
 associated with memories of the past. 
 
 In which the burthen of the mystery, 
 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 40 
 
 Of all this unintelligible world. 
 
 Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood, 
 
 In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
 
 And even the motion of our human blood 45 
 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 
 In body, and become a living soul; 
 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 
 We see into the life of things. 50 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft — 
 In darkness and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 55 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
 How oft, in spirit, have 1 turned to thee, 
 
 sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro' the 
 
 woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguished 
 thought, 60 
 
 With many recognitions dim and faint. 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
 The picture of the mind revives again: 
 While here I stand, not only with the sense 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 66 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was 
 when first 
 
 1 came among these hills; when like a roe 
 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 70 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. 
 Wherever nature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature 
 
 then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 75 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 82 
 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supphed, nor any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is 
 
 past, 85 
 
 And all its aching joys are now no more. 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
 Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, 
 
 471 
 
472 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 I Abundant recompense. For I have learned 90 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 
 The still, sad music of humanity, 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 95 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, . 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 100 
 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am I 
 
 still 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods, 105 
 
 And mountains; and of all that we behold 
 From this green earth; of all the mighty world 
 Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, 
 And what perceive; well pleased to recognize 
 In nature and the language of the sense, 110 
 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor perchance, 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 115 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 
 For thou art with me here upon the banks 
 Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, 
 My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch 
 The language of my former heart, and read 120 
 My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 May I behold in thee what I was once, 
 My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 125 
 
 The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 130 
 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily hfe. 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 135 
 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
 To blow against thee : and, in after years, 140 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 148 
 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing 
 
 thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 
 And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance — 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 150 
 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 
 
 gleams 
 Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 We stood together; and that I, so long 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came 155 
 
 Unwearied in that service: rather say 
 With warmer love — oh! with far deeper zeal 
 Of holier love. Nor will thou then forget, 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 
 Arid this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thy 
 sake! 162 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 
 
 (1798) 
 
 "Why, William, on that old gray stone 
 Thus for the length of half a day, 
 Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
 And dream your time away? 
 
 " Where are your books? — ^that light bequeathed 
 To Beings else forlorn and blind! 6 
 
 Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed 
 From dead men to their kind. 
 
 "You look round on your Mother Earth, 
 As if she for no purpose bore you; jo 
 
 As if you were her first-born birth. 
 And none had lived before you!" 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why. 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 
 
 And thus I made reply: 
 
 "The eye — it cannot choose but see; 
 
 We cannot bid the ear be still; 
 
 Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 
 Against or with our will. 20 
 
 " Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
 Which of themselves our minds impress; 
 That we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
 "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 
 
 Of things forever speaking. 
 That nothing of itself will come. 
 But we must still be seeking? 
 
 " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone. 
 Conversing as I may, 30 
 
 I sit upon this old gray stone, 
 And dream my time away." 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT 
 
 (1798) 
 
 Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; 
 Or surely you'll grow double: 
 Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; 
 Why all this toil and trouble? 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 473 
 
 The sun, above the mountain's head, 5* 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 Through all the long green fields has spread, 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 
 
 Come, hear the woodland Hnnet, 10 
 
 How sweet his music! on my life, 
 
 There's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 And hark! how bhthe the throstle sings! 
 He, too, is no mean preacher: 
 Come forth into the Ught of things, 15 
 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth, 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health. 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20 
 
 n^ 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 May teach you more of man. 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Than all the sages can. .^ 
 
 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25 
 
 Our meddling intellect 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: — 
 We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of Science and of Art; 
 Close up those barren leaves; 30 
 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 That watches and receives. 
 
 THREE YEARS SHE GREW 
 
 (1799) 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 
 Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 
 
 On earth was never sown; 
 
 This Child I to myself will take; 
 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 5 
 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 " MyseK will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse: and with me 
 
 The girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 10 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 " She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 
 Or up the mountain springs; ^ 15 
 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 "The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 To her; for her the willow bend; 20 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 Even in the motions of the Storm, 
 Grace that shall mold the Maiden's form 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 "The stars of midnight shall be dear 25 
 
 To her; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round. 
 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 30 
 
 "And vital feelings of delight 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height. 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell; 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 
 While she and I together live 35 
 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 40 
 
 The memory of what has been. 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN 
 WAYS 
 
 (1799) 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love: 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone fl 
 
 Half hidden from the eye! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 When Lucy ceased to be; 10 
 
 But she is in her grave, and, oh. 
 The difference to me! 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM 
 (1800) 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 
 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,* 
 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 
 Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent 
 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 5 
 
 But, courage! for around that boisterous brook 
 
 The mountains have all opened out themselves, 
 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 
 No habitation can be seen; but they 
 
 Who journey thither find themselves alone 10 
 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and 
 
 kites 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 It is in truth an utter solitude; 
 Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
 But for one object which you might pass by, 15 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones • 
 And to that simple object appertains 
 * Narrow valley or ravine. 
 
474 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 A story unenriclied with strange events, 
 
 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 
 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
 
 Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
 
 Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
 
 Whom I already loved : — not verily 
 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 26 
 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 
 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 
 Of natural objects, led me on to feel 30 
 
 For passions that were not my own, and think 
 
 (At random and imperfectly indeed) 
 
 On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
 
 Therefore, although it be a history 
 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the same 35 
 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts; 
 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
 
 Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
 
 WiU be my second self when I am gone. 
 
 Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale^ 40 
 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, 
 Intense, and frugal, apt for all afi"airs, 45 
 
 And Id his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds. 
 Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, 
 When others heeded not, he heard the South 50 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
 ' ' The winds are now devising work f or me ! " 55 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 
 The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
 Up to the mountains: he had been alone 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 
 That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 
 So hved he till his eightieth year was past. 6 1 
 And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
 That the green valleys, and the streams and 
 
 rocks, 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's 
 
 thoughts. 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had 
 
 breathed 65 
 
 The common air; hills, which with vigorous 
 
 step 
 He had so often climbed; which had impressed 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 
 Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70 
 Of the dumb animals whom he had saved. 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
 The certainty of honourable gain. 
 Those fields, those hills — what could they less? 
 
 had laid 
 Strong hold on his affections, were to him 75 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
 
 2 The valley in which lie the lake and village of Graa- 
 jnere where Wordsworth lived for eight years. 
 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself . 
 His days had not been passed in singleness. 
 His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
 Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
 She was a woman of a stirring life, 81 
 
 Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she 
 
 had 
 Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; 
 That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest. 
 It was because the other was at work. 85 
 
 The Pair had but one inmate in their house. 
 An only Child, who had been born to them 
 When Michael, telhng o'er his years, began 
 To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's 
 
 phrase, 
 With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 90 
 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a 
 
 storm. 
 The one of an inestimable worth. 
 Made all their household. I may truly say 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 For endless industry. When day was gone> 95 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 The Son and Father were come home, even 
 
 then, 
 Their labor did not cease; unless when all 
 Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk. 
 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, loi 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when 
 
 the meal 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
 And his old Father both betook themselves 
 To such convenient work as might employ 105 
 Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe. 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 
 Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's 
 edge, 110 
 
 That in our ancient uncouth country style 
 With huge and black projection overbrowed 
 Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; 
 An aged utensil, which had performed 115 
 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 Early at evening did it burn — and late. 
 Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 
 Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
 And left the couple neither gay perhaps 120 
 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes. 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 And now, when Luke had reached his eight- 
 eenth year, 
 There by the light of this old lamp they sate, 
 Fathe^and Son, while far into the night 125 
 
 The Housewife plied her own pecuhar work. 
 Making the cottage through the silent hours 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 This light was famous in its neighborhood, 
 And was a pubUc symbol of the life 130 
 
 That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 
 Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 Stood single, with large prospect, north and 
 south. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 475 
 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
 
 And westward to the village near the lake; 135 
 
 And from this constant light, so regular 
 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 
 Both old and young, was named The Evening 
 
 Star. 
 Thus living on through such a length of 
 
 years, 140 
 
 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
 Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's 
 
 heart 
 This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
 Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
 Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of 
 
 all — 145 
 
 Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
 That earth can offer to declining man, 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking 
 
 thoughts, 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 150 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him. 
 His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 155 
 
 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked 
 His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the boy 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 160 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
 To have the Young one in his sight, when he 
 Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool 
 Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched 
 Under the large old oak, that near his door 165 
 Stood single, and, from matchless depth of 
 
 shade 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 
 There while they two were sitting in the 
 
 shade, 170 
 
 With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
 Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
 Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 175 
 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the 
 
 shears. 
 
 And when by Heaven's good grace the boy 
 grew up 
 A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
 Two steady roses that were five years old; 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 180 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff. 
 And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt 
 He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 185 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; 
 And, to his office prematurely called, 
 There stood the urchin, as you will divine. 
 Something between a hindrance and a help; 
 
 And for this cause not always, I believe, 190 
 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise; 
 
 Though naught was left undone which staff, or 
 voice, 
 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could per- 
 form. 
 
 But soon, as Luke, full ten years old, could 
 
 stand 
 Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights. 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 196 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
 Were dearer now? that from the Boy there 
 
 came 200 
 
 Feelings and emanations — things which were 
 Light to the sun and music to the wind: 
 And that the old Man's heart seemed born 
 
 again? 
 
 Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up; 
 And now, when he had reached his eighteenth 
 year, _ 205 
 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 
 While in this sort the simple household lived 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
 In surety for his brother's son, a man 211 
 
 Of an industrious life, and ample means; 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now 
 Was summoned to d ischarge the forfeiture, 2 1 5 
 A grievous penalty, but little less 
 Than half his substance. This unlooked-for 
 
 claim, 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 More hope out of his life than he supposed 
 That any old man ever could have lost. 220 
 
 As soon as he had armed himself with strength 
 To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
 The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 225 
 And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he. 
 Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
 "I have been toiling more than seventy years. 
 And in the open sunshine of God's love 
 Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 230 
 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I; 
 And I have hved to be a fool at last 235 
 
 To my own family. An evil man 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 Were false to us; and if he were not false, 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — ^but 240 
 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 
 "When I began, my purpose was to speak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land 
 
476 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 245 
 He shall possess it free as is the wind 
 That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
 Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go,250 
 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 He may return to us. If here he stay, 
 What can be done? Where everyone is poor, 
 What can be gained? " 255 
 
 At this the old Man paused, 
 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 There's Richard Bateman, thought she to 
 
 herself. 
 He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 260 
 They made a gathering for him, shiUings, pence 
 And half pennies, wherewith the neighbors 
 
 bought 
 A basket, which they filled with peddler's wares; 
 And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
 Went up to London, found a master there, 265 
 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, 
 And left estates and moneys to the poor, 
 And, at his birth-place, built a chapel, floored 
 With marble, which he sent from foreign 
 
 lands. 271 
 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
 And her face Brightened. The old Man was glad. 
 And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! this scheme 
 These two days, has been meat and drink to 
 
 me. 276 
 
 Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
 — We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
 Were younger; — but this hope is a good hope. 
 — Make ready Luke's best garments, of the 
 
 best 280 
 
 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 
 If he could go, the boy should go to-night." 
 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went 
 
 forth 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for five 
 
 days 285 
 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
 Things needful for the journey of her son. 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 290 
 By Michael's side, she through the last two 
 
 nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: 
 .And when they rose at morning she could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
 She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
 Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: 
 We have no other Child but thee to lose, 297 
 None to remember — do not go away ; 
 For if thou leave thy Father, he will die." 
 The youth made answer with a jocund voice ;300 
 And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 305 
 And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length 
 The expected letter from their kinsman came. 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 3 1 o 
 
 To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbors round; 
 Nor was there at that time on English land 3 1 5 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
 Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
 "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
 The Housewife answered, talking much of 
 
 things 
 Which, if at such short notice he should go, 320 
 Would surely be forgotten . But at length 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head 
 
 Ghyll, 
 In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
 To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 325 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
 For this same purpose he had gathered up 
 A heap of stones which by the streamlet's edge 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: 
 And soon as they had reached the place he 
 
 stopped, 331 
 
 And thus the old Man spake to him: "My Son, 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 335 
 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good 
 When thou art from me, even if I should touch 
 On things thou canst not know of. — After 
 
 thou 340 
 
 First camest into the world — as oft befalls 
 To new-bom infants — thou didst sleep away 
 Two days, and blessings from thy Father's 
 
 tongue 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 
 And still I loved thee with increasing love. 345 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side 
 First uttering, without words, a natural tune; 
 While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
 Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed 
 
 month, 350 
 
 And in the open fields my life was passed 
 And on the mountains; else I think that thou 
 Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's 
 
 knees. 
 But we were playmates, Luke: among these 
 
 hills, 
 As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 
 Have played together, nor with me didst thou 
 Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 357 
 Luke had a manly heart; but at these words 
 He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his 
 
 hand. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 477 
 
 And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 360 
 That these are things of which I need not speak. 
 — Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
 A kind and a good Father. And herein 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 Received at others' hands; for, though now old 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 366 
 
 Remember them who loved me in my youth. 
 Both of them sleep together: here they lived, 
 As all their Forefathers had done; and when 
 At length their time was come, they were not 
 
 loth 370 
 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. 
 I wished that thou shouldst live the life they 
 
 lived : 
 But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 
 And see so little gain from threescore years. 
 These fields were burthened when they came 
 
 to me; 375 
 
 Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, 
 And till these three weeks past the land was 
 
 free. 
 — It looks as if it never could endure 380 
 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 That thou should'st go." 
 
 At this the old man paused. 
 Then, pointing to the stones near which they 
 
 stood, 385 
 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: 
 ''This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both may live 
 Tosee a better day. At eighty-four 391 
 
 I am strong and hale; — Do thou thy part; 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resigned to thee: 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 395 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was wont to do alone. 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee. 
 
 Boy! 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating 
 
 fast 
 With many hopes; it should be so — yes — yes — ■ 
 I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 401 
 To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me 
 Only by links of love: When thou art gone, 
 What will be left to us!— But, I forget 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 405 
 As 1 requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
 When thou art gone away, should evil men 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
 And of this moment: hither turn thy thoughts. 
 And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear 410 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
 Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee 
 
 well — 
 When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt 
 
 see *15 
 
 A work which is not here: a covenant 
 
 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last. 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 
 
 The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped 
 
 down, 420 
 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 
 The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 
 The old Man's grief broke from him; to his 
 
 heart 
 He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; 
 And to the house together they returned. 425 
 — Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming 
 
 peace. 
 Ere the night fell: — with morrow's dawn the 
 
 Boy 
 Began his journey, and when he had reached 
 The public way, he put on a bold face; 
 And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors, 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell 
 
 prayers, 431 
 
 That followed him till he was out of sight. 
 
 A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
 Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 435 
 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were 
 
 throughout 
 "The prettiest letters that were ever seen.". 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
 So, many months passed on; and once again 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 440 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke 
 
 began 
 To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 445 
 
 He in the dissolute city gave himself 
 To evil courses: ignominy and shame 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of love, 450 
 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would overset the brain, or break the heart: 
 I have conversed with more than one who well 
 Remember the old Man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. 455 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud. 
 And listened to the wind; and, as before, 
 Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, 460 
 And for the land, his small inheritance. 
 And to that hollow dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
 The pity which was then in every heart 465 
 
 For the old Man— and 'tis believed by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went. 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he 
 
 seen. 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 470 
 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 The length of full seven years, from time to 
 
 time, 
 
478 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 475 
 
 Survive her husband: at her death the estate 
 Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
 The Cottage which was named the Evening 
 
 Star 
 Is gone — the plowshare has been through the 
 
 ground 
 On which it stood; great changes have been 
 
 wrought 480 
 
 In all the neighborhood: — yet the oak is left 
 That grew beside their door; and the remains 
 Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head 
 
 Ghyll, 
 
 MY HEART LEAPS UP 
 (From Poems, 1807) 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky: 
 So was it when my life began; 
 So is it now I am a man; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 6 
 
 Or let me die! 
 The Ohild is father of the Man; 
 And I could wish my days to be ^ 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER 
 
 (From Poems, 1807) 
 
 Behold her, single in the field. 
 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 
 Stop here, or gently pass! 
 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 5 
 
 And sings a melancholy strain; 
 
 O, listen ! for the Vale profound 
 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No nightingale did ever chaunt 
 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 10 
 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt. 
 
 Among Arabian sands: 
 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird. 
 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 15 
 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings! — 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things. 
 And battles long ago: 20 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 Familiar matter of to-day? 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 That has been, and may be again? 
 
 Whatever the theme, the Maiden sang 25 
 As if her song could have no ending; 
 I saw her singing at her work. 
 And o'er the sickle bending; — 
 
 I listened, motionless and still; 
 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 30 
 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 ODE 
 
 INTIMATIONS OP IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLEC- 
 TIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 
 
 (1803-1806) 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and 
 
 stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light. 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5 
 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore; — • 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
 By night or day. 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no 
 more. 
 
 The Rainbow comes and goes, lo 
 And lovely is the Rose, 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare. 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair; 15 
 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go. 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the 
 earth. 
 
 ni 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
 And while the young lambs bound 20 
 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 
 
 And I again am strong: 
 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 
 
 steep; 25 
 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
 
 I hear the Echoes through the mountains 
 
 throng. 
 The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, ^ 
 And all the earth is gay; 
 
 Land and sea 30 
 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou 
 happy Shepherd-boy! 35 
 
 IV 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
 
 1 The poet seems to mean simply the quiet, peaceful 
 fields of the more remote country districts. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 479 
 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 40 
 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 
 evil day! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the Children are culling 45 
 
 On every side, 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
 Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm: — 
 
 1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50 
 — But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
 
 A single Field which I have looked upon. 
 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 55 
 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
 I The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 
 
 And Cometh from afar: 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 I And not in utter nakedness, 
 
 I But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 : From God, who is our home: 65 
 
 I Heaven hes about us in our infancy! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 He sees it in his joy ; 70 
 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 75 
 
 And fade into the light of common day. / 
 
 VI 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasun|s of her own; 
 
 Yearnings she hath in her o^p natural kind. 
 
 And, even with something of pMother's mind. 
 And no unworthy aim, V A 80 
 
 The homely Nurse doth afrshe can 
 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 
 And that imperial palace whence he c^e. 
 
 VII / 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-bor^bhsses, 85 
 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! / 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or ^art, 90 
 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, | 
 
 A mourning or a funeral;,' 
 
 And this hath now hi^ heart, 95 
 
 And unto this he frames his song: 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, lOO 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part ; 
 FiUing from time to time his "humorous stage "^ 
 W^ith all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage; 105 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 vm 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy Soul's immensity; 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep no 
 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest, 115 
 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by; 120 
 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 125 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight. 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 
 
 IX 
 
 O joy! that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live, 130 
 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest; 135 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
 breast: — 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise; 140 
 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things. 
 Fallings from us, vanishings;^ 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 145 
 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 
 
 2 The stage on which men and women are exhibited in 
 various moods and whims. The quotation is from 
 Daniel's Musophilus. , , ,. 
 
 3 Wordsworth tells us that at times the external world 
 became vague and unreal to him, and adds: "Many- 
 times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or 
 tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to tne 
 reality." This questioning of the reality of the world, 
 this occasional feeling that things of the senses are falling 
 from us, vanishing, suggests to Wordsworth the immor- 
 tality of the soul; and it is for these experiences that he 
 is chiefly thankful. 
 
480 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 But for those first affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 Which, be they what they may, 160 
 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to 
 make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 155 
 
 To perish never; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy I 160 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither, 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 165 
 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound! 170 
 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 - Feel the gladness of the May! 
 
 What though the radiance which was once so 
 bright ^ 175 
 
 Be now forever taken from my sight. 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind; 180 
 In the primal sympathy 
 Which having been must ever be; 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering; 
 In the faith that looks through death 185 
 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 XI 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills and 
 
 Groves, 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves! 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
 I only have relinquished one delight 190 
 
 To Hve beneath your more habitual sway, 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels 
 
 fret, 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 
 The innocent brightness of a new-bom Day 
 Is lovely yet; 195 
 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are 
 ^^- won. 
 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we hve, 200 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often he too deep for tears. 
 
 10 
 
 I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD'' 
 
 (From Foems, 1807) 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host, of golden daffodils; 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 5 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way. 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay: 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced; but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 
 
 A poet could not but be gay, 15 
 
 In such a jocund company: 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought: 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 20 
 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 
 Which is the bliss of solitude: 
 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 "SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT" 
 
 (From Foems, 1807) 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament; 
 
 Her eyes are stars of Twilight fair; 5 
 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 
 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 
 
 To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 10 
 
 I saw her upofeaearer view, 
 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too! 
 
 Her househoBj^otions light and free, 
 
 And steps of^rgin-liberty; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 15 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
 prCreature not too bright or good 
 / For human nature's daily food; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 1 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. J20 
 
 And now I see with eyes serene 
 
 "The very pulse of the machine;^ 
 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 
 A traveller between life and death; 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 
 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
 
 1 i. e.. the vital impulse of the whole organism. Ham- 
 let speaks of the body as a machine (Act II. ii. 124), and 
 to associate the word too exclusively with a mechanical 
 contrivance (as we/are apt to do), epoHa the poetry ofV 
 the ■""'"'""" \ 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 481 
 
 A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
 
 To warn, to comfort, and command; 
 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 
 With something of an angel light. 30 
 
 ODE TO DUTY 
 
 (From Poems, 1807) 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God I 
 
 Duty! if that name thou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove; 
 
 Thou, who art victory and law 5 
 
 When empty terrors overawe; 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free; 
 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them; who, in love and truth, 10 
 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth: 
 Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; 
 Who do thy work, and know it not. 
 Long may the kindly impulse last! 15 
 
 But thou, if they should totter, teach them to 
 stand fast! 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright, 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security. 20 
 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 Live in the spirit of this creed; 
 Yet seek thy firm support according to their 
 need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried; 25 
 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 Yet being to myself a guide. 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust: 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 
 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I 
 may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul. 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 1 supplicate for thy control; 35 
 But in the quietness of thought: 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires: 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 
 
 Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face: 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 45 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, 
 are fresh and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Powerl 
 I call thee: I myself commend 53 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 The spirit of seK-sacrifice; 
 The confidence of reason give; 55 
 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me 
 live! 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 
 
 (From Poems, 1807) 
 I 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night; 
 The rain came heavily and fell in floods; 
 But now the sun is rising calm and bright; 
 The birds are singing in the distant woods; 
 Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove 
 
 broods; 5 
 
 The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; 
 And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of 
 
 waters. 
 
 II 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of doors; 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 
 The grass is bright with rain-drops; — on the 
 moors 10 
 
 The hare is running races in her mirth; 
 And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
 Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun. 
 Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth 
 
 III 
 
 15 
 
 I was a Traveller then upon the moor; 
 I saw the hare that raced about with joy; 
 I heard the woods and distant waters roar; 
 Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: 
 The pleasant season did my heart employ: 
 My old remembrances went from me wholly; 20 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and mel- 
 ancholy. 
 
 IV 
 
 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
 Of joy in minds that can no further go. 
 As high as we have mounted in delight 
 In our dejection do we sink as low; 25 
 
 To me that morning did it happen so; 
 And fears and fancies thick upon me came; 
 Dim sadness — and bhnd thoughts, I knew not, 
 nor could name. 
 
 30 
 
 I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
 And I bethought me of the playful hare: 
 Even such a happy Child of earth am I; 
 Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; 
 Far from the world I walk, and from all care; 
 But there may come another day to me — 
 Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 35 
 
d82 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 VI 
 
 My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
 As if life's business were a summer mood; 
 As if all needful things would come unsought 
 To genial faith, still rich in genial good; 
 But how can He expect that others should 40 
 Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
 Love him, who for himself will take no heed at 
 all? 
 
 VII 
 
 I thought of Chatterton,! the marvellous Boy, 
 The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; 
 Of Him 2 who walked in glory and in joy 45 
 
 Following his plough, along the mountain-side: 
 By our own spirits are we deified: 
 We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; 
 But thereof come in the end despondency and 
 madness. 
 
 VIII 
 
 50 
 
 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
 A leading from above, a something given, 
 Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place, 
 When I with these untoward thoughts had 
 
 striven. 
 Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
 I saw a Man before me unawares : 55 
 
 The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey 
 
 hairs. 
 
 IX 
 
 As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence; 
 Wonder to ail who do the same espy. 
 By what ineans it could thither come, and 
 whence; * 60 
 
 So that it seems a thing endued with sense: 
 Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; 
 
 Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 
 Nor all asleep — in his extrem e old age : 65 
 
 His body was bent double, feet and head 
 Coming together in life's pilgrimage; 
 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
 Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
 A more than human weight upon his frame had 
 cast. 70 
 
 XI 
 
 Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
 Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood : 
 And, still as 1 drew near with gentle pace. 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 75 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call; 
 And moveth all together, if it move at all. 
 
 XII 
 
 At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
 Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
 Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 80 
 As if he had been reading in a book: 
 
 ^ Thomas Chatterton, the poet, who committed suicide 
 at the age of 18 (1770) to escape a slower death by starv- 
 ation. V. p. 446, supra. s Burns. 
 
 And now a stranger's privilege I took; 
 And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
 "This morning gives us promise of a glorious 
 day." 
 
 XIII 
 
 A gentle answer did the old Man make, 85 
 In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: 
 And him with further words I thus bespake, 
 " WTiat occupation do you there pursue? 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
 Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 90 
 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. 
 
 XIV 
 
 His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
 But each in solemn order followed each. 
 With something of a lofty utterance drest — 
 Choice word and measured phrase, above the 
 
 reach 95 
 
 Of ordinary men; a stately speech; 
 Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use. 
 Religious men, who give to God and man their 
 
 dues. 
 
 XV 
 
 He told, that to these waters he had come 
 
 To gather leeches, being old and poor: lOO 
 
 Employment hazardous and wearisome! 
 
 And he had many hardships to endure: 
 
 From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to 
 
 moor; 
 Housing, with God's good help, by choice or 
 
 chance; 
 And in this way he gained an honest main- 
 tenance. 105 
 
 XVI 
 
 The old Man still stood talking by my side; 
 But now his voice to me was like a stream 
 Scarce heard; nor word from word could I 
 
 divide; 
 And the whole body of the man did seem 
 Like one whom I had met with in a dream; no 
 Or like a man from some far region sent, 
 To give me human strength, by apt admonish- 
 ment. 
 
 XVII 
 
 My former thoughts returned: the fear that 
 
 kills; 
 And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; , 
 
 Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; 115 
 And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
 — Perplexed, and longing to be comforted. 
 My question eagerly did I renew, 
 "How is it that you live, and what is it you 
 
 do?" 
 
 He with a smile did then his words repeat : 120 
 And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
 He travelled; stirring thus about his feet 
 The waters of the pools where they abide. 
 "Once I could meet with them on every side; 
 But they have dwindled long by slow decay; 125 
 Yet stiU I persevere, and find them where I 
 may." \ 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 483 
 
 XIX 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
 The old Man's shape, and speech — all troubled 
 
 me: 
 In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
 About the weary moors continually, 130 
 
 Wandering about alone and silently. 
 While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
 He, having made a pause, the same discourse 
 
 renewed. 
 
 XX 
 
 And soon with this he other matter blended. 
 Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 135 
 But stately in the main; and when he ended, 
 I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
 In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
 ''God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; 
 I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely 
 moor!" 140 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 
 1802 
 
 O Friend! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
 
 To think that now our life is only drest 
 
 For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, 
 
 cook. 
 Or groom! — ^We must run ghttering Hke a 
 
 brook 5 
 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best: 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. 
 This is idolatry: and these we adore: 10 
 
 Plain hving and high thinking are no more: 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 And pure religion breathing household laws. 
 
 LONDON, 1802 
 
 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 
 England hath need of thee: she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen. 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 5 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was Hke the 
 sea: ^ 10 
 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
 In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
 The lowhest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 "WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY" 
 
 (1802) 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts de- 
 part 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and 
 
 desert 
 The student's bower for gold, some fears un- 
 named 
 I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed? 5 
 
 Now, when I think of Thee, and what Thou art, 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed, 
 For dearly must we prize thee; we who find 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; lo 
 
 And I by my affection was beguiled: 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then. 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a child! 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER 
 BRIDGE, 
 
 September 3, 1802 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty: 
 This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
 The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 5 
 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 In his first splendour valley, rockj or hill; 10 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a cahn so deep! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
 Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still! 
 
 COMPOSED UPON THE BEACH NEAR 
 CALAIS 
 
 August, 1802 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free: V=> 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun "5& 
 Breathless with adoration; the broad sun B 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; ^ 
 The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea. f%5 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, B 
 And doth with his eternal motion make o 
 A sound like thunder— everlastingly.^ 
 Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me 
 
 here, t , 
 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, lo ^ 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine: ^ 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; ^ 
 And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,'^- 
 God being with thee when we know it not. -^ 
 
 "THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US" 
 
 (1806) 
 The world is too much with us: late and soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
 "The sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 5 
 
484 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
 And are up-gathered now hke sleeping flowers; 
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
 It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 10 
 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathM horn. 
 
 Samuel tETa^lor ColertUge 
 
 1772-1834 
 THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS 
 
 (From the Lyrical Ballads, 1798) 
 
 Argument 
 How a Ship having passed the Line was 
 driven by storms to the cold Country towards 
 the South Pole; and how from thence she made 
 her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great 
 Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that 
 befell; and in what manner the Ancyent 
 Marinere came back to his own Country. 
 
 Part I 
 It is an ancient Mariner, 
 And he stoppeth one of three, 
 "By thy long gray beard and ghttering eye, 
 Now wherefore sto^'st thou me? 
 
 The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 5 
 And I am next of kin; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set: 
 May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 "There was a ship," quoth he. 10 
 
 "Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!" 
 Eftsoons^ his hand dropt he. 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye — 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still. 
 And listens like a three years' child: 15 
 
 The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: 
 
 He cannot choose but hear; 
 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 20 
 
 "The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 
 Below the hghthouse top. 
 
 1-12. An ancient Mariner meeteth three GaUarUs hidden 
 to a wedding -feast, and detaineth one. 
 
 13-20. The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of 
 the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale. 
 
 21-30. The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward 
 with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line, 
 1 Soon after. 
 
 "The sun came up upon the left 
 Out of the sea came he! 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 Higher and higher every day, 
 
 Till over the mast at noon — " 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The bride hath paced into the hall, 
 Red as a rose is she; 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 "And now the Storm-blast came, and he 
 Was tyrannous and strong: 
 He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 And chased us south along. * 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 With sloping masts and dipping prow. 
 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
 
 And forward bends his head, 
 
 The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
 
 And southward aye we fled. 50 
 
 And now there came both mist and snow 
 And it grew wondrous cold: 
 And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 And through the drifts the snowy clifts 55 
 
 Did send a dismal sheen : 
 Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there. 
 The ice was all around : 60 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 
 Like noises in a swound!^ 
 
 At length did cross an Albatross,^ 
 Thorough the fog it came; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul, 65 
 
 We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
 
 And round and round it flew. 
 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
 
 The helmsman steered us through! 70 
 
 31-40. The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music, 
 but the Mariner continueth his tale. 
 
 41-50. The ship driven by a storm toward the souih pole. 
 
 51-62. The land of ice, and of fearful sounds where no 
 living thing was to be seen. 
 
 63-70. Till a great seabird, called the Albatross, came 
 through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and 
 hospitality. 
 
 2 Swoon. 
 
 3 The albatrosa was considered bj' sailors to be a bird of 
 good omen; which makes the Mariner's crime all the 
 blacker. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 485 
 
 And a good south wind sprung up behind; 
 The Albatross did follow, 
 And every day, for food or play, 
 Came to the mariners' hollo! 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 75 
 
 It perched for vespers nine; 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine." 
 
 "God save thee, ancient Mariner! 
 From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 80 
 Why look'st thou so?" — With my cross-bow 
 I shot the Albatross. 
 
 Part II 
 The Sun now rose upon the right;* 
 Out of the sea came he, 
 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 85 
 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind. 
 
 But no sweet bird did follow. 
 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo! 90 
 
 And I had done a hellish thing, 
 
 And it would work 'em woe: 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, 
 
 That made the breeze to blow! 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist: 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
 
 The furrow followed free; 
 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 
 95 
 
 100 
 
 105 
 
 . Into that silent sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
 
 'Twas sad as sad could be; 
 
 And we did speak only to break 
 
 The silence of the sea! 110 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky, 
 The bloody Sun, at noon, 
 Right up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
 71-78. And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, 
 and followeih the ship as it returned northward through fog 
 and floating ice. 
 
 79-82. The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the 
 pious bird of good omen. 
 
 83-96. His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mar- 
 iner, for killing the bird of good luck. 
 
 97-102. But when the fog cleared off, they justify the 
 same, and thus makg themselves accomplices in the crime. 
 
 103-106. The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the 
 Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the 
 line. 
 
 107-118. The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. 
 
 *The ahip having rounded the Horn, is now sailing 
 North. 
 
 Day after day, day after day, 115 
 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 Water, water, everywhere, 
 
 And all the boards did shrink; 120 
 
 Water, water, everywhere, 
 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot: Christ! 
 
 That ever this should be! 
 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 125 
 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 
 The death-fires danced at night; 
 
 The water, like a witch's oils. 
 
 Burnt green, and blue, and white. 130 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the, Spirit^ that plagued us so; 
 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought, 135 
 Was withered at thB root; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young! 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 140 
 
 Part III 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 A weary time! a weary time! 145 
 
 How glazed each weary eye, 
 When looking westward, I beheld 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 At first it seemed a little speck, 
 And then it seemed a mist; 150 
 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 
 
 And still it neared and neared: 
 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 
 
 It plunged and tacked and veered. 
 
 119-130. And the Albatross begins to be avenged. 
 
 131-138. A spirit had followed them,; one of the invisible 
 inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angeh: 
 concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Pin- 
 tonic ConstantinopoUtan Michael Psellus, may be con- 
 sulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or 
 elemen without one or more. 
 
 139-142. The shipmates, in their sore distress would 
 fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner; in sign 
 whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. 
 
 143-156. The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the 
 element afar off. 
 
 5 The spirit of the South Polar region, who loved the 
 Albatross. 
 
486 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 
 We could nor laugh nor wail; 
 
 Through utter drought ail dumb we stood! 
 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160 
 
 And cried, A sail! a sail! 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 
 Agape they heard me call: 
 
 Gramercy! they for joy did grin. 
 
 And all at once their breath drew in, 165 
 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! 
 Hither to work us weal; 
 Without a breeze, without a tide. 
 She steadies with upright keel! 
 
 The western wave was all a-flame. 
 
 The day was well-nigh done! 
 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the broad bright Sun; 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 170 
 
 175 
 
 And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
 With broad and burning face. 180 
 
 Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 How fast she nears and nears! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the sun, 
 Like restless gossameres? 
 
 Are those her ribs through which the sun 185 
 Did peer, as through a grate? 
 And is that Woman all her crew? 
 Is that a Death? and are there two? 
 Is Death that woman's mate? 
 
 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190 
 
 Her locks were yellow as gold: 
 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
 
 The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she. 
 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 The naked hulk alongside came, 195 
 
 And the twain were casting dice; 
 "The game is done! I've won! I've won!" 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; 
 
 At one stride comes the dark ; 200 
 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 
 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 157-163. At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a 
 ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the 
 bonds of thirst. 
 
 164-166. A flash of joy. 
 
 167-176. And horror follows; for can it be a ship that 
 comes onward without wind or tide? 
 
 177-186. It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. And 
 its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. 
 
 187-194. The Spectre-Woman and her death-mate, and 
 no other on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew! 
 
 195-198. Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the 
 ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner. 
 
 199-202. No twilight within the courts of the Sun. 
 
 We listened and looked sideways up! 
 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 
 
 My life-blood seemed to sip! 205 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night. 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 
 
 white; 
 From the sails the dew did drip — 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 The homM Moon, with one bright star 210 
 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
 
 Too quick for groan or sigh, 
 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 
 
 And cursed me with his eye. 215 
 
 Four times fifty Uving men, 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 The souls did from their bodies fly, — 220 
 
 They fled to bliss or woe! 
 
 And every soul, it passed me by, 
 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow! 
 
 Part IV 
 "I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 
 I fear thy skinny hand! 225 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand. 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
 
 And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
 
 Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 230 
 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
 
 Alone on a wide wide sea! 
 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 
 My soul in agony. 235 
 
 The many men, so beautiful! 
 
 And they all dead did lie: 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 
 Lived on; and so did I. 
 
 I looked upon the rotting sea, 240 
 
 And drew my eyes away; 
 
 I looked upon the rotting deck, 
 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 
 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 243 
 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I closed my hds, and kept them close, 
 And the balls like pulses beat; 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 
 sky 250 
 
 Lay like a load on my weanr eye, 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 203-223. At the rising of the Moon, one after another; 
 his shipmates drop down dead. But Life-in-Death begins 
 her work on the ancient Mariner. 
 
 224-235. The Wedding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talk- 
 ing to him; but the ancient Mariner assureth him of his 
 bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance. \ 
 
 236-252, He despiseth the creatures of the calm, and \, 
 envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 487 
 
 The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 Nor rot nor reek did they: 
 The look with which they looked on me 255 
 Had never passed away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 
 A spirit from on high; 
 
 But oh ! more horrible than that 
 
 Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 260 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 The moving Moon went up the sky, 
 j And nowhere did abide: 
 Softly she was going up, 265 
 
 And a star or two beside — 
 
 Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
 
 Like April hoar-frost spread: 
 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay. 
 
 The charmM water burnt alway 270 
 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 
 I watched the water-snakes: 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white, 
 
 And when they reared, the elfish light 275 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watched their rich attire: 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 
 They coiled and swam ; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 280 
 
 O happy hving things! no tongue 
 
 Their beauty might declare: 
 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
 
 And I blessed them unaware: 285 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 The selfsame moment I could pray; 
 
 And from my neck so free 
 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 290 
 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 Part V 
 Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing. 
 Beloved from pole to pole! 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
 She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 295 
 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 253-262. Btd the curse Kvah for him in the eye of the 
 dead men. 
 
 263-271. In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth to- 
 wards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, 
 yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to 
 them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country 
 and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, 
 cts lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent 
 joy at their arrival. 
 
 272-281. By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's 
 creatures of the great calm. 
 
 282-283. Their beauty and their happiness. 
 
 284-287. He blesseth them in his heart. 
 
 288-291. The spell begins to break. 
 
 292-308. By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient 
 Mariner is refreshed with rain. 
 
 The silly buckets^ on the deck. 
 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 
 
 And when I awoke, it rained. 300 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 My garments all were dank; 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 305 
 
 I was so light — almost 
 
 I thought that I had died in sleep. 
 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 And soon I heard a roaring wind: 
 
 It did not come anear; 310 
 
 But with its sound it shook the sails, 
 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 The upper air burst into life! 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
 To and fro they were hurried about! SIS 
 
 And to and fro, and in and out — 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud. 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge; 
 And the rain poured down from one black 
 cloud; 320 
 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 
 The Moon was at its side: 
 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 
 The lightning fell with never a jag, 325 
 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The loud wind never reached the ship, 
 
 Yet now the ship moved on! 
 
 Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
 
 The dead men gave a groan. 330 
 
 They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream, 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 
 Yet never a breeze up blew; 33b 
 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
 Where they were wont to do; 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— 
 We were a ghastly crew. 340 
 
 The body of my brother^s son 
 Stood by me, knee to knee: 
 The body and I pulled at one rope 
 But he said nought to me. 
 
 309-326. He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights 
 and commotions in the sky and the elem.ent 
 
 327-376. The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and 
 the ship moves on; but not by the souls of the men, nor by 
 daemons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of 
 angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian 
 saint. 
 
 « Possibly foolish, or ridiculous, because they "had so 
 long remained" useless. 
 
488 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" 345 
 
 Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 
 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
 Which to their corses came again, 
 But a troop of spirits blest: 
 
 For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 
 And clustered round the mast; 351 
 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 Then darted to the Sun; 355 
 
 Slowly the sounds came back again. 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 
 I heard the sky-lark sing; 
 
 Sometimes all Uttle birds that are, 360 
 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 
 With their sweet jargoning! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 
 Now like a lonely flute; 
 
 And now it is an angel's song, 365 
 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 370 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe: 
 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 375 
 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 
 From the land of mist and snow, 
 
 The spirit slid: and it was he 
 
 That made the ship to go. 380 
 
 The sails at noon left off their tune, 
 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 The Sun, right up above the mast, 
 
 Had fixed her to the ocean: 
 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385 
 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then like a pawing horse let go, 
 
 She made a sudden bound: 390 
 
 It flung the blood into my head. 
 
 And I fell down in a swound.' 
 
 377-392. The lonesome Spirit from the south-poU carries 
 on the ship as far as the line, in obedience to the angelic 
 troop, but still requireth vengeance. 
 
 393^09. The Polar Spirit's feUow-daemons, the invisible 
 inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two 
 of them relate one to the other, that penance long and heavy 
 for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar 
 Spirit, who returneth southward. ^^ 
 
 ' Swoon, '^j*' 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to declare; 
 But ere my living life returned, 
 I heard and in my soul discerned, 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 "Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man? 
 By Him who died on cross. 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 "The spirit who bideth by himself 
 In the land of mist and snow, 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 Who shot him with his bow." 
 
 The other was a softer voice. 
 
 As soft as honey-dew: 
 
 Quoth he, "The man hath penance done. 
 
 And penance more will do." 
 
 Part VI 
 First Voice 
 "But tell me, tell me! speak again. 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
 What is the ocean doing?" 
 
 Second Voice 
 "Still as a slave before his lord. 
 The ocean hath no blast; 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 Up to the Moon is cast — 
 
 If he may know which way to go; 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 See, brother, see! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him." 
 
 First Voice 
 "But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 Without or wave or wind?" 
 
 Second Voice 
 "The air is cut away before, 
 And closes from behind. 
 
 Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! 
 Or we shall be belated: 
 For slow and slow that ship will go, 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated." 
 
 40C 
 
 405 
 
 410 
 
 415 
 
 420 
 
 425 
 
 430 
 
 " I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 As in a gentle weather: 
 
 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high. 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 All stood together on the deck. 
 
 For a chamel-dungeon fitter: 435 
 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
 
 That in the Moon did glitter. 
 
 410-429. The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for 
 the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster 
 than humnn life could endure. 
 
 430-441, The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mar\ 
 iner awakes, arid his penance begins anew. > 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 489 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 Had never passed away : 
 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 440 
 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 And now this spell was snapt: once more 
 
 I viewed the ocean green. 
 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 
 Of what had else been seen — 445 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
 And, by the holy rood! 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 490 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand: 
 
 It was a heavenly sight! 
 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 
 Each one a lovely light; 495 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread. 
 
 And having once turned round walks on, 
 
 And turns no more his head; 
 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 450 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me. 
 
 Nor sound nor motion made: 
 
 Its path was not upon the sea. 
 
 In ripple or in shade. 455 
 
 It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 460 
 
 Yet she sailed softly too: 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
 
 The hghthouse top I see? 465 
 
 Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
 
 Is this mine own countree? 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 
 let me be awake, my God! 470 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 The harbour-bay was clear as glass. 
 
 So smoothly it was strewn 1 
 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 
 And the shadow of the Moon. 475 
 
 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
 That stands above the rock: 
 The moonlight steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light 480 
 
 Till rising from the same. 
 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 In crimson colours came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 
 Those crimson shadows were: 485 
 
 1 turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 Oh Christ! what saw I there! 
 
 442-463. The curse is finally expiated. 
 
 464-479. And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native 
 country. 
 
 480-499. The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, and 
 appear in their own forms of light. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer; 
 
 My head was turned perforce away, 
 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
 
 I heard them coming fast: 
 
 Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third — I heard his voice: 
 
 It is the Hermit good! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 Part VII 
 This Hermit good Hves in that wood 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 
 He loves to talk with marineres 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-^ 
 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 
 "Why, this is strange, I trow! 
 Where are those lights so many and fair. 
 That signal made but now?" 
 
 500 
 
 505 
 
 510 
 
 513 
 
 520 
 
 525 
 
 "Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said— 
 
 "And they answered not our cheer! 
 
 The planks look warped! and see those sails. 
 
 How thin they are and sere! 530 
 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 My forest-brook along; 
 When the ivy-tod^ is heavy with snow, 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 That eats the she-wolf's young." 
 
 635 
 
 514-545. The Hermit of the wood approacheth the ship 
 with wonder. 
 
 • Ivy bush. 
 
490 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look — 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 I am a-f eared" — "Push on, push on!" 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor stirred; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, 
 Still louder and more dread; 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
 The ship went down Uke lead. 
 
 510 
 
 545 
 
 550 
 
 Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote, 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
 
 My body lay afloat; 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 555 
 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 660 
 
 And fell down in a fit; 
 
 The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 
 I took the oars: the Pilot's boy. 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, 665 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see, 
 
 The Devil knows how to row." 
 
 And now, all in my own countree, 670 
 
 I stood on the firm land! 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" 
 The Hermit crossed his brow. 575 
 
 "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say — 
 What manner of man art thou?" 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
 With a woful agony. 
 
 Which forced me to begin my tale; 580 
 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
 
 That agony returns: 
 
 And till my ghastly tale is told, 
 
 This heart within me bums. 685 
 
 546-649. The ship suddenly sinketh. 
 
 550-573. The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's 
 boat. 
 
 674-581. The arwient Mariner earnestly entreateth the 
 
 K^^ 'o shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him. 
 
 682-625. And ever and anon throughout his future life 
 an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land, and 
 to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things 
 that God made and loveth. 
 
 I pass, Hke night, from land to land; 
 I have strange power of speech; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me: 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 690 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door! 
 
 The wedding-guests are there: 
 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 
 And bride-maids singing are: 
 
 And hark the httle vesper bell, 695 
 
 Which biddeth me to prayer! 
 
 O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea: 
 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 600 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me. 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company! — 
 
 To walk together to the kirk, 605 
 
 And all together pray. 
 While each to his great Father bends. 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends 
 And youths and maidens gay! 
 
 • Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 610 
 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 
 He prayeth well, who loveth well \ 
 Both man and bird and beast. ' 
 
 , He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 l All things both great and small; 615 
 
 For the dear God who loveth us, ; 
 He made and loveth all." 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 620 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went Hke one that hath been stunned, 
 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 
 A sadder and a wiser man. 
 
 He rose the morrow morn. 625 
 
 FRANCE: AN ODE 
 (1798) 
 I 
 Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause. 
 Whose pathless march no mortal may con- 
 trol! 
 Ye Ocean- Waves! that, whereso'er ye roll. 
 Yield homage only to eternal laws! 
 Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds' 
 singing, 5 
 
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope 
 recUned, 
 Save when your own imperious branches 
 swinging, 
 Have made a solemn music of the wind! 
 
 \v* 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 491 
 
 Where, like a man beloved of God, 
 
 Through glooms, which never woodman trod,io 
 
 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
 My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I 
 wound, 
 Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. 
 By each rude shape and wild unconquerable 
 
 sound! 
 O ye loud waves ! and O ye Forests high ! 1 5 
 
 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared I 
 Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! 
 Yea, everything that is and will be free! 
 Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. 
 With what deep worship I have still adored 20 
 The spirit of divinest liberty. 
 
 When France in wrath her giant-limbs up- 
 reared. 
 And with that oath, which emote air, earth, 
 
 and sea. 
 Stamped her strong foot and said she would 
 be free. 
 Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! 25 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: 
 And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
 Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. 
 The monarchs marched in evil day, 30 
 And Britain joined the dire array; 
 Though dear her shores and circUng ocean. 
 Though many friendships, many youthful loves 
 
 Had swoU'n the patriot emotion 
 And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and 
 groves; 35 
 
 Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 
 
 To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, 
 And shame too long delayed and vain retreat! 
 For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim 
 I dimmed thy Hght or damped thy holy flame; 40 
 But blessed the paeans of delivered France, 
 And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 
 
 Ill 
 "And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's 
 loud scream 
 With that sweet music of deliverance strove! 
 Though all the fierce and drunken passions 
 wove 45 
 
 A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's 
 dream! 
 Ye storms, that round the dawning east 
 assembled, 
 The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!" 
 And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and 
 trembled. 
 The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and 
 bright; 50 
 
 When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory 
 Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; 
 
 When, insupportably advancing. 
 Her arm made mockery of the warrior's 
 tramp; 
 While timid looks of fury glancing, 55 
 
 Domestic treason crushed beneath her fatal 
 stamp, 
 
 Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; 
 Then I reproached my fears that would not 
 flee; 
 "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her 
 
 lore 
 In the low huts of them that toil and groan! 60 
 And, conquering by her happiness alone, 
 
 Shall France compel the nations to be free. 
 Till Love and Joy look round, and call the 
 Earth their own." 
 
 IV 
 
 Forgive me. Freedom! O forgive those dreams! 
 I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 65 
 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent — 
 I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained 
 streams! 
 Heroes, that for your peaceful country per- 
 ished. 
 And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 
 With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I 
 cherished 70 
 
 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! 
 To scatter rage and traitorous guilt 
 Where Peace her jealous home had built; 
 A patriot-race to disinherit 
 Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; 75 
 
 And with inexpiable spirit 
 To taint the bloodless freedom of the moun- 
 taineer — 
 O France, that mockst Heaven, adulterous, 
 bhnd. 
 And patriot only in pernicious toils, 79 
 
 Are these thy boasts. Champion of human kind? 
 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, 
 Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey: 
 To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
 From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray? 
 
 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 85 
 Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad 
 game 
 They burst their manacles and wear the name 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! 
 O Liberty! with profitless endeavor 
 Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 90 
 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor 
 ever 
 Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human 
 power. 
 Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
 (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) 
 Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 95 
 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
 The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of 
 
 the waves! 
 
 And there I felt thee!— on that sea-clifif's verge. 
 
 Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze 
 
 above, loo 
 
 Had made one murmur with the distant surge! 
 
 Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
 
 And shot my being through earth, sea and air, 
 
 Possessing all things with intensest love, 
 
 O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. 106 
 
492 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 DEJECTION: AN ODE 
 
 (1802) 
 
 Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
 With the old moon in her arms; 
 And I fear, I fear, my master dearl 
 We shall have a deadly storm. 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 
 
 Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made 
 
 The grand old ballad of Sir Patrich Spence, ^ 6 
 
 This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
 
 Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
 
 Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy 
 
 flakes. 
 Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and 
 rakes 10 
 
 Upon the strings of this iEolian lute, 
 Which better far were mute. 
 For lo! the new-Moon winter-bright! 
 And overspread with phantom light, 
 (With swimming phantom light o'erspread 15 
 But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 
 I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 
 
 The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
 And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, 
 And the slant night-shower driving loud and 
 fast! 20 
 
 Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst 
 they awed. 
 And sent my soul abroad. 
 Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, 
 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move 
 and live! 24 
 
 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
 A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief. 
 Which finds no natural outlet, no relief. 
 In word or sigh or tear — 
 
 Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, 
 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, 30 
 
 AU this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
 Have I been gazing on the western sky, 
 And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
 .And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye! 34 
 And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. 
 That give away their motion to the stars; 
 Those stars that glide behind them or between. 
 Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always 
 
 seen: 
 Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew 
 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue: 4o 
 
 1 see them all so excellently fair, 
 
 I see, not feel how beautiful they are! 
 
 Ill 
 
 My genial spirits fail; 
 And what can these avail 
 To lift the smothering weight from off my 
 breast? 45 
 
 It were a vain endeavour, 
 Though I should gaze forever 
 
 > V. p. 93, supra. 
 
 On that green light that lingers in the west: 
 I may not hope from outward forms to win 
 The passion and the hfe whose fountains are 
 within. 50 
 
 IV 
 
 O Lady, we receive but what we give. 
 And in our life alone does nature live: 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! 
 
 And would we aught behold of higher worth, 
 Than that inanimate cold world allowed 55 
 
 To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, 
 
 Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth, 
 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 
 Enveloping the Earth — 
 And from the soul itself must there be sent 60 
 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth. 
 Of all sweet sounds the life and element! 
 
 O pure of heart; thou need'st not ask of me 
 What this strong music in the soul may be! 
 What, and wherein it doth exist, 65 
 
 This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
 This beautiful and beauty-making power. 
 
 Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was 
 given. 
 Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, 
 Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and 
 shower, 70 
 
 Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power 
 Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 
 
 A new Earth and new Heaven, 
 Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 74 
 Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous 
 cloud — 
 We in ourselves rejoice! 
 And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 
 
 AU melodies the echoes of that voice, 
 AU colours a suffusion from that Ught. 
 
 VI 
 
 There was a time when, though my path was 
 ^ rough, 80 
 
 This joy within me dallied with distress. 
 And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
 Whence Fancy made me dreams of happi- 
 
 Folt hope grew round me like the twining 
 
 vine. 
 And fruits and fohage, not my own, seemed 
 mine. 85 
 
 But now afflictions bow me down to earth: 
 Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. 
 
 But oh! each visitation 
 Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 
 
 My shaping spirit of Imagination. 90 
 
 For not to think of what I needs must feel, 
 
 But to be still and patient, all I can; 
 And haply by abstruse research to steal 
 
 From my own nature all the natural man — 
 This was my sole resource, my only plan : 95 
 Till that which suits a part infects the whole. 
 And now is almost grown the habit of m^ 
 
 80UL 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 493 
 
 VII 
 
 Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my 
 mind, 
 Reality's dark dream ! 
 I turn from you and listen to the wind, loo 
 
 Which long has raved unnoticed. What a 
 scream 
 Of agony by torture lengthened out 
 That lute sent forth! Thou Wind that ravest 
 without, 
 Bare craig, or mountain-tairn, or blasted 
 tree, 104 
 
 Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
 Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 
 Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. 
 Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, 
 Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
 Mak'st Devils' yule with worse than wintry 
 song, 110 
 
 The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves 
 among. 
 Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! 
 Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold! 
 What tcll's thou now about? 
 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, 115 
 With groans of trampled men, with smarting 
 wounds — 
 At once they groan with pain, and shudder 
 
 with the cold! 
 But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! 
 
 And all the noise, as of a rushing crowd. 
 With groans and tremulous shudderings — all is 
 over — 120 
 
 It tells another tale, with sounds less deep 
 and loud! 
 A tale of less affright, 
 And tempered with delight. 
 As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 
 
 'Tis of a httle child, 125 
 
 Upon a lonesome wild, 
 Not far from home, but she hath lost her 
 
 way: 
 And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to make her 
 mother hear. 
 
 VIII 
 
 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of 
 sleep; 130 
 
 Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! 
 Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, 
 And may this storm be but a mountain- 
 birth, 
 May all the stars hang bright above her dwell- 
 ing, 
 Silent as though they watched the sleeping 
 Earth! 135 
 
 With light heart may she rise, 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
 Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; 
 To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 
 Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 140 
 
 O simple spirit guided from above, 
 Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice. 
 Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 
 
 THE GOOD GREAT MAN 
 
 (1802) 
 
 COMPLAINT 
 
 "How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits 
 Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains! 
 It sounds like stories from the land of spirits 
 If any man obtain that which he merits 
 Or any merit that which he obtains." 5 
 
 REPLY 
 
 For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting 
 strain ! 
 
 What would'st thou have a good great man ob- 
 tain? 
 
 Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain? 
 
 Or throne of corses which his sword had slain? 
 
 Greatness and goodness are not means, but 
 ends! lo 
 
 Hath he not always treasures, always friends. 
 
 The good great man? three treasures, love and 
 
 LIGHT, 
 
 And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infants' breath: 
 And three firm friends, more sure than day and 
 
 night — 
 Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death! 13 
 
 TO THE RIVER OTTER 
 
 Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West! 
 How many various-fated years have past. 
 What happy, and what mournful hours, since 
 last 
 I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy 
 
 breast. 
 Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest 
 Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine 
 eyes 6 
 
 I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
 But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, 
 Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows 
 gray. 
 And bedded sand that, veined with various 
 dyes, 10 
 
 Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On 
 my way, 
 Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled 
 Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs. 
 Ah ! that once more I were a careless child! 
 
 KUBLA KHAN: OR A VISION IN A 
 DREAM 
 
 (1816) 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 
 Down to a sunless sea. 5 
 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round: 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing 
 
 tree: 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
d94 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 But oh! that deep romantic chasm which 
 
 slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
 A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15 
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil 
 
 seething, 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breath- 
 ing, 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
 Amid whose swift half -intermitted burst 20 
 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail; 
 And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 30 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 35 
 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw; 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 
 And on her dulcimer she played, 40 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 Could I revive within me 
 
 Her symphony and song. 
 
 To such a deep deUght 'twould win me. 
 That with music loud and long, 45 
 
 I would build that dome in air. 
 That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 60 
 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honeyndew hath f^. 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE 
 
 (1822-1832) 
 
 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying. 
 Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
 Both were mine! Life went a-maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young! 5 
 
 When I was young? — Ah, woful When! 
 Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! 
 This breathing house not built with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong. 
 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, lo 
 
 How lightly then it flashed along:— 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide! is 
 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
 When Youth and I Uved in't together. 
 
 Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree; 
 O! the joys, that came down shower-like. 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 Ere I was old. 
 
 20 
 
 Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, 
 
 Which tells me. Youth's no longer here! 
 
 Youth! for years so many and sweet, 25 
 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, ^ 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 
 It cannot be that Thou art gone! 
 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd: — 
 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold! 30 
 
 What strange disguise hast now put on. 
 
 To make believe, that Thou art gone? 
 
 1 see these locks in silvery slips. 
 This drooping gait, this altered size: 
 
 But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips 35 
 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 
 Life is but thought: so think I will 
 That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
 Dew-drops are the gems of morning. 
 
 But the tears of mournful eve! 40 
 
 Where no hope is, life's a warning 
 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 
 Wnen we are old: 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 With oft and tedious taking-leave, 45 
 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest. 
 That may not rudely be dismist; 
 Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while. 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 WORK WITHOUT HOPE I 
 
 (February 21st, 1827) 
 
 All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their \ 
 
 lair — j 
 
 The bees are stirring — ^birds are on the wing — 
 And Winter slumbering in the open air. 
 Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! 
 And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, 5 
 
 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 
 Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths 
 
 blow. 
 Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar 
 
 flow. 
 Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye 
 
 may. 
 For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, 
 
 away! lo 
 
 With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I 
 
 stroll: 
 And would you leam the spells that drowse my 
 
 soul? 
 Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, 1 
 
 And Hope without an object cannot live. i 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY 
 
 4:95 
 
 1774-1843 
 
 THS BATTLE OF BLENHEIM^ 
 
 (Written at Westbury, 1798) 
 
 It was a summer evening, 
 Old Kaspar's work was done, 
 
 And he before his cottage door 
 Was sitting in the sun, 
 
 And by him sported on the green 
 
 His Httle grandchild Wilhelmine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 
 Roll something large and round, 
 Which he beside the rivulet 
 
 In playing there had found; 10 
 
 He came to ask what he had found. 
 That was so large, and smooth, and round. 
 
 ni 
 Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 
 
 Who stood expectant by; 
 And then the old man shook his head, 15 
 
 And with a natural sigh, 
 "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
 "Who fell in the great victory. 
 
 IV 
 
 "I find them in the garden, 
 
 For there's many hereabout; 20 
 
 And often when 1 go to plough. 
 
 The ploughshare turns them out! 
 For many thousand men," said he, 
 "Were slain in that great victory." 
 
 "Now tell us what 'twas all about," 25 
 
 Young Peterkin, he cries; 
 And little Wilhelmine looks up 
 
 With wonder-waiting eyes; 
 "Now tell us all about the war, 
 And what they fought each other for." 30 
 
 "It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
 
 "Who put the French to rout; 
 But what they fought each other for, 
 
 I could not weU make out; 
 But every body said," quoth he, 35 
 
 "That 'twas a famous victory. 
 
 VII 
 
 "My father lived at Blenheim then, 
 
 Yon little stream hard by; 
 They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 
 
 And he was forced to fly; 40 
 
 So with his wife and child he fled. 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 1 The Duke of Marlborough, Commander-in-Chief of 
 the English and Dutch forces, assisted by Prince Eu- 
 gene of Savoy, won a celebrated victory over the French 
 and Bavarians at Blenheim, Aug. 13, 1704. The war 
 arose over the disputed succession to the throne of Spain. 
 
 VIII 
 
 "With fire and sword the country round 
 
 Was wasted far and wide. 
 And many a childing mother then 45 
 
 And new-bom baby died: 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 IX 
 
 "They say it was a shocking sight 
 
 After the field was won; 59 
 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun; 
 But things Hke that, you know, must be 
 After a famous victory. 
 
 "Great praise the Duke of Marlboro' won, 55 
 
 And our good Prince Eugene." 
 "Why 'twas a very wicked thing!" 
 
 Said httle Wilhelmine. 
 "Nay . . nay . . my little girl," quoth he, 
 "It was a famous victory. 60 
 
 XI 
 
 "And every body praised the Duke 
 
 Who this great fight did win." 
 "But what good came of it at last?" 
 
 Quoth little Peterkin. 
 "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, 65 
 
 "But 'twas a famous victory." 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE 
 
 1798 
 
 A Well there is in the west country. 
 And a clearer one never was seen; 
 
 There is not a wife in the west country 
 But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 
 
 An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, 5 
 
 And behind doth an ash-tree grow. 
 
 And a willow from the bank above 
 Droops to the water below. 
 
 A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; 
 
 Joyfully he drew nigh, 10 
 
 For from cock-crow he had been traveUing, 
 
 And there was not a cloud in the sky. 
 
 He drank of the water so cool and clear. 
 
 For thirsty and hot was he; 
 And he sat down upon the bank, 15 
 
 Under the willow-tree. 
 
 There came a man from the house hard by. 
 
 At the Well to fill his pail; 
 On the Well-side he rested it. 
 
 And he bade the Stranger hail. 20 
 
 "Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth 
 he; 
 "For, an if thou hast a wife, 
 The happiest draught thou hast drank this 
 day 
 That ever thou didst in thy life. 
 
496 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 "Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, 25 
 
 Ever here in Cornwall been? 
 For, an if she have, I'll venture my Hfe, 
 
 She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." 
 
 "I have left a good woman who never was 
 here," 
 The Stranger he made reply; 30 
 
 "But that my draught should be the better 
 for that, 
 I pray you answer me why." 
 
 "St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many 
 a time 
 
 Drank of this crystal Well; 
 And, before the Angel summon'd her, 35 
 
 She laid on the water a spell. 
 
 "If the Husband, of this gifted Well 
 
 Shall drink before his Wife, 
 A happy man thenceforth is he, 
 
 For he shall be Master for hfe. 40 
 
 "But if the Wife should drink of it first, 
 
 God help the Husband then!" — 
 The Stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, 
 
 And drank of the water again. 
 
 "You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes?" 
 He to the Cornish-man said: 46 
 
 But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger 
 spake, 
 And sheepishly shook his head. 
 
 "I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done. 
 And left my Wife in the porch; 50, 
 
 But i' faith she had been wiser than me. 
 For she took a bottle to church." 
 
 MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD ARE 
 PAST 
 
 (Written at Keswick, 1818) 
 
 My days among the Dead are past; 
 
 Around me I behold. 
 Where'er these casual eyes are cast. 
 
 The mighty minds of old; 
 My never-failing friends are they, 
 With whom I converse day by day. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal. 
 
 And seek relief in woe; 
 And while I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe, 10 
 
 My cheeks have often been bedew'd 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
 My thoughts are with the Dead; with them 
 
 I live in long-past years; 
 Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 15 
 
 Partake their hopes and fears. 
 And from their lessons seek and find 
 Instruction with an humble mind. 
 
 My hopes are with the Dead; anon 
 My place with them will be, 20 
 
 And I with them shall travel o?* 
 Through all Futurity: 
 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust. 
 
 That will not perish in the dust. 
 
 g)ir Salter g>cott 
 
 1771-1832 
 
 B[AROLD'S SONG TO ROSABELLE 
 
 (From Lay of the Last Minstrel, 1805) 
 
 Canto VI 
 
 XXIII 
 
 O listen, listen, ladies gay! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay. 
 
 That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! A 
 
 And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! 
 Rest thee in Castle Raven sheuch. 
 
 Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 
 
 "The blackening wave is edged with white; 
 
 To inch^ and rock the sea-mews fly; 10 
 
 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
 
 Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. 
 
 "Last night the gifted Seer did view 
 A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; 
 
 Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch: 15 
 
 Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" — 
 
 "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
 To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 
 
 But that my ladye-mother there 
 Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 
 
 "'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides well. 
 
 But that my sire the wine will chide. 
 If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle. — " 
 
 O'er Roslin all that dreary night, 
 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 
 
 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light. 
 And redder than the bright moonbeam. 
 
 It glared on Roslin's castled rock. 
 It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 
 
 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
 And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie. 
 
 Each Baron, for a sable shroud. 
 Sheathed in his iron panoply. 
 
 1 Island. 
 
 2S 
 
 25 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 497 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 Seem'd all on fire within, around, 
 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale; 
 Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 
 
 And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 
 
 Bla,zed battlement and pinnet high, 
 
 Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 
 
 So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
 The lordly line of high St. Clair. 
 
 There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
 Lie buried within that proud chapelle; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
 But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! 
 
 And each St. Clair was buried there. 
 
 With candle, with book, and with knell; 50 
 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds 
 sung, 
 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 HUNTING SONG 
 
 (1808) 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 
 On the mountain dawns the day; 
 
 All the jolly chase is here 
 
 With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear; 
 
 Hounds are in their couples yelling, 5 
 
 Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
 
 Merrjly, merrily, mingle they, 
 
 "Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 The mist has left the mountain gray, 10 
 
 Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; 
 And foresters have busy been 
 To track the buck in thicket green; 
 Now we come to chant our lay, 15 
 
 "Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 To the green- wood haste away; 
 We can show you where he lies, 
 Fleet of foot, and tall of size; 20 
 
 We can show the marks he made, 
 When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed; 
 You shall see him brought to bay, 
 "Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Louder, louder chant the lay, 25 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay! 
 Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, 
 Run a course as well as we; 
 Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 
 Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk; 30 
 
 Think of this, and rise with day, 
 Gentle lords and ladies gay. 
 
 LOCHINVAR 
 
 (From Marmion^ 1808) 
 
 Canto V 
 
 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
 Through all the wide border his steed was the 
 best; 
 
 And save his good broadsword, he weapons had 
 none, 
 
 He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. 
 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 5 
 
 There never was knight like the young Lochin- 
 var. ' 
 
 He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for 
 
 stone, 
 He swam the Esk river where ford there was 
 
 none; 
 But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came 
 
 late: lo 
 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, 
 Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, 
 
 and all: 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 
 sword 15 
 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 
 
 word), 
 " O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochin- 
 var?"— 
 
 "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you 
 
 denied; — 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its 
 
 tide — 20 
 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
 There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by 
 
 far, 
 That would gladly be bride to the young 
 
 Lochinvar." 
 
 The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it 
 
 up, 25 
 
 He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the 
 
 cup. 
 She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to 
 
 sigh. 
 With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could 
 
 bar, — 
 "Now tread we a measure!'* said young 
 
 Lochinvar. 30 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 
 While her mother did fret, and her father did 
 
 fume. 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet 
 
 and plume; 
 And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere 
 
 better by far, 35 
 
 To have match'd our fair cousin with young 
 
 Lochinvar." 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. 
 When they reach'd the hall-door, and the 
 
 charger stood near; 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 40 
 
498 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 "She is wonl we are gone, over bank, bush, and 
 
 scaur; 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth 
 
 young Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 
 Netherby clan; 
 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode 
 and they ran: 
 
 There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie 
 Lee, 45 
 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they 
 see. 
 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochin- 
 var? 
 
 BALLAD 
 
 ALICE BRAND 
 
 (From The Lady of the Lake, 1810) 
 Canto IV 
 
 XII 
 
 Merry it is in the good greenwood. 
 When the mavis and merle^ are singing, 
 
 When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are 
 in cry, 
 And the hunter's horn is ringing. 
 
 ' ' O Alice Brand, my native land 5 
 
 Is lost for love of you; 
 And we must hold by wood and wold, 
 
 As outlaws wont to do. 
 
 "O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright, 
 And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, 10 
 
 That on the night of our luckless flight. 
 Thy brother bold I slew. 
 
 "Now must I teach to hew the beech 
 
 The hand that held the glaive,^ 
 For leaves to spread om* lowly bed, 16 
 
 And stakes to fence our cave. 
 
 "And for vest of pall,' thy fingers small. 
 
 That wont on harp to stray, 
 A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer, 
 
 To keep the cold away." — 20 
 
 "O Richard! if my brother died, 
 
 'Twas but a fatal chance; 
 For darkling was the battle tried, 
 
 And fortune sped the lance. 
 
 "If pall and vair* no more I wear, 26 
 
 Nor thou the crimson sheen, 
 As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray, 
 
 As gay the forest green. 
 
 "And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 
 
 And lost thy native land, 30 
 
 Still AHce has her own Richard, 
 
 And he his Alice Brand." 
 
 1 Thrush and blackbird. * Sword. 
 
 * A kind of fine cloth -worn by the upper 
 
 * A kind of fur. 
 
 XIII 
 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood. 
 
 So blithe Lady Alice is singing; 
 On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side, 36 
 
 Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 
 
 Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 
 
 Who won'd^ within the hill,— 
 Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church. 
 
 His voice was ghostly shrill. 40 
 
 "Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak. 
 
 Our moonlight circle's screen? 
 Or who comes here to chase the deer. 
 
 Beloved of our Elfin Queen? 
 Or who may dare on wold to wear 45 
 
 The fairies' fatal green? 
 
 "Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, 
 
 For thou wert christen'd man; 
 For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, 
 
 For mutter'd word or ban. 
 
 50 
 
 "Lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart, 
 
 The curse of the sleepless eye; 
 Till he wish and pray that his life would part, 
 
 Nor yet find leave to die." 
 
 XIV 
 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, 55 
 Though the birds have still'd their singing; 
 
 The evening blaze doth Alice raise. 
 And Richard is fagots bringing. 
 
 Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, 
 
 Before Lord Richard stands, 60 
 
 And, as he cross'd and bless'd himself, 
 "I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf. 
 ^'That is made with bloody hands.'' 
 
 But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 
 That woman void of fear, — 65 
 
 "And if there's blood upon his hand, 
 'Tis but the blood of deer."— 
 
 "Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! 
 
 It cleaves unto his hand, 
 The stain of thine own kindly blood, 70 
 
 The blood of Ethert Brand." 
 
 Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, 
 
 And made the holy sign, — 
 "And if there's blood on Richard's hand, 
 
 A spotless hand is mine. 75 
 
 "And I conjure thee, Demon elf. 
 
 By Him whom Demons fear. 
 To show us whence thou art thyself, 
 
 And what thine errand here?" — 
 
 XV 
 
 "'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land, 80 
 
 When fairy birds are singing. 
 When the court doth ride by their monarch's 
 side. 
 
 With bit and bridle ringing: 
 
 6 Dwelt. ^ 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 499 
 
 "And gaily shines the Fairy-land— 
 But all is glistening show, 85 
 
 Like the idle gleam that December's beam 
 Can dart on ice and snow. 
 
 "And fading, like that varied gleam, 
 
 Is our inconstant shape, 
 Who now like knight and lady seem, 90 
 
 And now like dwarf and ape. 
 
 "It was between the night and day. 
 
 When the Fairy King has power. 
 That I sunk down in a sinful fray. 
 And, 'twixt life and death, was snatch'd away. 
 
 To the joyless Elfin bower. . 96 
 
 "But wist I of a woman bold, 
 
 Who thrice my brow durst sign, 
 I might regain my mortal mold. 
 
 As fair a form as thine." 100 
 
 She cross'd him once — she cross'd him twice^ 
 
 That lady was so brave; 
 The fouler grew his goblin hue. 
 
 The darker grew the cave. 
 
 She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold; 105 
 
 He rose beneath her hand 
 The fairest knight on Scottish mold,^ 
 
 Her brother, Ethert Brand! 
 
 Merry it is in good greenwood, 
 
 When the mavis and merle are singing, no 
 But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray 
 
 When all the bells were ringing. 
 
 EDMUND'S SONG 
 
 (From Bokeby, 1812) 
 
 Canto III 
 
 XVI 
 
 O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods^ are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there, 
 
 Would grace a summer queen. 
 And as I rode by Dalton-hall, 5 
 
 Beneath the turrets high, 
 A Maiden on the castle wall 
 
 Was singing merrily, — 
 
 Chorus 
 "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 
 
 And Greta woods are green; 10 
 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there, * 
 
 Than reign our English queen." — 
 
 "If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 
 
 To leave both tower and town, 
 Thou first must guess what life lead we, 15 
 
 That dwell, by dale and down? 
 And if thou canst that riddle read. 
 
 As read full well you may, 
 Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed. 
 
 As bhthe as Queen of May." — 20 
 
 « Soil, ground. 
 
 1 On the Greta river in Yorkshire; the estate of Rokeby 
 was situated at the junction of this river with the Tees. 
 
 Chorus 
 Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair. 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there. 
 
 Than reign our English queen. 
 
 "I read you, by your bugle-horn, 25 
 
 And by your palfrey good, 
 I read you for a Ranger sworn. 
 
 To keep the king's greenwood. — - 
 "A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 
 
 And 'tis at peep of light; 30 
 
 His blast is heard at merry mom, 
 
 And mine at dead of night." — 
 
 Chai-us 
 Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are gay; 
 I would I were with Edmund there, 35 
 
 To reign his Queen of May! 
 
 "With burnish'd brand and musketoon,* 
 
 So gallantly you come, 
 I read you for a bold dragoon. 
 
 That hsts the tuck^ of drum." — . 40 
 
 "I list no more the tuck of drum, 
 
 No more the trumpet hear; 
 But when the beetle sounds his hum. 
 
 My comrades take the spear. 
 
 Chorus 
 "And, O! though Brignall banks be fair, 45 
 
 And Greta woods be gay, 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare. 
 
 Would reign my Queen of May! 
 
 "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, 
 
 A nameless death I'll die; 50 
 
 The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, 
 Were better mate than I! 
 And when I'm with my comrades met, 
 
 Beneath the greenwood bough, 
 What once we were we all forget, 55 
 
 Nor think what we are now. 
 
 Chorus 
 "Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green. 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 
 Would grace a summer queen." — 60 
 
 SONG 
 
 A WEARY LOT IS THINE 
 
 (From the same. Canto III, xxvin) 
 
 "A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 
 
 A weary lot is thine! 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid. 
 
 And press the rue for winel^ 
 
 2 A short musket. ' Beat. 
 
 » Instead of the wine of life she has only rue, the plant 
 associated with repentance and sorrow. 
 
500 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 5 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 
 
 No more of me you knew, 
 My love! 
 No more of me you knew. 10 
 
 "This morn is merry June, I trow, 
 
 The rose is budding fain; 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow, 
 
 Ere we two meet again." 
 He turn'd his charger as he spake, 15 
 
 Upon the river shore, 
 He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 
 
 Said, "Adieu forever more. 
 My love! 
 And adieu forever more." — 20 
 
 SONG 
 
 ALLAN-A-DALE 
 
 (From the same. Canto III, xxx) 
 Allan-a-Dale has no faggots for burning, 
 AlIan-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 
 Allan-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
 Yet Allan-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. 
 Come, read me my riddle! come, harken my 
 tale! 5 
 
 And tell me the craft of bold Allan-a-Dale. 
 
 The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, 
 And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. 
 The mere for his net, and the land for his game. 
 The chase for the wild, and the park for the 
 tame; lO 
 
 Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, 
 Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allan-a-Dale! 
 
 Allan-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. 
 Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be 
 as bright; 15 
 
 Allan-a-Dale is no baron or lord. 
 Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; 
 And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,^ 
 Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allan-a- 
 Dale. 
 
 Allan-a-Dale to his wooing is come; 
 
 The mother, she ask'd of his household and 
 home: 20 
 
 "Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on 
 the hiU, 
 
 My hall," quoth bold Allan, "shows gallanter 
 still; 
 
 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent 
 so pale. 
 
 And with all its bright spangles!'* said Allan-a- 
 Dale. 
 
 The father was steel, and the mother was stone; 
 They lifted the latch and they bade him begone; 
 But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their 
 
 cry : 27 
 
 He has laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black 
 
 eye, 
 And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, 29 
 And the youth it was told by was Allan-a-Dale! 
 
 ^ Doff in token of submission. 
 
 SONG 
 
 THE CAVALIER 
 
 (From the same. Canto V, xx) 
 
 While the dawn on the mountain was misty and 
 
 gray. 
 My true love has mounted his steed and away. 
 Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down; 
 Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for 
 
 the Crown! 
 
 He has doff'd the silk doublet the breast-plate 
 
 to bear, 5 
 
 He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long flowing 
 
 hair, 
 From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword 
 
 hangs down, — 
 Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for 
 
 the Crown! 
 
 For the rights of fair England that broadsword 
 
 he draws; 
 Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; 
 His watchword is honour, his pay is renown, — 
 God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the 
 
 Crown! 12 
 
 They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, 
 
 and all 
 The round-headed rebels of Westminster Hall; 
 But tell those bold traitors of London's proud 
 
 town, 15 
 
 That the spears of the North have encircled the 
 
 Crown. 
 
 There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their 
 
 foes; 
 There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's 
 
 Montrose! 
 Would you match the base Skippon, and Mas- 
 
 sey, and Brown, 
 With the Barons of England, that fight for the 
 
 Crown? 20 
 
 Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier! 
 
 Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear, 
 
 Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may 
 
 drown, 
 In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and 
 
 her Crown. 
 
 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 
 (1816) 
 
 "Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide? 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride : 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen " — 
 But aye she loot^ the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 iLet. 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 501 
 
 "Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale; 10 
 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha', 
 
 His sword in battle keen" — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 15 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 "A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair; 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 20 
 
 And you, the foremost of them a*, 
 
 Shall ride our forest-queen" — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa* 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 IV 
 
 25 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 
 
 The tapers glimmered fair; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. 
 
 And dame and knight are there: 
 They sought her baith by bower and ha' ! 
 
 The ladie was not seen! 30 
 
 She's o'er the border and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 HARLAW 
 
 (From The Antiquary, 1816) 
 
 Now hand your tongue, baith wife and carle,' 
 
 And listen, great and sma'. 
 And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl 
 
 That fought on the red Harlaw. 
 
 "The cronach's^ cried on Bennachie, 5 
 
 And doun the Don and a', 
 And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be 
 
 For the sair field of Harlaw. — 
 
 "They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds. 
 They hae bridled a hundred black, 10 
 
 With a chafron^ of steel on each horse's head, 
 And a good knight upon his back." — 
 
 "The great Earl in his stirrups stood 
 
 That Highland host to see: 
 Now here a knight that's stout and good 
 
 May prove a jeopardie: 
 
 "'What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, 25 
 
 That rides beside my reyne, 
 Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, 
 
 And I were Roland Cheyne? 
 
 "'To turn the rein were sin and shame. 
 To fight were wondrous peril, 30 
 
 What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, 
 Were ye Glenallan's Earl?' 
 
 "'Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide,^ 
 
 And ye were Roland Cheyne, 
 The spur should be in my horse's side, 35 
 
 And the bridle upon his mane. 
 
 "'If they hae twenty thousand blades, 
 
 And we twice ten times ten, 
 Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, 
 
 And we are mail-clad men. 40 
 
 "'My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, 
 
 As through the moorland fern, 
 Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude 
 
 Grow cauld for Highland kerne.' "^ 
 
 MADGE WILDFIRE'S SONG 
 (From The Heart of Midlothian, 1818) 
 
 "Proud Maisie is in the wood. 
 
 Walking so early; 
 Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 
 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 "'Tell me, thou bonny bird, 5 
 
 When shall I marry me?' 
 *When six braw^ gentlemen 
 
 Kirkward shall carry ye. . . .* 
 
 "'Wlio makes the bridal bed, 
 
 Birdie, say truly?' — 10 
 
 'The grey-headed sexton. 
 
 That delves^ the grave duly. . . . 
 
 "The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 
 
 Shall hght thee steady; 
 The owl from the steeple sing, 15 
 
 'Welcome, proud lady.'" 
 
 "They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 
 
 A mile, but barely ten. 
 When Donald came branking* down the brae 15 
 
 Wi' twenty thousand men. 
 
 "Their tartans they were waving wide. 
 Their glaives^ were glancing clear. 
 
 Their pibrochs^ rung frae side to side 
 
 Would deafen ye to hear. 20 
 
 1 Carle. Here =husband. * i. e., coronach, or dirge. 
 
 3 The front part of the head piece of a war-horse's 
 armor. 
 
 * Prancing. " Swords. 
 
 6 Martial music played on the bag pipes by the High- 
 landers. 
 
 BORDER BALLAD 
 
 (From The Monastery, 1820) 
 
 I 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
 Why the deil dinna ye march forward m 
 order? 
 March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 
 
 All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the 
 Border. 
 Many a banner spread, 5 
 
 Flutters above your head, 
 7 Time. » A soldier of the lowest rank; or a boor. 
 
 1 Brave. " Digs. 
 
502 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 Many a crest that is famous in story; 
 Mount and make ready then, 
 Sons of the mountain glen, 
 Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish 
 glory! 10 
 
 n 
 Come from the hills where the hirsels^ are graz- 
 ing, 
 Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; 
 Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 
 Come with the buckler, the lance, and the 
 bow. 
 Trumpets are sounding, 15 
 
 War-steeds are bounding. 
 Stand to your arms then, and march in good 
 order; 
 England shall many a day 
 Tell of the bloody fray, 19 
 
 When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border I 
 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call; — if 'twas not pride, 
 It was a joy to that allied, 
 She did inherit. 
 
 15 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
 Which doth the human feeling cool, 
 But she was train'd in Nature's school, 
 
 Nature had blest her. 20 
 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind. 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbour, gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore, 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore. 
 Some summer morning. 
 
 25 
 
 
 COUNTY GUY 
 
 (From Quentin Durward, 1823) 
 
 "Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 
 
 The sun has left the lea, 
 The orange-flower perfumes the bower. 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, 5 
 
 Sits hush'd his partner nigh; 
 Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour, 
 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 "The village maid steals through the shade, 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear; lo 
 
 To beauty shy, by lattice high. 
 
 Sings high-born Cavalier. 
 The star of Love, all stars above. 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky; 
 And high and low the influence know — 15 
 
 But where is County Guy?" 
 
 diaries ilamb 
 
 1775-1834 
 
 TO HESTER 
 
 (1805) 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die. 
 Their place ye may not well supply, 
 Though ye among a thousand try. 
 With vain endeavour. 
 
 A month or more hath she been dead, 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To think upon the wormy bed, 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 Of pride and joy no common rate, 
 That flushed her spirit. 
 
 * A flock of sheep or a herd of cattle. 
 
 10 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 A sweet fore-warning? 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
 days: 
 All, all are gone, the old f amihar faces. 
 
 I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom 
 cronies; 5 
 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I loved a Love once, fairest among women; 
 Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; 
 Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
 
 10 
 
 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my 
 
 childhood. 
 Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse. 
 Seeking to find the old f amihar faces. 15 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
 Why wert not thou bom in my father's dwell- 
 ing? 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces, — 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have 
 
 left me. 
 And some are taken from me; all are departed; \ 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 21 : 
 
JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE 
 
 503 
 
 falter ^abage ilannor 
 
 1775-1864 
 
 MILD IS THE PARTING YEAR, AND 
 SWEET 
 
 (Collected Works, 1846) 
 
 Mild is the parting year, and sweet 
 
 The odour of the falling spray; 
 Life passes on more rudely fleet. 
 
 And balmless is its closing day. 
 I wait its close, I court its gloom, 5 
 
 But mourn that never must there fall 
 Or on my breast or on my tomb 
 
 The tear that would have sooth'd it all. 
 
 AH WHAT AVAILS THE SCEPTERED 
 RACE 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Ah what avails the sceptered race, 
 
 Ah what the form divine! 
 What every virtue, every grace! 
 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 5 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee. 
 
 YES; I WRITE VERSES 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Yes; I write verses now and then. 
 But blunt and flaccid is my pen. 
 No longer talkt of by young men 
 
 As rather clever: 
 In the last quarter are my eyes. 
 You see it by their form and size; 
 Is it not time then to be wise? 
 
 Or now or never. 
 Fairest that ever sprang from Eve! 
 While Time allows the short reprieve. 
 Just look at me! would you believe 
 
 'Twas once a lover f 
 I cannot clear the five-bar gate 
 But, trying first its timber's state, ^ 
 Climb stifily up, take breath, and wait 15 
 
 To trundle over. 
 Thro' gallopade^ I cannot swing 
 The entangling blooms of Beauty's spnng: 
 I cannot say the tender thing, 
 
 Be't true or false. 
 And am beginning to opine 
 Those girls are only half-divine 
 Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine 
 In giddy waltz. 
 I fear that arm above that shoulder, 
 I wish them wiser, graver, older, 
 Sedater, and no harm if colder 
 
 And panting less 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 1 A kind of dance. 
 
 Ah! people were not haK so wild 
 
 In former days, when starchly mild, 30 
 
 Upon her high-heel'd Essex smiled 
 
 The Brave Queen Bess. 
 
 TO ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 There is dehght in singing, tho' none hear 
 Beside the singer; and there is delight 
 In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone 
 And see the prais'd far off him, far above. 
 Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, 5 
 Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee. 
 Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale. 
 No man hath walkt along our roads with step 
 So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
 So varied in discourse. But warmer climes lo 
 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the 
 
 Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 
 
 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
 
 The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO 
 THE LAST FRUIT OFF AN OLD TREE 
 
 (1853) 
 
 I strove with none, for none was worth my 
 
 Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art; 
 I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; 
 It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 
 
 31ofifept) Blanco WWt 
 
 1775-1841 
 
 SONNET TO NIGHT 
 
 (First published 1828) 
 Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew 
 Thee by report Divine, and heard thy name. 
 Did he not tremble for this goodly frame, 
 This glorious canopy of light and hhiej 
 But through a curtain of translucent dew, 5 
 
 Bathed in the hues of the great setting flame, 
 Hesperus with the Host of Heaven came. 
 And lo! creation broadened to man s view. 
 Who could have guessed such darkness lay con- 
 
 Within^hy beams, O Sun! or who divined lO 
 W^hilst bud, and flower, and insect stood re- 
 
 ThoJ to^such countless worlds hadst made us 
 
 Why should we, then, shun death with anxious 
 
 If Light conceals so much, wherefore not Life? 
 
504 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 arijomas? Campbell 
 
 1777-1844 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND* 
 
 (1801) 
 Ye mariners of England 
 That guard our native seas, 
 Whose flag has braved a thousand years 
 The battle and the breeze! 
 Your glorious standard launch again 5 
 
 To match another foe, 
 And sweep through the deep, 
 While the stormy winds do blow; 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 10 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave! — 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And Ocean was their grave: 
 
 Where Blake^ and mighty Nelson^ fell 15 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow, • 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep, 
 
 WTiile the stormy winds do blow; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long. 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 20 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwark, 
 
 No towers along the steep; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain waves, 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak 25 
 
 She quells the floods below — • 
 
 As they roar on the shore. 
 
 Where the stormy winds do blow; 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 30 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn, 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean warriors! 35 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name, 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow; 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more. 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow. 40 
 
 HOHENLINDENi 
 
 (1802) 
 On Linden, when the sun was low. 
 All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 1 When this ode was written England was arrayed 
 singly against France and the greater part of Europe, and 
 her safety depended on the maintenance of her supremacy 
 on the sea. 
 
 2 Robert Blake (1599-1657), a great English admiral, 
 particularly noted for his victories over the Dutch in 1652 
 and 1657. 
 
 » Horatio Nelson (afterwards Viscount) , the greatest 
 of England's admirals (1758-1805), who was killed in the 
 Battle of Trafalgar. In the original version of the poem 
 Sir Richard Grenville's name was used instead of Nel- 
 son's, who was then Uving. 
 
 * Campbell was near Hohenlinden, a village in upper 
 
 But Linden saw another sight. 
 When the drum beat at dead of night. 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. 
 Each horseman drew his battle blade, 
 And furious every charger neighed, 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 10 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
 Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven, ig 
 
 Far flashed the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow, 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 20 
 
 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
 Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave. 
 And charge with all thy chivalry! 
 
 Few, few, shall part where many meet! 
 The snow shall be their winding sheet, 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC* 
 
 (1809) 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 
 Sing the glorious day's renown. 
 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 
 All the might of Denmark's crown. 
 
 And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 5 
 
 By each gun the lighted brand 
 
 In a bold determin'd hand. 
 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 
 Led them on. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat 10 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine. 
 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 
 On the lofty British line: 
 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime; 
 
 As they drifted on their path, 15 
 
 There was silence deep as death. 
 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 
 For a time. 
 
 Bavaria, at the time of the battle there in 18(K), between 
 the victorious French and the allied Bavarians and 
 Austrians. 
 
 1 An English expedition under Sir Hyde Parker, with 
 Nelson second in command, was sent to the Baltic against 
 a confederacy formed by Russia, Sweden and Denmark. 
 The Battle of the Baltic was fought on April 2, 1801, and \ 
 Nelson, rather than Parker, was the hero of the day. )) 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL 
 
 505 
 
 But the might of England flushed 
 
 To anticipate the scene, 20 
 
 And her van the fleeter rushed 
 
 O'er the deadly space between- — 
 
 "Hearts of oak," our captains cried, when each 
 
 gun , . ,. 
 
 From its adamantme hps 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 25 
 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Again! again! again! 
 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back; — 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom: — 
 
 Then ceased — and all is wail, 
 
 As they strike the shattered sail, 
 
 Or in conflagration pale 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then, 
 
 As he hailed them o'er the wave; 
 
 "Ye are brothers! ye are men! 
 
 And we conquer but to save; 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring: 
 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet 
 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our King." 
 
 Then Denmark blest our chief, 
 
 That he gave her wounds repose; 
 
 And the sounds of joy and grief. 
 
 From her people wildly rose, 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from the day; 
 
 While the sun looked smiling bright 
 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight, 
 
 Where the fires of funeral hght 
 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, old England, raise 
 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 
 By the festal cities' blaze, 
 
 While the wine cup shines in light; 
 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 
 
 Let us think of them that sleep, 
 
 Full many a fathom deep, 
 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 
 Elsinore!^ 
 
 Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 
 
 Once so faithful and so true. 
 
 On the deck of fame that died, 
 
 With the gallant good Riou,^ 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls. 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 70 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave! 
 
 2 A Danish sea-port town about twenty miles from 
 
 ^3'captiin 'Rwu, who distinguished himself in an im- 
 portant part of the engagement. 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 43 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 10 
 
 13 
 
 20 
 
 2£ 
 
 SONG 
 "men op England" 
 
 Men of England! who inherit 
 
 Rights that cost your sires their blood. 
 Men whose undegenerate spirit 
 
 Has been proved on land and flood: 
 
 By the foes ye've fought uncounted, 
 By the glorious deeds ye've done. 
 
 Trophies captured — breaches mounted, 
 Navies conquered — kingdoms won! 
 
 Yet, remember, England gathers 
 Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 
 
 If the patriotism of your fathers 
 Glow not in your hearts the same. 
 
 What are monuments of bravery, 
 Where no public virtues bloom? 
 
 What avail in lands of slavery, 
 Trophied temples, arch and tomb? 
 
 Pageants! — Let the world revere us 
 For our people's rights and laws. 
 And the breasts of civic heroes 
 Bared in Freedom's holy cause. 
 
 Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, 
 Sydney's matchless fame is yours, — 
 
 Martyrs in heroic story, 
 Worth a hundred Agincourts! 
 
 We're the sons of sires that baffled 
 
 Crowned and mitred tyranny: 
 They defied the field and scaffold 
 
 For their birthrights— so will we! 
 
 SONG 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee. 
 And sett'st the weary labourer free! 
 If any star shed peace, 'tis thou. 
 
 That send'st it from above. 
 Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow, { 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love. 
 
 Come to the luxuriant skies, 
 W^hilst the landscape's odours rise, 
 Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard. 
 
 And songs, when toil is done, 1< 
 
 From cottages whose smoke unstirred 
 
 Curls yellow in the sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews. 
 
 Parted lovers on thee muse; 
 
 Their remembrancer in Heaven 1* 
 
 Of thrilling vows thou art. 
 Too delicious to be riven 
 
 By absence from the heart. 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 
 
 (1804) 
 
 A Chief tan to the Highlands bound, 
 Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! 
 
 And I'll give thee a silver pound. 
 To row us o'er the ferry." — 
 
506 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 5 
 
 This dark and stormy water?" 
 "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
 
 And this Lord Ullin's daughter,— 
 
 "And fast before her father's men 
 
 Three days we've fled together, 10 
 
 For should he find us in the glen. 
 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 "His horsemen hard behind us ride; 
 
 Should they our steps discover. 
 Then who will cheer my bonnie bride 15 
 
 When they have slain her lover?" — 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 
 "I'll go, my chief — I'm ready: — 
 It is not for your silver bright; 
 
 But for your winsome lady: 20 
 
 "And by my word! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry: 
 So though the waves are raging white, 
 
 I'll row you o'er the ferry." — 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace, 25 
 
 The water-wraith was shrieking; 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind, 
 
 And as the night grew drearer, 30 
 
 Adown the glen rode armM men, 
 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 "Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, 
 "Though tempests round us gather; 
 
 I'll meet the raging of the skies, 33 
 
 But not an angry father." — 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her, — ■ 
 When, oh! too strong for human hand, 
 
 The tempest gathered o'er her. — 40 
 
 And still they rowed amidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing; 
 Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore. 
 
 His wrath was changed to wailing. — 
 
 For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 45 
 
 His child he did discover: — 
 One lovely hand she stretched for aid. 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, 
 "Across this stormy water: 60 
 
 And I'll forgive your Highland chief. 
 My daughter! — oh, my daughter!" — 
 
 Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore. 
 
 Return or aid preventing: — 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 65 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 1779-1852 
 
 AS SLOW OUR SHIP 
 (From Irish Melodies, 1807-1834) 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 
 
 Against the wind was cleaving, 
 Her trembling pennant still look'd back 
 
 To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
 So loath we part from all we love, 5 
 
 From all the links that bind us; 
 So turn our hearts, where'er we rove. 
 
 To those we've left behind us! 
 
 When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 
 
 We talk, with joyous seeming, lo 
 
 And smiles that might as well be tears, 
 
 So faint, so sad their beaming; 
 While mem'ry brings us back again 
 
 Each early tie that twin'd us. 
 Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then 15 
 
 To those we've left behind us! 
 
 And, when in other climes we meet 
 
 Some isle or vale enchanting. 
 Where all looks flow'ry, mild and sweet, 
 
 And nought but love is wanting; 20 
 
 We think how great had been our bliss, 
 
 If Heav'n had but assign'd us 
 To live and die in scenes like this, 
 
 With some we've left behind us! 
 
 As trav'Uers oft look back at eve, 
 
 When eastward darkly going. 
 To gaze upon the light they leave 
 
 Still faint behind them glowing— 
 So, when the close of pleasure's day 
 
 To gloom hath near consign'd us, 
 We turn to catch one fading ray 
 
 Of joy that's left behind us. 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
 TARA'S HALLSi 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 The harp that once, through Tara's Halls 
 
 The soul of music shed, 
 Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls. 
 
 As if that soul were fled: — 
 So sleeps the pride of former days, 5 
 
 So glory's thrill is o'er; 
 And hearts, that once beat high for praise. 
 
 Now feel that pulse no more! 
 
 No more to chiefs and ladies bright 
 
 The harp of Tara swells; 
 The chord, 2 alone, that breaks at night. 
 
 Its tale of ruin tells: — 
 Thus freedom now so seldom wakes. 
 
 The only throb she gives 
 Is when some heart indignant breaks. 
 
 To show that still she lives! 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 » The palace of the ancient kings of Ireland, which is 
 said to have stood on the Hill of Tara, in County Meath, 
 Ireland. »Cord, string. 
 
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER 
 
 507 
 
 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND 
 
 (From the same) 
 She is far from the land where her young Hero 
 
 And lovers are round her, sighing; 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 For her heart in his grave is lying! 
 
 She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
 Every note which he lov'd awaking ; — 6 
 
 Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
 How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking! 
 
 He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, 
 They were all that to life had entwin'd him,io 
 
 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him! 
 
 Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest. 
 When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
 
 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from 
 the West, 15 
 
 From her own loved island of sorrow! 
 
 OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT 
 
 (1816) 
 
 Oft, in the stillv night. 
 
 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond Mem'ry brings the light 
 Of other days around me; 
 
 The smiles, the tears, 5 
 
 Of boyhood's years. 
 The words of love then spoken; 
 The eyes that shone. 
 Now dimm'd and gone. 
 The cheerful hearts now broken! lo 
 
 Thus, in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
 Sad Mem'ry brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 15 
 
 The friends, so link'd together, 
 I've seen around me fall. 
 Like leaves in wintry weather; 
 I feel like one 
 
 Who treads alone 20 
 
 Some banquet-hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled. 
 Whose garland's dead. 
 And all but he departed! 
 Thus, in the stilly night, 25 
 
 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
 Sad Mem'ry brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 €htnt'^tx Clliott 
 
 1781-1849 
 A POET'S EPITAPH 
 
 Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies. 
 
 The Poet of the Poor. 
 His books were rivers, woods, and skies. 
 
 The meadow, and the moor; 
 
 His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, 5 
 
 The tyrant and the slave. 
 The street, the factory, the jail, 
 
 The palace — and the grave! 
 The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm. 
 
 He feared to scorn or hate; lo 
 
 And honoured in a peasant's form 
 
 The equal of the great. 
 But if he loved the rich who make 
 
 The poor man's little more, 
 111 could he praise the rich who take 15 
 
 From plundered labour's store. 
 A hand to do, a head to plan, 
 
 A heart to feel and dare — 
 Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 
 
 Who drew them as they are. 20 
 
 lames? ^tnt^ ileigl^ J^unt 
 
 1784-1859 
 
 TO 
 
 THE 
 
 THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
 CRICKET 1 (1816) 
 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass. 
 Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
 Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon^ 
 When even the bees lag at the summonmg 
 
 brass: ^ 
 And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 5 
 With those who think the candles come too 
 
 soon, 
 Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 
 Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; 
 Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. 
 One to the fields, the other to the hearth, lO 
 Both have your sunshine; both, though small, 
 
 are strong 
 At your clear hearts; and both seem giv'n to 
 
 earth 
 To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — 
 In doors and out, summer and winter. Mirth. 
 
 115r^an Waller ^Procter 
 
 (Barry Cornwall) 
 
 ^ 1787-1874 
 
 A PETITION TO TIME (1850) 
 Touch us gently. Time! 
 
 Let us glide adown thy stream 
 Gently, — as we sometimes glide 
 
 Through a quiet dream! 
 Humble voyagers are We, S 
 
 Husband, wife, and children three — 
 (One is lost, — an angel, fled 
 To the azure overhead!) 
 
 Touch us gently. Time! 
 
 We've not proud nor soaring wings: 10 
 Our ambition, our content 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 Humble voyagers are We, 
 O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, 
 Seeking only some calm clime: — 15 
 
 Touch us gently, gentle Time! 
 
 1 Cf. Keats' sonnet and n., p. 529. 
 
 2 This refers to an old custom of beating on pans, at 
 the time of the swarming of the bees, which was thought 
 to pi event their leaving the premises. 
 
508 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 THE SEA 
 
 The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! 
 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free! 
 
 Without a mark, without a bound, 
 
 It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; 
 
 It plays wi th the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; 5 
 
 Or Uke a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea! 
 
 I am where I would ever be; 
 
 With the blue above, and the blue below, 
 
 And silence wheresoe'er I go; 10 
 
 If a storm should come and awake the deep, 
 
 What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 
 
 I love (oh! how I love) to ride 
 
 On the fierce foaming bursting tide, 
 
 When every mad wave drowns the moon, 15 
 
 Or whistles aloft his tempest tune. 
 
 And tolls how goeth the world below. 
 
 And why the south-west blasts do blow. 
 
 I never was on the dull tame shore, 
 
 But I lov'd the great Sea more and more, 20 
 
 And backwards flew to her billowy breast. 
 
 Like a bu-d that seeketh its mother's nest; 
 
 And a mother she was, and is to me; 
 
 For I was bom on the open Sea! 
 
 The waves were white, and red the mom, 25 
 
 In the noisy hour when I was born; 
 
 And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled. 
 
 And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; 
 
 And never was heard such an outcry wild 
 
 As welcomed to hfe the Ocean-child! 30 
 
 I've hved since then in calm and strife, 
 Full fifty summers a sailor's life. 
 With wealth to spend and a power to range. 
 But never have sought, nor sighed for change; 
 And Death, whenever he come to me, 35 
 
 Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea! 
 
 George Portion 115^ron 
 
 1788-1824 
 
 HE WHO HATH BENT HIM O'ER THE 
 DEAD 
 
 (From The Giaour, 1813) 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 
 
 Ere the first day of death is fled. 
 
 The first dark day of nothingness, 70 
 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 
 (Before decay's effacing fingers 
 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), 
 
 And mark'd the mild angelic air. 
 
 The rapture of repose that's there, 75 
 
 The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 
 
 The languor of the placid cheek. 
 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow, 80 
 
 Where cold obstruction's apathy 
 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
 
 As if to him it could impart 
 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; 
 
 Yes, but for these, and these alone, 8S 
 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour 
 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power; 
 
 So fair, so cakn, so softly seal'd, 
 
 The first, last look by death reveal'd! 
 
 Such is the aspect of this shore; 90 
 
 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! 
 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 
 Hers is the loveliness in death. 
 
 That parts not quite with parting breath; 95 
 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom. 
 
 That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
 
 The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 100 
 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly 
 
 birth. 
 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished 
 earth! 
 
 Clime of the unforgotten brave! 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 Was freedom's home, or glory's grave! 105 
 
 Shrine of the mighty! can it be, 
 That this is all remains of thee? 
 Approach, thou craven crouching slave 
 
 Say, is not this Thermopylas? 
 These waters blue that round you lave, lio 
 
 Oh servile offspring of the free — 
 Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 
 The gulf, the rock of Salamis! 
 These scenes, their story not unknown, 
 Arise, and make again your own; 115 
 
 Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
 The embers of their former fires; 
 And he who in the strife expires 
 Will add to theirs a name of fear 
 That tyranny shall quake to hear, 120 
 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame 
 They too will rather die than shame: 
 For freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 
 Though baffled oft, is ever won. 125 
 
 Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
 Attest it many a deathless age! 
 While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
 Have left a nameless pyramid. 
 Thy heroes, though the general doom 130 
 
 Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
 A mightier monument command. 
 The mountains of their native land! 
 There points thy muse to stranger's eye 
 The graves of those that cannot die! 135 
 
 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace. 
 Each step from splendour to disgrace; 
 Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
 Thy soul, till from itself it fell; 
 Yes! self-abasement paved the way 14 • 
 
 To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 
 
 What can he tell who treads thy shore? 
 
 No legend of thine olden time, 
 No theme on which the muse might soar 
 High as thine own in days of yore, 145 , 
 
 When man was worthy of thy clime. \ v' 
 
GEORGE GORDON BYRON 
 
 509 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB^ 
 
 (From Hebrew Melodies, 1815) 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the 
 
 fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 
 
 gold; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on 
 
 the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 
 
 Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when summer is 
 
 That host with their banners at sunset were 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 
 
 blown. 
 That host on the morrow lay withered and 
 
 strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the 
 
 blast, 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he 
 
 passed; lo 
 
 And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and 
 
 chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever 
 
 grew still! 
 
 And there lay the steed wit^ his nostril all 
 
 wide, 
 But through it there rolled not the breath of his 
 
 pride: 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 
 
 turf, 15 
 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his 
 
 mail; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
 The lances uplifted, the trumpet unblown. 20 
 
 And the widows of Ashur^ are loud in their 
 
 wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 
 
 sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 
 
 OHI SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
 BLOOM 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 5 
 
 ^Sennacherib, King of Assyria (705-681 B. C). was 
 defeated in an expedition against Phoenicia and Palestine, 
 and was compelled to abandon the siege of Jerusalem. 
 See // Chron. xxxii. 
 
 2 Widows of Ashuj= Assyria. 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
 
 And lingering pause and lightly tread; 
 
 Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the 
 dead! 10 
 
 ni 
 Away! we know that tears are vain. 
 
 That death nor heeds nor hears distress. 
 Will this unteach us to complain? 
 
 Or make one mourner weep the less? 
 And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 15 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 (1815) 
 
 "O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros* 
 Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater 
 Felix! in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 
 
 — Gray's Poetnata, 
 I 
 There's not a joy the world can give like that it 
 
 takes away. 
 When the glow of early thought declines in 
 
 feeling's dull decay; 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush 
 
 alone, which fades so fast, 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, e'er 
 youth itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the 
 
 wreck of happiness 5 
 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of 
 
 excess: 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only 
 
 points in vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall 
 
 never stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 
 
 itself comes down; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not 
 
 dream its own; 10 
 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of 
 
 our tears, 
 And though the eye may sparkle stiU, 'tis where 
 
 the ice appears. 
 
 IV 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and 
 
 mirth distract the breast, 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more 
 
 their former hope of rest; 
 'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret 
 
 wreath, 15 
 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn 
 
 and gray beneath. 
 
 1 "O fount of tears, sprung from the tender heart of 
 those who inspire the holy! Thrice blessed is he who 
 feels thee, sacred Nymph, gush from his inmost being." 
 
510 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I 
 
 have been, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a 
 
 vanish'd scene: 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all 
 
 brackish though they be. 
 So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears 
 
 would flow to me. * 20 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 
 (From the same) 
 
 I 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less, 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
 
 Which waves in every raven tress. 
 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face; 10 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. 
 
 ni 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 15 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent! 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON 
 
 (Introduction to The Prisoner of ChiUon) 
 
 (1816) 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 
 
 Brightest in dungeons. Liberty! thou art, 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd— 5 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 
 
 gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyr- 
 dom. 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every 
 wind. 
 ChiUon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, lo 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 By Bonnivard!^ — May none those marks 
 
 efface! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 iBonnivard was the "Prisoner of ChiUon," the chief 
 figure in Byron's poem of that title. A man of repubUcan 
 views and of high character, he was imprisoned in the 
 castle of Chillon about 1530, and remained there for six 
 years. 
 
 CHILDEi HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 (1816) 
 
 Canto III 
 
 m 
 
 In my youth's summer^ I did sing of One, Qi, 
 The wandering outlaw of his own dark 
 
 mind,"^ 2(1 
 
 Again I seize the theme, then but begun, 9^^ 
 And bear it with me, as the rushing wind^^ a 
 Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find^ 
 The furrows of long thought, and dried-up 
 
 tears,^ ^ , 
 
 Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,"^ 
 O'er which all heavily the journeying years 26 1^ 
 Plod the last sands of life, — ^where not a flower 
 
 appears. 
 
 •(y 
 
 vni 
 
 Something too much of this: — ^but now 'tis 
 
 past. 
 And the spell closes with its silent seal. 65 
 Long absent Harold re-appears at last; 
 He of the breast which fain no more would 
 
 feel, 
 Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but 
 
 ne'er heal; 
 
 Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him 
 
 In soul and aspect as in age: years steal 70 
 
 Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; 
 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near 
 
 the brim. 
 
 IX 
 
 His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he 
 
 found 
 The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd 
 
 again. 
 And from a purer fount, on hoher ground, 75 
 And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in 
 
 vain! 
 Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
 Which gall'd forever, fettering though un- 
 seen. 
 And heavy though it clank'd not; worn 
 
 with pain. 
 Which pined although it spoke not, and 
 
 grew keen. 
 Entering with every step he took through 
 
 many a scene. ... 81 
 
 XII 
 
 But soon he knew himself the most unfit loo 
 Of men to herd with Man; with whom he 
 
 held 
 Little in common; untaught to submit 
 His thoughts to others, though his soul was 
 
 quell'd 
 In youth by his own thoughts; still uncom- 
 
 pell'd, 
 
 1 Childe (the heir, of a noble house) is a title made 
 familiar by the Old Ballads like Childe Waters, Childe 
 Roland. 
 
 2 The first two cantos appeared in 1812, or about four 
 years previously. 
 
GEORGE GORDON BYRON 
 
 511 
 
 He would not yield dominion of his mind 105 
 To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; 
 Proud though in desolation; which could find 
 Al life within itself, to breathe without man- 
 kind. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Where rose the mountains, there to him 
 
 were friends; 
 Where roU'd the ocean, thereon was his 
 home; no 
 
 Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, ex- 
 tends, 
 He had the passion and the power to roam; 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
 Were unto him companionship; they spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the tome 115 
 Of his land's tongue, which he would oft for- 
 sake 
 For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the 
 lake. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars. 
 Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
 As their own beams; and earth, and earth- 
 born jars, 
 And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 121 
 Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
 He had been happy; but this clay will sink 
 Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the linki25 
 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos 
 us to its brink. 
 
 XV 
 
 But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
 Restless and worn, and stern and weari- 
 some, 
 Droop'd as a wild-bom falcon with dipt 
 
 wing, 
 To whom the boundless air alone were 
 home: 130 
 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
 As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
 Of his impeded soul would through his bosom 
 eat. 135 
 
 XVI 
 
 Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
 J- With naught of hope left, but with less of 
 
 gloom; 
 The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
 That all was over on this side the tomb, 
 Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 140 
 Which, though 'twere wild, — as on the 
 
 plunder'd wreck 
 When mariners would madly meet their 
 
 doom 
 With draughts intemperate on the sinking 
 
 deck, — 
 Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to 
 
 check. ... 144 
 
 XVIII 
 
 And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo; 155 
 How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! 
 In ''pride of place "^ here last the eagle flew, 
 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain. 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations 
 through; leo 
 
 Ambition's life and labours all were vain* 
 He wears the shatter'd links of the world's 
 broken chain. ... 
 
 XXI 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night,* 181 
 And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave 
 
 men; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 185 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake 
 
 again. 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell;. 
 But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a 
 
 rising knell! 
 
 XXII 
 
 Did ye not hear it? — No; *twas but the 
 
 wind, 190 
 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
 On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure 
 
 meet 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying 
 
 feet — 
 But, Hark! — that heavy sound breaks in 
 
 once more 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 196 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
 Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening 
 
 roar! 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ;° he did 
 
 hear 200 
 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic 
 
 ear; 
 And when they smiled because he deem'd it 
 
 near. 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too 
 
 well 
 Which stretched his father on a bloody 
 
 bier, 205 
 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could 
 
 quell: 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting 
 
 feU. 
 
 •A term in falconry, applied to certain hawks that 
 soar to a place high in the air, and from thence swoop 
 upon their prey. V. Macb. II. iv. 
 
 * This stanza refers to a ball ^ven by the Duchess of 
 Richmond, at Brussels, on the night before the battle of 
 Waterloo. The boom of cannon rang through the city, 
 and the festivity was broken up by a rush to arms. 
 
 * Duke Frederick William of Brunswick, who lost his 
 life fighting at Quatre Bras, 1815. 
 
512 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis- 
 tress, 
 And cheeks all pale^ which but an hour ago 210 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as 
 
 press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking 
 sishs 
 
 Which ne'er might be repeated; who could 
 
 guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual 
 
 eyes, 215 
 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful mom 
 
 could rise? 
 
 XXV 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste: the 
 
 SuGGClj 
 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering 
 
 car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 220 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe I 
 They come! they come!" 225 
 
 XXVI 
 
 And wild and high the "Cameron's gather- 
 ing "« rose! 
 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's 
 hills^ 
 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon 
 foes: — 
 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch 
 thrills, 229 
 
 Savage and shrill! But with the breath 
 which fills 
 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the moun- 
 taineers 
 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 And Evan's,^ Donald's fame rings in each clans- 
 man's ears! 
 
 xxvn 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green 
 leaves. 
 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 237 
 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 
 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall 
 grow 240 
 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe 
 A.nd burning with high hope, shall moulder 
 cold and low. 
 
 « The tune played on the bagpipes to marshal the clan 
 of Cameron. At Waterloo the Gordon Highlanders were 
 commanded by Colonel Cameron, a descendant of the 
 famous Highland Camerons of Lochiel. 
 
 7 The Scotch Highlands. 
 
 8 Sir Evan Cameron and his son Donald, famous an- 
 cestors of Colonel Cameron, who fought against England. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 246 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of 
 
 strife, 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when 
 
 rent 
 The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,250 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and 
 
 pent, 
 Rider and horse, — ^friend, foe, — in one red 
 
 burial blent! . . , 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, 797 
 With the wild world I dwell in, is a thing 
 WTiich warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 800 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction; once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. 
 That I with stern deHghts should e'er have 
 been so moved. 805 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet 
 
 clear, 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights 
 
 appear 
 Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 8 10 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the 
 
 shore. 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the 
 
 ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol 
 
 more; 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 815 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life an infancy,' and sings hisvfill; 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill. 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 820 
 AU silently their tears of love instil. 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her 
 hues. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! 
 If in your bright leaves we would read the 
 
 fate 825 
 
 Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
 That in our aspirations to be great, 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state. 
 And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 830 
 
 In us such love and reverence from afar, 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named 
 
 themselves a star. \ ■ 
 
GEORGE GORDON BYRON 
 
 513 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 All heaven and earth are still — though not in 
 
 sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when feeling 
 
 most; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too 
 
 deep: — 835 
 
 All heaven and earth are still: From the high 
 
 host 
 Of stars, to the luU'd lake and moimtain- 
 
 coast, 
 All is concentr'd in a life intense, 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 840 
 
 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 
 
 xc 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we are least alone; 
 A truth, which through our being then doth 
 
 melt 
 And purifies from self: it is a tone, 845 
 
 The soul and source of music, which makes 
 
 known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's* zone, 
 Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould 
 
 disarm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to 
 
 harm. 850 
 
 xci 
 Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 His altar the high places and the peak 
 Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
 A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
 The spirit, in whose honour shrines are 
 
 weak, 855 
 
 Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and com- 
 pare 
 Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek. 
 With Nature's realms of worship, earth and 
 
 air. 
 Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy 
 
 pray'r! 
 
 XCII 
 
 The sky is changed! — and such a change — 
 
 Oh night, 860 
 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 
 
 strong. 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
 Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
 Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone 
 
 cloud, 865 
 
 But every mountain now hath found a 
 
 tongue, 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 
 
 XCIII 
 
 And this is in the night:— Most glorious 
 
 night! 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 870 
 
 » Venus. 
 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
 And now again 'tis black, — and now, the 
 glee 875 
 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain- 
 mirth. 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a yoimg earth- 
 quake's birth. 
 
 xciv 
 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 
 between 
 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have 
 parted 
 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
 
 That they can meet no more, though broken- 
 hearted! 881 
 
 Though in their souls, which thus each other 
 thwarted: 
 
 Love was the very root of the fond rage 
 
 Which bhghted their life's bloom, and then 
 departed: 
 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an age 885 
 Of years all winters, — war within themselves to 
 wage. 
 
 xcv 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft 
 
 his way. 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his 
 
 stand: 
 For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
 And fling their thunderbolts from hand to 
 
 hand, 890 
 
 Flashing and cast around: of all the band. 
 The brightest through these parted hills 
 
 hath fork'd 
 His lightnings, — as if he did understand. 
 That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
 There the hot shaft should blast whatever 
 
 therein lurk'd. 895 
 
 XCVI 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, light- 
 nings! Ye! 
 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a 
 soul 
 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 
 Things that have made me watchful; the far 
 roll 
 
 Of your departing voices, is the knoU 900 
 
 Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
 
 But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? 
 
 Are ye like those within the human breast? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 
 nest? 
 
 XCVII 
 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 905 
 
 That which is most within me, — could I 
 
 wreak 
 My thoughts upon expression, and thus 
 
 throw 
 Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or 
 
 weak. 
 
514 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one 
 
 word, ^ 910 
 
 And that one word were Lightning, I would 
 
 speak; 
 But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a 
 
 sword. . . . 
 
 Canto IV 
 (1818) 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 694 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee. 
 Lone mother of dead empires! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferance? Come 
 
 and see 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your 
 
 way 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, 
 
 Ye! 700 
 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 The Niobe^" of nations! there she stands, 
 Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe, 
 An empty urn within her wither'd hands, 705 
 Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; 
 The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now; 
 The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow. 
 Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 7io 
 Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her 
 distress. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, 
 
 and Fire, 
 Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride; 
 She saw her glories star by star expire, 
 And up the steep, barbarian monarchs ride, 
 Where the car climb'd the Capitol; far and 
 
 wide 716 
 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a 
 
 site: — 
 Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void. 
 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light. 
 And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly 
 
 night? 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 The double night of ages, and of her, 721 
 Night's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapt 
 
 and wrap 
 All round us; we but feel our way to err: 
 The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map. 
 And knowledge spreads them on her ample 
 
 lap; 725 
 
 But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
 
 Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap 
 
 Our hands, and cry " Eureka! " it is clear — 
 
 WTiere but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 
 
 " The wife of Amphion. king of Thebes. She had six 
 sons and six daughters, all of whom were slain through 
 the jealcusy of Lairona. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 Alas! the lofty city! and alas! 730 
 
 The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day 
 When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
 The conqueror's sword in bearing fame 
 
 away! 
 Alas, for Tully's^^ voice, and Virgil's lay, 
 And Livy's pictured page! — ^but these shall 
 
 be 735 
 
 Her resurrection; all beside — decay. 
 Alas for earth, for never shall we see 
 That brightness in her eye she bore when 
 
 Rome was free. . . . 
 
 CLXXV 
 
 But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
 And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done; 
 Yet once more let us look upon the sea; 1570 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
 And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
 Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when 
 
 we 
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
 Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark 
 
 Euxine roU'd 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 Upon the blue Symplegades: long years — 
 Long, though not very many, since have 
 
 done 1577 
 
 Their work on both; some suffering and some 
 
 tears 
 Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
 We have had our reward — and it is^ here ; 1581 
 That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as 
 
 dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is 
 
 clear. 
 
 CLXXVII 
 
 Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one fair Spirit for my minister, 1586 
 That I might all forget the human race, 
 And, hating no one, love but only her! 
 Ye Elements! — in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 1590 
 
 Accord me such a being? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be 
 our lot. 
 
 CLXXVIII 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 1595 
 There is society, where none intrudes. 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 1600 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con- 
 ceal. 
 
 "Ciceto. 
 
GEORGE GORDON BYRON 
 
 515 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — 
 
 roll!i2 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his con- 
 trol 1605 
 Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 
 groan, 1610 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and 
 unknown. 
 
 CLXXX 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee; the vile strength 
 
 he wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 
 
 spray 1617 
 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 
 And dashest him again to earth: — ^there let him 
 
 lay. 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the 
 
 walls 1621 
 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 1625 
 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which 
 
 mar 
 
 Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 CLXXXII 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 
 
 thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 
 
 they? 
 Thy waters wasted them while they were 
 
 free, 1632 
 
 And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou, 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 
 
 brow— 1637 
 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest 
 
 "These lines suggest the following passage from 
 Lucretius: 
 
 "So when wild tempests over ocean sweep 
 Leaders, and legions, and the pomp of war; 
 Their fleet a plaything in the hands of storms, 
 How come the proud commanders then with prayers 
 And votive gifts, imploring peace from gods! 
 In vain: since not the less for prayers they oft ^^ 
 In whirlwinds seized are borne to shades of death, etc. 
 (£>6 Rerum Natura, Bk. V. 1221. Good's trans.) 
 
 CLXXXIII 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 
 
 form 
 Glasses itself in tempests; in all time 1640 
 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or 
 
 storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sub- 
 lime — • 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 1645 
 The monsters of the deep are made; each 
 zone 
 Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
 alone. 
 
 CLXXXIV 
 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 1652 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. 
 For I was as it were a child of thee. 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near 1655 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do 
 here. . . . 
 
 THE COLISEUM AT NIGHT 
 
 (From Manfred, Act III. iv, 1817) 
 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 261 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 265 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
 I learn'd the language of another world. 
 I do remember me, that in my youth. 
 When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 270 
 
 Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome: 
 The trees which grew along the broken arches 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the star 
 Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and 275 
 More near from out the Caesars' palace came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses beyond the time worn breach 
 AppearM to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 281 
 Within a bowshot— Where the Caesars dwelt, 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 A grove which springs through levell'd battle- 
 ments. 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 286 
 But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection! 
 While Caesars' chambers and the Augustan 
 
 halls, 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay, — 290 
 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
 
516 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugg'd desolation, and fill'd up, 
 As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries, 295 
 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old! — 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still 
 rule 300 
 
 Our spirits from their urns. — 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Canto III 
 
 (1821) 
 
 The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — 690 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 
 Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse, 695 
 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse; 
 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 Than your sires' "Islands of the Bless'd." 700 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 
 And Marathon looks on the sea; 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be free, 
 For, standing on the Persians' grave, 706 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
 
 And men in nations; — all were his! 710 
 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 
 And when the sun set, where were they? 
 
 And where are they? and where art thou, 
 My country? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 715 
 
 The heroic bosom beats no more! 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 
 
 For what is left the poet here? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 What, silent still? and silent all? 
 
 Ah! no; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 
 
 And answer, "Let one living head. 
 But one arise, — we come, we come!'' 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 735 
 
 720 
 
 In vain—in vain: strike other chords; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 740 
 Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold bacchanal! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 745 
 
 The nobler and the manlier one? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — ■ 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these. 750 
 It made Anacreon's song divine: 
 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 A tyrant; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tjTant or the Chersonese 755 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend. 
 
 That tyrant was Miltiades! 
 
 Oh! that the present hour would lend 
 
 Another>despot of the kind! 
 
 Such claims as his were sure to bind. 760 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 765 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 They have a king who buys and sells. 
 
 In native swords, and native ranks, 
 
 The only hope of courage dwells; 770 
 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 775 
 
 But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd? 725 
 Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
 
 Earth! render back from out thy breast 
 A remnant of thy Spartan dead! 
 
 Of the three hundred grant but three. 
 
 To make a new Thermopylae. 730 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! . . 
 
 780 
 
GEORGE GORDON BYRON 
 
 517 
 
 xc 
 And glory long has made the sages smile; 
 'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, 
 wind — 810 
 
 Depending more upon the historian's style 
 
 Than on the name a person leaves behind: 
 Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle: 
 
 The present centmy was growing blind 
 To the great Marlborough's skill in giving 
 knocks 815 
 
 Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 
 
 xci 
 
 Milton's the prince of poets — so we say; 
 
 A little heavy, but no less divine: 
 An independent being in his day — 
 
 Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; 
 But his life falling into Johnson's way, 821 
 
 We're told this great high-priest of all the 
 Nine 
 Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd 
 
 spouse, 
 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 
 
 XCII 
 
 All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 825 
 Like Shakespeare's stealing deer, Lord 
 Bacon's bribes; 
 
 Like Titus' youth, and Csesar's earliest acts; 
 Like Burns (whom Dr. Currie well describes) 
 
 Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although truth 
 exacts 
 These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
 
 As most essential to their hero's story, 831 
 
 They do not much contribute to his glory. 
 
 XCIII 
 
 All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
 
 He prated to the world of "Pantisocracy;"* 
 
 Or Wordsworth unexcised,^ unhir'd, who then 
 Season'd his pedlar poems^ with democracy; 
 
 Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 837 
 Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; 
 
 When he and Southey, following the same path, 
 
 Espoused two partners* (milliners of Bath). 840 
 
 xciv 
 Such names at present cut a convict figure. 
 
 The very Botany Bay^ in moral geography; 
 Their loyal treason, renegado vigour. 
 
 Are good manure for their more bare biog- 
 raphy. 
 Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is 
 bigger 845 
 
 i Than any since the birthday of typography; 
 A clumsy, frowzy poem, call'd the "Excursion "*» 
 Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 
 
 1 The equal rule of all. Southey and Coleridge, when 
 young men, planned to found a Utopian society on the 
 banks of the Susquehanna. They called it Pantisocracy. 
 
 2 After ardently advocating Liberty, Equality, and 
 Fraternity, in his youth, Wordsworth in later life be- 
 came more conservative and even accepted a post under 
 the government. 
 
 3 An allusion to an early poem of Wordsworth's on 
 Peter Bell, a pedlar. 
 
 * The Misses Fricker of Bath. 
 
 6 The well known convict colony in New South Wales. 
 
 • Published in 1814. 
 
 XCV 
 He there builds up a formidable dyke 
 
 Between his own and others' intellect; 850 
 But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, 
 like 
 Joanna Southcote's Shiloh,^ and her sect, 
 Are things which in this century don't strike 
 
 The public mind, — so few are the elect; 
 And the new births of both their stale vir- 
 ginities 855 
 Have proved but dropsies taken for divini- 
 ties. . . . 
 
 CI 
 
 T' our tale. — ^The feast was over, the slaves 
 gone, 
 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retir'd; 
 The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
 
 And every sound of revelry expir'd; 900 
 
 The lady and her lover, left alone, 
 
 The rosy flood of twilight sky admir'd; — 
 Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea. 
 That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest 
 thee! 
 
 CII 
 
 Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! 905 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I so 
 oft 
 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant tower. 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 910 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
 
 And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with 
 prayer. . . . 
 
 cv 
 Sweet hour of twilight! — in the solitude 
 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 930 
 Which bounds Ravenna's^ immemorial wood. 
 Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd 
 o'er, 
 To where the last Csesarean fortress stood, 
 
 Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore' 
 And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to 
 me, 935 
 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! 
 
 cvi 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 
 
 Making their summer lives one ceaseless 
 
 song. 
 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and 
 
 mine, 
 
 And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs 
 
 along; 940 
 
 ^ Joanna Southcote was a visionary, bom in Devon 
 about 1750, who prophesied that she would give birth 
 to a second Shiloh, or Prince of Peace, on Oct. 19th, 1814. 
 Instead, she fell into a trance and died in the same year. 
 
 8 The celebrated pine forest called La Pineta, the most 
 venerable forest in Italy. 
 
 9 Boccaccio chose this forest for the scene of a ghastly 
 story. Nostalgia degli Oiiesii, in which the mounted 
 spectre of a knight pursues with dogs the ghostly form 
 of a woman who in life repelled his love with scorn. 
 Dryden used the legend in his poem of Theodore and 
 Honoria» 
 
518 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SC01:T 
 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 
 
 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair 
 throng 
 Which learn'd from this example not to fly 
 From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. 
 
 CVII 
 
 Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things- 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 946 
 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer; 
 
 WTiate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 951 
 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's 
 breast. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the 
 heart 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn 
 apart; 955 
 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? 
 Ah! surely nothing dies but something 
 mourns! . . . 960 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field, 
 Glory and Greece around me see! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
 Was nor more free. 
 
 VII 
 
 Awake (not Greece — she is awake!) 25, 
 
 Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
 And then strike home! 
 
 Tread these reviving passions down. 
 
 Unworthy manhood! — unto thee 
 Indififerent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 30 
 
 IX 
 
 If thou regret'st thy youth, w}iy live: 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 Is here: — up to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
 And take thy rest. 40 
 
 ON 
 
 THIS DAY I COMPLETE 
 THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR 
 
 MY 
 
 MissoLONGHi, Jan. 22, 1824. 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it hath ceased to move! 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved. 
 Still let me love! 
 
 II 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone: 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone! 
 
 Ill 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
 A funeral pile! 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 
 And power of love I cannot share. 
 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 But 'tis not thiLs — and 'tis not here — 
 
 Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now, 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
 
 Or binds his brow. 20 
 
 1792-1822 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND 
 
 (1819) 
 I 
 
 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 
 
 being. 
 Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves 
 
 dead 
 Are driven, Uke ghosts from an enchanter 
 
 fleeing. 
 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
 Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou, 5 
 
 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
 
 The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. 
 Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
 Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 1 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
 With Hving hues and odours plain and hill: 
 
 Wild Spirit, which art moving every where; 
 Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear! 
 
 II 
 Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's 
 
 commotion, 15 
 
 Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are 
 
 shed. 
 Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and \ 
 
 Ocean, 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 519 
 
 Lngels of rain and lightning: there are spread 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 
 
 Of some fierce Maenad/ even from the dim 
 
 verge 
 Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
 The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 
 ' dirge 
 
 Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 
 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 
 Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
 Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, 
 hear! 
 
 m 
 
 Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
 The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 
 
 Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 
 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's^ bay. 
 And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
 Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
 
 All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35 
 So sweet the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 
 For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
 The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which 
 
 wear 
 The sapless fohage of the ocean know 40 
 
 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, 
 And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear! 
 
 IV 
 
 If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
 
 If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 
 
 The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
 Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even 
 I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
 
 The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
 As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 50 
 Scarce seemed a vision; I woula ne'er have 
 striven 
 
 ^s thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
 /Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! i 
 I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! |f 
 
 A heavy weight of hours has chained and 
 
 bowed 55 
 
 One too Uke thee: tameless, and swift, and 
 proud. 
 
 _ 1 A priestess of Bacchus, or Bacchante. Mcenad (de- 
 rived from a Greek verb meaning to rage) suggests the 
 frenzied enthusiasm of the worshippers at the Bacchic 
 festivals. 
 
 , 2 The modern Baja on the Bay of Naples; in classic 
 times it was a luxurious and beautiful resort, and the 
 ruins of some of its splendid buildings still remain. 
 
 Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own! 
 The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
 
 Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 60 
 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou. Spirit 
 
 fierce. 
 My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! — -"^ 
 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
 Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! 
 And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 
 
 Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
 Be through my lips to unawakened earth 
 
 The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, 
 
 If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 
 
 (1820) 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! 
 
 Bird thou never wert. 
 That from Heaven, or near it, 
 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest 
 Like a cloud of fire; 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest, 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
 
 singest. 10 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun. 
 O'er which clouds are bright'ning. 
 
 Thou dost float and run; 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 16 
 
 Melts around thy flight; 
 Like a star of heaven. 
 In the broad day-light 
 Thou art unseen, — ^but yet I hear thy shrill 
 dehght, 20 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere. 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white dawn clear 
 Until we harcQy see — we feel that it is there. 25 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when Night is bare. 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is 
 overflowed. 30 
 
 What thou art we know not; 
 
 What is most like thee? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to see 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 
 
 )/' 
 
620 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 Like a Poet hidden 36 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded 
 not: 40 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower, 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, — ^which overflows 
 her bower: 45 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass which screen it 
 from the view: 50 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflowered, 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy- 
 winged thieves: 55 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Rain-awakehed flowers. 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth sur- 
 pass. 60 
 
 Teach us. Sprite or Bird, 
 What sweet thoughts are thine; 
 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 Chorus Hymenaeal, 66 
 
 Or triumphal chaunt, 
 Matched with thine, would be all 
 But an empty vaunt, 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden 
 want. 70 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain? 
 What fields or waves or mountains? 
 What shajxis of sky or plain? 
 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of 
 pain? 75 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be; 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 Never came near thee; 
 Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad 
 satiety. 80 
 
 Waking or asleep 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 Than we mortals dream — 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal 
 stream? 85 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not; 
 fOur sincerest laughter 
 ^1^ With some pain is fraught; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
 thought. 90 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate and pride and fear; 
 If we were things born 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come 
 near. 95 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scomer of the 
 ground! 100 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know, 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips would flow, 
 The world should listen then — as I am listening 
 now. 105 
 
 THE CLOUD 
 
 (1820) 
 
 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 
 
 From the seas and the streams; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that 
 waken 5 
 
 The sweet buds every one. 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast. 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 10 
 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
 
 And their great pines groan aghast; 
 And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 15 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers. 
 
 Lightning my pilot sits; 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 
 
 It struggles and howls by fits; 20 
 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 
 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 
 
 The Spirit he loves remains; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smileu 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. s(y, 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 521 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread, 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
 
 When the morning star shines dead; 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
 beneath, 
 
 Its ardours of rest and of love, 40 
 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above. 
 With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbdd maiden, with white fire laden, 45 
 
 Whom mortals call the Moon, 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 
 
 Which only the angels hear, so 
 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
 roof, 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees, 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
 tent, 55 
 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes and seas. 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through- me on 
 high, 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 60 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
 swim, 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 
 
 Over a torrent sea. 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, — 65 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch, through which I march. 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
 When the powers of the air are chained to my 
 
 chair, 
 Is the million-coloured bow; 70 
 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, 
 
 While the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water, 
 
 And the nursling of the sky; 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
 shores; 75 
 
 — -I change, but I cannot die. — "^ 
 For after the rain, when with never a stain 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their con- 
 vex gleams, 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 80 
 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain, 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from 
 the tomb, 
 I arise and unbuild it again. —- — 
 
 OZYMANDIAS 
 
 (1817) 
 
 I met a traveller from an antique land 
 Who said. Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
 Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, 
 Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, 
 And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 5 
 Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
 Which yet survive, stamped on these hfeless 
 
 things, 
 The hand that mocked them and the heart 
 
 that fed; 
 And on the pedestal these words appear: 
 " My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: lo 
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" 
 Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
 The lone and level sands stretch far away. 
 
 ADONAISi 
 
 (1821) 
 
 I weep for Adonais — ^he is dead!^ 
 
 Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears'-^ 
 
 Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a 
 
 head!^ . 
 
 And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years '■Xa-^ 
 To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure com- 
 
 peers,-^^ 5 
 
 And teach them thine own sorrow; Say: 
 
 "'With me C . 
 Died Adonais; till the Future dares -^ 
 Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be t 
 An echo and a light unto eternity !"Q^ 
 
 Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he 
 lay, 10 
 
 When thy Son lay, pierced by the Shaft 
 which flies 
 
 In darkness? where was lorn Urania 
 
 When Adonais died? With veilM eyes, 
 , 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
 
 She sate, while one, with soft enamoured 
 breath, is 
 
 1 Keats, whose untimely loss to poetry is the theme 
 of Adonais, died in Rome. Feb. 23, 1821, in his twenty- 
 sixth year. Adonais was written in the following May 
 (p. Stanzas xvi and rviii.). While not a close friend 
 of Keats, Shelley had a sincere, increasing, but not an 
 unqualified admiration for his poetry; moreover, he held 
 the then prevalent, but unfounded, belief, that the young 
 poet's death was the result of his grief and disappoint- 
 ment over the harsh and unfair criticism he had received. 
 Hence, in writing Adonais, Shelley was influenced chiefly 
 by two feelings: regret that a poet of liigh promise should 
 have been " hooted from the stage of life," and passionate 
 indignation against the perpetrator of the wrong. Under 
 these circumstances, Shelley's elegy became a lament for 
 Keats the poet, rather than for Keats the man, and its 
 true theme is the loss that poetry (rather than Shelley 
 himself) has sustained. Beginning with this theme. 
 Shelley passes to general speculations on life, death, and 
 the hereafter. ^ , , . , , 
 
 Adonqis is modelled on two Greek elegies, that of 
 Bion on Adonis (translated by Mrs. Browning), and of 
 Moschus on Bion. 
 
522 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 Rekindled all the fading melodies, 
 With which, Uke flowers that mock the corse 
 beneath, 
 He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of 
 death. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Oh, weep for Adonais — ^he is dead! 
 
 Wake, melancholy Mother," wake and 
 weep! 20 
 
 Yet wherefore? Quench within their burn- 
 ing bed 
 
 Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep 
 
 Like his a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 
 
 For he is gone where all things wise and fair 
 
 Descend. Oh, dream not that the amorous 
 Deep 25 
 
 Will yet restore him to the vital air; 
 Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at 
 our despair. 
 
 rv 
 Most musical of mourners, weep again! 
 Lament anew, Urania! — He died,^ 
 Who was the sire of an immortal strain, 
 Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's 
 
 pride 31 
 
 The priest, the slave, and the liberticide 
 Trampled and mocked with many a loathed 
 
 rite 
 Of lust and blood; he went, un terrified. 
 Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite 
 Yet reigns o'er earth, the third* among the 
 
 sons of light. 36 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 
 
 Not all to that bright station dared to climb; 
 
 And happier they their happiness who knew. 
 
 Whose tapers yet bum through that night of 
 time 40 
 
 In which suns perished; others more sub- 
 lime. 
 
 Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, 
 
 Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; 
 
 And some yet Uve, treading the thorny road. 
 
 Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's 
 
 serene abode. 45 
 
 VI 
 
 But now, thy youngest, dearest one has 
 perished. 
 
 The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, 
 
 Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cher- 
 ished 
 
 And fed with true-love tears instead of dew; 
 
 2 Urania was the muse of astronomy. Urania means 
 "the heavenly one," and Shelley, like Milton and Tenny- 
 son (taking the word Urania in a spiritual and not in a 
 material sense), makes her the personification of the 
 Heavenly Power, the Mother of all holy and beautiful 
 things, and, hence, the inspirer, or Mother, of poets, 
 (r. Par. Lost. vii. 1-5, sup. p. 223 and In Memoriam, 
 xxxvii). 
 
 « Milton. 
 
 < If Shelley is speaking here of zpic poets only, the two 
 other poets of the trio are probably Homer and Oante. 
 In this case, Milton would be "the third," not necea- 
 sarily in greatness, but in chronological succession. 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 50 
 Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the 
 
 last, 
 The bloom, whose petals, nipt before they 
 
 blew, 
 Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; 
 The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. 
 
 To that high Capital,^ where kingly Death 
 Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 56 f 
 He came; and bought, with price of purest 
 
 breath, 
 A grave among the eternal. — Come away! 
 Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 
 Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 60 
 He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 
 Awake him not! surely he takes his fill 
 Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 
 
 VIII 
 
 He will awake no more, oh, never more! 
 Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 
 The shadow of white Death, and at the door 66 
 Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
 His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; 
 The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 
 Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 
 So fair a prey, till darkness and the law 71 
 Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal cur- 
 tain draw. 
 
 rx 
 Oh, weep for Adonais! — ^The quick Dreams, 
 The passion-winged ministers of thought. 
 Who were his flocks, whom near the living 
 
 streams 
 Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he 
 
 taught 76 
 
 The love which was its music, wander not, — 
 Wander no more, from kindling brain to 
 
 brain, 
 
 But droop there, whence they sprung; and 
 
 mourn their lot 
 Round the cold heart, where, after their 
 
 sweet pain, 80 
 
 They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home 
 
 again. 
 
 And one with trembling hands clasps his 
 
 cold head. 
 And fans him with her moonlight wings, and 
 
 cries, 
 "Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead; 
 See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, 85 
 Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 
 A tear some Dream has loosened from his 
 
 brain." 
 Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! 
 She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain 
 She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its 
 
 ram. # 
 
 s Rome, where Keats is buried. He thua has literally \ ^i 
 " a grave among the eternal." * ',.; 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 523 
 
 XI 
 
 One from a lucid urn of starry dew 91 
 
 Washed his Hght Hmbs as if embahning them; 
 Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw 
 The wreath upon him, like an anadem,^ 
 Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem; 
 Another in her wilful grief would break 96 
 Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
 A greater loss with one which was more 
 
 weak; 
 And dull the barbM fire against his frozen 
 
 cheek. 
 
 XII 
 
 Another Splendour on his mouth aht, lOO 
 That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the 
 
 breath 
 Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded 
 
 wit, 
 And pass into the panting heart beneath 
 With lightning and with music: the damp 
 
 death 
 Quenched its caress upon his icy lips; 105 
 And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
 Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night 
 
 clips. 
 It flushed through his pale limbs, and past to 
 
 its eclipse. 
 
 XIII 
 
 And others came . . . Desires and Adora- 
 tions, 
 Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, 
 Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering 
 Incarnations ,111 
 
 Of hopes and fears, and twiUght Fantasies; 
 And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
 And Pleasure, bhnd with tears, led by the 
 
 gleam 
 Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 115 
 Came in slow pomp; — the moving pomp 
 might seem 
 Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. 
 
 XIV 
 
 All he had loved, and molded into thought, 
 From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet 
 
 sound. 
 Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 120 
 Her eastern watch tower, and her hair un- 
 bound, 
 Wet with the tears which should adorn the 
 
 ground, 
 Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day; 
 Afar the melancholy thunder moaned. 
 Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, , 125 
 And the wild winds flew round, sobbing m their 
 dismay. 
 
 XV 
 
 Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, 
 And feeds her grief with his remembered lay. 
 And will no more reply to winds or foun- 
 tains, 
 Or amorous birds perched on the young green 
 spray, , ^^^ 
 
 Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; 
 
 8 Fillet, or garland, for the head. 
 
 Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 
 Than those for whose disdain she pined away 
 Into a shadow of all sounds: — a drear 
 Murmur, between their songs, is all the wood- 
 men hear. 133 
 
 XVI 
 
 Grief made the young Spring wild, and she 
 
 threw down 
 Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, 
 Or they dead leaves; since her delight is 
 
 flown, 
 For whom should she have waked the sullen 
 
 year? 
 To Phcebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 140 
 Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
 Thou, Adonais; wan they stand and sere 
 Amid the faint companions of their youth. 
 With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing 
 
 ruth. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale, 145 
 Mourns not her mate with such melodious 
 
 pain; 
 Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
 Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's 
 
 domain 
 Her mighty youth with morning, doth com- 
 plain, 
 Soaring and screaming round her empty 
 nest, 150 
 
 As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain 
 Light on his head^ who pierced thy innocent 
 breast, 
 And scared the angel soul that was its earthly 
 guest! 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 
 
 But grief returns with the revolving year; 
 
 The airs and streams renew their joyous 
 tone; 156 
 
 The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; 
 
 Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Sea- 
 sons' bier; 
 
 The amorous birds now pair in every brake. 
 
 And build their mossy homes in field and 
 brere;^ 160 
 
 And the green lizard and the golden snake, 
 Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance 
 awake. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Through wood and stream and field and hill 
 and Ocean, 
 
 A quickening life from the Earth's heart has 
 burst. 
 
 As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
 
 From the great morning of the world when 
 first 166 
 
 God dawned on Chaos; in its stream im- 
 mersed 
 
 7 i. e., on the head of the critic whose adverse review of 
 Keats' Endymion in the Quarterly was erroneously sup- 
 posed by Shelley to have caused the poet's death. 
 
 8 Briar. 
 
524 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer 
 
 light; 
 All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst, 
 Diffuse themselves, and spend in love's 
 
 delight, 170 
 
 The beauty and the joy of their renewed 
 
 might. 
 
 XX 
 
 The leprous corpse touched by this spirit 
 tender, 
 
 Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; 
 
 Like incarnations of the stars, when splen- 
 dour 
 
 Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death 
 
 And mock the merry worm that wakes be- 
 neath. 176 
 
 Nought we know dies. Shall that alone 
 which knows 
 
 Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
 
 By sightless lightning? — the intense atom 
 glows 
 A moment, then is quenched in a most cold 
 repose. 180 
 
 XXI 
 
 Alas! that all we loved of him should be, 
 But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
 And grief itseK be mortal! Woe is me! 
 Whence are we, and why are we? of what 
 
 scene 
 The actors or spectators? Great and mean 
 Meet massed in death, who lends what life 
 
 must borrow. 186 
 
 As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, 
 Evening must usher night, night urge the 
 
 morrow, 
 Month follow month with woe, and year wake 
 
 year to sorrow. 
 
 XXII 
 
 He will awake no more, oh, never more! 190 
 "Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless 
 
 Mother, rise 
 Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's 
 
 core, 
 A wound more fierce than his with tears and 
 
 sighs." 
 And all the Dreams that watched Urania's 
 
 eyes, 
 And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 
 Had held in holy silence, cried, "Arise! " 196 
 Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory 
 
 stung. 
 From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour 
 
 sprung. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 She rose like an autumnal night, that springs 
 Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 
 The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 20i 
 Even as a ghost abandoning a bier. 
 Had left the Earth a corpse, — sorrow and 
 
 fear 
 So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania; 
 So saddened round her like an atmosphere 
 Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way 206 
 Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Out of her secret Paradise she sped. 
 Through camps and cities rough with stone, 
 
 and steel, 
 And human hearts which, to her airy tread 
 Yielding not, wounded the invisible 2 1 1 
 
 Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell; 
 And barbed tongues, and thoughts more 
 
 sharp than they. 
 Rent the soft Form they never could repel, 
 Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of 
 
 May, 215 
 
 Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving 
 
 way. 
 
 XXV 
 
 In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
 Shamed by the presence of that living Might, 
 Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
 Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 220 \ 
 Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear 
 
 delight. 
 "Leave me not wild and drear and comfort- 
 less. 
 As silent lightning leaves the starless night! 
 Leave me not!" cried Urania; her distress 
 Roused Death; Death rose and smiled, and met 
 her vain caress. 225 
 
 XXVI 
 
 "Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again; 
 Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; 
 And in my heartless breast and burning brain 
 That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else 
 
 survive. 
 With food of saddest memory kept alive, 230 
 Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
 Of thee, my Adonais! I would give 
 All that I am to be as thou now art! 
 But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence 
 
 depart! 
 
 XXVII 
 
 " O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 235 
 Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of 
 
 men 
 Too soon, and with weak hands though 
 
 mighty heart 
 Dare the unpastured dragon^ in his den? 
 Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then 
 Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the 
 
 spear? 240 
 
 Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 
 Thy spirit should have filled its crescent 
 
 sphere. 
 The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee 
 
 like deer. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; 
 The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead; 
 The vultures, to the conqueror's banner 
 
 true, 246 
 
 Who feed where Desolation first has fed, 
 And whose wings rain contagion; — how they 
 
 fled, 
 
 • The brutal critic, ravening for prey like a beast in hif \ 
 den. Unpastured (Lat. impastus), unfed, hungry. , 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 525 
 
 When, like Apollo, from his golden bow 
 
 The Pythian of the age^° one arrow sped 250 
 
 And smiled! — The spoilers tempt no second 
 
 blow, 
 They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them 
 
 lying low. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 "The sun comes forth, and many reptiles 
 
 spawn; 
 He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
 Is gathered into death without a dawn, 255 
 And the immortal stars awake again; 
 So it is in the world of living men: 
 A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
 Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and 
 
 when 
 It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared 
 
 its light ^ 260 
 
 Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful 
 
 night." 
 
 It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 284 
 
 A breaking billow; — even whilst we speak 
 Is it not broken? On the withering jQower 
 The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek 
 The hfe can burn in blood, even while the heart 
 may break. 
 
 His head was bound with pansies overblown, 
 And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; 
 And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, 
 Round whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses 
 
 grew 292 
 
 Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew. 
 Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
 Shook the weak hand that grasped it: of that 
 
 crew 296 
 
 He came the last, neglected and apart; 
 A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's 
 
 dart. 
 
 Thus ceased she: and the mountain shep- 
 herds^^ came, 
 Their garlands sere, their magic mantles 
 
 rent; 
 The Pilgrim of Eternity, ^^ whose fame 
 Over his living head like Heaven is bent, 265 
 An early but enduring monument. 
 Game, veiling all the lightnings of his song 
 In sorrow; from her wilds lerne^^ sent 
 The sweetest lyrist^^ of her saddest wrong. 
 And love taught grief to fall like music from his 
 tongue. 270 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Midst others of less note, came one frail 
 
 Form,^^ 
 A phantom among men; companionless 
 As the last cloud of an expiring storm, 
 Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess. 
 Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 275 
 Acteon-like, and now he fled astray 
 With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness. 
 And his own thoughts, along that rugged way. 
 Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and 
 
 their prey. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 A pardlike" Spirit beautiful and swift — 280 
 A Love in desolation masked: — -a Power 
 Girt round with weakness; — it can scarce 
 
 uplift 
 The weight of the superincumbent hour; 
 
 10 Byron, who slew the wolves, ravens, and vultures of 
 the critical Reviews by a counter-attack in his English 
 Bards and Scotch Reviewers. He is here likened to Apollo 
 the Pythian, or the Python-slayer. 
 
 " Keats' brother-poets. Their songs are hushed "in 
 sorrow;" their laurel-wreaths are withered; their singing- 
 robes "rent" in token of grief. Shelley follows Lycidas, 
 and other accepted models, in making his elegy pastoral 
 in character. 
 
 12 Byron, the poet of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 
 
 13 Ireland. 
 
 "Thomas Moore. By Ireland's "saddest wrong" 
 Shelley is supposed to mean the suppression of the insur- 
 rection of 1803, and the execution of the Irish leader 
 Robert Emmet. Several songs of Moore, including O 
 Breathe not his Name, were inspired by Emmet's fate. 
 
 1* Shelley himself. 
 
 " Leopard-like. 
 
 All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
 Smiled through their tears; well knew that 
 
 gentle band 
 Who in another's fate now wept his own, 300 
 As in the accents of an unknown land 
 He sang new sorrow; sad Urania scanned 
 The Stranger's mien, and murmured: "Who 
 
 art thou!" 
 He answered not, but with a sudden hand 
 Made bare his branded and ensanguined 
 
 brow, 305 
 
 Which was like Gain's or Ghrist's — oh! that it 
 
 should be so! 
 
 XXXV 
 
 What softer voice is hushed over the dead?" 
 Athwart what brow is that dark mantle 
 
 thrown? 
 What form leans sadly o'er the white death- 
 bed, 
 In mockery of monumental stone, 310 
 
 The heavy heart heaving without a moan? 
 If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise. 
 Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the de- 
 parted one; 
 Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs 
 The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 315 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh. 
 
 What deaf and viperous murderer could 
 
 crown 
 Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? 
 The nameless worm would now itself disown ; 
 It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 320 
 Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong, 
 But what was howling in one breast alone. 
 Silent with expectation of the song. 
 Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre 
 
 unstrung. 
 
 " The last poet-mourftr is Leigh Hunt, the early 
 friend of Keats in London, and the head of the "Cockney- 
 school" of poetry with which Keats was at first asso- 
 ciated. 
 
526 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Live thou," whose infamy is not thy fame! 325 
 Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, 
 Thou noteless blot on a remembered name! 
 But be thyself, and know thyself to be! 
 And ever at thy season be thou free 
 To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow; 
 Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to 
 thee; 331 
 
 Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow. 
 And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 
 
 Far from these carrion kites that scream 
 
 below; 335 
 
 He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead; 
 Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. 
 Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow 
 Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 
 A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
 Through time and change, unquenchably the 
 
 same, 341 
 
 Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth 
 
 of shame. 
 
 Peace, peace! he is not dead,^* he doth not 
 
 sleep- 
 He hath awakened from the dream of life — 
 'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep 345 
 With phantoms an unprofitable strife. 
 And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's 
 
 knife 
 Invulnerable nothings. We decay 
 Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief 
 Convulse us and consume us day by day, 350 
 And cold hopes swarm like worms within our 
 
 Uving clay. 
 
 XL 
 
 He has outsoared the shadow of our night; 
 
 Envy and calumny and hate and pain. 
 
 And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
 
 Can touch him not and torture not again; 355 
 
 From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
 
 He is secure, and now can never mourn 
 
 A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in 
 
 vain; 
 Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. 
 With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 
 
 XLI 
 
 He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not 
 he; 361 
 
 Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn, 
 Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee 
 The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; 
 
 '* i. e. Keats' hostile critic before referred to. 
 
 ^' The second natural division of the elegy begins with 
 this stanza. The first part is devoted to grief for Keats, 
 indignation at his critics, and regrets over his loss to 
 poetry; this second part is chiefly occupied with general 
 reflections suggested by the fact of death. The pre- 
 dominant note of this second part is hope. 
 
 Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! 365 
 Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and 
 
 thou Air, 
 Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst 
 
 thrown 
 O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare 
 Even to the joyous stars which smile on its 
 
 despair! 
 
 XLII 
 
 He is made one with Nature: there is heard 
 His voice in all her music, from the moan 371 
 Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird; 
 He is a presence to be felt and known 
 In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, 
 Spreading itself where'er that Power may 
 
 move 375 
 
 Which has withdrawn his being to its own; 
 Which wields the world with never wearied 
 
 love. 
 Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 
 
 He is a portion of the loveliness 
 
 Which once he made more lovely: he doth 
 bear 380 
 
 His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 
 
 Sweeps through the dull sense world, com- 
 pelling there. 
 
 All new successions to the forms they wear; 
 
 Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its 
 flight 
 
 To its own likeness, as each mass may bear. 
 
 And bursting in its beauty and its might 386 
 From trees and beasts and men into the 
 Heaven's light. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 The splendours of the firmament of time 
 May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not; 
 Like stars to their appointed height they 
 
 climb, 390 
 
 And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
 The brightness it may veil. When lofty 
 
 thought 
 Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. 
 And love and life contend in it for what 
 Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 
 And move like winds of light on dark and 
 
 stormy air. 396 
 
 XLV 
 
 The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 
 Rose from their thrones, ^o built beyond mor- 
 tal thought. 
 Far in the tJnapparent. Chatterton 
 Rose pale, — his solemn agony had not 400 
 Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought 
 And as he fell and as he lived and loved. 
 Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot. 
 Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved; 
 Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing re- 
 proved. 405 
 20 Keats having died young, is received into the com- 
 pany of those "immortal dead" whose promise of re- 
 nown had, like his, been unfulfilled. Chatterton was not > 
 eighteen when he died. Sir Philip Sidney but thirty-two, \ | 
 and Lucan, who died because of his share in a conspiracy , 
 •gainst Nero, about twenty-seven. ' 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 527 
 
 XLVI 
 
 And many more, whose names on Earth are 
 
 dark, 
 But whose transmitted effluence cannot die 
 So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
 Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
 "Thou art become as one of us," they cry; 4io 
 "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has 
 
 long 
 Swung blind in unascended majesty. 
 Silent alone amid a Heaven of song, 
 Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our 
 
 throng!" 
 
 XLVII 
 
 Who mourns for Adonais? oh, come forth, 415 
 Fond wretch! and know thyself and him 
 
 aright. 
 Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous 
 
 Earth; 
 As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
 Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might 
 Satiate the void circumference; then shrink 
 Even- to a point within our day and night; 421 
 And keep thy heart light lest it make thee 
 
 sink 
 When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to 
 
 the brink. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre 
 Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis naught 425 
 That ages, empires, and religions there 
 Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; 
 For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 
 Glory from those who made the world their 
 prey; 429 
 
 And he is gathered to the kings of thought 
 Who waged contention with their time's de- 
 cay, 
 And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 
 The grave, the city, and the wilderness; 
 And where its wrecks like shattered moun- 
 tains rise, 435 
 And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses 
 
 dress 
 The bones of Desolation's nakedness, 
 Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
 Thy footsteps to a slope of green access. 
 Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 
 A hght of laughing flowers along the grass is 
 spread. 441 
 
 L 
 
 And gray walls moulder round, on which dull 
 
 Time 
 Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; 
 And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
 Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 445 
 This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
 Like flame transformed to marble; and be- 
 neath 
 A field is spread, on which a newer band 
 
 Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp 
 of death, 
 Welcoming him we lose with scarce extin- 
 guished breath. 450 
 
 LI 
 
 Here pause: these graves are all too young 
 
 as yet 
 To have outgrown the sorrow which con- 
 signed 
 Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, 
 Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, 
 Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou 
 find 455 
 
 Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, 
 Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter 
 
 wind 
 Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
 What Adonais is, why fear we to become? 
 
 LII 
 
 The One remains, the many change and 
 pass; 460 
 
 Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shad- 
 ows fly; 
 Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass. 
 Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
 Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, 
 If thou wouldst be with that which thou 
 dost seek! 465 
 
 Follow where all is fled! — Rome's azure sky. 
 Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are 
 weak 
 The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to 
 speak. 
 
 LIII 
 
 Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my 
 Heart? 
 
 Thy hopes are gone before; from all things 
 here 470 
 
 They have departed; thou shouldst now de- 
 part! 
 
 A light is past from the revolving year. 
 
 And man, and woman; and what still is dear 
 
 Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
 
 The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers 
 near; 475 
 
 'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither. 
 No more let Life divide what Death can join 
 together. 
 
 LIV 
 
 That Light whose smile kindles the Uni- 
 verse, 
 That Beauty in which all things work and 
 move, 479 
 
 That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 
 Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
 Which through the web of being blindly 
 
 wove 
 By man and beast and earth and air and 
 
 sea, 
 
 Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
 
 The fire for which all thirst, now beams on 
 
 me, 485 
 
 Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 
 
528 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 LV 
 
 The breath whose might I have invoked in 
 
 song 
 Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven 
 Far from the shore, far from the trembling 
 
 throng 
 Whose sails were never to the tempest 
 
 given; ^ 490 
 
 The massy earth and sphered skies are riven I 
 1 am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; 
 Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of 
 
 Heaven, 
 The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
 Beacons from the abode where the Eternal 
 
 are. 495 
 
 TIME 
 
 (1821) 
 
 Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years, 
 
 Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe 
 Are brackish with the salt of human tears! 
 Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and 
 flow 
 Claspest the limits of mortality, 5 
 
 And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, 
 Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore; 
 Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm, 
 Who siiall put forth on thee, 
 Unfathomable Sea? 10 
 
 III 
 
 IS 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 
 
 I sighed for thee; 
 When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
 And the weary Day turned to his rest. 
 Lingering like an imloved guest, 20 
 
 I sighed for thee. 
 
 IV 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
 
 Wouldst thou me? 
 Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 
 Murmured like a noontide bee. 
 Shall I nestle at thy side? 
 Would'st thou me? — and I replied, 
 
 No, not thee! 
 
 25 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead, 
 
 Soon, too soon; 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night, — 
 Swift be thine approaching flight, 
 
 Come soon, soon! 
 
 A LAMENT 
 (1821) 
 
 35 
 
 TO 
 
 (1821) 
 
 Music, when soft voices die, 
 Vibrates in the memorj'-; 
 Odours, when sweet violets sicken; 
 Live within the sense they quicken. 
 
 O world! O life! O time! 
 On whose last steps I climb, 
 
 Trembling at that where I had stood before; 
 When will return the glory of your prime? 
 
 No more — oh, never more! 5 
 
 Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
 Are heaped for the beloved's bed; 
 And so thy thoughts, when thou are gone. 
 Love itself shall slumber on. 
 
 TO NIGHT 
 
 (1821) 
 I 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave, 
 
 Spirit of Night! 
 Out of the misty eastern cave, 
 Where all the long and lone daylight 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 
 Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
 Swift be thy flight! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 
 
 Star-inwrought! 
 Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; — lo 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out; 
 Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land. 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand — 
 
 Come, long-sought! 
 
 5 Out of the day and night 
 A joy has taken flight; 
 
 Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, 
 
 Move my faint heart with grief, but with 
 
 delight 
 
 No more — oh, never more! 
 
 TO 
 
 (1821) 
 
 One word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it, 
 One feeling too falsely disdained 
 
 For thee to disdain it; 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 For prudence to smother, 
 And pity from thee more dear 
 
 Than that from another. 
 
 I can give not what men call love, 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 
 The worship the heart lifts above 
 And the Heavens reject not, — 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 529 
 
 The desire of the moth for the star,; 
 
 Of the night for the morrow, ; 
 The devotion to something afar j 15 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow? { 
 
 V 
 
 1795-1821 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 (1818) 
 
 Book I 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy forever: 
 
 Its lovehness increases; it will never 
 
 Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
 
 A bowei quiet for us, and a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 
 
 breathing. 5 
 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
 A flowery band to bind us to the earth. 
 Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
 Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
 Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkcned ways 10 
 Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all. 
 Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
 From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon. 
 Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
 For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 1 5 
 
 With the green world they live in; and clear 
 
 rills 
 That for themselves a cooling covert make 
 'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake, 
 Rich with a sprinkHng of fair musk-rose 
 
 blooms: 
 And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 20 
 That we have imagined for the mighty dead; 
 All lovely tales that we have heard or read: 
 An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
 Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 
 
 Nor do we merely feel these essences 25 
 
 For one short hour; no, even as the trees 
 That whisper round a temple become soon 
 Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
 The passion poesy, glories infinite. 
 Haunt us till they become a cheering light 30 
 Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast. 
 That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er- 
 
 cast, 
 They alway must be with us, or we die. . . . 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 
 
 HOMERi 
 
 (Written 1816) 
 
 XI 
 
 Much have I travell'd in the reahns of gold, 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 
 1 Chapman's translation of Homer (like the Faerie 
 Queene and the Elgin Marbles) early stimulated Keats' 
 genius and helped to mould his taste. C. Cowden Clarke 
 introduced Keats to the book in 1815. It is hardly neces- 
 eary to add that Balboa, not Cortez, discovered the 
 -cific (1. 12). 
 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told a 
 
 That deep-brow'd Homer rul'd as his 
 demesne; 
 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 Till 1 heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
 Then felt 1 like some watcher of the skies 
 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; i o 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
 
 He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — • 
 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 SONNET 
 (June, 1816) 
 To one who has been long in city pent, 
 'Tis very Sweet to look into the fair 
 And open face of heaven, — to breathe a 
 prayer 
 Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
 Who is more happy, when, with heart's con- 
 tent, 5 
 Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
 Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
 And gentle tale of love and languishment? 
 Returning home at evening, with an ear 
 
 Catching the notes of Philomel,^ — an eye 10 
 Watching the sailing cloudlets' bright career. 
 He mourns that day so soon has glided by: 
 E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
 
 That falls through the clear ether silently. 
 
 XV 
 
 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET^ 
 
 (Written December 30th, 1816) 
 The poetry of earth is never dead: 
 
 When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
 
 And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
 
 From hedge to hedge about the new-mown 
 
 mead; 
 That is the Grasshopper's — ^he takes the lead 5 
 In summer luxury, — he has never done 
 With his delights; for when tired out with 
 fun 
 He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 
 The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 
 
 On a lone winter evening, when the frost lo 
 Has wrought a silence, from the stove 
 there shrills 
 The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 
 And seems to one in drowsiness half lost. 
 The Grasshopper's among some grassy 
 hills. 
 
 ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES^ 
 FOR THE FIRST TIME 
 
 (1817) 
 
 My spirit is too weak — ^mortality 
 Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, 
 And each imagined pinnacle and steep 
 
 Of godlike hardship, tells me I must die 
 
 1 The nightingale. 
 
 » This sonnet and that of Hunt's (p. 507), were the 
 result of a friendly competition. 
 1 V. p. 562, n. 15. 
 
530 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. 5 
 
 Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep 
 
 That I have not the cloudy winds to keep, 
 Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. 
 Such dim-conceived glories of the brain 
 
 Bring round the heart an indescribable feud; 
 So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, 1 1 
 
 That mingles Grecian grandeur with the 
 rude 
 Wasting of old Time — with a billowy main — 
 
 A sun — a shadow of a magnitude. 
 
 ON THE SEA 
 
 It keeps eternal whisperings around 
 
 Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell 
 Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the 
 spell 
 Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. 
 Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, 5 
 
 That scarcely will the very smallest shell 
 Be moved for days from whence it sometime 
 fell, 
 When last the winds of heaven were unbound. 
 Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vex'd and 
 tired. 
 Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea ; lo 
 Oh ye! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar 
 rude, 
 Or fed too much with cloying melody, — 
 Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and 
 brood 
 Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired! 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Why did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell: 
 
 No God, no Demon of severe response, 
 Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell. 
 
 Then to my human heart I turn at once. 
 Heart ! Thou and I are here sad and alone; 5 
 
 I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain! 
 O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan, 
 
 To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in 
 vain. 
 Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease, 
 
 My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; lo 
 Yet could 1 on this very midnight cease, 
 
 And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds; 
 Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed. 
 But Death intenser — Death is Life's high meed. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 
 
 Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain. 
 Before high piled books in charactery. 
 
 Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain; 
 When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 5 
 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance. 
 And think that I may never live to trace 
 
 Their shadows, with the magic hand of 
 chance; 
 
 And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, 
 That I shaU never look upon thee more, 10 
 
 Never have relish in the faery power 
 Of unreflecting love; — then on the shore 
 
 Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
 
 Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. 
 
 LAST SONNET 
 
 Written on a Blank Page in Shakespeare^s 
 Poems, Facing A Lover^s Complaint 
 
 (Written 1820) 
 
 Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art 
 
 Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night 
 And watching, with eternal lids apart. 
 
 Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, 
 The moving waters at their priestlike task 5 
 
 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 
 Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 
 
 Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — 
 No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
 
 Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast. 
 To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 1 1 
 
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
 And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 
 
 (1820) 
 
 I 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve^ — Ah, bitter chill it was! 'J 
 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;'^ 
 
 The hare limp'd trembling through the 
 
 frozen grass,<X n 
 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold:*V~^ 
 Numb were the Beadsman's^ fingers, while 
 
 he told jiy 5 
 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath,^ 
 Like pious incense from a censer old, -V 
 Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a 
 
 death, ^ 
 Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his 
 
 prayer he saith.^ 
 
 II 
 
 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;io 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his 
 
 knees. 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
 Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 
 The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to 
 
 freeze, 
 Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 15 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. 
 He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and 
 
 mails. 
 
 1 The night of January 20th. It was supposed that by- 
 observing certain ceremonies on this night a maiden 
 might see her future husband in her dreams. 
 
 2 One who prays, particularly one who prays for othera 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 531 
 
 m 
 
 Northward he turneth through a little door, 
 And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden 
 
 tongue 20 
 
 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; 
 But no — already had his deathbell rung; 
 The joys of all his life were said and sung; 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' eve: 
 Another way he went, and soon among 25 
 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
 And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to 
 
 grieve. 
 
 IV 
 
 That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude 
 
 soft; 
 And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide. 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: 
 The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: 
 The carved angels, ever eager-ey'd, 
 Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice 
 rests, 35 
 
 With hair blown back, and wings put cross- 
 wise on their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent' revelry. 
 With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
 Numerous as shadows haunting faerily 
 The brain, newstuff'd in youth, with triumphs 
 
 gay 40 
 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry 
 
 day, 
 On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. 
 As she had heard old dames full many times 
 
 declare. 45 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' eve. 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight. 
 And soft adorings from their loves receive 
 Upon the honey'd middle of the night. 
 If ceremonies due they did aright; 50 
 
 As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily white; 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
 Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they 
 desire. 
 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline :55 
 The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
 She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 
 And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain, 
 But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: 
 She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of 
 the year. 
 
 3 Silvery-bright, shining. 
 
 VIII 
 
 She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes. 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and 
 
 short: 65 
 
 The hallow' d hour was near at hand: she 
 
 sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Hoodwink'd with faery fancy ; all amort,* 70 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,^ 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 
 
 IX 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire. 
 
 She lingered still. Meantime, across the 
 
 moors. 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on 
 
 fire 75 
 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
 Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and 
 
 implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
 That he might gaze and worship all unseen ;8G 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth 
 
 such things have been. 
 
 He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: 
 All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
 Will storm his heart. Love's fev'rous citadel: 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian 
 
 hordes, 85 
 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
 Against his lineage: not one breast affords 
 Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,^ 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in 
 
 soul. 90 
 
 XI 
 
 Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 95 
 He startled her; but soon she knew his face. 
 And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 
 Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from 
 this place; 
 "They are all here to-night, the whole blood- 
 thirsty race I 
 
 XII 
 
 "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish 
 Hildebrand; 100 
 
 "He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 "He cursed thee and thine, both house and 
 land: 
 
 * Dead, absorbed in thought (Fr. a la mort). 
 
 ' On St. Agnes' Day, it was the custom in some places 
 for the nuns to bring two white Iambs to Church, and 
 (when the Agnus Dei was chanted) to present them before 
 the altar. The lambs, thus dedicated, were kept apart 
 until shearing-time, and their fleece was regarded as 
 holy. (c. Stanza xiii). 
 
 • Here = harmful, mischievous. 
 
532 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTY 
 
 "Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a 
 
 whit 
 ''More tame for his grey hairs — Alas me! flit! 
 "Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip 
 
 dear, 105 
 
 "We're safe enough; here in this armchair 
 
 sit, 
 "And tell me how" — "Good Saints not 
 
 here, not here: 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be 
 
 thy bier." 
 
 XIII 
 
 He follow'd througli a lowly arched way, 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, 1 10 
 And as she muttered " Well-a-well-a-day ! " 
 He found him in a little moonlight room. 
 Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
 "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115 
 "Which none but secret sisterhood may 
 
 When they 
 piously." 
 
 St. Agnes' wool are weaving 
 
 XIV 
 
 "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve— 
 "Yet men will murder upon holy days: 
 "Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 120 
 "And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
 "To venture so: it fills me with amaze 
 "To see thee, Porphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve! 
 "God's help! my lady fair the conjurer 
 
 plays 
 "This very night: good angels her deceive! 
 "But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to 
 
 grieve." 126 
 
 XV 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 Who keepeth clos'd a wondrous riddle- 
 book, 130 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 
 
 told 
 His lady's purpose; and he scarce could 
 
 brook 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchantments 
 cold, 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 135 
 
 XVI 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 
 
 rose. 
 Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
 Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: 
 "A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 
 
 "Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and 
 
 dream 
 "Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 "From wicked men hke thee. Go, go!— I 
 
 deem 
 "Thou canst not surely be the same that thou 
 
 didst seem." 
 
 XVII 
 
 "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 145 
 Quoth Porphyro: "O may 1 ne'er find grace 
 "When my weak voice shall whisper its last 
 
 prayer, 
 "If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
 "Or look with ruffian passion in her face; 
 "Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150 
 "Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
 "Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's 
 
 ears, 
 "And beard them, though they be more fang'd 
 
 than wolves and bears." 
 
 XVIII 
 
 "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
 "A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard 
 
 thing, 155 
 
 "Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight 
 
 toll; 
 "Whose prayers for thee, each mom and 
 
 evening, 
 "Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth 
 
 she bring 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 
 So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 
 
 XIX 
 
 Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 
 
 That he might see her beauty unespy'd, 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. 
 While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet. 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy- 
 
 ey'd. 
 Never on such a night^ have lovers met, 1 70 
 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous 
 
 debt. 
 
 XX 
 
 "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
 "All cates^ and dainties shall be stored there 
 "Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour 
 
 frame 
 "Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to 
 
 spare, 175 
 
 "For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 "On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 "Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in 
 
 prayer 
 "The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady 
 
 wed, 
 "Or may I never leave my grave among the 
 
 dead." 180 
 
 7 The night after Merlin was shut up forever in a tree, 
 a frightful tempest swept through the forest of Broce- 
 liande, in which this tree stood. As Merlin (according 
 to some versions of the story) was the child of a "De- 
 mon," he said is to have "paid" his "monstrous debt" 
 when, his own magic being turned against him, he was 
 overpowered by the wily Vivian. 
 
 s Delicacies. 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 533 
 
 XXI 
 
 So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd! 
 The dame return'd and whisper'd in his ear 
 To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 185 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and 
 
 chaste; 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 
 
 brain. 
 
 XXII 
 
 190 
 
 Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade. 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
 When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
 Rose, like a mission'd^ spirit, unaware: 
 With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
 She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 195 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 
 She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 
 fray'd and fled. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in; 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:200 
 She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 
 No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 205 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should 
 
 swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her 
 
 dell. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, 
 All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 
 grass, 210 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device. 
 Innumerable of stains^" and splendid dyes. 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of 
 queens and kings. 216 
 
 XXV 
 
 f^ Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
 V And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 
 breast, 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and 
 
 boon; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 221 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 
 She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
 Save wings, for heaven: — Porphyro grew 
 faint: 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 
 taint. 225 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Anon his heart revives: her vespers done. 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 
 Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 231 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is 
 fled. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly 
 
 nest, 235 
 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she 
 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; 
 
 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- 
 day; 
 
 Blissfully haven'd both from joy and 
 pain; 240 
 
 Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims 
 pray;ii 
 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 
 again. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
 Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress, 245 
 Ana listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 
 Which when he heard, that minute did he 
 
 • Commissioued. 
 
 « Colors. 
 
 And breath'd himself: then from the closet 
 
 crept, 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 
 
 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
 And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — 
 
 how fast she slept. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Then by the bed-side where the faded moon 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 256 
 O for some drowsy Morphean amulet I^'^ 
 
 . The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
 The kettle-drum and far-heard clarionet, 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — 
 
 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is 
 gone. 261 
 
 XXX 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 
 gourd; 265 
 
 With jellies soother ^^ than the creamy curd, 
 
 ^i Swart Paynims = dark pagans. "Clasped like a 
 missal in a land of pagans; that is to say, where Christian 
 prayer-books must not be seen, and are, therefore, doubly 
 cherished for the danger." Leigh Hunt. 
 
 " A charm capable of producing sleep. 
 
 " Apparently = smoother. 
 
534 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
 From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, 
 From silken Samarcand^* to cedar'd Lebanon. 
 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 
 eye, 305 
 
 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dream- 
 ingly. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 These delicates he heap'd with glowing 
 hand 271 
 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand 
 In the retired quiet of the night, 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume light 
 "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 
 "Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: 
 "Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' 
 sake, 278 
 
 "Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth 
 ache." 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 280 
 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
 By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight 
 
 charm 
 Impossible to melt as ic^d stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 285 
 It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
 So mus'd ahwile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
 Tumultuous, — and, — in chords that tender- 
 est be, 290 
 
 He plaj'^'d an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
 In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans 
 
 mercy: "^^ 
 Close to her ear touching the melody; — 
 Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft 
 
 moan: 
 He ceas'd — she panted quick — and sud- 
 denly 295 
 Her blue aff rayed eyes wide open shone: 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
 sculptured-stone. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 
 There was a painful change, that nigh ex- 
 
 pell'd 300 
 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep; 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
 And moan forth witless words with many a 
 
 sigh. 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; 
 
 " An ancient city in Turkestan. It was the capital of 
 the great conqueror Timur, or Tamerlane, and, in his 
 time, a center of learning and commerce. 
 
 '' The title of a poem bv Alain Chartier, court poet of 
 Charles VI and Charles VII, of France. An English 
 translation of this poem, erroneously attributed to 
 Chaucer, and formerly included in editions of his works, 
 had attracted Keats' fancy. Chartier's title was adopted 
 by Keats as the title of one of his best lyrics (c. p. 535). 
 
 "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now 
 "Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
 "Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; 
 "And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear; 
 "How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, 
 
 and drear! 3ii 
 
 "Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 "Those looks immortal, those complainings 
 
 dear! 
 "Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
 "For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where 
 
 to go." . 315 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
 Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
 Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 
 
 Blended its odour with the violet, — 
 Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind 
 
 blows 
 Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
 Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon 
 
 hath set. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 'Tis dark; quick pattereth the flaw-blown 
 
 sleet: 325 
 
 "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline! " 
 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: 
 " No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
 "Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 
 
 pine, — 
 "Cruel! what traitor could thee hither 
 
 bring? 330 
 
 " I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
 "Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — • 
 "A dove forlorn axid lost with sick unprunM 
 
 wing." 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
 ' * Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 33 5 
 "Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and 
 
 vermeil dy'd? 
 "Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
 "After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 "A famish'd pilgrim, — sav'd by miracle. 
 "Though I have found, I will not rob thy 
 
 nest 340 
 
 "Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st 
 
 well 
 "To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery /land, 
 "Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 
 "Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 345 
 "The bloated wassailers will never heed: — \ 
 "Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 535 
 
 "There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
 "Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy 
 
 mead: 
 "Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350 
 " For o'er the southern moors I have a home for 
 
 thee." 
 
 XL 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
 For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 
 
 spears — 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they 
 
 found. — 355 
 
 In all the house was heard no human sound. 
 A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each 
 
 door; 
 The arras rich with horseman, hawk, and 
 
 hound, 
 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty 
 
 floor. 360 
 
 XLI 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; 
 Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide; 
 Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side: 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his 
 hide, 365 
 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide: — ■ 
 The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 
 groans. 
 
 XLII 
 
 . And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 370 
 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe. 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade and 
 
 form 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. 
 Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old 375 
 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face de- 
 form; 
 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 
 
 ROBIN HOOD 
 To A Friend 
 (Pub. 1820) 
 No! those days are gone away, 
 And their hours are old and gray, 
 And their minutes buried all 
 Under the down-trodden pall 
 Of the leaves of many years: 5 
 
 Many times have winter's shears, 
 Frozen North, and chilling East, 
 Sounded tempests to the feast 
 Of the forests whispering fleeces, 
 Since men knew not rents nor leases. 10 
 
 No, the bugle sounds no more. 
 And the twanging bow no more; 
 Silent is the ivory shrill 
 Past the heath and up the hill; 
 
 There is no mid-forest laugh, 13 
 
 Where lone echo gives the half 
 To some wight, amaz'd to hear 
 Jesting, deep in forest drear. 
 
 On the fairest time in June 
 You may go with sun or moon, 20 
 
 Or the seven stars to light you, 
 Or the polar ray to right you; 
 But you never may behold 
 Little John, or Robin bold; 
 Never one, of all the clan, 25 
 
 Thrumming on an empty can 
 Some old hunting ditty, while 
 He doth his green way beguile 
 To fair hostess Merriment, 
 Down beside the pasture Trent; 30 
 
 For he left the merry tale 
 Messenger for spicy ale. 
 
 Gone the merry morris din; 
 Gone, the song of Gamelyn; 
 Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 35 
 
 Idling in the "grene shawe;" 
 All are gone away and past! 
 And if Robin should be cast 
 Sudden from his turfed grave. 
 And if Marian should have 40 
 
 Once again her forest days. 
 She would weep, and he would craze: 
 He would swear, for all his oaks, 
 Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, 
 Have rotted on the briny seas; 45 
 
 She would weep that her wild bees 
 Sang not to her — strange! that honey 
 Can't be got without hard money! 
 
 So it is: yet let us sing. 
 Honour to the old bow string! 50 
 
 Honour to the bugle-horn ! 
 Honour to the woods unshorn! 
 Honour to the Lincoln green! 
 Honour to the archer keen! 
 Honour to tight little John, 65 
 
 And the horse he rode upon! 
 Honour to bold Robin Hood! 
 Sleeping in the underwood! 
 Honour to maid Marian, 
 And to all the Sherwood-clan! 60 
 
 Though their days have hurried by 
 Let us two a burden try. 
 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI* 
 
 (1820) 
 
 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 
 
 Alone and palely loitering; 
 The sedge is wither'd from the lake. 
 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 II 
 
 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight. 
 So haggard and so woe-begone? 
 
 The squirrel's granary is full. 
 And the harvest's done. 
 
 1 Y. note to Eve of St. Agnes, xxxiii, p. 534. 
 
536 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 III 
 
 I see a lily on thy brow, 
 
 With anguish moist and fever dew; 
 And on thy cheek a fading rose 
 
 Fast withereth too. 
 
 10 
 
 IV 
 
 I met a lady in the meads, 
 Full beautiful, a faery's child; 
 
 Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
 And her eyes were wild. 
 
 I set her on my pacing steed. 
 And nothing else saw all day long; 
 
 For sideways would she lean and sing 
 A faery's song. 
 
 VI 
 
 I made a garland for her head, 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
 
 She look'd at me as she did love, 
 And made sweet moan. 
 
 VII 
 
 She found me roots of relish sweet, 
 And honey wild, and manna dew; 
 
 And sure in language strange she said, 
 I love thee true. 
 
 VIII 
 
 She took me to her elfin grot, 
 
 And there she gaz'd and sighed deep; 
 And there I shut her wild sad eyes — 
 
 So kissed to sleep. 
 
 And there we slumber'd on the moss, 
 And there I dream'd, ah woe betide, 
 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd, 
 On the cold hill side. 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 I saw pale kings, and princes too. 
 
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 
 
 Who cry'd — "La belle Dame sans merci 
 Hath thee in thrall!" 40 
 
 XI 
 
 I saw their starv'd lips in the gloom. 
 With horrid warning gaped wide, 
 
 And I awoke, and found me here 
 On the cold hill side. 
 
 XII 
 
 45 
 
 And this is why I sojourn here 
 
 Alone and palely loitering. 
 Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake 
 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 (1819) 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 My sense, as though of hemlock 1 had drunk, 
 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 
 
 But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the 
 
 trees. 
 
 In some melodious plot 
 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. i o 
 
 O, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been (X n 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-del vM earth, -^ 
 Tasting of Flora and the country green, .,^M^ 
 Dance, and Provengal song, and sunburnt 
 mirth 1-^ 
 O for a beaker full of the warm South, C 1 5 
 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,^^ 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
 And purple-stained mouth; t 
 That I might drink, and leave the world un- 
 seen, CL/ 
 And with thee fade away into the forest 
 dim: ^ 20 
 
 III 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 What thou among the leaves hast never 
 known, 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hoar each other 
 groan; 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 25 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, 
 and dies; 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden-ey'd despairs. 
 Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to- 
 morrow. 30 
 
 IV 
 
 Away! away! for I will fly to thee. 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,^ 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards; 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night, 35 
 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
 Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 
 But here there is no light, 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes 
 blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding 
 mossy ways. 40 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. 
 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 
 * A fountain sacred to the Muses on Mt. Helicon. 
 "The true . . . Hippocrene= wine, whose aid is after- 
 wards rejected (Stanza IV). 
 
 2 Leopards. In a painting by Titian in the National 
 Gallery, London, Bacchus, the god of Wine, is repre- 
 sented as descending from a chariot drawn by leopards. 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 537 
 
 rhe grass, the thicket, and the fniit-tree wild;45 
 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
 
 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
 
 And mid-May's eldest child, 
 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer 
 
 50 
 
 Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
 
 To take into the air my quiet breath; 
 
 Now more than ev6r seems it rich to die, 55 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 
 
 VII 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick 
 for home, 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 
 
 VIII 
 
 Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
 Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 
 As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades: 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
 
 Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep? 80 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 
 
 (Written 1819) 
 
 Thou still unravished bride of quietness, 
 
 Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
 What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy 
 shape S 
 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
 
 In Tempe^ or the dales of Arcady? 
 What men or gods are these? What maid- 
 ens loth? 
 What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
 What pipes and timbrels? What wild 
 ecstasy? 10 
 
 1 A valley in Thessaly, celebrated for its beauty. 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear' d. 
 
 Pipe to the spirityiitties of no tone: 
 Fair youth, beneatn the trees, thou canst not 
 leave is 
 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
 Though winning near the goal — ^yet, do not 
 grieve; 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy 
 bliss. 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20 
 
 Ah! happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 
 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
 
 For ever piping songs for ever new; 
 More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25 
 
 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
 For ever panting, and for ever young; 
 All breathing human passion far above, 28 
 
 That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd 
 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 
 
 IV 
 
 WTio are these coming to the sacrifice? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 
 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
 What little town by river or sea shore, 35 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
 And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
 
 Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40 
 
 O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede^ 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed; 
 Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of 
 thought 
 As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 
 
 When old age shall this generation waste. 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
 Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou 
 say'st, 
 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"— that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 
 know. 50 
 
 TO AUTUMN 
 
 (Written 1819 ?) 
 
 I 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch- 
 eaves run; 
 
 2 The urn is "overwrought" with the shapes of "men 
 and maidens" gracefully interwoven, so that the succes- 
 sion of figures, encircling the vase like a fillet, or band, 
 is spoken of aa a brede, or braid. 
 
538 
 
 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage- 
 trees, 5 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel 
 shells 
 \Mth a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 
 And still moro, later flowers for the bees, 
 Until they think warm days will never 
 cease, lo 
 For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clam- 
 my cells. 
 
 n 
 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;i5 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
 
 Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while 
 thy hook 
 Spares the next swath and all its twined 
 flowers: 
 And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 
 Or by a cyder-press, with patient look. 
 Thou watchest the last oozings hours by 
 hours. 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are 
 they?d^ . 
 
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — ^ 
 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying 
 day,OL^ 25 
 
 That fosters the droop-headed flowers all. 
 
 And hides the green hill in an April shroud; 
 Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 15 
 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave. 
 Or on the wealth of globed peonies; 
 Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
 Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave. 
 And feed deep, deep upon her peerless 
 eyes. 20 
 
 ^' III 
 
 She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must 
 
 die;X, I 
 
 And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips^ 
 Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh ^ - 
 
 Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: -v- 
 Ay, in the very temple of Delight t .25 
 
 Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,^ 
 Though seen of none save him whose 
 strenuous tongues- 
 Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;^^ 
 His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, C* 
 And be among her cloudy trophies hung, x^o 
 
 1791-1823 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 
 AT CORUNNAi 
 
 (1817) 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 
 yxa,j,\^ , "^^ As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 
 
 And touch the stubble-plams with rosy hue;-^^jq-Q^ g^ golj - ■ — - - - 
 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn C 
 Among the river sallows, ^ borne aloft d^ 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;fl/ 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly 
 bourn TV 30 
 
 ier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning; 
 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble 
 
 soft^ r J No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 The red-breast whistles from a garden croft ;(N Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 
 
 And gathering swaUows twitter m the But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
 
 skies. 4_ With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 10 
 
 ODE ON MELANCHOLY 
 (Pub. 1820) 
 I 
 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 
 WoK's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous 
 wine; 
 Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 
 
 By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; 
 Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 5 
 
 Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
 Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
 A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 
 
 For shade to shade will come too drowsily. 
 
 And drown the wakeful anguish of the 
 
 soul. 10 
 
 II 
 But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
 Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
 
 1 Willows. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said. 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was 
 dead, 15 
 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
 his head, 
 And we far away on the billow! 20 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 
 
 But little he'U reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done 25 
 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun; 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 1 For an account of Moore's gallant death, v. Napier'a V 
 Peninsular War I. Bk. IV, Ch. V. ; 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 539 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 29 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
 
 We carved not a line and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 m 
 
 William ^pottiertoell 
 
 1797-1834 
 JEANIE MORRISON 
 
 (From Poems, 1832) 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 Through mony a weary way; 
 But never, never can forget 
 
 The luve o' life's young day! 
 The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, 5 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule: 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cule. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 The thochts o' bygane years 10 
 
 Still fling their shadows owre my path, 
 
 And blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 
 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 
 
 And sair and sick I pine. 
 As Memory idly summons up 15 
 
 The bhthe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 
 'Twas then we twa did part; 
 Sweet time, sad time! — twa bairns at schule, 
 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 20 
 
 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. 
 
 To leir ilk ither lear;i 
 And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed. 
 
 Remembered evermair. ^ 
 
 1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 25 
 When sitting on that bink. 
 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loof^ locked in loof, 
 What our wee heads could think! 
 
 When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, 
 Wi' ae buik on our knee, 30 
 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
 Whene'er the schule- weans, laughin' said, 35 
 
 We cleek'd thegither hame? 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays 
 
 (The schule then skail't at noon), 
 When we ran off to speel the braes — 
 
 The broomy braes o' June. 40 
 
 My head rins round and round about, 
 
 My heart flows like a sea, 
 As, ane by ane, the thochts rush back 
 
 O' schule-time and o' thee. 
 Oh, mornin' life! Oh, mornin' luve! 45 
 
 Oh, lichtsome days and lang. 
 When hinnied hopes around our hearts. 
 
 Like simmer blossoms, sprang! 
 
 Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun, 50 
 
 1 i. e. to teach each other the lesson. Lear = lore, learn 
 
 ing- 
 
 2 Palm, or hand. 
 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its waters croon? 
 The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet. 
 And in the gloamin' o' the wud 55 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet. 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wud. 
 
 The burn sung to the trees. 
 And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 
 
 Concerted harmonies; 60 
 
 And on the knowe abune the burn 
 
 For hours thegither sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
 Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 65 
 
 Tears trinkled doun your cheek, 
 Like dew-buds on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak! 
 That was a time, a blessed time. 
 
 When hearts were fresh and young, 70 
 When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled — unsung ! 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 75 
 
 As ye hae been to me? 
 Oh! tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine: 
 Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows great 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? 80 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 I've borne a weary lot: 
 But in my wanderings, far or near, 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this heart, 85 
 
 Still travels on its way; 
 And channels deeper as it rins 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 
 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Since we were sindered young, 90 
 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music of your tongue: 
 But I could hug all wretchedness-. 
 
 And happy could I dee, 
 Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 95 
 
 O' bygane days and me! 
 
 ^ir falter ^cott 
 
 1771-1832 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM SCOTT'S JOURNAL 
 
 (Edinburgh) November 20, 1825.— I have 
 aU my life regretted that I did not keep a 
 Journal. I have myself lost recollection of 
 much that was interesting, and I have de- 
 5 prived my family and the public of some curi- 
 ous information, by not carrying this resolu- 
 tion into effect. I have bethought me, on 
 seeing lately some volumes of Byron's notes, 
 that he probably had hit upon the right way 
 10 of keeping such a memorandum-book, by 
 
540 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 throwing aside all pretence of regularity and one. Then I write or study again till one. At 
 order, and marking down events just as they that hour to-day I drove to Huntly Burn, and 
 occurred to recollection. I will try this plan; walked home by one of the hundred and one 
 and behold I have a handsome locked volume, pleasing paths which I have made through the 
 such as might serve for a lady's album. 5 woods I have planted — now chatting with 
 
 December 18. An odd thought strikes me; Tom Purdie, who carries my plaid, and speaks 
 when I die will the Journal of these days be when he pleases, telling long stories of hits and 
 taken out of the ebony cabinet at Abbotsford, misses in shooting twenty years back — some- 
 and read as the transient pout of a man worth times chewing the cud of sweet and bitter 
 £60,000, with wonder that the well-seeming lO fancy — and sometimes attending to the hu- 
 Baronet should ever have experienced such a mours of two curious little terriers of the 
 hitch? Or will it be found in some obscure Dandie Dinmont breed, together with a noble 
 lodging-house, where the decayed son of wolf-hound puppy which Glengarry had given 
 chivalry has hung up his scutcheon for some me to replace Maida. This brings me down 
 20s. a week, and where one or two old friends 15 to the very moment I do tell — the rest is 
 will look grave and whisper to each other, prophetic. I will feel sleepy when this book is 
 "Poor gentleman," "A well-meaning man," locked, and perhaps sleep until Dalgleish 
 "Nobody's enemy but his own," "Thought brings the dinner summons. Then I will have 
 his parts could never wear out," "Family a chat with Lady S. and Anne; some broth or 
 poorly left," "Pity he took that fooUsh title"? 20 soup, a sHce of plain meat — a man's chief 
 Who can answer this question? business, in Dr. Johnson's estimation, is briefly 
 
 What a Ufe mine has been! — half educated, despatched. Half an hour with my family, 
 almost wholly neglected or left to myself, and half an hour's coquetting with a cigar, a 
 stuffing my head with most nonsensical trash, tumbler of weak whisky and water, and a novel 
 and undervalued in society for a time by most 25 perhaps, lead on to tea, which sometimes 
 of my companions, getting forward and held consumes another half hour of chat; then 
 a bold and clever fellow, contrary to the write or read in my own room till ten o'clock 
 opinion of all who thought me a mere dreamer, at night; a httle bread and then a glass of 
 broken-hearted for two years, my heart hand- porter, and to bed. 
 
 somely pieced again, but the crack will remain 30 August 15. I write on, though a little 
 to my dying day. Rich and poor four or five afilicted with the oppression on my chest, 
 times, once on the verge of ruin, yet opened new Sometimes I think it is something dangerous, 
 sources of wealth almost overflowing. Now but as it always goes away on change of pos- 
 taken in my pitch of pride, and nearly winged ture, it cannot be speedily so. I want to finish 
 (unless the good news hold), because London 35 my task, and then good-night. I will never 
 chooses to be in an uproar, and in a tumult of relax my labour in these afTairs, either for fear 
 bulls and bears, a poor inoffensive hon Hke of pain or for love of life. I will die a free man 
 myseK is pushed to the wall. And what is if working will do it. Accordingly, to-day I 
 to be the end of it? God knows. And so ends cleared the ninth leaf, which is the tenth part 
 the catechism. 40 of a volume, in two days — four and a half 
 
 March 14, 1826. Read again, and for the leaves a day. 
 third time at least, Miss Austen's very finely March 21, 1827. Wrote till twelve, then 
 written novel of Pride and Prejudice. That out upon the heights though the day was 
 young lady had a talent for describing the stormy, and faced the gale bravely. Tom 
 involvements and feehngs and characters of 45 Purdie was not with me. He would have 
 ordinary Ufe, which is to me the most wonderful obhged me to keep the sheltered ground. But, 
 I ever met with. The Big Bow-wow strain I I don't know — 
 
 can do myseK Uke any now going; but the ex- .,_, . 1 i- . -, ^ ,* 
 
 quisite touch, which renders ordinary common- ^^«° ^^ «^^ ^^^^ 1^^« «"^ ^«^*^ fi^^- 
 
 place things and characters interesting, from 50 There is a touch of the old spirit in me yet that 
 the truth of the description and the sentiment, bids me brave the tempest, — the spirit that, 
 is denied to me. What a pity such a gifted in spite of manifold infirmities, made me a 
 creature died so early! roaring boy in my youth, a desperate climber, 
 
 April 1. — Ex uno die disce omnes} Rose at a bold rider, a deep drinker, and a stout player 
 seven or sooner, studied, and wrote till break- 55 at single-stick, of all which valuable qualities 
 fast with Anne,2 about a quarter before ten. there are now but slender remains. I worked 
 Lady Scott seldom able to rise till twelve or hard when I came in, and finished five pages. 
 
 » From one day learn a!I. Cf. Vergil. Mn. II. 65. , ^^^^^ 16 1831. The affair with Mr. CadeU 
 
 « Scott's daughter. bemg settled, I have only to arrange a set of 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 541 
 
 regular employment for my time, without over- "Three score and ten years do sum up." 
 fatiguing myself. What I at present practice 
 
 seems active enough for my capacity, and October. I have been very ill, and if not 
 even if I should reach the three score and ten, quite unable to write, I have been unfit to do 
 from which I am thrice three years distant, 5 so. I have wrought however, at two Waverly 
 or nearer ten, the time may pass honourably, things, but not well, and, what is worse, past 
 usefully, and profitably, both to myself and mending. A total prostration of bodily strength 
 other people. My ordinary runs thus: — is my chief complaint. I cannot walk half a 
 Rise at a quarter before seven; at a mile. There is, besides, some mental confu- 
 quarter after nine breakfast, with eggs, or 10 sion, with the extent of which I am not perhaps 
 in the single number, at least; before break- fully acquainted. I am perhaps setting. I am 
 fast private letters, etc.; after breakfast myself inclined to think so, and, like a day that 
 Mr. Laidlaw comes at ten, and we write to- has been admired as a fine one, the light of it 
 gether till one. I am greatly helped by this sets down amid mists and storms. I neither 
 excellent man, who takes pains to write a good 15 regret nor fear the approach of death if it is 
 hand, and supplies the want of my own fingers coming. I would compound for a little pain 
 as far as another person can. We work seriously instead of this heartless muddiness of mind 
 at the task of the day till one o'clocUy%^hen I which renders me incapable of anything ra- 
 sometimes walk — not often, however, having tional. The expense of my journey will be 
 failed in strength, and suffering great pain 20 something considerable, which I can provide 
 even from a very short walk. Oftener I take against by borrowing £500 from Mr. Gibson, 
 the pony for an hour or two and ride about the To Mr. Cadell I owe already, with the cancels 
 doors; the exercise is humbling enough, for on these apoplectic books, about £200, and 
 I require to be hfted on horseback by two must run it up to £500 more at least; yet this 
 servants, and one goes with me to take care 25 heavy burthen would be easily borne if I were 
 I do not fall off and break my bones, a catas- to be the Walter Scott I once was; but the 
 trophe very like to happen. My proud prome- change is great, 
 nade d pied or d cheval, as it happens, concludes 
 
 by three o'clock. An hour intervenes for g)amuel m^lOt ColmDge 
 
 makmg up my Journal and such light work. 30 ^ 
 
 At four comes dinner, — a plate of broth or 1772-1834 
 
 soup, much condemned by the doctors, a bit TATNi 
 
 of plain meat, no Uquors stronger than small ^HE WANDERINGb OI- CAIN^ 
 
 beer, and so I sit quiet to six o'clock, when Canto II 
 
 Mr. Laidlaw returns, and remains with me 35 ,^ . i yog') 
 
 till nine or three quarters past, as it happens. ^ 
 
 Then I have a bowl of porridge and milk, which "A little further, O my father, yet a little 
 I eat with the appetite of a child. I forgot to further, and we shall come into the open 
 say that after dinner I am allowed half a glass moonlight." Their road was through a forest 
 of whiskey or gin made into weak grog. 1 40 of fir-trees; at its entrance the trees stood 
 never wish for any more, nor do I in my secret at distances from each other, and the path was 
 soul long for cigars, though once so fond of broad, and the moonhght shadows reposed 
 them. About six hours per day is good work- upon it, and appeared quietly to inhabit that 
 ing, if I can keep it up. solitude. But soon the path winded and be- 
 
 May 4, 1831. My pronunciation is a good 45 came narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes 
 deal improved. My time glides away ill em- speckled, but never illumined it, and now it 
 ployed, but I am afraid of the palsy. I should was dark as a cavern. 
 
 not like to be pinned to my chair. But I be- "It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, "but 
 lieve even that kind of life is more endurable the path under our feet is smooth and soft, 
 than we could suppose. Your wishes are 50 and we shall soon come out into the open 
 limited to your httle circle— yet the idea is moonlight." 
 
 terrible to a man who has been active. My "Lead on, my child I" said Cain: "guide 
 own circle in bodily matters is daily narrow- 
 ing; not so in intellectual matters, but I am J^S'l-JfeSj^wtHn mlThe'^^^^^^^^ 
 
 perhaps a bad judge. The plough is coming 55 in concert a "prose-poem" on the story of Cain and 
 
 to the end of the furrow, so it is likely I shall ^bei m^^th,g^_canto,.^^Worf^^^ 
 
 not reach the common goal of mortal life by a his part first, was to undertake the third. The second 
 
 few years. I am now in my sixtieth year only, S'/''«,,'T°'^eT/Ti,l''& Slaridgo°°drd''no1 «2 
 and eider meter essential to poetry. 
 
644 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 the one, the incidents and agents were to be, in the language of ordinary life as to produce 
 in part at least, supernatural; and the excel- the pleasurable interest, which it is the pecuhar 
 lence aimed at was to consist in the interesting business of poetry to impart. To the second 
 of the affections by the dramatic truth of such edition he added a preface of considerable 
 emotions, as would naturally accompany such 6 length; in which, notwithstanding some pas- 
 situations, supposing them real. And real in sages of apparently a contrary import, he was 
 this sense they have been to every human understood to contend for the extension of 
 being who, from whatever source of delusion, this style to poetry of all kinds, and to reject 
 has at any time believed hirtiself under super- as vicious and indefensible all phrases and 
 natural agency. For the second class, subjects 10 forms of speech that were not included in 
 were to be chosen from ordinary life; the charac- what he (unfortunately, I think, adopting an 
 ters and incidents were to be such as will be equivocal expression) called the language of 
 found in every village and its vicinity, where real life. From this preface, prefixed to poems 
 there is a meditatiye and feeling mind to seek in which it was impossible to deny the presence 
 after them, or to notice them, when they pre- 15 of original genius, however mistaken its direc- 
 sent themselves. tion might be deemed, arose the whole long 
 
 In this idea originated the plan of the continued controversy. For from the conjunc- 
 Lyrical Ballads ;i in which it was agreed, that tion of perceived power with supposed heresy 
 my endeavors should be directed to persons and I explain the inveteracy and in some instances, 
 characters supernatural, or at least romantic; 20 1 grieve to say, the acrimonious passions, with 
 yet so as to transfer from our inward nature which the controversy has been conducted 
 a human interest and a semblance of truth by the assailants. 
 
 sufficient to procure for these shadows of Had Mr. Wordsworth's poems been the 
 imagination that willing suspension of disbelief silly, the childish things, which they were for 
 for the moment, which constitutes poetic 25 a long time described as being; had they been 
 faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, really distinguished from the compositions of 
 was to propose to himself as his object, to give other poets merely by meanness of language 
 the charm of novelty to things of every day, and inanity of thought; had they indeed con- 
 and to excite a feeling analogous to the super- tained nothing more than what is found in the 
 natural, by awakening the mind's attention 30 parodies and pretended imitations of them; 
 to the lethargy of custom, and directing it to they must have sunk at once, a dead weight, 
 the loveUness and the wonders of the world into the slough of oblivion, and have dragged 
 before us; an inexhaustible treasure, but for the preface along with them. But year after 
 which, in consequence of the film of familiarity year increased the number of Mr. Wordsworth's 
 and selfish solicitude we have eyes, yet see 35 admirers. They were found too not in the 
 not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither lower classes of the reading public, but chiefly 
 feel nor understand. among young men of strong sensibility and 
 
 With this view I wrote The Ancient Mariner, meditative minds; and their admiration (in- 
 and was preparing among other poems. The flamed perhaps in some degree by opposition) 
 Dark Ladie, and the Christable, in which 1 40 was distinguished by its intensity, I might 
 should have more nearly realized my ideal almost say, by its religious fervor, 
 than I had done in my first attempt. But 
 Mr. Wordsworth's industry had proved so 
 
 much more successful, and the number of his CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 poems so much greater, that my compositions, 45 SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMAS 
 
 instead of forming a balance, appeared rather (^.e^i^m Upon Slmkespeare, 1818) 
 
 an mterpolation of heterogeneous matter. *- > / 
 
 Mr. Wordsworth added two or three poems Poetry in essence is as familiar to barbarous 
 written in his own character, in the impas- as to civilized nations. The Laplander and the 
 sioned, lofty, and sustained diction, which is 50 savage Indian are cheered by it as well as the 
 characteristic of his genius. In this form the inhabitants of London and Paris;— its spirit 
 Lyrical Ballads were published; and were pre- takes up and incorporates surrounding ma- 
 sented by him, as an experiment, whether sub- terials, as a plant clothes itself with soil and 
 jects, which from their nature rejected the climate, whilst it exhibits the working of a 
 usual ornaments and extrarcolloquial style of 55 vital principle within independent of all acci- 
 poems in general, might not be so managed dental circumstances. And to judge with 
 
 1 r,^.:^i p 77 J ur u J • ,-«o , fairness of an author's works, we ought to dis-\, 
 
 \Lvr\cal BalUids, published in 1798, was the epoch- x- -uui.-- j j x-ir i,*' 
 
 making book of poems in which Wordsworth and Cole- tmguish what IS mward and essential from what i< 
 
 ridge first appeared as important poets. . is outward and circumstantial. It is essential 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 545 
 
 to poetry that it be simple, and appeal to the light and vigor, whilst another was in its 
 elements and primary laws of our nature; that gloom and bondage. But no sooner had the 
 it be sensuous, and by its imagery elicit truth Reformation sounded through Europe like the 
 at a flash; that it be impassioned, and be able blast of an archangel's trumpet, than from 
 to move our feelings and awaken our affections. 5 king to peasant there arose an enthusiasm for 
 In comparing different poets with each other, knowledge; the discovery of a manuscript 
 we should inquire which have brought into the became the subject of an embassy; Erasmus 
 fullest play our imagination and our reason, read by moonlight, because he could not afford 
 or have created the greatest excitement and a torch, and begged a penny, not for the love 
 produced the completest harmony. If we 10 of charity, but for the love of learning. The 
 consider great exquisiteness of language and three great points of attention were religion, 
 sweetness of metre alone, it is impossible to morals, and taste; men of genius as well as 
 deny to Pope the character of a delightful men of learning, who in this age need to be so 
 writer; but whether he be a poet, must depend widely distinguished, then alike became copy- 
 upon our definition of the word; and, doubtless, isists of the ancients; and this, indeed, was the 
 if everything that pleases be poetry, Pope's only way by which the taste of mankind could 
 satires and epistles must be poetry. This, I be improved, or their understandings informed, 
 must say, that poetry, as distinguished from Whilst Dante imagined himself a humble 
 other modes of composition, does not rest in follower of Virgil, and Ariosto of Homer, they 
 metre, and that it is not poetry, if it make no 20 were both unconscious of that greater power 
 appeal to our passions or our imagination, working within them, which in many points 
 One character belongs to all true poets, that carried them beyond their supposed originals, 
 they write from a principle within, not originat- All great discoveries bear the stamp of the 
 ing in any thing without; and that the true age in which they are made; — hence we per- 
 poet's work in its form, its shapings, and itS25ceive the effects of the purer religion of the 
 modifications, is distinguished from all other moderns, visible for the most part in their 
 works that assume to belong to the class of lives; and in reading their works we should not 
 poetry, as a natural from an artificial flower, content ourselves with the mere narrative of 
 or as the mimic garden of a child from an events long since passed, but shouM learn to 
 enamelled meadow. In the former the flowers 30 apply their maxims and conduct to ourselves, 
 are broken from their stems and stuck into the Having intimated that times and manners 
 ground; they are beautiful to the eye and fra- lend their form and pressure to genius, let me 
 grant to the sense, but their colors soon fade once more draw a slight parallel between the 
 and their odor is transient as the smile of ancient and modem stage, the stages of Greece 
 the planter; — while the meadow may be visited 35 and of England. The Greeks were polytheists; 
 again and again with renewed delight; its their religion was local; almost the only object 
 beauty is innate in the soil, and its bloom is of of all their knowledge, art, and taste, was their 
 the freshness of nature. gods; and, accordingly, their productions were, 
 
 The next ground of critical judgment, and if the expression may be allowed, statuesque, 
 point of comparison, will be as to how far a 40 whilst those of the moderns are picturesque, 
 given poet has been influenced by accidental The Greeks reared a structure, which in its 
 circumstances. As a living poet must surely parts, and as a whole, filled the mind with the 
 write, not for the ages past, but for that in calm and elevated impression of perfect beauty, 
 which he lives, and those which are to follow, and symmetrical proportion. The moderns 
 it is, on the one hand, natural that he should 45 also produced a whole, a more striking whole; 
 not violate, and on the other, necessary that but it was by blending materials and fusmg 
 he should not depend on, the mere manners the parts together. And as the Pantheon is 
 and modes of his day. See how little does to York Minster or Westminster Abbey, sc 
 Shakespeare leave us to regret that he was is Sophocles compared with Shakespeare; m 
 born in his particular age! The grea« era in 50 the one a completeness, a satisfaction, an 
 modern times was what is called the Restora- excellence, on which the mind rests with com- 
 tion of Letters;— the ages preceding it are placency; in the other a multitude of inter- 
 called the dark ages; but it would be more laced materials, great and little, magmficent 
 wise, perhaps, to call them the ages in which and mean, accompanied, indeed, with a sense 
 we were in the dark. It is usually overlooked 55 of a falling short of perfection, and yet at the 
 that the supposed dark period was not uni- same time, so promising of our social and m- 
 versal, but partial, or successive, or alternate; dividual progression, that we would not, if 
 that the dark age of England was not the dark we could, exchange it for that repose of the 
 age of Italy, but that one country was in its mind which dwells on the forms of symmetry 
 
644 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 the one, the incidents and agents were to be, in the language of ordinary life as to produce 
 in part at least, supernatural; and the excel- the pleasurable interest, which it is the peculiar 
 lence aimed at was to consist in the interesting business of poetry to impart. To the second 
 of the affections by the dramatic truth of such edition he added a preface of considerable 
 emotions, as would naturally accompany such 5 length; in which, notwithstanding some pas- 
 situations, supposing them real. And real in sages of apparently a contrary import, he was 
 this sense they have been to every human understood to contend for the extension of 
 being who, from whatever source of delusion, this style to poetry of all kinds, and to reject 
 has at any time believed hinbself under super- as vicious and indefensible all phrases and 
 natural agency. For the second class, subjects lO forms of speech that were not included in 
 were to be chosen from ordinary life; the charac- what he (unfortunately, I think, adopting an 
 ters and incidents were to be such as will be equivocal expression) called the language of 
 found in every village and its vicinity, where real life. From this preface, prefixed to poems 
 there is a meditatiye and feeling mind to seek in which it was impossible to deny the presence 
 after them, or to notice them, when they pre- 15 of original genius, however mistaken its direc- 
 sent themselves. tion might be deemed, arose the whole long 
 
 In this idea originated the plan of the continued controversy. For from the conjunc- 
 Lyrical Ballads ;i in which it was agreed, that tion of perceived power with supposed heresy 
 my endeavors should be directed to persons and I explain the inveteracy and in some instances, 
 characters supernatural, or at least romantic; 20 1 grieve to say, the acrimonious passions, with 
 yet so as to transfer from our inward nature which the controversy has been conducted 
 a human interest and a semblance of truth by the assailants. 
 
 sufficient to procure for these shadows of Had Mr. Wordsworth's poems been the 
 imagination that willing suspension of disbelief silly, the childish things, which they were for 
 for the moment, which constitutes poetic 25 a long time described as being; had they been 
 faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, really distinguished from the compositions of 
 was to propose to himself as his object, to give other poets merely by meanness of language 
 the charm of novelty to things of every day, and inanity of thought; had they indeed con- 
 and to excite a feeling analogous to the super- tained nothing more than what is found in the 
 natural, by awakening the mind's attention 30 parodies and pretended imitations of them; 
 to the lethargy of custom, and directing it to they must have sunk at once, a dead weight, 
 the loveliness and the wonders of the world into the slough of oblivion, and have dragged 
 before us; an inexhaustible treasure, but for the preface along with them. But year after 
 which, in consequence of the film of familiarity year increased the number of Mr. Wordsworth's 
 and selfish solicitude we have eyes, yet see 35 admirers. They were found too not in the 
 not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither lower classes of the reading public, but chiefly 
 feel nor understand. among young men of strong sensibility and 
 
 With this view I wrote The Ancient Mariner, meditative minds; and their admiration (in- 
 and was preparing among other poems. The flamed perhaps in some degree by opposition) 
 Dark Ladie, and the Christable, in which 1 40 was distinguished by its intensity, I might 
 should have more nearly realized my ideal almost say, by its religious fervor, 
 than I had done in my first attempt. But 
 Mr. Wordsworth's industry had proved so 
 
 much more successful, and the number of his CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 poems so much greater, that my compositions, 45 SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMAS 
 
 instead of forming a balance, appeared rather {Lectures Upon Sfuikespeare, 1818) 
 
 an mterpolation of heterogeneous matter. *- > / 
 
 Mr. Wordsworth added two or three poems Poetry in essence is as familiar to barbarous 
 written in his own character, in the impas- as to civilized nations. The Laplander and the 
 sioned, lofty, and sustained diction, which is 50 savage Indian are cheered by it as well as the 
 characteristic of his genius. In this form the inhabitants of London and Paris;— its spirit 
 Lyrical Ballads were published; and were pre- takes up and incorporates surrounding ma- 
 sented by him, as an experiment, whether sub- terials, as a plant clothes itself with soil and 
 jects, which from their nature rejected the climate, whilst it exhibits the working of a 
 usual ornaments and extrarCoUoquial style of 55 vital principle within independent of all acci- 
 poems in general, might not be so managed dental circumstances. And to judge with 
 
 1 r, «..•/./,? n 7j J uf u J • -.^rto r^ fairness of an author's works, we ought to dis-\, 
 
 \Lyrtcal Ballads, published m 1798, was the epoch- x- -ui^i.-- j j x-ir u+' 
 
 making book of poems in which Wordsworth and Cole- tmguish what IS mward and essential from what C 
 
 ridge first appeared as important poets. . ig outward and circumstantial. It is essential 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 545 
 
 to poetry that it be simple, and appeal to the light and vigor, whilst another was in its 
 elements and primary laws of our nature; that gloom and bondage. But no sooner had the 
 it be sensuous, and by its imagery elicit truth Reformation sounded through Europe like the 
 at a flash; that it be impassioned, and be able blast of an archangel's trumpet, than from 
 to move our feelings and awaken our affections. 5 king to peasant there arose an enthusiasm for 
 In comparing different poets with each other, knowledge; the discovery of a manuscript 
 we should inquire which have brought into the became the subject of an embassy; Erasmus 
 fullest play our imagination and our reason, read by moonlight, because he could not afford 
 or have created the greatest excitement and a torch, and begged a penny, not for the love 
 produced the completest harmony. If we 10 of charity, but for the love of learning. The 
 consider great exquisiteness of language and three great points of attention were religion, 
 sweetness of metre alone, it is impossible to morals, and taste; men of genius as well as 
 deny to Pope the character of a delightful men of learning, who in this age need to be so 
 writer; but whether he be a poet, must depend widely distinguished, then alike became copy- 
 upon our definition of the word; and, doubtless, isists of the ancients; and this, indeed, was the 
 if everything that pleases be poetry, Pope's only way by which the taste of mankind could 
 satires and epistles must be poetry. This, I be improved, or their understandings informed, 
 must say, that poetry, as distinguished from Whilst Dante imagined himself a humble 
 other modes of composition, does not rest in follower of Virgil, and Ariosto of Homer, they 
 metre, and that it is not poetry, if it make no 20 were both unconscious of that greater power 
 appeal to our passions or our imagination, working within them, which in many points 
 One character belongs to all true poets, that carried them beyond their supposed originals, 
 they write from a principle within, not originat- All great discoveries bear the stamp of the 
 ing in any thing without; and that the true age in which they are made; — hence we per- 
 poet's work in its form, its shapings, and itS25ceive the effects of the purer religion of the 
 modifications, is distinguished from all other moderns, visible for the most part in their 
 works that assume to belong to the class of lives; and in reading their works we should not 
 poetry, as a natural from an artificial flower, content ourselves with the mere narrative of 
 or as the mimic garden of a child from an events long since passed, but shouM learn to 
 enamelled meadow. In the former the flowers 30 apply their maxims and conduct to ourselves, 
 are broken from their stems and stuck into the Having intimated that times and manners 
 ground; they are beautiful to the eye and fra- lend their form and pressure to genius, let me 
 grant to the sense, but their colors soon fade once more draw a slight parallel between the 
 and their odor is transient as the smile of ancient and modem stage, the stages of Greece 
 the planter; — while the meadow may be visited 35 and of England. The Greeks were polytheists; 
 again and again with renewed delight; its their religion was local; almost the only object 
 beauty is innate in the soil, and its bloom is of of all their knowledge, art, and taste, was their 
 the freshness of nature. gods; and, accordingly, their productions were, 
 
 The next ground of critical judgment, and if the expression may be allowed, statuesque, 
 point of comparison, will be as to how far a 40 whilst those of the moderns are picturesque, 
 given poet has been influenced by accidental The Greeks reared a structure, which in its 
 circumstances. As a living poet must surely parts, and as a whole, filled the mind with the 
 write, not for the ages past, but for that in calm and elevated impression of perfect beauty, 
 which he lives, and those which are to follow, and symmetrical proportion. The moderns 
 it is, on the one hand, natural that he should 45 also produced a whole, a more striking whole; 
 not violate, and on the other, necessary that but it was by blending materials and fusing 
 he should not depend on, the mere manners the parts together. And as the Pantheon is 
 and modes of his day. See how little does to York Minster or Westminster Abbey, sc 
 Shakespeare leave us to regret that he was is Sophocles compared with Shakespeare; in 
 born in his particular age! The grea« era in 50 the one a completeness, a satisfaction, an 
 modern times was what is called the Restora- excellence, on which the mind rests with com- 
 tion of Letters; — the ages preceding it are placency; in the other a multitude of inter- 
 called the dark ages; but it would be more laced materials, great and little, magnificent 
 wise, perhaps, to call them the ages in which and mean, accompanied, indeed, with a sense 
 we were in the dark. It is usually overlooked 55 of a falling short of perfection, and yet at the 
 that the supposed dark period was not uni- same time, so promising of our social and in- 
 versal, but partial, or successive, or alternate; dividual progression, that we would not, if 
 that the dark age of England was not the dark we could, exchange it for that repose of the 
 age of Italy, but that one country was in its mind which dwells on the forms of symmetry 
 
546 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 in the acquiescent admiration of grace. This was, of course, impossible. To overcome that 
 general characteristic of the ancient and mod- difficulty of accounting for time, which is 
 em drama might be illustrated by a parallel effected on the modern stage by dropping a 
 of the ancient and modern music;— the one curtain, the judgment and great genius sup- 
 consisting of melody arising from a succession 5 plied music and measured motion, and with 
 only of pleasing sounds,— the modern embrac- the lyric ode filled up the vacuity. In the story 
 ing harmony also, the result of combination of the Agamemnon of .Eschylus, the capture 
 and the effect of a whole. of Troy is supposed to be announced by a fire 
 
 I have said, and I say it again, that great lighted on the Asiatic shore, and the transmis- 
 aswas the genius of Shakespeare, his judgment 10 sion of the signal by successive beacons to 
 was at least equal to it. Of this any one will Mycense. The signal is first seen at the 21st 
 be convinced, who attentively considers those line, and the herald from Troy itself enters at 
 points in which the dramas of Greece and Eng- the 486th, and Agamemnon himself at the 
 land differ, from the dissimilitude of circum- 783d line. But the practical absurdity of this 
 stances by which each was modified and in- 15 was not felt by the audience, who, in imagina- 
 fluenced. The Greek stage had its origin in tion, stretched minutes into hours, while they 
 the ceremonies of a sacrifice, such as of the goat hstened to the lofty narrative odes of the chorus 
 to Bacchus, whom we most erroneously re- which almost entirely filled up the interspace, 
 gard as merely the jolly god of wine; — for Another fact deserves attention here, namely, 
 among the ancients he was venerable, as the 20 that regularly on the Greek stage a drama, or 
 symbol of that power which acts without our acted story, consisted in reality of three dramas, 
 consciousness in the vital energies of nature,— called together a trilogy, and performed con- 
 the vinum mundi,^~a.s Apollo was that of the secutively in the course of one day. Now you 
 conscious agency of our intellectual being, may conceive a tragedy of Shakespeare's a 
 The heroes of old under the influences of this 25 trilogy connected in one single representa- 
 Bacchic enthusiasm, performed more than tion. Divide Lear into three parts and each 
 human actions; — hence tales of the favourite would be a play with the ancients; or take the 
 champions soon passed into dialogue. On the three vEschylean dramas^ of Agamemnon, and 
 Greek stage the chorus was always before the divide them into, or call them, as many acts, 
 audience; the curtain was never dropped, as 30 and they together would be one play. The 
 we should say; and change of place being first act would comprise the usurpation of 
 therefore, in general, impossible, the absurd iEgisthus, and the murder of Agamemnon; the 
 notion of condemning it merely as improbable second, the revenge of Orestes, and the murder 
 in itself was never entertained by any one. of his mother; and the third, the penance and 
 If we can believe ourselves at Thebes in one 35 absolution of Orestes; — occupying a period of 
 act, we may believe ourselves at Athens in the twenty-two years. 
 
 next. If a story lasts twenty-four hours or The stage in Shakespeare's time was a naked 
 twenty-four years, it is equally improbable, room with a blanket for a curtain ; but he made 
 There seems to be no just boundary but what it a field for monarchs. That law of unity, 
 the feehngs prescribe. But on the Greek stage 40 which has its foundations, not in the factitious 
 where the same persons were perpetually be- necessity of custom, but in nature itself, the 
 fore the audience, great judgment was neces- unity of feeUng, is everywhere and at all times 
 sary in venturing on any such change. The observed by Shakespeare in his plays. Read 
 poets never, therefore, attempted to impose Romeo and Juliet; — all is youth and spring, — 
 on the senses by bringing places to men, but 45 youth with its follies, its virtues, its precipi- 
 they did bring men to places, as in the well- tancies; — spring with its odours, its flowers, 
 known instance in the Eumenides,^ where and its transiency; it is one and the same 
 during an evident retirement of the chorus feeling that commences, goes through, and 
 from the orchestra, the scene is changed to ends the play. The old men, the Capulets and 
 Athens, and Orestes is first introduced in the 50 the Montagues, are not common old men ; they 
 temple of Minerva, and the chorus of Furies have an eagerness, a heartiness, a vehemence, 
 come in afterwards in pursuit of him. the effect of spring; with Romeo, his change of 
 
 In the Greek drama there were no formal passion, his sudden marriage, and his rash 
 divisions into scenes and acts; there were no death, are all the effects of youth; — whilst in 
 means, therefore, of allowing for the necessary 55 Juliet love had all that is tender and melan- 
 lapse of time between one part of the dialogue choly in the nightingale, all that is voluptuous 
 and another, and unity of time in a strict sense in the rose, with whatever is sweet in the fresh- 
 
 » The wine of the world. ^^^ ^^ *^^ Spring; but it ends with a long deep 
 
 ' ^schylua's Eumenides, V. 230-239. • Agamemnon, Choephorai, Eumenides. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 547 
 
 sigh like the last breeze of the Italian evening, representation of a veritable fool, — hie labor, 
 This unity of feeling and character pervades hoc opus est.^ A drunken constable is not un- 
 every drama of Shakespeare. common, nor hard to draw; but see and ex- 
 It seems to me that his plays are distin- amine what goes to make up a Dogberry .^ 
 guished from those of all other dramatic poets 5 3. Keeping at all time» in the high road of 
 by the following characteristics: life. Shakespeare has no innocent adulteries, 
 
 1. Expectation in preference to surprise, no interesting incests, no virtuous vice; — he 
 It is like the true reading of the passage— never renders that amiable which religion and 
 "God said, Let there be light, and there was reason alike teach us to detest, or clothes 
 light;"— not there was light. As the feeling 10 impurity in the garb of virtue, hke Beaumont 
 with which we startle at a shooting star com- and Fletcher, the Kotzebues^ of the day. 
 pared with that of watching the sunrise at the Shakespeare's fathers are roused by ingrati- 
 pre-established moment, such and so low is tude, his husbands stung by unfaithfulness; 
 surprise compared with expectation. in him, in short, the affections are wounded 
 
 2. Signal adherence to the great law of na- 15 in those points in which all may, nay, must, 
 ture, that all opposites tend to attract and feel. 
 
 temper each other. Passion in Shakespeare Let the morality of Shakespeare be con- 
 
 generally displays libertinism, but involves trasted with that of the writers of his own, or 
 morality; and if there are exceptions to this, the succeeding age, or of those of the present 
 they are, independently of their intrinsic value, 20 day, who boast their superiority in this respect, 
 all of them indicative of individual character, No one can dispute that the result of such a 
 and, hke the farewell admonitions of the comparison is altogether in favour of Shake- 
 parent, have an end beyond the parental rela- speare; — even the letters of women of high 
 tion. Thus the Countess's beautiful precepts rank in his age were often coarser than his 
 to Bertram, by elevating her character, raise 25 writings. If he occasionally disgusts a keen 
 that of Helena* her favourite, and soften down sense of delicacy, he never injures the mind; 
 the point in her which Shakespeare does not he neither excites, nor flatters passion, in order 
 mean us not to see, but to see and to forgive, to degrade the subject of it; he does not use 
 and at length to justify. And so it is in Polo- the faulty thing for a faulty purpose, nor 
 nius, who is the personified memory of wis- 30 carries on warfare against virtue, by causing 
 dom no longer actually possessed. This ad- wickedness to appear as no wickedness, through 
 mirable character is always misrepresented on the medium of a morbid sympathy with the 
 the stage. Shakespeare never intended to ex- unfortunate. In Shakespeare vice never walks 
 hibit him as a buffoon; for although it was as in twihght; nothing is purposely out of its 
 natural that Hamlet, — a young man of fire 35 place; — he inverts not the order of nature and 
 and genius, detesting formality, and dishking propriety, — does not make every magistrate 
 Polonius on political grounds, as imagining a drunkard or glutton, nor every poor man 
 that he had assisted his uncle in his usurpation, meek, humane, and temperate; he has no 
 — should express himself satirically, — yet this benevolent butchers, nor any sentimental 
 must not be taken as exactly the poet's concep- 40 ratcatchers. 
 
 tion of him. In Polonius a certain induration 4. Independence of the dramatic interest 
 of character had arisen from long habits of on the plot. The interest in the plot is always 
 business; but take his advice to Laertes, and in fact on account of the characters, not vice 
 Ophelia's reverence for his memory, and we versa, as in almost all other writers; the plot is 
 shall see that he was meant to be represented as 45 a mere canvass and no more. Hence arises 
 a statesman somewhat past his faculties — his the true justification of the same stratagem 
 recollections of hfe all full of wisdom, and being used in regard to Benedict and Beatrix, 
 showing a knowledge of human nature, whilst — the vanity in each being alike. Take away 
 what immediately takes place before him, and from the Much Ado About Nothing all that 
 escapes from him, is indicative of weakness. 50 which is not indispensable to the plot, either 
 But as in Homer all the deities are in armour, as having httle to do with it, or, at best, hke 
 even Venus; so in Shakespeare all the characters Dogberry and his comrades, forced into the 
 are strong. Hence real folly and dulness are service, when any other less ingeniously ab- 
 made the vehicles of wisdom. There is no surd watchmen and night constables would 
 difficulty of one being a fool to imitate a fool; 55 
 but to be, remain, and speak like a wise man ^^^^^^ f/„,!°L'SL"Sr*'' " "'''''-'^"<'" <" 
 
 and a great wit, and yet so as to give a vivid e The foolish watchman in Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 "> August F. F. von Kotzebue, a German dramatist 
 * Bertram, Helena, are characters in All's Well that born in 1761. His plays are pervaded by the tone of 
 Ends Well. moral laxity. 
 
548 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 have answered the mere necessities of the reader; — they are not told to him. And it is 
 action; — take away Benedict, Beatrice, Dog- well worth remarking that Shakespeare's char- 
 berry, and the reaction of the former on the acters, like those in real life, are very com- 
 character of Hero, — and what would remain? monly misunderstood, and almost always 
 In other writers the main agent of the plot is 5 understood by different persons in different 
 always the prominent character; in Shake- ways. The causes are the same in either case. 
 speare it is so, or is not so, as the character is in If you take only what the friends of the char- 
 itself calculated, or not calculated, to form acter say, you may be deceived, and still more 
 the plot. Don John is the mainspring of the so, if that which his enemies say; nay, even 
 plot of this play; but he is merely shown and 10 the character himself sees himself through 
 then withdrawn. the medium of his character, and not exactly 
 
 5. Independence of the interest on the story as he is. Take all together, not omitting a 
 as the groundwork of the plot. Hence Shake- shrewd hint from the clown or the fool, and 
 speare never took the trouble of inventing perhaps your impression will be right; and you 
 stories. It was enough for him to select from 15 may know whether you have in fact discovered 
 those that had already been invented or re- the poet's own idea, by all the speeches rcceiv- 
 corded such as had one or other, or both, of ing light from it, and attesting its reahty by 
 two recommendations, namely, suitableness to reflecting it. 
 
 his particular purpose, and their being parts of Lastly, in Shakespeare the heterogeneous is 
 
 popular tradition, — names of which we had 20 united, as it is in nature. You must not sup- 
 often heard, and of their fortunes, and as to pose a pressure or passion always acting on or 
 which all we wanted was, to see the man him- in the character! — Passion in Shakespeare is 
 self. So it is just the man himself, the Lear, that by which the individual is distinguished 
 the Shylock, the Richard, that Shakespeare from others, not that which makes a different 
 makes us for the first time acquainted with. 25 kind of him. Shakespeare followed the main 
 Omit the first scene in Lear, and yet every march of the human affections. He entered 
 thing will remain; so the first and second into no analysis of the passions or faiths of men, 
 scenes in the Merchant of Venice. Indeed it is but assured himself that such and such pas- 
 universally true. sions and faiths were grounded in our common 
 
 6. Interfusion of the lyrical — that which in 30 nature, and not in the mere accidents of ig- 
 its very essence is poetical — not only with the norance or disease. This is an important 
 dramatic, as in the plays of Metastasio,^ where consideration and constitutes our Shakespeare 
 at the end of the scene comes the aria as the the morning star, the guide and the pioneer, 
 exit speech of the character, — but also in and of true philosophy. 
 
 through the dramatic. Songs in Shakespeare 35 
 
 are introduced as songs only, just as songs are 
 
 in real life, beautifully as some of them are Mobftt ^OUtl)^ 
 
 characteristic of the person who has sung or 
 
 called for them, as Desdemona's "Willow," 1774-1843 
 
 and OpheUa's wild snatches, and the sweet 40 
 
 carollings in As You Like It. But the whole THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR 
 
 of the Midsummer Night's Dream is one con- (j,^^^ ^ .^^ ^j ^^^ 1813) 
 
 tmued specimen of the dramatised lyricaL 
 
 And observe how exquisitely the dramatic of His [Nelson's] services were as willingly 
 
 Hotspur; — 45 accepted as they were offered, and Lord Bar- 
 
 Marry, and I'm glad on't with all my heart; ^^™'^ giving him the list of the navy, desired 
 I'd rather be a kitten and cry— mew, &c. ^^^ to choose his own officers. "Choose your- 
 
 melts away into the lyric of Mortimer;- ^^^/' ^^ ^^T/^'" 7«, ^^ ^^P^^ '. " ^^^ «^"^^ ^^'''l 
 
 actuates the whole profession: you cannot 
 
 «^"^i?^^i^"^ *^y ^°°K^' ^^^^ P^^^^-y ^^^^^ 50 choose wrong." Lord Barham then desired 
 Which thou pourest down from these swelling tinj to say what ships and how many he would 
 
 T orv, ♦«« ^r.Je^r.i- ;^ jp « wish, in addition to the fleet which he was 
 
 1 am too perfect in, &c. . ' , j -j .^, 1 u r n 
 
 Henry IV, Part 1 Act iii sc. 1. S^^^S to command, and said they should follow 
 
 him as soon as each was ready. No appoint- 
 ^ 7. The characters of the dramatis personcB, 55 ment was ever more in unison with the feelings 
 like those in real life, are to be inferred by the and judgment of the whole nation. They, like 
 
 , . ^ ,. _ 1 Charles Mifldleton (1726-1813), who had then been 
 
 »An Itahan Dramatist (1698-1782), and court-poet receutlv appointed First Lord of the Admiralty (April 30. 
 
 at Vienna, who wrote lync dramas, various composers 1805). and raised to the peerage as Lord Barham, after 
 
 supplying the music for each. a long and honorable career in the navy. 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY 549 
 
 Lady Hamilton, 2 thought that the destruction by taking a by-way to the beach, but a crowd 
 of the combined fleets ought properly to be collected in his tram, pressing forward to obtain 
 Nelson's work; that he who had been sight of his face; many were in tears, and many 
 
 "Tioif o*.^„.^.1 +k« o^« „;«<- u^n knelt down before him, and blessed him as he 
 
 Half around the sea-girt ball, ^_ jTr.iJT.i.j 1. 1^ 
 
 The hunter of the recreant Gaul,"' 5 passed. England has had many heroes, but 
 
 never one who so entirely possessed the love of 
 ought to reap the spoils of the chase which he his fellow-countrymen as Nelson. All men 
 had watched so long and so perseveringly knew that his heart was as humane as it was 
 pursued. fearless; that there was not in his nature the 
 
 Unremitting exertions were made to equip 10 slightest alloy of selfishness or cupidity, but 
 the ships which he had chosen, and especially that with perfect and entire demotion he served 
 to refit the Victory, which was once more to his country with all his heart, and with all his 
 bear his flag. Before he left London he called soul, and with all his strength; and therefore 
 at his upholsterer's, where the coffin* which they loved him as truly and as fervently as he 
 Captain Hallowell had given him was deposited, 15 loved England. They pressed upon the parapet 
 and desired that its history might be engraven to gaze after him when his barge pushed off, and 
 upon the lid, saying it was highly probable he he was returning their cheers by waving his hat. 
 might want it on his return. He seemed, in- The sentinels, who endeavoured to prevent them 
 deed, to have been impressed with an expecta- from trespassing upon this ground, were wedged 
 tion that he should fall in the battle. In a letter 20 among the crowd, and an officer who, not very 
 to his brother, written immediately after his prudently upon such an occasion, ordered 
 return, he had said: "We must not talk of Sir them to drive the people down with their bay- 
 Robert Calder's battle.^ I might not have done onets, was compelled speedily to retreat; for 
 so much with my small force. If I had fallen the people would not be debarred from gazing 
 in with them, you might probably have been 25 till the last moment upon the hero — the dar- 
 a lord before I wished, for I know they meant ling hero — of England. . . . 
 to make a dead set at the Victory" Nelson had About half-past nine in the morning of the 
 once regarded the prospect of death with gloomy 19th the Mars, being the nearest to the fleet 
 satisfaction; it was when he anticipated the of the ships which formed the line of communi- 
 upbraidings of his wife and the displeasure of 30 cation with the frigates in-shore, repeated the 
 his venerable father. The state of his feelings signal that the enemy were coming out of port.« 
 now was expressed in his private journal in The wind was at this time very light, with par- 
 these words: " Friday night (Sept. 13th), at half- tial breezes, mostly from the S. S. W. Nelson 
 past ten, I drove from dear, dear Merton, where ordered the signal to be made for a chase in the 
 I left all which I hold dear in this world, to go to 35 south-east quarter. About two the repeating 
 serve my king and country. May the great ships announced that the enemy were at sea. 
 God whom I adore enable me to fulfil the expec- All night the British fleet continued under all 
 tations of my country! And if it is His good sail, steering to the southeast. At daybreak^ 
 pleasure that I should return, my thanks will they were in the entrance of the Straits, but 
 never cease being ofi'ered up to the throne of 40 the enemy were not in sight. About seven, one 
 His mercy. If it is His good providence to cut of the frigates made signal that the enemy were 
 short my days upon earth, I bow with the bearing north. Upon this the Victory hove-to, 
 greatest submission; relying that He will pro- and shortly afterwards Nelson made sail again 
 tect those so dear to me whom I may leave be- to the northward. In the afternoon the wind 
 hind. His will be done. Amen! Amen! Amen!" 45 blew fresh from the south-west, and the English 
 
 Early on the following morning he reached began to fear that the foe might be forced to re- 
 Portsmouth, and having despatched his busi- turn to port, 
 ness on shore, endeavoured to elude the populace A little before sunset, however, BIackwood,8 
 
 2 A beautiful adventuress, who gained an unfortunate in the Euryolus, telegraphed that they appeared 
 
 influence over Nelson. His attachment to her brought gg determined tO gO tO the westward. And 
 
 '''^to^'^:htSfS°^S^frXy}o^<^^i^^-Croy..r. that," said the Admiral in his diary "they 
 
 Croker was secretary of the Admiralty when the Life of q^q\\. not do, if it is in the power of Nelson and 
 
 ScTteThif book''^' '°^ '"' "^' '' ^'" ''^' ^'"'^'"^ Bronte to prevent them." Nelson had signified 
 
 4 This coffin was made of the main-mast of the French ^q Blackwood that he depended Upon him to 
 ship L'Orient, which had been one of the ships in the 
 
 fleet defeated by Nelson in the battle of the Nile. 1798. 6 1 e.. Cadiz. Uo*tip „f Tra 
 
 It was presented to Nelson by Capt. Hallowell. that the ^ On October 21, 1805, the day of the battle of Tra- 
 
 great Admiral might be buried in one of his trophies. falgar. t,i i j f^T^7c\ ic'Jo\ \^^A Koon „\-^c.r, 
 
 6 An engagement between the Franco-Spanish fleet s sir Henry Blackwood (1770-1832), had been given 
 
 and the Engtish. which took place off Cape Finisterre. command of the l^-f'P'l'^'^^X'.^^f ^l^f{^ the 
 
 July 22. 1805. Calder was severely criticised for not keeping the Admiral informed of every move of the 
 
 winning a decisive victory. enemy. 
 
550 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 keep sight of tlio enemy. They were observed fleet! For myself individually, — I commit 
 so well that all their motions were made known my life to Him that made me, and may His 
 to him, and, as they wore twice, he inferred that blessing alight on my endeavours for serving 
 that they were aiming to keep the port of Cadiz my country faithfully! To Him I resign my- 
 open, and would retreat there as soon as they 5 self, and the just cause which is entrusted to 
 saw the British fleet; for this reason he was very me to defend. Amen, Amen, Amen." . . . 
 careful not to approach near enough to be seen Blackwood went on board the Victory about 
 by them during the night. At daybreak the com- six. He found him in good spirits, but very 
 bined fleets^ were distinctly seen from the ViC' calm ; not in that exhilaration which he had 
 ton/ 's deck, formed in a close line of battle ahead, 10 felt upon entering into battle at Aboukir and 
 on the starboard tack, about twelve miles to Copenhagen; he knew that his own life would 
 leeward, and standing to the south. Our fleet be particularly aimed at, and seems to have 
 consisted of twenty-seven sail of the line and looked for death with almost as sure an ex- 
 four frigates;^" theirs of thirty- three and seven pectation as for victory. His whole attention 
 large frigates. Their superiority was greater in 15 was fixed upon the enemy. They tacked to the 
 size and weight of metal than in numbers. northward, and formed their line on the lar- 
 They had four thousand troops on board; and board tack; thus bringing the shoals of Trafal- 
 the best riflemen who could be procured, many gar and St. Pedro under the lee of the British 
 of them Tyrolese, were dispersed through the and keeping the port of Cadiz open for them- 
 ships. Little did the Tyrolese, and little did 20 selves. This was judiciously done; and Nelson, 
 the Spaniards at that day, imagine what horrors aware of all the advantages which it gave them, 
 the wicked tyrant whom they served was pre- made signal to prepare to anchor, 
 paring for their country. Villeneuve^' was a skilful seaman, worthy 
 
 Soon after dayhght Nelson came upon deck, of serving a better master and a better cause. 
 The 21st of October was a festival in his family, 25 His plan of defence was as well conceived and 
 because on that day his uncle. Captain Suckling as original as the plan of attack. He formed 
 in the Dreadnought, with two other line-of- the fleet in a double line, every alternate ship 
 battle ships, had beaten off a French squadron being about a cable's length" to windward of 
 of four sail of the line and three frigates.^* her second ahead and astern. Nelson, certain 
 Nelson, with that sort of superstition from 30 of a triumphant issue to the day, asked Black- 
 which few persons are entirely exempt, had wood what he should consider as a victory, 
 more than once expressed his persuasion that That officer answered that, considering the 
 this was to be the day of his battle also, and he handsome way in which battle was offered by 
 was well pleased at seeing his prediction about the enemy, their apparent determination for 
 to be verified. The wind was now from the 35 a fair trial of strength, and the situation of the 
 west — light breezes, with a long heavy swell. land, he thought it would be a glorious result if 
 Signal was made to bear down upon the enemy fourteen were captured. He replied: "I shall 
 in two lines, and the fleet set all sail. Colling- not be satisfied with less than twenty." Soon 
 wood,*2 iQ tjie Royal Sovereign, led the lee line afterwards he asked him if he did not think 
 of thirteen ships; the Victory led the weather 40 there was a signal wanting. Captain Black- 
 line of fourteen. Having seen that all was as it wood made answer that he thought the whole 
 should be. Nelson retired to his cabin and wrote fleet seemed very clearly to understand what 
 the following prayer: — "May the great God they were about. These words were scarcely 
 whom I worship grant to my country, and for spoken before that signal was made which will 
 the benefit of Europe in general, a great and 45 be remembered as long as the language or even 
 glorious victory, and may no misconduct in the memory of England shaU endure — Nelson's 
 anyone tarnish it, and may humanity after vie- last signal: "England expects every man to 
 tory be the predominant feature in the British do his duty!" It was received throughout the 
 
 fleet with a shout of answering acclamation, 
 
 » In 1805 Spain formed an alliance^th France and 50 made subfime by the spirit which it breathed 
 
 agreed to furnish twenty-five amps of the line and eleven ,, „,. "^ , . , \ , ,,^r << 
 
 frigates for the combined fleet. and the feelmg which it expressed. "Now, 
 
 JoSail of the line corresponded to the modern battle gaj^ Lord Nelson, "I Can do no more. We 
 ships and were so called because of their heavy arma- , ' .^. /. ,1 
 
 ment. which enabled them to take a place in the line of must trust tO the great Disposer of all events 
 
 I^^i^lf;. ^"^"''' v^T ^^^ irif'f{,oT-t^2''Sf i? lu^ and the justice of our cause. I thank God for 
 
 moacrn cruisers; Nelson called them the eyes or the ^, . '' . - , . i »» 
 
 fleet." 55 this great opportunity of doing my duty. 
 
 Fr:nIS=inn*rwtrMierwSo''cap.!*'suIkiLf u*iTe? , «« wore that day. as usuaJ, his Admiral's 
 
 Commodore Forrest attacked and disabled a powerful frock-COat, beanng on the left breast four starS 
 
 ''""cutX^roilingwood (1750-isio) was ne,t in com- °f '^e different orders with which he was in.\' 
 
 mand to Nelson, with the rank of Vice-AdmiraL i* The French Admiral. ^*A cablets length is 600 feet. " 
 
1^ ROBERT SOUTHEY 551 
 
 vested. Ornaments which rendered him so Villeneuve had made his own dispositions with 
 conspicuous a mark for the enemy were beheld the utmost skill, and the fleets under his com- 
 with ommous apprehensions by his officers, mand waited for the attack with perfect cool- 
 It was known that there were riflemen on board ness. Ten minutes before twelve they opened 
 the French ships, and it could not be doubted 5 their fire. Eight or nine of the ships immedi- 
 but that his life would be particularly aimed at. ately ahead of the Victory, and across her 
 They communicated their fears to each other, bows, fired single guns at her to ascertain 
 and the surgeon, Mr. Beatty,i5 spoke to the whether she was yet within their range. As 
 chaplain, Dr. Scott, and to Mr. Scott, the public soon as Nelson perceived that their shot passed 
 secretary, desiring that some person would lo over him he desired Blackwood and Captain 
 entreat him to change his dress or cover the Prowse, of the Sirius, to repair to their respec- 
 stars; but they knew that such a request would tive frigates, and on then- way to tell all the 
 highly displease him. ''In honour I gained captains of the line-of-battle ships that he de- 
 them," he had said when such a thing had been pended on their exertions, and that, if by the 
 hinted to him formerly, "and in honour I will 15 prescribed mode of attack they found it im- 
 die with them." Mr. Beatty, however, would practicable to get into action immediately, 
 not have been deterred by any fear of exciting they might adopt whatever they thought best, 
 his displeasure from speaking to him himself provided it led them quickly and closely along- 
 upon a subject in which the weal of England, side an enemy. As they were standing on the 
 as well as the life of Nelson, was concerned; but 20 front of the poop, Blackwood took him by 
 he was ordered from the deck before he could the hand, saying he hoped soon to return and 
 find an opportunity. This was a point upon find him in possession of twenty prizes. He 
 which Nelson's officers knew that it was hope- replied, "God bless you, Blackwood; I shall 
 less to remonstrate or reason with him; but never see you again." 
 
 both Blackwood and his own captain, Hardy, 25 Nelson's column was steered about two 
 represented to him how advantageous to the points more to the north than CoUingwood's, 
 fleet it would be for him to keep out of action in order to cut off the enemy's escape into 
 as long as possible, and he consented at last Cadiz. The lee line, therefore, was first en- 
 to let the Leviathan and the T^mtraire, which gaged. "See," cried Nelson, pointing to the 
 were sailing abreast of the Victory, be ordered ZQ Royal Sovereign,^'' as she steered right for the 
 to pass ahead. Yet even here the last infirmity centre of the enemy's line, cut through it astern 
 of this noble mind was indulged, for these of the Santa Anna, three-decker, and engaged 
 ships could not pass ahead if the Victory con- her at the muzzle of her guns on the starboard 
 tinned to carry all her sail, and so far was Nel- side; "see how that noble fellow Collingwood 
 son from shortening sail that it was evident he 35 carries his ship into action!" Collingwood, 
 took pleasure in pressing on, and rendering it delighted at being first in the heat of the fire, 
 impossible for them to obey his own orders. A and knowing the feelings of his Commander 
 long swell was setting into. the Bay of Cadiz, and old friend, turned to his captain and ex- 
 Our ships, crowding all sail, moved majestically claimed, "Rotherham, what would Nelson give 
 before it, with fight winds from the south-west. 40 to be here!" Both these brave officers perhaps 
 The sun shone on the sails of the enemy; and at this moment thought of Nelson with grati- 
 their well-formed line, with their numerous tude for a circumstance which had occurred 
 three-deckers, made an appearance which any on the preceding day. Admiral Collingwood, 
 other assailants would have thought formid- with some of the captains, having gone on 
 able; but the British sailors only admired the 45 board the Fidori/ to receive instructions, Nelson 
 beauty and the splendour of the spectacle, inquired of him where his captain was, and 
 and, in full confidence of winning what they was told in reply that they were not upon good 
 saw, remarked to each other what a fine sight terms with each other. "Terms!" said Nelson, 
 yonder ships would make at Spithead.^' "good terms with each other!" Immediately 
 
 The French Admiral, from the Bucentaure 5ohe sent a boat for Captain Rotherham, led 
 beheld the new manner in which his enemy was him, as soon as he arrived, to Collingwood, and 
 advancing — Nelson and Collingwood each lead- saying, "Look, yonder are the enemy!" bade 
 ing his line; and pointing them out to his of- them shake hands like Englishmen, 
 ficers, he is said to have exclaimed that such The enemy continued to fire a gun at a time 
 conduct could not fail to be successful. Yet 55 at the Victory till they saw that a shot had 
 
 passed through her main-top-gallant sail; then 
 
 "Afterwards Sir William Beatty, physician to the *^ 
 fleet. Beatty's Narration of Lord Nelson's Death was ,.,-,• j . , , 
 
 Southey's chief authority for this part of his book. " Collingwood s ship, being new-coppered, outsailed 
 
 16 Off the south coast of England, between the Isle of the other ships by three-quarters of a mile, and for twenty 
 
 Wight and Portsmouth; a station for the British navy. minutes stood the combined fire of the enemy alone. 
 
552 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 they opened their broadsides, aiming chiefly in his tops; he had a strong dislike to the prao- 
 at her rigging, in the hope of disabUng her tice, not merely because it endangers setting 
 before she could close with them. Nelson, as fire to the sails, but also because it is a mur- 
 UMial, had hoisted several flags, lest one should derous sort of warfare, by which individuals 
 be shot away. The enemy showed no colours 6 may suffer, and a commander now and then 
 till late in the action, when they began to feel be picked off, but which never can decide the 
 the neoessitv of having them to strike. For fate of a general engagement. 
 this leMon the SarUiasima Trinidad— Nelson's Captain Harvey, in the Ttmhaire,^ fell on 
 old acquaintance, as he used to call her— was board the Redoubtable on the other side; an- 
 distinguishable only by her four decks, and to 10 other enemy was in like manner on board the 
 the bow of this opponent he ordered the Victory T^'eraire; so that these four ships formed as 
 to be steered. Meantime an incessant raking fire compact a tier as if they had been moored to- 
 was kept up upon the Victory. The Admiral's gether, their heads all lying the same way. 
 secretary was one of the first who fell; he was The lieutenants of the Victory, seeing this 
 killed by a cannon-shot while conversing with 15 depressed their guns of the middle and lower 
 Hardy. Captain Adair, of the marines, with decks, and fired with a diminished charge, 
 the help of a sailor, endeavoured to remove lest the shot should pass through and injure 
 tbe body from Nelson's sight, who had a great the T^^raire; and because there was danger 
 regard for Mr. Scott; but he anxiously asked, that the Redoubtable might take fire from the 
 **ls that poor Scott that's gone?" and being 20 lower-deck guns, the muzzles of which touched 
 informed that it was indeed so, exclaimed, her side when they were run out, the fireman 
 "Poor fellow!" Presently a double-headed of each gun stood ready with a bucket of water, 
 shot struck a party of marines who were drawn which, as soon as the gun was discharged, he 
 up on the poop, and killed eight of them, upon dashed into the hole made by the shot. An 
 which Nelson immediately desired Captain 25 incessant fire was kept up from the Victory from 
 Adair to disperse his men round the ship, that both sides; her larboard guns playing upon the 
 they might not suffer so much from being to- Bucentaure and the huge Santissima Trinidad. 
 gether. A few minutes afterwards a shot struck It had been part of Nelson's prayer that the 
 
 the fore-brace bits on the quarter-deck, and British fleet might be distinguished by human- 
 passed between Nelson and Hardy, a splinter 30 ity in the victory which he expected. Setting 
 from the bit tearing off Hardy's buckle and an example himself, he twice gave orders to 
 bruising his foot. Both stopped and looked cease firing upon the Redoubtable, supposing 
 anxiously at each other: each supposed the other that she had struck, because her great guns were 
 to be wounded. Nelson then smiled, and said: silent; for, as she carried no flag, there was no 
 "This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long." 35 means of instantly ascertaining the fact. From 
 The Victory had not yet returned a single this ship, which he had thus twice spared, he 
 gun; fifty of her men had been by this time received his death. A ball fired from her 
 killed or wounded, and her main-topmast, with mizzen-top, which in the then situation of the 
 all her studdmg-sails and their booms, shot two vessels was not more than fifteen yards 
 away. Nelson declared that in all his battles 4ofrom that part of the deck where he was stand- 
 be had seen nothing which surpassed the cool ing struck the epaulette on his left shoulder 
 courage of his crew on this occasion. At four about a quarter after one, just in the heat of 
 mimiteB after twelve she opened her fire from action. He fell upon his face, on the spot which 
 both sides of her deck. It was not possible to was covered with his poor secretary's blood. 
 ^^ the enemy s hne without running on 45 Hardy, who was a few steps from him, turning 
 board" one of thor ships; Hardy informed him round, saw three men raising him up. "They 
 o( this, and asked him which he would prefer, have done for me at last, Hardy!" said he. 
 Nelson rephed: 'Take your choice. Hardy; it "I hope not!" cried Hardy. "Yes," he replied, 
 dwe not signify much." The master was "my back-bone is shot through!" Yet even 
 ordered to put the helm to port, and the Fidorr/ 50 now, not for a moment losing his presence of 
 ran on board the RedoubUMe just as her tiller- mind, he observed, as they were carrying him 
 12^ T^ '^K T*^:, .P^ J'^°'^ '^^P '^ ^^^ *^« ladd^^' t^at the tiller-ropes, which had 
 S^IrKf r^^^A*"?^"^^^' then instantly let been shot away, were not yet replaced, and .' 
 do^ her lower^eck porta for fear of being ordered that new ones should be rove im- \ 
 fi^o^ ♦ "^i .""' ^i""^ °^.''^'' afterwards 65 mediately. Then, that he might not be seen " 
 U^thn^nfT.f"°^^®»^u.''°- ^^'iT' ^y ^^^ ^^^^' ^^ took out his handkerchief, 
 wiSi rifl^Jn M f '°''™^ ' ships were filled and covered his face and his stars. Had he but 
 with nflemcn. Nelson never placed musketry concealed these badges of honour from the 
 ■ Akmgride. for boarding purpoees. enemy, England perhaps would not have had 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY 553 
 
 cause to receive with sorrow the news of the ascertain this, said to him: "You know I am 
 battle of Trafalgar. The cockpit was crowded gone. I know it. I feel something rising in 
 with wounded and dying men, over whose my breast" — putting his hand on his left side — 
 bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, "which tells me so." And upon Beatty's in- 
 and laid upon a pallet in the midshipmen's 5 quiring whether his pain was very great, he 
 berth. It was soon perceived upon examina- replied, "So great that he wished he was dead, 
 tion that the wound was mortal. This, how- Yet," said he in a lower voice, "one would hke 
 ever, was concealed from all except Captain to live a little longer too!" And after a few 
 Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attend- minutes, in the same under-tone, he added: 
 ants. He himseK being certain, from the sensa- 10 "What would become of poor Lady Hamilton 
 tion in his back and the gush of blood he felt if she knew my situation?" Next to his coun- 
 momently within his breast, that no human try she occupied his thoughts. Captain Hardy, 
 care could avail him, insisted that the surgeon some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit, 
 should leave him, and attend to those to whom returned, and again taking the hand of his dy- 
 he might be useful; "for," said he, "you canising friend and Conmiander, congratulated him 
 do nothing for me." All that could be done on having gained a complete victory. How 
 was to fan him with paper, and frequently to many of the enemy were taken he did not 
 give him lemonade to alleviate his intense know, as it was impossible to perceive them 
 thirst. He was in great pain, and expressed distinctly, but fourteen or fifteen at least, 
 much anxiety for the event of the action, which 20 "That's well!" cried Nelson, "but I bargained 
 now began to declare itself. As often as a ship for twenty." And then in a stronger voice he 
 struck, the crew of the Victory hurraed, and said: "Anchor, Hardy, anchor." Hardy upon 
 at every hurra a visible expression of joy this hinted that Admiral CoUingwood would 
 gleamed in the eyes and marked the counte- take upon himseK the direction of affairs. "Not 
 nance of the dying hero. But he became im- 25 while I five. Hardy," said the dying Nelson, 
 patient to see Captain Hardy; and as that ineffectually endeavouring to raise himself 
 officer, though often sent for, could not leave from the bed. " Do you anchor." His previous 
 the deck, Nelson feared that some fatal cause order for preparing to anchor had shown how 
 prevented him, and repeatedly cried: "Will clearly he foresaw the necessity of this. Fres- 
 no one bring Hardy to me? He must be killed! 30 ently, calling Hardy back, he said to him in 
 He is surely dead!" An hour and ten minutes low voice: "Don't throw me overboard!" and 
 elapsed from the time when Nelson received he desired that he might be buried by his 
 his wound before Hardy could come to him. parents unless it should please the king to order 
 They shook hands in silence; Hardy in vain otherwise. Then, reverting to private feelings, 
 struggling to suppress the feehngs of that most 35 "Take care of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy; 
 painful and yet sublimest moment. "Well, take care of poor Lady Hamilton. Kiss me. 
 Hardy," said Nelson, "how goes the day with Hardy!" said he. Hardy knelt down and 
 us?" — "Very well," replied Hardy, "ten ships kissed his cheek, and Nelson said: "Now I am 
 have struck, but five of the van have tacked satisfied. Thank God I have done my duty!" 
 and show an intention to bear down upon the 40 Hardy stood over him in silence for a moment 
 Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh or two, then knelt again, and kissed his fore- 
 ships round, and have no doubt of giving head. "Who is that?" said Nelson; and being 
 them a drubbing." — "I hope," said Nelson, informed, he replied: "God bless you, Hardy!" 
 "none of our ships have struck?" Hardy And Hardy then left him for ever, 
 answered, "There was no fear of that." Then, 45 Nelson now desired to be turned upon his 
 and not till then, Nelson spoke of himself, right side, and said: "I wish I had not left the 
 "I am a dead man, Hardy," said he, "I am deck, for I shall soon be gone." Death was 
 going fast; it will be all over with me soon, indeed rapidly approaching. He said to the 
 Come nearer to me. Let my dear Lady Hamil- chaplain: "Doctor, I have not been a great 
 ton have my hair and all other things belong- 50 sinner." And after a short pause: "Remember 
 ing to me." Hardy observed that he hoped that I leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter 
 Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some prospect Horatia as a legacy to my country." His 
 of life. "Oh, no!" he replied, "it is impossible; articulation now became difficult, but he was 
 my back is shot through. Beatty will tell you distinctly heard to say: "Thank God, I have 
 so." Captain Hardy then once more shook 55 done my duty!" These words he repeatedly 
 hands with him, and with a heart almost burst- pronounced, and they were the last words 
 ing hastened upon deck. which he uttered. He expired at thirty minutes 
 
 By this time all feeling below the breast was after four, three hours and a quarter after he 
 gone; and Nelson, having made the surgeon had received his wound. . . . 
 
654 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 The death of Nelson was felt in England as hero in the hour of victory; and if the chariot 
 flomcthiDK more than a public calamity; men and the horses of fire had been vouchsafed for 
 Ttjkd at the inteUigence and turned pale, as Nelson's translation, he could scarcely have 
 if they bad heard of the loss of a dear friend, departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has 
 \n object of our admiration and affection, of 5 left us, not indeed his mantle of inspiration, 
 our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly tsken but a name and an example which are at this 
 from us; and it seemed as if we had never till hour inspiring thousands of the youth of Eng- 
 tben known how deeply we loved and rever- land— a name which is our pnde, and an ex- 
 enoed him. What the country had lost in its ample which will continue to be our shield 
 gieat naval hero— the greatest of our own and loand our strength. Thus it is that the spirits 
 of all former times— was scarcely taken into of the great and the wise continue to Hve and 
 lie aooount of grief. So perfectly indeed had to act after them, verifying in this sense the 
 le performed his part that the maritime war language of the old my thologist: 
 Iter the battle of Trafalgar was considered at ,j,^^ ^^ dalfwpes eWL, Aids fieydXov SiA /9ouXAs 
 an end: the fleets of the enemy were not merely 15 'E<re\ol, iinxO(>vioi., <pv\aKes dvvrQv dvdpuiirtov.^^ 
 defeated, but destroyed; new navies must be 
 built, and a new race of seamen reared for ^^ 
 
 them, before the possibiUty of their invading Cf HtUS^ ilaUlb 
 
 our shores could again be contemplated. It I77ti-18^4 
 
 was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection 20 ^''^ 
 
 upon the magnitude of our loss that we mourned riPT?AM rminPFM- A pfvfrv 
 
 for him; the general sorrow was of a higher DREAM CHILDREN. A REVERY 
 
 character. The people of England grieved that (Essays of Elia, 1822-24) 
 
 funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, 
 
 and posthumous rewards were all which they 25 Children love to listen to stories about their 
 could now bestow upon him whom the king, elders, when they were children ; to stretch their 
 the Legislature, and the nation would have imagination to the conception of a traditionary 
 alike delighted to honour; whom every tongue great-uncle, or grandame whom they never 
 would have blessed; whose presence in every saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones 
 village through which he might have passed 30 crept about me the other evening to hear about 
 would have wakened the church bells, have their great-grandmother Field, ^ who lived in 
 given school-boys a hoUday, have drawn a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times 
 children from their sports to gaze upon him, bigger than that in which they and Papa lived) 
 and "old men from the chimney-corner" to which had been the scene — so at least it was 
 look upon Nelson ere they died. The victory 35 generally believed in that part of the country — 
 of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the of the tragic incidents which they had lately 
 usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without become familiar with from the ballad of the 
 joy; for such already was the glory of the Children in the Wood.^ Certain it is that the 
 British navy through Nelson's surpassing whole story of the children and their cruel 
 genius that it scarcely seemed to receive any 40 uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood 
 addition from the most signal victory that ever upon the chimney piece of the great hall, the 
 was achieved upon the seas; and the destruction whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts, 
 of this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set 
 schemes of France were totally frustrated, up a marble one of modem invention in its 
 hardly appeared to add to our security or 45 stead, with no story upon it. Here AHce put 
 strength; for while Nelson waa hving, to watch out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender 
 the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt to be called upbraiding. Then I went on to 
 ourselves as secure as now, when they were no flay, how religious and how good their great- 
 longerin existence. grandmother Field was, how beloved and 
 
 There was reason to suppose, from the ap- 50 respected by everybody, though she was not 
 peaninoes upon opening the body, that in the 
 
 course of nature he might have attained, Uke ""Shining spirits there are that dwell upon earth 
 
 his father, to a good old age. Yet he cannot be Prompting uu^trious deeds, and fulfilling the counsel 
 
 said to have fallen prematurely whose work °' Zeus." Hesiod, Works and Days, 122. 
 
 w« done nor ought he to be lamented y\^o,,^tl^'£;!Z^^^^^Tf^^^:rI^t^^^!S- 
 
 aiea so lull of honours and at the height of 'ectionsof their "fine old family mansion "at Blakesmoor 
 
 human fame. The most triumphant death is R£.sl^\i «'^^' ^nd form the subject of the essay 
 
 ♦u-* ^r au _l XL ^ * 1 ., """^o ^laicesmoor %n H . . . . ahire. Lamb, in his fondness foi 
 
 tnat of the martyr; the most awful that of the disguising facts, here places it in Norfolk. 
 
 martyred patriot; the most splendid that of the w^^^ ^^"^^^'^^ °^^ ^"'^' ^°'''' ^^ ^ ^*^ ^ *^ 
 
CHARLES LAMB 555 
 
 indeed the mistress of this great house, but roaming about that huge mansion, with its 
 had only the charge of it (and yet in some vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hang- 
 respects she might be said to be the mistress ings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken 
 of it too) committed to her by the owner, who panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out — 
 preferred living in a newer and more fashion- 5 sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gar- 
 able mansion which he had purchased some- dens, which I had almost to myself, unless 
 where in the adjoining county; but still she when now and then a solitary gardening man 
 lived in it in a manner as if it had been her would cross me — and how the nectarines and 
 own, and kept up the dignity of the great house peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever 
 in a sort while she Uved, which afterwards came 10 offering to pluck them, because they were 
 to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all forbidden fruit, unless now and then, — and 
 its old ornaments stripped and carried away because I had more pleasure in strolling about 
 to the owner's other house, where they were among the old melancholy-looking yew-trees, 
 set up, and looked as awkward as if some one or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and 
 were to carry away the old tombs they had 15 the fir-apples, which were good for nothing 
 seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in but to look at — or in lying about upon the 
 Lady C's tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here fresh grass with all the fine garden smells 
 John smiled, as much as to say, 'Hhat would around me — or basking in the orangery, till 
 be foolish indeed." And then I told how, when I could almost fancy myself ripening too along 
 she came to die, her funeral was attended by 20 with the oranges and the hmes in that grateful 
 a concourse of all the poor, and some of the warmth — or in watching the dace that darted 
 gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of 
 miles round, to show their respect for her the garden, with here and there a great sulky 
 memory, because she had been such a good pike hanging midway down the water in silent 
 and religious woman; so good indeed that she 25 state, as if it mocked at their impertinent 
 knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great friskings, — I had more pleasure in these busy- 
 part of the Testament besides. Here little idle diversions than in all the sweet flavours of 
 Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like 
 tall, upright, graceful person their great- common baits of children. Here John slyl^ 
 grandmother Field once was; and how in her 30 deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, 
 youth she was esteemed the best dancer — here which, not unobserved by Alice, he had medi- 
 Alice's httle right foot played an involuntary tated dividing with her, and both seemed 
 movement, till, upon my looking grave, it willing to relinquish them for the present as 
 desisted — the best dancer, I was saying, in irrelevant. Then, in somewhat a more height- 
 the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer 35 ened tone, I told how, though their great- 
 came, and bowed her down with pain; but it grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, 
 could never bend her good spirits, or make them yet in an especial manner she might be said to 
 
 stoop, but they were still upright, because love their uncle, John L f because he was 
 
 she was so good and religious. Then I told so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king 
 how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone 40 to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about 
 chamber of the great lone house; and how she in sohtary corners, like some of us, he would 
 believed that an apparition of two infants was mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, 
 to be seen at midnight gliding up and down when but an imp no bigger than themselves, 
 the great staircase near where she slept, but and make it carry him half over the county 
 she said "those innocents would do her no 45 in a morning, and join the hunters when there 
 harm;" and how frightened I used to be, were any out — and yet he loved the old great 
 though in those days I had my maid to sleep house and gardens too, but had too much 
 with me, because I was never half so good or spirit to be always pent up within their boun- 
 religious as she — and yet I never saw the in- daries — and how their uncle grew up to man's 
 fants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows 50 estate as brave as he was handsome, to the 
 and tried to look courageous. Then I told admiration of everybody, but of their great- 
 how good she was to all her grandchildren, grandmother Field most especially; and how 
 having us to the great house in the holy-days, he used to carry me upon his back when I was 
 where I in particular used to spend many a lame-footed boy — for he was a good bit older 
 hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts 55 than me — many a mile when I could not walk 
 of the twelve Csesars, that had been Emperors for pain;— and how in after life he became 
 of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) 
 
 to live again, or I to be turned into marble 3 Lamb's brother John, twelve years his senior, had 
 
 with them; how I never could be tired with died a short time before this essay was written. 
 
556 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 make allowances enough for him when he was DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS 
 tropatient and in pain, nor remember suf- AND READING 
 
 6ciently how considerat^ he had been to me ^333^ 
 
 when I was lame-footed; and how when he ^ n ^ i 
 
 died, though he had not been dead an hour, 5 rpo mind the inside of a book is to entertain 
 it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, one's self with the forced product of another 
 such a distance there is betwixt life and death; man's brain. Now I think a man of quality 
 and how I bore his death as I thought pretty and breeding may be much amused with the 
 weU at firet, but afterwards it haunted and natural sprouts of his own.— Lord Foppmgton/ 
 haunted me; and though I did not cry or take lo "^ ^ '^ KeUivse. 
 it to heart as some do, and as I think he would ^ . 
 
 have done if 1 had died, yet I missed him all An mgenious acquamtance of my own was 
 day long, and knew not till then how much I so much struck with this bnght sally of his 
 had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I Lordship, that he has left off reading alto- 
 missed his crossness, and wished him to be 15 gether, to the great improvement of his origi- 
 alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for nality. At the hazard of losing some credit on 
 we quarrelled sometimes), rather than not this head, I must confess that I dedicate no 
 have him again, and was as uneasy without inconsiderable portion of my time to other 
 . him, as he, their poor uncle, must have been people's thoughts. I dream away my life in 
 when the doctor took ofif his limb— Here the 20 others' speculations. I love to lose myself in 
 children fell a-crying. and asked if their little other men's minds. When I am not walking, 
 mourning which they had on was not for Uncle I am reading; I cannot sit and think. Books 
 John, and they looked up, and prayed me not think for me. 
 
 to go on about their uncle, but to tell them I have no repugnances. Shaftsbury^ is not 
 some stories about their pretty dead mother. 25 too genteel for me, nor Jonathan Wild^ too low. 
 Then I told how for seven long years, in hope I can read anything which I call o hook. There 
 sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting are things in that shape which I cannot allow 
 
 ever, I courted the fair .\lice W n; and as for such. 
 
 much as children could understand, I explained, In this catalogue of hooks which are no books — 
 to them what coyness, and difficulty, and de-3obiblia a-biblia — I reckon Court Calendars, 
 nial meant in maidens— when suddenly turn- Directories, Pocket-Books, Draught Boards,* 
 ing to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked bound and lettered on the back, Scientific Trea- 
 out at her eyes with such a reality of repre- tises. Almanacs, Statutes at Large: the works 
 sentment, that I became in doubt which of of Hume, Gibbon, Robertson, Beattie, Soame 
 thera stood there before me, or whose that 35 Jenyns, and generally, all those volumes which 
 bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, *'no gentleman's library should be without:" 
 both the children gradually grew fainter to my the Histories of Flavius Josephus (that learned 
 view, recedmg, and still receding, till nothing Jew), and Paley's Moral Philosophy. With 
 at last but two mournful features were seen these exceptions, I can read almost anything. 
 in the uttermost distance, which, without 40 I bless my stars for a taste so catholic, so un- 
 speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects excluding. 
 
 of 8i>eech: " We are not of Alice,* nor of thee, I confess that it moves my spleen to see these 
 
 nor are we children at all. The children of things in books' clothing perched upon shelves 
 Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing; like false saints, usurpers of true shrines, in- 
 less than nothing, and dreams. We are only 45 truders into the sanctuary, thrusting out the 
 what might have been, and must wait upon legitimate occupants. To reach down a well- 
 Ihe tedious shores of Lethe^ millions of ages bound semblance of a volume, and hope It 
 before we have existence, and a name;"— and some kind-hearted playbook, then, opening 
 immediately awaking, I found myself quietly what ''seem its leaves," to come bolt upon a 
 seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had 60 withering Population Essay.^ To expect a 
 fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget* un- 
 changed by my side— but John L. (or James ' A shallow, affected dandy in Sir John Vanbrugh's 
 Elia) was eone forever p'^^- ^^® Relapse, 1697. 
 
 L^imj was gone lorever. ^Anthony Ashley Cooper, third Earl of Shnftsburv 
 
 vl(>71-1713). A moral philosopher and generally con- 
 . * h«»"D never married. He gave up bis courtship of sidered a model of the genteel style in writing. 
 the fair Ahre" io order to devote bis life to the care of t.^ famous English thief (c. 1682-1725). He is the 
 
 bin afflicted hister Mary. subject of Fielding's satire. Hiafory of a Life of the Late 
 
 •The river of forgetfulneas in Greek mythology ^''- Jonathan Wild the Great (1743). 
 
 •The cousin Bridget of the E*aay» of Elia la Lamb'a . \Folding checker-boards, made outwardly to resemble 
 ■*'" Mary. books. 
 
 /Malthua, an English economist, published in 1798 
 nia famous essay on the Principle of Population. v 
 
 \ 
 
CHARLES LAMB 557 
 
 Steele, or a Farquhar, and find — Adam Smith.^ We know not where is that Promethean torch 
 
 To view a well-arranged assortment of block- That can its light relumine,— ^ 
 
 headed Encyclopaedias (Anglicanas or Metro- 
 
 politanas) set out in an array of russia, or such a book, for instance, as the Life of the 
 
 morocco, when a tithe of that good leather 5 Duke of Newcastle, by his Duchess^"— no casket 
 
 would comfortably reclothe my shivering is rich enough, no casing sufficiently durable, 
 
 folios; would renovate Paracelsus' himself, to honour and keep safe such a jewel. 
 
 and enable old Raymund LuUy^ to look like Not only rare volumes of this description, 
 
 himself again in the world. I never see these which seem hopeless ever to be reprinted, but 
 
 impostors, but I long to strip them, to warm lo old editions of writers, such as Sir Philip 
 
 my ragged veterans in their spoils. Sydney, Bishop Taylor, Milton in his prose 
 
 To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the works, Fuller — of whom we have reprints, yet 
 desideratum of a volume. Magnificence comes the books themselves, though they go about, 
 after. This, when it can be afforded, is not and are talked of here and there, we know 
 to be lavished upon all kinds of books indis- 15 have not endenizened themselves (nor possibly 
 criminately. I would not dress a set of Maga- ever will) in the national heart, so as to be- 
 zines, for instance, in full suit. The dishabille, come stock books — it is good to possess these 
 or half -binding (with russia backs ever) is our in durable and costly covers. I do not care for a 
 costume. A Shakespeare or a Milton (unless First Folio of Shakespeare. ^^ [You cannot 
 the first editions), it were mere foppery to 20 make a pe^ book of an author whom everybody 
 trick out in gay apparel. The possession of reads.] I rather prefer the common editions of 
 them confers no distinction. The exterior of Rowe and Tonson,^^ without notes, and with 
 them (the things themselves being so common), plates, which, being so execrably bad, serve 
 strange to say, raises no sweet emotions, no as maps or modest remembrancers to the text; 
 tickling sense of property in the owner. Thom- 25 and, without pretending to any supposable 
 son's Seasons, again, looks best (I maintain it) emulation with it, are so much better than the 
 a little torn and dog's-eared. How beautiful Shakespeare gallery engravings,^^ which did. 
 to a genuine lover of reading are the sullied Ihaveacommunity of feeling with my country- 
 leaves, and worn-out appearance, nay, the men about his Plays, and I like those editions 
 very odour (beyond russia), if we would not 30 of him best which have been of ten est tumbled 
 forget kind feelings in fastidiousness, of an old about and handled. — On the contrary, I can- 
 " Circulating Library" Tom Jones, or Vicar of not read Beaumont and Fletcher but in Folio. 
 Wakefield! How they speak of the thousand The Octavo editions are painful to look at. 
 thumbs that have turned over their pages with I have no sympathy with them. If they were 
 delight! — of the lone sempstress, whom they 35 as much read as the current editions of the 
 may have cheered (milliner, or harder- working other poet, I should prefer them in that shape 
 mantua-maker) after her long day's needle-toil, to the older one. I do not know a more heart- 
 running far into midnight, when she has less sight than the reprint of the Anatomy of 
 snatched an hour, ill spared from sleep, to steep Melancholy.^* What need was there of un- 
 her cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spelling 40 earthing the bones of that fantastic old great 
 out their enchanting contents! Who would man, to expose them in a winding sheet of the 
 have them a whit less soiled? what better con- newest fashion to modern censure? what hap- 
 dition could we desire to see them in? less stationer could dream of Burton ever 
 
 In some respects the better a book is, the becoming popular? — The wretched Malone^** 
 less it demands from binding. Fielding, 45 
 
 Smollett, Sterne, and aU that clas3 of perpetu- ' «"?ffiJ„y7^^X?'°uS*^Ll■hian ha»t 
 ally self-reproductive volumes — Great Nature s That can thy light relume." 
 
 Stprpntvnpc! wp spp thpm individuallv oerish "Margaret Cavendiah, Duchess of Nowoastle (1024- 
 
 Otereotypes we see tnem maiviauaiiy pensu ^^^ ^ famous beautv, and voluminous writer of plays 
 with less regret, because we know the copies and poems. Her Life of William Cavendish, Duke of 
 nf thpm tn hp <'pfpmp " Rllt where a book is «50 Newcastle (1667), is generally considered a masterpiece. 
 OI tnem to Oe eteme. out wnere a uook la 5U „ rj,^^ ^^^ collected edition of Shakespeare's works. 
 
 at once both good and rare — where the m- i623. 
 
 HiviflMnl iq nlmnsf- fhp Rnprips and when that "Nicholas Rowe edited the first critical edition of 
 
 dividual IS almost tne species, anu wnen inub ghakespeare; it was published by Tonson in :709. 
 
 perishes, " The Shakespeare gallery of John Boydell, who in 
 
 1786 began the publication of a series of prints illustra- 
 
 « The author of the Wealth of Nations, and the founder tive of Shakespeare's plays, after pictures i)iiinted for 
 
 of modern political economy. him by English artists; he built a gallery in Pall Mall for 
 
 ? A celebrated German physician, alchemist, and phi- their exhibition. 
 loBopher (1493-1541) " By Robert Burton (1577-1740), see p. 229. supra. 
 
 8 A medieval philosopher and alchemist, author of a " "This happened in 1793 on the occasion of Malone'a 
 
 system of logic. The presence of Paracelsus and Lully visit to Stratford to examine the municipal and other 
 
 in Lamb's library suggest his fondness for quaint and records of that town, for the purpose of his edition, 
 
 out-of-the-way reading. Ainger. 
 
558 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 couUi not do worse, when he bribe^l the sexton shops and public-houses a fellow will get up 
 of Stratford church to let him whitewash the and spell out a paragraph, which he com- 
 painted effig.v of old Shakespeare, which stood municates as some discovery. Another follows 
 there, in rude but lively fashion depicted, to with his selection. So the entire journal tran- 
 the very colour of the cheek, the eye, the eye- 5 spires at length by piecemeal. Seldom-readers 
 brow, hair, the very dress he used to wear— are slow readers, and, without this expedient, 
 the only authentic testimony we had, however no one in the company would probably ever 
 imperfect, of these curious parts and parcels travel through the contents of a whole paper. 
 of him. They covered him over with a coat of Newspapers always excite curiosity. No 
 
 white paint. By , if I had been a justice lo one ever lays one down without a feehng of 
 
 of peace for Warwickshire, I would have clapt disappointment. 
 
 both commentator and sexton fast in the What an eternal time that gentleman in 
 stocks, for a pair of meddling sacrilegious black, at Nando's," keeps the paper! I am 
 varlets. sick of hearing the waiter bawling out inces- 
 
 I think I see them at theur work— these l£ santly, "The Chronicle is in hand, Sir." 
 sapient trouble-tombs. Coming into an inn at night— having ordered 
 
 Shall I be thought fantastical if I confess, your supper— what can be more delightful 
 that the names of some of our poets sound than to find lying in the window-seat, left 
 .sweeter, and have a finer relish to the ear — to there time out of mind by the carelessness of 
 mine, at least— than that of Milton or Shake- 20 some former guest,— two or <^hree numbers of 
 speare? It may be, that the latter are more the old Town and Country Magazine, with 
 staled and rung upon in common discourse, its amusing tete-d-tete pictures — "The Royal 
 
 The sweetest names, and which carry a per- Lover and Lady G ;" "The Melting Pla- 
 
 fume in the mention, are, Kit Marlowe, Dray- tonic and the old Beau," — and such-like anti- 
 ton, Drummond of Hawthornden, and Cowley. 25 quated scandal? Would you exchange it — at 
 
 Much depends upon when and where you that time, and in that place — for a better book? 
 read a book. In the five or six impatient Poor Tobin,^^ ^]^o latterly fell blind, did 
 minutes, before the dinner is quite ready, who not regret it so much for the weightier kinds of 
 would think of taking up the Fairy Queen for a reading — the Paradise Lost, or Comus, he 
 stopgap, or a volume of Bishop Andrewes*^' 30 could have read to him — but he missed the 
 sermons? pleasure of skimming over with his own eye a 
 
 Milton almost requires a solemn service of magazine, or a light pamphlet, 
 music to be played before you enter upon him. I should not care to be caught in the serious 
 
 But he brings his music, to which, who listens, avenues of some cathedral alone, and reading 
 had need bring docile thoughts, and purged ears. 35 Candide.^^ 
 
 Winter evenings — the world shut out — with I do not remember a more whimsical surprise 
 less of ceremony the gentle Shakespeare enters, than having been once detected — by a familiar 
 At such a season the Tempest, or his own damsel — reclined at my ease upon the grass, 
 Winter's Tale— on Primrose Hill^o (her Cythera) reading 
 
 These two poets you cannot avoid reading 40 PameZa.^i There was nothing in the book to 
 aloud — to yourself, or (as it chances) to some make a man seriously ashamed at the exposure, 
 single person listening. More than one — and but as she seated herself down by me, and 
 it degenerates into an audience. seemed determined to read in company, I 
 
 Books of quick interest, that hurry on for could have wished it had been — any other 
 incidents, are for the eye to glide over only. 45 book. Wereadon very sociably for a few pages; 
 It will not do to read them out. I could never and, not finding the author much to her tiiste, 
 listen to even the better kind of modem novels she got up, and— went away. Gentle casuist, 
 without extreme irksomeness. I leave it to thee to conjecture, whether the 
 
 A newspaper, read out, is intolerable. In blush (for there was one between us) was the 
 some of the Bank offices it is the custom (to 50 property of the nymph or the swain in this 
 save so much individual time) for one of the dilemma. From me you shall never get the 
 clerks— who is the best scholar— to commence secret. 
 upon the Times, or the Chronicle and recite n a London coffee-house. 
 
 Its entire contents aloud, pro bono publico. "John Tobin, a dramatist, whose life had recently 
 
 With every advantage of lungs and elocution, 55 %Y"pSsothical novel by Voltaire, whose sceptical, 
 Ine enect is singularly vapid. In barbers' scoffing spirit Lamb felt would ill harmonize with the 
 
 associations of a cathedral. 
 
 u A »♦»,«-«»- J u *xi- • . , ^Primrose Hill was north of Regent's Park. The 
 
 .„~.:.,.Jil T ™**^l*°^?™\™^/°^^^®*'°?^??*^^!"'^ "familiar damsel" arose from the grass, as Venus did 
 
 Pf? ^1^ i^T^ ^ *** ™?^^ ,*^f, ^'°« ^^""""^ Version from the sea-foam at the isle of Cythera. 
 of the Bible, which appeared in 161 1. "A novel by Samuel Richardson. 
 
CHARLES LAMB 
 
 559 
 
 This boy's case, then thought I, is surely harder, 
 Thus hungry, longing, thus without a penny, 
 Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat: 
 No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat. 
 
 THE SUPERANNUATED 
 
 (From the same) 
 Sera tamen respexit Lihertas.^ 
 A Clerk I was in London gay. 
 
 MAN 
 
 Vergil. 
 O'Keefe. 
 
 I am not much a friend to out-of-doors 
 reading. I cannot settle my spirits to it. I 
 knew a Unitarian minister, who was generally 
 to be seen upon Snow Hill (as yet Skinner's 
 Street was not), between the hours of ten and 5 
 eleven in the morning, studying a volume of 
 Lardner.22 I own this to have been a strain of 
 abstraction beyond my reach. I used to ad- 
 mire how he sidled along, keeping clear of 
 secular contacts. An illiterate encounter with lo 
 a porter's knot,^* or a breadbasket, would have 
 quickly put to flight all the theology I am If peradventure, Reader, it has been thy lot 
 
 master of, and have left me worse than indif- to waste the golden years of thy life — thy 
 ferent to the five points.^^ shining youth — in the irksome confinement of 
 
 There is a class of street-readers, whom 1 15 an office; to have thy prison-days prolonged 
 can never contemplate without affection — the through middle age down to decrepitude and 
 poor gentry, who, not having wherewithal to silver hairs, without hope of release or respite; 
 buy or hire a book, filch a little learning at the to have lived to forget that there are such 
 open stalls — the owner, with his hard eye, things as holidays, or to remember them but 
 casting envious looks at them all the while, 20 as the prerogatives of childhood; then, and 
 and thinking when they will have done. Ven- then only, will you be able to appreciate my 
 turing tenderly, page after page, expecting deliverance. 
 
 every moment when he shall interpose his in- It is now six-and-thirty years^ since I took 
 
 terdict, and yet unable to deny themselves my seat at the desk in Mincing Lane.^ Melan- 
 the gratification, they "snatch a fearful joy." 25choly was the transition at fourteen from the 
 
 Martin B ,2^ in this way, by daily frag- abundant playtime, and the frequently- 
 
 ments, got through two volumes of Clarissa,^^ intervening vacations of school days, to the 
 when the stallkeeper damped his laudable eight, nine, and sometimes ten hours' a-day 
 ambition, by asking him (it was in his younger attendance at the counting-house. But time 
 days) whether he meant to purchase the work. 30 partially reconciles us to anything. I gradually 
 ^M. declares, that under no circumstance in became content — doggedly contented, as wild 
 his life did he ever peruse a book with half the animals in cages. . 
 
 satisfaction which he took in those uneasy It is true I had my Sundays to myself; but 
 
 snatches. A quaint poetess ^^ of our day has Sundays, admirable as the institution of them 
 moralized upon this subject in two very touch- 35 is for purposes of worship, are for that very 
 
 ing but homely stanzas: 
 
 I saw a boy with eager eye 
 Open a book upon a stall, 
 And read, as he'd devour it all; 
 Which, when the stall-man did espy, 
 Soon to the boy I heard him call, 
 "You Sir, you never buy a book. 
 Therefore in one you shall not look." 
 The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh 
 He wish'd he never had been taught to read. 
 Then of the old churl's books he should have 
 had no need. 
 
 Of sufferings the poor have many, 
 
 Which never can the rich annoy. 
 
 I soon perceived another boy, 
 
 Who look'd as if he had not any 
 
 Food, for that day at least, — enjoy 
 
 The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. 
 
 22 Nathaniel Lardner (1684-1768), wrote a noted de- 
 fense of the Christian religion, which was used as a 
 theological text book. 
 
 23 A pad used by portera for carrying trunks. 
 2'< The leading tenets of Calvinistic theology. 
 
 2* Martin Burney, an unsuccessful lawyer, who died 
 in London, 1852. 
 
 ^ Clarissa Harlowe, a novel by Richardson in eight 
 volumes. *^ Mary Lamb. 
 
 reason the very worst adapted for days of un- 
 bending and recreation. In particular, there 
 is a gloom for me attendant upon a city Sunday, 
 a weight in the air. I miss the cheerful cries 
 
 40 of London, the music, and the ballad-singers, — 
 the buzz and stirring murmur of the streets. 
 Those eternal bells depress me. The closed 
 shops repel me. Prints, pictures, all the glit- 
 tering and endless succession of knacks and 
 
 45 gewgaws, and ostentatiously displayed wares 
 of tradesmen, which make a weekday saunter 
 through the less busy parts of the metropolis 
 so delightful — are shut out. No book-stalls 
 deliciously to idle over — no busy faces to re- 
 
 50 create the idle man who contemplates them 
 ever passing by — the very face of business a 
 charm by contrast to his temporary relaxation 
 
 1 The line in Vergil is: lAbertas, quae sera tamen respexit 
 inertem, Liberty, though late, at last looks on the idle. 
 
 2 Lamb was a clerk in the office of the East India Com- 
 pany from 1792-1825. From 1789-92 he had been in 
 the South Sea House. He was retired on a pension of 
 £450, two-thirds of his salary at the time of his retire- 
 ment. 
 
 ^ The South Sea House was on Mincing Lane, and the 
 East India House was not far away. 
 
560 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 from it Nothing to be seen but unhappy quired the cause of them. So taxed, I honestly 
 countcnuicca— or half-happy at best— of eman- made confession of my mfirmity, and added 
 cipated ''prentices and little tradesfolks, with that I was afraid that I should eventually be 
 here and there a servant-maid that has got obliged to resign his service. He spoke some 
 leave to go out, who, slaving all the week, with 5 words of course to hearten me, and there the 
 the habit has lost almost the capacity of enjoy- matter rested. A whole week I remained la- 
 ing a free hour; and liveUly expressing the hoi- bouring under the impression that I had acted 
 lowness of a day's pleasuring. The very imprudently in my disclosure; that I had fool- 
 stroUere in the fields on that day look anything ishly given a handle against myself, and had 
 but comfortable. ^0 ^^^^ anticipating my own dismissal. A week 
 
 But besides Sundays, I had a day at Easter, passed in this manner, the most anxious one, I 
 and a day at Christmas, with a fuU week in the verily believe, in my whole life, when on the 
 summer to go and air myself in my native evening of the 12th of April, just as I was about 
 fields of Hertfordshire.* This last was a great quitting my desk to go home (it might be about 
 indulgence; and the prospect of its recurrence, 15 eight o'clock,) I received an awful summons 
 1 believe, alone kept me up through the year, to attend the presence of the w^hole assembled 
 and made my durance tolerable. But when the firm in the formidable back parlour. I thought 
 week came round, did the glittering phantom now my time is surely come, I have done for 
 of the distance keep touch with me? or rather myseK, I am going to be told that they have 
 
 was it not a series of seven uneasy days, spent 20 no longer occasion for me. L , I could 
 
 in restless pursuit of pleasure, and a wearisome see, smiled at the terror I was in, which was a 
 anxiety to find out how to make the most of little relief to me, — when to my utter astonish- 
 
 them? Where was the quiet, where the prom- ment B , the eldest partner, began a formal 
 
 ised rest? Before I had a taste of it it was harangue to me on the length of my services, 
 vanished. I was at the desk again, counting 25 my very meritorious conduct during the whole 
 upon the fifty-one tedious weeks that must of the time (the deuce, thought I, how did he 
 intervene before such another snatch would find out that? I protest I never had the con- 
 come. Still the prospect of its coming threw fidence to think as much). He went on to 
 something of an illumination upon the darker descant on the expediency of retiring at a 
 side of my captivity. Without it, as I have said, 30 certain time of life, (how my heart panted!) 
 I could scarcely have sustained my thralldom. and asking me a few questions as to the amount 
 
 Independently of the rigours of attendance, of my own property, of which I have a little, 
 I have ever been haunted with a sense (per- ended with a proposal, to which his three part- 
 haps a mere caprice) of incapacity for business, ners nodded a grave assent, that I should 
 This, during my latter years, had increased to 35 accept from the house, which I had served so 
 such a degree, that it was visible in all the lines well, a pension for life to the amount of two- 
 of my countenance. My health and my good thirds of my accustomed salary — a magnificent 
 spirits flagged. I had perpetually a dread of offer! I do not know what I answered between 
 some crisis, to which I should be found un- surprise and gratitude, but it was understood 
 equal. Besides my daylight servitude, I served 40 that I accepted their proposal, and I was told 
 over again all night in my sleep, and would that I was free from that hour to leave their 
 awake with terrors of imaginary false entries, service. I stammered out a bow, and at just 
 errors in my accounts, and the like. I was ten minutes after eight I went home — forever. 
 fifty years of age, and no prospect of emancipa- This noble benefit— gratitude forbids me to 
 tion presented itself. I had grown to my desk, 45 conceal their names— I owe to the kindness of 
 as it were; and the wood had entered into my the most munificent firm in the world— the 
 80ul. house cf Boldero, Merry weather, Bosanquet, 
 
 My fellows in the office would sometimes and Lacy, 
 rally me upon the trouble legible in my coun- ^ , ,» 
 
 tenance; but I did not know that it had raised 50 perpetua. 
 
 the suspicions of any of my employers, when For the first day or two I felt stunned— over- 
 on the fifth of last month, a day ever to be whelmed. I could only apprehend my felicity; 
 
 remembered by me, L ^ the junior partner I was too confused to taste it sincerely. "l 
 
 in the firm, calling me on one side, directly wandered about, thinking I was happy, and 
 taxed me with my bad looks, and frankly in- 55 knowing that I was not. I was in the condi- 
 
 « Strictly speaking. Lamb's "native eelds" were the *^^^ ^^ ^ prisoner in the old Bastile,^ suddenly 
 
 London streets, but he often visited relatives in Hert- « May you live forever. 
 
 fordshire. , „ , , „ .in . , ^ '^^^^ prison in Paris, the storming of which on July 
 
 »Tbe names of BoWero. Merry weather, Bosanquet, and 14, 1789, marked the beginning of the French Revolu- 
 
 Lacy, mentioned further on, were invented by Lamb. tion. 
 
CHARLES LAMB 561 
 
 let loose after a forty years' confinement. I day in the year, been closely associated — being 
 could scarce trust myself with myself. It was suddenly removed from them— they seemed 
 like passing out of Time into Eternity, — for it as dead to me. There is a fine passage, which 
 is a sort of Eternity for a man to have his may serve to illustrate this fancy, in a Tragedy 
 Time all to himseK. It seemed to me that I 5 by Sir Robert Howard,^ speaking of a friend's 
 had more time on my hands than I could ever death: — 
 manage. From a poor man, poor in Time, I 
 
 was suddenly lifted up into a vast revenue; I • • • 'Twas but just now he went away; 
 could see no end of my possessions; I wanted {^^"^^ not since had time to shed a tear; 
 some stewa^ or Judicious bailiff to njaoa^exo i^^'^^l^tJ^T^MZ^^S^Z^^rae. 
 my estates m Time for me. And here let me Time takes no measure in Eternity, 
 caution persons grown old in active business, 
 
 not lightly nor without weighing their own To dissipate this awkward feeling, I have 
 resources, to forego their customary employ- been fain to go among them once or twice 
 ment all at once, for there may be danger in it. 15 since; to visit my old desk-fellows — my co- 
 I feel it by myself, but I know that my re- brethren of the quill— that I had left below in 
 sources are sufficient; and now that those first the state militant. Not all the kindness with 
 giddy raptures have subsided, I have a quiet which they received me could quite restore to 
 home-feeling of the blessedness of my condi- me that pleasant familiarity, which I had 
 tion. I am in no hurry. Having all holidays, 20 heretofore enjoyed among them. We cracked 
 I am as though I had none. If Time hung some of our old jokes, but methought they 
 heavy upon me, I could walk it away; but I do went off but faintly. My old desk; the peg 
 not walk all day long, as I used to do in those where I hung my hat, were appropriated to 
 old transient holidays, thirty miles a day, to another. I knew it must be, but I could not 
 
 make the most of them. If Time were trouble- 25 take it kindly. D 1 take me, if I did not 
 
 some, I could read it away; but I do not read feel some remorse — beast, if I had not — at 
 in that violent measure, with which, having quitting my old compeers, the faithful partners 
 no Time my own but candlelight Time, I used of my toils for six-and-thirty years, that soothed 
 to weary out my head and eyesight in bygone for me with their jokes and conundrums the 
 ^inters. I walk, read, or scribble (as now) 30 ruggedness of my professional road. Had it 
 just when the fit seizes me. I no longer hunt been so rugged then, after all? or was I a coward 
 after pleasure; I let it come to me. I am like simply? Well, it is too late to repent; and I 
 the man. also know that these suggestions are a common 
 
 ^, ,, , J 1. T.- . !_• fallacy of the mind on such occasions. But 
 
 in some .reeHe^ert '^'^'' '^"'' ' ^5 my heart smote me. I had violently broken 
 
 m some green desert. ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^ j^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ 
 
 ** Years!" you will say; "what is this super- courteous. I shall be some time before I get 
 annuated simpleton calculating upon? He has quite reconciled to the separation. Farewell, 
 already told us he is past fifty." old cronies, yet not for long, for again and 
 
 I have indeed lived nominally fifty years, 40 again I will come among ye, if I shall have your 
 
 but deduct out of them the hours which I have leave. Farewell Ch , dry, sarcastic, and 
 
 lived to other people, and not to myself, and friendly I Do , mild, slow to move, and 
 
 you will find me still a young fellow. For that gentlemanly! PI , officious to do, and to 
 
 is the only true Time which a man can properly volunteer, good services! — and thou, thou 
 call his own, that which he has all to himself; 45 dreary pile, fit mansion for a Gresham^ or a 
 the rest, though in some sense he may be said Whittington^" of old, stately house of Mer- 
 to live it, is other people's Time, not his. The chants; with thy labyrinthine passages, and 
 remnant of my poor days, long or short, is at light-excluding, pent-up offices, where candles 
 least multiplied for me threefold. My ten next for one-haK the year supplied the place of the 
 years, if I stretch so far, will be as long as any 50 sun's light; unhealthy contributor to my weal, 
 preceding thirty. 'Tis a fair rule-of-three sum. stem fosterer of my living, farewell! In thee 
 
 Among the strange fantasies which beset remain, and not in the obscure collection of 
 me at the commencement of my freedom, and some wandering bookseller, my "works!" 
 
 of which all traces are not gone, one was, that 3 j^^^^^^,^ brother-in-law. and joint author with him 
 
 a vast tract of Time had intervened since 1 55 of the Indian Queen. The lines are from the Vestal Vir- 
 quitted the Counting-House. I could not con- ^^'S'TTomi'^GTeThi'm^'S: 1579?). a noted financier of 
 Ceive of it as an afiFair of yesterday. The Elizabeth's time, was the founder of the Royal Exchange 
 
 partners, and the clerks with whom I had for -?o gL'^RichaS WM? tlngton (d. 1423) was a famous 
 eo many years, and for so many hours of each Lord Mayor of London. 
 
502 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 There let them rest, as I do from my labours, Monday? All days are the same. Sunday 
 pile<l on thy mossy shelves, more MSS. in itself— that unfortunate failure of a holiday, 
 folio than ever Aquinas" left, and full as useful! as it too often proved, what with my sense of 
 My mantle 1 bequeath among ye. its fugitiveness, and over-care to get the great- 
 
 A fortnight has passed since the date of my 5 est quantity of pleasure out of it— is melted 
 first communication. At that period I was down into a week-day. I can spare to go to 
 approaching to tranquillity, but had not church now, without grudging the huge cantle 
 reached it. I boosted of a calm indeed, but it which it used to seem to cut out of the holiday. 
 was comparative only. Something of the first I have Time for everything. I can visit a sick 
 flutter was left; an unsettling sense of novelty; lo friend. I can interrupt the man of much oc- 
 the daxsle to weak eyes of unaccustomed light, cupation when he is busiest. I can insult over 
 I missed my old chains, forsooth, as if they him with an invitation to take a day's pleasure 
 'ad been some necessary part of my apparel, with me to Windsor this fine May-morning. 
 was a poor Carthusian," from strict cellular It is Lucretian pleasure^^ to behold the poor 
 discipline suddenly by some revolution returned is drudges, whom I have left behind in the world, 
 upon the world. I am now as if I had never carking and caring; hke horses in a mill, drudg- 
 b^n other than my own master. It is natural ing on in the same eternal round — and what is 
 to me to go where I please, to do what I please, it all for? A man can never have too much 
 I find myself at eleven o'clock in the day in Time to himself, nor too little to do. Had I a 
 Bond Street," and it seems to me that I have 20 little son, I would christen him Nothing-To-Do; 
 been sauntering there at that very hour for he should do nothing. Man, I verily believe, 
 years past. I digress into Soho, to explore a is out of his element f3 long as he is opera- 
 bookstall. Methinks I have been thirty years tive. I am altogether /or the life contempla- 
 a collector. There is nothing strange nor new tive. Will no kindly earthquake come and 
 in it. I find myself before a fine picture in the 25 swallow up those accursed cotton mills? Take 
 morning. Was it ever otherwise? What has me that lumber of a desk there, and bowl it 
 become of Fish Street Hill? Where is Fen- down 
 
 church Street?** Stones of old Mincing Lane, Ag low as to the fiends.*' 
 
 which I have worn with my daily pilgrimage 
 
 for six-and-thirty years, to the footsteps of 30 I am no longer . . . , clerk to the Firm of, 
 what toilwom clerk are your everlasting flints &c. I am Retired Leisure. I am to be met 
 now vocal? I indent the gayer flags of Pall with in trim gardens. I am ah-eady come to 
 Mall. It is 'Change time, and I am strangely be known by my vacant face and careless 
 among the Elgin marbles." It was no hyper- gesture, perambulating at no fixed pace, nor 
 bole when I ventured to compare the change 35 with any settled purpose. I walk about; not 
 in my condition to a passing into another to and from. They tell me, a certain cum rfi^m- 
 world. Time stands still in a manner to me. tate air, that has been buried so long with my 
 I have lost all distinction of season. I do not other good parts, has begun to shoot forth in 
 know the day of the week or of the month, my person. I grow into gentility perceptibly. 
 Each day used to be individually felt by me 40 When I take up a newspaper, it is to read the 
 m Its reference to the foreign post-days; in its state of the opera. Opus operatum est.^^ I 
 distance from, or propinquity to, the next have done all that I came into this world to do. 
 Sunday- I had my Wednesday feelings, my I have worked task-work, and have the rest of 
 fcjaturday nights' sensations. The genius of the day to myself. 
 each day was upon me distinctly during the 45 
 
 whole of it, affecting my appetite, spirits, &c. ^^ r^^^ DEATH OF rOTFPTnPF 
 
 The phantom of the next day, with the dreary ^ ""^ Ui^AlM Ob COLERIDGE 
 
 five to follow, sate as a load upon my poor (Nov. 21, 1834) 
 
 Sabbath recreations. What charm has washed When I heard of the death of Coleridge, it 
 that Ethiop white? What is gone of Black 50 was without grief . It seemed to me that he long 
 (d."i274).''^°'" Bcholaatic theologian, ihomas Aquinas had been on the Confines of the next world,— 
 
 "I*?® Carthusians were aa order of Monks founded *^^* ^® ^^^ ^ hunger for eternity. I grieved 
 in 1036; their discipline was very strict. 
 
 n M ^u^ A^a^t a ^* " *^® qu-arter of fashionable shops. 
 
 »» The Elgin marbles amone the Bnont 9T%orimona r fl^^ship of another, not because it is a delicious satisfac- 
 
 Grt^ek sculpfure were oriSallv oart of the^oo^rXn^ i?°° ^° feel that anyone should be made miserable, but 
 
 of the Parthenon. tLJ Lre Sow fn the Bn^i^h m^^^ ^^^^"«« '^ is consoling to discern from what evils we 
 
 h«viii« been brought from Grercibv the Ear nf FM^i^' °""e]ves are free.— Z)e Rerum Natura. II. 1-4. 
 See Kkta' Sonnet, p. 529? ^ °^ ^'*''*' ^^"^ ^^f P'^^^^'^ declamation in Hamlet, II. 11. 475. 
 
 My work is done. 
 
CHARLES LAMB 563 
 
 then that I could not grieve. But, since, I assassin is Glenalvon?' Do we think of any- 
 feel how great a part he was of me. His great thing but of the crime which he commits, and 
 and dear spirit haunts me. I cannot think a the rack which he deserves? That is all which 
 thought, I cannot make a criticism on men and we really think about him. Whereas in cor- 
 books, without an ineffectual turning and 5 responding characters in Shakespeare, so little 
 reference to him. He was the proof and touch- do the actions comparatively affect us, that 
 stone of all my cogitations. He was a Grecian while the impulses, the inner mind in all its 
 (or in the first form) at Christ's Hospital, perverted greatness, solely seems real and is 
 where I was Deputy-Grecian; and the same exclusively attended to, the crime is compara- 
 subordination and deference to him I have lo tively nothing. But when we see these things 
 preserved through a life-long acquaintance, represented, the acts which they do are com- 
 Great in his writings, he was greatest in his paratively everything, their impulses nothing, 
 conversation. In him was disproved that old The state of sublime emotion into which we 
 maxim, that we should allow every one his are elevated by thoye images of night and 
 share of talk. He would talk from morn to 15 horror which Macbeth is made to utter, that 
 dewy eve, nor cease till far midnight; yet who solemn prelude with which he entertains the 
 ever would interrupt him? who would obstruct time till the bell shall strike which is to call him 
 that continuous flow of converse, fetched from to murder Duncan, — when we no longer read 
 Helicon or Zion?^ He had the tact of making it in a book, when we have given up that 
 the unintelligible seem plain. Many who read 20 vantage-ground of abstraction which reading 
 the abstruser parts of his "Friena" would possesses over seeing, and come to see a man 
 complain that his works did not answer to his in his bodily shape before our eyes actually 
 spoken wisdom. They were identical. But he preparing to commit a murder, if the acting 
 had a tone in oral delivery which seemed to be true and impressive, as I have witnessed 
 convey sense to those who were otherwise im- 25 it in Mr. K.'s^ performance of that part, the 
 perfect recipients. He was my fifty-years-old painful anxiety about the act, the natural 
 friend without a dissension. Never saw I his longing to prevent it while it yet seems unper- 
 likeness, nor probably the world can see again, petrated, the too close pressing semblance of 
 I seem to love the house he died at more reality, give a pain and an uneasiness which 
 passionately than when he lived. I love the 30 totally destroy all the delight which the words 
 faithful Gilmans^ more than while they exer- in the book convey, where the deed doing 
 cised their virtues towards him living. What never presses upon us with the painful sense of 
 ivas his mansion is consecrated to me a chapel, presence; it rather seems to belong to his- 
 tory, — to something past and inevitable, if it 
 KING LEAR ^^ ^^ anything to do with time at all. The sub- 
 
 lime images, the poetry alone, is that which is 
 (From The Tragedies of Shakespeare, Collected present to our minds in the reading. 
 
 Works, 1818) go ^q g^g Lear acted, — to see an old man 
 
 The truth is, the Characters of Shakespeare tottering about the stage with a walking-stick, 
 are so much the objects of meditation rather 40 turned out of doors by his daughters in a rainy 
 than of interest or curiosity as to their actions, night, has nothing in it but what is painful and 
 that while we are reading any of his great disgusting. We want to take him into shelter 
 criminal characters, — Macbeth, Richard, even and relieve him. That is all the feeling which 
 lago, — we think not so much of the crimes the acting of Lear ever produced in me. But 
 which they commit, as of the ambition, the 45 the Lear of Shakespeare cannot be acted. The 
 aspiring spirit, the intellectual activity, which contemptible machinery by which they mimic 
 prompts them to overleap those moral fences, the storm which he goes out in, is not more 
 Barnwell^ is a wretched murderer; there is a inadequate to represent the horrors of the real 
 certain fitness between his neck and the rope; elements, than any actor can be to represent 
 he is the legitimate heir to the gallows; nobody 50 Lear; they might more easily propose to per- 
 who thinks at all can think of any alleviating sonate the Satan of Milton upon a stage, or 
 circumstances in his case to make him a fit one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures. The 
 object of mercy. Or to take an instance from greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, 
 the higher tragedy, what else but a mere but in intellectual: the explosions of his passion 
 
 M. e. from Greek or Hebrew literature, or perhaps 55 are terrible as a volcano: they are storms turn- 
 more generally from profane or sacred letters. 
 
 2 Coleridge had found a refuge in his last years in the 2 A character in John Home's tragedy Douglas, acted 
 
 house of Mr. Gilnian, a physician who had helped him in Edinburgh, 1756. 
 in his struggle against the opium habit. 3 Edmund Kean (1787?-1833), the most famous Eng- 
 
 1 A character in a prose tragedy of that name by lish tragedian of hia day, esi^ecially in Shakespearean 
 George Lillo (1693-1739). r61es. 
 
$64 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 ins up and disclosing to the bottom, that sea, dicious and dispassionate as thou art, the real 
 his mind with all ite vast riches. It is his state of things in that distracted country; it 
 mind which is laid bare. This case of flesh and having pleased the Queen's Majesty to think 
 blood seems Uw insignificant to be thought on; of appointing me her deputy, in order to bring 
 even as he himself neglects it. On the stage 6 the rebellious to submission. 
 we see nothing but corporal infirmities and Spenser. Wisely and well considered; but 
 woakneflB, the impotence of rage; while we more worthily of her judgment than her affec- 
 rcad it» we see not Lear, but we are Lear,— we tion. May your lordship overcome, as you 
 arc in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur have ever done, the difficulties and dangers 
 which baffles the maUce of daughters and 10 you foresee. 
 
 storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we Essex. We grow weak by striking at random ; 
 discover a mighty irregular power of reasoning, and knowing that I must strike, and strike 
 imraethodized from the ordinary purposes of heavily, I would fain see exactly where the 
 life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows stroke shall fall. , ^ . , .. 
 
 whore it listeth, at will upon the corruptions 15 Some attribute to the Irish all sorts of ex- 
 ond abuses of mankind. What have looks, or cesses; others tell us that these are old stories; 
 tones, to do with that sublime identification of that there is not a more inoffensive race of 
 his age with that of the heavens themselves, merry creatures under heaven, and that their 
 when, in his reproaches to them for conniving crimes are all hatched for them here in Eng- 
 at the injustice of his children, he reminds 20 land, bv the incubation of printers' boys, and 
 them that "they themselves are old?" What are brought to market at times of distressing 
 gesture shall we appropriate to this? What has dearth in news. From all that I myself have 
 the voice or the eye to do with such things? seen of them, I can only say that the civihzed 
 But the play is beyond all art, as the tamper- (I mean the richer and titled) are as susceptible 
 ings with it show; it is too hard and stony; it 25 of heat as iron, and as impenetrable to hght as 
 must have love-scenes, and a happy ending, granite. The half-barbarous are probably 
 It is not enough that Cordelia is a daughter, worse; the utterly barbarous may be some- 
 she must shine as a lover too. Tate* has put what better. Like game-cocks, they must 
 his hook in the nostrils of this Leviathan, for spur when they meet. One fights because he 
 Garrick' and his followers, the showmen of 30 fights an Englishman; another, because the 
 the scene, to draw the mighty beast about fellow he quarrels with comes from a distant 
 more easily. A happy ending! — as if the living county; a third, because the next parish is an 
 martyrdom that Lear had gone through, — eyesore to him, and his fist-mate is from it. 
 the flaying of his feeUngs alive, did not make a The only thing in which they all agree as proper 
 fair dismissal from the stage of life the only 35 law is the tooth-for-tooth act.^ Luckily, we 
 decorous thing for him. If he is to five and have a bishop who is a native, and we call him 
 be happy after, if he could sustain this before the Queen. He represented to Her 
 world's burden after, why all this pudder and Majesty that everything in old Ireland tended 
 preparation, — why torment us with all this to re-produce its kind, — crimes among others; 
 unnecessary sympathy? As if the childish 40 and he declared frankly that if an honest man 
 pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre is murdered, or, what is dearer to an honest 
 again could tempt him to act over again his man, jf his honour is wounded in the person of 
 misused station,— as if , at his years and with his his wife, it must be expected that he will re- 
 experience, anything was left but to die. taliate. Her Majesty delivered it as her opin- 
 
 45 
 
 ^altn: ^abaClt iLanHOt *° ^^^ Grey, the Lord Deputy of Ireland, who under- 
 
 w^ ♦» ^Mw».2>v .«i^«*^vv jqqJ^ ^^ p^^ ^^^^ ^jjg rebellion of Desmond, a powerful 
 
 1 775_i gA4 Munster chief. The English policy involved extermina- 
 tion of the natives and the desolation of the country. In 
 
 T?csaTr»v A xT-rv dimxTci-n-nt J^® ®^^^ °^ EngUshmen the Irish chiefs were a band of 
 
 JbooHiA AJNL) oiriiiWoxLiR* barbarians, the enemies of law and order, and Spenser 
 ,, . _ . ,„«.v 50 came to look upon the Irish with the loathing that ani- 
 
 {Jmaginary Conversations, 1834) inated most Englishmen of his time. He spent prac- 
 
 ,15, T 1. i.1 1- • * 1 . tically the rest of his life in Ireland as an agent of the 
 
 iLSSex. instantly on neanng of thy arrival government, and was rewarded for his services by the 
 
 from Ireland I spnf. a mpHsn^P in +V1A0 tTr\r\A grant of Kilcolman Castle, formerly a Desmond posses- 
 
 rvJ^. A ]^u\ T " u^ message to tnee, good gjon. in County Cork. In 1594 there was a new uprising 
 
 lUimunrt, that 1 might learn, from one so JU- m Ulster, headed by Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone. By 
 
 ♦Nahum Tate (1652-1715), a poet and playwright ^i^^S the rebellion had spread to Munster, and Kilcolman 
 
 who gained an unenviable reputation as an adapter of r.^^ „'® ,^?^ .^^?'^?^ ^^^ b^f^A- Spenser and his wife 
 
 •everal o( Shukcsfjeare's plays, among them Kir^ Lear. escaped, but their young child perished in the flames. 
 
 In hiavereion. Cordelia survives and marries Edgar ^°® P?®* returned to England just as the Queen waa 
 
 « David Garrick, the celebrated English actor, a con- Pjepanng to send her favorite Essex to end the rebellion. 
 
 temporary of Dr. Johnson ^^ ^f ^^ ^^'^ juncture that the conversation between Essex 
 
 I In i«yjn ti,.. «^* a..««- „ ** t i j x and Spenser is imagined by Landor to have taken place. 
 
 In 1580 the poet Spenaer went to Ireland aa secretary a The law of retaliation, as "an eye for an eye." etc 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 565 
 
 ion, that the latter case of vindictiveness was deeper, they joked, and croaked and hie- 
 more likely to take effect than the former. But coughed, and wept over sweet Ireland; and, 
 the bishop replied, that in his conscience he when they could neither stand nor sit any 
 could not answer for either if the man was up. longer, they fell upon their knees and their 
 The dean of the same diocese gave us a more 5 noddles, and swore that limbs, life, liberty, 
 favourable report. Being a justice of the peace, Ireland, and God himself, were all at the 
 he averred most solemnly that no man ever Queen's service. It was only their holy religion, 
 had complained to him of murder, excepting the religion of their forefathers, — here sobs 
 one who had lost so many fore-teeth by a interrupted some, howls others, execrations 
 cudgel that his deposition could not be taken lo more, and the liquor they had engulfed the rest, 
 exactly; added to which, his head was a little I looked down on them with stupor and aston- 
 clouded with drunkenness; furthermore, that ishment, seeing faces, forms, dresses, much like 
 extremely few women had adduced sufficiently ours, and recollecting their ignorance, levity, 
 clear proofs of violence, excepting those who and ferocity. My pages drew them gently 
 were wilful, and resisted with tooth and nail. 15 by the heels down the steps; my grooms set 
 In all which cases, it was difficult — nay, im- them upright (inasmuch as might be) on their 
 possible — to ascertain which violence began horses; and the people in the streets, shouting 
 first and lasted longest. and pelting, sent forward the beasts to their 
 
 There is not a nation upon earth that pre- straw, 
 tends to be so superlatively generous and high- 20 Various plans have been laid before us for 
 minded; and there is not one (I speak from ex- civilizing or coercing them. Among the pacific, 
 perience) so utterly base and venal. I have it was proposed to make an offer to five hun- 
 positive proof that the nobility, in a mass, are dred of the richer Jews in the Hansetowns^ and 
 agreed to sell, for a stipulated sum, all their in Poland, who should be raised to the dignity 
 rights and privileges, so much per man; and 25 of the Irish peerage, and endowed with four 
 the Queen is inclined thereunto. But would thousand acres of good forfeited land, on condi- 
 our Parliament consent to pay money for a tion of each paying two thousand pounds, and 
 cargo of rotten pilchards?^ And would not of keeping up ten horsemen and twenty foot, 
 our captains be readier to swamp than to im- Germans or Poles, in readiness for service, 
 port them? The noisiest rogues in that king- 30 The Catholics bear nowhere such ill-will 
 dom, if not quieted by a halter, may be quieted toward Jews as toward Protestants. Brooks 
 by making them brief-collectors,* and by allow- make even worse neighbors than oceans do. 
 ing them, first, to encourage the incendiary; I myself saw no objection to the measure; 
 
 then, to denounce and hang them; and, lastly, but our gracious Queen declared she had an 
 to collect all the money they can, running up 35 insuperable one, — they stank! We all acknowl- 
 and down with the whining ferocity of half- edged the strength of the argument, and took 
 starved hyenas, under pretence of repairing out our handkerchiefs. Lord Burleigh almost 
 the damages their exhausted country hath fainted; and Raleigh wondered how the Em- 
 sustained. Others ask, modestly, a few thou- peror Titus could bring up his men against 
 sands a year, and no more, from those whom 40 Jerusalem. 
 
 they represent to us as naked and famished; and "Ah!" said he, looking reverentially at Her 
 
 prove clearly, to every dispassionate man who Majesty, "the star of Berenice shone above 
 hath a single drop of free blood in his veins, him!^ And what evil influence could that star 
 that at least this pittance is due to them for not quell! what malignancy could it not anni- 
 abandoning their liberal and lucrative profes-45hilate!" 
 
 sions, and for endangering their valuable lives Hereupon he touched the earth with his 
 on the tempestuous seas, in order that the brow, until the Queen said, — 
 voice of truth may sound for once upon the "Sir Walter! lift me up those laurels." 
 
 shores of England, and humanity cast her At which manifestation of princely good-will 
 
 shadow on the council-chamber. 50 he was advancing to kiss Her Majesty's hand: 
 
 I gave a dinner to a party of these fellows a but she waved it, and said sharply, — 
 few weeks ago. I know not how many kings "Stand there, dog!" 
 
 and princes were among them, nor how many b The towns of the Hanseatic League, of northern Ger- 
 
 r^,^r>fa ar^A T^fr»T^>>o+G QTiH Ipfrklnf.ors flTld saffPS many and the neighboring countries, which were leagued 
 poets and propnetS ana legislators ana sages. ^^^/^^^^^ for commercial protection and the general 
 
 When they were half-drunk, they coaxed and 55 benefit of trade. 
 
 fV,ron+on*irl- whan tViPv hfld ffonp SOmewhat 6i.e. above Titus during his siege of Jerusalem, 70 A. D. 
 
 threatened, wnen tney naa gone SOmewnat during this expedition, Titus became infatuated with 
 
 the beautiful Jewess Berenice and the star of Berenice is 
 3 A fish similar to a herring. supposed to have been potent enough to enable Titus 
 
 * Men holding licenses to collect money for the repair- to "bring up his men against Jerusalem" in spite of the 
 
 ing of churches, or for the payment of losses by fire, etc. evil odors of the Jews. 
 
566 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 Now what talc have you for us? to remove thy sorrow; but, really, I am not in 
 
 Spenaer. Interrogate me, my lord, that I the habit of seemg men grieve at anythmg 
 may answer each question distinctly, my mind except the loss of favour at court, or of a hawk, 
 being in sad confusion at what I have seen or of a buckhound. And were I to swear out 
 and undergone. 5 my condolences to a man of thy discernment, 
 
 Essex. Give me thy account and opinion of in the same round roll-call phrases we employ 
 thc«c very affairs as thou leftest them; for I with one another upon these occasions, I should 
 would rather know one part well than all im- be guilty, not of insincerity, but of insolence. 
 [perfectly; and the violences of which I have True grief hath ever something sacred in it; 
 heard within the day surpass belief. 10 and, when it visiteth a wise man and a brave 
 
 Why weepest thou, my gentle Spenser? one, is most holy. 
 Have the rebels sacked thy house? Nay, kiss not my hand: he whom God smit- 
 
 Spenser. They have plundered and utterly eth hath God with him. In his presence what 
 destroyed it. am I? 
 
 Essex. I grieve for thee, and will see thee 15 Spenser. Never so great, my lord, as at this 
 righted. hour, when you see aright who is greater. May 
 
 Spenser. In this they have Uttle harmed me. he guide your counsels, and preserve your life 
 
 Essex. Howl I have heard it reported that and glory! 
 thy grounds are fertile, and thy mansion large Essex. Where are thy friends? Are they 
 and pleasant. 20 with thee? 
 
 Spenser. If river and lake and meadow- Spenser. Ah, where, indeed! Generous, 
 ground and mountain could render any place true-hearted Philip! where art thou, whose 
 the abode of pleasantness, pleasant was mine, presence was unto me peace and safety; whose 
 indeed! smile was contentment, and whose praise re- 
 
 On the lovely banks of Mulla'' I found deep25nown? My lord! I cannot but think of him 
 contentment. Under the dark alders did I among still heavier losses: he was my earliest 
 muse and meditate. Innocent hopes were my friend, and would have taught me wisdom. 
 gravest cares, and my playfullest fancy was Essex. Pastoral poetry, my dear Spenser, 
 with kindly wishes. Ah! surely of all cruelties doth not require tears and lamentations. Dry 
 the worst is to extinguish our kindness. Mine 30 thine eyes; rebuild thine house: the Queen and 
 is gone: I love the people and the land no Council, I venture to promise thee, will make 
 longer. My lord, ask me not about them: I ample amends for everyevil thou hast sustained. 
 may speak injuriously. What! does that enforce thee to wail yet louder? 
 
 Essex. Think rather, then, of thy happier Spenser. Pardon me, bear with me, most 
 hours and busier occupations; these Ukewise 35 noble heart! I have lost what no Council, no 
 may instruct me. Queen, no Essex, can restore. 
 
 Spenser. The first seeds I sowed in the gar- Essex. We will see that. There are other 
 den, ere the old castle was made habitable for swords, and other arms to wield them, besides a 
 my lovely bride, were acorns from Penshurst.^ Leicester's and a Raleigh's. Others can crush 
 I planted a httle oak before my mansion at 40 their enemies, and serve their friends. 
 the birth of each child. My sons, I said to Spenser. O my sweet child! And of many 
 myself, shall often play in the shade of them so powerful, many so wise and so beneficent, 
 when I am gone; and every year shall they take was there none to save thee? None! None! 
 the measure of their growth, as fondly as I Essex. I now perceive that thou lamentest 
 take theirs. 45 what almost every father is destined to lament. 
 
 Essex. Well, well; but let not this thought Happiness must be bought, although the pay- 
 make thee weep so bitterly, ment may be delayed. Consider; the same 
 
 Spenser. Poison may ooze from beautiful calamity might have befallen thee here in 
 plants; deadly grief from dearest reminiscences. London. Neither the houses of ambassadors, 
 
 I mTxst grieve, I must weep: it seems the law 50 nor the palaces of kings^ nor the altars of God 
 of God, and the only one that men are not dis- himself, are asylums against death. How do 
 posed to contravene. In the performance of I know but under this very roof there may sleep 
 thw alone do they effectually aid one another, some latent calamity, that in an instant shall 
 
 Essex. Spenser! I wish I had at hand any cover with gloom every inmate of the house, 
 arguments or persuasions, of force sufficient 55 and every far dependent? 
 'Thi. stream flowed near Spenser's castle of Kilcol- Spenser. God avert it! 
 
 ""• pi!?.A?"^**'\i. I AA . . i.u o J . . ^^^^^' Every day, every hour of the year, 
 
 • PCTiMur«< was the splendid estate of the Sidneys in the A^^ \^,.r.A..^Ar. J. i, j. A. .. 
 
 western part of Kent Sir Philip Sidney was one of "° hundreds moum what thou mournest. 
 Spenser's heroes and patrons. Spenser. Oh, no, no, no! Calamities there 
 
WILLIAM HAZLITT 567 
 
 are around us; calamities there are all over perishes. Spare me: ask me nothing; let me 
 the earth; calamities there are in all seasons: weep before you in peace, — the kindest act of 
 but none in any season, none in any place, like greatness, 
 mine. Essex. I should rather have dared to lAount 
 
 Essex. So say all fathers, so say all husbands. 5 into the midst of the conflagration than I now 
 Look at any old mansion-house, and let the dare entreat thee not to weep. The tears that 
 sun shine as gloriously as it may on the golden overflow thy heart, my Spenser, will stanch 
 vanes, or the arms recently quartered over and heal it in their sacred stream; but not with- 
 the gateway or the embayed window, and on out hope in God. 
 
 the happy pair that haply is toying at it: never- lo Spenser. My hope in God is that I may soon 
 thcless, thou mayest say that of a certainty see again what he has taken from me. Amid 
 the same fabric hath seen much sorrow within the myriads of angels, there is not one so beau- 
 its chambers, and heard many wailings; and tiful; and even he (if there be any) who is 
 each time this was the heaviest stroke of all. appointed my guardian could never love me 
 Funerals have passed along through the stout- 15 so. Ahl these are idle thoughts, vain wander- 
 hearted knights upon the wainscot, and amid ings, distempered dreams. If there ever were 
 the laughing nymphs upon the arras. Old guardian angels, he who so wanted one — my 
 servants have shaken their heads as if some- helpless boy — would not have left these arms 
 body had deceived them, when they found that upon my knees, 
 beauty and nobility could perish. 20 Essex. God help and sustain thee too, gentle 
 
 Edmund! the things that are too true pass Spenser! I never will desert thee. But what 
 by us as if they were not true at all; and when am I? Great they have called me! Alas, how 
 they have singled us out, then only do they powerless then and infantile is greatness in the 
 strike us. Thou and I must go too. Perhaps presence of calamity! Come, give me thy hand: 
 the next year may blow us away with its fallen 25 let us walk up and down the gallery. Bravely 
 leaves. done! I will envy no more a Sidney or a 
 
 Spenser. For you, my lord, many years (I Raleigh. 
 trust) are waiting: I shall never see those fallen 
 
 leaves. No leaf, no bud, will spring upon the ^tlUattt J^a^Utt 
 
 earth before I sink into her breast for ever. 30 _* 
 
 Essex. Thou, who art wiser than most men, 1778-1830 
 
 shouldst bear with patience, equanimity, and TTAMTFT 
 
 courage what is common to all. MAMLJii 1 
 
 Spenser. Enough, enough, enough! have all ^^^.^^ ^^^ Characters of Shakespeare's Plays, 
 men seen their infant burned to ashes before 35 1817) 
 
 their eyes? 
 
 Essex. Gracious God! Merciful Father! This is that Hamlet the Dane, whom we 
 what is this? read of in our youth, and whom we may be said 
 
 Spenser. Burned alive! burned to ashes! almost to remember in our after-years; he who 
 burned to ashes! The flames dart their serpent 40 made that famous soliloquy on life, who gave 
 tongues through the nursery window. I can- the advice to the players, who thought "this 
 not quit thee, my Elizabeth! I cannot lay goodly frame, the earth, a sterile promontory, 
 down our Edmund! Oh, these flames! They and this brave o'er-hanging firmament, the 
 persecute, they enthrall me; they curl round air, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, 
 my temples; they hiss upon my brain; they 45 a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours;", 
 taunt me with their fierce, foul voices; they whom "man delighted not, nor woman nei- 
 carp at me, they wither me, they consume me, ther;" he who talked with the grave-diggers, and 
 throwing back to me a little of life to roll and moralised on Yorick's skull; the schoolfellow 
 suffer in, with their fangs upon me. Ask me, of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern at Witten- 
 my lord, the things you wish to know from me: 50 berg; the friend of Horatio; the lover of Ophelia ; 
 I may answer them; I am now composed again, he that was mad and sent to England; the slow 
 Command me, my gracious lord! I would yet avenger of his father's death; who lived at the 
 serve you: soon I shall be unable. You have court of Horwendillus five hundred years be- 
 stooped to raise me up; you have borne with fore we were born, but all whose thoughts we 
 me; you have pitied me, even hke one not 55 seem to know as well as we do our own, be- 
 powerful. You have brought comfort, and will cause we have read them in Shakespeare, 
 leave it with me; for gratitude is comfort. Hamlet is a name: his speeches and sayings 
 
 Oh! my memory stands all a tip-toe on one but the idle coinage of the poet's brain. What 
 burning point: when it drops from it, then it then, are they not real? They are as real as 
 
568 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 our own thouRhU. Their reality is in the read- ^^come and go like sounds of music borne on the 
 er's mind. It is xce who are Hamlet. This wind. The whole play is an exact transcript 
 play has a prophetic truth, which is above that of what might be supposed to have taken place 
 oC history. Whoever has become thoughtful at the court of Denmark, at the remote period 
 and mdancholv thr<3ugh his own mishaps or 5 of time fixed upon, before the modern re- 
 those of others; whoever has born about with finements in morals and manners were heard 
 him the clouded brow of reflection, and thought of. It would have been interesting enough to 
 himself ''too much i' the sun;" whoever has have been admitted as a by-stander m such a 
 seen the golden Ijimp of day dimmed by envious scene, at such a time, to have heard and wit- 
 mists rising in his own breast, and could find 10 nessed something of what was going on. But 
 in the world before him only aiduU blank with here we are more than spectators. We have 
 nothing left remarkable in it; whoever has not only "the outward pageants and the signs 
 known "the pangs of despised love, the in- of grief;" but "we have that within which 
 solenoe of office, or the spurns which patient passes show." We read the thoughts of the 
 merit of the unworthy takes;" he who has felt 16 heart, we catch the passions living as they rise. 
 his mind sink within him, and sadness cling to Other dramatic writers give us very fine ver- 
 bis heart like a mahidy; who has had his hopes sions and paraphrases of nature; but Shake- 
 blighted and his youth staggered by the appari- speare, together with his own comments, gives 
 tions of strange things; who cannot be well at us the original text, that we may judge for 
 ease, while he sees evil hovering near him like 20 ourselves. This is a very great advantage, 
 a ^)ectre; whose powers of action have been The character of Hamlet stands quite by 
 eatoi up by thought, he to whom the universe itself. It is not a character marked by strength 
 seems infinite, and himself nothing; whose of will, or even of passion, but by refinement 
 bitterness of soul makes him careless of conse- of thought and sentiment. Hamlet is as little 
 qucnces, and who goes to a play as his best 25 of the hero as a man can well be; but he is a 
 resource to shove off, to a second remove, the young and princely novice, full of high en- 
 evils of life by a mock representation of them — thusiasm and quick sensibility — the sport of 
 this is the true Hamlet. circumstances, questioning with fortune and 
 We have been so used to this tragedy that refining on his own feelings, and forced from 
 we hardly know how to criticise it any more 30 the natural bias of his disposition by the 
 than we should know how to describe our own strangeness of his situation. He seems in- 
 faoes. But we must make such observations capable of deliberate action, and is only hurried 
 as we can. It is the one of Shakespeare's into extremities on the spur of the occasion, 
 plays that we think of the oftenest, because it when he has no time to reflect, as in the scene 
 abounds most in striking reflections on human 35 where he kills Polonius, and again, where he 
 life, and because the distresses of Hamlet are alters the letters which Rosencrantz and Guild- 
 transferred, by the turn of his mind, to the enstern are taking with them to England, pur- 
 general account of humanity. Whatever hap- porting his death. At other times, when he is 
 pens to him we apply to ourselves, because he most bound to act, he remains puzzled, un- 
 applies It so himself as a means of general rea- 40 decided and skeptical, dallies with his purposes, 
 somng. He is a great moraliser, and what till the occasion is lost, and finds out some pre- 
 mak« him worth attending to is, that he tence to relapse into indolence and thoughtful- 
 morahses on his own feelings and experience, ness again. For this reason he refuses to kill 
 He IS not a common-place pedant. If Lear is the King when he is at his prayers. . . . 
 ^tinguished by the greatest depth of passion, 45 He is the prince of philosophical speculators, 
 Hamlet is the most remarkable for the inge- and because he cannot have his revenge perfect, 
 nuity, ongmahty, and unstudied development according to the most refined idea his wish 
 of character. Shakespeare had more mag- can form, he declines it altogether. So he 
 nammity than any other poet, and he has scruples to trust the suggestions of the ghost, 
 shown more of it m this play than in any other. 50 contrives the scene of the play to have surer 
 rhcre IS no attempt to force an interest: every- proof of his uncle's guilt, and then rests satis- 
 thjng isleft for tune and circumstances to un- fied with this confirmation of his suspicions, 
 fold. The attentionifl excited without effort, and the success of his experiment, instead of 
 «f J.^^^^ T""^. ^?u. °^^^^«^ ^^tt«^ acting upon it. Yet he is sensible of his own 
 «^^.TLo I ^^•''ur^^^'^i'w'^ 'P^^^, and 55 weakness, taxes himself with it, and tries to 
 Mtjust as they might do, if left entirely to reason himself out of it StiU, he does 
 
 ,W?«''^fn. ?i! '" k"" ^* ?"'P'^^' ""^ '^'^^"" ^°^^^°S; and this very speculation on his own 
 
 b^LT«^'nJ^ !;r^'°°'*^r^''^^ '''^'^^y °^^y ^ff°^d« ^^ another occasion 
 by the passing scene-the gusts of passion for indulging it. It is not from any want of 
 
WILLIAM HAZLITT 
 
 attachment to his father or of abhorrence of principal object, gather our force to make a 
 his murder that Hamlet is thus dilatory, but it great blow, bring it down, and relapse into 
 is more to his taste to indulge his imagination sluggishness and indifference again. Materiam 
 in reflecting upon the enormity of the crime superabat opus,^ cannot be said of us. We may 
 and refining on his schemes of vengeance, than 5 be accused of grossness, but not of flimsiness; 
 to put them into immediate practice. His of extravagance, but not of affectation; of 
 ruling passion is to think, not to act; and any want of art and refinement, but not of a want 
 vague pretext that flatters this propensity in- of truth and nature. Our literature, in a word, 
 stantly diverts him from his previous purposes, is Gothic and grotesque; unequal and irregular; 
 
 10 not cast in a previous mould, nor of one uni- 
 
 TTTF FNPTTCJR AMR TWT^TR form texture, but of great Weight in the whole, 
 
 THE ENGLISH AND THEIR ^^^ ^f incomparable value in the best parts. 
 
 LilEKAlUKili j^ ^jjjjg ^^ ^^ excess of beauty or power, hits 
 
 (From The Age of Elizabeth, 1821) <^r ™^sses, and is either very good indeed, or 
 
 15 absolutely good for nothing. This character 
 We are a nation of islanders, and we cannot applies in particular to our literature in the 
 help it; nor mend ourselves if we would. We age of Elizabeth, which is its best period, before 
 are something in ourselves, nothing when we the introduction of a rage for French rules and 
 try to ape others. Music and painting are not French models; for whatever may be the value 
 our forte: for what we have done in that way 20 of our own original style of composition, there 
 has been little, and that borrowed from others can be neither offense nor presumption in say- 
 with great difficulty. But we may boast of our ing, that it is at least better than our second- 
 poets and philosophers. That's something, hand imitations of others. Our understanding 
 We have had strong heads and sound hearts (such as it is, and must remain to be good for 
 among us. Thrown on one side of the world, 25 anything) is not a thoroughfare for common 
 and left to bustle for ourselves, we have fought places, smooth as the palm of one's hand, but 
 out many a battle for truth and freedom. That full of knotty points and jutting excrescences, 
 is our natural style; and it were to be wished rough, uneven, overgrown with brambles; and 
 we had in no instance departed from it. Our I like this aspect of the mind (as some one said 
 situation has given us a certain cast of thought 30 of the country), where nature keeps a good deal 
 and character; and our liberty has enabled us of the soil in her own hands. Perhaps the gen- 
 to make the most of it. We are of a stiff clay, ius of our poetry has more of Pan than of 
 not moulded into every fashion, with stubborn Apollo;' "but Pan is a God, Apollo is no 
 joints not easily bent. We are slow to think, more!"* 
 and therefore impressions do not work upon 35 
 
 us till they act in masses. We are not forward TMMORTAT TTY 
 
 to express our feelings, and therefore they do ON THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY 
 not come from us till they force their way in IN lOUlH 
 
 the most impetuous eloquence. Our language ^^1^.^^^^^ Winterslow, 1850) 0-^^ ^ '^ " 
 
 is, as it were, to begin anew, and we make use of 40 G v 
 
 the most singular and boldest combinations to No young man believes he shall ever die. 
 explain ourselves. Our wit comes from us, It was a saying of my brother's, and a fine one. 
 "like birdlime, brains and all.''^ We pay too There is a feeling of Eternity in youth which 
 little attention to form and method, leave our makes us amends for everything. To be young 
 works in an unfinished state, but still the ma- 45 is to be one of the Immortals. One haK of 
 terials we work in are solid and of nature's time indeed is spent — the other half remains 
 mint; we do not deal in counterfeits. We both in store for us with all its countless treasures, 
 under and overdo, but we keep an eye to the for th^e is no line drawn, and we see no limit 
 prominent features, the main chance. We to our hopes and wishes. We make the coming 
 are more for weight than show; care only about 50 age our own — 
 
 what interests ourselves, instead of trying to „^^ ^^^ ^^^ unbounded prospect lies before 
 impose upon others by plausible appearances, ^g »i 
 
 and are obstinate and intractable in not con- 
 forming to common rules, by which many ar- Death, old age, are words without a meaning, 
 rive at their ends with half the real waste of 55 a dream, a fiction, with which we have nothing 
 
 thought and trouble. We neglect all but the 2 xhe work ever excelled the matter. Ovid, Met. II. 5. 
 
 8 i. e. more of nature than of art. 
 ' Quoted from memory from Othello, Il/i. 127. Bird- * Quoted from Lyly's play Midas, Act IV. 1 
 
 lime is a sticky substance used to spread on twigs for i "The wide, th unbounded prospect hes before me. , 
 
 the purpose of catching birds. Addison's Cato, V. x. 13. V. p. 295- 
 
670 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 to do. Others may have undergone, or may has no effect upon us. Casualties we avoid; 
 
 still undergo them— we "bear a charmed the slow approaches of age we play at Aic?e ond 
 
 life,"* which laughs to scorn all such idle fan- seek with. Like the foolish fat scullion in 
 
 ciea. As, in setting out on a deUghtful journey, Sterne/ who hears that Master Bobby is dead, 
 
 we strain our eager sight forward, Sour only reflection is, "So am not I!" The 
 
 _. . .. , , , , J. ^ u -1 »a idea of death, instead of staggering our con- 
 
 "Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail, g^^^^^^ ^^ly ^^^^^ ^^ strengthen and enhance 
 
 and see no end to prospect after prospect, new our sense of the possession and enjoyment of 
 objects presenting themselves as we advance, life. Others may fall around us like leaves, or 
 80 in the outset of life we see no end to our de- 10 be mowed down by the scythe of Time like 
 ares nor to the opportunities of gratifying grass: these are but metaphors to the unre- 
 them. We have as yet found no obstacle, no fleeting, buoyant ears and overweening pre- 
 diapoeition to flag, and it seems that we can sumption of youth. It is not till we see the 
 go on so forever. We look round in a new flowers of Love, Hope, and Joy withering 
 world, full of life and motion, and ceaseless 15 around us, that we give up the flattering de- 
 progress, and feel in ourselves all the vigour lusions that before led us on, and that the 
 and spirit to keep pace with it, and do not fore- emptiness and dreariness of the prospect be- 
 see from any present signs how we shall be fore us reconciles us hypothetically to the 
 left behind in the race, decline into old age, silence of the grave. 
 
 and drop into the grave. It is the simplicity 20 Life is indeed a strange gift, and its privi- 
 and, as it were, abstractedness of our feelings leges are most mysterious. No wonder when 
 in youth that (so to speak) identifies us with it is first granted to us, that our gratitude, our 
 nature and (our experience being weak and admiration, and our delight should prevent 
 our passions strong) makes us fancy ourselves us from reflecting on our own nothingness, or 
 immortal like it. Our short-Uved connection 25 from thinking it will ever be recalled. Our 
 with being, we fondly flatter ourselves, is an first and strongest impressions are borrowed 
 indissoluble and lasting union. As infants from the mighty scene that is opened to us, and 
 ■mile and sleep, we are rocked in the cradle of we unconsciously transfer its durability as 
 our desires, and hushed into fancied security well as its splendour to ourselves. So newly 
 by the roar of the universe around us— we quaff 30 found, we cannot think of parting with it yet, 
 the cup of life with eager thirst without drain- or at least put off that consideration sine die.^ 
 ing it, and joy and hope seem ever mantling Like a rustic at a fair, we are full of amazement 
 to the brim — objects press around us, filling and rapture, and have no thought of going 
 the mind with their magnitude and with the home, or that it will soon be night. We know 
 throng of desires that wait upon them, so that 35 our existence only by ourselves, and confound 
 there is no room for the thoughts of death. We our knowledge with the objects of it. We and 
 are too much dazzled by the gorgeousness and Nature are therefore one. Otherwise the illu- 
 novelty of the bright waking dream about us sion, the "feast of reason and the flow of soul,"^ 
 to discern the dim shadow lingering for us in to which we are invited, is a mockery and a 
 the distance. Nor would the hold that life 40 cruel insult. We do not go from a play till the 
 has taken of us permit us to detach our thoughts last act is ended, and the lights are about to 
 that way, even if we could. We are too much be extinguished. But the fairy face of Nature 
 absorbed in present objects and pursuits, still shines on: shall we be called away before 
 While the spint of youth remains unimpaired, the curtain falls, or ere we have scarce had a 
 ere "the wine of Ufe is drunk,"^ we are like 45 glimpse of what is going on? Like children, our 
 people intoxicated or in a fever, who are hurried step-mother Nature holds us up to see the 
 away by the violence of their own sensations: raree-show^ of the universe, and then, as if 
 It 18 only as present objects begin to paU upon we were a burden to her to support, lets us fall 
 the sense, as we have been disappointed in our down again. Yet what brave sublunary things 
 favounte pursmts, cut off from our closest 60 does not this pageant present, like a baU or 
 tics, that we by degrees become weaned from fUe of the universe! 
 
 the world, that passion loosens its hold upon To see the golden sun, the azure sky, the 
 futurity, Mid that we begin to contemplate as out-stretched ocean; to walk upon the green 
 
 !r?.?^!!^^^n^^t^'!u'^^^''^^^^l"«r*^ ^^^*^' ^^^ be lord of a thousand creatures; 
 It for good. Till then, the example of others 65 
 
 «Cf. MacbHh V viiL 12 ^^r?V^"*J""* Shandy, Bk. V, ch. 7. 
 
 • "Still it whisoered nromiwvi r»fp«j.iir« * Without day, ' a legal or parliamentary phrase used 
 
 And bid TheTydy £™n^1r&'S^hailF'' lembS"'^"^'^* '"''"^ ^^'^^'^^ ^^^^^ ^ ^^^ ^°^ '^ 
 
 ,-,- „ , , Collins, Ode On The Passions. ^ Pone Satirpa T 19R 
 
 •Cf. !/«»«*, n.ui. 100. ••Tbewiae.rflif.i.dr.wB.- •iXwSSd'kblui in a box. like, puppet show. 
 
WILLIAM HAZLITT 571 
 
 to look down yawning precipices or over distant intricacies of nature. What a prospect for 
 sunny vales; to see the world spread out under the future! What a task have we not begun I 
 one's feet on a map; to bring the stars near; to And shall we be arrested in the middle of it? 
 view the smallest insects through a microscope; We do not count our time thus employed lost, 
 to read history, and consider the revolutions 5 or our pains thrown away; we do not flag or 
 of empire and the successions of generations; grow tired, but gain new vigour at our endless 
 to hear of the glory of Tyre, of Sidon, of Baby- task. Shall Time, then, grudge us to finish 
 Ion, and of Susa,^ and to say all these were be- what we have begun, and have formed a com- 
 fore me and are now nothing; to say I exist in pact with Nature to do? Why not fill up the 
 such a point of time, and in such a point of lo blank that is left us in this manner? I have 
 space; to be a spectator and a part of its ever- looked for hours at a Rembrandt without being 
 moving scene; to witness the change of season, conscious of the flight of time, but with ever 
 of spring and autumn, of winter and summer; new wonder and delight, have thought that 
 to feel hot and cold, pleasure and pain, beauty not only my own but another existence I could 
 and deformity, right and wrong; to be sensible 15 pass in the same manner. This rarefied, re- 
 to the accidents of nature; to consider the fined existence seemed to have no end, nor 
 mighty world of eye and ear; to listen to the stint, nor principle of decay in it. The print 
 stock-dove's notes amid the forest deep; to would remain long after I who looked on it 
 journey over moor and mountain; to hear the had become the prey of worms. The thing 
 midnight sainted choir; to visit lighted halls, 20 seems in itself out of all reason: health, strength, 
 or the cathedral's gloom, or sit in crowded appetite are opposed to the idea of death, and 
 theatres and see life itself mocked; to study we are not ready to credit it till we have found 
 the works of art and refine the sense of beauty our illusions vanished, and our hopes grown cold. 
 to agony; to worship fame, and to dream of Objects in youth, from novelty, &c., are 
 immortality; to look upon the Vatican, and to 25 stamped upon the brain with such force and 
 read Shakespeare; to gather up the wisdom of integrity that one thinks nothing can remove 
 the ancients, and to pry into the future; to or obliterate them. They are riveted there, 
 listen to the trump of war, the shout of vie- and appear to us as an element of our nature, 
 tory; to question history as to the movements It must be a mere violence that destroys them, 
 of the human heart; to seek for truth; to plead 30 not a natural decay. In the very strength or 
 the cause of humanity; to overlook the world this persuasion we seem to enjoy an age by 
 as if time and nature poured their treasures anticipation. We melt down years into a 
 at our feet — to be and to do all this and then single moment of intense sympathy, and by 
 in a moment to be nothing — to have it all anticipating the fruits defy the ravages of time, 
 snatched from us as by a juggler's trick, or a 35 If, then, a single moment of our hves is worth 
 phantasmagoria! There is something in this years, shall we set any limits to its total value 
 transition from all to nothing that shocks us and extent? Again, does it not happen that 
 and damps the enthusiasm of youth new so secure do we think ourselves of an indefinite 
 flushed with hope and pleasure, and we cast period of existence, that at times, when left to 
 the comfortless thought as far from us as we 40 ourselves, and impatient of novelty, we feel 
 can. In the first enjoyment of the estate of annoyed at what seems to us the slow and 
 life we discard the fear of debts and duns, and creeping progress of time, and argue that if it 
 never think of the final payment of our great always moves at this tedious snail's pace it 
 debt to Nature. Art we know is long; life, we will never come to an end? How ready are we 
 flatter ourselves, should be so too. We see no 45 to sacrifice any space of time which separates 
 end of the difficulties and delays we have to us from a favourite object, little thinking that 
 encounter: perfection is slow of attainment, before long we shall find it move too fast, 
 and we must have time to accomplish it in. For my part, I started in life with the French 
 The fame of the great names we look up to is Revolution, and I have lived, alas! to see the 
 immortal: and shall not we who contemplate 50 end of it. But I did not foresee this result 
 it imbibe a portion of ethereal fire, the divince My sun arose with the first dawn of liberty, 
 particula auroe,^^ which nothing can extinguish? and I did not think how soon both must set. 
 A wrinkle in Rembrandt or in Nature takes The new impulse to ardour given to men's 
 whole days to resolve itself into its component minds imparted a congenial warmth and glow 
 parts, its softenings and its sharpnesses; we 55 to mine; we were strong to run a race together, 
 refine upon our perfections, and unfold the and I little dreamed that long before mme was 
 
 » A royal Persian residence. ^ . Set, the SUn of liberty ^^ WOuld turn tO blood, or 
 
 '0 " Particles of divine air." It was the doctrine of the .. ti • * rr, j . v 
 
 Pythagoreans and the Stoics that our souls were emana- " An allusion to the Reign of Terror, and the accession 
 
 tions from the Divine mind. of Napoleon. 
 
572 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 •et once more in the night of despotism. Since bodily infirmity, and frame our minds to the 
 then I oonfefls, 1 have no longer felt myself cahn and respectable composure of shll-hfe 
 youn'g, for with that my hopes fell. before we return to physical nothmgness it is 
 
 I live since turned my thoughts to gather- a^ much as we can expect. We do not die 
 ing up 8ome of the fragments of my early recol- 6 wholly at our deaths: we have mouldered away 
 lectioDS. and putting them into a form to which gradually long before. Faculty after faculty, 
 I might occasionaUy revert. The future was interest after interest, attachment after attach- 
 barredl to my progress, and I turned for con- ment disappear: we are torn from ourselves 
 eolation and encouragement to the past. It while hving, year after year sees us no longer 
 is thus that, while we find our personal and 10 the same, and death only consigns the last 
 substantial identity vanishing from us, we fragment of what we were to the grave. That 
 strive to gain a reflected and vicarious one in we should wear out by slow stages, and dwindle 
 our thoughts: we do not hke to perish wholly, at last into nothing, is not wonderful, when 
 and wish to bequeath our names, at least, even in our prime our strongest impressions 
 to posterity. As long as we can make our 15 leave little trace but for the moment, and 
 cherished thoughts and nearest interests live we are the creatures of petty circumstance. 
 in the minds of others, we do not appear to How little effect is made on us in our best 
 have retired altogether from the stage. We days by the books we have read, the scenes 
 still occupy the breasts of others, and exert an we have witnessed, the sensations we have 
 influence and power over them, and it is only 20 gone through I Think only of the feelings we 
 our bodies that are reduced to dust and powder, experience in reading a fine romance (one of 
 Our favourite speculations still find encourage- Sir Walter's, for instance) ; what beauty, what 
 ment, and we make as great a figure in the eye sublimity, what interest, what heart-rending 
 of the world, or perhaps a greater, than in our emotions! You would suppose the feelings 
 lifetime. The demands of our seK-love are 25 you then experienced would last for ever, or 
 thus satisfied, and these are the most imperious subdue the mind to their own harmony and 
 and unremitting. Besides, if by our intellec- tone: while we are reading it seems as if nothing 
 tual superiority we survive ourselves in this could ever put us out of our way, or trouble 
 world, by our virtues and faith we may attain us: — the first splash of mud that we get on 
 an interest in another, and a higher state of 30 entering the street, the first twopence we are 
 being, and may thus be recipients^'' at the cheated out of, the feeling vanishes clean out 
 same time of men and of angels. of our minds, and we become the prey of petty 
 
 irr^i e xt. x i_ xi. • /• xt x • ^nd aunoying circumstance. The mind soars 
 
 "E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature ones, . ,, ^ i«fl„. u ,0 „+ Ur.r ;,. +1,^ ^^„«iii^„ 
 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires."^^ I? *^^ ^^^^^ ' '\ '^ ^* ^i'^l!!', ^^\ grovelling, 
 
 35 the disagreeable, and the little. And yet we 
 As we grow old, our sense of the value of time wonder that age should be feeble and queru- 
 beoomes vivid. Nothing else, indeed, seems of lous, — that the freshness of youth should fade 
 any consequence. We can never cease wonder- away. Both worlds would hardly satisfy the 
 ing that that which has ever been should cease extravagance of our desires and of oui- pre- 
 to be. We find many things remain the same: 40 sumption, 
 why then should there be change in us. This 
 adds a convulsive grasp of whatever is, a sense 
 
 of a fallacious hoUowness in all we see. Instead ©J^Ottiaiflf SDf ^^ttttlC^ 
 
 of the full, pulpy feeUng of youth, tasting exist- 
 ence and every object in it, all is flat and 45 (1785-1859) 
 vapid, — a whited sepulchre, fair without, but 
 
 fuU of ravening and all uncleanness within. LEVANA AND OUR LADIES OF 
 
 The world is a witch that puts us off with false SORROW 
 
 shows and appearances. The simpHcity of /'t? _ c • • j r. i- j. 10^1- \ 
 
 youth, the confiding expectation, the bound- 50 ^^'^"^ '^^'^^^ ^^ Profundzs, 1845) 
 less raptures, are gone: we only think of getting Oftentimes at Oxford I saw Levana in my 
 out of It as weU as we can, and without any dreams. I knew her by her Roman symbols. 
 great mischance or annoyance. The flush of Who is Levana? Reader, that do not pretend 
 Illusion, even the complacent retrospect of ^ have leisure for very much scholarship you 
 past joys and hopes. 18 over: if we can slip out 55 will not be angry with me for telling you. 
 of Me without indignity, can escape with httle Levana was the Roman goddess that per- 
 -biillitS ■3ri«ri*.v " innTA*''*^ °K ^^'^^.^y o^r formed for the newborn infant the earliest 
 
 imeiieciuBj supenonty, and m heaven by our virtues ^a; r i_t i • i . ■, , . 
 
 »ndf«ith."andK, be received by men and by angels. ^™^^ O^ ennobling kindness, — tvpical, by itS 
 
 "Or»y'8 Eleoy. mode, of that grandeur which belongs to man 
 
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 573 
 
 everywhere, and of that benignity in powers of Eton^ require that a boy on the foundation^ 
 invisible which even in Pagan worlds some- should be there twelve years: he is superan- 
 times descends to sustain it. At the very nuated^ at eighteen, consequently he must come 
 moment of birth, just as the infant tasted for at six. Children torn away from mothers and 
 the first time the atmosphere of our troubled 5 sisters at that age not unfrequently die. I 
 planet, it was laid on the ground. That might speak of what I know. The complaint is not 
 bear different interpretations. But immedi- entered by the registrar as grief; but that it is. 
 ately, lest so grand a creature should grovel Grief of that sort, and at that age, has killed 
 there for more than one instant, either the more than ever have been counted among its 
 paternal hand, as proxy for the goddess Levana, lo martyrs. 
 
 or some near kinsman, as proxy for the father. Therefore it is that Levana often communes 
 
 raised it upright, bade it look erect as the king with the powers that shake man's heart: there- 
 of all this world, and presented its forehead to fore it is that she dotes upon grief. ''These 
 the stars, saying, perhaps in his heart, "Behold ladies," said I softly to myself, on seeing the 
 what is greater than yourselves!" This sym- 15 ministers with whom Levana was conversing, 
 bolic act represented the function of Levana. "these are the Sorrows; and they are three in 
 And that mysterious lady, who never revealed number, as the Graces are three, who dress 
 her face (except to me in dreams), but always man's life with beauty: the ParcoB are three, 
 acted by delegation, had her name from the who weave the dark arras of man's life in their 
 Latin verb (as still it is the Italian verb) levare, 20 mysterious loom always with colours sad in 
 to raise aloft. part, sometimes angry with tragic crimson and 
 
 This is the explanation of Levana. And black; the Furies are three, who visit with 
 hence it has arisen that some people have retributions called from the other side of the 
 understood by Levana the tutelary power that grave offences that walk upon this; and at once 
 controls the education of the nursery. She, 25 even the Muses^ were but three, who fit the 
 that would not suffer at his birth even a pre- harp, the trumpet, or the lute,^ to the great 
 figurative or mimic degradation for her awful burdens of man's impassioned creations, 
 ward, far less could be supposed to suffer the These are the Sorrows, all three of whom I 
 real degradation attaching to the non-develop- know." The last words I say now; but in 
 ment of his powers. She therefore, watches 30 Oxford^ I said, "one of whom I know, and the 
 over human education. Now, the word educo, , others too surely I shall know." For already, 
 with the penultimate short, was derived (by a in my fervent youth, I saw (dimly relieved 
 process often exemplified in the crystallization upon the dark background of my dreams) the 
 of languages) from the word edOco, with the imperfect Hneaments of the awful sisters. 
 penultimate long. Whatsoever educes, or de- 35 These sisters — by what name shall we call 
 velops, educates. By the education of Levana, them? 
 
 therefore, is meant, — not the poor machinery If I say simply, "The Sorrows," there will be 
 
 that moves by spelling-books and grammars, a chance of mistaking the term; it might be 
 but by that mighty system of central forces hid- understood of individual sorrow, — separate 
 den in the deep bosom of human fife, which by 40 cases of sorrow, — whereas I want a term ex- 
 passion, by strife, by temptation, by the ener- pressing the mighty abstractions that incar- 
 gies of resistance, works forever upon children, nate themselves in all individual sufferings of 
 — resting not day or night, any more than the man's heart; and I wish to have these abstrac- 
 mighty wheel of day and night themselves, tions presented as impersonations, that is, as 
 whose moments, like restless spokes, are ghm- 45 clothed with human attributes of life, and with 
 mering forever as they revolve. functions pointing to flesh. Let us call them 
 
 If, then, these are the ministries by which therefore. Our Ladies of Sorrow. I know them 
 Levana works, how profoundly must she rever- , ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ aristocratic of the "public 
 
 ence the agencies of grief! But you, reader! schools" in England. It is situated on the Thames op- 
 think,— that children generally are not liable 50 PO|ig^Windsor,and^wa9 founded by Henry VI in 1441. 
 to grief such as mine. There are two senses in 2 There are about seventy boys on the foundation or 
 
 the word generally -the sense of Euclid, where -??™Si'red t"'^vl "oo'ttift age. 
 
 it means universally (or in the whole extent < Pausanius states that originally three muses were 
 
 ^f fV.« /»«*,-., o^ oTirl o fr^r>li"c>^ Q^nQP nf tViiq wnrld Worshipped on Mount Helicon, namely, MeletS (Medita- 
 Ot the genus), and a tOOllsn sense 01 tniS WOria, ^.^^^^ Mneme (Memory), and AoedS (Song). 
 
 where it means usually. Now, I am far from 55 5 Each instrument seems chosen by De Quincey to 
 
 saying that children universally are capable of ^^It^.f^^Hhe VrnZp^ttr^a'So tif^ "^^ 'Z^ 
 
 grief like mine. But there are more than you ardor; and the lute for love and sentiment. 
 
 ever heard of who die of grief in this island of ,,; De quincg, ^"'V^^^-\:[':ZXliS'ifflSy 
 ours. I will tell you a common case. The rules there that he began the use of opium. 
 
674 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 thorouahly. and have walked in all their king- open every cottage and every palace. She, 
 doms Three sisters they are, of one mys- to my knowledge, sat all last summer by the 
 terioiia household; and their paths are wide bedside of the bUnd beggar, him that so often 
 apart' but of their dominion there is no end. and so gladly I talked with, whose pious 
 xSem I saw often conversing with Levana, and 5 daughter eight years old, with the sunny 
 sometimes about myself. Do they talk, then? countenance, resisted the temptations of play 
 Oh no! Mighty phantoms like these disdain and viUage mirth to travel all day long on 
 the infirmities of language. They may utter dusty roads with her afflicted father. For this 
 voioes through the organs of man when they did God send her a great reward. In the spring- 
 dweU in human hearts, but amongst themselves 10 time of the year, and whilst yet her own spring 
 is no voice nor sound; eternal silence reigns in was budding, he recalled ner to himself. But 
 their kingdoms. They spoke not, as they talked her blind father mourns forever oyer her; still 
 with Levana; they whispered not; they sang he dreams at midnight that the little guiding 
 not; though oftentimes methought they might hand is locked within his own; and still he 
 have sung: for 1 upon earth had heard their 15 wakens to a darkness that is now within a 
 mysteries oftentimes deciphered by harp and second and a deeper darkness. This Mater 
 timbrel, by dulcimer and organ. Like God, Lachrymarum also has been sitting all this 
 wboee servants they are, they utter their winter ^ of 1844^5 within the bedchamber of the 
 pleasure not by sounds that perish, or by Czar, bringing before his eyes a daughter (not 
 wonls that go astray, but by signs in heaven, 20 less pious) that vanished to God not less sud- 
 by changes on earth, by pulses in secret rivers, denly, and left behind her a darkness not less 
 heraldries painted on darkness, and hiero- profound. By the power of the keys it is that 
 gl><phics written on the tablets of the brain. Our Lady of Tears glides a ghostly intruder 
 They wheeled in mazes; / spelled the steps, into the chambers of sleepless men, sleepless 
 They telegraphed from afar; / read the signals. 25 women, sleepless children, from Ganges to the 
 They conspired together; and on the mirrors of Nile, from Nile to Mississippi. And her, be- 
 darkness my eye traced the plots. Theirs were cause she is the first-born of her house, and 
 the symbols; mine are the words. has the widest empire, let us honour with the 
 
 What is it the sisters are? What is it that title of "Madonna." 
 they do? Let me describe their form, and their 30 The second sister is called Mater SiLspiriorum, 
 presence; if form it were that still fluctuated Our Lady of Sighs. She never scales the 
 in its outUne; or presence it were that forever clouds, nor walks abroad upon the winds. 
 advanced to the front, or forever receded She wears no diadem. And her eyes, if they 
 amongst shades. were ever seen, would be neither sweet nor 
 
 The eldest of the three is named Afo^er 35 subtle; no man could read their story; they 
 Lachrymarum, Our Lady of Tears. She it is would be found filled with perishing dreams, 
 that night and day raves and moans, calUng and with wrecks of forgotten deUrium. But 
 for vanished faces. She stood ii^ Rama,^ she raises not her eyes; her head, on which sits a 
 where a voice was heard of lamentation, — dilapidated turban, droops forever, forever 
 Rachel weeping for her children, and refused 40 fastens on the dust. She weeps not. She 
 to be comforted. She it was that stood in groans not. But she sighs inaudibly at in- 
 Bethlehem on the night when Herod's sword tervals. Her sister. Madonna, is oftentimes 
 swept its nurseries of Innocents, and the httle stormy and frantic, raging in the highest 
 feet were stiffened forever, which, heard at against heaven, and demanding back her 
 times as they tottered along floors overhead, 45 darlings. But Our Lady of Sighs never clam- 
 woke pulses of love in household hearts that ours, never defies, dreams not of rebellious 
 were not unmarked in heaven. aspirations. She is humble to abjectness. 
 
 Her eyes are sweet and subtle, wild and Hers is the meekness that belongs to the hope- 
 sleepy, by turns; oftentimes rising to the less. Murmur she may, but it is in her sleep. 
 cbuds, oftentimes chaUenging the heavens. 50 Whisper she may, but it is to herself in the 
 She X7^ a diadem round her head. And I twilight. Mutter she does at times, but it is 
 knew by childish memones that she could go in solitary places that are desolate as she is 
 abroad unon the winds, when she heard that desolate, in ruined cities, and when the sun 
 Bobbmg-of htanies, or the thundering of organs, has gone down to his rest. This sister is the 
 and when she beheld the mustering of summer 55 
 
 clouds. This sister, the elder, it is that carries ^ ^^^ Pope, as the successor of St. Peter, are given the 
 
 keys more than papal' at her girdle, which "'TT^.'hlSXZit'T^^i London in June. 1844. 
 
 »J«r«niaA Tirt l=i«T,HW Tif^tt a ta The death of his daughter, the Princess Alexandra, in the 
 
 .irXiio"£-.'£ t^^Jin^'aS'e'fc^ Chuxeh th.t IS 'fend^"*""' ^""^ ""^"''" '^'^""^ '" "" 
 
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 575 
 
 visitor of the Pariah, 1° of the Jew,^^ of the for ebbing or for flowing tide, may be read from 
 bondsman to the oar in the Mediterranean the very ground. She is the defier of God. 
 galleys; of the English criminal in Norfolk She also is the mother of lunacies, and the 
 Island, 12 blotted out from the books of remem- suggestress of suicides. Deep Ue the roots of 
 brance in sweet far-off England; of the baffled 5 her power; but narrow is the nation that she 
 penitent reverting his eyes forever upon a rules. For she can approach only those in 
 solitary grave, which to him seems the altar whom a profound nature has been upheaved 
 overthrown of some past and bloody sacrifice, by central convulsions; in whom the heart 
 on which altar no obligations can now be trembles and the brain rocks under conspiracies 
 availing, whether towards pardon that heioof tempest from without and tempest from 
 might implore, or towards reparation that he within. Madonna moves with uncertain 
 might attempt. Every slave that at noonday steps, fast or slow, but still with tragic grace, 
 looks up to the tropical sun with timid re- Our Lady of Sighs creeps timidly and stealthily, 
 proach, as he points with one hand to the earth, But this youngest sister moves with incalculable 
 our general mother, but for him a stepmother, is motions, bounding, and with a tiger's leaps. 
 — as he points with the other hand to the Bible, She carries no key; for, though coming rarely 
 our general teacher, but against him sealed and amongst men, she storms all doors at which 
 sequestered; — every woman sitting in dark- she is permitted to enter at all. And her name 
 iess, without love to shelter her head, or hope is Mater Tenebrarum, — Our Lady of Darkness, 
 to illumine her solitude, because the heaven- 20 These were the Semnai Theai,^^ or Sublime 
 born instincts kindling in her nature germs of Goddesses, these were the Eumenides, or Gra- 
 holy affections, which God implanted in her cious Ladies (so called by antiquity in shudder- 
 womanly bosom, having been stifled by social ing propitiation), of my Oxford dreams. Ma- 
 necessities, now burn sullenly to waste, Uke donna spoke. She spoke by her mysterious 
 sepulchral lamps amongst the ancients; every 25 hand. Touching my head, she beckoned to 
 nun defrauded of her unreturning May-time by Our Lady of Sighs; and what she spoke, trans- 
 wicked kinsman, whom God will judge; every lated out of the signs which (except in dreams) 
 captive in every dungeon; all that are be- no man reads; was this: — 
 trayed, and all that are rejected; outcasts by "Lo! here is he, whom in childhood I dedi- 
 
 traditionary law, and children of hereditary 30 csLted to my altars. This is he that once I 
 disgrace, — all these walk with Our Lady of made my darling. Him I led astray, him I 
 Sighs. She also carries a key; but she needs it beguiled, and from heaven I stole away his 
 httle. For her kingdom is chiefly amongst the young heart to mine. Through me did he be- 
 tents of Shem,i3 and the houseless vagrant of come idolatrous; and through me it was, by 
 every chme. Yet in the very highest ranks of 35 languishing desires, that he worshipped the 
 man she finds chapels of her own; and even in worm and prayed to the wormy grave. Holy 
 glorious England there are some that, to the was the grave to him; lovely was its darkness; 
 world, carry their heads as proudly as the saintly its corruption. Him, this young idolater, 
 reindeer, yet who secretly have received her I have seasoned for thee, dear gentle Sister of 
 mark upon their foreheads. 40 Sighs! Do thou take him now to thy heart. 
 
 But the third sister, who is also the young- and season him for our dreadful sister. And 
 est — I Hush! whisper whilst we talk of her! thou," — turning to the Mater Tenebrarum, she 
 Her kingdom is not large, or else no flesh should said, "wicked sister, that temptest and hatest, 
 live; but within that kingdom all power is hers, do thou take him from her. See that thy 
 Her head, turreted Uke that of Cybele,!* raises 45 sceptre ijg heavy on his head. Suffer not 
 her almost beyond the reach of sight. She woman and her tenderness to sit near him in 
 droops not; and her eyes rising so high might his darkness. Banish the frailties of hope, 
 be hidden by distance. But, being what they wither the relenting of love, scorch the foun- 
 are, they cannot be hidden; through the treble tains of tears, curse him as only thou canst 
 veil of crape that she wears, the fierce light of 50 curse. So shall he be accomplished ^^ in the 
 a blazing misery, that rests not for matins or furnace, so shall he see the things that ought 
 for vespers, for noon of day or noon of night, not to be seen, sights that are abominable, and 
 
 secrets that are unutterable. So shall he read 
 
 10 A low caste Hindoo, employed in India for menial elder truths, sad truths, grand truths, fearful 
 '^^lUn^lSnToTe^ierrible persecutions of ^^ 55 truths. So shall he rise again before he dies. 
 
 " A British Island off the east coast of Austraha, form- J^^ gO ghall our commission be accomplished 
 erly the site of a penal colony. , , xu t^ • n j • u 
 
 13 Cf Genesis ix 27 " Another name for the Furies, called setnnat, or sub- 
 
 i<The wife of Chro'nos and mother of the gods; in lime, in "shuddering propitiation" by the Athenians, 
 early Greek mythology, represented as sitting between who worshipped them, 
 lions with a mural orown on her head. " Perfected, made complete. 
 
676 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 which from God we had-to plague his heart of discord yet all obedient as slaves to the 
 un U wrSadunfolded the capacities of his supreme bdton of some great leader termmate 
 uniii wc uau uti f .^ ^ perfection of harmony like that of heart, 
 
 *'P"' brain, and lungs, in a healthy animal organisa- 
 
 5tion. But, finally, that particular element 
 
 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH in this whole combination which most im- 
 
 jg49 pressed myself, and through which it is that 
 
 to this hour Mr. Palmer's mail-coach system 
 
 (Abridged) tyrannises over my dreams by terror and 
 
 Sfption the First lO terrific beauty, lay in the awful polilical mis- 
 
 Section the l-iRST ^.^^ ^^.^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^.^^ .^ fulfiUed. The mail- 
 
 THE GLORY OF MOTION coach it was that distributed over the face of 
 
 Some twenty or more years before I matricu- the land, Uke the opening of apocalyptic vials, 
 lated at Oxford, Mr. Palmer,^ at that time the heart-shaking news of Trafalgar of Sala- 
 M.P. for Bath, had accomplished two things, I5manca, of Vittona, of Waterloo.^ These were 
 very haid to do on our little planet, the Earth, the harvests that, in the grandeur of their 
 however cheap they may be held by eccentric reaping, redeemed the tears and blood m 
 people in comets— he had invented mail- which they had been sown. Neither was the 
 coaches, and he had married the daughter of a meanest peasant so much below the grandeur 
 duke. He was, therefore, just twice as great 20 and the sorrow of the times as to confound 
 a man as Galileo, who did certainly invent battles such as these, which were gradually 
 (or, which is the same thing, discover) the moulding the destinies of (^hristendom, with 
 satellites of Jupiter, those very next things the vulgar conflicts of ordinary warfare, so 
 extant to mail-cf)aches in the two capital pre- often no more than gladiatorial trials of na- 
 tensions of speed and keeping time, but, on25tional prowess. The victories of England in 
 the other hand, who did not marry the daughter this stupendous contest rose of themselves as 
 of a duke. natural Te Deums to heaven; and it was felt 
 
 These mail-coaches, as organised by Mr. by the thoughtful that such victories, at such 
 Palmer, are entitled to a circumstantial notice a crisis of general prostration, were not more 
 from myself, having had so large a share in 30 beneficial to ourselves than finally to France, 
 developing the anarchies of ray subsequent our enemy, and to the nations of all w^tern 
 dreams; an agency which they accomplished, or central Europe, through whose pusillanimity 
 1st, through velocity, at that time unprece- it was that the French domination had pros- 
 dented— for they first revealed the glory of pered. ... 
 
 motion; 2ndly, through grand effects for the 35 No dignity is perfect which does not at some 
 eye between lamp-light and the darkness upon point ally itself with the mysterious. The 
 solitary roads; 3rdly, through animal beauty connection of the mail with the state and the 
 and power so often displayed in the class of executive government — a connection obvious, 
 horses selected for this mail service; 4thly, but yet not strictly defined — gave to the whole 
 through the conscious presence of a central 40 mail establishment an official grandeur which 
 intellect, that, in the midst of vast distances — did us service on the roads, and invested us 
 of storms, of darkness, of danger — overruled all with seasonable terrors. Not the less impres- 
 obetacles into one steady co-operation to a sive were those terrors, because their legal 
 national result. For my own feeling, this post- hmits were imperfectly ascertained. Look at 
 office service spoke as by some mighty or- 45 those turnpike gates; with what deferential 
 chestra, where a thousand instruments, all hurry, with what an obedient start, they fly 
 disregarding each other, and so far in danger open at our approach! Look at that long line 
 » John Palmer (1742-1818). a public-anirited citizen ?^ ^^^^^^ and Carters ahead, audaciously usurp- 
 o( Bath, obeerving "that the state-post wns the slowest mg the very crest of the road. Ah! traitors, 
 SSj;1h^°Xr.o'°piL' KS^^^B'Sl'l'li' &^^^y do -ot hear us as yet; but as soon as the 
 
 don. while be could cover the distance in one day. i&id dreadful blast of OUT horn reaches them With 
 
 ^ToSJieJ. ?,tch'°i.rtot.°S,t2n aT.iiti^rr.'A'e'd Proclamation of our approach, see with what 
 of 8 to 10 miles an hour. After much discussion, in which frenzy of trepidation they fly to their horses' 
 
 Palmer was supported by Pitt, but opposed by the postal he-ids and dpnrppaf p our wrnth hv f hp nrpoini- 
 aulhonties, a service between Bristol and London was in- "^aas, ana aeprecaie OUr Wratn oy ine precipi- 
 
 Buguratcd. and Palmer himself despatched the first mail- 55 tation of their crane-neck Quarterings.' Trea- 
 
 ooach from Bristol. Aug. 2, 1784. By the autumn of 1785 g^n f hpv fppl to Hp f hpir primP- papH individiiflJ 
 
 mail-coaches were running to most of the important Eng- ^"" ^"^J^ ^^®^ ^" "® ^"^^^ Crime, eaCH maiVlQUai 
 
 lish cities and towns, and in the following year the service 
 
 was extended to Edinburgh. Palmer was rewarded by 2 AH battles in the Napoleonic wars. 
 
 i? . ?2iP *" appointment as comptroller-general of the » Crossing the road from side to side so as to avoid 
 
 i'ort UfBoe. ruts. etc. 
 
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 577 
 
 carter feels himself under the ban of confisca- of fifty minutes for eleven miles, could the 
 tion and attainder;* his blood is attainted royal mail pretend to undertake the offices of 
 through six generations; and nothing is want- sympathy and condolence? Could it be ex- 
 ing but the headsman and his axe, the block pected to provide tears for the accidents of 
 and the saw-dust, to close up the vista of his 5 the road? If even it seemed to trample on 
 horrors. What! shall it be within benefit of humanity, it did so, I felt, in discharge of its 
 clergy^ to delay the king's message on the own more peremptory duties, 
 high road? — to interrupt the great respirations, Upholding the morality of the mail, d for' 
 
 ebb and flood, systole and diastole,^ of the na- tiori^ I upheld its rights; as a matter of duty 
 tional intercourse? — to endanger the safety 10 1 stretched to the uttermost its privilege of 
 of tidings, running day and night between all imperial precedency, and astonished weak 
 nations and languages? Or can it be fancied minds by the feudal powers which I hinted to 
 amongst the weakest of men, that the bodies be lurking constructively in the charters of 
 of the criminals will be given up to their widows this proud establishment. Once I remember 
 for Christian burial? Now the doubts which 15 being on the box of the Holyhead mail, between 
 were raised as to our powers did more to wrap Shrewsbury and Oswestry, when a tawdry 
 them in terror, by wrapping them in uncer- thing from Birmingham, some "Tallyho" or 
 tainty, than could have been effected by the "Highflyer," all flaunting with green and gold, 
 sharpest definitions of the law from the Quarter came up alongside of us. What a contrast to 
 Sessions.^ We, on our parts (we, the collective 20 our royal simplicity of form and colour in this 
 mail, I mean), did our utmost to exalt the idea plebeian wretch! The single ornament on 
 of our privileges by the insolence with which we our dark ground of chocolate colour was the 
 wielded them. Whether this insolence rested mighty shield of the imperial arms, but em- 
 upon law that gave it a sanction, or upon con- blazoned in proportions as modest as a signet- 
 scious power that haughtily dispensed with 25 ring bears to a seal of office. Even this was 
 that sanction, equally it spoke from a potential displayed only on a single panel, whispering, 
 station, and the agent, in each particular in- rather than proclaiming, our relations to the 
 solence of the moment, was viewed reveren- mighty state; whilst the beast from Birming- 
 tially, as one having authority. ham, our green-and-gold friend from false, 
 
 Sometimes after breakfast his majesty's 3C fleeting, perjured Brummagem, 1° had as much 
 mail would become frisky; and in its difficult writing and painting on its sprawling flanks 
 wheelings amongst the intricacies of early as would have puzzled a decipherer from the 
 markets, it would upset an apple-cart, a cart tombs of Luxor. ^^ For some time this Bir- 
 loaded with eggs, &c. Huge was the affliction mingham machine ran along by our side — a 
 and dismay, awful was the smash. I, as far 35 piece of familiarity that already of itself seemed 
 as possible, endeavoured in such a case to to me sufficiently Jacobinical. But all at once 
 represent the conscience and moral sensibilities a movement of the horses announced a des- 
 of the mail; and, when wildernesses of eggs perate intention of leaving us behind. "Do 
 were lying poached under our horses' hoofs, you see thatf I said to the coachman. — -"I 
 then would I stretch forth my hands in sorrow, 40 see," was his short answer. He was wide 
 saying (in words too celebrated at that time, awake, yet he waited longer than seemed 
 from the false echoes of Marengo) ,8 "Ah! prudent; for the horses of our audacious op- 
 wherefore have we not time to weep over ponent had a disagreeable air of freshness and 
 you?" which was evidently impossible, since, power. But his motive was loyal; his wish 
 in fact, we had not time to laugh over them. 45 was, that the Birmingham conceit should be 
 Tied to post-office allowance, in some cases full-blown before he froze it. When <^ai seemed 
 
 right, he unloosed, or, to speak by a stronger 
 
 4 Attainder, deprived the Attainted of all the civil rights word, he Sprang, his known resources: he slipped 
 ^dcotfld'oSrSleTn;ft'iln°m*Vr^^^^^^^^^^^ our royal horses like cheetahs, or hunting- 
 
 5 A technical phrase in Old English Law, signifying the leopards, after the affrighted game. How they 
 
 ?he mng'" clS '^''^"^ ^"''" '"""^^ proceedmgs m ^^^^^ ^^^^.^ ^^^^ ^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ p^^^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 6 In physiology the alternate contraction and expansion ^Jj^ work they had accomplished, seemed hard 
 of the heart by which the circulation of the blood is ef- 
 
 ^ 7 A Court originally so called from the fact that its » A technical term in logic equivalent to "all the more 
 
 sessions were held quarterly. The administration of the so." , ^. . ,_ ..„ . „ . . 
 
 highway laws was one of its functions. "> An old form of Birmingham, still in colloquial use, 
 
 8 At the battle of Marengo. June 14, 1800, the French and often applied to cheap jewelry, for the manufacture 
 
 General Desaix by his timely arrival, saved Napoleon of which Birmingham is noted. Cf. Rich. Ill, I. iv. 55: — 
 from defeat, but was himself killed. The story that "Clarence is come,— false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, 
 
 Napoleon on hearing of his death said: "Ah. wherefore That stabbed me in the field by lewksbury. 
 
 have we not time to weep over you!" is called by De " In upper Egypt, on the site of the ancient capital of 
 
 Quincey a "theatrical fiction." Egypt, is famous for its temples and tombs. 
 
578 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 to explain. But on our side, besides the physi- with Birmingham tinsel, with paste diamonds, 
 cal Buperiority, was a tower of moral strength, and Roman pearls, ^^ and then led off to instant 
 namely, the king's name, "which they upon execution." The Welshman doubted if that 
 the adverse faction wanted." Passing them could be warranted by law. And when I 
 without an effort, as it seemed, we threw them 5 hinted at the 6th of Edward Longshanks, 
 into the rear with so lengthening an interval chap. 18,^* for regulating the precedency of 
 between us, as proved in itself the bitterest coaches as being probably the statute relied 
 mockery of their presumption; whilst our on for the capital punishment of such offences, 
 guard blew back a shattering blast of triumph, he replied drily, that "if the attempt to pass 
 that was really too painfully full of derision. 10 a mail really were treasonable, it was a pity 
 I mention this little incident for its connec- that the 'Tallyho' appeared to have so imper- 
 tion with what followed. A Welsh rustic feet an acquaintance with law." 
 sitting behind me, asked if I had not felt my The modern modes of travelling cannot corn- 
 heart bum within me during the progress of pare with the old mail-coach system in grandeur 
 the race? I said, with philosophic cahnness, is and power. They boast of more velocity, not, 
 No; because we were not racing with a mail, however, as a consciousness, but as a fact 
 80 that no glory could be gained. In fact, it of our lifeless knowledge, resting upon alien 
 was sufficiently mortifying that such a Bir- evidence; as, for instance, because somebody 
 mingham thing should dare to challenge us. says that we have gone fifty miles in the hour. 
 The Welshman repHed, that he didn't see that; 20 though, we are far from feeling it as a personal 
 for that a cat might look at a king, and a Brum- experience, or upon the evidence of a result, 
 magem coach might lawfully race the Holy- as that actually we find ourselves in York 
 head mail. "Race us, if you like," I replied, four hours after leaving London. Apart from 
 "though even that has an air of sedition, but such an assertion, or such a result, I myself am 
 not beat us. This would have been treason ; 25 little aware of the pace. But, seated on the 
 for its own sake I am glad that the 'Tallyho' old mail-coach, we needed no evidence out 
 was disappointed." So dissatisfied did the of ourselves to indicate the velocity. On this 
 Welshman seem with this opinion, that at system the word was, Non magna loquimur, 
 last I was obUged to tell him a very fine story as upon railways, but vivimus.^^ Yes, "magna 
 from one of our elder dramatists — viz., tha.t so vivimus;" we do not make verbal ostentation 
 once, in some far oriental kingdom, when the of our grandeurs, we realise our grandeurs in 
 sultan of all the land, with his princes, ladies, act, and in the very experience of life. The 
 and chief omrahs," were flying their falcons, vital experience of the glad animal sensibilities 
 a hawk suddenly flew at a majestic eagle; and made doubts impossible on the question of our 
 in defiance of the eagle's natural advantages, 35 speed; we heard our speed, we saw it, we felt 
 in contempt also of the eagle's traditional it as a thrilling; and this speed was not the 
 royalty, and before the whole assembled field product of blind insensate agencies, that had 
 of astonished spectators from Agra and La- no sympathy to give, but was incarnated in 
 hore, killed the eagle on the spot. Amazement the fiery eyeballs of the noblest amongst 
 seized the sultan at the unequal contest, and 40 brutes, in his dilated nostril, spasmodic muscles, 
 burning admiration for its unparalleled result, and thunder-beating hoofs. The sensibility of 
 He commanded that the hawk should be the horse, uttering itself in the maniac light 
 brought before him; he caressed the bird with of his eye, might be the last vibration of such a 
 enthusiasm; and he ordered that, for the com- movement; the glory of Salamanca might be 
 memoration of his matchless courage, a diadem 45 the first. But the intervening links that con- 
 of gold and rubies should be solemnly placed nected them, that spread the earthquake of 
 on the hawk's head; but then that, immediately battle into the eyeball of the horse, were the 
 after this solemn coronation, the bird should heart of man and its electric thrillings— kindling 
 be led off to execution, as the most valiant in- in the rapture of the fiery strife, and then prop- 
 deed of traitors, but not the less a traitor, as 50 agating its own tumults by contagious shouts 
 having dared to rise rebelliously against his and gestures to the heart of his servant the 
 liege lord and anointed sovereign, the eagle, horse. 
 
 "Now," said I to the Welshman, "to you and But now, on the new system of travelling, 
 
 me, aa men of refined sensibilities, how painful iron tubes and boilers have disconnected man's 
 It would have been that this poor Brummagem 55 heart from the ministers of his locomotion. 
 brute, the 'Tallyho,' in the impossible case of 
 a victory over us, should have been crowned "^dl^^S^on of De Quin»eya. The e,k 
 
 •rK plur.1 of th. Arabic «»..>, . commaudor, a noble- ffi/tterSwrrJIsolll^^Taai'r.fh^l^^^^^^^^ 
 
 >* "We do Dot talk great things, we live them." 
 
 \ 
 
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 579 
 
 Nile nor Trafalgar^^ has power to raise an extra much more loudly must this proclamation have 
 bubble in a steam-kettle. The galvanic cycle spoken in the audacity of having bearded the 
 is broken up for ever; man's imperial nature no elite of their troops, and having beaten them 
 longer sends itself forward through the electric in pitched battles! Five years of life it was 
 sensibility of the horse; the interagencies are 5 worth paying down for the privilege of an 
 gone in the mode of communication between outside place on a mail-coach, when carrying 
 the horse and his master, out of which grew down the first tidings of any such event. And 
 so many aspects of subhmity under accidents it is to be noted that, from our insular situation, 
 of mists that hid, or sudden blazes that re- and the multitude of our frigates disposable 
 vealed, of mobs that agitated, or midnight soli- 10 for the rapid transmission of intelhgence, 
 tudes that awed. Tidings, fitted to convulse rarely did an unauthorised rumour steal away 
 all nations, must henceforwards travel by a prelibation^^ from the first aroma of the 
 cuhnary process; and the trumpet that once regular despatches. The government news was 
 announced from afar the laurelled mail, heart- generally the earliest news, 
 shaking, when heard screaming on the wind, 15 From eight p. m. to fifteen or twenty minutes 
 and proclaiming itself through the darkness later, imagine the mails assembled on parade 
 to every village or solitary house on its route, in Lombard Street, 2° where, at that time, and 
 has now given way for ever to the pot- not in St. Martin's-le-Grand, was seated the 
 wallopings^^ of the boiler. General Post-office. In what exact strength we 
 
 Thus have perished multiform openings for 20 mustered I do not remember; but, from the 
 public expressions of interest, scenical yet length of each separate allelage, we filled the 
 natural, in great national tidings; for revela- street, though a long one, and though we were 
 tions of faces and groups that could not offer drawn up in double file. On any night the 
 themselves amongst the fluctuating mobs of a spectacle was beautiful. The absolute per- 
 railway station. The gatherings of gazers about 25 fection of all the appointments about the car- 
 a laurelled mail had one centre, and acknowl- riages and the harness, their strength, their 
 edged one sole interest. But the crowds at- brilliant cleanliness, their beautiful simphcity — 
 tending at a railway station have as little unity but, more than all, the royal magnificence of 
 as running water, and own as many centres the horses — were what might first have fixed 
 as there are separate carriages in the train. ... 30 the attention. Every carriage, on every morn- 
 ing in the year, was taken down to an official 
 GOING DOWN WITH VICTORY inspector for examination— wheels, axles, hnch- 
 
 But the grandest chapter of our experience, pins, pole, glasses, lamps, were all critically 
 within the whole mail coach service, was on probed and tested. Every part of every car- 
 those occasions when we went down from 35 riage had been cleaned, every horse had been 
 London with the news of victory. A period groomed, with as much rigour as if they be- 
 of about ten years stretched from Trafalgar to longed to a private gentleman; and that part 
 Waterloo; the second and third years of which of the spectacle offered itself always. But the 
 period (1806 and 1807) were comparatively night before us is a night of victory; and, behold 
 sterile; but the other nine (from 1805 to 1815 40 to the ordinary display, what a heart-shaking 
 inclusively) furnished a long succession of addition! — horses, men, carriages, all are 
 victories; the least of which, in such a contest dressed in laurels and flowers, oak-leaves and 
 of Titans, had an inappreciable value of posi- ribbons. The guards, as being officially his 
 tion — partly for its absolute interference with Majesty's servants, and of the coachmen such 
 the plans of our enemy, but still more from its 45 as are within the privilege of the post-office, 
 keeping aUve through central Europe the sense wear the royal hveries of course; and as it is 
 of a deep-seated vulnerabihty in France. Even summer (for all the land victories were natur- 
 to tease the coasts of our enemy, to mortify ally won in summer), they wear, on this fine 
 them by continual blockades, to insult them evening, these liveries exposed to view, with- 
 by capturing if it were but a baubling^^ schooner 50 out any covering of upper coats. Such a 
 under the eyes of their arrogant armies, re- costume, and the elaborate arrangement of 
 peated from time to time a sullen proclamation the laurels in their hats, dilate their hearts, 
 of power lodged in one quarter to which the by giving to them openly a personal connection 
 hopes of Christendom turned in secret. How with the great news, in which already they 
 
 w Nelson destroyed the French fleet in the battle of the 55 have the general interest of patriotism. That 
 Nile, fought in Aboukir Bay, Aug. 1, 1798. For Trafalgar oreat national sentiment surmounts and quells 
 
 see Southey's account, p. 548, supra. ° 
 
 " The sound made as a pot in boiling. The design of 
 the whole passage is to belittle the steam engine by com- » Foretaste. , , ^. ^ . ^ ^^ 
 
 paring it to a tea-kettle. ^ Near the Bank of England. The General Post Office 
 
 i» Petty, trifling. in St. Martin le Grand, was built in 1825-29. 
 
580 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 all sense of ordinary distinctions. Those evening, the sun, perhaps, only just at the 
 passengers who happen to be gentlemen are point of setting, we are seen from every storey 
 now hardly to be distinguished as such except of every house. Heads of every age crowd 
 by dwss; for the usual reserve of their manner to the windows— young and old understand 
 in speaking to the attendants has on this 5 the language of our victorious symbols— and 
 night melted away. One heart, one pride, one rolling volleys of sympathising cheers run 
 glory, connects every man by the transcen- along us, behind us, and before us. The beggar, 
 dent 'bond of his national blood. The spec- rearing himself against the wall, forgets his 
 tators, who are numerous beyond precedent, lameness — real or assumed — thinks not of his 
 express their sympathy with these fervent lO whining trade, but stands erect with bold 
 feelings by continual hurrahs. Every moment exulting smiles, as we pass him. The victory 
 are shouted aloud by the post-office servants, has healed him, and says, Be thou whole! 
 and summoned to draw up, the great ancestral Women and children, from garrets alike and 
 names of cities known to historythrough a thou- cellars, through infinite London, look down 
 sand years— Lincoln, Winchester, Portsmouth, 15 or look up with loving eyes upon our gay 
 Gloucester, Oxford, Bristol, Manchester, York, ribbons and our maitial laurels: sometimes 
 Newcastle, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Perth, Stir- kiss their hands; sometimes hang out, as 
 ling, Aberdeen — expressing the grandeur of signals of affection, pocket-handkerchiefs, 
 the empire by the antiquity of its towns, aprons, dusters, anything that, by catching 
 and the grandeur of the mail establishment by 20 the summer breezes, will express an aerial 
 the diffusive radiation of its separate missions, jubilation. On the London side of Barnet,22 to 
 Every moment you hear the thunder of hds which we draw near within a few minutes after 
 locked down upon the mail-bags. That sound nine, observe that private carriage which is 
 to each individual mail is the signal for drawing approaching us. The weather being so warm, 
 off, which process is the finest part of the en- 25 the glasses are all down; and one may read, as 
 tire spectacle. Then come the horses into play, on the stage of a theatre, everything that goes 
 Horses! can these be horses that bound off on within. It contains three ladies — one 
 with the action and gestures of leopards? hkely to be "mamma," and two of seventeen 
 What stir! — what sea-hke ferment! — what a or eighteen, who are probably her daughters. 
 thundering of wheels! — what a trampling of 30 What lovely animation, what beautiful, un- 
 hoofs! — what a sounding of trumpets! — what premeditated pantomime, explaining to us 
 farewell cheers! — what redoubling peals of every syllable that passes in these ingenuous 
 brotherly congratulation, connecting the name girls! By the sudden start and raising of the 
 of the particular mail — "Liverpool for ever!" — hands, on first discovering our laurelled equi- 
 with the name of the particular victory — 35page!— by the sudden movement and appeal to 
 "Badajoz" for ever!" or "Salamanca for the elder lady from both of them— and by the 
 ever!" The half-slumbering consciousness heightened colour on their animated coun- 
 that, all night long, and all the next day — per- tenances, we can almost hear them saying, 
 haps for even a longer period— many of these "See, see! Look at their laurels! Oh, mamma! 
 mails, like fire racing along a, train of gunpowder, 40 there has been a great battle in Spain; and it 
 will be kindling at every instant new succes- has been a great victory." In a moment we 
 sions of burning joy, has an obscure effect of are on the point of passing them. We passen- 
 multiplying the victory itself, by multiplying gers— I on the box, and the two on the roof 
 to the imagination into infinity the stages of behind me— raise our hats to the ladies; the 
 its progressive diffusion. A fiery arrow seems 45 coachman makes his professional salute with 
 to be let loose, which from that moment is the whip; the guard even, though punctilious 
 destined to travel, without intermission, west- on the matter of his dignity as an officer under 
 wards for three hundred miles— northwards for the crown, touches his hat. The ladies move 
 SIX hundred; and the sympathy of our Lombard to us, in return, with a winning graciousness 
 Street friends at parting is exalted a hundred- 50 of gesture; all smile on each side in a way 
 fold by a sort of visionary sympathy with the that nobody could misunderstand, and that 
 yet slumbering sympathies which in so vast nothing short of a grand national sympathy 
 a succession we are going to awake. could so instantaneously prompt. Will these 
 
 Liberated from the embarrassments of the ladies say that, we are nothing to themf Oh, 
 City, and issuing into the broad uncrowded55no; they willnotsay i/ia^ They cannot deny— 
 avenues of the northern suburbs, we soon begin they do not deny— that for this night they 
 to enter upon our natural pace of ten miles are our sisters; gentle or simple, scholar or 
 an hour. In the broad light of the summer illiterate servant, for twelve hours to come, 
 " In Spain, taken by Wellington in 1812. 22 Eleven miles north of London. 
 
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 581 
 
 we on the outside have the honour to be their amongst Celtic Highlanders is called fey^^ 
 brothers. Those poor women, again, who stop This was at some little town where we changed 
 to gaze upon us with delight at the entrance horses an hour or two after midnight. Some 
 of Barnet, and seem, by their air of weariness, fair or wake had kept the people up out of 
 to be returning from labour— do you mean to 5 their beds, and had occasioned a partial illumi- 
 say that they are washerwomen and char- nation of the stalls and booths, presenting an 
 women? Oh, my poor friend, you are quite unusual but very impressive effect. We saw 
 mistaken. I assure you they stand in a far many Hghts moving about as we drew near; 
 higher rank; for this one night they feel them- and perhaps the most striking scene on the 
 selves by birth-right to be daughters of Eng- lo whole route was our reception at this place, 
 land, and answer to no humbler title. The flashing of torches and the beautiful 
 
 Every joy, however, even rapturous joy— radiance of blue lights (technically, Bengal 
 such is the sad law of earth — may carry with lights) upon the heads of our horses; the fine 
 it grief, or fear of grief, to some. Three miles effect of such a showery and ghostly illumina- 
 beyond Barnet, we see approaching us another 15 tion falling upon our flowers and ghttering 
 private carriage, nearly repeating the circum- laurels; whilst all around ourselves, that 
 stances of the former case. Here, also, the formed a centre of light, the darkness gathered 
 glasses are all down — here, also, is an elderly on the rear and flanks in massy blackness; these 
 lady seated; but the two daughters are missing; optical splendours, together with the prodi- 
 for the single young person sitting by the lady's 20 gious enthusiasm of the people, composed a 
 side, seems to be an attendant— so I judge from picture at once scenical and affecting, theatrical 
 her dress, and her air of respectful reserve, and holy. As we stayed for three or four 
 The lady is in mourning; and her countenance minutes, I alighted; and immediately from a 
 expresses sorrow. At first she does not look dismantled stall in the street, where no doubt 
 up; so that I believe she is not aware of our 25 she had been presiding through the earher 
 approach, until she hears the measured beating part of the night, advanced eagerly a middle- 
 of our horses' hoofs. Then she raises her eyes aged woman. The sight of my newspaper it 
 to settle them painfully on our triumphal was that had drawn her attention upon myself, 
 equipage. Our decorations explain the case The victory which we were carrying down to 
 to her at once; but she beholds them with ap- 30 the provinces on this occasion, was the im- 
 parent anxiety, or even with terror. Some perfect one of Talavera^^ — imperfect for its 
 time before this, I, finding it difficult to hit a results, such was the virtual treachery of the 
 flying mark, when embarrassed by the coach- Spanish general, Cuesta, but not imperfect 
 man's person and reins intervening, had given in its ever-memorable heroism. I told her the 
 to the guard a "Courier" evening paper, 35 main outline of the battle. The agitation of 
 containing the gazette,^' for the next carriage her enthusiasm had been so conspicuous when 
 that might pass. listening, and when first applying for informa- 
 
 Accordingly he tossed it in, so folded that tion, that I could not but ask her if she had not 
 the huge capitals expressing some such legend some relative in the Peninsular army. Oh yes; 
 as — GLORIOUS VICTORY, might catch the eye 40 her only son was there. In what regiment? 
 at once. To see the paper, however, at all, He was a trooper in the 23rd Dragoons. My 
 interpreted as it was by our ensigns of triumph, heart sank within me as she made that answer, 
 explained everything; and, if the guard were This sublime regiment, which an Englishman 
 right in thinking the lady to have received it should never mention without raising his hat 
 with a gesture of horror, it could not be doubt- 45 to their memory, had made the most memor- 
 ful that she had suffered some deep personal able and effective charge recorded in mihtary 
 affliction in connection with this Spanish war. annals. They leaped their horses — over a 
 
 Here, now, was the case of one who, having trench where they could, into it, and with 
 formerly suffered, might, erroneously perhaps, the result of death or mutilation when they 
 be distressing herself with anticipations of 50 could not. What proportion cleared the trench 
 another similar suffering. That same night, is nowhere stated. Those who did, closed up 
 and hardly three hours later, occurred the and went down upon the enemy with suci 
 
 reverse case. A poor woman, who too prob- 24 Not a Gaelic word, but an Old English word retained 
 
 hHIv wniilri finri hprdplf in n Hflv or two to in the Scotch. In Old English poetry it was applied to 
 
 aOly WOUia nna nersell, in a aay or wo, 10 warriors who were "doomed" to fall in battle. In Its 
 have suffered the heaviest of afflictions by the 55 Scottish use it implies a state of high spirits and wild 
 
 hflftlp hlinrllv nllnwpH fiprsplf to PxnrPSS an exaltation in the person unconscious of his doom, 
 
 oattie, DUnaiy ailOWea nerseu 10 express mi 25 T^a^aDcm de Za /eei»a, at the confluence of the Alberche 
 
 exultation so unmeasured in the news and its and the Tagus, where the English under Sir Arthur 
 
 dptflils flp 0-nvP to lipr fhp annearance which Wellesley (afterward Duke of Wellington) and the 
 
 aeiailS, as gave to ner tne appearauoe wuicu gpanish under Cuesta were attacked by the French under 
 
 » L e. the official report of the battle. Marshal Victor and Joseph Bonaparte, July 27, 1809. 
 
582 THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT 
 
 divinity of fervour (I use the word divinity showed her not the funeral banners under 
 by design: the inspiration of God must have which the noble regiment was sleeping. I 
 jirompted this movement to those whom even lifted not the overshadowing laurels from the 
 then He was calling to His presence), that two bloody trench in which horse and rider lay 
 results followed. As regarded the enemy, 6 mangled together. But I told her how these 
 this 23rd Dragoons, not, I believe, originally dear children of England, officers and privates, 
 three hundred and fifty strong, paralysed a had leaped their horses over all obstacles as 
 French column, six thousand strong, then gaily as hunters to the morning's chase. I| 
 ascended the hill, and fixed the gaze of the told her how they rode their horses into the 
 whole French army. As regarded themselves, 10 mists of death (saying to myself, but not saying 
 tbo 23rd were supposed at first to have been to her), and laid down their young Hves for 
 barely not annihilated; but eventually, I thee, O mother England! as willingly — poured 
 believe, about one in four survived. And out their noble blood as cheerfully — as ever, 
 this, then, was the regiment — a regiment after a long day's sport, when infants, they 
 already for some hours glorified and hallowed 15 had rested their wearied heads upon their 
 to the ear of all London, as lying stretched, by a mother's knees, or had sunk to sleep in her 
 large majority, upon one bloody aceldama^^ — arms. Strange it is, yet true, that she seemed 
 in which the young trooper served whose to have no fears for her son's safety, even after 
 mother was now talking in a spirit of such this knowledge that the 23rd Dragoons had 
 joyous enthusiasm. Did I tell her the truth? 20 been memorably engaged; but so much was 
 Had I the heart to break up her dreams? No. she enraptured by the knowledge that his 
 Tomorrow, said I to myself — to-morrow, or regiment, and therefore that he, had rendered 
 the next day, will publish the worst. For one conspicuous service in the dreadful conflict — 
 night more, wherefore should she not sleep in a service which had actually made them, within 
 peace? After to-morrow, the chances are too 25 the last twelve hours, the foremost topic of 
 many that peace will forsake her pillow. This conversation in London — so absolutely was 
 brief respite, then, let her owe to my gift and fear swallowed up in joy — that, in the mere 
 my forbearance. But, if I told her not of the simplicity of her fervent nature, the poor 
 bloody price that had been paid, not, therefore, woman threw her arms round my neck, as 
 was I silent on the contributions from her son's 30 she thought of her son, and gave to me the kiss 
 regiment to that day's service and glory. I which secretly was meant for him. 
 
 » "The field of blood." See Acts I 19. 
 
 \i 
 
VIII. THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 c. 1837-1900 
 
 1809-1892 
 
 SONG— THE OWL 
 (From Poems Chiefly Lyrical, 1830) 
 I 
 When cats run home and light is come, 
 
 And dew is cold upon the ground, 
 And the far-off stream is dumb, 
 And the whirring sail goes round. 
 And the whirring sail goes round; 
 Alone and warming his five wits, 
 The white owl in the belfry sits. 
 
 When merry milkmaids click the latch. 
 And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
 And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 10 
 Twice or thrice his roundelay. 
 Twice or thrice his roundelay; 
 Alone and warming his five wits, 
 The white owl in the belfry sits. 
 
 THE PALACE OF ART* 
 
 (From Poems, 1832) 
 
 To . . . 
 
 WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM 
 
 I send you here a sort of allegory, 
 (For you will understand it) of a soul, 
 A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 
 A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 
 A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 5 
 
 That did love Beauty only (Beauty seen 
 In all varieties of mould and mind), 
 And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good, 
 Good only for its beauty, seeing not 
 That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three 
 sisters lo 
 
 That doat upon each other, friends to man. 
 Living together under the same roof, 
 And never can be sunder'd without tears. 
 And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 
 Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie 15 
 Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
 Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, 
 Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears 
 Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 
 
 ' Tennyson wrote the following notes on this poem in 
 1890: "Trench said to me, when we were at Trinity to- 
 gether, 'Tennyson, we cannot live in art.'" "'The Pal- 
 ace of Art' is the embodiment of my own belief that the 
 Godlike life is with man and for man, that 'Beauty, Good, 
 and Knowledge are three sisters,' etc." 
 
 (Memoir, by H. Tennyson, I. 118.) 
 Tennyson made a number of changes in this poem, es- 
 pecially for the edition of 1842. The version here given 
 IS the final and more familiar one. 
 
 THE PALACE OF ART 
 
 I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 
 
 Wherein at ease for aye to dwell, 
 I said "O soul, make merry and carouse, 
 
 Dear soul, for all is well." 
 
 A huge crag-platform, smooth as bumish'd 
 brass, 5 
 
 I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
 From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
 
 Suddenly scaled the hght. 
 
 Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 
 The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
 
 My soul would live alone unto herself 
 In her high palace there. 
 
 10 
 
 And "while the world runs round and round," 
 I said 
 "Reign thou apart a quiet king. 
 Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast 
 shade 15 
 
 Sleeps on his luminous ring." 
 
 To which my soul made answer readily: 
 
 "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
 In this great mansion, that is built for me, 
 
 So royal-rich and wide." 20 
 
 Four courts I made, East, West and South 
 and North, 
 
 In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
 The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
 
 A flood of fountain-foam. 
 
 And round the cool green courts there ran a 
 row 25 
 
 Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods. 
 Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
 
 Of spouted fountain-floods; 
 
 And round the roofs a gilded gallery 
 
 That lent broad verge^ to distant lands, 30 
 
 Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky 
 Dipt down to sea and sands. 
 
 From those four jets four currents in one swell 
 Across the mountain streamed below 
 
 In misty folds, that floating as they fell 35 
 
 Lit up a torrent-bow. 
 
 And high on every peak a statue seem'd 
 
 To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
 A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
 
 From out a golden cup. 40 
 
 » Horizon; a peculiarly Tennysonian use. 
 
 583 
 
584 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon 
 
 My palace with unblinded eyes, 
 While this great bow will waver in the sun, 
 
 And that sweet incense rise?" 
 
 For that sweet incense rosie and never fail'd 45 
 And, while day sank or mounted higher, 
 
 The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
 Burnt like a fringe of fire. 
 
 Likewise the deep-set yvindows, stain'd and 
 traced. 
 
 Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 50 
 From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, 
 
 And tipt with frost-like spires. 
 
 Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 
 That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
 
 Thro' which the livelong day my soul did 
 pass, 55 
 
 Well-pleased, from room to room. 
 
 Full of great rooms and small the palace stood. 
 
 All various, each a perfect whole 
 From living Nature, fit for every mood 
 
 And change of my still soul. 60 
 
 For some were hung with arras green and blue, 
 
 Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
 Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew 
 
 His wreatned bugle-horn. 
 
 One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand, 65 
 And some one pacing there alone. 
 
 Who paced for ever in a glimmering land. 
 Lit with a low large moon. 
 
 One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 
 
 You seem'd to hear them climb and fall 70 
 And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves. 
 
 Beneath the windy wall. 
 
 And one, a full-fed river winding slow 
 By herds upon an endless plain. 
 
 The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
 With shadow-streaks of rain. 
 
 75 
 
 And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 
 
 In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
 Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
 
 And hoary to the wind.* 80 
 
 And one a foreground black with stones and 
 slags; 
 Beyond, a line of heights; and higher 
 All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful 
 crags; 
 And highest, snow and fire. 84 
 
 And one, an English home — gray twilight pour'd 
 
 On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
 Softer than sleep— all things in order stored, 
 
 A haunt of ancient Peace. 
 
 *"To appreciate this touch, one must have seen a 
 grove of olive-trees, when the peculiar whitish-gray 
 underside of the leaves is turned up by the wiad." Rolfe. 
 
 Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, 
 As fit for every mood of mind, 90 
 
 Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, 
 Not less than truth design'd. 
 
 Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. 
 
 In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, 
 Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 95 
 
 Sat smiling, babe in arm. 
 
 Or in a clear-walled city on the sea, 
 
 Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
 Wound with white roses, slept Saint Cecily;' 
 
 An angel look'd at her. lOO 
 
 Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 
 
 A group of Houris bow'd to see 
 The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
 
 That said, we wait for thee. 
 
 Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son* 105 
 In some fair space of sloping greens 
 
 Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
 And watch'd by weeping queens. 
 
 Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 
 
 To list a footfall, ere he saw no 
 
 The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king*^ 
 to hear 
 Of wisdom and of law. 
 
 Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 
 And many a tract of palm and rice. 
 
 The throne of Indian Cama^ slowly sail'd 115 
 A summer fann'd with spice. 
 
 Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd. 
 From off her shoulder backward borne; 
 
 From one hand droop'd a crocus; one hand 
 grasp'd 
 The mild bull's golden horn. 120 
 
 Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh 
 
 Half buried in the eagle's down. 
 Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
 
 Above the pillar'd town. 
 
 Nor these alone; but every legend fair 
 Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
 
 Carved out of Nature for itself was there, 
 Not less than life design'd. 
 
 125 
 
 Then in the towers I placed great bells that 
 
 swung, 
 
 Moved of themselves, with silver sound ; 120 
 And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
 The royal dais round. 
 
 ' St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music, whose har- 
 monies brought an angel down from heaven. Cf. Dry- 
 den's Song for St. Cecilia's Day, p. 277, and his Alexan- 
 der's Feast, p. 278, supra. 
 
 * King Arthur, according to legend the son of Uther 
 Pendragon. 
 
 * Numa Pompilius, according to legend the second 
 King of Rome. The "wood-nymph," Egeria, met him 
 in a grove near the city, and there taught him how to 
 frame laws and religious ceremonies for his people. 
 
 6 Or Kama, the Hindoo god of love. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 585 
 
 For there was Milton like a seraph strong, 
 Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; 
 
 And there the world-worn Dante grasped his 
 ^ song, 135 
 
 And somewhat grimly smiled. 
 
 And there the Ionian father of the rest;^ 
 A million wrinkles carved his skin; 
 
 A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, 
 From cheek and throat and chin. 140 
 
 Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 
 
 Many an arch high up did lift, 
 And angels rising and descending met 
 
 With interchange of gift. 
 
 Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 145 
 
 With cycles of the human tale 
 Of this wide world, the times of every land 
 
 So wrought they will not fail. 
 
 The people here, a beast of burden slow, 
 Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and 
 stings; 150 
 
 Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
 The heads and crowns of kings; 
 
 Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind 
 All force in bonds that might endure. 
 
 And here once more like some sick man de- 
 clined, 155 
 And trusted any cure. 
 
 But over these she trod; and those great bells 
 Began to chime. She took her throne; 
 
 She sat betwixt the shining oriels, 
 
 To sing her songs alone. 160 
 
 [ And thro' the topmost oriels' colored flame 
 
 , Two godlike faces gazed below; 
 
 I Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam,* 
 
 I The first of those who know. 
 
 And all those names that in their motion were 
 Full-welling fountain-heads of change, 166 
 
 Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair 
 In diverse raiment strange; 
 
 Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, 
 blue, 
 Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 170 
 
 And from her lips, as morn from Memnon,' 
 drew 
 Rivers of melodies. 
 
 No nightingale delighteth to prolong 
 
 Her low preamble all alone, 
 More than my soul to hear her echo'd song 175 
 
 Throb thro' the ribbed stone; 
 
 Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, 
 
 Joying to feel herself alive. 
 Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth. 
 
 Lord of the senses five; 180 
 
 ^ Homer. 
 
 * Francis Bacon, who was made Baron Verulam. 
 
 9 A hero in the Trojan war. His name was erroneously 
 given by the Greeks to a colossal statue at Thebes, which 
 was said to give forth a musical sound when the rays of 
 the rising sun touched the stone. 
 
 Communing with herself: "All these are mine, 
 And let the world have peace or wars, 
 
 'Tis oiie to me." She — when young might 
 divine 
 Crown'd dying day with stars, 
 
 Making sweet close of his deUcious toils — 185 
 Lit light in wreaths and anadems,i° 
 
 And pure quintessences of precious oils 
 In hoUow'd moons of gems. 
 
 To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and 
 cried, 
 
 "I marvel if my still delight 190 
 
 In this great house so royal-rich and wide 
 
 Be flattered to the height. 
 
 "O all things fair to sate my various eyes! 
 
 shapes and hues that please me well! 
 
 silent faces of the Great and Wise, 195 
 My Gods, with whom I dwell! 
 
 "O Godlike isolation which art mine, 
 
 1 can but count thee perfect gain. 
 
 What time I watch the darkening droves of 
 swine 
 That range on yonder plain. 200 
 
 "In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, 
 They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; 
 
 And oft some brainless devil enters in. 
 And drives them to the deep." ^^ 
 
 Then of the moral instinct would she prate 205 
 
 And of the rising from the dead. 
 As hers by right of full-accomplished Fate; 
 
 And at the last she said: 
 
 "I take possession of man's mind and deed. 
 I care not what the sects may brawl. 210 
 
 1 sit as God holding no form of creed, 
 But contemplating all." 
 
 Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 
 Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone. 
 
 Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, 215 
 And intellectual throne. 
 
 And so she throve and prosper'd; so three years 
 She prosper'd; on the fourth she fell, 
 
 Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,^^ 
 Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 220 
 
 Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 
 
 God, before whom ever lie bare 
 The abysmal deeps of personality, 
 
 Plagued her with sore despair. 
 
 When she would think, where'er she turn'd her 
 sight 225 
 
 The airy hand confusion wrought, 
 Wrote, "Mene, mene,"^^ and divided quite 
 
 The kingdom of her thought. 
 
 10 Garlands, chaplets. " St. Matt., viii. 32. 
 
 12 V. Acts, xii. 21-23. 
 
 1* Dan., V. 23-29, but read the whole chapter and note 
 the points of resemblance between the "sinful soul" 
 and both Nebuchadnezzar and Belshazzar. 
 
586 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 
 
 Fell on her, from which mood was born 230 
 
 Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 
 Laughter at her self-scorn. 
 
 "What! is not this my place of strength," 
 she said, 
 "My spacious mansion built for me, 
 Whereof the strong foundation-stones were 
 laid 235 
 
 Since my first memory?" 
 
 But in dark comers of her palace stood 
 
 Uncertain shapes; and unawares 
 On white^yed phantasms weeping tears of 
 blood. 
 
 And horrible nightmares, 240 
 
 And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, 
 And with dim fretted foreheads all, 
 
 On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, 
 That stood against the wall. 
 
 A spot of dull stagnation, without light 245 
 Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
 
 Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
 Making for one sure goal; 
 
 A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand. 
 Left on the shore, that hears all night 250 
 
 The plunging seas draw backward from the 
 land 
 Their moon-led waters white; 
 
 A star that with the choral starry dance 
 Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
 
 The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 255 
 Roird round by one fix'd law. 
 
 Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 
 
 "No voice," she shrieked in that lone hall, 
 "No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this 
 world; 
 
 One deep, deep silence all I" 260 
 
 She, mouldering with the dull earth's moulder- 
 ing sod, 
 
 Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
 Lay there exiled from eternal God. 
 
 Lost to her place and name; 
 
 And death and life she hated equally, 265 
 
 And nothing saw, for her despair, 
 But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
 
 No comfort anywhere; 
 
 Remaining utterly confused with fears, 
 
 And ever worse with growing time, 270 
 
 And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. 
 And all alone in crime. 
 
 Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 
 
 With blackness as a solid wall. 
 Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 275 
 
 Of human footsteps fall; 
 
 As in strange lands a traveller walking slow. 
 
 In doubt and great perplexity, 
 A little before moonrise hears the low 
 
 Moan of an unknown sea; 280 
 
 And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound 
 Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
 
 Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have 
 found 
 A new land, but I die." 
 
 285 
 
 She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 
 
 There comes no murmur of reply. 
 What is it that will take away my sin. 
 
 And save me lest I die?" 
 
 So when four years were wholly finished, 
 She threw her royal robes away. 290 
 
 "Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, 
 "Where I may mourn and pray." 
 
 "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are 
 
 So lightly, beautifully built; 
 Perchance I may return with others there 295 
 
 When I have purged my guilt." 
 
 THE LOTOS-EATERS 
 (From Poems, 1832) 
 
 "Courage!" he said,^ and pointed toward the 
 
 land, 
 "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward 
 
 soon," 
 In the afternoon they came unto a land 
 In which it seemed always afternoon. 
 All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 5 
 Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
 Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 
 And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
 Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did 
 
 seem. 
 
 A land of streams! some, like a downward 
 smoke, lo 
 
 Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 
 
 And some thro' wavering lights and shadows 
 broke. 
 
 Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
 
 They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 
 
 From the inner land; far off, three mountain- 
 tops, 15 
 
 Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 
 
 Stood sunset-flushed; and, dew'd with showery 
 drops, 
 
 Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven 
 copse. 
 
 The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
 In the red West; thro' mountain clefts the 
 dale 20 
 
 Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
 Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 
 
 ^ i. e. Ulysses. The poem is founded on a paasage in 
 Homer's Odyssey, Bk. IX. ^'--—o 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 587 
 
 And meadow, set with slender galingale;^ 
 A land where all things always seem'd the same! 
 And round about the keel vvith faces pale, 25 
 Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
 The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 
 
 Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 
 Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
 To each, but whoso did receive of them 30 
 And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
 Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 
 On ahen shores; and if his fellow spake, 
 His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 
 And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, 35 
 And music in his ears his beating heart did 
 make. 
 
 They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
 Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
 And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
 Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore 40 
 Most Weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
 Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
 Then some one said, "We will return no more;" 
 And all at once they sang, "Our island home 
 Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer 
 
 » 
 
 roam. 
 
 45 
 
 CHORIC SONG 
 
 There is sweet music here that softer falls 
 Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
 Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
 Of shadowy granite, in a gleanaing pass; 
 Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 5 
 
 Than tired eyeUds upon tired eyes; 
 Music that brings sweet sleep down from the 
 
 blissful skies. 
 Here are cool mosses deep, 
 And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
 And in the stream the long-leaved flowers 
 
 weep, 10 
 
 And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in 
 
 sleep. 
 
 II 
 by are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 
 And utterly consumed with sharp distress. 
 While all things else have rest from weariness? 
 All things have rest: why should we toil alone, 15 
 We oHly toil, who are the first of things, 
 And make perpetual moan, 
 Still from one sorrow to another thrown; 
 Nor ever fold our wings. 
 
 And cease from wanderings, 20 
 
 Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 
 Nor barken what the inner spirit sings, 
 "There is no joy but calm!" — 
 Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of 
 
 things? 
 
 Ill 
 Lo! in the middle of the wood, 25 
 
 The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 
 With winds upon the branch, and there 
 Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 
 
 ' A sedge with an aromatic root, sometimes called the 
 English Galangal. 
 
 Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
 
 Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 30 
 
 Falls, and floats adown the air. 
 
 Lo! sweeben'd with the summer light. 
 
 The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 
 
 Drops in a silent autumn night. 
 
 All its allotted length of days 8S 
 
 The flower ripens in its place, 
 
 Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 
 
 Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 
 
 IV 
 
 Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
 
 Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 40 
 
 Death is the end of Ufe; ah, why 
 
 Should life all labor be? 
 
 Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 
 
 And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
 
 Let us alone. What is it that will last? 43 
 
 All things are taken from us, and become 
 
 Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. 
 
 Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
 
 To war with evil? Is there any peace 
 
 In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 50 
 
 All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 
 
 In silence — ripen, fall and cease: 
 
 Give us long rest or death, dark death, or 
 
 dreamful ease. 
 
 v 
 How sweet it were, hearing the downward 
 
 stream, 
 With half-shut eyes ever to seem 55 
 
 Falling asleep in a half -dream! 
 To dream and dream, like yonder amber light. 
 Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the 
 
 height; 
 To hear each other's whispered speech; 
 Eating the Lotos day by day, 60 
 
 To watch the crisping ripples on the beach. 
 And tender curving fines of creamy spray; 
 To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
 To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 
 To muse and brood and live again in memory, 63 
 With those old faces of our infancy 
 Heap'd over with a mound of grass. 
 Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of 
 
 brass! 
 
 VI 
 
 Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 
 And dear the last embraces of our wives 70 
 And their warm tears; but all hath suffer'd 
 
 change; 
 For surely now our household hearths are cold. 
 Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange, 
 And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 
 Or else the island princes over-bold ^ 75 
 
 Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 
 Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
 And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 
 Is there confusion in the little isle? 
 Let what is broken so remain. SG 
 
 The Gods are hard to reconcile; 
 'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
 There is confusion worse than death, 
 Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
 
588 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Long labor unto aged breath, 85 
 
 Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 
 And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot- 
 stars. 
 
 VII 
 
 But, propt on beds of amaranth' and moly,^ 
 How sweet — while warm airs lull us, blowing 
 
 lowly — 
 With half-dropt eyelid still, 90 
 
 Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
 To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
 His waters from the purple hill — 
 To hear the dewy echoes calling 94 
 
 F'rora cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — 
 To watch the emerald-color'd water falling 
 Thro' many a woven acanthus- wreath divine! 
 Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, 
 Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath 
 
 the pine. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The Lotos blooms below the barren peak, i oo 
 
 The Lotos blows by every winding creek; 
 
 All day the wind breathes low with mellower 
 
 tone; 
 Thro* every hollow cave and alley lone 
 Round and round the spicy downs the yellow 
 
 Lotos-dust is blown. 
 We have had enough of action, and of motion 
 we, 105 
 
 Roll'd to starboard, roU'd to larboard, when the 
 
 surge was seething free, 
 Where the wallowing monster spouted his 
 
 foam-fountains in the sea. 
 Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal 
 
 mind, 
 In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie re- 
 clined 
 On the hills like Gods together, careless of 
 
 mankind. no 
 
 For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts 
 
 are hurl'd 
 Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds 
 
 are lightly curl'd 
 Round their golden houses, girdled with the 
 
 gleaming world; 
 Where they smile in secret, looking over 
 
 wasted lands. 
 Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, 
 
 roaring deeps and fiery sands, 115 
 
 Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking 
 
 ships, and praying hands. 
 But they smile, they find a music centred in a 
 
 doleful song 
 Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient 
 
 tale of wrong, 
 Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are 
 
 strong; 
 Chanted from an ill-used race of men that 
 
 cleave the soil, 120 
 
 Sow the seed, and reap the harvest, with en- 
 during toil, 
 Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine 
 
 and oil; 
 
 ' A imaRinary flower which was supposed never to fade. 
 » 1 he plant Kiven to Ulyssea by Mercury; it was to 
 orotuct turn against the witchcraft of Circe. 
 
 Till they perish and they suLer — some, 'tis 
 whisper'd — down in hell 
 
 Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian val- 
 leys dwell, 
 
 Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
 
 Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, 
 the shore 126 
 
 Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and 
 wave and oar; 
 
 O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander 
 more. 
 
 YOU ASK ME WHY THOUGH ILL AT 
 EASE! 
 
 (Written in 1833, first printed 1842) 
 
 You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease. 
 Within this region I subsist. 
 Whose spirits falter in the mist. 
 
 And languish for the purple seas. 
 
 It is the land that freemen till, 5 
 
 That sober-suited Freedom chose, 
 The land, where girt with friends or foes 
 
 A man may speak the thing he will; 
 
 A land of settled government, 
 
 A land of just and old renown, 10 
 
 Where Freedom slowly broadens down 
 
 From precedent to precedent; 
 
 Where faction seldom gathers head, 
 But, by degrees to fullness wrought. 
 The strength of some diffusive thought 15 
 
 Hath time and space to work and spread. 
 
 Should banded unions persecute 
 Opinion, and induce a time 
 When single thought is civil crime, 
 
 And individual freedom mute, 2u 
 
 Tho' power should make from land to land 
 The name of Britain trebly great — 
 Tho' every channel of the State 
 
 Should fill and choke with golden saiid — 
 
 Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 25 
 
 Wild wind: I seek a warmer sky. 
 And I will see before I die 
 
 The palms and temples of the South. 
 
 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE 
 HEIGHTS 
 
 (Written in 1833, first published 1842) 
 
 Of old sat Freedom on the heights. 
 
 The thunders breaking at her feet; 
 Above her shook the starrv lights; 
 
 She heard the torrents meet. 
 
 J Aubrey De Vere wrote of this and of the following 
 poem (0/0 W Sat Freedom on the Heights): " If I re- 
 member right they were suggested bv some popular 
 demonstrations connected with the Reform Bill of 183?, 
 and Its rejection by the House of Lords." See the whole 
 passage in Memoir, by H. Tennyson, I. 506. C 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 589 
 
 There in her place she did rejoice, 5 
 
 Self-gather'd^ in her prophet-mind, 
 
 But fragments of her mighty voice 
 Came rolling on the wind. 
 
 Then stept she down thro' town and field 
 To mingle with the human race, 10 
 
 And part by part to men reveal'd 
 The fullness of her face — 
 
 Grave mother of majestic works, 
 
 From her isle-altar gazing down, 
 Who, Godlike, grasps the triple forks, 15 
 
 And, king-like, wears the crown. 
 
 Her open eyes desire the truth. 
 
 The wisdom of a thousand years 
 Is in them. May perpetual youth 
 
 Keep dry their light from tears; 20 
 
 That her fair form may stand and shine. 
 Make bright our days and light our dreams, 
 
 Turning to scorn with lips divine 
 The falsehood of extremes! 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALLi 
 
 (From Poems, 1842) 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 
 
 'tis early morn: 
 Leave me here, and when you want me, sound 
 
 upon the bugle-horn. 
 
 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the 
 
 curlews call. 
 Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over 
 
 Locksley Hall; 
 
 Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks 
 the sandy tracts, 5 
 
 And the hollow-ocean ridges roaring into 
 cataracts. 
 
 Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I 
 
 went to rest. 
 Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 
 
 West. 
 
 Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the 
 
 mellow shade. 
 Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a 
 
 silver braid. lo 
 
 Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a 
 
 youth sublime 
 With the fairy tales of science, and the long 
 
 result of Time; 
 
 1 Wrapped up in herself, self-centered. 
 
 1 Tennyson says of this poem: "The whole poem repre- 
 sents young life, its good side, its deficiencies, and its 
 yearnings." He tells us further that "'Locksley Hall' 
 is an imaginary place (tho' the coast is Lincolnshire), and 
 the hero is imaginary," {Memoir, by H. Tennyson, L 
 195). But the poem represents not merely young life in 
 general, but a young man at a time when youth in Eng- 
 land was stirred by great changes, by the marvels of 
 invention and of scientific discovery. 
 
 When the centuries behind me like a fruitful 
 
 land reposed; 
 When I clung to all the present for the promise 
 
 that it closed. 
 
 When I dipt into the future far as human eye 
 could see; 15 
 
 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder 
 that would be. — 
 
 In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 
 
 robin's breast; 
 In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 
 
 another crest; 
 
 In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the bur- 
 
 nish'd dove; 
 In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly 
 
 turns to thoughts of love. 20 
 
 Then her cheek was pale and thinner than 
 
 should be for one so young, 
 And her eyes on all my motions with a mute 
 
 observance hung. 
 
 And I said, "My Cousin Amy, speak, and 
 
 speak the truth to me, 
 Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being 
 
 sets to thee." 
 
 On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour 
 and a light, 25 
 
 As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the 
 northern night. 
 
 And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a 
 
 sudden storm of sighs — 
 All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of 
 
 hazel eyes — 
 
 Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they 
 
 should do me wrong;" 
 Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, 
 
 ' ' I have loved thee long . " 30 
 
 Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in 
 
 his glowing hands, 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in 
 
 golden sands. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all 
 
 the chords with might; 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd 
 
 in music out of sight. 
 
 Many a morning on the moorland did we hear 
 the copses ring, 35 
 
 And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the 
 fullness of the Spring. 
 
 Many an evening by the waters did we watch 
 
 the stately ships, 
 And our spirits rush'd together at the touching 
 
 of the lips. 
 
690 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 O my couflin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, 
 
 mine no morel 
 
 O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, 
 
 barren shore! 40 
 
 Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all 
 
 songs have sung, 
 Puppet to a father^s threat, and servile to a 
 
 shrewi^ tongue! 
 
 Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known 
 
 me — to decline 
 On a range of lower feelings and a narrower 
 
 heart than mine! 
 
 Yet it shaU be: thou shalt lower to his level day 
 by day, 45 
 
 What is fine within thee growing coarse to sym- 
 pathise with clay. 
 
 As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated 
 
 with a clown, 
 And the grossness of his nature will have weight 
 
 to drag thee down. 
 
 He will hold thee, when his passion shall have 
 
 spent its novel force, 
 Something better than his dog, a little dearer 
 
 than his horse. so 
 
 Well— 'tis well that I should bluster!— Hadst 
 
 thou less unworthy proved — ' 
 Would to God — for I had loved thee more than 
 
 ever wife was loved. 
 
 Am I mad, that I should cherish that which 
 bears but bitter fruit? 65 
 
 I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be 
 at the root. 
 
 Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length 
 
 of years should come 
 As the many-winter'd crow that leads the 
 
 clanging rookery home. 
 
 Where is comfort? in division of the records of 
 
 the mind? 
 Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I 
 
 knew her, kind? 70 
 
 I remember one that perish'd: sweetly did she 
 
 speak and move: 
 Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was 
 
 to love. 
 
 Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the 
 
 love she bore? 
 No — she never loved me truly: love is love for- 
 
 evermore. 
 
 What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they 
 
 are glazed with wine. 
 Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his 
 
 hand in thine. 
 
 It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is 
 
 over- wrought: 
 Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him 
 
 with thy hghter thought. 
 
 He will answer to the purpose, easy things to 
 understand — 55 
 
 Better thou wert dead before me, tho* I slew 
 thee with my hand! 
 
 Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 
 
 heart's disgrace, 
 RolI'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last 
 
 embrace. 
 
 Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 
 
 strength of youth I^ 
 Cursed be the social Ues that warp us from the 
 
 hving truth! 60 
 
 Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 
 
 Nature's rule! 
 Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened 
 
 forehead of the fool! 
 
 « Tennjraon is generally regarded as ultra-conservative, 
 Out on some points he differed widely from the accepted. 
 npper-claaa ppinion of the time. Like Ruskin. he was 
 uxipreflsed with the danger of the modern monev-getting 
 ■pint, and he protested in many po»ems against' allowing 
 a worship of wealth and social position to atand in the 
 ISL i/°i*^^®li^ ^fsif^b'e marriage. (Cf. Aylmer's 
 Fiad, Maud, and The MtUer'a Daughter.) 
 
 Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is 
 truth the poet sings,' 75 
 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 
 happier things. 
 
 Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy 
 
 heart be put to proof. 
 In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain 
 
 is on the roof. 
 
 Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art 
 
 staring at the wall. 
 Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the 
 
 shadows rise and fall. 80 
 
 Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to 
 
 his drunken sleep, 
 To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears 
 
 that thou wilt weep. 
 
 Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whis- 
 
 per'd by the phantom years. 
 And a song from out the distance in the ringing 
 
 of thine ears; 
 
 And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient 
 kindness on thy pain. 85 
 
 Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to 
 thy rest again. 
 
 Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender 
 
 voice will cry. 
 'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy 
 
 trouble dry. 
 
 3 Dante. "There is no greater pain than to recall a 
 ^appy time m misery." Inf., v. 121. V 
 
 \^ 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 591 
 
 Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival 
 
 brings thee rest. 
 Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 
 
 mother's breast. 90 
 
 O, the child too clothes the father with a dear- 
 
 ness not his due. 
 Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of 
 
 the two. 
 
 O, I see thee, old and formal, fitted to thy petty 
 
 part, 
 With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a 
 
 daughter's heart. 
 
 "They were dangerous guides the feelings — she 
 herself was not exempt — 95 
 
 Truly, she herself had suffer'd" — Perish in thy 
 self-contempt! 
 
 Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore 
 
 should I care? 
 I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 
 
 What is that which I should turn to, hghting 
 
 upon days like these? 
 Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but 
 
 to golden keys. lOO 
 
 Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the mar- 
 kets overflow. 
 
 I have but an angry fancy: what is that which 
 I should do? 
 
 I had been content to perish, falling»on the foe- 
 man's ground, 
 
 When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the 
 winds are laid with sound. 
 
 i But the jingHng of the guinea helps the hurt 
 i that Honour feels, 105 
 
 And the nations do but murmur, snarling at 
 each other's heels. 
 
 Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that 
 earlier page. 
 
 Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou won- 
 drous Mother- Age! 
 
 Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt 
 
 before the strife, 
 When I heard my days before me, and the 
 
 tumult of my life; no 
 
 Yearning for the large excitement that the com- 
 ing years would yield, 
 
 Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 
 father's field. 
 
 And at night along the dusky highway near and 
 
 nearer drawn, 
 Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like 
 
 a dreary dawn; 
 
 And his spirit leaps within him to be gone 
 before him then, 115 
 
 Underneath the light he looks alf, in among the 
 throngs of men; 
 
 Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 
 
 reaping something new:* 
 That which they have done but earnest of the 
 
 things that they shall do: 
 
 For I dipt into the future, far as human eye 
 
 could see. 
 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder 
 
 that would be; 120 
 
 Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 
 
 magic sails, 
 Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down 
 
 with costly bales; 
 
 Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 
 
 rain'd a ghastly dew 
 From the nations' airy navies grappling in the 
 
 central blue; 
 
 Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- 
 wind rushing warm, 125 
 
 With the standards of the peoples plunging 
 thro' the thunder-storm; 
 
 Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the 
 
 battle-flags were furl'd, 
 In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the 
 
 world. 
 
 There the common sense of most shall hold a 
 
 fretful realm in awe, 
 And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in 
 
 universal law. 130 
 
 So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' 
 
 me left me dry. 
 Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with 
 
 the jaundiced eye; 
 
 Eye, to which all order festers, all things here 
 
 are out of joint: 
 Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on 
 
 from point to point: 
 
 Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creep- 
 ing nigher, 135 
 
 Glares at one that nods and winks behind a 
 slowly-dying fire. 
 
 Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing 
 
 purpose runs. 
 And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the 
 
 process of the suns. 
 
 What is that to him that reaps not harvest of 
 
 his youthful joys, 
 Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever 
 
 like a boy's? 140 
 
 * The system of railroad transportation in England 
 dates from about 1830; the electric telegraph was pat- 
 ented in 1837, and steam-communication between Eng- 
 land and the United States began in the following year. 
 The increasing application of steam and electricity worked 
 a great and inevitable change in social conditions. 
 
592 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 
 bears a laden breast, 
 
 Full of sad experience, moving toward the still- 
 ness of his rest. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I 
 linger on the shore, . 
 
 And the individual withers, and the world is 
 more and more. 
 
 Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on 
 the bugle-horn, 1*5 
 
 They to whom my foolish passion were a target 
 for their scorn: 
 
 Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 
 
 moulder'd string? 
 I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved 
 
 so sUght a thing. 
 
 Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's 
 
 pleasure, woman's pain — 
 Nature made them blinder motions bounded in 
 
 a shallower brain: 150 
 
 Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 
 
 match'd with mine. 
 Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water 
 
 unto wine — 
 
 Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. 
 
 Ah for some retreat 
 Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life 
 
 began to beat; 
 
 Where in wild Mahratta-battle^ fell my father, 
 evil-starr'd; — 155 
 
 I was left a tmmpled orphan, and a selfish 
 uncle's wara. 
 
 Or to burst all hnks of habit — there to wander 
 
 far away, 
 On from island unto island at the gateways of 
 
 the day. 
 
 Larger constellations burning, mellow moons 
 
 and happy skies, 
 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 
 
 knots of Paradise. 160 
 
 Never comes the trader, never floats an Euro- 
 pean flag, 
 
 Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings 
 the trailer from the crag; 
 
 Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the 
 
 heavy-fruit'd tree — 
 Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 
 
 spheres of sea. 
 
 There raethinks would be enjoyment more than 
 in this march of mind, 165 
 
 In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 
 that shake mankind. 
 
 * i. e. in a battle with the Mahrattaa, a Hindoo race in 
 India, engaged in frequent conflicts with the British. 
 They were decisively beaten in 1816-18. 
 
 There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have 
 
 scope and breathing space; 
 I will take some savage woman, she shall rear 
 
 my dudky race. 
 
 Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, 
 
 and they shall run. 
 Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their 
 
 lances in the sun ; 1 70 
 
 Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the 
 
 rainbows of the brooks. 
 Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 
 
 books — 
 
 Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know 
 
 my words are wild. 
 But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 
 
 Christian child. 
 
 I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 
 glorious gains, 175 
 
 Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast 
 with lower pains! 
 
 Mated with a squalid savage — ^what to me were 
 
 sun or clime? 
 I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 
 
 time — 
 
 I that rather held it better men should perish 
 
 one by one. 
 Than that earth should stand at gaze like 
 
 Joshua's moon in Ajalon i^ iso 
 
 Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, 
 forward let us range, 
 
 Let the great world spin forever down the ring- 
 ing grooves of change.'' 
 
 Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 
 
 younger day: 
 Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 
 
 Cathay. 
 
 Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as 
 when life begun: 185 
 
 Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the 
 hghtnings, weigh the Sun. 
 
 O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath 
 
 not set. 
 Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my 
 
 fancy yet. 
 
 Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 
 
 Locksley Hall! 
 Now for me the woods may wither, now for me 
 
 the roof-tree fall. 190 
 
 • Joshua, X., 12. 
 
 ^Tennyson tella us: "When I went by the first train 
 from Liverpool to Manchester (1830), I thought that 
 the wheels ran in a groove. It was black night and there 
 was such a vast crowd round the train at the station that 
 we could not see the wheels. Then I made this line." 
 H. Tennyson, Memoirs, I. 195. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 593 
 
 Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening 
 
 over heath and holt, 
 Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 
 
 thunderbolt. 
 
 Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, 
 
 or fire or snow; 
 For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, 
 
 and I go. 
 
 ULYSSESi 
 
 (From Poems, 1842) 
 
 It little profits that an idle king, 
 By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 
 Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
 Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
 That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not 
 me. 5 
 
 I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 
 Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd 
 Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 
 That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 
 Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades^ 10 
 Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; 
 For always roaming with a hungry heart 
 Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 
 And manners, climates, councils, governments, 
 Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; 15 
 And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
 Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
 I am a part of all that I have met; 
 Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
 Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin 
 fades 20 
 
 Forever and forever when I move. 
 How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
 To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! 
 As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 
 Were all too little, and of one to me 25 
 
 Little remains: but every hour is saved 
 From that eternal silence, something more, 
 A bringer of new things; and vile it were 
 For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 
 , And this gray spirit yearning in desire 30 
 
 / To follow knowledge like a sinking star, "^^ 
 « Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 
 This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
 To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
 Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 35 
 
 This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 
 A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
 Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
 Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
 Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 
 
 In offices of tenderness, and pay 
 
 1 This poem is a contrast study to the Lotus Eaters. 
 Hallam Tennyson tells us {Memoirs, I., 196) that it was 
 written soon after Arthur Hallam's death, and that it 
 gave Tennyson's "feeling about the need of going for- 
 ward and braving the struggle of life, perhaps more sim- 
 ply than anything in In Memoriam." The immediate 
 source of the poem is a passage in Dante's Inf., xxvi., 90. 
 
 2 A group of stars in the constellation of Taurus, their 
 rising at a certain time of the year was associated with 
 the beginning of the rainy season. Cf. Vergil. jEneid, I., 
 744. 
 
 Meet adoration to my household gods. 
 When I am gone. He works ms work, I mine. 
 There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 
 There gloom the dark broad seas. My mari- 
 ners, 45 
 Souls that have toil'd and wrought, and thought 
 
 with me — ■ 
 That ever with a frolic welcome took 
 The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
 Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; 
 Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 50 
 Death closes all: but something ere the end, 
 /Some work of noble note, may yet be done, . 
 I Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods, v 
 The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 
 The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the 
 deep 55 
 
 Moans round with many voices. Come, my 
 
 friends, 
 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
 Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
 iThe sounding furrows; for my purpose holds ^ 
 'To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths - 60 
 Of all the western stars, until I die. 
 It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 
 It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
 And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
 Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 65 
 We are not now that strength which in old days 
 Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, 
 we are; 
 / One equal temper of heroic hearts, ^\ 
 Made weak by time and fate, but strong in 
 
 will 
 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield, 70 
 
 SIR GALAHAD 
 
 (From Poems, 1842) 
 
 My good blade carves the casques of men, 
 
 My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
 My strength is as the strength of ten, 
 
 Because my heart is pure. 
 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 3 
 
 The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
 The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 
 
 The horse and rider reel: 
 They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 
 
 And when the tide of combat stands, iO 
 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 
 
 That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 
 
 How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 
 On whom their favours fall! 
 For them I battle till the end, 16 
 
 To save from shame and thrall: 
 But all my heart is drawn above, 
 
 My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine; 
 I never felt the kiss of love. 
 
 Nor maiden's hand in mine. 20 
 
 More bounteous aspects on me beam. 
 
 Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
 So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
 
 A virgin heart in work and will. 
 
594 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 When down the stormy crescent goes, 
 
 A light before me swims, 
 Between dark stems the forest glows, 
 
 I hear a noise of hymns: 
 Then by some secret shrine I ride; 
 
 I hear a voice but none are there; 
 The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 
 
 The tapers burning fair. 
 I'air gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 
 
 The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
 The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
 
 And solemn chaunts resound between. 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 Sometimes on lonely mountain- 
 
 I find a magic bark; 
 1 leap on board: no helmsmen steers: 
 
 I float till all is dark. 
 A gentle sound, an awful light! 
 
 Three angels bear the holy Grail: 
 \yith folded feet, in stoles of white, 
 
 On sleeping wings they sail. 
 \h, blessed vision! blood of God! 
 
 My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
 As down dark tides the glory slides, 
 
 And star-like mingles with the stars. 
 
 When on my goodly charger borne 
 
 Thro' dreaming to\vns I go, 50 
 
 The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,. 
 
 The streets are dumb with snow. 
 The tempest crackles on the leads. 
 
 And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; 
 But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 55 
 
 And gilds the driving hail. 
 I leave the plain, I climb the height; 
 
 No brancny thicket shelter yields; 
 But blessed forms in whistling storms 
 
 Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 60 
 
 A maiden knight — to me is given 
 
 Such hope, I know not fear; 
 I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
 
 That often meet me here. 
 I muse on joy that will not cease, 65 
 
 Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
 Pure lilies of eternal peace. 
 
 Whose odours haunt my dreams; 
 And, stricken by an angel's hand. 
 
 This mortal armour that I wear, 70 
 
 This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 
 
 Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 
 
 The clouds are broken in the sky, 
 
 And thro' the mountain-walls 
 A rolling organ-harmony 75 
 
 Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
 Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
 
 Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
 "O just and faithful knight of God! 
 
 Ride on! the prize is near." 80 
 
 So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 
 
 By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
 AJl-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide 
 
 Until I find the holy GraiL 
 
 THE EPIC 
 
 (introduction to morte d'arthub) 
 
 (From Poems, 1842) 
 
 At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, — 
 The game of forfeits done — the girls all kiss'd 
 Beneath the sacred bush and past away — 
 The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, 
 The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, 5 
 Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk, 
 How all the old honour had from Christmas 
 
 gone, 
 Or gone or dwindled down to some old games 
 In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out 
 With cutting eights that day upon the pond, 10 
 Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, 
 I bump'd the ice into three several stars. 
 Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard 
 The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, 
 Now harping on the church-commissioners, 13 
 Now hawking at Geology and schism; 
 Until I woke, and found him settled down 
 Upon the general decay of faith 
 Right thro' the world, " at home was little left, 
 And none abroad : there was no anchor, none, 20 
 To hold by. " Francis, laughing, clapt his hand 
 On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by him." 
 "And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail- 
 bowl." 
 "Why yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way 
 At college: but another which you had, 25 
 
 I mean of verse (for so we held it then). 
 What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, 
 
 "he burnt 
 His epic, his King Arthur, *ome twelve 
 
 books" — 
 And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir, 
 He thought that nothing new was said, or else 30 
 Something so said 'twas nothing — that a truth 
 Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: 
 God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. 
 It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said 
 
 Hall, 
 "Why take the style of those heroic times? 35 
 For nature brings not back the Mastodon, 
 Nor we those times; and why should any man 
 Remodel models? these twelve books of mine 
 Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- worth" . . . 
 
 MORTE D' ARTHUR 
 
 So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
 Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
 Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 
 Had fallen in Lyonesse about their Lord, 
 King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, 
 The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 6 
 
 Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
 And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
 A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
 That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 10 
 On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
 Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 
 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
 "The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 595 
 
 The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 15 
 Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
 They sleep— the men I loved. I think that we 
 Shall never more, at any future time, 
 Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
 Walking about the gardens and the halls 20 
 
 Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
 I perish by this people which I made, — 
 Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
 To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
 I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 25 
 
 That without help I cannot last till morn. 
 Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,i 
 Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how 
 In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
 Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 30 
 
 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
 Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 
 And took it, and have worn it, like a king: 
 And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
 In after time, this also shall be known: 35 
 
 But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
 And fling him far into the middle mere: 
 Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me 
 
 word." 
 To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
 " It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus, 40 
 Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
 A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
 Yet 1 thy hest will all perform at full, 
 W^atch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 
 
 So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 45 
 And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
 Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. 
 Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
 Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping 
 
 down 
 By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 50 
 Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
 
 There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
 And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
 Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
 And sparkled keen with frost against the bilt:55 
 For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
 Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
 Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
 That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 
 This way and that dividing the swift mind, 60 
 In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd 
 Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
 There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
 That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
 So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 65 
 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
 " Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave? 
 What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard? " 
 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
 " I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 70 
 And the wild water lapping on the crags." 
 
 To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: 
 "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, 
 Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
 
 » King Arthur's magic sword, given to him by the Lady 
 ^f the Lake. For the passage in Malory which was 
 Tennyson's original for the greater part of this Idyll, 
 V. supra, p. 108, I. 25, etc. 
 
 Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 73 
 
 For surer sign had follow'd, either hand. 
 Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
 This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
 Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
 As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 80 
 I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 
 
 Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
 Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
 Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; 
 But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 85 
 How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
 His palms together, and he cried aloud, 
 "And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
 Surely a precious thing, one worthy note 
 Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 90 
 Which might have pleased the eyes of many 
 
 men. 
 What good should follow this, if this were done? 
 What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, 
 Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
 Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 93 
 An act unprofitable, against himself? 
 The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
 What record, or what relic of my lord 
 Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
 And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, 1 00 
 Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
 Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 
 Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
 Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 104 
 Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
 Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
 So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
 To all the people, winning reverence. 
 But now much honour and much fame were 
 
 lost." 
 So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 110 
 And hid Excalibur the second time, 
 And so strode back slow to the wounded king. 
 Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 
 "What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 115 
 "I heard the water lapping on the crag 
 And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 
 To whom replied King Arthur, much in 
 
 wrath : 
 "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
 Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! 120 
 Authority forgets a dying king. 
 Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
 That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 
 For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
 In whom should meet the offices of all, 125 
 Thou would'st betray me for the precious hilt; 
 Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
 Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
 Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
 And the third time may prosper, get thee 
 
 hence: lao 
 
 But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
 I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 
 Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
 And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
 Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the 
 
 sword, 135 
 
596 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great 
 
 brand 
 Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, 
 And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in 
 
 an arch, 
 Shot like a streamer of the northern mom. 
 Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 140 
 By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
 So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: 
 But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
 And caught him by the hilt, and brandished 
 
 him 145 
 
 Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
 And lightly went the other to the King. 
 Then s|)oke King Arthur, drawing thicker 
 
 breath : 
 "Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
 Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or 
 
 seen?" 150 
 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
 "Sir king, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
 Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
 Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
 Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 155 
 So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
 Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling 
 
 him; 
 But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
 That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 
 
 him 160 
 
 Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 
 
 And answer made King Arthur, breathing 
 
 hard: 
 " My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. 
 Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight. 
 And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 165 
 
 My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 
 So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
 Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
 And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
 As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 170 
 
 Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
 And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
 Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
 O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. 
 And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 
 But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard. 
 Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 177 
 When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the 
 
 king. 
 Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick 
 
 quick- ' 
 
 I fear it is too late, and I shall die." iso 
 
 But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
 Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he 
 
 walk'd, 
 Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
 He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
 Before. His own thought drove him, like a 
 
 goad. 185 
 
 Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
 And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
 The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he 
 
 based 
 
 His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
 Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — • 190 
 And on a sudden, lo! the level lake. 
 And the long glories of the winter moon. 
 
 Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
 Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
 Beneath them; and descending they were 
 
 ware 195 
 
 That all the decks were densfe with stately forms 
 Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — 'by 
 
 these 
 Three Queens with crowns of gold — ^and from 
 
 them rose 
 A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
 And, as it were one voice an agony 200 
 
 Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
 All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
 Or hath come, since the making of the world. 
 Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the 
 
 barge," 
 And to the barge they came. There those three 
 
 Queens 205 
 
 Put forth their hands, and took the king, and 
 
 wept. 
 But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
 And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
 And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his 
 
 hands. 
 And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 
 And dropping bitter tears against his brow 211 
 Striped with dark blood: for all his face was 
 
 white 
 And colourless, and like the wither'd moon 
 Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; 
 And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with 
 
 drops 215 
 
 Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls — 
 That made his forehead like a rising sun 
 High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with 
 
 dust; 
 Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
 Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed 
 
 his lips. 220 
 
 So like a shatter'd column lay the king; 
 Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest. 
 From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
 Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
 Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 225 
 
 Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
 "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
 Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
 For now I see the true old times are dead, 229 
 When every morning brought a noble chance. 
 And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
 Such times have been not since the light that 
 
 led 
 The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
 But now the whole round table is dissolved 
 Which was an image of the mighty world; 235 
 And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
 And the days darken round me, and the years. 
 Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 
 And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: 
 "The old order changeth, yielding place to 
 
 new, 240 
 
 And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 
 
 \. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 597 
 
 Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
 
 Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
 
 I have lived my life, and that which I have 
 
 done 
 May He within Himself make pure! but thou, 
 If thou shouldst never see my face again, 246 
 Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by 
 
 prayer 
 Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy 
 
 voice 
 Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
 For what are men better than sheep or goats 250 
 That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
 If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
 Both for themselves and those who call them 
 
 friend? 
 For so the whole round earth is every way 
 Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 255 
 But now farewell. I am going a long way 
 With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
 (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
 To the island valley of Avilion;^ 
 Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 260 
 Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
 Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- 
 lawns 
 And bowery hollows crown 'd with summer sea, 
 Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 
 So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 265 
 Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted 
 
 swan 
 That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
 Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
 With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
 Revolving many memories, till the hull 270 
 Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn. 
 And on the mere the wailing died away. 
 
 Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long 
 Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared 
 
 and fell: 274 
 
 At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, 
 And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but 
 
 we 
 Sat rapt: it was the tone with which he read — 
 Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
 Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness — 
 Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; 
 I know not: but we sitting, as I said, 281 
 
 The cock crew loud; as at that time of year 
 The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: 
 Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
 "There now — that's nothing!" drew a little 
 
 back, 285 
 
 And drove his heel into the smoulder' d log. 
 That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: 
 And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
 To sail with Arthur under looming shores, 
 Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams, 
 Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 291 
 
 To me, methought, who waited with a crowd. 
 There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore 
 
 2 In Celtic legend the Island of Avilion, or Avalon, was 
 thought to be an earthly paradise for great heroes, in the 
 western seas. Glastonbury was at one time called 
 Avalon, and in Henry II's reign a tomb, which was 
 ■upposed to be Arthur's, was discovered there. 
 
 King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
 Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, 295 
 "Arthur is come again; he cannot die." 
 Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
 Repeated — "Come again, and thrice as fair;" 
 And, further inland, voices echoed — "Come 
 With all good things, and war shall be no 
 
 more." 300 
 
 At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
 That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed 
 The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas^ 
 
 morn. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAKi 
 
 (From Poems, 1842) 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O well for the fisherman's boy, 5 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play! 
 
 O well for the sailor lad, 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay! 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 
 To their haven under the hill; ^ 10 
 
 But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand ' 
 
 And the sound of a voice that is still! 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 At the foot of thy crags. O Sea! 
 But the tender grace of a aay that is dead 15 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 A FAREWELL 
 
 (From Poems, 1842) 
 
 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
 
 Thy tribute wave deliver; 
 No more by thee my steps shall be, 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 6 
 
 A rivulet, then a river; 
 Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 But here will sigh thine alder-tree, 
 And here thine aspen shiver; lo 
 
 And here by thee will hum the bee, 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
 A thousand moons will quiver; 
 
 But not by thee my steps shall be, 15 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 1 Tennyson says that this poem was "made in a Lin- 
 colnshire lane at 5 o'clock in the morning between blos- 
 soming hedges." 
 
THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 TEARS, IDLE TEARS 
 
 (Song from The Princess, ed. 1850) 
 
 "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 
 mean, 
 Teare from the depth of some divme despair 
 Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
 III looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
 And thinking of the days that are no more. 5 
 
 " Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
 That brings our friends up from the under- 
 world, 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 10 
 
 "Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 
 
 dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
 To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
 The casement slowly grows a glimmering 
 
 square; 
 So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.l5 
 
 "Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
 On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret: 
 O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 
 
 20 
 
 IN MEMORLAM* 
 (1850) 
 
 I sometimes hold it half a sin 
 To put in words the grief I feel; 
 For words, like Nature, half reveal 
 
 And half conceal the Soul within. 
 
 But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
 A use in measured language lies; 
 The sad mechanic exercise. 
 
 Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 
 
 In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 
 Like coarsest clothes against the cold; 
 But that large grief which these enfold 
 
 Is given in outline and no more. 
 
 IX 
 
 Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
 Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
 With my lost Arthur's loved remains. 
 
 Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 
 
 If 
 
 15 
 
 • This poem weuj written in memory of the poet's dear- 
 est frienu, Arthur Henry Hallam, who died suddenly at 
 Vienna, in 1833. in his twenty-third year. Hallam,' the 
 ■on of Henry Hallam, the historian, became intimate 
 with Tennyson at Cambridge. He was a brilliant de- 
 bater, and (as Tennyson thought) a promising poet. In 
 Memoriam records the effect of this crushing sorrow on 
 the poet during a number of critical years. The first 
 " jottings " for the poem were written aa early as 1833. 
 
 So draw him home to those that mourn 
 In vain; a favorable speed 
 Rufl3e thy mirror'd mast, and lead 
 
 Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 20 
 
 All night no ruder air perplex 
 
 Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
 As our pure love, thro' early light 
 
 Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 
 
 Sphere all your lights around, above; 2S 
 
 Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; 
 Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 
 
 My friend, the brother of my love; 
 
 My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
 
 Till all my widow'd race be run; 30 
 
 Dear as the mother to the son, 
 More than my brothers are to me. 
 
 I hear the noise about thy keel; 
 
 I hear the bell struck in the night; 
 
 I see the cabin-window bright; 
 I see the sailor at the wheel. 
 
 35 
 
 Thou brings't the sailor to his wife, 
 And traveird men from foreign lands; 
 And letters unto trembling hands; 
 
 And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 40 
 
 So bring him; we have idle dreams; 
 This look of quiet flatters thus 
 Our home-bred fancies. O, to us, 
 
 The fools of habit, sweeter seems 
 
 To rest beneath the clover sod, 45 
 
 That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
 Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 
 
 The chalice of the grapes of God; 
 
 Than if with thee the roaring wells 
 Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine, 60 
 And hands so often clasp'd in mine. 
 
 Should toss with tangle and with shells. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 *Tis well; 'tis something we may srand 
 Where he in English earth is laid. 
 And from his ashes may be made 55 
 
 The violet of his native land. 
 
 'Tis little; but it looks in truth 
 As if the quiet bones were blesii 
 Among familiar names to rest 
 
 And in the places of his youth. 60 
 
 Come then, pure hands, and bear the head 
 That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, 
 And come, whatever loves to weep, 
 
 And hear the ritual of the dead. 
 
 Ah yet, even yet, if this might be, 
 I, falling on his faithful heart, 
 Would breathing thro' his lips impart 
 
 The life that almost dies in me; 
 
 65 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 599 
 
 That dies not, but endures with pain, 
 And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
 Treasuring the look i,t cannot find, 
 
 The words that are not heard again. 
 
 The same gray flats again, and felt 
 70 The same, but not the same; and last 
 
 Up that long walk of limes I past 
 To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 
 
 O, yet we trust that somehow good 
 Will be the final goal of ill, 
 To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
 
 Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 
 
 75 
 
 That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
 
 That not one life shall be destroy'd, 
 
 Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
 When God hath made the pile complete; 80 
 
 That not a worm is cloven in vain; 
 
 That not a moth with vain desire 
 
 Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. 
 Or but subserves another's gain. 
 
 Behold, we know not anything; 85 
 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 At last — far ofiF— at last, to all. 
 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 So runs my dream ; but what am I? 
 
 An infant crying in the night; 90 
 
 An infant crying for the light, 
 And with no language but a cry. 
 
 Lxxxm 
 Dip down upon the northern shore, 
 
 sweet new-year, delaying long; 
 
 Thou doest expectant Nature wrong; 95 
 Delaying long, delay no more. 
 
 What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
 Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
 Can trouble live with April days, 
 
 Or sadness in the summer moons? 100 
 
 Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spires 
 The little speedwell's darling blue. 
 Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 
 
 Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 
 
 thou, new-year, delaying long, 105 
 Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
 
 That longs to burst a frozen bud 
 And flood a fresher throat with song. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 1 past beside the reverend walls 
 
 In which of old I wore the gown; 110 
 
 1 roved at random thro' the town, 
 And saw the tumult of the halls; 
 
 And heard once more in college fanes 
 The storm their high-built organs make. 
 And thunder-music, rolling, shake 115 
 
 The prophet blazon'd on the panes; 
 
 And caught once more the distant shout. 
 The meaured pulse of racing oars 
 Among the willows; paced the shores 
 
 And many a bridge, and all about 120 
 
 Another name was on the door. 125 
 
 I linger'd; all within was noise 
 Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys 
 
 That crash'd the glass and beat the floor; 
 
 Where once we held debate, a band 
 Of youthful friends, on mind and art. 
 And labor, and the changing mart, 
 
 And all the framework of the land; 
 
 130 
 
 When one would aim an arrow fair. 
 But send it slackly from the string; 
 And one would pierce an outer ring, 135 
 
 And one an inner, here and there; 
 
 And last the master-bowman, he, 
 
 Would cleave the mark. A willing ear 
 We lent him. Who but hung to hear 
 
 The rapt oration flowing free 140 
 
 From point to point, with power and grace 
 And music in the bounds of law. 
 To those conclusions when we saw 
 
 The God within him light his face, 
 
 And seem to lift the form, and glow 
 In azure orbits heavenly-wise; 
 And over those ethereal eyes 
 
 The bar of Michael Angelo?^ 
 
 143 
 
 cvi 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
 The year is dying in the night; 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 150 
 
 Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 
 The year is going, let him go; 155 
 
 Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
 For those that here we see no more; 
 Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 
 
 Ring in redress to all mankind. 160 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
 And ancient forms of party strife; 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life. 
 
 With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 165 
 The faithless coldness of the times; 
 Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
 Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
 The civic slander and the spite; 170 
 
 Ring in the love of truth and right. 
 
 Ring in the common love of good. 
 
 *" Michael Angelo had a strong bar of bone over his 
 eyes." (Tennyson to Gatty). 
 
600 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 
 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 
 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old, 176 
 Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
 
 Ring in the valiant man and free, 
 Tne l^ger heart, the kindlier hand; 
 Ring out the darkness of the land, 
 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 180 
 
 Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail 
 Against her beauty? May she mix 
 With men and prosper: Who shall fix 
 
 Her pillars? Let her work prevail. 
 
 185 
 
 But on her forehead sits a fire; 
 She sets her forward countenance 
 And leaps into the future chance, 
 
 Submitting all things to desire. 
 
 Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
 She cannot fight the fear of death. 190 
 WTiat is she, cut from love and faith. 
 
 But some wild Pallas from the brain 
 
 Of demons? fiery-hot to burst 
 
 All barriers in her onward race 
 
 For power. Let her know her place; 195 
 She is Uie second, not the first. 
 
 A higher hand must make her mild, 
 If fiJl be not in vain, and guide 
 Her footsteps, moving side by side 
 
 With Wisdom, like the younger child; 200 
 
 For she is earthly of the mind, 
 But Wisdom heavenly of the soul, 
 O friend, who earnest to thy goal 
 
 So early, leaving me behind. 
 
 I would the great world grew like thee, 
 Who grcwest not alone in power 
 And knowledge, but by year and hour 
 
 In reverence and in charity. 
 
 205 
 
 cxv 
 
 Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
 Now burgeons every maze of quick' 210 
 About the flowering squares, and thick 
 
 By ashen roots the violets blow. 
 
 Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
 The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
 And drown'd in yonder living blue 215 
 
 The lark becomes a sightless song. 
 
 Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 
 The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
 And milkier every milky sail 
 
 On winding stream or distant sea; 220 
 
 Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
 In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
 The happy birds, that change their sky 
 
 To build and brood, that live their lives 
 
 * A growing hedge, usually of hawthorn. 
 
 From land to land; and in my breast 
 Spring wakens too, and my regret 
 Becomes an April violet. 
 
 And buds and blossoms like the rest. 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 Contemplate all this work of Time, 
 The giant laboring in his youth; 
 Nor dream of human love and truth. 
 
 As dying Nature's earth and lime; 
 
 But trust that those we call the dead 
 Are breathers of an ampler day 
 For ever nobler ends. They say, 
 
 The solid earth whereon we tread 
 
 In tracts of fluent heat began. 
 And grew to seeming-random forms. 
 The seeming prey of cyclic storms. 
 
 Till at the last arose the man; 
 
 225 
 
 230 
 
 235 
 
 240 
 
 Who throve and branched from clime to clime, 
 
 The herald of a higher race, 
 
 And of himself in higher place, 
 If so he type this work of time 
 
 Within himself, from more to more; 245 
 
 Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
 Like glories, move his course, and show 
 
 That life is not as idle ore. 
 
 But iron dug from central gloom, 
 And heated hot with burning fears, 250 
 
 And dipt in baths of hissing tears. 
 
 And batter'd with the shocks of doom 
 
 To shape and use. Arise and fly 
 The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; 
 Move upward, working out the beast, 255 
 
 And let the ape and tiger die. 
 
 cxxi 
 
 Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 
 And ready, thou, to die with him, 
 Thou watchest all things ever dim 
 
 And dimmer, and a glory done. 260 
 
 The team is loosen'd from the wain. 
 The boat is drawn upon the shore; 
 Thou listenest to the closing door. 
 
 And life is darken'd in the brain. 
 
 Bright Phosphor, iresher for the night, 265 
 By thee the world's greet work is heard 
 Beginning, and the wakeful bird; 
 
 Behind thee comes the greater light. 
 
 The market boat is on the stream. 
 
 And voices hail it from the brink; 270 
 
 Thou hear'st the village hammer clink. 
 
 And see'st the moving of the team. 
 
 Sweet Hesper-PhospTior, double name 
 For what is one, the first, the last. 
 Thou, like my present and my past 275 
 
 Thy place is changed; thou art the same. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 601 
 
 281 
 
 CXXXI 
 
 O living will that shalt endure 
 
 When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
 
 Rise in the spiritual rock, 
 Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, 
 
 That we may lift from out of dust 
 A voice as unto him that hears, 
 A cry above the conquer'd years 
 
 To one that with us works, and trust. 
 
 With faith that comes of self-control, 
 The truths that never can be proved 
 Until we close with all we loved, 
 
 And all we flow from, soul in soul. 
 
 283 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
 BRIGADE! 
 
 Half a league, half a league. 
 Half a league onward. 
 All in the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 "Forward the Light Brigade! 
 Charge for the guns!" he said. 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 "Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
 Was there a man dismay'd? 
 Not tho' the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blunder'd. 
 Theirs not to make reply, 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to do and die. 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 Cannon to left of them. 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 VoUey'd and thunder'd; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
 Boldly they rode and well. 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of hell 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 IV 
 
 Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
 Flash'd as they turned in air. 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 Charging an army, while 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 * The original version of this poem app)eared in the 
 London "Examiner," Dec. 9, 1854. Tennyson "wrote 
 the poem in a few minutes" after reading an account in 
 the "Times" of the gallant charge at Balaclava of the 
 English cavalry under Lord Cardigan against the Rus- 
 sian artillery. The poet was struck by the phrase "some 
 one had blundered" in the newspaper account, "and this 
 was the origin of the metre of his poem." H. Tennyson's 
 Memoirs. 
 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke 
 Right thro' the line they broke; 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 35 
 
 Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
 Then they rode back, but not, 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 
 Cannon to left of them, 40 
 
 Cannon behind them 
 
 VoUey'd and thunder'd; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
 While horse and hero fell. 
 They that had fought so well 45 
 
 Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
 Back from the mouth of hell, 
 All that was left of them, 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 VI 
 
 When can their glory fade? so 
 
 O the wild charge they made! 
 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 Honor the charge they made! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred! 56 
 
 MAUD 
 (Prom Maud, 1855) 
 
 XVIII 
 
 I have led her home, my love, my only friend. 
 There is none Hke her, none. eoo 
 
 And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
 And sweetly, on and on 
 Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end, 
 Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 
 
 None like her, none. eos 
 
 Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering 
 
 talk 
 Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk, 
 And shook my heart to think she comes once 
 
 more; 
 But even then I heard her close the door, 
 The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is 
 
 gone. 610 
 
 in 
 There is none like her, none. 
 Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 
 O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
 In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious 
 
 East, 
 Sighing for Lebanon, 615 
 
 Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased, 
 Upon a pastoral slope as fair. 
 And looking to the South, and fed 
 With honey'd rain and delicate air, 
 And haunted by the starry head 620 
 
602 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Of her whose gentle will has changed iny fate, 
 And made my life a perfumed altar-flame; 
 And over whom thy darkness must have spread 
 With such dcllKht as theirs of old, thy great 
 Forefathers of the thornhiss garden, there 625 
 Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom 
 she came. 
 
 IV 
 
 Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, 
 
 And yon fair stars that crown a happy day 
 
 Go in and out as if at merry play, 
 
 Who am no more so all forlorn, 630 
 
 As when it seem'd far better to be born 
 
 To labour and the mattock-harden'd hand, 
 
 Than nursed at ease and brought to understand 
 
 A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
 
 That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, 635 
 
 Innumerable, i)itiless, passionless eyes, 
 
 Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 
 
 His nothingness into man. 
 
 But now shine on, and what care I, 
 Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 640 
 The countercharm of space and hollow sky, 
 And do accept my madness, and would die 
 To save from some slight shame one simple girl. 
 
 Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may give 
 
 More life to Love than is or ever was 645 
 
 In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live. 
 
 Let no one ask me how it came to pass; 
 
 It seems that I am happy, that to me 
 
 A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
 
 A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 650 
 
 VII 
 
 Not die; but live a life of truest breath, 
 And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. 
 O why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, 
 8pice his fair banquet with the dust of death? 
 Make answer, Maud my bliss, 655 
 
 Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss, 
 Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? 
 "The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 
 With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more 
 dear." 
 
 vm 
 
 Is that enchanted moan only the swell 660 
 
 Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? 
 
 And hark the clock within, the silver knell 
 
 Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white. 
 
 And died to live, long as my pulses play; 
 
 But now by this my love has closed her 8ight665 
 
 And given false death her hand, and stol'n away 
 
 To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell 
 
 Among the fragments of the golden day. 
 
 May nothing there her maiden grace affright! 
 
 Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell.ero 
 
 My bnde to be, my evermore delight, 
 
 My own heart's heart, my ownest own, farewell* 
 
 It IS but for a little space I go: 
 
 And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 
 
 Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 675 
 Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 
 Of your soft splendours that you look so bright? 
 / have climbed nearer out of lonely Hell. 
 Beat, happy stars, timing with things below. 
 Beat with my heart more blest than heart can 
 tell, 680 
 
 Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 
 That seems to draw — but it shall not be so: 
 Let all be well, be well. 
 
 SONG— LATE, LATE, SO LATE 
 
 (From Guinevere, 1859) 
 
 "Late, late, so late! and dark the night and 
 
 chill! 
 Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. 
 Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 
 
 "No light had we; for that we do repent. 
 
 And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. 5 
 
 Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 
 
 "No light! so late! and dark and chill the night! 
 O, let us in, that we may find the light! 
 Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 
 
 "Have we not heard the bridegroom is so 
 sweet? 10 
 
 O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet! 
 No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now." 
 
 THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 
 
 (From The Holy Grail and Other Poems, 1869) 
 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills 
 
 and the plains, — 
 Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who 
 
 reigns? 
 
 Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that which 
 
 he seems? 
 Dreams are true while they last, and do we not 
 
 live in dreams? 
 
 Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and 
 
 Are they not sign and symbol of thy division 
 from Him? 
 
 Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason 
 
 why. 
 For is He not all but thou, that hast power to 
 
 feel "I am I"? 
 
 Glory about thee, without thee; and thou 
 
 fulfillest thy doom. 
 Making Him broken gleams and a stifled 
 
 solendor and ffloom i n 
 
 splendor and gloom 
 
 10 
 
 Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit 
 
 with Spirit can meet — 
 Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than 
 
 hands and feet. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 603 
 
 God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us re- 
 joice, 
 
 For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His 
 voice. 
 
 Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the 
 fool, 15 
 
 For all we have power to see is a straight staff 
 bent in a pool; 
 
 And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of 
 
 man cannot see; 
 But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were 
 
 it not He? 
 
 "FRATER AVE ATQUE VALEI^" 
 (Included in Teresias and Other Poems, 1885) 
 
 Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione 
 
 row! 
 So they row'd, and there we landed — "O 
 
 venusta Sirmio!^" 
 There to me thro' all the groves of olive in the 
 
 summer glow, 
 There beneath the Roman ruin where the pur- 
 ple flowers grow. 
 Came that "Ave atque Vale"' of the Poet's 
 
 hopeless woe, 5 
 
 Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen hundred 
 
 years ago, 
 "Frater Ave atque Vale" — as we wander'd to 
 
 and fro 
 Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda 
 
 Lake below 
 Sweet CatuUus's all-but-island,* olive-silvery 
 
 Sirmio! 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTERi 
 
 (1887) 
 
 Late, my grandson! half the morning have I 
 
 paced these sandy tracts, 
 Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into 
 
 cataracts, 
 
 Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard 
 
 the curlews call, 
 I myself so close on death, and death itself in 
 
 Locksley Hall. 
 
 1 This poem was composed in 1880, after a day's ramble 
 over the peninsula of Sirmio, which stretches, almost 
 cut off from the mainland, into the Lake of Garda, Italy. 
 Catullus, the Latin lyric poet, had a villa on Sirmio, 
 and the region is full of memories of him and his poems. 
 Tennyson was rowed out to Sirmio from Desenzano, a 
 town at the southern end of the lake. 
 
 2 "O delightful Sirmio," from Cat. Carm. 31. 
 
 8 "Brother, hail and then farewell!" the solemn words 
 of farewell to the dead. The reference is to CatuUus's 
 tribute to his dead brother, Carm. 101. 
 
 * An echo of Catullus'. Carm. vii. 31. 
 "Paene insularum, Sirmio, insularumque Ocelle;" 
 (Sirmio. scarcely an island, a little darling of an island.) 
 
 » Tennyson believed that the "two Locksley Halls 
 were likely to be in the future two of the most historically 
 interesting of his poems, as descriptive of the tone of the 
 age at two distant periods of his life." H. Tennyson's 
 Memoir, ii. 329. 
 
 So— your happy suit was blasted— she the 
 faultless, the divine; 5 
 
 And you liken— boyish babble — this boy-love 
 of yours with mine. 
 
 I myself have often babbled doubtless of e 
 
 foolish past; 
 Babble, babble; our old England may go down 
 
 in babble at last. 
 
 "Curse him!" curse your fellow-victim? call 
 
 him dotard in your rage? 
 Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might 
 
 fool a dotard's age. 10 
 
 Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier? yet perhaps 
 
 she was not wise; 
 I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with 
 
 those sweet eyes. 
 
 In the hall there hangs a painting — ^Amy's arms 
 
 about my neck — ■ 
 Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the 
 
 ribs of wreck. 
 
 In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd 
 my neck had flown; 15 
 
 I was left within the shadow sitting on the 
 wreck alone. 
 
 Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you 
 
 sicken for her sake? 
 You, not you! your modern amorist is of 
 
 easier, earthlier make. 
 
 Amy loved me. Amy fail'd me. Amy was a 
 
 timid child; 
 But your Judith — but your worldling — she had 
 
 never driven me wild. 20 
 
 She that holds the diamond necklace dearer 
 
 than the golden ring. 
 She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn 
 
 of spring. 
 
 She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer 
 
 lease of life, 
 While she vows **till death shall part us," she 
 
 the would-be-widow wife. 
 
 She the worldling born of worldlings — father, 
 mother — be content, 25 
 
 Even the homely farm can teach us there is 
 something in descent. 
 
 Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into 
 
 the ground. 
 Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet 
 
 upon the hound. 
 
 Crossed!* for once he sail'd the sea to crush the 
 
 Moslem in his pride; 
 Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the 
 
 cause in which he died. 30 
 
 2 A sign that he had fought against the heathen in the 
 Holy Land. 
 
604 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldenng 
 
 aisle have stood, 
 Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder 
 
 of our blood. 
 
 There again I stood to-day, and where of old 
 
 we knelt in prayer, 
 Cloee beneath the casement crimson with the 
 shield of Locksley — there, 
 
 All in white Italian marble, looking still as if 
 she smiled, 35 
 
 Lies my Amv dead in childbirth, dead the 
 mother, dead the child. 
 
 Dead — and sixty years ago, and dead her aged 
 
 husband now — 
 I, this old white-headed dreamer, stoopt and 
 
 kiss'd her marble brow. 
 
 Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, 
 
 curses, passionate tears. 
 Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of 
 
 the planet's dawning years. 40 
 
 Fires that shook me once, but now to silent 
 
 a^es fallen away. 
 Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of 
 
 dying day. 
 
 Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below 
 
 the chancel stones. 
 All his virtues — I forgive them — black in white 
 
 above his bones. 
 
 Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in 
 fight against the foe, 45 
 
 Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all 
 on earth will go. 
 
 Gone with whom for forty years my life in 
 
 golden sequence ran, 
 She with all the charm of woman, she with all 
 
 the breadth of man, 
 
 Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, yet so 
 
 lowly-sweet. 
 Woman to her inmost heart, and woman to her 
 
 tender feet, 50 
 
 Very woman of very woman, nurse of aihng 
 
 body and mind. 
 She that Unk'd again the broken chain that 
 
 bound me to my kind. 
 
 Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wan- 
 
 der'd down the coast. 
 Near us Edith's holy shadow, smilmg at the 
 
 sUghter ghost. 
 
 Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early 
 lost at sea; 55 
 
 Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine are 
 left to me. 
 
 Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to 
 
 be left alone. 
 Pining for the stronger heart that once had 
 
 beat beside her own. 
 
 Truth, for truth is truth, he worshipt, being 
 
 true as he was brave; 
 Good, for good is good, he foUow'd, yet he 
 
 look'd beyond the grave, 60 
 
 Wiser there than you, that crowning barren 
 
 Death as lord of all, 
 Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain 
 
 is the pall! 
 
 Beautiful was death in him, who saw the death, 
 
 but kept the deck, 
 Saving women and their babes, and sinking 
 
 with the sinking wreck. 
 
 Gone for ever! Ever? no — for since our dying 
 race began 65 
 
 Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of 
 man. 
 
 Those that in barbarian burials kill'd the slave, 
 
 and slew the wife 
 Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the 
 
 second life. 
 
 Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting 
 
 grounds beyond the night; 
 Even the black Australian dying hopes he shall 
 
 return, a white. 70 
 
 Truth for truth, and good for good! The good, 
 
 the true, the pure, the just — 
 Take the charm "For ever" from them, and 
 
 they crumble into dust. 
 
 Gone the cry of "Forward, Forward," lost 
 
 within a growing gloom; 
 Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of 
 
 a tomb. 
 
 Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over 
 time and space, 75 
 
 Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into 
 commonest commonplace! 
 
 "Forward" rang the voices then, and of the 
 
 many mine was one. 
 Let us hush this cry of "Forward" till ten 
 
 thousand years have gone. 
 
 Far among the vanish'd races, old Assjrrian 
 kings would flay 
 
 Captives whom they caught in battle — iron- 
 hearted victors they. so 
 
 Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild 
 Moguls, 
 
 Timur* built his ghastly tower of eighty thou- 
 sand human skulls; 
 
 »i. e. Tamerlane, v. p. 159, n. 1. Some accounts repre- 
 sent Timur as an oriental conqueror of the most cruel 
 type. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 605 
 
 Then, and here in Edward's* time, an age of 
 
 noblest English names,* 
 Christian conquerors took and flung the con- 
 
 quer'd Christian into flames.^ 
 
 Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the 
 Greatest of the great; 85 
 
 Christian love among the Churches look'd the 
 twin of heathen hate. 
 
 From the golden alms of Blessing man had 
 
 coin'd himself a curse: 
 Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was 
 
 crueller? which was worse? 
 
 France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a 
 
 Gospel, all men's good; 
 Celtic Demos^ rose a Demon, shriek'd and 
 
 slaked the light with blood. 90 
 
 Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till 
 
 the day begun — ■ 
 Crown'd with sunlight — over darkness — from 
 
 the still unrisen sun. 
 
 Have we grown at last beyond the passions of 
 
 the primal clan? 
 "Kill your enemy, for you hate him," still, 
 
 "your enemy" was a man. 
 
 Have we sunk below them? peasants maim the 
 helpless horse, and drive 95 
 
 Innocent cattle under thatch, and bum the 
 * kindlier brutes alive.^ 
 
 Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers — 
 burnt at midnight, found at morn, 
 
 Twisted hard in mortal agony with their 
 offspring, born-unborn. 
 
 Clinging to the silent mother! Are we devils? 
 
 are we men? 
 Sweet Saint Francis of Assisi, would that he 
 
 were here again, lOO 
 
 He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call 
 
 the very flowers 
 Sisters, brothers — and the beasts — whose pains 
 
 are hardly less than ours! 
 
 Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! who can tell 
 
 how all will end? 
 Read the wide world's annals, you, and take 
 
 their wisdom for your friend. 
 
 Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal 
 daughter of the Past, 105 
 
 Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream 
 not that the hour will last. 
 
 * Edward III (1312-1377). a contemporary of Timur. 
 "Here "=Europe, as distinguished from Asia. 
 
 6 Chaucer, Wyclif, Langland, etc. 
 
 « Probably the cruelties committed in the Peasant 
 Revolt in France, as Tennyson refers to this later 
 (p. 606, 1. 157, and n.), or possibly those practised by the 
 Black Prince in the French War. Horrible deeds are re- 
 corded by Froissart in his account of the Jaquerie, e. g. 
 Chron., Chap. CLXXXII and CLXXXIV. 
 
 7 i. e. the French populace. Demos is the Greek word 
 for the masses, the common people. The reference is to 
 the French Revolution and the "Gospel," then preached, 
 of "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity." 
 
 8 An allusion to recent disturbances in Ireland. 
 
 Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage 
 to be wise — 
 
 When was age so cramm'd with menace? mad- 
 ness? written, spoken lies? 
 
 Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing 
 
 sober fact to scorn, 
 Cries to weakest as to strongest, "Ye are 
 
 equals, equal-born." no 
 
 Equal-born? O, yes, if yonder hill be level with 
 
 the flat. 
 Charm us, orator, till the lion look no larger 
 
 than the cat, 
 
 Till the cat thro' that mirage of overheated 
 
 language loom 
 Larger than the lion — Demos end in working 
 
 its own doom. 
 
 Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight 
 her? shall we yield? * 1 1 5 
 
 Pause! before you sound the trumpet, hear the 
 voices from the field .^ 
 
 Those three hundred millions under one Im- 
 perial sceptre now. 
 
 Shall we hold them? shall we loose them? take 
 the suffrage of the plow. 
 
 Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if 
 
 only you and you, 
 Rivals of realm-ruining party, when j^ou speak 
 
 were wholly true. 120 
 
 Plowmen, shepherds, have I found, and more 
 than once, and still could find, 
 
 Sons of God, and kings of men in utter noble- 
 ness of mind. 
 
 Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the prac- 
 tised hustings-liar ;^° 
 
 So the higher wields the lower, while the lower 
 is the higher. 
 
 Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-bom by 
 right divine; 125 
 
 Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen 
 or his swine. 
 
 Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once again 
 
 the sickening game; 
 Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while 
 
 they shout her name. 
 
 Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to 
 
 Europe, known to all; 
 Step by step we rose to greatness, — thro' the 
 
 tonguesters we may fall. 130 
 
 You that woo the Voices — tell them "old ex- 
 perience is a fool," 
 
 Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who 
 cannot read can rule. 
 
 9 i. e. of those who work in the fields, or the laboring 
 classes. 
 
 10 Hustings, the platform from which a political orator 
 addresses the people at a Parliamentary election. 
 
G06 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no 
 
 meek ones in their place;" 
 Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal 
 
 at her face. 
 
 Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling 
 with the yelling street, 135 
 
 Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain 
 is in the feet. 
 
 Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, 
 
 without the hope. 
 Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and 
 
 roll their ruins down the slope. 
 
 Authors — essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, 
 
 rhymester, play your part, 
 Paint the mortal shame of nature with the 
 
 Uving hues of art. 140 
 
 Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own 
 
 foul passions bare; 
 Down with Reticence, down with Reverence — 
 
 forward — naked — let them stare. 
 
 Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the 
 
 drainage of your sewer; 
 Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream 
 
 should issue pure. 
 
 Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs 
 of Zolaism,— 12 145 
 
 Forward, forward, ay, and backward, down- 
 ward too into the abysm! 
 
 Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the 
 
 rising race of men; 
 Have we risen from out the beast, then back 
 
 into the beast again? 
 
 Only "dust to dust" for me that sicken at your 
 
 lawless din, 
 Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the 
 
 newer world begin. 150 
 
 Heated am I? you — you wonder — well, it 
 
 scarce becomes mine age — 
 Patience! let the dying actor mouth his last 
 
 upon the stage. 
 
 Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard 
 
 fajl asleep? 
 Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of 
 
 a deep? 
 
 Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray 
 thoughts, for I am gray; 155 
 
 After all the stormy changes shall we find a 
 changeless May? 
 
 After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and 
 
 Jacquerie," 
 Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days 
 
 I shall not see? 
 
 " y. St. Luke, i. 52. 
 
 " i. e. the works (or certain notorious works) of Emile 
 Zola, 1840-1902, the French novelist. 
 
 " i. e. after terrible uprisinss of the masses against or- 
 ganized authority; uprisings as violent, or as lawless, as 
 that of the Jacobins in the French Revolution of 1789 
 or of the Jaquerie. the revolt of the peasants against the 
 I rench nobles in 1358. 
 
 When the schemes and all the systems, king- 
 doms and republics fall, 
 
 Something kindlier, higher, holier — all for each 
 and each for all? 160 
 
 All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Jus- 
 tice, Love and Truth; 
 
 All the millions one at length with all the visions 
 of my youth? 
 
 All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, 
 
 or deaf, or blind; 
 Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, 
 
 larger mind? 
 
 Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a 
 single tongue — 165 
 
 I have seen her far away — for is not Earth as 
 yet so young? 
 
 Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent 
 
 passion kill'd, 
 Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing 
 
 desert till'd, 
 
 Robed in universal harvest up to either pole 
 
 she smiles. 
 Universal ocean softly washing all her warless 
 
 isles. 170 
 
 Warless? when her tens are thousands, and her 
 
 thousands millions, then — 
 All her harvest all too narrow — who can fancy 
 
 warless men? 
 
 Warless? war will die out late then. Will it 
 
 ever? late or soon? 
 Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon 
 
 dead world the moon? 
 
 Dead the new astronomy calls her. — On this 
 day and at this hour, 175 
 
 In this gap between the sandhills, whence you 
 see the Locksley tower. 
 
 Here we met, our latest meeting — Amy — sixty 
 
 years ago — 
 She and I — the moon was falling greenish thro' 
 
 a rosy glow, 
 
 Just above the gateway tower, and even where 
 
 you see her now — • 
 Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the 
 
 seeming-deathless vow. — iso 
 
 Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, 
 
 the dune, the grass! 
 Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun 
 
 himself will pass. 
 
 Venus near her! smiling downward at this 
 earthlier earth of ours. 
 
 Closer on the sun, perhaps a world of never fad- 
 ing flowers. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 607 
 
 Hesper, whom the poet call'di* the Bringer 
 home of all good things— 185 
 
 All good things may move in Hesper, perfect 
 peoples, perfect kings. 
 
 Hesper— Venus— were we native to that splen- 
 dor or in Mars, 
 
 We should see the globe we groan in, fairest of 
 their evening stars. 
 
 Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and 
 
 madness, lust and spite, 
 Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of 
 
 peaceful light? 190 
 
 Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star 
 
 so silver-fair, 
 Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, 
 
 "Would to God that we were there?" 
 
 Torward, backward, backward, forward, in the 
 
 immeasurable sea, 
 Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be 
 
 known to you or me. 
 
 All the suns — are these but symbols of innumer- 
 able man, 195 
 
 xVlan or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner 
 or the plan? 
 
 Is there evil but on earth? or pain in every 
 
 peopled sphere? 
 Well, be grateful for the sounding watchword 
 
 "Evolution" here, 
 
 Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good, 
 
 And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the 
 
 mud. 200 
 
 What are men that He should heed us? cried 
 
 the king of sacred song;i^ 
 Insects of an hour, that hourly work their 
 
 brother insect wrong. 
 
 While the silent heavens roll, and suns along 
 
 their fiery way. 
 All their planets whirling round them, flash a 
 
 million miles a day. 
 
 Many an aeon moulded earth before her highest, 
 man, was born, 205 
 
 Many an aeon too may pass when earth is man- 
 less and forlorn. 
 
 Earth so huge, and yet so bounded — spools of 
 
 salt, and plots of land — 
 Shallow skin of green and azure — chains of 
 
 mountain, grains of sand! 
 
 Only That which made us meant us to be might- 
 ier by and by, 
 
 Set the sphere of all the boundless heavens 
 within the human eye, 210 
 
 ** The Greek poetess Sappho. Cf. Song to the Evening 
 Star, p. 505, and Don Juan, p. 518, Stan. CVII. 
 " David; v. Psalms, viii. 4. 
 
 Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, 
 thro' the human soul; 
 
 Boundless inward in the atom, boundless out- 
 ward in the Whole. 
 
 Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the 
 
 lion-guarded gate. 
 Not to-night in Locksley Hall— to-morrow— 
 
 you, you come so late. 
 
 Wreck'd— your train— or all but wreck'd? a 
 shatter'd wheel? a vicious boy! 215 
 
 Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it 
 well to wish you joy? 
 
 Is it well that while we range with Science, 
 
 glorying in the Time, 
 City children soak and blacken soul and sense 
 
 in city slime? 
 
 There among the glooming alleys Progress halts 
 
 on palsied feet. 
 Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the 
 
 thousand on the street. 220 
 
 There the master scrimps his haggard semp- 
 
 tress of her daily bread. 
 There a single sordid attic holds the living and 
 
 the dead. 
 
 There the smouldering fire of fever creeps 
 
 across the rotted floor, 
 And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens 
 
 of the poor. 
 
 Nay, your pardon, cry your "Forward," yours 
 are hope and youth, but I — 225 
 
 Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to fol- 
 low with the cry. 
 
 Lame and old, and past his time, and passing 
 
 now into the night; 
 Yet I would the rising race were half as eager 
 
 for the light. 
 
 Light the fading gleam of even? light the glim- 
 mer of the dawn? 
 
 Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for 
 the gleam withdrawn. 230 
 
 Far away beyond her myriad coming changes 
 
 earth will be 
 Something other than the wildest modern 
 
 guess of you and me. 
 
 Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she 
 
 gain her earthly-best. 
 Would she find her human offspring this ideal 
 
 man at rest? 
 
 Forward then, but still remember, how the 
 course of Time will swerve, 235 
 
 Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward 
 streaming curve. 
 
606 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Not the Hall to-night, my grandson! Death 
 
 and Silence hold their own. 
 I^eave the master in the first dark hour of his 
 
 last sleep alone. 
 
 Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and 
 
 honest, rustic Squire, 
 Kindly landlord, boon companion — ^youthful 
 
 jealousy is a liar. 240 
 
 Cast the poison from your bosom, oust the 
 
 madness from your brain. 
 Let the trampled serpent show you that you 
 
 have not lived in vain. 
 
 Youthful! youth and age are scholars yet but 
 
 in the lower school. 
 Nor is he the wisest man who never proved 
 
 himself a fool. 
 
 Yonder lies our young sea-village — Art and 
 ^ Grace are less and less; 245 
 
 Science grows and Beauty dwindles — roofs of 
 slat^ hideousness! 
 
 There is one old hostel left us where they swing 
 the Locksley shield, 
 
 Till the peasant cow shall butt the "lion pas- 
 sant" from his field. 
 
 Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old 
 
 Poetry, passing hence. 
 In the common deluge drowning old political 
 
 common-sense! 250 
 
 Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that 
 
 have fled! 
 All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my steps are 
 
 on the dead. 
 
 All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom 
 
 disappears. 
 Forward far and far from here is all the hope of 
 
 eighty years. 
 
 In this hostel — I remember — I r^)ent it o'er 
 his grave, 255 
 
 Like a clown — ^by chance he met me — ^I refused 
 the hand he gave. 
 
 From that casement where the trailer mantles 
 
 all the mouldering bricks — 
 I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child 
 
 of six — 
 
 While I sheltered in this archway from a day of 
 
 driving showers — 
 Peept the winsome face of Edith like a flower 
 
 among the flowers. 260 
 
 Here to-night! the Hall to-morrow, when they 
 
 toU the chapel bell! 
 Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, "I 
 
 have loved thee well?" 
 
 Then a peal that shakes the portal — one has 
 
 come to claim his bride, 
 Her that shrank, and put me from her, shriek'd, 
 
 and started from my side — 
 
 Silent echoes! You, my Leonard, use and not 
 abuse your day, 265 
 
 Move among your people, know them, follow 
 him who led the way, 
 
 Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his 
 
 homelier brother men, 
 Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised 
 
 the school, and drain'd the fen. 
 
 Hears he now the voice that wrong'd him? who 
 
 shall swear it cannot be? 
 Earth would never touch her worst, were one 
 
 in fifty such as he 270 
 
 Ere she gain her heavenly-best, a God must 
 
 mingle with the game. 
 Nay, there may be those about us whom we 
 
 neither see nor name, 
 
 Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, 
 the Powers of 111, 
 
 Strowing balm or sheading poison in the foun- 
 tains of the will. 
 
 Follow you the star that lights a desert path- 
 way, yours or mine, 275 
 
 Forward, till you see the Highest Human Na- 
 ture is divine. 
 
 Follow Light, and do the Right — for man can 
 
 half-control his doom — 
 Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the 
 
 vacant tomb. 
 
 Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle 
 
 with the past. 
 I that loathed have come to love him. Love 
 
 will conquer at the last. 280 
 
 Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you 
 
 will bear the pall; 
 Then I leave thee lord and master, latest lord 
 
 of Locksley Hall. 
 
 THE THROSTLE 
 (Included in Demeter^and Other Poems, 1889) 
 
 "Summer is coming, summer is coming. 
 
 I know it, I know it, I know it. 
 Light again, leaf again, life again, love again!" 
 
 Yes, my wild little Poet. 
 
 Sing the new year in under the blue. 6 
 
 Last year you sang it as gladly. 
 "New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new 
 
 That you should carol so madly? j 
 
 "Love again, song again, nest again, young I 
 again," 
 
 Never a prophet so crazy! 10 
 
 And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, 
 
 See, there is hardly a daisy. . 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 609 
 
 "Here again, here, here, here, happy year!" 
 
 O warble unchidden, unbidden! 
 Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, 15 
 
 And all the winters are hidden. 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR 
 
 (Demeter, 1889) 
 Sunset and evening star. 
 
 And one clear call for me! 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
 
 When I put out to sea, 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 5 
 
 Too full for sound and foam, 
 When that which drew from out the boundless 
 deep 
 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Twilight and evening bell, 
 
 And after that the dark! 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell. 
 
 When I embark; 
 
 10 
 
 For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 
 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 15 
 
 Wnen I have crost the bar. 
 
 Hobm BrotDntng 
 
 (1812-1889) 
 
 SONG 
 (From Pippa Passes, 1841) 
 The year's at the spring 
 The day's at the morn; 
 Morning's at seven; 
 The hillside's dew-pearled; 
 The lark's on the wing; 5 
 
 The snail's on the thorn: 
 God's in his heaven — 
 All's right with the world! 
 
 CAVALIER TUNES 
 
 (From Dramatic Lyrics, 1842) 
 
 II 
 
 GIVE A ROUSE 
 I 
 
 King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
 Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
 King Charles! 
 
 n 
 
 Who gave me the goods that went since? 5 
 
 Who raised me the house that sank once? 
 Who helped me to gold I spent since? 
 Who found me in wine you drank once? 
 
 Chorus 
 King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 10 
 Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
 King Charles! 
 
 To whom used my boy George quaff else. 
 By the old fool's side that begot him? 
 For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 1 5 
 
 While Noll's damned troopers shot him? 
 
 Chorus 
 King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
 Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
 King Charles! 20 
 
 III 
 
 BOOT AND SADDLE 
 
 (From the same) 
 I 
 Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 
 Rescue my castle before the hot day 
 Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. 
 
 Chorus 
 Boot, saddle to horse, and away! 
 
 Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say ; 5 
 Many's the friend there, will listen and pray 
 "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay— 
 
 Chorus 
 "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 
 
 Ill 
 Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay. 
 Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' 
 array: 10 
 
 Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, 
 
 Chorus 
 "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! " 
 
 Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and 
 
 Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! 
 I've better counsellors ; what counsel they? 1 6 
 
 Chorus 
 "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 
 
 MY LAST DUCHESSi 
 
 FERRARA 
 
 (From Dramatic Lyrics, 1842) 
 That's my last Duchess painted on the wall. 
 Looking as if she were alive. I call 
 That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's^ hand 
 Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
 
 1 The Duke in this poem, like Browning's Bishop who 
 ordered "his tomb at St. Praxed's Church," is a char- 
 acteristic product of the Italy of the Renaissance. He 
 exemplifies Browning's favorite doctrine that we are 
 not saved by taste, and that a fine appreciation of art 
 and letters is by no means incompatible with a small, 
 Ignoble, and worldly nature. 
 
 2 An imaginary artist, as is ClaiLS of Innsbruck. 
 
610 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said 5 
 •*FrA Pandolf " by design, for never read 
 Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 
 The depth and'passion of its earnest glance, 
 But to myself they turned (since none puts by 
 The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) lO 
 
 And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 
 How such a glance came there; so, not the 
 
 first 
 Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 
 Her husband's presence only, called that spot 
 Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps 15 
 
 Fri Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps 
 Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint 
 Must never hope to reproduce the faint 
 Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such 
 
 stuff 
 Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20 
 For calling up that spot of joy. She had 
 A heart — ^how shall I say? — too soon made 
 
 glad, 
 Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er 
 She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
 Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, 25 
 The dropping of the daylight in the West, 
 The bough of cherries some officious fool 
 Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 
 She rode with round the terrace — all and each 
 Would draw from her alike the approving 
 
 speech, 30 
 
 Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — ^good! 
 
 but thanked 
 Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 
 My gift of a nine-hundred-ycars-old name 
 With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 
 This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 35 
 
 In speech — (which I have not) — to make your 
 
 will 
 
 Suite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this 
 r that in you disgusts me; here you miss. 
 Or there exceed the mark " — and if she let 
 Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 4o 
 
 Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 
 — E'en then would be some stooping; and I 
 
 choose 
 Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 
 Whene'er I passed her; but who passed with- 
 out 
 Much the same smile? This grew; I gave com- 
 mands;' 45 
 Then all smiles stopped together. There she 
 
 stands 
 As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'Umeet 
 I he company below, then. I repeat 
 Tho Count your master's known munificence 
 Is ample warrant that no just pretense 50 
 
 Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 
 Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 
 At startmg, is my object. Nay, we'll go 
 i ogether down, sir. Notice Neptune, though 
 wu"' »ng a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 55 
 
 Which Claua of Innsbruck cast in bronze for 
 mel 
 
 ♦sliilSVif HVu ?i'P^'*^.*^'« ^ mean commands for 
 nat.?rif fu' ^^^ Duchess but Browning leaves the exact 
 nature of these commands to our imagination. 
 
 "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 
 NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX"i 
 
 (From Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, 1845) 
 
 I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 
 
 I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all 
 three; 
 
 "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate- 
 bolts undrew; 
 
 "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping 
 through; 
 
 Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to 
 rest, 5 
 
 And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 
 
 Not a word to each other: we kept the great 
 
 pace 
 Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing 
 
 our place; 
 I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. 
 Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique 
 
 right, 10 
 
 Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the 
 
 bit, 
 Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 
 
 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew 
 
 near 
 Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned 
 
 clear; 
 At Boom, a great yellow star came out to 
 
 see; 15 
 
 At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could 
 
 be; 
 And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the 
 
 half-chime. 
 So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is 
 
 time!" 
 
 IV 
 
 At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
 And against him the cattle stood black every 
 one, 20 
 
 To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past. 
 And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. 
 With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
 The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : 
 
 And his low head and crest, just one sharp eai 
 
 bent back 25 
 
 For my voice, and the other pricked out on his 
 
 track; 
 And one eye's black intelligence,— ever that 
 
 glance 
 O'er its white edge at me, his own master, 
 
 askance! 
 And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye 
 
 and anon 
 His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 30 
 
 * T^^f ?°®™ ^^ °° historical foundation. Browning 
 wrote It after a long sea voyage, when it appealed to him 
 to describe a gallop on horseback. 
 
 f 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 611 
 
 VI 
 
 By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 
 
 "Stay spur! 
 Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in 
 
 her, 
 We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the 
 
 quick wheeze 
 Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and 
 
 staggering knees, 
 And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,35 
 As down on her haunches she shuddered and 
 
 sank. 
 
 VII 
 
 So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
 
 Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the 
 
 sky; 
 The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble 
 
 like chaff; 40 
 
 Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 
 And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in 
 
 sight!" 
 
 VIII 
 
 "How they'll greet us!" — and all in a moment 
 
 his roan 
 Rolled neck and croup over, iay dead as a 
 
 stone; 
 And there was my Roland to bear the whole 
 
 weight 45 
 
 Of the news which alone could save Aix from 
 
 her fate. 
 With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the 
 
 brim, 
 And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 
 
 IX 
 
 Then I cast loose my bufifcoat, each holster let 
 
 fall, 
 Shook ofif both my jack-boots, let go belt and 
 
 all, 50 
 
 Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
 Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse 
 
 without peer; 
 Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any 
 
 noise, bad or good. 
 Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and 
 
 stood. 
 
 And all I remember is — friends flocking 
 round 55 
 
 As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the 
 ground; 
 
 And no voice but was praising this Roland of 
 mine, 
 
 As I poured down his throat our last measure of 
 wine, 
 
 Which (the burgesses voted by common con- 
 sent) 
 
 Was no more than his due who brought good 
 news from Ghent. 60 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 
 (From Bells and Pomegranates, No. VII., 1845) 
 
 I 
 Oh, to be in England now that April's there. 
 And whoever wakes in England sees, some 
 
 morning, unaware, 
 That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood 
 
 sheaf 
 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. 
 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough5 
 In England — now! 
 
 II 
 And after April, when May follows, 
 And the wnitethroat builds, and all the swal- 
 lows! 
 Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the 
 
 hedge 
 Leans to the field and scatters on the clover lO 
 Blossoms and dewdrops — ^at the bent spray's 
 
 edge — 
 That's the wise thrush; he sings each song 
 
 twice over 
 Lest you should think he never could recapture 
 The first fine careless rapture! 
 And though the fields look rough with hoary 
 
 dew, 15 
 
 All will be gay when noontide wakes anew . 
 
 The buttercups, the little children's dower ' 
 
 — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA^ 
 (From the same) 
 Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the north- 
 west died away; 
 Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into 
 
 Cadiz Bay; 
 Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face 
 
 Trafalgar lay; 
 In the dimmest northeast distance dawned 
 
 Gibraltar grand and gray ; 
 "Here and here did England help me; how can 
 
 I help England? " — say, 5 
 
 Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to 
 
 praise and pray. 
 While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over 
 
 Africa. 
 
 THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL :i 
 
 A PICTURE AT FANG 
 
 (From Men and Women, 1855) 
 I 
 Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave 
 That child, when thou hast done with him, 
 for me! 
 
 1 The poet, near the scene of some of England's great- 
 est naval victories, is stirred to even more than patriotic 
 gratitude. Off Cape St. Vincent, at the southern ex- 
 tremity of Portugal, an English fleet of 15 ships defeated 
 a Spanish fleet of 27 ships, in 1797; off Cape Trafalgar, 
 on the Spanish coast, and south-east of the Gulf of Cadiz 
 and of Cape St. Vincent, Nelson won death and victory 
 in 1805; while distant Gibraltar, triumphantly held for 
 three years (1797-82) against the combined powers of 
 France and Spain, stands as a monument to England's 
 naval supremacy. 
 
 1 U Angela Custode, the picture which inspired this 
 
612 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Let me sit all the day here, that when eve 
 
 Shall find performed thy special ministry, 
 And time come for departure, thou, suspending 
 Thy flight, may'st see another child for tend- 
 ing, 6 
 Another still, to quiet and retrieve. 
 
 That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 
 
 She plucked that piece of geranium-flower. 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass; 5 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think: 
 The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
 
 Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 
 
 Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more. 
 
 From where thou stana'st now, to where I 
 
 gaze. 
 
 And suddenly my head be covered o'er 10 
 
 With those wings, white above the child who 
 
 prays 
 
 Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee 
 
 guarding 
 Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding 
 'i'on heaven thy home, that waits and opes its 
 door! 
 
 HI 
 
 I would not look up thither past thy head 15 
 Because the door opes, like that child, I 
 know, 
 For I should have thy gracious face instead, 
 Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me 
 low 
 Like him. and lay, like his, my hands together, 
 And lift tnem up to pray, and gently tether 20 
 Me as thy lamb there, with thy garment's 
 spread? 
 
 IV 
 
 If this was ever granted, I would rest 
 Mv head beneath thine, while thy healing 
 hands 
 Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, 
 Pressing the brain which too much thought 
 expands 25 
 
 Back to its proper size again, and smoothing 
 Distortion down till every nerve had soothing. 
 And all lay quiet, happy and supprest. 
 
 V 
 
 How soon an worldly wrong would be re- 
 paired! 
 
 I tnink how I should view the earth and skies 
 And sea, when once again my brow was bared 31 
 
 After thy heahng, with such different eyes. 
 O world, as God has made it! all is beauty; 
 And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. 
 
 What further may be sought for or declared? 
 
 EVELYN HOPE 
 (From the same) 
 I 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 
 poem, is in the Church of St. Augustine at Fano, a town 
 on the Adriatic. It was painted by Guercino and "ren- 
 reaented a^ angel 8tandin|? with outstretched wings bv 
 ahUle child ^he child fs.half kneeling on a kind o^f 
 peoostal. while the angel joins its hands in prayer; its 
 
 ?H!t.}i*^'"f'®^•"Py*'^^.^?'?'■^« the sky. from which 
 cherubs are looking down." I have omitted the last three 
 UtJteto'the' *™ °° * exalted level and seem to add 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 10 
 It was not her time to love; beside, 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim, 
 Duties enough and little cares. 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir. 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 15 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 Ill 
 Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? 
 
 What, your soul was pure and true, 
 The good stars met in your horoscope. 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 20 
 
 And, just because I was thrice as old 
 
 And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 
 Each was naught to each, must I be told? 
 
 We were fellow mortals, naught beside? 
 
 No, indeed! for God above 2? 
 
 Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
 And creates the love to reward the love: 
 
 I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 
 Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 
 
 Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: 30 
 Much is to learn, much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 V 
 
 But the time will come, — at last it will, 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall 
 
 a-y) 
 
 ilov 
 
 35 
 
 In the lower earth, in the years long still. 
 That body and soul so pure and gay? 
 
 Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 
 
 And your mouth of your own geranium's 
 red — 
 
 And what you would do with me, in fine, 
 
 In the new life come in the old one's stead. 40 
 
 VI 
 
 I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 
 
 Given up m3'self so many times. 
 Gained me the gains of various men, 
 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
 Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 45 
 
 Either I missed or itself missed me: 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 
 
 What is the issue? let us seel 
 
 VII 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; 
 
 My heart seemed full as it could hold— 50 
 There was place and to spare for the frank 
 young smile. 
 And the red young mouth, and the hair's 
 young gold. v 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 613 
 
 So, hush, — ^I will give you this leaf to keep: 
 See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! 
 
 There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! 55 
 
 You will wake, and remember, and under- 
 stand. 
 
 BY THE FIRESIDE 
 (From the same) 
 
 How well I know what I mean to do 
 
 When the long dark autumn evenings come: 
 And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? 
 
 With the music of all thy voices, dumb 
 In life's November too ! 5 
 
 I shall be found by the fire, suppose, 
 O'er a great wise book, as beseemeth age, 
 
 While the shutters flap as the crosswind blows 
 And I turn the page, and I turn the page. 
 
 Not verse now, only prdee ! lo 
 
 Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, 
 " There he is at it, deep in Greek: 
 
 Now then, or never, out we slip 
 To cut from the hazels by the creek 
 
 A mainmast for our ship ! " 
 
 VIII 
 
 15 
 
 I shall be at it indeed, my friends: 
 Greek puts already on either side 
 
 Such a branch-work forth as soon extends 
 To a vista opening far and wide, 
 
 And I pass out where it ends. 
 
 The outside-frame, hke your hazel-trees; 
 
 But the inside-archway widens fast. 
 And a rarer sort succeeds to these. 
 
 And we slope to Italy at last 
 And youth, by green degrees. 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 VI 
 
 I follow wherever I am led. 
 Knowing so well the leader's hand: 
 
 O woman-country, wooed not wed, 
 
 Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, 
 
 Laid to their hearts instead ! 30 
 
 Look at the ruined chapel again 
 
 Half-way up in the Alpine gorge!* 
 Is that a tower, I point you plain, 
 
 Or is it a mill, or an iron forge 
 Breaks solitude in vain? 35 
 
 1 Browning evidently has in mind a mountain gorge 
 near the Baths of Lucca. The Brownings passed the 
 summers of 1849 and 1853 at Bagni di Lucca, three 
 mountain villages, some forty miles from Florence. 
 Mrs. Browning writes: "I find myself able to climb the 
 hills with Robert, and help him to lose himself in the 
 forests." 
 
 A turn, and we stand in the heart of things; 
 
 The woods are round us, heaped and dim: 
 From slab to slab how it slips and springs, 
 
 The thread of water single and slim, 
 Through the ravage some torrent brings ! 40 
 
 IX 
 
 Does it feed the little lake below? 
 
 That speck of white just on its marge 
 Is Pella; see, in the evening glow. 
 
 How sharp the silver spear-heads charge 
 When Alp meets heaven in snow! 
 
 45 
 
 On our other side is the straight-up rock; 
 
 And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it 
 By bowlder-stones where lichens mock 
 
 The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit 
 Their teeth to the polished block. so 
 
 XI 
 
 Oh the sense of the yellow mountain flowers, 
 And thorny balls, each three in one. 
 
 The chestnuts throw on our path in showers! 
 For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun. 
 
 These early November hours, 55 
 
 XII 
 
 That crimson the creeper's leaf across 
 Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt. 
 
 O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss. 
 And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped 
 
 Elf-needled mat of moss. 
 
 XIII 
 
 By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged 
 Last evening — nay, in to-day's first dew 
 
 Yon sudden coral nipple bulged, 
 
 Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky 
 
 Of toad-stools peep indulged. 
 
 60 
 
 crew 
 65 
 
 XIV 
 
 And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge 
 That takes the turn to a range beyond. 
 
 Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge, 
 Where the water is stopped in a stagnant 
 pond 
 
 Danced over by the midge. 7o 
 
 XV 
 
 The chapel and bridge are of stone alike, 
 Blackish-gray and mostly wet; 
 
 Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dika. 
 See here again, how the lichens fret 
 
 And the roots of the ivy strike! 
 
 73 
 
 XVI 
 
 Poor little place, where its one priest comes 
 On a festa-day, if he comes at all, 
 
 To the dozen folk from their scattered homes. 
 Gathered within that precinct small 
 
 By the dozen ways one roamsr— 80 
 
614 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 xvn 
 
 To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts, 
 Or climb from the hemp-dresser's low shed, 
 
 Leave the grange where the woodman stores 
 his nuts, 
 Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread 
 
 Their gear on the rock's bare juts. 85 
 
 It has some pretension too, this front, 
 With its bit of fresco half-moonwise 
 
 Set over the porch. Art's early wont: 
 'Tis John in the Desert, I surmise. 
 
 But has borne the weather's brunt — 
 
 90 
 
 XIX 
 
 Not from the fault of the builder though. 
 For a pent-house properly projects 
 
 Where three carved beams make a certain show, 
 Dating — good thought of our architect's — 
 
 'Five, six, nine, he lets you know. 95 
 
 XX 
 
 And all day long a bird sings there, 
 And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at 
 times; 
 
 The place is silent and aware; 
 
 It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, 
 
 But that is its own affair. 100 
 
 XXI 
 
 My perfect wife, my Leonor, 
 O heart, my own! O eyes, mine too! 
 
 Whom else could I dare look backward for, 
 With whom beside should I dare pursue 
 
 The path gray heads abhor? 105 
 
 For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them; 
 
 Youth, flowery all the way, there stops — 
 Not they; age threatens and they contemn, 
 
 Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops, 
 One inch from life's safe hem! no 
 
 With me, youth led ... I will speak now, 
 
 No longer watch you as you sit 
 Reading by IBrelight, that great brow 
 
 And the spirit-small hand propping it, 
 Mutely my heart knows how — 115 
 
 XXVI 
 
 My own, see where the years conduct! 
 
 At first, 'twas something out two souls 
 Should mix as mists do; each is sucked 
 
 In each now: on, the new stream rolls, 
 Whatever r«ckg obstruct. 130 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Think, when our one soul understands 
 
 The great Word which makes all things new. 
 
 When earth breaks up and heaven expands. 
 How will the change strike me and you 
 
 In the house not made with hands? 135 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Oh, I must feel your brain prompt mine, 
 
 Your heart anticipate my heart. 
 You must be just before, in fine. 
 
 See and make me see, for your part, 
 New depths of the divine! 140 
 
 x^ix 
 
 But who could have expected this 
 When we two drew together first 
 
 Just for the obvious human bliss, 
 To satisfy life's daily thirst 
 
 With a thing men seldom miss? 145 
 
 XXX 
 
 Come back with me to the first of all, 
 Let us lean and love it over again. 
 
 Let us now forget and now recall. 
 Break the rosary in a pearly rain. 
 
 And gather what we let fall! iso 
 
 XXXI 
 
 What did I say? — that a small bird sings 
 All day long, save when a brown pair 
 
 Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings 
 Strained to a bell:'gainst noonday glare 
 
 You count the streaks and rings. 155 
 
 XXXII 
 
 But at afternoon or almost eve 
 'Tis better; then the silence grows 
 
 To that degree, you half believe 
 It must get rid of what it knows, 
 
 Its bosom does so heave. leo 
 
 XXIV 
 
 When, if I think but deep enough, 
 
 You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; 
 And you, too, find without rebuff 
 
 Response your soul seeks many a time 
 Piercing its fine flesh-stuff. 120 
 
 XXV 
 
 My own, confirm me! If I tread 
 This path back, is it not in pride 
 
 To think how little I dreamed it led 
 To an age so blest that, by its side. 
 
 Youth seems the waste instead? 
 
 135 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Hither we walked then, side by side. 
 
 Arm in arm and cheek to cheek, 
 And still I questioned or replied. 
 
 While my heart, convulsed to really speak, 
 Lay choking in its pride. les 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Silent the crumbling bridge we cross, 
 And pity and praise the chapel sweet, 
 
 And care about the fresco's loss, 
 And wish for our souls a like retreat, 
 
 And wonder at the moss. 170 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 615 
 
 XXXT 
 
 Stoop and kneel on the settle under, 
 
 Look through the window's grated square* 
 
 Nothing to see! For fear of plunder, 
 The cross is down and the altar bare 
 
 As if thieves don't fear thunder. ' 175 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 We stoop and look in through the grate, 
 See the little porch and rustic door, 
 
 Read duly the dead builder's date; 
 
 Then cross the bridge that we crossed before, 
 
 Take the path again — but wait! I80 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Oh moment one and infinite! 
 
 The water slips o'er stock and stone; 
 The West is tender, hardly bright: 
 
 How gray at once is the evening grown — 
 One star, its chrysolite! 185 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 We two stood there with never a third, 
 But each by each, as each knew well: 
 
 The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, 
 The lights and the shades made up a spell 
 
 Till the trouble grew and stirred. 190 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Oh, the little more, and how much it is! 
 
 And the little less, and what worlds away! 
 How a sound shall quicken content to bliss. 
 
 Or a breath suspend the blood's best play. 
 And life be a proof of this! 195 
 
 XL 
 
 Had she willed it, still had stood the screen 
 So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her: 
 
 I could fix her face with a guard between. 
 And find her soul as when friends confer, 
 
 Friends — lovers that might have been. 200 
 
 For my heart had a touch of the woodland 
 time, 
 
 Wanting to sleep now over its best. 
 Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime, 
 
 But bring to the last leaf no such test! 
 "Hold the last fast!" runs the rhyme. 205 
 
 xui 
 For a chance to make your little much, 
 
 To gain a lover and lose a friend, 
 Venture the tree and a myriad such. 
 When nothing you mar but the year can 
 mend: 
 But a last leaf — ^fear to touch! 210 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Worth how well, those dark gray eyes. 
 That hair so dark and dear, how worth 
 
 That a man should strive and agonize, 
 And taste a veriest hell on earth 
 
 For the hope of such a prize! 220 
 
 XLV 
 
 You might have turned and tried a man, 
 Set him a space to weary and wear. 
 
 And prove which suited more your plan, 
 His best of hope or his worst despair, 
 
 Yet end as he began. 
 
 225 
 
 XLVI 
 
 But you spared me this, like the heart you are. 
 And filled my empty heart at a word. 
 
 If two lives join, there is oft a scar, 
 They are one and one, with a shadowy third; 
 
 One near one is too far. 230 
 
 A moment after, and hands unseen 
 
 Were hanging the night around us fast; 
 
 But we knew that a bar was broken between 
 Life and life: we were mixed at last 
 
 In spite of the mortal screen. 235 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 The forests had done it; there they stood; 
 
 We caught for a moment the powers at play: 
 They had mingled us so, for once and good. 
 
 Their work was done — we might go or stay, 
 They relapsed to their ancient mood. 240 
 
 How the world is made for each of usi 
 How all we perceive and know in it 
 
 Tends to some moment's product thus, 
 When a soul declares itself — to wit, 
 
 By its fruit, the thing it does! 
 
 245 
 
 Be hate that fruit or love that fruit. 
 It forwards the general deed of man, 
 
 And each of the Many helps to recruit 
 The life of the race by a general plan; 
 
 Each living his own, to boot. 
 
 250 
 
 LI 
 
 I am named and known by that moment's feat; 
 
 There took my station and degree; 
 So grew my own small life complete. 
 
 As nature obtained her best of me — 
 One born to love you, sweet! 255 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Yet should it unfasten itself and fall 
 Eddying down till it find your face 
 
 At some slight wind — ^best chance of all! 
 Bt, your heart henceforth its dwelling-place 
 
 You trembled to forestall! 215 
 
 LII 
 
 And to watch you sink by the fireside now 
 
 Back again, as you nmtely sit 
 Musing by fire-light, that great brow 
 
 And the spirit-small hand propping it. 
 Yonder, my heart knows how! 260 
 
616 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 LI II 
 
 So, earth has gained by one man the more, 
 And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain 
 too; 
 
 And the whole is well worth thinking o'er 
 When autumn comes: which I mean to do 
 
 One day, as I said before. 265 
 
 "DE GUSTIBUS— "» 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, 
 
 (If our loves remain) 
 
 In an English lane. 
 By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. 
 Hark, those two in the hazel coppice — 
 A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, 6 
 
 Making love, say, — 
 
 The happier they! 
 Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, 
 And let them pass, as they will too soon, 10 
 
 With the beanflower's boon, 
 
 And the blackbird's tune, 
 
 And May, and June! / 
 
 What I love best in all the world 
 
 Is a castle, precipice-encurled, 16 
 
 In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. 
 
 Or look for me, old fellow of mine 
 
 (If I get my head from out the mouth 
 
 O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, 
 
 And come again to the land of lands) — 20 
 
 In a seaside house to the farther South, 
 
 Where the baked cicala dies of drouth, 
 
 And one sharp tree — 'tis a cypress — stands. 
 
 By the many hundred years red-rusted, 
 
 Rough, iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'er-crusted, 25 
 
 My sentinel to guard the sands 
 
 To the water's edge. For, what expands 
 
 Before the house, but the great opaque 
 
 Blue breadth of sea without a break? 
 
 While, in the house, forever crumbles 30 
 
 Some fragment of the frescoed walls. 
 
 From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. 
 
 A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles 
 
 Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons. 
 
 And says there's news to-day — the king 35 
 
 Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, 
 
 Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling; 
 
 — She hopes they have not caught the felons. 
 
 Italy, mv Italy! 
 
 Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 40 
 
 (When fortune's maUce 
 
 Lost her Calais) — 
 Open my heart and you will see 
 Graved inside of it, " Italy." 
 Such lovers old are I and she: 45 
 
 So it always was, so shall ever be! 
 
 > De gustibtta non ditputandum, thera ia no disputine 
 about tastes. 
 
 ANDREA DEL SARTO^ 
 
 CALLED "the FAULTLESS PAINTER" 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 But do not let us quarrel any more. 
 No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: 
 Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. 
 You turn your face, but does it bring your 
 
 heart? 
 I'U work then for your friend's friend, never 
 
 fear, 5 
 
 Treat his own subject after his own way, 
 Fix his own time, accept too his own price, 
 And shut the money into this small hand 
 When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? 
 Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow. Love! 10 
 I often am much wearier than you think, 
 This evening more than usual, and it seems 
 As if — forgive now — should you let me sit 
 Here by the window with your hand in mine 
 And look a half hour forth on Fiesole,^ 15 
 
 Both of one mind, as married people use, 
 Quietly, quietly the evening through, 
 I might get up to-morrow to my work 
 Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. 
 To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this I 20 
 Your soft hand is a woman of itself. 
 And mine the man's bared breast she curls 
 
 inside. 
 Don't count the time lost, neither; you must 
 
 serve 
 For each of the five pictures we require: 
 It saves a model. So I keep looking so — 25 
 
 My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! 
 — How could you ever prick those perfect ears, 
 Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet — • 
 My face, my moon, my everybody's moon. 
 Which everybody looks on and calls his, 30 
 
 And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, 
 While she looks — no one's: very dear, no less. 
 You smile? why, there's my picture ready made 
 There's what we painters call our harmony! 
 A common grayness silvers every thing, — 35 
 
 'Andrea, called "del sarto," — or, as we would say, 
 the tailor's son, — was born at Florence in 1487. After 
 working at goldsmitbing, wood-carving, and drawing, 
 and studying under several painters, he executed some 
 frescoes for the Church of the Annunciation at Florence, 
 with such accuracy and skill that he gained the name of 
 "the faultless painter." At twenty-three he is said to 
 have had no superior in Central Italy in technique. In 
 1512 he married Lucrezia, "a beautiful widow." "But," 
 says Vasari, "he destroyed his own peace, as well as 
 estranged his friends, by this act, seeing that he soon be- 
 came jealous, and found that he had fallen into the hands 
 of an artful woman, who made him do as she pleased in 
 all things." In 1518 he went to Paris without Lucrezia, 
 at the invitation of Francis I. This is the period of adula- 
 tion and substantial rewards that he looks back upon in 
 the poem as his long festal year, when he could "some- 
 times leave the ground." But Lucrezia wrote urging his 
 return. The king granted him a brief leave of absence, 
 and commissioned him to buy certain works of art in 
 Italy. Andrea, beguiled by his wife, used the money 
 which Francis had entrusted to him, to build a house for 
 himself at Florence. His career in France being thus 
 miserably interrupted, he remained in Florence, where he 
 died of the plague in 1531. 
 
 2 A small town on a hill-top about three miles to the 
 west of Florence. Browning apparently makes Andrea 
 build his house on the outskirts of Florence immediately 
 facing the Convent of San Domenico, with Fiesole in the 
 distant background. \ 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 617 
 
 All in a twilight, you and I alike 
 
 — You, at the point of your first pride in me 
 
 (That's gone, you know,) — but I, at every 
 
 point; 
 My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned 
 
 down 
 To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 40 
 
 There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; 
 That length of convent-wall across the way 
 Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; 
 The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, 
 And autumn grows, autumn in every thing. 45 
 Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape 
 As if I saw alike my work and self 
 And all that I was born to be and do, 
 A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand.^ 
 How strange now looks the life he makes us 
 
 lead; so 
 
 So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! 
 1 feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! 
 This chamber for example — turn your head — 
 All that's behind us! You don't understand 
 Nor care to understand about my art, 55 
 
 But you can hear at least when people speak: 
 And that cartoon, the second from the door 
 — It is the thing, Love! so such things should 
 
 be— 
 Behold Madonna! — I am bold to say. 
 I can do with my pencil what I know, 60 
 
 What I see, what at bottom of my heart 
 I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 
 Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, 
 I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge 
 Who listened to the Legate's talk last week, 65 
 And just as much they used to say in France. 
 At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! 
 No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: 
 I do what many dream of all their lives, 
 — Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, 70 
 And fail in doing. I could count twenty such 
 On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, 
 Who strive — you don't know how the others 
 
 strive 
 To paint a little thing like that you smeared 
 Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — 75 
 Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, 
 (I know his name, no matter) — so much less! 
 Well, less is more,'* Lucrezia: I ana judged. 
 There burns a truer light of God in them. 
 In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up 
 
 brain, 80 
 
 Heart, or whatever else, than goes on to prompt 
 This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of 
 
 mine. 
 Their works drop groundward, but themselves, 
 
 I know, 
 Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, 
 Enter and take their place there sure enough, 85 
 
 3 This is not piety, but Andrea's characteristic way of 
 evading responsibility. Later he attributes his compara- 
 tive failure to his wife (125), and then, suddenly shifting 
 to the other view, declares that after all "incentives come 
 from the soul's self." 
 
 * Vasari says of Andrea: "Had this master possessed a 
 somewhat bolder and more elevated mind, had he been 
 as much distinguished for higher qualifications as he was 
 for geuius and depth of judgment in the art he practised, 
 he would beyond all doubt have been without an equal." 
 
 Though they come back and cannot tell the 
 
 world. 
 My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. 
 The sudden blood of these men! at a word — 
 Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. 
 I, painting from myself and to myself, 90 
 
 Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame 
 Or their praise either. Somebody remarks 
 Morello's^ outline there is wrongly traQed, 
 His hue mistaken; what of that? or else. 
 Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? 
 Speak as they please, what does the mountain 
 
 care? 96 
 
 Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. 
 Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray. 
 Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! 
 I know both what I want and what might 
 
 gain; lOO 
 
 And yet how profitless to know, to sigh 
 "Had I been two, another and myself, 
 Our^head would have o'erlooked the world — " 
 
 No doubt. 
 Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth 
 The Urbinate^ who died five years ago. 105 
 
 ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) 
 Well, I can fancy how he did it all, 
 Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see. 
 Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him. 
 Above and through his art — for it gives way;il0 
 That arm is wrongly put — and there again— 
 A fault to pardon in the drawing's hnes, 
 Its body, so to speak : its soul is right, 
 He means right — that, a child may understand. 
 Still, what an arm ! and I could alter it : 115 
 
 But all the play, the insight and the stretch- 
 Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? 
 Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, 
 We might have risen to Rafael, I and you ! 
 Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 
 More than I merit, yes, by many times. 121 
 
 But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow. 
 And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, 
 And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird 
 The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — 125 
 Had you, with these the same^ but brought a 
 
 mind! 
 Some women do so. Had the mouth there 
 
 urged, 
 ' ' God and the glory ! never care for gain. ^^ 
 The present by the future, what is that? 
 Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo ! 130 
 
 Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" 
 I might have done it for you. So it seems: 
 Perhaps not. All ia as God overrules. 
 Beside, incentives come from the soul's self: 
 The rest avail not. Why do I need you? 135 
 What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?^ 
 In this world, who can do a thing, will not; 
 And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: 
 Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the 
 
 power — 
 And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 140 
 God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
 
 6 A mountain to the north of Florence. 
 
 • Raphael was so called from his birthplace, Urbino. 
 
 1 Michael Angelo. 
 
618 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, 
 That I am something underrated here, 
 Poor this long while, despised, to speak the 
 
 truth. 
 I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, 
 For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 146 
 
 The best is when they pass and look aside; 
 But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. 
 Well may they speak! That Francis, that first 
 
 time. 
 And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! 150 
 I surely then could sometimes leave the ground. 
 Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear. 
 In that humane great monarch's golden look,— 
 One finger in his beard or twisted curl 
 Over his mouth's good mark that made the 
 
 smile, 155 
 
 One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, 
 The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, 
 1 painting proudly with his breath on me. 
 All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, 
 Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of 
 
 souls 160 
 
 Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, — 
 And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond. 
 This in the background, waiting on my work. 
 To crown the issue with a last reward ! 
 A good time, was it not, my kingly days? 165 
 And had you not grown restless^ . . . but I 
 
 know — 
 'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct 
 
 said; 
 Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, 
 And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt 
 Out of the grange whose four walls make his 
 
 world. 170 
 
 How could it end in any other way? 
 You called me, and I came home to your heart. 
 The triumph was, to have ended there; then, if 
 I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? 
 Let my hands frame your face in your hair's 
 
 gold, 175 
 
 You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! 
 "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; 
 The Roman's^ is the better when you pray. 
 But still the other's Virgin was his wife" — 
 Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 180 
 Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows 
 My better fortune, I resolve to think. 
 For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, 
 Said one day Agnolo, his very self, 
 To Rafael ... I have known it all these 
 
 years ... 185 
 
 (When the young man was flaming out his 
 
 thoughts 
 Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see. 
 Too lifted up in heart because of it) 
 " Friend, ^0 there's a certain sorry Httle scrub 
 
 » In the first edition of his lAvea of the Painters, Vasari 
 dwella at some length upon the complaining letter which 
 Andrea's wife wrote to nim from Florence. Her "bitter 
 complaints" dressed up "with sweet words" ordered 
 Andrea (as Vasari says) "to resume his chain." 
 
 " Raphael, who left Florence to settle in Rome about 
 1508. 
 
 »o In Bocchi's Bellezze di Fireme, Michael Angelo is 
 reported to have spoken thus of Andrea to Raphael. 
 'There is a bit of a manikin in Florence, who, if he 
 
 Goes up and down our Florence, none cares 
 
 how, 190 
 
 Who, were he set to plan and execute 
 As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, 
 Would bring the sweat into that brow of 
 
 yours!" 
 To Rafael's! — And indeed the arm is wrong. 
 I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, 195 
 
 Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should 
 
 go! 
 Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! 
 Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, 
 (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? 
 Do you forget already words like those?) 200 
 If really there was such a chance, so lost, — • 
 Is, whether you're — not grateful — but more 
 
 pleased. 
 Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! 
 Th is hour has been an hour ! Another smile? 
 If you would sit thus by me every night 205 
 
 I should work better, do you comprehend? 
 I mean that I should earn more, give you more. 
 See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; 
 Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, 
 The cue-owls" speak the name we call them by. 
 Come from the window, Love, — come in, at last. 
 Inside the melancholy little house 212 
 
 We built to be so gay with. God is just. 
 King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights 
 When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, 
 The walls become illumined, brick from brick 216 
 Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold. 
 That gold of his I did cement them with! 
 Let us but love each other. Must you go? 
 That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 220 
 Must see you — ^you, and not with nae? Those 
 
 loans? I 
 
 More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for 
 
 that? 
 Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to 
 
 spend? 
 While hand and eye and something of a heart 
 Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it 
 
 worth? 225 
 
 I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit 
 The gray remainder of the evening out. 
 Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 
 How I could paint, were I but back in France, 
 One picture, just one more — the Virgin's face, 
 Not yours this time! I want you at my side 231 
 To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — 
 Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 
 Will you? To-morrow, satisfy vour friend. 
 I take the subjects for his corridor, 235 
 
 Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there. 
 And throw him in another thing or two 
 If he demurs; the whole should prove enough 
 To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, 
 What's better and what's all I care about, 240 
 Get you the thirteen scudi^^ for ^\^q juff j 
 
 chanced to be employed in great undertakings as you 
 have happened to be, would compel you to look well 
 about you." 
 
 "A name applied to the Scops-owl (Scops Giu) . Its cry 
 is a clear, metallic, ringing ki-ou. 
 
 " Scudi, pi. of scudo, a silver coin of the Italian States, 
 about the value of the American dollar, 
 
 \ 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 619 
 
 Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does 
 
 he, 
 The Cousin! what does he to please you more! 
 
 I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. 
 I regret little, I would change still less. 245 
 
 Since there my past life lies, why alter it? 
 The very wrong to Francis!— it is true 
 I took his coin, was tempted and complied. 
 And built this house and sinned, and all is said. 
 My father and my mother died of want, i' 250 
 Well, had I riches of my own? you see 
 How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. 
 They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they 
 
 died: 
 And I have labored somewhat in my time 
 And not been paid profusely. Some good son 
 Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try! 
 No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. 
 
 Yes, 257 
 
 You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. 
 This must suflBce me here. What would one 
 
 have? 
 In heaven, ♦perhaps, new chances, one more 
 
 chance — 260 
 
 Four great walls in the New Jerusalem 
 Meted on each side by the angel's reed, 
 For Leonard,^^ Rafael, Agnolo and me 
 To cover — the three first without a wife. 
 While I have mine! So — still they overcome 
 Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I choose.266 
 
 Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love. 
 
 AN EPISTLE 
 
 CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE 
 OP KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, 
 The not-incurious in God's handiwork 
 (This man's-flesh he hath admirably made. 
 Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste. 
 To coop up and keep down on earth a space 5 
 That puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul) 
 — ^To Abib, all-sagacious in our art, 
 Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast. 
 Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks 
 Befall the flesh through too much stress and 
 strain, 10 
 
 Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip 
 Back and rejoin its source before the term, — 
 And aptest in contrivance (under God) 
 To baffle it by deftly stopping such: — 
 The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home 15 
 
 " Vasari says on this point: "He (Andrea) abandoned 
 his own poor father and mother, . . . and adopted the 
 father and sisters of his wife in their stead; insomuch that 
 all who knew the facts mourned over him, and he soon 
 began to be as much avoided as he had previously been 
 sought after." 
 
 i< Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519). While on earth, 
 this great painter, sculptor, architect, and engineer came 
 more than once into direct competition with Michael 
 Angelo, who is said to have regarded his older rival with 
 jealous dislike. 
 
 Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame 
 
 with peace) 
 Three samples of true snake-stone— rarer still, 
 One of the other sort, the melon-shaped, 
 (But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than 
 
 drugs) 
 And writeth now the twenty-second time. 20 
 
 My joumeyings were brought to Jericho: 
 Thus I resume. Who studious in our art 
 Shall count a little labor unrepaid? 
 I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone 
 On many a flinty furlong of this land. 25 
 
 Also, the country-side is all on fire 
 With rumors of a marching hitherward: 
 Some say Vespasian* cometh, some, his son. 
 A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear; 
 Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls : 30 
 I cried and threw my staff and he was gone. 
 Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, 
 And once a town declared me for a spy; 
 But at the end, I reach Jerusalem, 
 Since this poor covert where I pass the night, 35 
 This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence 
 A man with plague-sores at the third degree 
 Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest 
 
 here! 
 'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, 
 To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip 40 
 
 And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. 
 A viscid choler is observable 
 In tertians, 2 1 was nearly bold to say; 
 And falling-sickness' hath a happier cure 
 Than our school wots of: there's a spider here 45 
 Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs. 
 Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back; 
 Take five and drop them . . . but who knows 
 
 his mind. 
 The Syrian runagate I trust this to? 
 His service payeth me a sublimate 50 
 
 Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. 
 Best wait: I reach Jerusalem at mom, 
 There set in order my experiences. 
 Gather what most deserves, and give thee all — 
 Or I might add, Judaea's gum-tragacanth 55 
 Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained. 
 Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry, 
 In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease 
 Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy — 
 Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar — 
 But zeal outruns discretion . Here I end . 6 1 
 
 Yet stay: my Syrian blinketh gratefully, 
 Protesteth his devotion is my price — 
 Suppose I write what harms not, though he 
 
 steal? 
 I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush, 65 
 
 What set me off a- writing first of all. 
 An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang! 
 For, be it this town's barrenness, — or else 
 The Man had something in the look of him — 
 
 » Vespasian, was Emperor of Rome 70-79 A. D. By 
 the allusion to him, and to the rumored advance of the 
 Roman army against Jerusalem. Browning indicates the 
 date of Karshish' letter. The destruction of Jerusalem 
 by Titus, then immanent, took place in 70 A. D. 
 
 2 A fever recurring every third day. 
 
 ' Epilepsy. 
 
620 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 His case has struck me far more than 'tis worth. 
 So, pardon if — (lest presently I lose, 71 
 
 In tne great press of novelty at hand. 
 The care and pains this somehow stole from me) 
 I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, 
 Almost in sight — for, wilt thou have the truth? 
 The very man is gone from me but now, 76 
 
 Whose ailfnent is the subject of discourse. 
 Thus then, and let thy better wit help all! 
 
 'Tis but a case of mania — sub-induced 
 By epilepsy, at the turning-point 80 
 
 Of trance prolonged unduly some three days: 
 When, by the exhibition of some drug 
 Or spell, exorcisation, stroke of art 
 Unknown to me and which 'twere well to know. 
 The evil thing, out-breaking, all at once 85 
 
 Left the man whole and sound of body indeed, — 
 But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide. 
 Making a clear house of it too suddenly, 
 The first conceit that entered might inscribe 
 Whatever it was minded on the wall 90 
 
 So plainly at that vantage, aa it were, 
 (First come, first served) that nothing subse- 
 quent 
 Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls 
 The just-returned and new-established soul 
 Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart 95 
 
 That henceforth she will read or these or none. 
 And first — the man's own firm conviction rests 
 That he was dead (in fact they buried him) 
 — ^That he was dead and then restored to life 
 By a Nazarene physician of his tribe : lOO 
 
 — 'Sayeth, the same bade "Rise," and he did 
 
 rise. 
 "Such cases are diurnal,"^ thou wilt cry. 
 Not so this figment! — not, that such a fume, 
 Instead of giving way to time and health. 
 Should eat itself into the life of life, 105 
 
 As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones and all! 
 For see, how he takes up the after-life. 
 The man — it is one Lazarus a Jew, 
 Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age. 
 The body's habit wholly laudable, no 
 
 As much, indeed, beyond the common health 
 As he were made and put aside to show. 
 Think, could we penetrate by any drug 
 And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh. 
 And bring it clear and fair, by three days' 
 sleep! 115 
 
 Whence has the man the balm that brightens 
 
 all? 
 This grown man eyes the world now like a child. 
 Some elders of his tribe, I should premise, 
 Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep. 
 To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, 120 
 Now sharply, now with sorrow, — told the case, — 
 He listened not except I spoke to him. 
 But folded his two hands and let them talk. 
 Watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool. 
 And that's a sample how his years must go. 125 
 Look, if a beggar, in fixed middle-life. 
 Should find a treasure, — can he use the same 
 With straitened habits and with tastes starved 
 small, 
 
 • i. e. of daily 
 
 And take at once to his impoverished brain 
 
 The sudden element that changes things, 130 
 
 That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand 
 
 And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? 
 
 Is he not such an one as moves to mirth — 
 
 Warily parsimonious, when no need. 
 
 Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? 135 
 
 All prudent counsel as to what befits 
 
 The golden mean, is lost on such an one: 
 
 The man's fantastic will is the man's law. 
 
 So here — we call the treasure knowledge, say. 
 
 Increased beyond the fleshy faculty — 140 
 
 Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth. 
 
 Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven : 
 
 The man is witless of the size, the sum. 
 
 The value in proportion of all things. 
 
 Or whether it be little or be much. 145 
 
 Discourse to him of prodigious armaments 
 
 Assembled to besiege his city now. 
 
 And of the passing of a mule with gourds — 
 
 'Tis one! Then take it on the other side, 149 
 
 Speak of some trifling fact, — he will gaze rapt 
 
 With stupor at its very littleness 
 
 (Far as I see) as if in that indeed 
 
 He caught prodigious import, whole results; 
 
 And so will turn to us the by-standers 
 
 In ever the same stupor (note this point) 155 
 
 That we too see not with his opened eyes. 
 
 Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, 
 
 Preposterously, at cross purposes. 
 
 Should his child sicken unto death, — why, look 
 
 For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, I60 
 
 Or pretermission of the daily craft! 
 
 While a word, gesture, glance from that same 
 
 child 
 At play or in the school or laid asleep. 
 Will startle him to an agony of fear. 
 Exasperation, just as like. Demand 165 
 
 The reason why — "'tis but a word," object — ■ 
 "A gesture" — he regards thee as our lord 
 Who lived there in the pyramid alone, 
 Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being 
 
 young. 
 We both would unadvisedly recite 170 
 
 Some charm's beginning, from that book of 
 
 his, 
 Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst 
 All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. 
 Thou and the child have each a veil alike 
 Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye 
 
 both 175 
 
 Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a 
 
 match 
 Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye knowi 
 He holds on firmly to some thread of life — 
 (It is the life to lead perforcedly) 
 Which runs across some vast distracting orb 180 
 Of glory on either side that meagre thread, 
 Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet — 
 The spiritual life around the earthly life: 
 The law of that is known to him as this, 
 His heart and brain move there, his feet stay 
 
 here. iss 
 
 So is the man perplext with impulses 
 Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, 
 Proclaiming what is right and wrong across, \ 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 621 
 
 And not along, this black thread through the 
 
 blaze — 
 "It should be" balked by "here it cannot 
 
 be." 190 
 
 And oft the man's soul springs into his face 
 As if he saw again and heard again 
 His sage that bade him "Rise," and he did 
 
 rise. 
 Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within 
 Admonishes: then back he sinks at once 195 
 To ashes, who was very fire before, 
 In sedulous recurrence to his trade 
 Whereby he earneth him the daily bread; 
 And studiously the humbler for that pride, 
 Professedly the faultier that he knows 200 
 
 God's secret, while he holds the thread of life. 
 Indeed the especial marking of the man 
 Is prone submission to the heavenly will — 
 Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 
 'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last 205 
 
 For that same death which must restore his 
 
 being 
 To equilibrium, body loosening soul 
 Divorced even now by premature full growth: 
 He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live 
 So long as God please, and just how God 
 
 please. 210 
 
 He even seeketh not to please God more 
 (Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God 
 
 please. 
 Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach 
 The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be. 
 Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: 215 
 How can he give his neighbor the real ground, 
 His own conviction? Ardent as he is — 
 Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old 
 "Be it as God please" reassureth him. 
 I probed the sore as thy disciple should: 220 
 "How, beast," said I, "this stolid carelessness 
 Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march 
 To stamp out like a little spark thy town. 
 Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" 
 He merely looked with his large eyes on me.225 
 The man is apathetic, you deduce? 
 Contrariwise, he loves both old and young, 
 Able and weak, affects the very brutes 
 And birds — how say I? flowers of the field — 
 As a wise workman recognizes tools 230 
 
 In a master's workshop, loving what they make. 
 Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb : 
 Only impatient, let him do his best, 
 At ignorance and carelessness and sin — 
 An indignation which is promptly curbed: 235 
 As when in certain travel I have feigned 
 To be an ignoramus in our art 
 According to some preconceived design. 
 And happed to hear the land's practitioners 
 Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, 240 
 Prattle fantastically on disease. 
 Its cause and cure — and I must hold my peace! 
 
 Thou wilt object — Why have I not ere this 
 Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene 
 Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the 
 source, 245 
 
 Conferring with the frankness that befits? 
 
 Alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech 
 Perished in a tumult many years ago, 
 Accused, — our learning's fate, — of wizardry, 
 Rebellion, to the setting up a rule 250 
 
 And creed prodigious as described to me. 
 His death, which happened when the earth- 
 quake fell 
 (Prefiguring, as soon appeared the loss 
 To occult learning in our lord the sage 
 Who lived there in the pyramid alone) 255 
 Was wrought by the mad people — that's their 
 
 wont! 
 On vain recourse, as I conjecture it, 
 To his tried virtue, for miraculous help — 
 How could he stop the earthquake? That's 
 
 their way! 
 The other imputations must be lies; 260 
 
 But take one, though I loath to give it thee, 
 In mere respect for any good man's fame. 
 (And after all, our patient Lazarus 
 Is stark mad; should we count on what he says? 
 Perhaps not: though in writing to a leech 265 
 'Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) 
 This man so cured regards the curer, then. 
 As — God forgive me! who but God himself, 
 Creator and sustainer of the world. 
 That came and dwelt in flesh on it a while! 270 
 — 'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived. 
 Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own 
 
 house, 
 Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, 
 And yet was . . . what I said nor choose 
 
 repeat. 
 And must have so avouched himself, in fact, 275 
 In hearing of this very Lazarus 
 Who saith — but why all this of what he saith? 
 Why write of trivial matters, things of price 
 Calling at every moment for remark? 
 I noticed on the margin of a pool 280 
 
 Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort, 
 Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange! 
 
 Thy pardon for this long and tedious case. 
 Which, now that I review it, needs must seem 
 Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth! 285 
 
 Nor I myself discern in what is writ 
 Good cause for the peculiar interest 
 And awe indeed this man has touched me with. 
 Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness 
 Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus :290 
 I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills 
 Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out there came 
 A moon made like a face with certain spots 
 Multiform, manifold, and menacing: 
 Then a wind rose behind me. So we met 295 
 In this old sleepy town at unaware, 
 The man and I. I send thee what is writ. 
 Regard it as a chance, a matter risked 
 To this ambiguous Syrian — he may lose, 
 Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. 300 
 Jerusalem's repose shall make amends 
 For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine; 
 Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell! 
 
 The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think? 
 So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too — 305 
 So, through the thunder comes a human voice 
 
622 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Saying, "O heart I made, a heart beats here! 
 Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! 
 Thou hast no power nor mayst conceive of mine: 
 But love I gave thee, with myself to love, 310 
 And thou must love me who have died for thee! " 
 The madman saith He said so: it is strange. 
 
 A TOCCATAi OF GALUPPI'S 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Galuppi, Baldassaro,* this is very sad to find! 
 
 1 can hardly misconceive you; it would prove 
 
 me deaf and blind; 
 But, although I take your meaning, 'tis with 
 such a heavy mind! 
 
 Here you come with your old music, and here's 
 
 all the good it brings. 
 What, they lived once thus at Venice where the 
 
 merchants were the kings, 5 
 
 Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used 
 
 to wed the sea with rings? 
 
 ni 
 Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis 
 
 arched by . . . what you call 
 . . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where 
 
 they kept the carnival: 
 I was never out of England— it's as if I saw it 
 
 ail. 
 
 IV 
 
 Did young people take their pleasure when the 
 sea was warm in May? 10 
 
 Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning 
 ever to mid-day. 
 
 When they made up fresh adventures for the 
 morrow, do you say? 
 
 Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and 
 hps so red, — 
 
 On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell- 
 flower on its bed, 
 
 O'er the breast's superb abundance where a 
 man might base his head? 15 
 
 VI 
 
 Well, and it was graceful of them— they'd 
 
 break talk off and afford 
 — She, to bite her mask's black velvet — ^he, to 
 
 finger on his sword. 
 While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at 
 
 the clavichord?' 
 
 ^Toccata, from Ital. toccare (to toucb), is the name of a 
 kmd of mstrumental composition originating in the 17th 
 century; as its name imphes it is intended to exhibit the 
 touch and skilful execution of the performer. 
 
 *A Venetian composer (1706-1784); he was particu- 
 larly noted for his comic operas, and was organist of St. 
 Mark's Cathedral in Venice. 
 
 » An «arly and simpler form of /^^he piaoo. 
 
 VII 
 
 What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive,* sixths 
 
 diminished, sigh on sigh. 
 Told them something? Those suspensions, 
 
 those solutions — "Must we die?" 20 
 
 Those commiserating sevenths — "Life might 
 
 last! we can but try ! " 
 
 vin 
 
 "Were you happy?"— "Yes."— "And are you 
 
 still as happy? "—"Yes. And you? " 
 — "Then, more kisses!" — "Did / stop them, 
 
 when a million seemed so few? " 
 Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be 
 
 answered to! 
 
 rx 
 So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they 
 
 praised you, I dare say ! 25 
 
 "Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at 
 
 grave and gay! 
 I can always leave off talking when I hear a 
 
 master play!" 
 
 X 
 
 Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due 
 
 time, one by one. 
 Some with lives that came to nothing, some 
 
 with deeds as well undone, 
 Death stepped tacitly, and took them where 
 
 they never see the sun. 30 
 
 XI 
 
 But when I sit down to reason, "think to take my 
 
 stand nor swerve. 
 While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from 
 
 nature's close reserve, 
 In you come with your cold music till I creep 
 
 through every nerve. 
 
 XII 
 
 Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where 
 
 a house was burned : 
 "Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice 
 
 spent what Venice earned . 35 
 
 The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul 
 
 can be discerned. 
 
 XIII 
 
 "Yours for instance: you know physics, some- 
 thing of geology. 
 
 Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise 
 in their degree; 
 
 Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not 
 die, it cannot be! 
 
 XIV 
 
 "As for Venice and her people, merely born to 
 bloom and drop, " 40 
 
 Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth 
 and folly were the crop : 
 
 What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kiss- 
 ing had to stop? 
 
 * For a discussion of the character of Galuppi's music, 
 and an explanation of the technical musical terms, v. 
 Porter and Clarke's ed. of Browning (Crowell) Vol. IV. 
 369. English Browning Society Papers, Part IX, and 
 Part XI; Poet Lore, V. p. 260, and II., p. 546; the varioue 
 tuw4book3 on Browning may also be consulted. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 623 
 
 XV 
 
 " Dust and ashes ! " So you creak it, and I want 
 
 the heart to scold. 
 Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's 
 
 become of all the gold 
 Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel 
 
 chilly and grown old. 45 
 
 SAULi 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 I 
 
 Said Abner,2 "At last thou art come! Ere I 
 
 tell, ere thou speak, 
 Kiss my cheek, wish me well ! " Then I' wished 
 
 it, and did kiss his cheek. 
 And he, "Since the King, O my friend! for thy 
 
 countenance sent, 
 Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until 
 
 from his tent 
 Thou return with the joyful assiu-ance the King 
 
 liveth yet, 5 
 
 Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the 
 
 water be wet. 
 For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space 
 
 of three days, 
 Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of 
 
 prayer nor of praise. 
 To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended 
 
 their strife. 
 And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch 
 
 sinks back upon life. 10 
 
 II 
 "Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's 
 
 child with his dew 
 On thy gracious gold hair, and those liUes still 
 
 living and blue 
 Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as 
 
 if no wild heat 
 Were now raging to torture the desert! " 
 
 Then I, as was meet, 15 
 Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose 
 
 on my feet. 
 And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The 
 
 tent was unlooped; 
 I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under 
 
 I stooped; 
 Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, 
 
 all withered and gone. 
 That extends to the second enclosure, I groped 
 
 my way on 20 
 
 Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then 
 
 once more I prayed, 
 And opened the foldskirts and entered, and 
 
 was not afraid 
 But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" 
 
 And no voice replied. 
 
 ' This poem ia founded on I Samuel, xvi. 14-23. The 
 first nine sections of Saul appeared in 1845. 
 
 2 First cousin of Saul, and commander-in-chief of 
 the army. 
 
 3 i. e. David, who has been brought from tending the 
 sheep to cast out the evil spirit which troubles Saul by 
 playing to him on the harp. 
 
 At the first I saw naught but the blackness; but 
 soon I descried 
 
 A something more black than the blackness— 
 the vast, the upright 25 
 
 Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and 
 slow into sight 
 
 Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest 
 of all. 
 
 Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent- 
 roof, showed Saul. 
 
 He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms 
 stretched out wide 
 
 On the great cross-support in the centre, that 
 goes to each side; 30 
 
 He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, 
 caught in his pangs 
 
 And waiting his change, the king serpent all 
 heavily hangs, 
 
 Far away from his kind, in the pine, till de- 
 liverance come 
 
 With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, drear 
 and stark, blind and dumb. 
 
 Then I tuned my harp, — took off the Uhes we 
 twine round its chords 35 
 
 Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon- 
 tide — 'those sunbeams like swords! 
 
 And I first played the tune all our sheep know, 
 as, one after one. 
 
 So docile they come to the pen-door till folding 
 be done. 
 
 They are white, and untom by the bushes, for 
 lo, they have fed 
 
 Where the long grasses stifle the water within 
 the stream's bed; 40 
 
 And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star 
 follows star 
 
 Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue 
 and so far! 
 
 VI 
 
 — Then the tune, for which quails on the corn- 
 land will each leave his mate 
 To fly after the player; then, what makes the 
 
 crickets elate 
 Till for boldness they fight one another; and 
 
 then, what has weight 45* 
 
 To set the quick jerboa* a-musing outside his 
 
 sand house — • 
 There are none such as he for a wonder, half 
 
 bird and half mouse! 
 God made all the creatures and gave them our 
 
 love and our fear. 
 To give sign, we and they are his children, one 
 
 family here. 
 
 VII 
 
 Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, 
 their wine-song, when hand 50 
 
 Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friend- 
 ship, and great hearts expand 
 
 * A rodent somewhat resembling a rat, or mouse, but 
 fitted for jumping — like the kangaroo — by the dispropor- 
 tionate length of its hind legs. 
 
624 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 And grow one in the sense of this world's life. — 
 
 And then, the last song 
 When the dead man is praised on his journey — 
 
 " Bear, bear him along 
 "With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! 
 
 Are balm seeds not here 
 To console us? The land has none left such as 
 
 he on the bier. 55 
 
 Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!" — 
 
 And then, the glad chaunt 
 Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens, 
 
 next, she whom we vaunt 
 As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. — And 
 
 then, the great march 
 Wherein man runs to man to assist him and 
 
 buttress an arch 
 Naught can break; who shall harm them, our 
 
 friends? — ^Then, the chorus intoned 60 
 
 As the Levites go up to the altar in glory en- 
 throned. 
 But I stopped here: for here in the darkness 
 
 Saul groaned. 
 
 VIII 
 
 And I paused, held my breath in such silence, 
 
 and listened apart; 
 And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: 
 
 and sparkles 'gan dart 
 From the jewels that woke in his turban at once 
 
 with a start 65 
 
 All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies 
 
 courageous at heart. 
 So the head: but the body still moved not, still 
 
 hung there erect. 
 And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it 
 
 unchecked, 
 As I sang, — 
 
 IX 
 
 " Oh , our manhood's prime vigor ! No 
 
 spirit feels waste, 70 
 
 Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew 
 
 unbraced. 
 Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from 
 
 rock up to rock, 
 The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, 
 
 the cool silver shock 
 Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt 
 
 of the bear, 
 And the sultriness showing the Hon is couched in 
 
 his lair. 75 
 
 And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with 
 
 gold dust divine, 
 And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the 
 
 full draught of wine, 
 And the sleep in the dried river-channel where 
 
 bulrushes tell 
 That the water was wont to go warbling so 
 
 softly and well. 
 How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit 
 
 to employ 80 
 
 All the heart and the soul and the senses forever 
 
 in joy! 
 Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, 
 
 whose sword thou didst guard 
 When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for 
 
 glorious reward? 
 
 Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, 
 
 held up as men sung 
 The low song of the nearly departed, and hear 
 
 her faint tongue 85 
 
 Joining in while it could to the witness, "Let 
 
 one more attest, 
 I have lived, seen God's hand through a life- 
 time, and all was for best ! " 
 Then they sung through their tears in strong 
 
 triumph, not much, but the rest. 
 And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the 
 
 working whence grew 
 Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the 
 
 spirit strained true: 90 
 
 And the friends of thy boyhood — that boyhood 
 
 of wonder and hope. 
 Present promise and wealth of the future be- 
 yond the eye's scope, — 
 Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is 
 
 thine; 
 And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on 
 
 one head combine! 
 On one head, all the beauty and strength, love 
 
 and rage (like the throe 95 
 
 That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets 
 
 the gold go) 
 High ambition and deeds which surpass it, 
 
 fame crowning them, — all 
 Brought to blaze on the head of one creature — 
 
 King Saul!" 
 
 And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — ^heart, 
 
 hand, harp, and voice. 
 Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each 
 
 bidding rejoice 100 
 
 Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as 
 
 when, dare I say. 
 The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains 
 
 through its array. 
 And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — "Saul!" 
 
 cried I, and stopped. 
 And waited the thing that should follow. Then 
 
 Saul, who hung propped 
 By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was 
 
 struck by his name. 105 
 
 Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons 
 
 goes right to the aim. 
 And some mountain, the last to withstand her, 
 
 that held (he alone, 
 While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) 
 
 on a broad bust of stone 
 A year's snow bound about for a breastplate, — 
 
 leaves grasp of the sheet? 
 Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously 
 
 down to his feet, no 
 
 And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive 
 
 yet, your mountain of old, 
 With his rents, the successive bequeathings of 
 
 ages untold — 
 Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, 
 
 each furrow and scar 
 Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — 
 
 all hail, there they are! 
 — Now again to be softened with verdure, again 
 
 hold the nest lis , 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 625 
 
 Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the 
 
 green on his crest 
 For their food in the ardors of summer. One 
 
 long shudder thrilled 
 All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank 
 
 and was stilled 
 At the King's self left standing before me, re- 
 leased and aware. 
 What was gone, what remained? All to trav- 
 erse 'twixt hope and despair. 120 
 Death was past, life not come: so he waited. A 
 
 while his right hand 
 Held the brow, helped the eyes, left too vacant, 
 
 forthwith to remand 
 To their place what new objects should enter: 
 
 'twas Saul as before. 
 I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor 
 
 was hurt any more 
 Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye 
 
 watch from the shore, 125 
 
 At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a sun's 
 
 slow decline 
 Over hills which, resolved in stem silence, o'er- 
 
 lap and intwine 
 Base with base to knit strength more intensely: 
 
 so, arm folded arm 
 O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. 
 
 XI 
 
 What spell or what charm 130 
 (For, a while there was trouble within me), 
 
 what next should I urge 
 To sustain him where song had restored him? — 
 
 Song filled to the verge 
 His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all 
 
 that it yields 
 Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: 
 
 beyond, on what fields, 
 Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to 
 
 brighten the eye 135 
 
 And bring blood to the lip, and commend them 
 
 the cup they put by? 
 He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not: he 
 
 lets me praise life. 
 Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 
 
 XII 
 
 Then fancies grew rife 
 Which had come long ago on the pasture, when 
 
 round me the sheep 140 
 
 Fed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled 
 
 slow as in sleep; 
 And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world 
 
 that might lie 
 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 
 
 'twixt the hill and the sky. 
 And I laughed — "Since my days are ordained 
 
 to be passed with my flocks, 
 Let me people at least, with my fancies, the 
 
 plains and the rocks, 145 
 
 Dream the life I am never to mix with, and 
 
 image the show 
 Of mankind as they live in those fashions I 
 
 hardly shall know! 
 Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the 
 
 courage that gains, 
 
 And the prudence that keeps what men strive 
 
 for." And now these old trains 
 Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, 
 
 once more the string iso 
 
 Of my harp made response to my spirit, as 
 
 thus — 
 
 xni 
 
 "Yea, my King," 
 I began — "thou dost well in rejecting mere 
 
 comforts that spring 
 From the mere mortal hfe held in common by 
 
 man and by brute: 
 In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our 
 
 soul it bears fruit. 155 
 
 Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, — 
 
 how its stem trembled first 
 Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; 
 
 then safely outburst 
 The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest 
 
 when these too, in turn 
 Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed per- 
 fect: yet more was to learn. 
 E'en the good that comes in with the palm- 
 fruit. Our dates shall we slight, I60 
 When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? 
 
 or care for the plight 
 Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced 
 
 them? Not so! stem and branch 
 Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while 
 
 the palm-wine shall stanch 
 Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour 
 
 thee such wine. 
 Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the 
 
 spirit be thine! 165 
 
 By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, 
 
 thou still shalt enjoy 
 More indeed, than at first when, inconscious, 
 
 the life of a boy. 
 Crush that life, and behold its wine running! 
 
 Each deed thou hast done 
 Dies, revives, goes to work in the world: until 
 
 e'en as the sun 
 Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil 
 
 him , though tempests efface, 1 70 
 
 Can find nothing his own deed produced not, 
 
 must everywhere trace 
 The results of his past summer-prime, — so, each 
 
 ray of thy will. 
 Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long 
 
 over, shall thrill 
 Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till 
 
 they too give forth 
 A like cheer to their sons: who in turn, fill the 
 
 South and the North 175 
 
 With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. 
 
 Carouse in the past! 
 But the license of age has its limit: thou diest at 
 
 last. 
 As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose 
 
 at her height, 
 So with man — so his power and his beauty 
 
 forever take flight. 
 No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! 
 
 Look forth o'er the years! 180 
 
 Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; 
 
 begin with the seer's! 
 
626 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make 
 
 his tomb — bid arise 
 A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, 
 
 till, built to the skies, 
 Let it mark where the great First King slum- 
 bers: whose fame would ye know? 
 Up above see the rock's naked face, where the 
 
 record shall go 185 
 
 in great characters cut by the scribe, — Such 
 
 was Saul, so he did; 
 With the sages directing the work, by the 
 
 populace chid, — 
 For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! 
 
 Which fault to amend. 
 In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, 
 
 whereon they shall spend 
 (See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their 
 
 praise, and record 190 
 
 With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, — 
 
 the statesman's great word 
 Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. 
 
 The river's a-wave 
 With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other 
 
 when prophet-winds rave: 
 So the pen gives unborn generations their due 
 
 and their part 
 In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank 
 
 God that thou art!" 195 
 
 XIV 
 
 And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou who 
 
 didst grant me, that day, 
 And, before it, not seldom hast granted thy 
 
 help to essay. 
 Carry on and complete an adventure, — my 
 
 shield and my sword 
 In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy 
 
 word was my word, — 
 Still be with me, who then at the summit of 
 
 human endeavor 200 
 
 And scaling the highest, man's thought could, 
 
 gazed hopeless as ever 
 On the new stretch of heaven above me — till, 
 
 mighty to save. 
 Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance — 
 
 God's throne from man's grave! 
 Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice 
 
 to my heart 
 Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels 
 
 last night I took part, 205 
 
 As this morning I gather the fragments, alone 
 
 with my sheep! 
 And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like 
 
 sleep. 
 For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while 
 
 Hebron^ upheaves 
 The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, 
 
 and Kidron^ retrieves 
 Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 2io 
 
 » The ancient city of Hebron was situated on a hill 
 among the mountains of Judab, some seven miles south 
 of Jerusalem. Browning refers here tp the hill on which 
 the city stands. 
 
 • A dry ravine near Jerusalem, it was often the channel 
 of winter torrents, and is usually called the Brook of 
 Kedron. 
 
 XV 
 
 I say then, — my song 
 While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, 
 
 ever more strong 
 Made a proffer of good to console him — he 
 
 slowly resumed 
 His old motions and habitudes kingly. The 
 
 right hand replumed^ 
 His black locks to their wonted composure, 
 
 adjusted the swathes 215 
 
 Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that his 
 
 countenance bathes. 
 He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now 
 
 his loins as of yore, * 
 
 And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the 
 
 clasp set before. 
 He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error 
 
 had bent 
 The broad brow from the daily communion; 
 
 and still, though much spent 220 
 
 Be the life and the bearing that front you, the 
 
 same, God did choose, 
 To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, 
 
 never quite lose. 
 So sank he along by the tent-prop, till, stayed 
 
 by the pile 
 Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he 
 
 leaned there a while. 
 And sat out my singing — one arm round the 
 
 tent-prop, to raise 225 
 
 His bent head, and the other hung slack — till 
 
 I touched on the praise 
 I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man 
 
 patient there; 
 And thus ended, the harp falling forward. 
 
 Then first I was 'ware 
 That he sat, as I say, with my head just above 
 
 his vast knees 
 Which were thrust out on each side around me, 
 
 like oak-roots which please 230 
 
 To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked 
 
 up to know 
 If the best I could do had brought solace: he 
 
 spoke not, but slow 
 Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he 
 
 laid it with care 
 Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my 
 
 brow: through my hair 
 The large fingers were pushed, and he bent 
 
 back my head, with kind power — 235 
 
 All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men 
 
 do a flower. 
 Thus held he me there with his great eyes that 
 
 scrutinized mine — 
 And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but 
 
 where was the sign? 
 I yearned— "Could I help thee, my father, 
 
 inventing a bliss, 
 I would add, to that life of the past, both the 
 
 future and this; 24i 
 
 I would give thee new life altogether, as good, 
 
 ages hence. 
 As this moment, — ^had love but the warrant, 
 
 love's heart to dispense!" 
 
 "> Rearranged, as a bird preens its feathers. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 627 
 
 XVI 
 
 Then the truth came upon me. No harp 
 more — no song more! outbroke — 
 
 XVII 
 
 "I have gone the whole round of creation: I 
 
 saw and I spoke: 
 I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, re- 
 ceived in my brain 245 
 And pronounced on the rest of his handwork — 
 
 returned him again 
 His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I 
 
 saw: 
 I report, as a man may of God's work — all's 
 
 love, yet all's law. 
 Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. 
 
 Each faculty tasked 
 To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a 
 
 dewdrop was asked. 250 
 
 Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at 
 
 Wisdom laid bare. 
 Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, 
 
 to the Infinite Care! 
 Do I task any faculty highest, to image success? 
 I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more 
 
 and no less, 
 In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and 
 
 God is seen God 255 
 
 In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul 
 
 and the clod. 
 And thus looking within and around me, I ever 
 
 renew 
 (With that stoop of the soul which in bending 
 
 upraises it too) 
 The submission of man's nothing-perfect to 
 
 God's all-complete. 
 As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to 
 
 his feet. 260 
 
 Yet with all this abounding experience, this 
 
 deity known, 
 I shall dare to discover some province, some 
 
 gift of my own. 
 There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to 
 
 hoodwink, 
 I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh as I 
 
 think) 
 Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot 
 
 ye, I worst 265 
 
 E'en the Giver in one gift.— Behold, I could 
 
 love if I durst! 
 But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may 
 
 o'ertake 
 God's own speed in the one way of love: I 
 
 abstain for love's sake. 
 — ^What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? 
 
 when doors great and small, 
 Nine and ninety flew ope at our touch, should 
 
 the hundredth appal? 270 
 
 In the least things have faith, yet distrust m 
 
 the greatest of all? 
 Do 1 find love so full in my nature, God's 
 
 ultimate gift. 
 That I doubt his own love can compete with it? 
 
 Here the parts shift? 
 Here, the creature surpass the Creator, — the 
 
 end, what Began? 
 
 Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for 
 
 this man, 275 
 
 And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, 
 
 who yet alone can? 
 Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare 
 
 will, much less power. 
 To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the 
 
 marvellous dower 
 Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to 
 
 make such a soul, 
 Such a body, and then such an earth for in- 
 sphering the whole? 280 
 And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm 
 
 tears attest) 
 These good things being given, to go on, and 
 
 give one more, the best? 
 Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, main- 
 tain at the height 
 This perfection, — succeed with life's dayspring, 
 
 death's minute of night? 
 Interpose at the diflBcult minute, snatch Saul 
 
 the mistake, 283 
 
 Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and 
 
 bid him awake 
 From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to 
 
 find himself set 
 Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a new 
 
 harmony yet 
 To be run and continued, and ended — who 
 
 knows? — or endure! 
 The man taught enough, by life's dream, of the 
 
 rest to make sure; 290 
 
 By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning 
 
 intensified bliss. 
 And the next world's reward and repose, by the 
 
 struggles in this. 
 
 "I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I 
 
 who receive: 
 In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to 
 
 believe. 
 All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as 
 
 prompt to my prayer 295 
 
 As I breathe out this breath, as I open these 
 
 arms to the air. 
 From thy will, stream the worlds, life and 
 
 nature, thy dread Sabaoth:^ 
 I will? — the mere atoms despise me! Why am 
 
 I not loth 
 To look that, even that in the face too? Why 
 
 is it I dare 
 Think but lightly of such impuissance? What 
 
 stops my despair? 300 
 
 This; — tis not what man Does which exalts 
 
 him, but what man Would do! 
 See the King— I would help him but cannot, 
 
 the wishes fall through. 
 Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow 
 
 poor to enrich, 
 To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would— 
 
 knowing which, 
 I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak 
 
 through me now! 305 
 
 8 Sabaolh, from the Hebrew word for armies or hosts. 
 Life and nature are here called the hosts of God. 
 
628 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst 
 
 thou — so wilt thou! 
 So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, 
 
 uttermost crown — 
 And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave 
 
 up nor down 
 One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by 
 
 no breath, 
 Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins 
 
 issue with death! 310 
 
 As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty 
 
 be proved 
 Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being 
 
 Beloved! 
 He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest 
 
 shall stand the most weak. 
 'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! 
 
 my flesh, that I seek 
 In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, 
 
 it shall be 315 
 
 A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man 
 
 like to me. 
 Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a 
 
 Hand like this hand 
 Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! 
 
 See the Christ stand!" 
 
 XIX 
 
 I know not too well how I found my way home 
 
 in the night. 
 There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left 
 
 and to right, 320 
 
 Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the 
 
 alive, the aware: 
 I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as 
 
 strugglingly there. 
 As a runner beset by the populace famished for 
 
 news — 
 Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, 
 
 hell loosed with her crews; 
 And the stars of night beat with emotion, and 
 
 tingled and shot 325 
 
 Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: 
 
 but I fainted not, 
 For the Hand still impelled me at once and 
 
 supported, suppressed 
 All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and 
 
 holy behest. 
 Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the 
 
 earth sank to rest. 
 Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered 
 
 from earth— 330 
 
 Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's 
 
 tender birth; 
 In the gathered intensity brought to the gray 
 
 of the hillsj 
 £n the shuddenng forests* held breath; in the 
 
 sudden wind-thrills; 
 In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each 
 
 with eye sidling still 
 Though averted with wonder and dread; in the 
 
 birds stiff and chill 335 
 
 That rose heavily as I approached them, made 
 
 stupid with awe: 
 E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — ^he 
 
 felt the new law. 
 
 The same stared in the white humid faces up- 
 turned by the flowers; 
 
 The same worked in the heart of the cedar and 
 moved the vine-bowers: 
 
 And the little brooks witnessing murmured, 
 persistent and low, 340 
 
 With their obstinate, all but hushed voices — • 
 "E'en so, it is so!" 
 
 PROSPICEi 
 (From Dramatis Personcs, 1864) 
 Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat. 
 
 The mist in my face, 
 When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 
 
 I am nearing the place. 
 The power of the night, the press of the storm, 5 
 
 The post of the foe; 
 Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible 
 form, 
 Yet the strong man must go; 
 For the journey is done and the summit at- 
 tained, 
 And the barriers fall, lo 
 
 Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be 
 gained, 
 The reward of it all. 
 I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more. 
 
 The best and the last! 
 I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and 
 forebore, is 
 
 And bade me creep past. 
 
 No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my 
 peers. 
 The heroes of old. 
 Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's 
 arrears 
 Of pain, darkness and cold. 20 
 
 For sudden the worst turns the best to the 
 brave, 
 The black minute's at end, 
 And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that 
 rave. 
 Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
 Shall change, shall become first a peace out of 
 pain, 26 
 
 Then a light, then thy breast, 
 O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again. 
 And with God be the rest! 
 
 RABBI BEN EZRA» 
 
 (From the same) 
 I 
 Grow old along with me! 
 The best is yet to be, 
 The last of life, for which the first was made: 
 
 1 Prospice (Look forward) was written in the autumn ' 
 of 1861, shortly after the death of Mrs. Browning. 
 The passage from Dante that Browning wrote in hia 
 wife's Testament might be taken as an expression of the 
 essence of this poem: "Thus I beHeve, thus I affirm, , 
 thus I am certain it is, that from this Hfe I shall pass to 
 another better, there, where the lady lives of whom my 
 soul was enamoured." j 
 
 » Rabbi Ben Ezra is but a mouthpiece for Browning\ 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 629 
 
 Our times are in His hand 
 Who saith, "A whole 1 planned, 5 
 
 Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor 
 be afraid!" 
 
 Not that, amassing flowers, 
 Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours. 
 Which lily leave and then as best recall?" 
 Not that, admiring stars, 10 
 
 It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 
 Mine be some figured flame which blends, tran- 
 scends them all!" 
 
 Not for such hopes and fears 
 
 AnnuUing youth's brief years, 
 
 Do I remonstrate; folly wide the mark! 15 
 
 Rather I prize the doubt 
 
 Low kinds exist without, 
 
 Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 
 
 IV 
 
 Poor vaunt of life indeed, 
 Were man but formed to feed 20 
 
 On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; 
 Such feasting ended, then 
 As sure an end to men; 
 
 Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the 
 maw-crammed beast? 
 
 Rejoice we are allied 25 
 
 To That which doth provide 
 And not partake, effect and not receive! 
 A spark disturbs our clod; 
 Nearer we hold of God 
 
 Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must 
 beUeve. 30 
 
 VI 
 
 Then, welcome each rebuff 
 That turns earth's smoothness rough, 
 Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! 
 Be our joys three-parts pain! 
 Strive, and hold cheap the strain; 35 
 
 Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge 
 the throe! 
 
 VII 
 
 For thence, — a paradox 
 
 Which comforts while it mocks, — 
 >^hall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 
 /What I aspired to be, 40 
 
 ' And was not, comforts me: 
 
 A brute I might have been, but would not sink 
 i' the scale. 
 
 himself. Nevertheless the Jewish teacher who is sup- 
 posed to be imparting to youth the ultimate wisdom of 
 age is not an imaginary person, but a, man whose views, 
 so far aa we can judge, were really similar to those the 
 poet has put into his mouth. Rabbi Ben Ezra, whose 
 real name is said to have been Abraham ben Meir ben 
 Ezra, was one of the most distinguished Jewish scholars 
 and Old Testament commentators of the Middle Ages. 
 His view of hfe was lofty; to him the only reality was 
 spirit, and he regarded material things as of very minor 
 importance. 
 
 VIII 
 
 What is he but a brute 
 
 Whose flesh hath soul to suit. 
 
 Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want 
 
 play? 45 
 
 To man propose this test — 
 Thy body at its best. 
 How far can that project thy soul on its lone 
 
 way? 
 
 rx 
 Yet gifts should prove their use: 
 I own the Past profuse 50 
 
 Of power each side, perfection every turn: 
 Eyes, ears took in their dole. 
 Brain treasured up the whole; 
 Should not the heart beat once "How good to 
 live and learn?" 
 
 Not once beat "Praise be Thine! 55 
 
 I see the whole design, 
 
 I, who saw Power, see now Love perfect too:^ 
 Perfect I call Thy plan: 
 Thanks that I was a man! 
 Maker, remake complete, — I trust what Thou 
 shaltdo!" 60 
 
 XI 
 
 For pleasant is this flesh; 
 Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
 Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest*. 
 Would we some prize might hold 
 To match those manifold 65 
 
 Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did 
 best! 
 
 XII 
 
 Let us not always say, 
 
 "Spite of this flesh to-day 
 
 I strove, made head, gained ground upon the 
 
 whole!" 
 As the bird wings and sings, 70 
 
 Let us cry "All good things 
 Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than 
 
 flesh helps soul!" 
 
 XIII 
 
 Therefore I summon age 
 To grant youth's heritage. 
 Life's struggle having so far reached its term: 75 
 Thence shall I pass, approved 
 A man, for aye removed 
 
 From the developed brute; a God though in the 
 germ. 
 
 XIV 
 
 And I shall thereupon 
 
 Take rest, ere I be gone 80 
 
 Once more on my adventure brave and new: 
 
 Fearless and unperplexed. 
 
 When I wage battle next. 
 
 What weapons to select, what armor to indue. ^ 
 
 2 This idea that Love as well as Power is to be dis- 
 cerned as a motive force in the universe, more than once 
 alluded to by Browning, is made the main theme of 
 "Reverie" in Asolando. 
 
 > In the original sense of to put on. 
 
630 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 XV 
 
 Youth ended, I shall try 85 
 
 My gain or loss thereby; 
 Leave the fire-ashes, what survives is gold: 
 And I shall weigh the same, 
 Give life its praise or blame: 
 Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being 
 old. 90 
 
 XVI 
 
 For note, when evening shuts, 
 A certain moment cuts 
 The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: 
 A whisper from the west 
 Shoots— "Add this to the rest, 95 
 
 Take it and try its worth: here dies another 
 day." 
 
 XVII 
 
 So, still within this life. 
 
 Though lifted o'er its strife, 
 
 Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 
 
 "This rage was right i' the main, lOO 
 
 That acquiescence vain: 
 
 The Future I may face now I have proved the 
 
 Past." 
 
 xvm 
 For more is not reserved 
 To man, with soul just nerved 
 To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: 105 
 Here, work enough to watch 
 The Master work, and catch 
 Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's 
 
 true play. 
 
 XIX 
 
 As it was better, youth 
 
 Should strive^ through acts uncouth, no 
 
 Toward making, than repose on aught found 
 
 made! 
 So, better, age, exempt 
 From strife, should know, than tempt 
 Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death, nor 
 
 be afraid! 
 
 XX 
 
 Enough now, if the Right 115 
 
 And Good and Infinite 
 
 Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine 
 
 own. 
 With knowledge absolute, 
 Subject to no dispute 
 From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee 
 
 feel alone. 120 
 
 XXI 
 
 Be there, for once and all. 
 Severed great minds from small. 
 Announced to each his station in the Past! 
 Was I, the world arraigned, 
 Were they, my soul disdained, 125 
 
 Right? Let age speak the truth and give us 
 peace at last! 
 
 XXII 
 
 Now, who shall arbitrate? 
 Ten men love what I hate. 
 Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 
 
 Ten, who in ears and eyes 130 
 
 Match me: we all surmise, 
 They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall my 
 soul believe? 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Not on the vulgar mass 
 
 Called "work," must sentence pass. 
 
 Things done, that took the eye and had the 
 
 price; 135 
 
 O'er which, from level stand, 
 The low world laid its hand, 
 Found straightway to its mind, could value in 
 
 a trice: 
 
 XXIV 
 
 But all, the world's coarse thumb 
 And finger failed to plumb, 140 
 
 So passed in making up the main account; 
 All instincts immature, 
 All purposes unsure. 
 
 That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the 
 man's amount: 
 
 XXV 
 
 Thoughts hardly to be packed 145 
 
 Into a narrow act, 
 
 Fancies that broke through language and es- 
 caped; 
 
 All I could never be. 
 
 All, men ignored in me. 
 
 This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the 
 pitcher shaped. 150 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Ay, note that Potter's wheel,* 
 That metaphor! and feel 
 Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — 
 Thou, to whom fools propound, 
 When the wine makes its round, 155 
 
 "Since hfe fleets, all is change; the Past gone, 
 seize to-day!" 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Fool! All that is, at all. 
 Lasts ever, past recall; 
 
 Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: 
 What entered into thee, 160 
 
 That was, is, and shall be: 
 Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and 
 clay endure. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 He fixed thee mid this dance 
 Of plastic circumstance. 
 
 This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain 
 arrest: 165 
 
 Machinery just meant 
 To give thy soul its bent. 
 Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently im- 
 
 XXIX 
 
 What though the earlier grooves. 
 Which ran the laughing loves 170 
 
 Around thy base, no longer pause and press? 
 What though, about thy rim. 
 Skull-things in order grim 
 Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner 
 stress? 
 
 « Cf. Is. Ixiv. 8, and Jer. xviii. 2-6. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 631 
 
 XXX 
 
 Look not thou down but upl 175 
 
 To uses of a cup, 
 
 The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's 
 
 peal, 
 The new wine's foaming flow. 
 The Master's lips aglow! 
 Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst 
 
 thou with earth's wheel? 180 
 
 XXXI 
 
 But I need, now as then, 
 Tho(^, God, who moldest men; 
 And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 
 Did I — to the wheel of life 
 With shapes and colors rife, 185 
 
 Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake Thy 
 thirst: 
 
 XXXII 
 
 So, take and use Thy work: 
 
 Amend what flaws may lurk. 
 
 What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past 
 
 the aim! 
 My times be in Thy hand!^ 190 
 
 Perfect the cup as planned! 
 Let age approve of youth, and death complete 
 
 the same! 
 
 MARTIN RELPH 
 
 (From Dramatic Idylls, First Series, 1879) 
 
 My grandfather says he remembers he saw, when 
 
 a youngster long ago, 
 On a bright May day, a strange old man, with a 
 
 beard as white as snow. 
 Stand on the hill outside our town like a monument 
 
 of woe, 
 And, striking his bare bald head the while, sob 
 
 out the reason — so! 
 
 If I last as long as Methuselah I shall never for- 
 give myself: 5 
 
 But — God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy 
 Martin Relph, 
 
 As coward, coward I call him — him, yes, him! 
 Away from me! 
 
 Get you behind the man I am now, you man 
 that I used to be! 
 
 What can have sewed my mouth up, set me 
 
 a-stare, all eyes, no tongue? 
 People have urged "You visit a scare too hard 
 
 on a lad so young! 10 
 
 You were taken aback, poor boy," they urge, 
 
 "no time to regain your wits: 
 Besides it had maybe cost you life." Ay, there 
 
 is the cap which fits! 
 
 So, cap me, the coward, — thus! No fear! A 
 
 cuff on the brow does good: 
 The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores 
 
 at the brain for food. 
 
 6 See Psalms, xxiv. 15, "My times are in thy hand." 
 
 See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a 
 moment, I trust, dear friends, 15 
 
 The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if 
 mine, I have made amends! 
 
 For, every day that is first of May, on the hill- 
 top here stand I, 
 
 Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and pub- 
 lish the reason why. 
 
 When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. 
 No fool, friends, since the bite 
 
 Of a worm inside is worse to bear: pray God I 
 have balked him quite! 20 
 
 I'll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came 
 of the way they cooped 
 
 Us peasantry up in a ring just here, close hud- 
 dling because tight-hooped 
 
 By the red-coats round us villagers all: they 
 meant we should see the sight 
 
 And take the example, — see, not speak, for 
 speech was the Captain's right. 
 
 "You clowns on the slope, beware!" cried J|e: 
 "This woman about to die 25 
 
 Gives by her fate fair warning to such acquaint- 
 ance as play the spy. 
 
 Henceforth who meddle with matters of state 
 above them perhaps will learn 
 
 That peasants should stick to their plough-tail, 
 leave to King the King's concern. 
 
 "Here's a quarrel that sets the land on fire, 
 
 between King George and his foes:^ 
 What call has a man of your kind — much less, a 
 
 woman — to interpose? 30 
 
 Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, 
 
 not foes— so much the worse! 
 The many and loyal should keep themselves 
 
 unmixed with the few perverse. 
 
 "Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you 
 
 plainly a month ago. 
 And where was the good? The rebels have 
 
 learned just all that they need to know. 
 Not a month since in we quietly marched: a 
 
 week and they had the news, 35 
 
 From a list complete of our rank and file to a 
 
 note of our caps and shoes. 
 
 "All about all we did and all we were doing and 
 
 like to do! 
 Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who 
 
 wrote it, too. 
 Some of you men look black enough, but the 
 
 milk-white face demure 
 Betokens the finger foul with ink: 'tis a woman 
 
 who writes, be sure! 40 
 
 "Is it 'Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!' — 
 
 good natural stuff, she pens? 
 Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: 
 
 with talk about cocks and hens, 
 
 1 This may mean either George I (1714-1727), or 
 George II (1727-1760), since there were Jacobite up- 
 risings in both of those reigns, the first in 1715, the second 
 in 1745. • 
 
632 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 How 'robin has built on the apple-tree, and our 
 
 creeper which came to grief 
 Through the frost, we feared, is twining afresh 
 
 round casement in famous leaf.* 
 
 " But all for a blind ! She soon glides frank into 
 
 * Horrid the place is grown 45 
 
 With Officers here and Privates there, no nook 
 
 we may call our own: 
 And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and 
 
 lodging will be to seek 
 For the second Company sure to come ('tis 
 
 whispered) on Monday week.' 
 
 "And so to the end of the chapter! There! 
 
 The murder, you see, was out: 
 Easy to guess how the change of mind in the 
 
 rebels was brought about! 50 
 
 Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had 
 
 treachery made no sign: 
 But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if 
 
 fools malign! 
 
 "That traitors had played us false, was proved 
 — sent news which fell so pat: 
 
 A.nd the murder was out — this letter of love, 
 the sender of this sent that ! 
 
 'Tis an ugly job, though, all the same — a hate- 
 ful, to have to deal 55 
 
 With a case of the kind, when a woman's in 
 fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel! 
 
 "So I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste 
 
 a message to Vincent Parkes 
 Whom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since 
 
 one of the King's own clerks. 
 Ay, kept by the King's own gold in the town 
 
 close by where the rebels camp: 
 A sort of lawyer, just the man to betray our 
 
 sort — the scamp! 60 
 
 "'If her writing is simple, and honest and only 
 
 the lover-like stuff it looks. 
 And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in 
 
 the rebels' books, 
 Come quick,' said I, 'and in person prove you 
 
 are each of you clear of crime, 
 Or martial law must take its course: this day 
 
 next week's the time!' 
 
 "Next week is now: does he come? Not he! 
 
 Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice! 65 
 
 He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no 
 
 need of a warning twice ! 
 His own neck free, but his partner's fast in the 
 
 noose still, here she stands 
 To pay for her fault. 'Tis an ugly job: but 
 
 soldiers obey commands. 
 
 "And hearken wherefore I make a speech! 
 
 Should any acquaintance share 
 The folly that led to the fault that is now to be 
 
 punished, let fools beware! 70 
 
 Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: 
 
 and above all else, keep wives 
 Or sweethearts or what they may be — from ink! 
 
 Not a word now, on your lives!" • 
 
 Black? but the Pit's own pitch was white to the 
 
 Captain's face — the brute 
 With the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and 
 
 the bloodshot eyes to suit! 
 He was muddled with wine, they say: more 
 
 like, he was out of his wits with fear; 75 
 He had but a handful of men, that's true, — a 
 
 riot might cost him dear. 
 
 And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with 
 
 pinioned arms and face 
 Bandaged about, on the turf marked out for the 
 
 party's firing-place. 
 I hope she was wholly with God: I hope 'twas 
 
 His angel stretched a hand 
 To steady her so, like the shape of stone you see 
 
 in our church-aisle stand. so 
 
 I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the 
 bandage to vex her eyes. 
 
 No face within which she missed without, no 
 questions and no replies — 
 
 "Why did you leave me to die?" — "Be- 
 cause ..." Oh, fiends, too soon you grin 
 
 At merely a moment of hell, like that — such 
 heaven as hell ended in! 
 
 Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went 
 
 the guns in a line. 85 
 
 Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb, — 
 
 for, of all eyes, only mine 
 Looked over the heads of the foremost rank. 
 
 Some fell on their knees in prayer, 
 Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with 
 
 a sole exception there. 
 
 That was myself, who had stolen up last, had 
 
 sidled behind the group: 
 I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand 
 
 fixed while the others stoop! 90 
 
 From head to foot in a serpent's twine am I 
 
 tightened: / touch ground? 
 No more than a gibbet's rigid corpse which the 
 
 fetters rust around! 
 
 Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst — aught 
 
 else but see, see, only see? 
 And see I do — for there comes in sight — a man, 
 
 it sure must be! — 
 Who staggeringly, stumblingly, rises, falls, 
 
 rises, at random flings his weight 95 
 
 On and on, anyhow onward — a man that's mad 
 
 he arrives too late! 
 
 Else why does he wave a something white high- 
 flourished above his head? 
 
 Why does not he call, cry, — curse the fool! — 
 why throw up his arms instead? 
 
 O take this fist in your own face, fool! Why 
 does not yourself shout "Stay! 
 
 Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, 
 with something he's mad to say?" lOO 
 
 And a minute, only a moment, to have hell- 
 fire boil up in your brain. 
 
 And ere you can judge things right, choose 
 heaven, — time's over, repentance vain! \ 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 633 
 
 They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of 
 
 smoke: I see no more 
 Of the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor 
 
 the something white he bore. 
 
 But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is 
 
 an object. Surely dumb, 105 
 
 Deaf, blind were we struck, that nobody heard, 
 
 not one of us saw him come! 
 Has he fainted through fright? One may well 
 
 believe! What is it he holds so fast? 
 Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! 
 
 What, Vincent Parkes at last? 
 
 Dead! dead as she, by the self-same shot: one 
 
 bullet has ended both. 
 Her in the body and him in the soul. They 
 
 laugh at our plighted troth. lio 
 
 "Till death us do part?" Till death us do join 
 
 past parting — that sounds like: 
 Betrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what 
 
 need has my fist to strike? 
 
 I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one 
 
 bound and your soul reached hers! 
 There is clenched in your hand the thing, 
 
 signed, sealed, the paper which plain avers 
 She is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with 
 
 the King's Arms broad engraved: lis 
 
 No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill 
 
 can see, she's saved! 
 
 And torn his garb and bloody his lips with 
 
 heart-break — plain it grew 
 How the week's delay had been brought about: 
 
 each guess at the end proved true. 
 It was hard to get at the folks in power: such 
 
 waste of time! and then 
 Such pleading and praying, with, all the while, 
 
 his lamb in the lion's den! 120 
 
 And at length when he wrung their pardon out, 
 
 no end to the stupid forms — 
 The license and leave: I make no doubt — what 
 
 wonder if passion warms 
 The pulse in a man if you play with his heart? — • 
 
 he was something hasty in speech; 
 Anyhow, none would quicken the work; he had 
 
 to beseech, beseech! 
 
 And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his 
 
 grasp, — what followed but fresh delays? 
 For the floods were out, he was forced to take 
 
 such a roundabout of ways ! 120 
 
 And 'tv/as "Halt there!" at every turn of the 
 
 road, since he had to cross the thick 
 Of the red-coats: what did they care for him 
 
 and hi^ "Quick, for God's sake, quick!" 
 
 Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the 
 
 first knave smirked "You brag 
 Yourself a friend of the King's? then lend to a 
 
 King's friend here your nag!" 130 
 
 Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece 
 
 they plundered him still. 
 With their "Wait you must— no help: if aught 
 
 can help you, a guinea will! " 
 
 And a borough there was — I forget the name — 
 whose Mayor must have the bench 
 
 Of Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for "Vin- 
 cent," thinks he, sounds French! 
 
 It well may have driven him daft, God knows! 
 all man can certainly know 135 
 
 Is — rushing and falling and rising, at last he 
 arrived in a horror — so! 
 
 When a word, cry, gasp, would have rescued 
 both! x\y, biteme! The worm begins 
 
 At his work once more. Had cowardice 
 proved — that only — my sin of sins! 
 
 Friends, look you here! Suppose . . . sup- 
 pose . . . But mad I am, needs must be! 
 
 Judas the Damned would never have dared 
 such a sin as I dream ! For, see ! 140 
 
 Suppose I had sneakingly loved her myself, my 
 
 wretched self, and dreamed 
 In the heart of me "She were better dead than 
 
 happy and his! " — while gleamed 
 A light from hell as I spied the pair in a perfect- 
 
 est embrace. 
 He the saviour and she the saved, — ^bliss bom 
 
 of the very murder-place! 
 
 No! Say I was scared, friends! Call me fool and 
 
 coward, but nothing worse! 145 
 
 Jeer at the fool and jibe at the coward! 'Twas 
 
 ever the coward's curse: 
 That fear breeds fancies in such: such take 
 
 their shadow for substance still, 
 — A fiend at their back. I liked poor Parkes, — 
 
 loved Vincent, if you will! 
 
 And her — why, I said "Good morrow" to her, 
 
 "Good even," and nothing more: 
 The neighborly way! She was just to me as 
 
 fifty had been before. 150 
 
 So, coward it is and coward shall be! There's a 
 
 friend, now! Thanks! A drink 
 Of water I wanted: and now I can walk, get 
 
 home by myself, I think. 
 
 O LYRIC LOVE 
 
 (From The Ring and the Book, Bk. I, 1868) 
 
 O lyric Love, half angel and half bird 
 And all a wonder and a wild desire, — 
 Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, 
 Took sanctuary within the holier blue, 
 And sang a kindred soul out to his face, — 5 
 Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart. — 
 When the first summons from the darkling 
 
 earth 
 Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched 
 
 their blue. 
 And bared them of the glory — to drop down, 
 To toil for man, to suffer or to die, — 10 
 
 This is the same voice: can thy soul know 
 
 change? 
 Hail then, and harken from the realms of help! 
 Never may I commence my song, my due 
 To God who best taught song by gift of thee, 
 
634 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Except with bent hccod and beseeching hand — 
 That still, desi)ite the distance and the dark, 16 
 What was, again may be; some interchange 
 Of grace, some splendor once thy very thought, 
 Some benediction anciently thy smile: 
 — Never conclude, but raising hand and head 20 
 Thither where eyes that cannot reach, yet 
 
 ;J^earn 
 For all hope, all sustainment, all reward. 
 Their utmost, up and on, — so blessing back 
 In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy 
 
 home, 
 Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes 
 
 proud, 25 
 
 Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may 
 
 fall! 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 (From Asolando, 1890) 
 
 At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 
 
 When you set yoiu* fancies free. 
 Will they pass to where — by death, fools think, 
 
 imprisoned — 
 Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you 
 loved so, 
 —Pity me? 5 
 
 Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! 
 
 What had I on earth to do 
 With the slothful, with the mawkish, the un- 
 manly? 
 Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel 
 — Being — who? lO 
 
 One who never timied his back but marched 
 breast forward, 
 Never doubted clouds would break, 
 Never dreamed, though right were worsted, 
 
 wrong would triumph. 
 Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, 
 Sleep to wake. 15 
 
 No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work- 
 time 
 Greet the unseen with a cheer! 
 Bid him forward, breast and back as either 
 
 should be, 
 "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — ^fight on, 
 fare ever 
 There as here!" 20 
 
 Clijabett) Barrett llBrotoning 
 
 1809-1861 
 
 A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 
 
 (From Poems, 1844) 
 
 What was he doing, the great god Pan, 
 
 Down in the reeds by the river? 
 Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
 Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 
 And breaking the golden lilies afloat 5 
 
 With the cu*agon-fly on the river. 
 
 He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
 From the deep cool bed of the river: 
 
 The limpid water turbidly ran, 
 
 And the broken lilies a-dying lay. 10 
 
 And the dragon-fly had fled away, 
 Ere he brought it out of the river. 
 
 Ill 
 High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 
 
 While turbidly flowed the river; 
 And hacked and hewed as a great god can, 15 
 With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed. 
 Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed 
 
 To prove it fresh from the river. 
 
 IV 
 
 He cut it short, did the great god Pan 
 
 (How tall it stood in the river !) , 20 
 
 Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 
 
 Steadily from the outside ring. 
 
 And notched the poor dry empty thing 
 In holes, as he sat by the river. 
 
 "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan 25 
 
 (Laughed while he sat by the river), 
 "The only way, since gods began 
 To make sweet music, they could succeed." 
 Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 
 He blew in power by the river. 30 
 
 VI 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! 
 
 Piercing sweet by the river! 
 Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! 
 The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
 And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 35 
 
 Came back to dream on the river. 
 
 VII 
 
 Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 
 
 To laugh as He sits by the river. 
 Making a poet out of a man: 
 The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, — 40 
 For the reed which grows nevermore again 
 
 As a reed with the reeds in the river. 
 
 SONNETS 
 CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REASON 
 
 I think we are too ready with complaint 
 
 In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope 
 
 Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope 
 
 Of yon grey blank of sky, we might grow faint 
 
 To muse upon eternity's constraint 5 
 
 Round our aspirant souls; but since the scope 
 
 Must widen early, is it well to droop. 
 
 For a few days consumed in loss and taint? 
 
 O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted 
 
 And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road, 10 
 
 Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread 
 
 Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod 
 
 To meet the flints? At least it may be said, \ 
 
 "Because the way is short, I thank thee, God." ^ 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 635 
 
 THE PROSPECT 
 
 Methinks we do as fretful children do, 
 
 Leaning their faces on the window-pane 
 
 To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's 
 
 stain, 
 And shut the sky and landscape from their 
 
 view: 
 And thus, alas, since God the maker drew 5 
 
 A mystic separation 'twixt those twain, 
 The life beyond us, and our souls in pain. 
 We miss the prospect which we are called 
 
 unto 
 By grief we are fools to use. Be still and 
 
 strong, 
 O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath, lo 
 And keep thy soul's large window pure from 
 
 wrong 
 That so, as life's appointment issueth, 
 Thy vision may be clear to watch along 
 The sunset consummation-hghts of death. 
 
 WORK 
 
 What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil; 
 Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines 
 For all the heat o' the day, tiU it dechnes. 
 And Death's mild curfew shall from work 
 
 assoil. 
 God did anoint thee with His odorous oil, 5 
 To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns 
 All thy tears over, like pure crystallines. 
 For younger fellow-workers of the soil 
 To wear for amulets. So others shall 
 Take patience, labour, to their heart and 
 
 hand. 
 From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave 
 
 cheer, . ii 
 
 And God's grace fructify through thee to 
 
 all. 
 The least flower, with a brimming cup may 
 
 stand, 
 And share its dew-drop with another near. 
 
 (From Sonnets from the Portuguese^ 1850) 
 
 I 
 
 I thought once how Theocritus had sung 
 
 Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for 
 
 years. 
 Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
 To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: 
 And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 5 
 I saw, in gradual vision through my tears. 
 The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years. 
 
 Those of my own life, who by turns had 
 
 flung 
 A shadow across me. Straightway I was 
 
 'ware. 
 So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move i o 
 Behind me, and drew me backward by the 
 
 hair; 
 And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, — 
 
 "Guess now who holds thee?"— "Death," I 
 
 said. But, there, 
 The silver answer rang, — "Not Death, but 
 
 Love." 
 
 VI 
 
 Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 15 
 Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
 Alone upon the threshold of my door 
 Of individual life, I shall command 
 The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
 Serenely in the sunshine as before, 20 
 
 Without the sense of that which I forbore — 
 Thy touch upon the pahn. The widest land 
 Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in 
 
 mine 
 With pulses that beat double. What I do 
 And what I dream include thee, as the wine 25 
 Must taste of its own grapes. And when I 
 
 sue 
 God for myself. He hears that name of 
 
 thine. 
 And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
 
 And be all to me? Shall I never miss 30 
 
 Home-talk and blessing and the common 
 
 kiss 
 That comes to each in turn, nor count it 
 
 strange 
 When I look up, to drop on a new range 
 Of walls and floors, another home than this? 
 Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 35 
 Filled by dead eyes too tender to know 
 
 change? 
 That's hardest. If to conquer love, has 
 
 tried. 
 To conquer grief, tries more, as all things 
 
 prove; 
 For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 
 Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. 40 
 Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine heart 
 
 wide, 
 And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 How do I love thee? Let me count the 
 
 ways. 
 I love thee to the depth and breadth and 
 
 height 
 My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 45 
 For the ends of Being, and ideal Grace. 
 I love thee to the level of everyday's 
 Most quiet need, by sun and candleUght. 
 I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 
 I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 50 
 I love thee with the passion put to use 
 In my old griefs, and with my childhood's 
 
 faith. 
 I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
 With my lost saints, — I love thee with the 
 
 breath. 
 Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God 
 
 choose, 55 
 
 I shall but love thee better after death. 
 
636 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 (1822-1888) 
 
 THYRSIS 
 
 (A Monody, to commemorate the author's 
 friend /Arthur Hugh Clough/ who died at 
 Florence, 1861) 
 
 How changed is here each spot man makes or 
 fills! 
 In the two Ilinkseys^ nothing keeps the 
 same; 
 The village street its haunted mansion 
 lacks, 
 And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name, 
 And from the roofs the twisted chimney- 
 stacks — 5 
 Are ye too changed, ye hills? 
 See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 
 Tonight from Oxford up your pathway 
 
 strays! 
 Here came I often, often in old days— 
 Thy rsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis then . i o 
 
 Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth's 
 Farm, 
 Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree 
 crowns 
 The hill behind whose ridge the sunset 
 flames? 
 The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, 
 The Vale, the three lone wears, the youthful 
 Thames?— 15 
 
 This winter-eve is warm. 
 Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring, 
 The tender purple spray on copse and 
 
 briers! 
 And that sweet city with her dreaming 
 spires. 
 She needs not June for beauty's heightening, 20 
 
 Lovely all times, she lies, lovely to-night! — 
 Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power 
 Befalls me wandering through this upland 
 dim. 
 Once passed I blindfold here, at any hour; 
 Now seldom come I, since I came with 
 him. 25 
 
 That single elm-tree bright 
 Against the west — I miss it! is it gone? 
 We prized it dearly; while it stood, we 
 said, 
 
 > A. H. Clough (1819-1861). a man of brilliant gifts 
 and attractive personality, holds an honorable, if sub- 
 ordinate place among the Victorian poets. (See p. 663). 
 He attended Rugby where he was a favorite pupil of 
 Dr. Arnold; he went to Oxford in 1837, and became a 
 fellow of Oriel College in 1842. Matthew Arnold entered 
 Oxford in 1841 and was made a fellow of Oriel College 
 in 1845. Immediately after Clough's death Arnold re- 
 ferred to him as "one of the few people who ever made a 
 deep impression upon me," and hinted at his intention 
 of expressing in some form his feeling for his dead friend. 
 (F. Arnold's LcUers I. 177). 
 
 'Two villages near Oxford. The poem gains in sin- 
 cerity and definiteness by its numerous references to 
 neighboring localities, intimately associated with the 
 days which Clough and Arnold spent together at the 
 University. 
 
 Our friend the Gipsy-Scholar,' was not 
 dead; 
 While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, 31 
 But once I knew each field, each flower, each 
 stick; 
 And with the country folk acquaintance 
 made 
 By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. 
 Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first 
 assay 'd. 35 
 
 Ah me! this many a year 
 My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday! 
 Needs must I lose them, needs with 
 
 heavy heart 
 Into the world and wave of men depart. 
 But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 40 
 
 It irk'd him here, he could not rest. 
 He loved each simple joy the country yields, 
 He loved his mates; but yet he could not 
 keep, 
 For that a shadow lower'd on the fields. 
 Here with the shepherds and the silly 
 sheep. 45 
 
 Some life of men unblest 
 He knew, which made him droop, and fiU'd 
 his head. 
 He went; his piping took a troubled sound 
 Of storms that rage outside our happy 
 ground; 
 He could not wait their passing, he is dead. 50 
 
 So some tempestuous mom in early June, 
 
 When the year's primal burst of bloom is 
 o'er. 
 Before the roses, and the longest day — 
 When garden-walks, and all the grassy floor. 
 With blossoms red and white of fallen 
 May, 55 
 
 And chestnut-flowers are strewn — 
 So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry. 
 From the wet field, through the vext 
 
 garden-trees, 
 Come with the volleying rain and tossing 
 breeze: 
 The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I! 60 
 
 Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? 
 Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come 
 on. 
 Soon will the musk carnations break and 
 swell. 
 Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, 
 Sweet-William with his homely cottage- 
 smell, 65 
 And stocks in fragrant blow; 
 Roses that down the alleys shine afar. 
 And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, 
 And groups under the dreaming garden- 
 trees. 
 And the full-moon, and the white evening star. 
 
 3 Arnold was much impressed by the old story of an 
 Oxford student who, it was said, had been forced by 
 poverty to leave the University, and who joined a com- 
 pany of wandering gipsies. Arnold made this story the 
 basis of his poem The Scholar-Gipsy. 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 637 
 
 He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown! 71 
 What matters it? next year he will return, 
 And we shall have him in the sweet 
 spring-days, 
 With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling 
 fern, 
 And blue-bells trembling by the forest- 
 ways, 75 
 And scent of hay new-mown. 
 But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see; 
 See him come back, and cut a smoother 
 
 reed. 
 And blow a strain the world at last shall 
 heed — 
 For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee! 
 
 Alack, for Corydon, no rival now ! — 81 
 
 But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate. 
 
 Some good survivor with his flute would go 
 Piping a ditty sad for Bion's^ fate; 
 And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, 85 
 And relax Pluto's brow. 
 And make leap up with joy the beauteous 
 head 
 Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair 
 Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, 
 And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the 
 dead. 90 
 
 easy access to the hearer's grace 
 
 When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine! 
 
 For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, 
 
 She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, 94 
 
 She knew each lily white which Enna^ yields. 
 
 Each rose with blushing face; 
 
 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. 
 
 But ah, of our poor Thames she never 
 
 heard! 
 Her foot the Cumnor cowslips never 
 stirr'd; 
 And we should tease her with our plaint in 
 vain! lOO 
 
 Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will 
 be, 
 Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour 
 In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd 
 hill! 
 Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? 
 I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 
 I know the Fyfield tree, 106 
 
 I know what white, what purple fritillaries 
 The grassy harvest of the river-fields, 
 Above by Ensham, down by Sanford, 
 yields, 
 And what sedged brooks are Thames's trib- 
 utaries; 110 
 
 1 know these slopes; who knows them if not I? 
 
 But many a dingle on the loved hill-side. 
 With thorns once studded, old, white- 
 blossom'd trees, 
 
 * Bion (cir. 280 B. C), a Greek poet, the author of A 
 Lament for Adonia. Bion himself was made the subject 
 of a famous elegy by Moschus (cir, 200 B, C), a Greek 
 poet of Sicily. . 
 
 »A plain in Sicily, where Proserpine was gathenng 
 flowers when she was carried ofE by Pluto to the lower 
 worid. 
 
 Where thick the cowslips grew, and far 
 descried 
 High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, 
 Hath since our day put by lie 
 
 The coronals" of that forgotten time; 
 
 Down each green bank hath gone the 
 
 plough-boy's team. 
 And only in the hidden brookside gleam 
 Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 120 
 
 Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door. 
 Above the locks, above the boating throng, 
 Unmoor'd our skiff when through the 
 Wytham flats, 
 Red loosestrife and blond meadow sweet 
 among 
 And darting swallows and light water- 
 gnats, 125 
 We track 'd the shy Thames shore? 
 Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell 
 Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass. 
 Stood with suspended scythe to see us 
 pass? — 
 They all are gone, and thou art gone as 
 well! 130 
 
 Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the 
 night 
 In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. 
 
 I see her veil draw soft across the day, 
 I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 
 The cheek grown thin, the brown hair 
 sprent with grey; 135 
 
 I feel her finger light 
 Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train ; — 
 The foot less prompt to meet the morning 
 
 dew. 
 The heart less bounding at emotion new, 
 And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring 
 again. 14 
 
 And long the way appears, which seem'd so 
 short 
 To the less practised eye of sanguine youth; 
 And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy 
 air. 
 The mountain-tops where is the throne of 
 Truth, 
 Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and 
 bare! 145 
 
 Unbreachable the fort 
 Of the long-battered world uplifts its wall; 
 And strange and vain the earthly turmoil 
 
 grows, 
 And near and real the charm of thy repose, 
 And night as welcome as a friend would fall. 150 
 
 But hush ! the upland hath a sudden loss 
 Of quiet! — Look adown the dusk hillside 
 A troop of Oxford hunters going home. 
 As in old days, jovial, and talking, ride! 
 From hunting with the Berkshire hounds 
 they come. 155 
 
 Quick! let me fly, and cross 
 
 « i. e. in many a dingle, the trees, crowned with blos- 
 soms, have put by their coronals, or garlands of bloom. 
 
638 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Into yon farther field! — 'Tis done; and see, 
 Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify 
 The orange and pale violet evening-sky, 
 Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree!^ the Tree! ico 
 
 I take the omen 1 Eve lets down her veil, 
 The white fog creeps from bush to bush 
 about, 
 The west unflushes, the high stars grow 
 bright, 
 And in the scatter'd farms the lights come 
 out. 
 I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night, 165 
 Yet, happy omen, hail! 
 Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale 
 (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids 
 
 keep 
 The morningless and unawakening sleep 
 Under the flowery oleanders pale,) 1 70 
 
 Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there! — 
 Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland 
 dim. 
 These brambles pale with mist engarlanded 
 That lone sky-pointing tree, are not for him; 
 To a boon southern country he is fled, 175 
 And now in happier air, 
 Wandering with the great Mother's train 
 divine 
 (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, 
 I trow the mighty Mother doth not see) 
 Within a folding of the Apennine, 180 
 
 Thou hearest the immortal chants of old! 
 Putting his sickle to the perilous grain 
 
 In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, 
 For thee the Lityerses-song again 
 Young Daphnis^ with his silver voice doth 
 sing; 185 
 
 Sings his Sicilian fold, 
 His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes — 
 And how a celestial call round him rang, 
 And heavenward from the fountain-brink 
 he sprang, 
 And all the marvel of the golden skies. 190 
 
 There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here 
 Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair. 
 
 Despair I will not, while I yet descry 
 'Neath the soft canopy of English air 
 That lonelv tree against the western sky. 
 Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear, ige 
 
 _^ ^i. e. the "siRnal elm," the tree on the hill-top in 
 "the old haunt," which Arnold has referred to several 
 times before. It was evidently a favorite meeting place 
 of the two friends, and associated with memories of the 
 Scholar-Gipsy, whose spiritual presence typi6ed the 
 indestructible nature of the ideal. 
 
 '"Daphnia, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pas- 
 toral poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his 
 nnstress Piplea. who had been carried off by robbers, and 
 to have found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, 
 Lityerses. Litycrses used to make strangers try a contest 
 with him in reaping corn, and to put them to death if he 
 overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daph- 
 nis, took upon liimself the reaping-contest with Lityerses 
 overcame hiin. and slew him. The Lityerses-song con- 
 nected with this tradition was, like the Linus-song, one 
 of the early plaintive strains of Greek popular poetry 
 and used to be sung by corn-reapers." Arnold. 
 
 Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! 
 
 Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the 
 hay. 
 
 Woods with anemonies in flower till May, 
 Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? 
 
 A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, 20l 
 
 Shy to illumine; and I seek it too. 
 This does not come with houses or with 
 gold. 
 With place, with honour, and a flattering 
 crew; 
 'Tis not in the world's market bought and 
 sold — 205 
 
 But the smooth-slipping weeks 
 Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; 
 Out of the heed of mortals he is gone. 
 He wends unfollow'd, he must house 
 alone; 
 Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.2io 
 
 Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wert bound! 
 Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour! 
 Men gave thee nothing; but this happy 
 quest. 
 If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, 
 If men procured thee trouble, gave thee 
 rest. 215 
 
 And this rude Cumnor ground, 
 Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet 
 fields, 
 Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful 
 
 time. 
 Here was thine height of strength, thy 
 golden prime! 
 And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.220 
 
 What though the music of thy rustic flute 
 Kept not for long its happy, country tone; 
 Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy 
 note 
 Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, 
 Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired 
 thy throat — 225 
 
 It fail'd and thou wast mute! 
 Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light. 
 And long with men of care thou couldst 
 
 not stay. 
 And soon thy foot resumed its wandering 
 way, 
 Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 230 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits herei 
 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, 
 Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my 
 home. 
 — Then through the great town's harsh, 
 heart-wearying roar. 
 Let in thy voice a whisper often come, 235 
 To chase fatigue and fear: 
 Why faintest thou? I wander' d till I died. 
 Roam on! The light we sought is shining 
 
 still. 
 Dost thou ask prooft Our tree yet crowns the 
 hill, 
 Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. .W) 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 639 
 
 TO MARGUERITE 
 
 (From Switzerland) 
 Yes! in the sea of life enisled, 
 With echoing straits between us thrown, 
 Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 
 We mortal millions live alone. 
 The islands feel the enclasping flow, 5 
 
 And then their endless bounds they know. 
 
 But when the moon their hollow lights, 
 And they are swept by balms of spring, 
 And In their glens, on starry nights. 
 The nightingales divinely sing; 10 
 
 And lovely notes, from shore to shore. 
 Across the sounds and channels pour — 
 
 Oh, then a longing like despair 
 
 Is to their farthest caverns sent; 
 
 For surely once, they feel, we were 
 
 Parts of a single continent! 
 
 Now round us spreads the watefy plain 
 
 Oh might our marges meet again! 
 
 Who ordered, that their longing's fire 
 Should be as soon as kindled, cool'd? 
 Who renders vain their deep desire? — 
 A God, a God their severance ruled! 
 And bade betwixt their shores to be 
 The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 
 
 ABSENCE 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 In this fair stranger's eyes of grey 
 Thine eyes, my love! I see. 
 I shiver; for the passing day 
 Had borne me far from thee. 
 
 This is the curse of life! that not 
 A. nobler, calmer train 
 Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot 
 Our passions from our brain; 
 
 But each day brings its petty dust 
 Our soon-choked souls to fill, 
 And we forget because we must 
 And not because we will. 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 I struggle towards the light and ye, 
 Once-long'd-for storms of love I 
 If with the light ye cannot be, 15 
 
 I bear that ye remove. 
 
 I struggle towards the light — but oh, 
 While yet the night is chill. 
 Upon time's barren, stormy floWj 
 Stay with me, Marguerite, still! 
 
 20 
 
 SELF-DEPENDENCE 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
 What I am, and what I ought to be, 
 At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
 Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 
 
 And a look of passionate desire 5 
 
 O'er the sea and to the stars I send: 
 
 "Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd 
 
 me, 
 Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! 
 
 "Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, 
 On my heart your mighty charm renew; 10 
 Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you. 
 Feel my soul becoming vast like you!" 
 
 From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of 
 
 heaven, 
 Over the lit sea's unquiet way. 
 In the rustling night-air came the answer: i3 
 "Wouldst thou he as these are? Live as they. 
 
 " Unafi'righted by the silence round them, 
 
 Undistracted by the sights they see. 
 
 These demand not that the things without 
 
 them 
 Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 20 
 
 "And with ]oy the stars perform their shining. 
 And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll; 
 For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
 All the fever of some differing soul. 
 
 "Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 25 
 In what state God's other works may be. 
 In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
 These attain the mighty life you see." 
 
 O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, 
 A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear: 30 
 "Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he 
 Who finds himself, loses his misery!". 
 
 DOVER BEACH 
 
 (From New Poems, 1867) 
 
 The sea is calm to-night. 
 
 The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
 
 Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light 
 
 Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, 
 
 Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.5 
 
 Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! 
 Only, from the long line of spray 
 Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd sand, 
 j Listen! you hear the grating roar 
 iOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and 
 fling, 10 
 
 At their return, up the high strand, 
 Begin, and cease, and then again begin. 
 With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
 . The eternal note of sadness in. 
 
 Sophocles long ago 
 
 Heard it on the iEgean, and it brought 
 
 Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
 
 Of human misery; we 
 
 Find also in the sound a thought. 
 
 Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
640 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 The sea of faith 
 Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's 
 
 shore 
 Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 
 But now I only hear 
 
 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 25 
 Retreating, to the breath 
 Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 
 And naked shingles of the world. 
 
 Ah, love, let us be true 
 
 To one another! for the world, which seems 30 
 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams, 
 
 So various, so beautiful, so new, 
 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor hght. 
 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 
 
 And we are here as on a darkling plain 35 
 
 Swept with confused alarms of struggle and 
 
 flight. 
 Where ignorant armies clash by night. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 (From The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems, 
 1849) 
 
 Others abide our question. Thou art free. 
 We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still. 
 Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, 
 W^ho to the stars uncrowns his majesty. 
 
 Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 5 
 Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling- 
 place. 
 Spares but the cloudy border of his base 
 To the foil'd searching of mortality; 
 
 And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams 
 know, 
 
 Self-schooi'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self- 
 secure, 10 
 
 Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. — Better so! 
 
 All pains the immortal spirit must endure, 
 All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow 
 Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. 
 
 WORLDLY PLACE 
 
 Even in a palace, life may he led well!^ 
 
 So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, 
 
 Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den 
 
 Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell. 
 
 Our freedom' for a little bread we sell, 5 
 
 And drudge under some foolish master's ken 
 Who rates us if we peer outside our pen — 
 Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell? 
 
 1 "I was subject to the emperor my father, and bred 
 under him, who was the most proper person living to 
 put me out of conceit with pride, and to convince me 
 that it is possible to live in a palace without the cere- 
 mony of guards, without richness and distinction of 
 habit, without torches, statues, or such other marks of 
 royalty and state; and that a prince may shrink himself 
 almost into the figure of a private gentleman, and yet 
 act, nevertheless, with all the force and majesty of hia 
 character when the common weal requires it." The 
 Meditations of Marcus Aurdius, Bk. I. 
 
 Even in a palace! On his truth sincere. 
 
 Who spake these words, no shadow ever came; 10 
 
 And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame 
 
 Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, 
 I'll stop and say: "There is no succour here: 
 The aids to nobler life are all within." 
 
 GEIST'S GRAVE 
 
 (January, 1881) 
 
 Four years! — and didst thou stay above 
 The ground, which hides thee now, but four? 
 And all that life, and all that love, 
 Were crowded, Geist! into no more? 
 
 Only four years those winning ways, 5 
 
 Which make me for thy presence yearn, 
 Call'd us to pet thee or to praise. 
 Dear little friend! at every turn? 
 
 That loving heart, that patient soul, 
 Had they indeed no longer span, 
 To run their course, and reach their goal, 
 And read their homily to man? 
 
 That liquid, melancholy eye, 
 From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs 
 Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry/ 
 The sense of tears in mortal things — 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled 
 
 By spirits gloriously gay, 
 
 And temper of heroic mould — 
 
 What, was four years their whole short day? 20 
 
 Yes, only four! — and not the course 
 Of all the centuries yet to come. 
 And not the infinite resource 
 Of nature, with her countless sum 
 
 Of figures, with her fulness vast 25 
 
 Of new creation evermore. 
 Can ever quite repeat the past. 
 Or just thy little self restore. 
 
 Stern law of every mortal lot! 
 
 Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, 30 
 
 And builds himself I know not what 
 
 Of second life I know not where. 
 
 But thou, when struck thine hour to go. 
 On us, who stood despondent by, 
 A meek last glance of love didst throw, 35 
 
 And humbly lay thee down to die. 
 
 Yet would we keep thee in our heart — 
 
 Would fix our favourite on the scene. 
 
 Nor let thee utterly depart 
 
 And be as if thou ne'er hadst been. 40' 
 
 i"iSun< lachrymoB rerum, et mentem mortalia tangurU, 
 Aen. I. 462. This famous passage, which it is almost im- 
 possible to render adequately into English, is exquisitely 
 paraphrased by Arnold in the succeeding lime. \ . 
 
GABRIEL CHARLES DANTE ROSSETTI 
 
 641 
 
 And so there rise these lines of verse 
 On hps that rarely form them now 
 While to each other we rehearse: ' 
 Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou! 
 
 We stroke thy broad brown paws again, 45 
 We bid thee to thy vacant chair, 
 We greet thee by the window-pane, 
 We hear thy scuffle on the stair; 
 
 We see the flaps of thy large ears 
 
 Quick raised to ask which way we go; so 
 
 C'rossing the frozen lake, appears 
 
 Thy small black figure on the snow! 
 
 Nor to us only art thou dear 
 Who mourn thee in thine English home; 
 Thou hast thine absent master's tear, 55 
 Dropt by the far Australian foam. 
 
 Thy memory lasts both here and there, 
 
 And thou shalt live as long as we. 
 
 And after that — thou dost not care! 
 
 In us was all the world to thee. 60 
 
 Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame, 
 Even to a date beyond our own 
 We strive to carry down thy name. 
 By mounded turf, and graven stone. 
 
 We lay thee, close within our reach, 65 
 
 Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, 
 Between the holly and the beech. 
 Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form, 
 
 Asleep, yet lending half an ear 
 To travellers on the Portsmouth road; — 70 
 There choose we thee, O guardian dear, 
 Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode! 
 
 Then some, who through this garden pass. 
 When we too, like thyself, are clay. 
 Shall see thy grave upon the grass, 75 
 
 And stop before the stone, and say 
 
 People who lived here long ago 
 
 Did by this stone, it seems, intend 
 
 To name for future times to know 
 
 The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend. 80 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON 
 GARDENS 1 
 
 (Fron^ Empedocles in Etna and Other Poems, 
 1852) 
 
 In this lone, open glade I lie, 
 Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; 
 And at its end, to stay the eye. 
 Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees 
 stand ! 
 
 1 Kensington Gardens, a beautiful and wonderfully 
 secluded park in the midst of London, west of Hyde 
 Park and not far from Piccadilly. When Arnold wrote 
 his Lines, the beauty and seclusion of the Gardens was 
 increased by many fine old trees. 
 
 Birds here make sone, each bird has his. 5 
 
 Across the girdling city's hum. 
 
 How green under the boughs it is! 
 
 How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! 
 
 Sometimes a child will cross the glade 
 
 To take his nurse his broken toy; 10 
 
 bometimes a thrush flit overhead 
 
 Deep in her unknown day's employ. 
 
 Here at my feet what wonders pass. 
 What endless, active hfe is here! 
 What blowing daisies, fragrant grass' 1 1 
 
 An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. 
 
 Scarce fresher is the mountain sod 
 Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out, 
 And, eased of basket and of rod. 
 Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. 20 
 
 In the huge world, which roars hard by. 
 
 Be others happy if they can! 
 
 But in my helpless cradle I 
 
 Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 
 
 I on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 25 
 
 Think often, as I hear them rave, 
 That peace has left the upper world 
 And now keeps only in the grave. 
 
 Yet here is peace for ever new! 
 When I who watch them am away, 30 
 
 Still all things in this glade go through 
 The changes of their quiet day. 
 
 Then to their happy rest they pass! 
 The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, 
 The night comes down upon the grass, 35 
 The child sleeps warmly in his b(S. 
 
 Calm soul of all things! make it mine 
 
 To feel, amid the city's jar, 
 
 That there abides a peace of thine 
 
 Man did not make, and cannot mar. 40 
 
 The will to neither strive nor cry, 
 The power to feel with others give! 
 Calm, calm me more! nor let me die 
 Before I have begun to live. 
 
 2E>ante Gabriel Ho00rtti 
 
 1828-1882 
 
 THE BLESSED DAMOZEL ^ 
 (Third Version, from Poems, 1870) 
 
 The blessed^ damozel leaned out 
 From the gold bar of Heaven* 
 
 Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
 Of waters stilled at even; 
 
 She had three lilies in her hand. 5 
 
 And the stars in her hair were seven. 
 
 1 Roasetti wrote this poem in his nineteenth year, or 
 in 1847. W. M. Rossetti remarks that The Blessed 
 Damozel "ranks as highly remarkable among the works 
 of juvenile writers," especially when its "total unlikeness 
 to any other poem then extant is taken into account." 
 It was published in the second number of The Germ, 
 1850; it appeared next in The Oxford and Cambridgt 
 Magazine, 1856, and finally in the Poems of 1870. 
 
 * i. e. one of the blest in paradise. 
 
642 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Her robe ungirt from clasp to hem, 
 
 No wrought flowers did adorn, 
 But a white rose of Mary's gift. 
 
 For service meetly worn; 10 
 
 Her hair that lay along her back 
 
 Was yellow like ripe corn. 
 
 Herseemed' she scarce had been a day 
 
 One of God's choristers; 
 The wonder was not yet quite gone 15 
 
 From that still look of hers; 
 Albeit, to them she left, her day 
 
 Had counted as ten years. 
 
 (To one, it is ten years of years. 
 
 . . . Yet now, and in this place, 20 
 
 Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 
 
 Fell all about my face. . . 
 Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. 
 
 The whole year sets apace). 
 
 It was the rampart of God's house 25 
 
 That she was standing on; 
 By God built over the sheer depth 
 
 The which is Space begun; 
 So high, that looking downward thence 
 
 She scarce could see the sun. 30 
 
 It lies in Heaven, across the flood 
 
 Of ether, as a bridge. 
 Beneath, the tides of day and night 
 
 With flame and darkness ridge 
 The void, as low as where this earth 35 
 
 Spins like a fretful midge. 
 
 Around her, lovers, newly met 
 
 'Mid deathless love's acclaims, 
 Spoke evermore among themselves 
 
 Their heart-remembered names; 40 
 
 And the souls mounting up to God 
 
 Went by her like thin flames. 
 
 And still she bowed herself and stooped 
 
 Out of the circling charm; 
 Until her bosom must have made 45 
 
 The bar she leaned on warm. 
 And the lilies lay as if asleep 
 
 Along her bended arm. 
 
 From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 
 Time like a pulse shake fierce 50 
 
 Through all the world. Her gaze still strove 
 Within the gulf to pierce 
 
 Its path; and now she spoke as when 
 The stars sang in their spheres. 
 
 The sun was gone now; the curled moon 55 
 
 Was like a Tittle feather 
 Fluttering far down the gulf; and now 
 
 She spoke through the still weather. 
 Her voice was like the voice the stars 
 
 Had when they sang together. 60 
 
 (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, 
 Strove not her accents there, 
 
 » It seemed to her. Cf. meseemed and v. Shaks. 
 Rich. 1 1 1., II. ii. 120. 
 
 Fain to be barkened? When those bells 
 
 Possessed the mid-day air, 
 Strove not her steps to reach my side 
 
 Down all the echoing stair?) 
 
 65 
 
 "I wish that he were come to me. 
 
 For he will come," she said. 
 "Have I not prayed in Heaven? — on earth. 
 
 Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? 70 
 
 Are not two prayers a perfect strength? 
 
 And shall I feel afraid? 
 
 "When round his head the aureole clings, 
 
 And he is clothed in white, 
 I'll take his hand and go with him 73 
 
 To the deep wells of light; 
 As unto a stream we will step down. 
 
 And bathe there in God's sight. 
 
 "We two will stand beside that shrine. 
 Occult, withheld, untrod, 80 
 
 Whose lamps are stirred continually 
 With prayer sent up to God; 
 
 And see our old prayers, granted, melt 
 Each like a little cloud. 
 
 "We two will lie i' the shadow of S5 
 
 That living mystic tree* 
 Within whose secret growth the Dove 
 
 Is sometimes felt to be, 
 While every leaf that His plumes touch 
 
 Saith His name audibly. go 
 
 "And I myself will teach to him, 
 
 I myself, lying so. 
 The songs I sing here; which his voice 
 
 Shall pause in, hushed and slow, 
 An4 find some knowledge at each pause, 95 
 
 Or some new thing to know." 
 
 (Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st! 
 
 Yea, one wast thou with me 
 That once of old. But shall God lift 
 
 To endless unity loo 
 
 The soul whose likeness with thy soul 
 
 Was but its love for thee?) 
 
 "We two," she said, "will seek the groves 
 
 Where the lady Mary is. 
 With her five handmaidens, whose names 105 
 
 Are five sweet symphonies, 
 Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 
 
 Margaret and Rosalys. 
 
 ♦This may have been suggested by the Tree of Life 
 (Gen. ii., 9), or by the tree Yggdrasil of the Scandinavian 
 mythology, the tree of existence, which bound together 
 heaven, earth, and hell. In the latter case, it may have 
 been intended to symbolize the mystic union of spiritual 
 existence, as Rossetti represents every leaf, or utmost part, 
 responding in praise to the influence of the Divine Spirit. 
 In Rossetti's picture founded on this poem, "a glimpse 
 is caught (above the figure of the Blessed Damosel) of 
 the groves of paradise, wherein, beneath the shade of the 
 spreading branches of a vast tree, the newly-met lovers 
 embrace and rejoice with each other, on separation over 
 and union made perfect at last." V, Sharp's Rossetti, 
 p. 251. 
 
GABRIEL CHARLES DANTE ROSSETTI 
 
 643 
 
 "Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 
 And foreheads garlanded; 110 
 
 Into the fine cloth white like flame 
 Weaving the golden thread, 
 
 To fashion the birth-robes for them 
 Who are just born, being dead. 
 
 "He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: 115 
 
 Then will I lay my cheek 
 To his, and tell about our love, 
 
 Not once abashed or weak: 
 And the dear Mother will approve 
 
 My pride, and let me speak. 120 
 
 "Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 
 
 To Him round whom all souls 
 Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 
 
 Bowed with their aureoles: 
 And angels meeting us shall sing 126 
 
 To their citherns and citoles. 
 
 "There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
 Thus much for him and me: — 
 
 Only to live as once on earth 
 With Love, — only to be, 
 
 As then awhile, forever now 
 Together, I and he." 
 
 She gazed and listened and then said. 
 Less sad of speech than mild, — 
 
 "All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
 The light thrilled towards her, fill'd 
 
 With angels in strong level flight. 
 Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. 
 
 (I saw her smile). But soon their path 
 Was vague in distant spheres: 
 
 And then she cast her arms along 
 The golden barriers, 
 
 And laid her face between her hands, 
 And wept. (I heard her tears). 
 
 THE SEA-LIMITS 
 (From the same) 
 
 Consider the sea's listless chime: 
 
 Time's self it is, made audible 
 
 The murmur of the earth's own shell. 
 
 Secret continuance sublime 
 
 Is the sea's end: our sight may pass 
 No furlong further. Since time was. 
 
 This sound hath told the lapse of time. 
 
 No quiet, which is death's, — it hath 
 The mournfulness of ancient life. 
 Enduring always at dull strife. 
 
 As the world's heart of rest and wrath. 
 Its painful pulse is in the sands. 
 Last utterly, the whole sky stands. 
 
 Gray and not known, along its path. 
 
 Listen alone beside the sea, 
 Listen alone among the woods; 
 Those voices of twin solitudes 
 
 130 
 
 135 
 
 140 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 Shall have one sound alike to thee: 
 Hark where the murmurs of thronged men ' 
 Surge and sink back and surge again, — 20 
 
 Still the one voice of wave and tree. 
 
 Gather a shell from the strown beach 
 
 And listen at its lips: they sigh 
 
 The same desire and mystery. 
 The echo of the whole sea's speech. 25 
 
 And all mankind is thus at heart 
 
 Not any thing but what thou art: 
 And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 SIBYLLA PALMIFERA 
 
 (For a Picture) 
 
 Under the arch of Life, where love and death. 
 Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw 
 Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze 
 struck awe, 
 
 I drew it in as simply as my breath. 
 
 Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath, 5 
 The sky and sea bend on thee, — which can 
 
 draw. 
 By sea or sky or woman, to one law, 
 
 The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath. 
 
 This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise 
 Thy voice and hand shake still, — long known 
 to thee 10 
 
 By flying hair and fluttering hem, — the beat 
 Following her daily of thy heart and feet. 
 How passionately and irretrievably, 
 In what fond flight, how many ways and days! 
 
 SILENT NOON 
 
 (From, The House of Life, in Ballads and 
 Sonnets, 1881) 
 
 Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, — 
 The finger-points look through like rosy 
 
 blooms: 
 Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams 
 and glooms 
 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. 
 All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, 5 
 ^e golden kingcup-fields with silver edge 
 Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn- 
 hedge. 
 'Tis visible silence, stiU as the hour-glass. 
 
 Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon- 
 fly 
 Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the 
 sk>^: — 10 
 
 So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. 
 Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, 
 This close-companioned inarticulate hour 
 When twofold silence was the song of love. 
 
644 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 INCLUSTVENESS 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 rhe changing guests, each in a different mood, 
 ■ Sit at the roadside table and arise: 
 
 And every Ufe among them in likewise 
 Is a soul's board set daily with new food. 
 What man has bent o'er his son's sleep, to 
 brood 5 
 
 How that face shall watch his when cold it 
 
 lies? 
 Or thought, as his own mother kissed his 
 eyes. 
 Of what her kiss was when his father wooed? 
 
 May not this ancient room thou sit'st in dwell 
 In separate living souls for joy or pain? 10 
 Nay, all its corners may be painted plain 
 
 Where Heaven shows pictures of some life 
 spent well; 
 And may be stamped, a memory all in vain, 
 
 Upon the sight of lidless eyes in Hell. 
 
 A SUPERSCRIPTION 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Look in my face; my name is Might-have- 
 been; 
 
 I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; 
 
 Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell 
 Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; 
 Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen 5 
 
 Which had Life's form and Love's, but by 
 my spell 
 
 Is now a shaken shadow intolerable. 
 Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. 
 
 Mark me how still I am ! But should there dart 
 One moment through thy soul the soft sur- 
 prise 10 
 Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath 
 of sighs, — 
 Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart 
 Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart 
 Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. 
 
 Clirisitina ^eorgina Uo^sietti 
 
 1830-1894 
 
 UP-HILL 
 (From Goblin Market, 1862) 
 
 Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 
 
 Yes, to the very end. 
 Will the day's journey take the whole long day? 
 
 From morn to night, my friend. 
 
 But is there for the night a resting place? 5 
 
 A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
 
 May not the darkness hide it from my face? 
 You cannot miss that inn. 
 
 Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 
 
 Those who have gone before. lo 
 
 Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? 
 
 They will not keep you standing at that 
 door. 
 
 Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 
 
 Of labour you shall find the sum. 
 Will there be beds for me and all who seek? is 
 
 Yea, beds for all who come. 
 
 SYMBOLS 
 (From Devotional Pieces) 
 
 I watched a rosebud very long 
 
 Brought on by dew and sun and shower, 
 Waiting to see the perfect flower; 
 
 Then, when I thought it should be strong, 
 It opened at the matin hour 5 
 
 And fell at even-song. 
 
 I watched a nest from day to day, 
 A green nest full of pleasant shade. 
 Wherein three speckled eggs were laid: 
 
 But when they should have hatched in May, lo 
 The two old birds had grown afraid 
 
 Or tired, and flew away. 
 
 Then in my wrath I broke the bough 
 That I had tended so with care, 
 Hoping its scent should fill the air; 
 
 I crushed the eggs, not heeding how 
 Their ancient promise had been fair: 
 
 I would have vengeance now. 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 But the dead branch spoke from the sod, 
 And the eggs answered me again: 
 Because we failed dost thou complain? 
 
 Is thy wrath just? And what if God, 
 Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain, 
 
 Should also take the rod? 
 
 SONNET 
 
 (From "Monna Innominata," in A Pageant and 
 Other Poems, 1881) 
 
 Thou Who didst make and knowest whereof we 
 
 are made. 
 
 Oh bear in mind our dust and nothingness, 
 
 Our wordless tearless dumbness of distress: 
 
 Bear Thou in mind the burden Thou hast laid 
 
 Upon us, and our feebleness unstayed 5 
 
 Except Thou stay us: for the long long race 
 
 Which stretches far and far before our face 
 
 Thou knowest, — remember Thou whereof we 
 
 are made. 
 If making makes us Thine, then Thine we are;' 
 And if redemption, we are twice Thine own: 
 If once Thou didst come down from heaven 
 afar ii 
 
 To seek us and to find us, how not save? 
 Comfort us, save us, leave us not alone, 
 Thou Who didst die our death and fill our 
 grave. \ 
 
WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 645 
 
 William ^orrte 
 
 1834-1896 
 
 AN APOLOGY 
 
 (From The Earthly Paradise, 1868-1870) 
 
 Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, 
 I cannot ease the burden of your fears, 
 Or make quick-coming death a little thing, 
 Or bring again the pleasure of past years, 
 Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, 5 
 Or hope again for aught that 1 can say, 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 
 
 But rather when aweary of your mirth, 
 From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh. 
 And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, 10 
 
 Grudge every minute as it passes by. 
 Made the more mindful that the sweet days 
 
 die — 
 Remember me a little then I pray, 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 
 
 Drefamer of dreams, born out of my due 
 time, 15 
 
 Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? 
 Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme 
 Beats with Ught wing against the ivory gate,^ 
 Telling a tale not too importunate 
 To those who in the sleepy region stay, 20 
 
 Lulled by the singer of an empty day. 
 
 Folk say, a wizard to a northern king 
 At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did 
 
 show. 
 That through one window men beheld the 
 
 spring, 
 And through another saw the summer glow, 25 
 And through a third the fruited vines a-row. 
 While still, unheard, but in its wonted way. 
 Piped the drear wind of that December day. 
 
 So with this Earthly Paradise it is, 
 If ye will read aright and pardon me, 30 
 
 Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss 
 Midmost the beating of a steely sea. 
 Where tossed about all hearts of men must be; 
 Whose ravening monsters men of might shall 
 
 slay. 
 Not the poor singer of an empty day. 35 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Forget six counties overhung with smoke. 
 Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, 
 Forget the spreading of the hideous town; 
 Think rather of the pack-horse on the down. 
 And dream of London, small, and white and 
 
 clean, ^ 5 
 
 The clear Thames bordered by its gardens 
 
 green; 
 
 * One of the two aemi-transparent gates of the house of 
 Sleep, the other being of horn. The dreams which came 
 through the ivory gate were fair but deceitful, while true 
 visions came through the gate of horn. V. Vergil, 
 JEn. vi. 893. 
 
 Think, that below bridge the green lapping 
 
 waves 
 Smite some few keels that bear Levantine 
 
 staves. 
 Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill, 9 
 And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill. 
 And treasured scanty spice from some far sea, 
 Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery, 
 And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne; 
 While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey 
 
 Chaucer's pen 
 Moves over bills of lading,— 'mid such times 15 
 Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes. 
 
 THE SON OF CRCESUS 
 
 (From the same) 
 Argument 
 Croesus, King of Lydia, dreamed that he saw 
 his son slain by an iron weapon, and though by 
 every means he strove to avert this doom from 
 him, yet thus it happened, for his son was slain 
 by the hand of the man who seemed least of all 
 likely to do the deed. 
 
 Of Croesus tells my tale, a king of old 
 In Lydia, ere the Mede fell on the land, 
 A man made mighty by great heaps of gold, 
 Feared for the myriads strong of heart and hand 
 That 'neath his banners wrought out his com- 
 mand, 5 
 And though his latter ending happened on iU, 
 Yet first of every joy he had his fill. 
 
 Two sons he had, and one was dumb from 
 birth; 
 The other one, that Atys had to name. 
 Grew up a fair youth, and of might and worth, 10 
 And well it seemed the race wherefrom he came 
 From him should never get reproach or shame: 
 But yet no stroke he struck before his death. 
 In no war-shout he spent his latest breath. 
 
 Now Croesus, lying on his bed anight, 15 
 Dreamed that he saw his dear son laid a-low. 
 And folk lamenting he was slain outright, 
 And that some iron thing had dealt the blow; 
 By whose hand guided he could nowise know. 
 Or if in peace by traitors it were done, 20 
 
 Or in some open war not yet begun. 
 
 Three times one night this vision broke his 
 sleep. 
 So that at last he rose up from his bed. 
 That he might ponder how best he might keep 
 The threatened danger from so dear a head; 25 
 And, since he now was old enough to wed. 
 The King sent men to search the lands around, 
 Until some matchless maiden should be found; 
 
 That in her arms this At3^s might forget 
 The praise of men, and fame of history, so 
 Whereby full many a field has been made wet 
 With blood of men, and many a deep green sea 
 Been reddened therewithal, and yet shall be; 
 That her sweet voice might drown the people's 
 
 praise, 
 Her eyes make bright the uneventful days. 3(1 
 
646 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 So when at last a wonder they had brought, 
 From some sweet land down by the ocean's rim, 
 Than whom no fairer could by man be thought. 
 And ancient dames, scanning her limb by limb, 
 Had said that she was fair enough for him, 40 
 To her was Atys married with much show, 
 And looked to dwell with her in bliss enow. 
 
 And in meantime afield he never went, 
 Either to hunting or the frontier war, 
 No dart was cast, nor any engine bent 45 
 
 Anigh him, and the I.ydian men afar 
 Must rein their steeds, and the bright blossoms 
 
 mar 
 If they have any lust of tourney now; 
 And in fair meadows must they bend the bow. 
 
 And also through the palace every where so 
 The swords and spears were taken from the 
 
 wall 
 That long with honour had been hanging there, 
 And from the golden pillars of the hall; 
 Lest by mischance some sacred blade should 
 
 fall, 
 And in its falling bring revenge at last 55 
 
 For many a fatal battle overpast. 
 
 And everj^ day King Crcesus wrought with 
 care 
 To save his dear son from that threatened end, 
 And many a beast he offered up with prayer 
 Unto the gods, and much of wealth did 
 spend, 60 
 
 That they so prayed might yet perchance de- 
 fend 
 That life, until at least that he were dead, 
 With earth laid heavy on his unseeing head. 
 
 But in the midst even of the wedding feast 
 There came a man, who by the golden hall 65 
 Sat down upon the steps, and man or beast 
 He heeded not, but there against the wall 
 He leaned his head, speaking no word at all, 
 Till, with his son and son's wife, came the King, 
 And then unto his gown the man did cling. 70 
 
 "What man art thou?" the King said to him 
 then, 
 "That in such guise thou prayest on thy knee; 
 Hast thou some fell foe here among my men? 
 Or hast thou done an ill deed unto me? 
 Or hast thy wife been carried over sea? 75 
 
 Or hast thou on this day great need of gold? 
 Or say, why else thou now art grown so bold." 
 
 "O King," he said, "I ask no gold to-day. 
 And though indeed thy greatness drew me here. 
 No wrong have I that thou couldst wipe 
 away; so 
 
 And nought of mine the pirate folk did bear 
 Across the sea; none of thy folk I fear: 
 But all the gods are now mine enemies. 
 Therefore I kneel before thee on my knees. 
 
 "For as with mine own brother on a day 85 
 Within the running place at home I played, 
 Unwittingly I smote him such-a-way 
 
 That dead upon the green grass he was laid; 
 Half-dead myself I fled away dismayed, 
 Wherefore I pray thee help me in mj' need, 90 
 And purify my soul of this sad deed. 
 
 "If of my name and country thou wouldst 
 know. 
 In Phrygia yet my father is a king, 
 Gordius, the son of Midas, rich enow 
 In corn and cattle, golden cup and ring; 95 
 And mine own name before I did this thing 
 Was called Adrastus, whom, in street and hall. 
 The slayer of his brother men now call." 
 
 "Friend," said the King, "have thou no fear 
 of me; 
 For though, indeed, I am right happy now, 100 
 Yet well I know this may not always be, 
 And I may chance some day to kneel full low, 
 And to some happy man mine head to bow 
 With prayers to do a greater thing than this. 
 Dwell thou with us, and win again thy bliss. 105 
 
 "For in this city men in sport and play 
 Forget the trouble that the gods have sent; 
 Who therewithal send wine, and many a may 
 As fair as she for whom the Trojan went; 
 And many a dear delight besides have lent, 110 
 Which, whoso is well loved of them shall keep 
 Till in forgetful death he falls asleep. 
 
 "Therefore to-morrow shall those rites be 
 
 done 
 That kindred blood demands that thou hast 
 
 shed, 
 That if the mouth of thine own mother's son 115 
 Did hap to curse thee ere he was quite dead. 
 The curse may lie the lighter on thine head, 
 Because the flower-crowned head of many a 
 
 beast 
 Has fallen voiceless in our glorious feast." 
 
 Then did Adrastus rise and thank the 
 King, 120 
 
 And the next day when yet low was the sun, 
 The sacrifice and every other thing 
 That unto these dread rites belonged, was done; 
 And there Adrastus dwelt, hated of none. 
 And loved of many, and the King loved him, 125 
 For brave and wise he was and strong of limb. 
 
 But amongst all did Atys love 
 The luckless stranger, whose fair tales of war 
 The Lydian's heart abundantly did move. 
 And much they talked of wandering out afar 130 
 Some day, to lands where many marvels are, 
 With still the Phyrgian through all things to be 
 The leader unto all felicity. 
 
 Now at this time folk came unto the King 
 Who on a forest's borders dwelling were, 135 
 Wherein there roamed full many a dangerous 
 
 thing. 
 As wolf and wild bull, lion and brown bear; 
 But chiefly in that forest was the lair \ 
 
 Of a great boar that no man could withstand)^ ^ 
 And many a woe he brought upon the land. l4o' 
 
WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 ■^ Since long ago that men in Calydon 
 Held chase, no beast like him had once been 
 
 seen. 
 He ruined vineyards lying in the sun, 
 After his harvesting the men must glean 
 What he had left; right glad they had not 
 
 been j^g 
 
 Among the tall stalks of the ripening wheat 
 The fell destroyer's fatal tusks to meet. ' 
 
 For often would the lonely man entrapped, 
 In vam from his dire fury strive to hide 
 In some thick hedge, and other whiles it 
 
 happed 15q 
 
 Some careless stranger by his place would ride. 
 And the tusks smote his fallen horse's side. 
 And what help then to such a wretch could 
 
 come 
 
 ■ith sword he could not draw, and far from 
 j home? 
 
 Or else girls, sent their water-jars to fill, 155 
 Would come back pale, too terrified to cry. 
 Because they had but seen him from the hill; 
 Or else again with side rent wretchedly. 
 Some hapless damsel midst the brake would lie. 
 Shortly to say, there neither man nor maid 160 
 Was safe afield whether they wrought or played. 
 
 Therefore were come these dwellers by the 
 
 wood 
 To pray the King brave men to them to send, 
 That they might live; and if he deemed it good, 
 That Atys with the other knights should 
 
 wend, 165 
 
 They through their grief the easier should have 
 
 end; 
 For both by gods and men they knew him loved, 
 And easily by hope of glory moved. 
 
 "O Su-e," they said, "thou know'st how 
 
 Hercules 
 Was not content to wait till folk asked aid, 1 70 
 But sought the pests among their guarded 
 
 trees; 
 Thou know'st what name the Theban Cadmus 
 
 made, 
 And how the bull of Marathon was laid 
 Dead on the fallows of the Athenian land, 
 And how folk worshipped Atlanta's hand. 175 
 
 "Fair would thy son's name look upon the 
 
 roll 
 Wherein such noble deeds as his are told; 
 And great delight shall surely fill thy soul, 
 rhinkmg upon his deeds when thou art old, 
 And thy brave heart is waxen faint and cold: 180 
 Dost thou not know, O King, how men will 
 
 strive 
 That they, when dead, still in their sons may 
 
 hve?" ^ 
 
 He shuddered as they spoke, because he 
 thought, 
 
 ij Most certainly a winning tale is this 
 J 10 draw him from the net where he is caught. 
 
 647 
 
 For hearts of men grow weary of all bliss; 186 
 Nor IS he one to be content with his, 
 
 A ^V^°"^^ ^^^^ *^® trumpet-blast of fame 
 And far-off people calling on his name. 
 
 "Good friends," he said, "go, get ye back 
 agam, *' jg^ 
 
 And doubt not I will send you men to slay 
 This pest ye fear: yet shall your prayer be vain 
 If ye with any other speak to-day; 
 And for my son, with me he needs must stay, 
 ^or mighty cares oppress the Lydian land. 195 
 Bear not, for ye shall have a noble band." 
 
 And with that promise must they be content, 
 And so departed, having feasted well. 
 And yet some god or other ere they went, 
 If they were silent, this their tale must tell 200 
 To more than one man; therefore it befell. 
 That at the last Prince Atys knew the thing, 
 And came with angry eyes unto the King. 
 
 "Father," he said, "since when am I grown 
 vile? 
 
 Since when am I grown helpless of my hands? 
 
 Or else what folk, with words en wrought with 
 guile, 206 
 
 Thme ears have poisoned; that when far-off 
 lands 
 
 My fame might fill, by thy most strange com- 
 mands 
 
 I needs must stay within this slothful home, 
 
 Whereunto would God that I had never come? 
 
 "What! wilt thou take mine honour quite 
 away? 211 
 
 Wouldst thou, that, as with her I just have wed 
 I sit among thy folk at end of day, 
 She should be ever turning round her head 
 To watch some man for war apparelled, 215 
 Because he wears a sword that he may use, 
 Which grace to me thou ever wilt refuse? 
 
 "Or, dost thou think, when thou hast run thy 
 race 
 And thou art gone, and in thy stead I reign, 
 The people will do honour to my place, 220 
 
 Or that the lords leal men will still remain, 
 If yet my father's sword be sharp in vain? 
 If on the wall his armour still hang up, 
 While for a spear I hold a drinking cup? " 
 
 "O Son!" quoth Croesus, "well I know thee 
 brave, 225 
 
 And worthy of high deeds of chivalry; 
 Therefore the more thy dear life would I save, 
 Which now is threatened by the gods on high; 
 Three times one night I dreamed I saw thee die. 
 Slain by some deadly pointed thing, 230 
 
 While weeping lords stood round thee in a ring." 
 
 Then loud laughed Atys, and he said again, 
 "Father, and did this ugly dream tell thee 
 What day it was on which I should be slain? 
 As may the gods grant I may one day be, 235 
 And not from sickness die right wretchedly. 
 Groaning with pain my lords about my bed 
 Wishing to God that I were fairly dead; 
 
650 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Beheld next day his visage wild and wan, 
 Peering from out a thicket of the wood 
 Where he had spilt that well-beloved blood. 
 
 And now the day of burial pomp must be, 
 And to those rites all lords of Lydia came 450 
 About the King, and that day, they and he 
 Cast royal gifts of rich things on the flame; 
 But while they stood and wept, and called by 
 
 name 
 Upon the dead, amidst them came a man 
 With raiment rent, and haggard face and wan. 
 
 Who when the marshalls would have thrust 
 
 him out ^ 456 
 
 And men looked strange on him, began to say, 
 
 "Surely the world has changed since ye have 
 
 doubt 
 Of who I am ; nay, turn me not away, 
 For ye have called me princely ere tonday — 460 
 Adrastus, son of Gordius, a great king, 
 Where unto Pallas Phrygian maidens sing. 
 
 "O Lydians, many a rich thing have ye cast 
 Into this flame, but I myself will give 
 A greater gift, since now I see at last 465 
 
 The gods are wearied for that still I live. 
 And with their will, why should I longer strive? 
 Atys, O Atj^s, thus I give to thee. 
 A life that lived for thy felicity." 
 
 And therewith from his side a knife he drew, 
 And, crying out upon the pile he leapt, 471 
 And with one mighty stroke himself he slew. 
 So there these princes both together slept. 
 And their light ashes, gathered up, were kept 
 Within a golden vessel wrought all o'er 475 
 With histories of this hunting of the boar. 
 
 UENVOI 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 "Death have we hated, knowing not what it 
 
 meant; 
 Life have we loved through green leaf and 
 
 through sere. 
 Though still the less we know of its intent: 
 The Earth and Heaven through countless year 
 
 on year, 
 Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair 5 
 Hung round about a little room, where play 
 Weeping and laughter, of man's empty day. 
 
 "0 M aster, 1 if thine heart could love us yet. 
 Spite of things left undone, and wrongly done, 
 Some place in loving hearts then should we 
 
 get, 10 
 
 For thou, sweet-souled, didst never stand 
 
 alone, 
 But knew'st the joy and woe of many an one— 
 By lovers dead, who live through thee, we pray, 
 Help thus us singers of an empty day ! " 
 
 ' Geoffrey Chaucer, to whom Morris has commended 
 his book in a preceding stanza. This was more than 
 a general tribute to Chaucer's genius; Chaucer was Mor- 
 ris's actual master and model, and the Earthly Paradise 
 shows its author's debt to the poet of The Canterbury 
 Tales, 
 
 Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou mayst 
 gain, 15 
 
 Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof thou die? 
 Nay, it shall not be. — Thou mayst toil in vain, 
 And never draw the House of Fame anigh; 
 Yet he and his shall know whereof we cry. 
 Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay, 20 
 
 The ghosts that crowd about life's empty day. 
 
 Then let the others go! and if indeed 
 In some old garden thou and I have wrought. 
 And made fresh flowers spring up from hoarded 
 
 And fragrance of old days and deeds have 
 brought 25 
 
 Back to folk weary; all was not for nought. 
 — No little part it was for me to play — 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 
 
 DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT 
 
 (From Poems by the Way, 1892) 
 
 Lo, when we wade the tangled wood. 
 In haste and hurry to be there. 
 Nought seem its leaves and blossoms good, 
 For all that they be fashioned fair. 
 
 But looking up, at last we see 3 
 
 The ghmmer of the open light. 
 From o'er the place where we would be: 
 Then grow the very brambles bright. 
 
 So now, amidst our day of strife, 
 With many a matter glad we play, lo 
 
 When once we see the light of life 
 Gleam through the tangle of to-day. 
 
 1837-1909 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 (From Atalanta in Calydon, 1865) 
 
 When the hounds of spring are on winter's 
 traces. 
 
 The mother of months in meadow or plain 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 
 With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; 
 And the brown bright nightingale amorous 5 
 Is half assuaged for Itylus,^ 
 For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. 
 
 The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 
 
 Come with bows bent ^d with emptying of 
 quivers, flh 
 
 Maiden most perfect, 1|^ of light, lo 
 
 With a noise of winds and many rivers, 
 
 With a clamour of waters, and with might; 
 Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, V 
 
 Ever the splendour and speed of thy feet ; j * 
 
 1 Here evidently used for Itys; v. Philomela, Procne, 
 ♦r T«reus, in Class-Did, and cf . Swinburne's poem Itylus. 
 
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 
 
 651 
 
 For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
 shivers, 15 
 
 Round the feet of the aay and the feet of the 
 night. 
 
 Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to 
 her, 
 Fold our hands round her knees and cling? 
 O that man's heart were as fire and could 
 spring to her. 
 Fire, or the strength of the streams that 
 spring! 20 
 
 For the stars and the winds are unto her 
 As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 
 For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 
 And the south west- wind and the west- wind 
 sing. 
 
 For winter's rains and ruins are over, 25 
 
 And all the season of snows and sins; 
 
 The days dividing lover and lover. 
 
 The light that loses, the night that wins; 
 
 And time remembered is grief forgotten, 
 
 And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 30 
 
 And in green underwood and cover 
 Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 
 
 The full streams feed on flower of rushes. 
 
 Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 34 
 The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 
 From leaf to flower and from flower to fruit; 
 And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 
 And the oat is heard above the lyre, 
 And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
 The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 40 
 
 And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 
 Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
 Follows with dancing and fills with delight 
 
 The Maenad and the Bassarid;^ 
 And soft as lips that laugh and hide 45 
 
 The laughing leaves of the tree divide. 
 And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
 The god pursuing the maiden hid. 
 
 The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
 
 Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; 50 
 
 The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
 
 Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 
 The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves. 
 But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
 To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 55 
 The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 
 
 CHORUS 
 (From the same) 
 
 We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou 
 
 art goodly, O Love; 
 Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of 
 
 a dove. 
 
 • Bassarid (Gr. Pa<r<rdpa), and Maenad, are names 
 for a bacchante, — a priestess of Bacchus, or a woman 
 who joined in the festivals of Bacchus and who was in- 
 spired with the bacchic frenzy. 
 
 Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of 
 
 the sea; 
 Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment 
 
 of thee. 
 Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame 
 
 of fire; 5 
 
 Before thee laughter, behind thee the tears of 
 
 desire; 
 And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a 
 
 maid; 
 Her eyes are the eyes of a bride, whom delight 
 
 makes afraid; 
 As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal 
 
 breath: 
 But fate is the name of her: and his name is 
 
 Death. 10 
 
 For an evil blossom was born 
 Of sea-foam and the frothing of blood. 
 Blood-red and bitter of fruit, 
 And the seed of it laughter and tears, 
 And the leaves of it madness and scorn: 13 
 A bitter flower from the bud, 
 Sprung of the sea without root, 
 Sprung without graft from the years. . . . 
 
 What hadst thou to do beidg born, 
 
 Mother, when winds were at ease, 20 
 
 As a flower of the springtime of com, 
 
 A flower of the foam of the seas? 
 For bitter thou wast from thy birth. 
 
 Aphrodite, a mother of strife; 
 For before thee some rest was on earth, 25 
 A little respite from tears, 
 A little pleasure of life: 
 For life was not then as thou art, 
 But as one that waxeth in years 
 Sweet-spoken, a fruitful wife; 30 
 
 Earth had no thorn and desire 
 No sting, neither death any dart; 
 What hadst thou to do amongst these, 
 Thou, clothed with a burning fire. 
 Thou girt with sorrow of heart 36 
 
 Thou sprung of the seed of the seas 
 As an ear from a seed of com, 
 
 As a brand plucked forth of a pyre, 
 As a ray shed forth of the morn. 
 
 For division of soul and disease, 40 
 
 For a dart and a sting and a thorn? 
 What ailed thee then to be bom? 
 
 Was there not evil enough. 
 Mother, and anguish on earth 
 Born with a man at his birth, 45 
 
 Wastes underfoot, and above 
 
 Storm out of heaven, and dearth 
 Shaken down from the shining thereof, 
 Wrecks from afar over seas 
 And peril of shallow and firth, 50 
 
 And tears that spring and increase 
 In the barren places of mirth, 
 That thou having wings as a dove. 
 Being girt with desire for a girtn. 
 That thou must come after these, 55 
 
 That thou must lay on him love? 
 
650 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Beheld next day his visage wild and wan, 
 Peering from out a thicket of the wood 
 Where he had spilt that well-beloved blood. 
 
 And now the day of burial pomp must be, 
 And to those rites all lords of Lydia came 450 
 About the King, and that day, they and he 
 Cast royal gifts of rich things on the flame; 
 But while they stood and wept, and called by 
 
 name 
 Upon the dead, amidst them came a man 
 With raiment rent, and haggard face and wan. 
 
 Who when the marshalls would have thrust 
 
 him out ^ 456 
 
 And men looked strange on him, began to say, 
 
 "Surely the world has changed since ye have 
 
 doubt 
 Of who I am ; nay, turn me not away, 
 For ye have called me princely ere tonday — 460 
 Adrastus, son of Gordius, a great king, 
 Where unto Pallas Phrygian maidens sing. 
 
 "O Lydians, many a rich thing have ye cast 
 Into this flame, but I myself will give 
 A greater gift, since now 1 see at last 465 
 
 The gods are wearied for that still I live, 
 And with their will, why should I longer strive? 
 Atys, O Atj^s, thus I give to thee. 
 A life that lived for thy felicity." 
 
 And therewith from his side a knife he drew, 
 And, crying out upon the pile he leapt, 471 
 And with one mighty stroke himself he slew. 
 So there these princes both together slept, 
 And their Ught ashes, gathered up, were kept 
 Within a golden vessel wrought all o'er 475 
 With histories of this hunting of the boar. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 "Death have we hated, knowing not what it 
 
 meant; 
 Life have we loved through green leaf and 
 
 through sere, 
 Though still the less we know of its intent: 
 The Earth and Heaven through countless year 
 
 on year, 
 Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair 5 
 Hung round about a little room, where play 
 Weeping and laughter, of man's empty day. 
 
 "O Master, 1 if thine heart could love us yet, 
 Spite of things left undone, and wrongly done, 
 Some place in loving hearts then should we 
 
 get, 10 
 
 For thou, sweet-souled, didst never stand 
 
 alone, 
 But knew'st the joy and woe of many an one — 
 By lovers dead, who live through thee, we pray, 
 Help thus us singers of an empty day ! " 
 
 1 Geoffrey Chaucer, to whom Morris has commended 
 his book in a preceding stanza. This was more than 
 a general tribute to Chaucer's genius; Chaucer was Mor- 
 ris's actual master and model, and the Earthly Paradise 
 shows its author's debt to the poet of The Canterbury 
 Tales. 
 
 Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou mayst 
 gain, 15 
 
 Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof thou die? 
 Nay, it shall not be. — Thou mayst toil in vain, 
 And never draw the House of Fame anigh; 
 Yet he and his shall know whereof we cry. 
 Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay, 20 
 
 The ghosts that crowd about life's empty day. 
 
 Then let the others go! and if indeed 
 In some old garden thou and I have wrought. 
 And made fresh flowers spring up from hoarded 
 
 And fragrance of old days and deeds have 
 brought 25 
 
 Back to folk weary; all was not for nought. 
 — No little part it was for me to play — 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 
 
 DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT 
 
 (From Poems by the Way, 1892) 
 
 Lo, when we wade the tangled wood. 
 In haste and hurry to be there. 
 Nought seem its leaves and blossoms good, 
 For all that they be fashioned fair. 
 
 But looking up, at last we see 5 
 
 The glimmer of the open light. 
 From o'er the place where we would be: 
 Then grow the very brambles bright. 
 
 So now, amidst our day of strife. 
 With many a matter glad we play, 10 
 
 When once we see the light of life 
 Gleam through the tangle of to-day. 
 
 Algernon Clftarto g^tDinbume 
 
 1837-1909 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 (From Atalanta in Calydon, 1865) 
 
 When the hounds of spring are on winter's 
 traces. 
 
 The mother of months in meadow or plain 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 
 With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; 
 And the brown bright nightingale amorous 5 
 Is half assuaged for Itylus,^ 
 For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. 
 
 The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 
 
 Come with bows bent qnd with emptying of 
 quivers, Sn 
 
 Maiden most perfect, nlfO^ ^^ light, lo 
 
 With a noise of winds and many rivers. 
 
 With a clamour of waters, and with might; 
 Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet. 
 Ever the splendour and speed of thy feet; 
 
 1 Here evidently used for Itys; v. Philomela, Procne, 
 fir Tareus, in Class-Diet, and of. Swinburne's poem Itylus, 
 
 \i 
 
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 
 
 651 
 
 For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
 shivers, 15 
 
 Round the feet of the day and the feet of the 
 night. 
 
 Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to 
 her, 
 Fold our hands round her knees and cling? 
 O that man's heart were as fire and could 
 spring to her, 
 Fire, or the strength of the streams that 
 spring! 20 
 
 For the stars and the winds are unto her 
 As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 
 For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 
 And the southwest-wind and the west- wind 
 sing. 
 
 For winter's rains and ruins are over, 25 
 
 And all the season of snows and sins; 
 
 The days dividing lover and lover, 
 The light that loses, the night that wins; 
 
 And time remembered is grief forgotten, 
 
 And frosts are slain and fiowers begotten, 30 
 
 And in green underwood and cover 
 Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 
 
 The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 
 
 Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 34 
 The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 
 From leaf to flower and from flower to fruit; 
 And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 
 And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
 And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
 The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 40 
 
 And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 
 Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
 Follows with dancing and fills with delight 
 
 The Maenad and the Bassarid;^ 
 And soft as lips that laugh and hide 45 
 
 The laughing leaves of the tree divide. 
 And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
 The god pursuing the maiden hid. 
 
 The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
 
 Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; 
 The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
 
 Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 
 The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves. 
 But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
 To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
 The woK that follows, the fawn that flies. 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
 CHORUS 
 (From the same) 
 
 We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou 
 
 art goodly, O Love; 
 Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of 
 
 a dove. 
 
 ' Bassarid (Gr. Paaffdpa), and Mcenad, are names 
 for a bacchante, — a priestess of Bacchus, or a woman 
 who joined in the festivals of Bacchus and who was in- 
 spired with the bacchio frenzy. 
 
 Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of 
 
 the sea; 
 Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment 
 
 of thee. 
 Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame 
 
 of fire; 5 
 
 Before thee laughter, behind thee the tears of 
 
 desire; 
 And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a 
 
 maid; 
 Her eyes are the eyes of a bride, whom delight 
 
 makes afraid; 
 As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal 
 
 breath: 
 But fate is the name of her: and his name is 
 
 Death. 10 
 
 For an evil blossom was born 
 Of sea-foam and the frothing of blood. 
 Blood-red and bitter of fruit, 
 And the seed of it laughter and tears. 
 And the leaves of it madness and scorn: 15 
 A bitter flower from the bud, 
 Sprung of the sea without root. 
 Sprung without graft from the years. . . . 
 
 What hadst thou to do beidg born, 
 
 Mother, when winds were at ease, 20 
 
 As a flower of the springtime of com, 
 
 A flower of the foam of the seas? 
 For bitter thou wast from thy birth, 
 
 Aphrodite, a mother of strife; 
 For before thee some rest was on earth, 25 
 A little respite from tears, 
 A little pleasure of life: 
 For life was not then as thou art, 
 But as one that waxeth in years 
 Sweet-spoken, a fruitful wife; 30 
 
 Earth had no thorn and desire 
 No sting, neither death any dart; 
 What hadst thou to do amongst these, 
 Thou, clothed with a burning fire. 
 Thou girt with sorrow of heart 36 
 
 Thou sprung of the seed of the seas 
 As an ear from a seed of corn. 
 
 As a brand plucked forth of a pyre, 
 As a ray shed forth of the morn. 
 
 For division of soul and disease, 40 
 
 For a dart and a sting and a thorn? 
 What ailed thee then to be born? 
 
 Was there not evil enough. 
 Mother, and anguish on earth 
 Born with a man at his birth, 
 Wastes underfoot, and above 
 
 Storm out of heaven, and dearth 
 Shaken down from the shining thereof. 
 Wrecks from afar over seas 
 And peril of shallow and firth. 
 
 And tears that spring and increase 
 In the barren places of mirth. 
 That thou having wings as a dove. 
 Being girt with desire for a girth. 
 That thou must come after these. 
 That thou must lay on him love? 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
652 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Thou shouldst not so have been bom: 
 But death should have risen with thee, 
 Mother, and visible fear, 
 
 Grief, and wringing of hands, 60 
 
 And noise of many that mourn; 
 The smitten bosom, the knee 
 Bowed, and in each man's ear 
 A cry as of perishing lands, 
 A moan as of people in prison, 65 
 
 A tumult of infinite griefs; 
 
 And thunder of storm on the sands, 
 And wailing of wives on the shore; 
 And under thee newly arisen 
 
 Loud shoals and shipwrecking reefs, 70 
 Fierce air and violent light; 
 
 Sail rent and sundering oar, 
 Darkness, and noises of night; 
 Clashing of streams in the sea. 
 
 Wave against wave as a sword, 75 
 
 Clamour of currents, and foam; 
 Rains making ruin on earth; 
 Winds that wax ravenous and roam 
 As wolves in a wolfish horde; 
 Fruits growing faint in the tree, 80 
 
 And blind things dead in their birth: 
 Famine and blighting of corn, 
 When thy time was come to be bom. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE^ 
 
 (From LaiLS Veneris, 1866) 
 
 Here where the world is quiet; 
 
 Here, where all trouble seems 
 Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 
 
 In doubtful dream of dreams; 
 I watch the green field growing 
 For reaping folk and sowing. 
 For harvest time and mowing, 
 
 A sleepy world of streams. 
 
 I am tired of tears and laughter, 
 And men that laugh and weep, 
 Of what may come hereafter 
 For men that sow to reap : 
 I am weary of days and hours. 
 Blown buds of barren flowers, 
 Desires and dreams and powers 
 And everything but sleep. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 Here life hath death for neighbour, 
 
 And far from eye or ear 
 Wan waves and wet winds labour, 
 
 Weak ships and spirits steer; 20 
 
 1 Proserpine was the child of Demeter, the mother- 
 earth. While gathering flowers in the Sicilian fields, 
 she was caught up and carried off by Pluto, king of the 
 Infernal regions, who made her queen of the lower realm, 
 of darkness and death. She was afterwards permitted 
 to leave the Shades for a part of each year and to visit 
 Olympus. She typifies the corn, or grain, which passes 
 from the dark prison in the earth to light, and leaves the 
 light to return again to darkness. In this poem, Swin- 
 burne pictures the world as her garden, a place presided 
 over by the Queen of the kingdom of darkness, a spot 
 from which life is continually being carried off to the dark 
 region of oblivion. 
 
 They drive adrift, and whither 
 They wot not who make thither; 
 But no such winds blow hither. 
 And no such things grow here. 
 
 No growth of moor or coppice, 25 
 
 No heather-flower or vine. 
 But bloomless buds of poppies,^ 
 
 Green grapes of Proserpine, 
 Pale beds of blowing rushes 
 Where no leaf blooms or blushes 30 
 
 Save this whereout she crushes 
 
 For dead men deadly wine. 
 
 Pale, without name or number. 
 
 In fruitless fields of com. 
 They bow themselves and slumber 35 
 
 All night till light is born; 
 And like a soul belated. 
 In hell and heaven unmated, 
 By clouds and mLst abated 
 
 Comes out of darkness mom. 40 
 
 Though one were strong as seven, 
 
 He too with death shall dwell, 
 Nor wake with wings in heaven, 
 
 Nor weep for pains in hell; 
 Though one were fair as roses, 45 
 
 His beauty clouds and closes; 
 And well though love reposes. 
 
 In the end it is not well. 
 
 Pale, beyond porch or portal, 
 
 Crowned with calm leaves, she stands 50 
 Who gathers all things mortal 
 
 With cold immortal hands; 
 Her languid lips are sweeter 
 Than love's who fears to greet her 
 To men that mix and meet her 55 
 
 From many times and lands. 
 
 She waits for each and other. 
 She waits for all men bom; 
 Forgets the earth her mother, 
 The life of fruits and corn; 
 And spring and seed and swallow 
 Take wing for her and follow 
 Where summer song rings hollow 
 And flowers are put to scom. 
 
 There go the loves that wither, 
 
 The old loves with wearier wings; 
 And aU dead years draw thither; 
 
 And all disastrous things; 
 Dead dreams of things forsaken. 
 Blind buds that snows have shaken, 
 Wild leaves that winds have taken. 
 Red strays of ruined springs. 
 
 We are not sure of sorrow 
 
 And joy was never sure; 
 To-day will die to-morrow; 
 
 Time stoops to no man's lure; 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 TO 
 
 75 
 
 \> 
 
 2 The poppy, the flower of oblivion, was associated with 
 Proserpine. She is often represented with a garland of 
 poppies on her head. 
 
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 
 
 653 
 
 And love, grown faint and fretful, 
 With lips but half regretful 
 Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 
 
 Weeps that no loves endure. 80 
 
 From too much love of living, 
 From hope and fear set free, 
 
 We thank with brief thanksgiving 
 Whatever gods may be 
 
 That no life lives forever; 85 
 
 That dead men rise up never; 
 
 That even the weariest river 
 Winds somewhere safe to sea. 
 
 Then star nor sun shall waken, 
 
 Nor any change of light: 90 
 
 Nor sound of waters shaken, 
 Nor any sound or sight: 
 
 Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, 
 
 Nor days nor things diurnal; 
 
 Only the sleep eternal 95 
 
 In an eternal night. 
 
 PASTICHEi 
 
 (From Poems and Ballads, 1878) 
 
 Now the days are all gone over 
 
 Of our singing, love by lover, 
 
 Days of summer-coloured seas 
 
 Blown adrift through beam and breeze. 
 
 Now the nights are all past over 5 
 
 Of our dreaming, dreams that hover 
 In a mist of fair false things. 
 Nights afloat on wide wan wings. 
 
 Now the loves with faith for mother. 
 Now the fears with hope for brother, lo 
 Scarce are with us as strange words, 
 Notes from songs of last year's birds. 
 
 Now all good that comes or goes is 
 
 As the smell of last year's roses, 
 
 And the radiance in our eyes 15 
 
 Shot from summer's ere he dies. 
 
 Now the morning faintlier risen 
 Seems no god come forth of prison, 
 But a bird of plume plucked wing. 
 Pale with thought of evening. 20 
 
 Now hath hope, outraced in running 
 Given the torch up of his cunning 
 And the palm he thought to wear 
 Even to his own strong child— despair. 
 
 A FORSAKEN GARDENi 
 
 In a coign of the cliff between lowland and 
 highland. 
 At the sea-down's edge between windward 
 and lee 
 Walled round with rocks as an inland island. 
 The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
 
 1 Pastiche (or pasticcio) is the French word for a medley, 
 or a work in imitation of the style of several masters. 
 
 1 The scene of this poem is said to be East Dene, Boa- 
 church, in the Isle of Wight. 
 
 A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 5 
 The steep square slope of the blossomless 
 bed 
 Where the weeds that grew green from the 
 graves of its roses 
 
 Now he dead. 
 
 The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken. 
 To the low last edge of the long lone land, lo 
 If a step should sound or a word be spoken, 
 Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's 
 hand? 
 So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless. 
 Through branches and briers if a man make 
 way, 
 He shall find no life but the sea-wind's restless 
 Night and day. kj 
 
 The dense hard passage is blind and stifled 
 That crawls by a track none turn to climb 
 
 To the strait waste place that the years have 
 rifled 
 Of all but the thorns that are touched not by 
 
 time. 
 
 20 
 
 The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; 
 
 The rocks are left when he wastes the plain; 
 The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken. 
 These remain. 
 
 Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls 
 not; 25 
 
 As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are 
 dry; 
 From the thicket of thorns whence the night- 
 ingale calls not, 
 Could she call, there were never a rose to 
 reply. 
 Over the meadows that blossom and wither. 
 
 Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song. 30 
 Only the sun and the rain come hither 
 All year long. 
 
 The sun burns sear, and the rain dishevels 
 
 One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. 
 
 Only the wind here hovers and revels 35 
 
 In a round where life seems barren as death. 
 
 Here there was laughing of old, there was 
 
 weeping. 
 
 Haply of lovers none ever will know. 
 
 Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 
 
 Years ago. 40 
 
 Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look 
 hither," 
 Did he whisper? "Look forth from the 
 flowers to the sea; 
 For the foam-flowers endure when the rose- 
 blossoms wither, 
 And men that love lightly may die — But 
 we?" 
 And the same wind sang, and the same waves 
 whitened, 45 
 
 And or ever the garden's last petals were 
 shed. 
 In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that 
 had lightened. 
 
 Love was dead. 
 
654 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Or they loved their life, through, and then 
 went whither? 
 And were one to the end — but what end who 
 knows? 50 
 
 Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, 
 As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the 
 rose. 
 Shall the dead take thought for the dead to 
 love them? 
 What love was ever as deep as a grave? 
 They are loveless now as the grass above 
 them 
 
 Or the wave. 56 
 
 All are at one now, roses and lovers, 
 Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the 
 
 No word that ever was spoken 
 Of human or godlike tongue, 
 
 Gave ever such godlike token 
 Since human harps were strung. 
 
 No sign that ever was given 
 To faithful or faithless eyes 
 
 Showed ever beyond clouds riven 
 So clear a paradise. 
 
 10 
 
 Earth's creeds may be seventy times seven 
 And blood have defiled each creed; 
 
 If of such be the kingdom of heaven, i5 
 
 It must be heaven indeed. 
 
 Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 
 In the air now soft with summer to be. 60 
 
 Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons 
 hereafter 
 Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or 
 weep, 
 When as they that are free now of weeping and 
 laughter 
 
 We shall sleep. 
 
 Here death may deal not again forever; 65 
 
 Here change may come not till all change 
 end. 
 From the graves they have made they shall 
 rise up never, 
 Who have left naught living to ravage and 
 rend. 
 Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground 
 growing. 
 While the sun and the rain Uve, these shall 
 be; , 70 
 
 Till a last wind's breath, upon all these blowing 
 Roll the sea. 
 
 THE SALT OF THE EARTH 
 
 If childhood were not in the world. 
 But only men and women grown; 
 
 No baby-locks in tendrils curled, 
 No baby-blossoms blown; 
 
 Though men were stronger, women fairer, 5 
 And nearer all delights in reach. 
 
 And verse and music uttered rarer 
 Tones of more godlike speech; 
 
 Though the utmost life of life's best hours 
 Found, as it cannot now find words; 10 
 
 Though desert sands were sweet as flowers, 
 And flowers could sing hke birds. 
 
 But children never heard them, never 
 They felt a child's feet leap and run; 
 
 This were a drearier star than ever 15 ; 
 
 Yet looked upon the sun. 
 
 Till the slow sea rise, and the sheer cliff crum- 
 ble. 
 Till the terrace and meadow the deep gulfs 
 drink. 
 Tin the strength of the waves the high tides 
 humble 75 
 
 The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink. 
 Here now in his triumph where all things fal- 
 ter. 
 Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand 
 
 As a god self -slain on his own strange altar. 
 Death lies dead. 
 
 UPON A CHILD 
 
 Of such is the kingdom of heaven, 
 No glory that ever was shed 
 
 From the crowning star of the seven 
 That crown the north world's head, 
 
 U. e. the North-star, or Pole-star, the brightest star 
 in the Little Bear (Ursa Minor), a constellation composed 
 of Beven stars. 
 
 ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CARLYLE 
 AND GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Two souls diverse out of our human sight 
 Pass, followed one with love and each with 
 
 wonder: 
 The stormy sophist with his mouth of 
 thunder. 
 Clothed with loud words and mantled in the 
 
 might 
 Of darkness and magnificence of night; ^ 5 
 And one whose eye could smite the night in 
 
 sunder. 
 Searching if light or no light were there- 
 under,^ 
 And found in love of loving-kindness Ught. 
 Duty divine and Thought with eyes of fire 
 StiU following Righteousness with deep de- 
 sire 10 
 Shone stern and firm before her and above 
 Sure stars and sole to steer by; but more sweec^ 
 Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earthj^^' 
 feet, — 
 The light of Httle children and their love. 
 
THOMAS HOOD 
 
 655 
 
 OTHER POETS OF THE 
 VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 1796-1849 
 
 SONG 
 (From Poems, 1833) 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 
 
 As many maidens be, 
 Her loveliness I never knew 
 
 Until she smiled on me; 
 Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, 5 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 But now her looks are coy and cold, 
 
 To mine they ne'er reply, 
 And yet I cease not to behold 
 
 The love-light in her eye: 10 
 
 Her very frowns are fairer far. 
 Than smiles of other maidens are. 
 
 SONNET ON PRAYER 
 
 There is an awful quiet in the air, 
 
 And the sad earth, with moist imploring eye, 
 
 Looks wide and wakeful at the pondering sky, 
 
 Like Patience slow subsiding to Despair. 
 
 But see, the blue smoke as a voiceless prayer, 3 
 
 Sole witness of a secret sacrifice, 
 
 Unfolds its tardy wreaths, and multiplies 
 
 Its soft chameleon breathings in the rare 
 
 Capacious ether, — so it fades away, 
 
 And naught is seen beneath the pendant blue, 10 
 
 The undistinguishable day. 
 
 50 have I dream'd! — Oh! may the dream be 
 
 true! — • 
 That praying souls are purged from mortal hue, 
 A.nd grow as pure as He to whom they pray. 
 
 1798-1845 
 
 THE DEATH BED 
 
 (From Poems, 1825) 
 
 We watched her breathing thro' the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seemed to speak, 6 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 » Hartley Coleridge was the eldest son of Samuel Taylor 
 /Oleridge. As a child he was shy, dreamy, and sensitive; 
 ke his father he had a vivid imagination, and like his 
 ither he was hampered (but in even greater measure) by 
 'eakness of will. He published several volumes of prose. 
 .8 a poet, he belongs to the school of Wordsworth, and 
 e 18 probably at his best in the sonnet. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears. 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied — lo 
 
 We thought her dying when she slept. 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the mom came dim and sad. 
 
 And chill with early showers. 
 Her quiet eyehds closed— she had is 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 
 
 ("Drowned! drowned!"— A'awifeO 
 
 (First pubhshed in Hood's Magazine^ 1844) 
 
 One more Unfortunate, 
 Weary of breath. 
 Rashly importunate, 
 Gone to her death! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 5 
 
 Lift her with care; 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 
 Clinging like cerements; 10 
 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 
 Drips from her clothing; 
 
 Take her up instantly. 
 
 Loving, not loathing. — 
 
 Touch her not scornfully; 15 
 
 Think of her mournfully, 
 
 Gently and humanly; 
 
 Not of the stains of her, 
 
 All that remains of her 
 
 Now is pure womanly. 20 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 
 Into her mutiny 
 
 Rash and undutiful: 
 
 Past all dishonor. 
 
 Death has left on her 25 
 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers, 
 One of Eve's family — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hera 
 Oozing so clammilyo 30 
 
 Loop up her tresses 
 
 Escaped from the comb, 
 
 Her fair auburn tresses; 
 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 
 Where was her home? 35 
 
 Who was her father? 
 
 Who was her mother? 
 
 Had she a sister? 
 
 Had she a brother? 
 
 Or was there a dearer one 40 
 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 
 Yet, than all other? 
 
656 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Alas! for the rarity 
 
 Of Christian charity 
 
 Under the sun! 45 
 
 Oh! it was pitiful! 
 
 Near a whole city full, 
 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 
 Fatherly, motherly 50 
 
 Feelings had changed: 
 
 Love, by harsh evidence, 
 
 Thrown from its eminence; 
 
 Even God's providence 
 
 Seeming estranged. 55 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 
 So far in the river, 
 
 With many a light 
 
 From window and casement, 
 
 From garret to basement, 60 
 
 She stood, with amazement, 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 
 Made her tremble and shiver; 
 
 But not the dark arch, 65 
 
 Or the black flowing river: 
 
 Mad from life's history. 
 
 Glad to death's mystery, 
 
 Swift to be hurled — 
 
 Anywhere, anywhere 70 
 
 Out of the world. 
 
 In she plunged boldly, 
 
 No matter how coldly 
 
 The rough river ran, — 
 
 Over the brink of it, 75 
 
 Picture it — think of it, 
 
 Dissolute Man! 
 
 Lave in it, drink of it. 
 
 Then, if you can! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 80 
 
 Lift her with care; 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair! 
 
 Ere her limbs frigidly 
 
 Stiffen too rigidly, 85 
 
 Decently, — kindly, — 
 
 Smooth, and compose them; 
 
 And her eyes, close them. 
 
 Staring so blindly! 
 
 Dreadfully staring ^ 90 
 
 Thro' muddy impurity. 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 , Fix'd on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily, 95 
 
 Spurred by contumely, 
 
 Cold inhumanity, 
 
 Burning insanity, 
 
 Into her rest. — 
 
 Cross her hands humbly 100 
 
 As if praying dumbly. 
 
 Over her breast. 
 
 Owning her weakness, 
 
 Her evil behavior. 
 
 And leaving, with meekness, IDS 
 
 Her sins to her Saviour! 
 
 GCIftomasf Babington ^acaula^ 
 
 1800-1859 
 
 THE BATTLE OF IVRYi 
 
 (1842) 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 
 
 glories are! 
 And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry 
 
 of Navarre! 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music and 
 
 the dance; 
 Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny 
 
 vines, O pleasant land of France! 
 And thou, Rochelle,^ our own Rochelle, proud 
 
 city of the waters, 5 
 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- 
 ing daughters. 
 As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous 
 
 in our joy; 
 For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought 
 
 thy walls annoy. 
 Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the 
 
 chance of war! 
 Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of 
 
 Navarre. 10 
 
 Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the 
 
 dawn of day, 
 We saw the army of the League drawn out in 
 
 long array; 
 
 With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel 
 peers. 
 
 And Appenzel's' stout infantry, and Egmont's* 
 Flemish Spears; 
 
 There rode the blood of false Lorraine,^ the 
 curses of our land; 1.5 
 
 And dark Mayenne^ was in the midst, a trun- 
 cheon^ in his hand; 
 
 And, as we look'd on them, we thought of 
 Seine's empurpled flood, 
 
 And good Coligni's^ hoary hair all dabbled with 
 his blood; 
 
 J A village in France, where the battle was foiighl 
 in 1590, between Henry of Navarre the Champion of 
 Protestantism, and the forces of the Roman Catholic 
 "League." 
 
 2 A forti6ed sea-port in France, a stronghold of the 
 Protestants. 
 
 » Appenzell is a double canton in Switzerland, hali 
 Protestant, half Roman Catholic. In this passage it is 
 obvious that the Roman Catholics are meant. 
 
 ♦ Count Philip of Egmont. a foremost man in the 
 Spanish army, who commanded a body of Flemish troops, 
 
 5 Henry of Lorraine, Duke of Guise, a spy, and agent 
 of Philip II of Spain. 
 
 « Duke of Mayenne, lieutenant-general for the League. \ 
 
 "> A commander's stafif. ^ > 
 
 8 Gaspard of Coligni, the great commander of the i] 
 Huguenots, was murdered by the Roman Catholics on j 
 St. Bartholomew's Eve. The remembrance of that i 
 goassacre always aroused the opposite party to action. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 657 
 
 And we cried unto the living God, who rules 
 
 the fate of war, 
 To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of 
 
 Navarre. 20 
 
 The King is come to marshal us, in all his 
 
 armor drest; 
 And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 
 
 gallant crest. 
 Ho look'd upon his people, and a tear was in 
 
 his eye! 
 He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was 
 
 stern and high. 
 Right graciously he smil'd on us, as roU'd from 
 
 wing to wing, 25 
 
 Down all our line, in deafening shout: "God 
 
 save our lord, the King!" 
 "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full 
 
 well he may. 
 For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody 
 
 fray, 
 Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst 
 
 the ranks of war. 
 And be your oriflamme' to-day the helmet of 
 
 Navarre." 30 
 
 Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the 
 
 mingled din, 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and 
 
 roaring culverin. 
 The fiery duke is pricking fast across St. 
 
 Andre's plain, 
 With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders^" and 
 
 Almayne." 
 Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen 
 
 of France, 35 
 
 Charge for the golden lilies, ^^ — upon them with 
 
 the lance I 
 A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 
 
 spears in rest, 
 A thousand knights are pressing close behind 
 
 the snow-white crest; 
 And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, 
 
 like a guiding star, 
 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet 
 
 of Navarre. 40 
 
 Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne 
 
 hath turned his rein; 
 D'Aumale" hath cried for quarter; the Flemish 
 
 count is slain. 
 Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before 
 
 a Biscay gale; 
 The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and 
 
 flags, and cloven mail. 
 And then we thought on vengeance, and, all 
 
 along our van, 45 
 
 "Remember Saint Barthomolew!" was passed 
 
 from man to man. 
 But out spake gentle Henry, " No Frenchman 
 
 is my foe: 
 
 ' The banner of France. 
 
 w A Dutch province half Protestant and half Roman 
 Catholic. 
 
 II Germany. " The lily is the emblem of France. 
 
 " Charles de Lorraine, Duke d'Aumale, an ardent 
 partisan of the "League." 
 
 Down, down with every foreigner, but let your 
 
 brethren go." 
 Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship 
 
 or in war, 
 As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier 
 
 of Navarre? 50 
 
 Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought 
 
 for France to-day; 
 And many a lordly banner God gave them for a 
 
 prey. 
 But we of the religion have borne us best in 
 
 fight; 
 And the good Lord of Rosny" hath ta'en the 
 
 cornet white. 
 Our own true Maximilian the comet white 
 
 hath ta'en, 55 
 
 The cornet white with crosses black, the flag 
 
 of false Lorraine. 
 Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host 
 
 may kno^ 
 How God hath humbled the proud house which 
 
 wrought His Church such woe. 
 Then on the ground, while trumpets sound 
 
 their loudest point of war. 
 Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for 
 
 Henry of Navarre. 60 
 
 Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne; 
 Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who 
 
 never shall return. 
 Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican 
 
 pistoles, 1^ 
 That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy 
 
 poor spearmen's souls. 
 Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that 
 
 your arms be bright; 65 
 
 Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, ^^ keep watch 
 
 and ward to-night; 
 For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God 
 
 hath raised the slave. 
 And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the 
 
 valor of the brave. 
 Then glory to his holy name, from whom all 
 
 glories are; 
 And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry 
 
 of Navarre. 70 
 
 (1801-1890) ' 
 
 LEAD KINDLY LIGHT 
 
 (1833) 
 
 Lead kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
 
 Lead thou me on; 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home. 
 
 Lead thou me on. 
 Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see 5 
 
 The distant scene: one step enough for me. 
 
 1* Maximilian de Bethune Sully. Baron de Rosny and 
 due de Sully, fought with the squadron which met Eg- 
 mont's first onset, and received seven wounds, 
 
 1* An allusion to the moneys received from the Spanish 
 conquest of Mexico. A pistole was a common name in 
 Italy, Spain, and elsewhere for coins of differing values. 
 
 16 i. e. citizens of Paris, as St. Genevieve was the patron 
 aaiut of that eity. 
 
658 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou 
 
 Shouldst lead me on; 
 I loved to choose and see my path; but now 
 
 Lead thou me on. 10 
 
 I loved the garish day; and, spite of fears, 
 Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. 
 
 So long thy power hath blest me, sure it still 
 
 Will lead me on 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 
 
 The night is gone; 16 
 
 And with the morn those Angel faces smile. 
 Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
 
 Robert ^ttp\)tn l^atokn: 
 
 1803-1875 
 
 THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN 
 (Written in 1852) 
 
 A g#od sword and a trusty hand! 
 
 A merry heart and true! 
 King James's men shall understand 
 
 What Cornish lads can do! 
 
 And have they fixed the where and when? 5 
 
 And shall Trelawney^ die? 
 Here's twenty thousand Cornish men 
 
 Will know the reason why! 
 
 Out spake their Captain brave and bold: 
 A merry wight was he : — 10 
 
 "If London Tower were Michael's^ hold, 
 We'd set Trelawney free! 
 
 "We'll cross the Tamar, land to land: 
 
 The Severn is no stay : 
 With 'one and all,' and hand in hand; 15 
 
 And who shall bid us nay? 
 
 "And when we come to London wall, 
 
 A pleasant sight to view, 
 Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all; 
 
 Here's men as good as you. 20 
 
 "Trelawney he's in keep and hold: 
 
 Trelawney he may die: 
 But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold 
 
 Will know the reason why!" 
 
 l^icl)arU €^t\^tnix Wxmti) 
 
 1807-1886 
 
 "SOME MURMUR WHEN THEIR SKY 
 IS CLEAR" 
 
 I 
 
 Some murmur when their sky is clear, 
 
 And wholly bright to view. 
 If one small speck of dark appear 
 
 In their great heaven of blue. 
 
 'James II issued a "Declaration of Indulgence," the 
 object of which was to give the Roman Catholics greater 
 power. He ordered it to be read in the churches. Many 
 of the clergy refused to read this "declaration " and the 
 King threatened to put them in the Tower. Among those 
 who refused was Trelawney, Bishop of Bristol, a native 
 of Cornwall. 
 
 * A small, precipitous, and rocky island, crowned by a 
 castle, off the coast of Cornwall. 
 
 And some with thankful love are filled, 
 
 If but one streak of light. 
 One ray of God's good mercy, gild 
 
 The darkness of their night. 
 
 II 
 In palaces are hearts that ask, 
 
 In discontent and pride. 
 Why life is such a dreary task, 
 
 And all good things denied. 
 And hearts in poorest huts admire 
 
 How love has in their aid 
 (Love that not ever seems to tire) 
 
 Such rich provision made. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 CEDtDarD ifit^geralui 
 
 1809-1883 
 (From his translation of The Rubaiyat,"^ 1859) 
 
 VII 
 
 Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring 
 Your Winter-garment of repentance fling: 
 
 The Bird of Time has but a little way 
 To flutter — and the bird is on the Wing. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Whether at Naishapur^ or Babylon, 5 
 
 Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run. 
 
 The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, 
 The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one. 
 
 IX 
 
 Each morn a thousand Roses brings, you say; 
 Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday? lo 
 And this first Summer month that brings the 
 Rose 
 Shall take Jamshyd* and Kaikobdd away. 
 
 Well, let it take them! What have we to do 
 With KaikobM the Great, or Kaikhosrii? 
 
 Let Zdl and Rustum^ thunder as they will, 15 
 Or Hatim^ call to Supper — heed not you. . . . 
 
 1 Edward Fitzgerald, a man of wide and curious learn- 
 ing and fastidious taste, held a unique position among 
 the poets of his time. His original productions were few, 
 and comparatively unimportant; his reputation rests 
 on his work as a translator, and it rests largely on his 
 translation of a single poem. He translated six plays of 
 the Spanish dramatist Calderon; he translated several 
 poems from the Persian, and then, in 1859, he astounded 
 and delighted innumerable readers by his rendering of 
 the "quatrains" of Omar Khayyam. While Fitzgerald 
 lived a most secluded life, he was the warm friend of 
 Tennyson, (Thackeray. Spedding, and other eminent men. 
 Tennyson, in dedicating his Tiresias to "Old P^'itz," as 
 he calls his life-long friend, declared that he knew no 
 translation in English done "more divinely well" than 
 Fitzgerald's Omar. 
 
 2 A poem by Omar Khayyam (i. e. Omar, the Tent- 
 maker) a Persian poet and astronomer of the 11th and 
 12th centuries. The title of his most f ami us poem refers 
 simply to its poetic form. Rubaiyat is the i«chnical name 
 for a quatrain of a certain metrical character. 
 
 3 The birthplace of Omar, in the province of Khorasin, 
 northern Persia. 
 
 * Jamshyd, Kaikobdd, and Kaikhosru, were early Per- 
 sian kings in Firdusi's poem Shahnamah, or epic of kings. 
 
 B Heroes in Firdusi's great epic. Zdl is Rustum's father. 
 The tragic error of Rustum, who unwittingly kills his sor 
 Sohrab, is the theme of Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum. 
 
 « fidtim Tai, a type of oriental generosity. 
 
 \J 
 
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 659 
 
 XII 
 
 A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 
 A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou 
 
 Beside me singing in the Wilderness — 
 Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! 20 
 
 XIII 
 
 Some for the Glories of this World; and some 
 Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; 
 
 Ah, take the cash, and let the Credit go, 
 Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum. . . . 
 
 XVII 
 
 Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai 25 
 
 Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, 
 
 How Sultdn after SuMn with his Pomp 
 Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. . . . 
 
 XXI 
 
 30 
 
 Ah, my Belov6d, fill the cup that clears 
 To-day of past Regrets and future Fears: 
 
 To-morrow! — ^Why, To-morrow I may be 
 Myself with Yesterday's sev'n thousand 
 Years. . . . 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, 
 Before we too into the Dust descend; 
 
 Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, 35 
 Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and- 
 End! 
 
 §>ir jFrancfe J^asfting^ Cljarto SDo^l? 
 
 1810-1888 
 
 THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 
 
 (1866) 
 
 Last night, among his fellow roughs, 
 
 He jested, quaff 'd, and swore: 
 A drunken Private of the Buffs, 
 
 Who never look'd before. 
 To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 5 
 
 He stands in Elgin's place, 
 Ambassador from Britain's crown. 
 
 And type of all her race. 
 
 Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 
 
 Bewilder'd, and alone, 10 
 
 A heart with English instinct fraught. 
 
 He yet can call his own. 
 Ay, tear his body limb from limb. 
 
 Bring cord, or axe, or flame: 
 He only knows, that not through him 15 
 
 Shall England come to shame. 
 
 Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd, 
 
 Like dreams, to come and go; 
 Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd, 
 
 One sheet of living snow; 20 
 
 The smoke, above his father's door. 
 
 In grey soft eddyings hung: 
 Must he then watch it rise no more, 
 
 Doom'd by himself, so young? 
 
 Yes, honour calls!— with strength like steel 25 
 
 He put the vision by. 
 Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; 
 
 An EngHsh lad must die. 
 And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 
 
 With knee to man unbent, ' 30 
 
 Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 
 
 To his red grave he went. 
 
 Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed; 
 
 Vain, those all-shattering guns; 
 Unless proud England keep, untam'd, 35 
 
 The strong heart of her sons. 
 So let his name through Europe ring — 
 
 A man of mean estate. 
 Who died as firm as Sparta's king,i 
 
 Because his soul was great. 40 
 
 William ^afeepeace ©Ijacfeera^ 
 
 1811-1863 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE 
 
 (From Pendmnis, 1849-1850) 
 
 Although I enter not. 
 Yet round about the spot 
 
 Ofttimes I hover: 
 And near the sacred gate. 
 With longing eyes I wait, 5 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The Minster bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout, 
 
 And noise and humming: 
 They've hushed the Minster bell: 10 
 
 The organ 'gins to swell: 
 
 She's coming, she's coming! 
 
 My lady comes at last, 
 Timid, and stepping fast. 
 
 And hastening hither, 16 
 
 With modest eyes downcast: 
 She comes — she's here — she's past — 
 
 May heaven go with her. 
 
 Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint! 
 
 Pour out your praise or plaint! 20 
 
 Meekly and duly; 
 I will not enter there, 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 23 
 
 Round the forbidden place. 
 
 Lingering a minute 
 Like outcast spirits who wait 
 And see through heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 39 
 
 1 Leonidas, King of Sparta who died at Thermopylae, 
 after rejecting the offer of the Persian king to make him 
 the ruler of all Greece. 
 
660 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 THE END OF THE PLAY 
 
 (From Dr. Birch and His Young Friends, 
 1848-1849) 
 
 The play is done; the curtain drops, 
 
 Slow falling to the prompter's bell: 
 A moment yet the actor stops, 
 
 And looks around, to say farewell. 
 It is an irksome word and task 
 
 And, when he's laughed and said his say, 
 He shows, as he removes the mask, 
 
 A face that's anything but gay. 
 
 One word, ere yet the evening ends, 
 
 Let's close it with a parting rhyme. 
 And pledge a hand to aU young friends, 
 
 As fits the merry Christmas time. 
 On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, 
 
 That Fate ere long shall bid you play; 
 Good night! with honest gentle hearts 
 
 A kindly greeting go alway! 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 Good night! — I'd say, the griefs, the joys, 
 
 Just hinted in this mimic page. 
 The triumphs and defeats of boys, 
 
 Are but repeated in our age. 20 
 
 I'd say, your woes were not less keen, 
 
 Your hopes more vain, than those of men; 
 Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 
 
 At forty-five played o'er again. 
 
 I'd say, we suffer and we strive, 25 
 
 Not less nor more as men than boys; 
 With grizzled beards at forty-five. 
 
 As erst at twelve in corduroys. 
 And if, in time of sacred youth, 
 
 We learned at home to love and pray, 30 
 Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth 
 
 May never wholly pass away. 
 
 And in the world, as in the school) 
 
 I'd say, how fate may change and shift; 
 The prize be sometimes with the fool, 35 
 
 The race not always to the swift. 
 The strong may yield, the good may fall, 
 
 The great man be a vulgar clown. 
 The knave be lifted over all. 
 
 The kind cast pitilessly down. 40 
 
 Who knows the inscrutable design? 
 
 Blessed be He who took and gave! 
 Why should your mother, Charles, not mine. 
 
 Be weeping at her darling's grave? 
 We bow to Heaven that will'd it so, 46 
 
 That darkly rules the fate of all. 
 That sends the respite or the blow, 
 
 That's free to give, or to recall. 
 
 This crowns his feast with wine and wit: 
 
 Who brought him to that mirth and state? 60 
 His betters, see, below him sit, 
 
 Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
 Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 
 
 To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 
 Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, 55 
 
 Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 
 
 So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 
 
 Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; 
 Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance. 
 
 And longing passion unfulfilled. 60 
 
 Amen! whatever fate be sent. 
 
 Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
 Although the head with cares be bent. 
 
 And whitened with the winter's snow. 
 
 Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 65 
 
 Let young and old accept their part. 
 And bow before the Awful Will, 
 
 And bear it with an honest heart, 
 Who misses or who wins the prize. 
 
 Go, lose or conquer as you can; 70 
 
 But if you fail, or if you rise. 
 
 Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 
 
 A gentleman, or old, or young! 
 
 (Bear kindly with my humble lays) ; 
 The sacred chorus first was sung 75 
 
 Upon the first of Christmas days: 
 The shepherds heard it overhead — 
 
 The joyful angels raised it then: 
 Glory to God, on high, it said. 
 
 And peace on earth to gentle men. 80 
 
 My song, save this, is little worth; 
 
 I lay the weary pen aside. 
 And wish you health, and joy, and mirth. 
 
 As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
 As fits the holy Christmas birth, 85 
 
 Be this, good friends, our carol still — 
 Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 
 
 To men of gentle will. 
 
 William €. Si^tonn 
 
 1813-1865 
 THE WIDOW OF GLENCOEi 
 
 Do not lift him from the bracken. 
 
 Leave him lying where he fell — 
 Better bier ye cannot fashion: 
 
 None beseems him half so well 
 As the bare and broken heather, 5 
 
 And the hard and trampled sod. 
 Whence his angry soul ascended 
 
 To the judgment-seat of God! 
 Winding sheet we cannot give him— 
 
 Seek no mantle for the dead, lo 
 
 Save the cold and spotless covering 
 
 Showered from heaven upon his head. 
 Leave his broadsword as we found it. 
 
 Bent and broken with the blow, 
 Which before he died, avenged him 15 
 
 On the foremost of the foe. 
 Leave the blood upon his bosom — 
 
 Wash not off that sacred stain; 
 
 1 The Clan of Macdonald, in the Highland valley of 
 Glencoe, were late in taking the required oath of loyalty 
 to King William III. Under royal warrant a regiment 
 was sent to Glencoe and many of the Macdonalds were 
 treacherously killed. 
 
WILLIAM E. AYTOUN 
 
 661 
 
 Let it stiffen on the tartan, 
 
 Let his wounds unclosed remain, 20 
 
 Till the day when he shall show them 
 
 At the throne of God on high, 
 When the murderer and the murdered 
 
 Meet before the judge's eye. 
 
 ^ay — ye should not weep, my children! 25 
 
 Leave it to the faint and weak; 
 Sobs are but a woman's weapon — 
 
 Tears befit a maiden's cheek. 
 Weep not, children of Macdonald! 
 
 Weep not, thou his orphan heir — 30 
 
 Not in shame, but stainless honour, 
 
 Lies thy slaughtered father there. 
 Weep not — but when years are over, 
 
 And thine arm is strong and sure. 
 And thy foot is swift and steady 35 
 
 On the mountain and the muir — 
 Let thy heart be hard as iron, 
 
 And thy wrath as fierce as fire. 
 Till the hour when vengeance cometh 
 
 For the race that slew thy sire! 40 
 
 Till in deep and dark Glenlyon 
 
 Rise a louder shriek of woe, 
 Than at midnight, from their eyrie. 
 
 Scared the eagles of Glencoe: 
 Louder than the screams that mingled 45 
 
 With the howhng of the blast, 
 When the murderer's steel was clashing, 
 
 And the fires were rising fast; 
 When thy noble father bounded 
 
 To the rescue of his men, 50 
 
 And the slogan of our kindred 
 
 Pealed throughout the startled glen! 
 When the herd of frantic women 
 
 Stumbled through the midnight snow, 
 With their fathers' houses blazing, 55 
 
 And their dearest dead below! 
 Oh, the horror of the tempest, 
 
 As the flashing drift was blown. 
 Crimsoned with the conflagration, 
 
 And the roofs went thundering down! 60 
 Oh, the prayers — the prayers and curses 
 
 That together winged their flight 
 From the maddened hearts of many 
 
 Through that long and woful night! 
 Till the fires began to dwindle, 65 
 
 And the shots grew faint and few, 
 And we heard the foeman's challenge 
 
 Only as a far halloo. 
 Till the silence once more settled 
 
 O'er the gorges of the glen 70 
 
 Broken only by the Cona 
 
 Plunging through its naked den. 
 Slowly from the mountain summit 
 
 Was the drifting veil withdrawn, 
 And the ghastly valley glimmered 75 
 
 In the grey December dawn. 
 Better had the morning never 
 
 Dawned upon our dark despair! 
 Black amidst the common whiteness 
 
 Rose the spectral ruins there: 80 
 
 But the sight of these was nothing 
 
 More than wrings the wild dove's breast, 
 
 When she searches for her offspring 
 
 Round the relics of her nest. 
 For in many a spot the tartan 85 
 
 Peered above the wintry heap. 
 Marking where a dead Macdonald 
 
 Lay within his frozen sleep. 
 Tremblingly we scooped the covering 
 
 From each kindred victim's head, 90 
 
 And the living lips were burning 
 
 On the cold ones of the dead. 
 And I left them with their dearest — 
 
 Dearest charge had every one — 
 Left the maiden with her lover, 95 
 
 Left the mother with her son. 
 I alone of all was mateless — 
 
 Far more wretched I than they, 
 For the snow would not discover 
 
 Where my lord and husband lay. lOO 
 
 But I wandered up the valley, 
 
 Till I found him lying low, 
 With the gash upon his bosom 
 
 And the frown upon his brow — 
 Till I found him lying murdered, 105 
 
 Where he wooed me long ago! 
 
 Ill 
 Woman's weakness shall not shame me — 
 
 Why should I have tears to shed? 
 Could I rain them down like water, 
 
 O my hero! on thy head — no 
 
 Could the cry of lamentation 
 
 Wake thee from thy silent sleep, 
 Could it set thy heart a-throbbing. 
 
 It were mine to wail and weep! 
 But I will not waste my sorrow, 115 
 
 Lest the Campbell women say 
 That the daughters of Clanranald 
 
 Are as weak and frail as they. 
 I had wept thee hadst thou fallen. 
 
 Like our fathers, on thy shield, 120 
 
 When a host of English foemen 
 
 Camped upon a Scottish field — 
 I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished 
 
 With the foremost of thy name. 
 When the valiant and the noble 125 
 
 Died around the dauntless Graeme! 
 But I will not wrong thee, husband! 
 
 With my unavailing cries. 
 Whilst thy cold and mangled body 
 
 Stricken by the traitor lies; 130 
 
 Whilst he counts the gold and glory 
 
 That this hideous night has won. 
 And his heart is big with triumph 
 
 At the murder he has done. 
 Other eyes than mine shall glisten, 135 
 
 Other hearts be rent in twain, 
 Ere the heathbells on thy hillock 
 
 Wither in the autumn rain. 
 Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, 
 
 And I'll veil my weary head, 140 
 
 Praying for a place beside thee, 
 
 Dearer than my bridal bed : 
 And I'll give thee tears, my husband! 
 
 If the tears remain to me. 
 When the widows of the foeman 145 
 
 Cry the coronach for thee! 
 
662 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 1819-1875 
 
 SONG 
 
 (From The Saint's Tragedy, 1848) 
 
 Oh! that we two were Maying 
 
 Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; 
 
 Like children with violets playing 
 
 In the shade of the whispering trees. 
 
 Oh! that we two sat dreaming 5 
 
 On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down 
 Watching the white mist steaming 
 Over river and mead and town. 
 
 Oh! that we two lay sleeping 
 
 In our nest in the churchyard sod, 10 
 
 With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's 
 
 breast, 
 And our souls at home with God. 
 
 THE SANDS OF DEE 
 
 (From AUon Locke, 1849) 
 
 "O Mary, go and call the cattle home 
 And call the cattle home, 
 And call the cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee;" 
 The western wind was wild and dank with 
 foam 5 
 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The western tide crept up along the sand, 
 And o'er and o'er the sand. 
 And round and round the sand. 
 As far as eye could see. 10 
 
 The rolling mist came down and hid the land: 
 And never home came she. 
 
 "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
 A tress of golden hair, 
 A drowned maiden's hair 15 
 
 Above the nets at sea? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 
 
 The cruel crawling foam, 20 
 
 The cruel hungry foam. 
 To her grave beside the sea: 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle 
 home 
 Across the sands of Dee. 
 
 THE THREE FISHERS 
 
 (1851) 
 
 Three fishers went sailing away to the West, 
 
 Away to the West as the sun went down ; 
 Each thought on the woman who loved him 
 the best, 
 
 And the children stood watching them out of 
 
 the town, 
 For men must work, and women must weep, 5 
 And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 
 Though the harbour bar be moaning. 
 
 Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower. 
 And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went 
 down; 
 They looked at the squall, and they looked 
 at the shower, 10 
 
 And the night-rack came rolling up ragged 
 and brown. 
 But men must work, and women must weep. 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
 And the harbour bar be moaning. 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 15 
 In the morning gleam as the tide went 
 
 down, 
 And the women are weeping and wringing their 
 
 hands 
 For those who will never come home to the 
 
 town; 
 For men must work, and women must weep. 
 And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; 20 
 And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 
 
 CLEAR AND COOL 
 (Song from The Water Babies, 1863) 
 
 Clear and cool, clear and cool. 
 By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; 
 
 Cool and clear, cool and clear. 
 By shining shingle, and foaming wear; 
 Under the crag where the ouzel sings, 5 
 
 And the ivied wall where the church-bell 
 rings, 
 
 Undefiled, for the undefiled; 
 Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 
 
 Dank and foul, dank and foul. 
 By the smoky town in its murky cowl; 10 
 
 Foul and dank, foul and dank, 
 By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; 
 Darker and darker the further I go. 
 Baser and baser the richer I grow; 
 
 Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? 15 
 
 Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and 
 chHd. 
 
 Strong and free, strong and free; 
 The floodgates are open, away to the sea. 
 
 Free and strong, free and strong. 
 Cleansing my streams as I hurry along 20 
 To the golden sands, and the leaping bar. 
 And the taintless tide that awaits me afar. 
 As I lose myself in the infinite main, . 
 
 Like a soul that has sinned and is pardonea\ 
 
 agam. 
 Undefiled, for the undefiled; 
 Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 
 
 25 
 
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 663 
 
 George Cliot 
 
 (Mary Ann Evans) 
 1819-1880 
 
 'O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE" 
 
 (1867) 
 
 Longum illud tempus, quum non ero, magis 
 me movet, quam hoc exiguum. — Cicero, ad 
 ALL, xii. 18.1 
 
 O may I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 In minds made better by their presence: live 
 
 In pulses stirr'd to generosity, 
 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 5 
 
 For miserable aims that end with self. 
 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like 
 
 stars, 
 And with their mild persistence urge man's 
 
 search 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven : lo 
 To make undying music in the world. 
 Breathing as beauteous order that controls 
 With growing sway the growing Hfe of man. 
 So we inherit that sweet purity 
 For which we struggl'd, fail'd, and agoniz'd 15 
 With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
 Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
 A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; 
 Its discords, quench'd by meeting harmonies, 20 
 Die in the large and charitable air. 
 And all our rarer, better, truer self. 
 That sobb'd religiously in yearning song, 
 That watch 'd to ease the burthen of the 
 
 world, 
 Laboriously tracing what must be; 25 
 
 And what may yet be better, — saw within 
 A worthier image for the sanctuary. 
 And shap'd it forth before the multitude, 
 Divinely human, raising worship so 
 To higher reverence more mix'd with love, — 30 
 That better self shall live till human Time 
 Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
 Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, 
 Unread forever. 
 
 This is life to come, 35 
 Which martyr'd men have made more glorious 
 For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
 That purest heaven, be to other souls 
 The cup of strength in some great agony, 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 40 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty. 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffus'd, 
 And in diffusion ever more intense! 
 So shall I join the choir invisible 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world. 45 
 
 J That long timo, when I shall not be, moves me 
 more than this brief, mortal life. 
 
 artftur C^ugl) C'louglfti 
 
 1819-1861 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS 
 (From Ambarvalia, 1843) 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 
 With canvas drooping, side by side, 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried; 
 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 5 
 
 And all the darkling hours they plied. 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 
 By each was cleaving, side by side: 
 E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 10 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled. 
 And onward each rejoicing steered — 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 15 
 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! 
 
 To veer, how vain! On, onward strain. 
 Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guides — 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 20 
 
 But O blithe breeze! and O great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again. 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, ahke they sought, 25 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 
 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas! 
 At last, at last, unite them there. 
 
 "WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, 
 NEITHER SHADOW OF TURNING "» 
 
 (From the same) 
 It fortifies my soul to know 
 That, though I perish. Truth is so: 
 That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
 Whate'er I do. Thou dost not change. 
 I steadier step when I recall 5 
 
 That, if I slip Thou dost not fall. 
 
 SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
 AVAILETH 
 
 (From the same) 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth, 
 
 The labour and the wounds are vain. 
 The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
 
 And as things have been they remain. 
 
 If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 5 
 
 It may be, in yon smoke concealed. 
 
 Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 
 And, but for you, possess the field. 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain, lo 
 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 * V. note on Arnold's Thyrsis, p. 636, supra. 
 
 1 St. James, i. 17. 
 
664 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 1828-1909 
 
 JUGGLING JERRY 
 
 (From Modem Love and Poems of the English 
 Roadside, 1862) 
 
 I 
 Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: 
 
 By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. 
 It's nigh my last above the daisies: 
 
 My next leaf'U be man's blank page. 
 Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: 5 
 
 Juggler, constable, king, must bow. 
 One that outjuggles all's been spying 
 
 Long to have me, and he has me now. 
 
 We've travelled times to this old common: 
 
 Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. lo 
 We've had a stirring life, old woman! 
 
 You, and I, and the old grey horse. 
 Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, 
 
 Found us coming to their call: 
 Now they'll miss us at their stations: 15 
 
 There's a Juggler outjuggles all! 
 
 Ill 
 Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! 
 
 Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. 
 Easy to think that grieving's folly, 
 
 When the hand's firm as driven stakes! 20 
 Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, 
 
 Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch 
 Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful: 
 
 Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. 
 
 IV 
 
 25 
 
 Here's where the lads of the village cricket: 
 
 I was a lad not wide from here: 
 Couldn't I whip off the bale from the wicket? 
 
 Like an old world those days appear! 
 Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale- 
 house — I know them! 
 
 They are old friends of my halts, and seem, 30 
 Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them : 
 
 Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem. 
 
 Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: 
 
 Nature allows us to bait for the fool. 
 Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; 35 
 
 But, to increase it, hard jugghng's the rule. 
 You that are sneering at my profession, 
 
 Haven't you juggled a vast amount? 
 There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, 
 
 Juggles more games than my sins '11 count. 40 
 
 I've murdered insects with mock thunder: 
 Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. 
 
 I've made bread from the bump of wonder: 
 That's my business, and there's my tale. 
 
 Fashion and rank all praised the professor: 45 
 Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen: 
 
 Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! 
 Ain't this a sermon on that scene? 
 
 VII 
 
 I've studied men from my topsy-turvey 
 
 Close, and I reckon, rather true. 50 
 
 Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy: 
 
 Most, a dash between the two. 
 But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me 
 
 Think more kindly of the race: 
 And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me 55 
 
 When the Great JugglerJ must face. 
 
 VIII 
 
 We two were married, due and legal: 
 
 Honest we've lived since we've been one. 
 Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: 
 
 You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. 60 
 Birds in a May-bush, we were! right merry! 
 
 All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day. 
 Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! 
 
 Now from his old girl he's juggled away. 
 
 IX 
 
 65 
 
 It's past parsons to console us: 
 
 No, nor no doctor fetch for me: 
 I can die without my bolus ;^ 
 
 Two of a trade, lass, never agree! 
 Parson and Doctor! — don't they love rarely. 
 
 Fighting the devil in other men's fields! 70 
 Stand up yourself and match him fairly: 
 
 Then see how the rascal yields! 
 
 I, lass, have lived no gypsy, flaunting 
 
 Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: 
 Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: 75 
 
 You sha'n't beg from the troughs and tubs. 
 Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his 
 kitchen 
 
 Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! 
 Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, 
 
 But your old Jerry you never forsook. 80 
 
 XI 
 
 Hand up the chirper ! ripe ale winks in it ; 
 
 Let's have comfort and be at peace. 
 Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. 
 
 Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. 
 May be — for none see in that black hollow — 85 
 
 It's just a place where we're held in pawn. 
 And when the Great Juggler makes as to 
 swallow, 
 
 It's just the sword trick — I ain't quite gone! 
 
 XII 
 
 Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, 
 
 Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May. 90 
 Better than mortar, brick and putty, 
 
 Is God's house on a blowing day. 
 Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: \ 
 
 All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? ^ 
 There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, 95 '' 
 
 But He's by us, juggling the change. 
 iPilL 
 
HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 665 
 
 XIII 
 
 I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, 
 
 Once — it's long gone— when two gulls we 
 beheld, 
 Which, as the moon got up, were flying 
 
 Down a big wave that sparkled and swelled. 
 Crack, went a gun: one fell: the second loi 
 
 Wheeled round him twice, and was o£f for 
 new luck: 
 Wh(Me in the dark her white wing beckon'd: — 
 
 Drop me a kiss — I'm the bird dead-struck! 
 
 LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT 
 
 (From Poems and Lyrics, 1883) 
 
 On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. 
 Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend 
 Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened. 
 Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. 
 Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. 5 
 And now upon his western wing he leaned, 
 Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened. 
 Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. 
 Soaring through wider zones that pricked his 
 
 scars 
 With memory of the old revolt from Awe, 10 
 He reached a middle height, and at the stars. 
 Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and 
 
 sank. 
 Around the ancient track marched, rank on 
 
 rank, 
 The army of unalterable law. 
 
 LOVE IN THE VALLEY 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Under yonder beech-tree single on the green- 
 sward. 
 Couched with her arms behind her golden 
 head. 
 Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, 
 
 Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. 
 Had I the heart to slip an arm beneath her, 5 
 Press her parting lips as her waist I gather 
 slow. 
 Waking in amazement she could not but 
 embrace me: 
 Then would she hold me and never let me 
 go? . . . 
 
 Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swal- 
 low. 
 Swift as the swallow along the river's light lo 
 Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored 
 winglets, 
 Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her 
 flight. 
 Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine 
 tops. 
 Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of 
 sun, 
 She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, 
 Hard, but O the glory of the winning were 
 she won! ... 16 
 
 Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping 
 
 Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. 
 Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle note unvaried. 
 Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown 
 eve-jar. 20 
 
 Darker grows the valley, more and more for- 
 getting: 
 So were it with me if forgetting could be 
 willed. 
 Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling 
 well-spring. 
 Tell it to forget the source that keeps it 
 filled. ... 
 
 Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops. 
 Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded 
 snow: 26 
 
 Eastward large and still lights up a bower of 
 moonrise, 
 Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. 
 Nightlong on black print-branches our beech- 
 tree 
 Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. 30 
 Here may life on death or death on life be 
 painted. 
 Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die! 
 
 Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, 
 I would speak my heart out: heaven is my 
 need. 
 Every woodland tree is flushing like the dog- 
 wood, 35 
 Flashing like the whitebeam,i swaying like 
 the reed. 
 Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; 
 Streaming like the flag-reed South-West 
 blown; 
 Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted white- 
 beam : 
 All seem to know what is for heaven alone. 40 
 
 l^enr^ Siufiftm S[)obs^on 
 
 1840 
 A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL 
 
 (From OU World Idylls, 1883) 
 
 He lived in that past Georgian day 
 When men were less inclined to say 
 That "Time is Gold," and overlay 
 
 With toil their pleasure; 
 He held some land, and dwelt thereon, — 9 
 Where, I forget, — the house is gone; 
 His Christian name, I think was John, — 
 
 His surname. Leisure. 
 
 Reynolds^ has painted him, — a face 
 
 Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace, 10 
 
 Fresh-colored, frank, with ne'er a trace 
 
 Of trouble shaded; 
 The eyes are blue, the hair is drest 
 In plainest way, — one hand is prest 
 Deep in a flapped canary vest, 15 
 
 With buds brocaded. 
 
 1 A small tree, whose leaves are silvery underneath. 
 1 Sir Joshiui Reynolds, a famous English portrait 
 painter. Cf. p. 435, supra. 
 
666 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, 
 With silver buttons, — round his throat, 
 A soft cravat; — in all you note 
 
 An elder fashion, — 
 A strangeness, which, to us who shine 
 In shapely hats, — whose coats combine 
 All harmonies of hue and line, — 
 
 Inspu*es compassion. 
 
 We read — alas, how much we read! 
 The jumbled strifes of creed and creed 
 With endless controversies feed 75 
 
 20 Our groaning tables; 
 
 His books — and they sufficed him — were 
 Cotton's "Montaigne," "The Grave" of Blair, 
 A "Walton" much the worse for wear — 
 
 And "^sop's Fables." 80 
 
 He lived so long ago, you see! 
 Men were untravelled then, but we, 
 Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea 
 
 With careless parting; 
 He found it quite enough for him 
 To smoke his pipe in "garden trim," 
 And watch ©.bout the fish tank's brim, 
 
 The swallows darting. 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 One more,— "The Bible." Not that he 
 Had searched its pages as deep as we; 
 No sophistries could make him see 
 
 Its slender credit; 
 It may be that he could not count 
 The sires and sons to Jesse's fount, — 
 He liked the "Sermon on the Mount," — 
 
 And more, he read it. 
 
 85 
 
 He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue, — 
 He liked the thrush that stopped and sung, — 
 He liked the drone of flies among 35 
 
 His netted peaches; 
 He liked to watch the sunlight fall 
 Athwart his ivied orchard wall; 
 Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call 
 
 Beyond the beeches. 40 
 
 Once he had loved, but failed to wed, 
 A red-cheeked lass who long was dead; 
 His ways were far too slow, he said, 
 
 To quite forget her; 
 And still when time had turned him gray, 
 The earliest hawthorn buds in May 
 Would find his lingering feet astray, 
 
 Where first he met her. 
 
 90 
 
 95 
 
 His were the times of Paint and Patch, 
 And ye no Ranelagh^ could match 
 The sober doves that round his thatch 
 
 Spread tails and sidled; 
 He liked their ruffling, puffed content,- 
 For him their drowsy wheelings meant 
 More than a Mall of Beaus that bent. 
 
 Or Belles that bridled. 
 
 45 
 
 "In Caelo Quies"^ heads the stone 
 On Leisure's grave, — now little known, 
 A tangle of wild-rose has grown 
 
 So thick across it; 
 The "Benefactions" still declare 
 He left the clerk an elbow-chair. 
 And "twelve Pence Yearly to Prepare 
 
 A Christmas Posset." 
 
 100 
 
 Not that, in truth, when life began, 
 He shunned the flutter of the fan; 
 He too had maybe "pinked his man" 
 
 In Beauty's quarrel; 
 But now his "fervent youth" had flown 
 Where lost things go; and he was grown 
 As staid and slow-paced as his own 
 
 Old hunter, Sorrel. 
 
 Lie softly, Leisure! Doubtless you 105 
 
 60 With too serene a conscience drew 
 
 Your easy breath, and slumbered through 
 
 The gravest issue; 
 But we to whom our age allows 
 Scarce space to wipe our weary brows, no 
 
 55 Look down upon your narrow house, 
 Old friend, and miss you! 
 
 Yet still he loved the chase, and held 
 That no composer's score excelled 
 The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled 
 
 Its jovial riot; 60 
 
 But most his measured words of praise 
 Caressed the angler's easy ways, — 
 His idly meditative days, — 
 
 His rustic diet. 
 
 Not that his "meditating" rose 66 
 
 Beyond a sunny summer doze; 
 He never troubled his repose 
 
 With fruitiest prying; 
 But held, as law for high and low, 
 What God withholds no man can know, 70 
 And smiled away inquiry so. 
 
 Without replying. 
 
 'Pleasure gardens in Chelsea, near London, famous 
 for their entertainments in the 18th century. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF /'BEAU BROCADE" 
 
 ''Hark! I hear the sound of Coaches!" 
 
 Beggar's Opera.^ 
 
 Seventeen hundred and thirty-nine: — • 
 That was the date of this tale of mine. 
 
 First Great George was buried and gone: 
 George the Second was plodding on. 
 
 London then as the "Guides" aver, 5 
 
 Shared its glories with Westminster; 
 
 And people of rank, to correct their "tone," 
 Went out of town to Marybone. \ 
 
 ' At rest in Heaven. 
 
 1 An opera by John Gay: the characters are highway- 
 men, pickpockets, etc. 
 
HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 667 
 
 Those were the days of the war with Spaing 
 Porto-Bello would soon be ta'en; 10 
 
 Whitefield preached to the coHiers grim, 
 Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him; 
 
 Walpole talked of "a man and his price;" 
 Nobody's virtue was over-nice; — ■ 
 
 Those, in fine, were the brave days when 15 
 
 Coaches were stopped by . . . Highwaymen! 
 
 And of all the knights of the gentle trade 
 Nobody bolder than "Beau Brocade." 
 
 This they knew on the whole way down; 
 Best, — maybe, — at the ''Oak and Crown." 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 (For timorous cits^ on their pilgrimage 
 Would "club" for a "Guard" to ride the stage; 
 
 And the Guard that rode on more than one 
 Was the Host of this hostel's sister's son.) 
 
 Open we here on a March-day fine. 
 Under the oak with the hanging sign. 
 
 There was Barber Dick with his basin by; 
 Cobbler Joe with the patch on his eye: 
 
 Portly product of Beef and Beer, 
 John the host he was standing near. 
 
 Straining and creaking, with wheels awry, 
 Lumbering came the "Plymouth Fly." 
 
 Lumbering up from Bagshot Heath, 
 Guard in the basket armed to the teeth; 
 
 Passengers heavily armed inside; 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 Not the less surely the coach had been tried! 
 
 Tried! — but a couple of miles away, 
 
 By a well-dressed man! — in the open day! 
 
 Tried successfully, never a doubt, — 
 
 Pockets of passengers all turned out! 40 
 
 Cloak-bags rifled and cushions ripped, — 
 Even an Ensign's wallet stripped! 
 
 Even a Methodist hosier's wife 
 
 Offered the choice of her Money or Life! 
 
 j Highwayman's manners no less polite, 
 Hoped that their coppers (returned) were 
 right;— 
 
 Sorry to find the company poor. 
 Hoped that next time they'd travel with 
 more; — 
 
 Plucked them all at his ease, in short: — 
 Such was the ''Plymouth Fly's" report. 
 
 50 
 
 Sympathy! horror! and wonderment! 
 
 " Catch the Villain! " (But Nobody went.) 
 
 Hosier's wife led into the Bar; 
 
 (That's where the best strong waters are!) 
 
 Followed the tale of the hundred-and-one 55 
 Things that Somebody ought to have done. 
 
 Ensign (of Bragg's) made a terrible clangour: 
 But for the Ladies had drawn his hanger! 
 
 Robber, of course, was "Beau Brocade;" 
 Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid. 60 
 
 Devonshire Dolly, plump and red, 
 Spoke from the gallery overhead; — 
 
 Spoke it out boldly, staring hard: — 
 "Why didn't you shoot then, George the 
 Guard?" 
 
 Spoke it out bolder, seeing him mute : — 65 
 
 "George the Guard, why didn't you shoot?" 
 
 Portly John grew pale and red, 
 (John was afraid of her, people said;) 
 
 Gasped that "Dolly was surely cracked," 
 (John was afraid of her— that's a fact !) 70 
 
 George the Guard grew red and pale, 
 Slowly finished his quart of ale: — 
 
 "Shoot? Why— Rabbit him!— didn't he 
 
 shoot?" 
 Muttered— "The Baggage was far too 'cute!" 
 
 "Shoot? Why he'd flashed the pan in his 
 eye!" 75 
 
 Muttered— "She'd pay for it by and by I" 
 Further than this he made no reply. 
 
 Nor could a further reply be made, 
 For George was in league with "Beau Bro- 
 cade!" 
 
 And John the Host, in his wakef ullest state, 80 
 Was not — on the whole — immaculate. 
 
 But nobody's virtue was over-nice 
 
 When Walpole talked of "a man and his price;" 
 
 45 And wherever Purity found abode, 
 'Twas certainly not on a posting road. 
 
 85 
 
 2 Citizens. 
 
 "Forty" followed to "thirty-nine." 
 Glorious days of the Hanover line! 
 
 Princes were bom, and drums were banged ; 
 Now and then batches of Highwaymen hanged. 
 
 ' * Glorious news ! ' '—from the Spanish Main; 90 
 Porto-Bello at last was ta'en. 
 
668 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 " Glorious news" ! — for the liquor trade; 
 Nobody dreamed of "Beau Brocade." 
 
 People were thinking of Spanish Crowns; 
 Money was coming from seaport towns ! 95 
 
 Nobody dreamed of "Beau Brocade," 
 (Only Dolly the Chambermaid!) 
 
 Blessings on Vernon! Fill up the cans; 
 Money was coming in "Flys" and ^'Vans" 
 
 Possibly John the Host had heard: lOO 
 
 Also, certainly, George the Guard. 
 
 And Dolly had possibly tidings, too. 
 That made her rise from her bed anew, 
 
 Plump as ever, but stem of eye, 
 
 With a fixed intention to warn the " Fly." 105 
 
 Lingering only at John his door, 
 Just to make sure of a jerky snore; 
 
 Saddling the grey mare, Dumpling Star, 
 Fetching the pistol out of the bar; 
 
 (The old horse-pistol that, they say, lio 
 
 Came from the battle of Malplaquet;) 
 
 Loading with powder that maids would use. 
 Even in "Forty," to clear the flues; 
 
 And a couple of silver buttons, the Squire 
 Gave her, away in Devonshire. 115 
 
 These she wadded — for want of better — 
 With the B-sh-p of L-nd-n's "Pastoral Letter;" 
 
 Looked to the flint, and hung the whole, 
 Ready to use, at her pocket-hole. 
 
 Thus equipped and accoutred, Dolly 120 
 
 Clattered away to ^'Exciseman's FoUy;" — 
 
 Such was the name of a ruined abode, 
 Just on the edge of the London road. 
 
 Thence she thought she might safely tiy, 
 
 As soon as she saw it, to warn the "Fly." 1 25 
 
 But, as chance fell out, her rein she drew, 
 As the Beau came cantering into view. 
 
 By the light of the moon she could see him drest 
 In his famous gold-sprigged tambour vest; 
 
 And under his silver-gray surtout, 130 
 
 The laced, historical coat of blue, 
 
 That he wore when he went to London-Spaw, 
 And robbed Sir Mungo Mucklethraw. 
 
 But the Beau drew nearer and would not 
 
 speak, 
 For he saw by the moonlight a rosy cheek ; 
 
 And a spavined mare with a rusty hide; 
 
 And a girl with her hand at her pocket-side. 140 
 
 So never a word he spoke as yet, 
 
 For he thought 'twas a freak of Meg or Bet; — 
 
 A freak of the "Rose" or the ''Rummer" set. 
 
 145 
 
 Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid, 
 (Tremulous now, and sore afraid), 
 "Stand and Deliver, O 'Beau Brocade'!" 
 
 Firing then, out of sheer alarm, 
 Hit the Beau in the bridle-arm. 
 
 Button the first went none knows where, 
 But it carried away his solitaire; 
 
 Button the second a circuit made. 
 Glanced in under the shoulder blade; — 
 Down from the saddle fell "Beau Brocade ! ' 
 
 Down from the saddle and never stirred! — 
 Dolly grew white as a Wi7idsor curd, 
 
 Slipped not less from the mare, and bound 
 Strips of her kirtle about her wound. 
 
 Then, lest his Worship should rise and flee, 
 Fettered his ankles — tenderly. 
 
 Jumped on his chestnut. Bet the fleet 
 (Called after Bet of Portugal Street) ; 
 
 150 
 
 155 
 
 160 
 
 Came like the wind to the old Inn-door; — 
 Roused fat John from a three-fold snore; — • 
 
 Vowed she'd 'peach if he misbehaved . . . 
 Briefly, the "Plymouth Fly" was saved! 165 
 
 Staines and Windsor were all on fire: — • 
 Dolly was wed to a Yorkshire squire; 
 Went to Town at the K--g'8 desire! 
 
 But whether His M-j-sty saw her or not, 
 Hogarth j otted her down on the spot ; 1 70 
 
 And something of Dolly one still may trace 
 In the fresh contours of his "Milkmaid's" face. 
 
 George the Guard fled over the sea: 
 John had a fit — of perplexity; 
 
 Turned King's evidence, sad to state; — 
 But John was never immaculate. 
 
 175 
 
 Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid, 
 (Trembling a little, but not afraid,) 
 "Stand and Deliver, O Beau Brocade!' 
 
 135 
 
 As for the Beau, he was duly tried, 
 
 When his wound, was healed, at Whitsuntide; 
 
 Served — for a day— as the last of "sights," 
 To the world of St. James's Street and " White's." 
 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 669 
 
 Went on his way to Tyburn Tree 181 
 
 With a pomp befitting his high degree. 
 
 Every privilege rank confers: — 
 Bouquet of pinks at St. Sepulchre's; 
 
 Flagon of ale at Holhom Bar; ISS" 
 
 Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car — 
 (" t" is omitted where our Heroes are!) 
 
 Every one knows the speech he made; 
 Swore that he "rather admired the Jade!" 
 
 Waved to the crowd with his gold-laced hat: 190 
 Talked to the Chaplain after that; 
 
 Turned to the Topsman undismayed . . . 
 This was the finish of "Beau Brocade! " 
 
 And this is the Ballad that seemed to hide; 
 
 In the leaves of a dusty ' * Londoners' Guide; " 195 
 
 "Humbly Inscribed (with curls and tails) 
 
 By the Author to Frederick, Prince of Wales:^ 
 
 "Published by Francis and Oliver Pine; 
 Ludgate-Hill, at the BlacTzmoor Sign. 
 Seventeen-Hundred-and~ Thirty-Nine." 200 
 
 (1850-1894) 
 
 A SONG OF THE ROAD 
 
 (From UnderwoodSj 1887) 
 
 The gauger walked with willing foot, 
 And aye the gauger played the flute; 
 And what would Master Gauger play 
 But Over the hills and far away? 
 
 Whene'er I buckle on my pack 5 
 
 And foot it gaily in the track 
 
 pleasant gauger, long since dead, 
 
 1 hear you fluting on ahead. 
 
 You go with me the self-same way— 
 The self-same air for me you play; 10 
 
 For I do think and so do you 
 It is the tune to travel to. 
 
 For who would gravely set his face 
 To go to this or t'other place? 
 There's nothing under heav'n so blue 15 
 That's fairly worth the travelling to. 
 
 On every hand the roads begin, 
 And people walk with zeal therein; 
 But wheresoe'er the highways tend, 
 Be sure there's nothing at the end. 20 
 
 Then follow you wherever hie 
 The travelling mountains of the sky. 
 Or let the streams of civil mode 
 Direct your choice upon the road; 
 
 For one and all, or high or low, 
 Will lead you where you wish to go; 
 And one and all go night and day 
 Over the hills and far away! 
 
 THE CELESTIAL SURGEON 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 If I have faltered more or less 
 In my great task of happiness; 
 If I have moved among my race 
 And shown no glorious morning face; 
 If beams from happy human eyes 
 Have moved me not; if morning skies, 
 Books, and my food, and summer rain 
 Knocked on my sullen heart in vain: — ■ 
 Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take 
 And stab my spirit broad awake; 
 Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, 
 Choose thou, before that spirit die, 
 A piercing pain, a killing sin. 
 And to my dead heart run them in! 
 
 25 
 
 i 
 
 10 
 
 THE COUNTERBLAST- 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 -1886 
 
 My bonny man, the warld, it's true, 
 Was made for neither me nor you; 
 It's just a place to warstle^ through. 
 
 As Job confessed o't; 
 And aye the best that we'll can do a 
 
 Is mak the best o't. 
 
 There's rowth^ o' wrang, I'm free to say: 
 The simmer brunt,^ the winter blae,* 
 The face of earth a' fyled^ wi' clay 
 
 An' dour wi' chuckles,* lo 
 
 An' b'fe a rough an' land'art play 
 
 For country buckles. 
 
 An' food's anither name for clart;^ 
 An' beasts and brambles bite an' scart;' 
 An' what would WE be like, my heart! 15 
 
 If bared o' claethin'?^ 
 — Aweel, I cannae mend your cart: 
 
 It's that or naethin'. 
 
 A feck^o o' folk frae first to last 19 
 
 Have through this queer experience passed: 
 Twa-three, I ken, just damn an' blast^^ 
 
 The hale transaction; 
 But twa-three ithers, east an' wast, 
 
 Fand satisfaction. 
 
 Whaur braid ^^ the briery muirs^' expand, 25 
 
 A waefu' an' a weary land, 
 
 The bumblebees, a gowden band. 
 
 Are blithely hingin' ; 
 An' there the canty^* wanderer fand 
 
 The laverock^^ singin'. 30 
 
 1 Wrestle. ' Abundance. 
 
 « Cold, with east winds. 
 
 • Hard with stones. 
 
 « Scare. » Clothing. 
 
 " Curse. " Broad. 
 
 1* lively. 
 
 « Burnt, hot. 
 
 8 Dirtied. 
 
 ^ Grease or dirt. 
 
 i» Quantity. 
 
 " Moors. 
 
 " Lark. 
 
670 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Trout in the burn^'' grow great as herr'n; 
 The simple sheep can find their fair'n';" 
 The wind blaws clean about the cairn 
 
 Wi' caller ^8 air; 
 The muircock^^ an' the barefit bairn 
 
 Are happy there. 
 
 35 
 
 Sic-like, the howes^o o' life to some: 
 
 Green loans^i whaur they ne'er fash their thumb, 
 
 But mark the muckle winds that come, 
 
 Soopin'22 an(j cool, 40 
 
 Or hear the powrin' burnie drum-' 
 
 In the shilfa's^* pool. 
 
 The evil wi' the guid they tak; 
 
 They ca' a gray thing gray, no black; 
 
 To a steigh brae,^^ a stubborn back 45 
 
 Addressin' daily; 
 An' up the rude, unbieldy^s track 
 
 O' Ufe, gang gaily. 
 
 What you would like's a palace ha', 
 
 Or Sinday parlour dink^^ and braw 60 
 
 Wi' a' things ordered in a raw 
 
 By denty leddies. 
 Weel, than, ye cannae hae't, that's a' 
 
 That to be said is. 
 
 An' since at life ye've ta'en the grue,** 65 
 
 An' winnae blithely hirstle^^ through, 
 Ye've fund the very thing to do — 
 
 That's to drink speerit; 
 An' shiine'" we'll hear the last o' you — 
 
 An' blithe^i to hear it! 60 
 
 The shoon ye coft,'^ tj^g life ye lead, 
 Ithers will heir when aince ye're deid; 
 They'll heir your tasteless bite o' breid, 
 
 An' find it sappy;'' 
 They'll to your dulefii' house succeed, 65 
 
 An' there be happy. 
 
 An' whan a glum an' fractious wean 
 Has sat an' sullened by his lane 
 Till, wi' a rowstin' skelp,"' he's taen 
 
 An' shoo'd to bed— 70 
 
 The ither bairns a' fa' to play'n. 
 
 As gleg's a gled.'^ 
 
 A LAD THAT IS GONE 
 
 (From the same) 
 
 Sing me a song of a lad that is gone 
 
 Say, could that lad be I? 
 Merry of soul he sailed on a day 
 
 Over the sea to Skye. 
 
 16 Brook. " Fodder. is Cold. " Moor-cock. 
 *• Valleys. 21 An open space between fields of corn. 
 22 Sweeping. 23 Pouring brook beat rhythmically. 
 24 Chaffinch. 25 Steep hill. 26 Uncomfortable. 
 
 27 Neat. 28 Grudge. 
 
 29 To push one's self along over a rough surface. 
 » Soon. 31 Glad. 32 The shoes you cast off. 
 
 *» Tasty. 34 Rough slap, ^s As quickly as a hawk. 
 
 Mull was astern, Rum^ on the port, 5 
 
 Egg2 on the starboard bow; 
 Glory of youth glowed in his soul: 
 
 Where is that glory now? 
 
 Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, 
 Say, could that lad be I? 10 
 
 Merry of soul he sailed on a day 
 Over the sea to Skye. 
 
 Give me again all that was there, 
 
 Give me the sun that shone! 
 Give me the eyes, give me the soul, 15 
 
 Give me the lad that's gone! 
 
 Sing me a song of a lad that is gone. 
 
 Say, could that lad be I? 
 Merry of soul he sailed on a day 
 
 Over the sea to Skye. 20 
 
 Billow and breeze, islands and seas. 
 
 Mountains of rain and sun. 
 All that was good, all that was fair. 
 
 All that was me is one. 
 
 REQUIEM 
 
 (Froip the same) 
 
 Under the wide and starry sky, 
 Dig the grave and let me lie. 
 Glad did I live, and gladly die. 
 And I laid me down with a will. 
 
 This be the verse you grave for me: 
 Here he lies where he longed to he; 
 Home is the sailor, home from the sea, 
 And the hunter home from the hill. 
 
 Wi^omns Carl^le 
 
 1795-1881 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CLOTHES^ 
 
 (From Sartor Resartus, 1831) 
 
 "Well sang the Hebrew Psalmist i^ "If I 
 take the wings of the morning and dwell in 
 the uttermost parts of the universe, God is 
 there." Thou thyself, O cultivated reader, 
 
 1 2 Two small islands in the Hebrides. 
 
 iThe "Philosophy of Clothes," by which Carlyle 
 meant the true significance of the relations in which out- 
 ward, visible, and material things stand to the inner or 
 underlying world of reality or spirit, is the theme of the 
 book Sartor Resartus (the tailor patched or restored). 
 Carlyle regarded the whole world of the senses — Nature, 
 man's history, institutions, and customs — as the vesture, 
 or clothes, of the spirit beneath. This philosophy he puts 
 in the mouth of an imaginary German professor, Herr 
 Teufelsdrockh, whose "Life and Opinions" are supposed 
 to be set forth by his friend the editor, "a young and 
 enthusiastic Englishman." Teufelsdrockh is described 
 as professor of Allerlei Wissenschaft (all sorts of knowl- 
 edge) at Weissnichtwo (Don't know where), a name 
 which is the equivalent of Sir Thomas More's Utopia. 
 
 2 Psalms, cxxxix. 9-10. 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 671 
 
 who too probably art no psalmist, but a Pro- seest is not there on its own account; strictly 
 saist, knowing God only by tradition, knowest taken, is not there at all: Matter exists only 
 thou any corner of the world where at least spiritually, and to represent some Idea, and 
 Force IS not? The drop which thou shakest body it forth. Hence Clothes, as despicable 
 from thy wet hand, rests not where it falls, 5 as we think them, are so unspeakably signi- 
 but tomorrow thou findest it swept away; ficant. Clothes, from the King's mantle down- 
 already on the wings of the North-wind, it is wards, are emblematic, not of want only but of 
 nearing the Tropic of Cancer. How came it a manifold cunning Victory over Want On 
 to evaporate, and not he motionless? Thinkest the other hand, all Emblematic things are 
 thou there IS aught motionless; without Force, 10 properly Clothes, thought-woven or hand- 
 and utterly dead? woven: must not the Imagination weave 
 
 As 1 rode through the Schwarzwald,' I Garments, visible Bodies, wherein the else 
 said to myself: That Httle fire which glows invisible creations and inspirations of our 
 star-hke across the dark growing (nachtende) Reason, are, Hke Spirits, revealed, and first 
 moor, where the sooty smith bends over his 15 become all-powerful;— the rather if, as we 
 anvil, and thou hopest to replace thy lost often see, the Hand too aid her, and (by wool 
 horse-shoe,— IS it a detached, separated speck, Clothes or otherwise) reveal such even to the 
 cut of! from the whole Universe; or indissolubly outward eye? 
 
 joined to the whole? Thou fool, that smithy- "Men are properly said to be clothed with 
 fire was primarily kindled at the Sun; is fed 20 Authority, clothed with Beauty, with Curses, 
 by air that circulates from before Noah's and the hke. Nay, if you consider it, what is 
 Deluge, from beyond the Dog-star; therein, Man himself, and his whole terrestrial life, 
 with Iron Force, and Coal Force, and the far but an Emblem; a Clothing or visible Garment 
 stranger Force of Man, are cunning affinities for that divine Me of his, cast hither, hke a 
 and battles and victories of Force brought 25 light-particle, down from Heaven? Thus is 
 about; it is a Httle ganghon, or nervous centre, he said also to be clothed with a Body, 
 in the great vital system of Immensity. Call "Languageiscalled the Garment of Thought: 
 
 it, if thou will, an unconscious Altar, kindled however, it should rather be. Language is the 
 on the bosom of the All; whose iron sacrifice, Flesh-Garment, the Body of Thought. I said 
 whose iron smoke and influence, reach quite 30 that Imagination wove this Flesh-Garment; 
 through the All; whose dingy Priest, not by and does not she? Metaphors are her stuff: 
 word, yet by brain and sinew, preaches forth examine Language; what, if you except some 
 the mystery of Force; nay, preaches forth primitive elements (of natural sound), what is 
 (exoterically* enough) one little textlet from it all but Metaphors, recognized as such, or 
 the Gospel of Freedom, the Gospel of Man's 35 no longer recognized; still fluid and florid, or 
 Force, commanding, and one day to be all- now solid-grown and colorless? If those same 
 commanding. primitive elements are the osseous fixtures 
 
 "Detached, separated! I say there is no in the Flesh-Garment, Language, — then are 
 such separation: nothing hitherto was ever Metaphors its muscles and tissues, and hving 
 stranded, cast aside; but all, were it only a 40 integuments. An unmetaphorical style you 
 withered leaf, works together with all; is borne shall in vain seek for; is not your very Attention 
 forward on the bottomless, shoreless flood a Stretching-tof The difference hes here: 
 of Action, and fives through perpetual meta- some styles are lean, adust,^ wiry, the muscle 
 morphoses. The withered leaf is not dead and itself seems osseous; some are even quite 
 lost, there are Forces in it and around it, 45paHid, hunger-bitten, and dead-looking; while 
 though working in inverse order; else how others again glow in the flush of health and 
 could it rot? Despise not the rag from which vigorous self -growth, sometimes (as in my 
 man makes Paper, or the fitter from which the own case) not without an apoplectic tendency, 
 earth makes Corn. Rightly viewed no meanest Moreover, there are sham Metaphors, which 
 object is insignificant; all objects are as win- 60 overhanging that same Thought's Body 
 dows, through which the philosophic eye looks (best naked), and deceptively bedizening, or 
 into infinitude itself." bolstering it out, may be called its false stuff- 
 
 Again leaving that wondrous Schwarzwald ings, superfluous show-cloaks (Putz-Mdntel), 
 Smithy-Altar, what vacant, high-saihng air- and tawdry woolen rags: whereof he that runs 
 ships are these, and whither will they sail 55 and reads may gather whole hampers, — and 
 with us? burn them." 
 
 "All visible things are emblems; what thou Than which paragraph on Metaphors did 
 » The Black Forest *^^ reader ever chance to see a more surpris- 
 
 * In a manner intelligible to the uninitiated, the public. 8 Dried up with heat, dry-aa-dust. 
 
672 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 ingly metaphorical? However, that is not our lection and adjustment, shall study to do 
 chief grievance; the Professor continues: — ours: 
 
 "Why multiply instances? It is written, "Deep has been, and is, the significance of 
 
 the Heavens and the earth shall fade away Miracles," thus quietly begins the Professor; 
 like a Vesture:® which indeed they are: the 5 "far deeper perhaps than we imagine. Mean- 
 Time-vesture of the Eternal. Whatsoever while the question of questions were: What 
 sensibly exists, whatsoever represents Spirit specially is a Miracle? To that Dutch King 
 to Spirit, is properly a Clothing, a suit of of Siam, an icicle had been a miracle; whoso 
 Raiment, put on for a season, and to be laid had carried with him an air-pump, and phial 
 off. Thus in this one pregnant subject of lo of vitriolic ether, might have worked a miracle. 
 Clothes, rightly understood, is included all To my Horse again who unhappily is still 
 that men have thought, dreamed, done, and more unscientific, do not I work a miracle, 
 been: the whole External Universe and what and magical 'Open sesame'^ every time I 
 it holds is but Clothing; and the essence of all please to pay twopence, and open for him an 
 Science Hes in the Philosophy of Clothes." 15 impassable Schlaghaum, or shut Turnpike? 
 
 "But is not a real Miracle simply a violation 
 
 NATURAL SUPERNATURALISM ?^ *^^ ^^l^ of Nature?" a^k several Whom 
 
 I answer by this new question: What are the 
 (From the same) Laws of Nature? To me perhaps the rising 
 
 20 of one from the dead were no violation of these 
 
 It is in his stupendous Section, headed Laws, but a confirmation; were some far 
 Natural Supernaturalism, that the Professor deeper Law, now first penetrated into, and by 
 first becomes a Seer; and, after long effort. Spiritual Force, even as the rest have all been, 
 such as we have witnessed, finally subdues brought to bear on us with its Material Force, 
 under his feet this refractory Clothes-Philos- 25 "HereHoo may some inquire, not without 
 ophy, and takes victorious possession thereof, astonishment: On what ground shall one, that 
 Phantasms enough he has had to struggle with; can make Iron swim,^ come and declare that 
 "Cloth-webs and Cobwebs," of Imperial therefore he can teach Religion? To us, truly, 
 Mantles, Superannuated Symbols, and what of the Niireteenth Century, such declaration 
 not: yet still did he courageously pierce through. 30 were inept enough; which nevertheless to our 
 Nay, worst of all, two quite mysterious, world- fathers, of the First Century, was full of mean- 
 embracing Phantasms, time and space, have j^g^ 
 
 ever hovered round him, perplexing and be- "'But is it not the deepest Law of Nature 
 
 wildering: but with these also he now resolutely that she be constant?" cries an illuminated 
 grapples, these also he victoriously rends 35 class: 'Is not the Machine of the Universe 
 asunder. In a word, he has looked fixedly fixed to move by unalterable rules? ' Probable 
 on Existence, till, one after the other, its enough, good friends: nay, I too must beUeve 
 earthly hulls and garnitures have all melted that the God, whom ancient, inspired men, 
 away; and now, to his rapid vision, the interior assert to be 'without variableness or shadow 
 celestial Holy of Hohes lies disclosed. 40 of turning,' does indeed never change; that 
 
 Here, therefore, properly it is that the Nature, that the Universe, which no one 
 Philosophy of Clothes attains to Transcen- whom it so pleases can be prevented from call- 
 dentahsm;! this last leap, can we but clear it, i^g a Machine, does move by the most unal- 
 takes us . safe into the promised land, where terable rules. And now of you, too, I make the 
 Palingenesia,^ in all senses, may be considered 45 inquiry ; what those same unalterable rules, 
 as beginning. "Courage, then!" may our forming the complete Statute-Book of Nature, 
 Diogenes' exclaim, with better right than j^^y possibly be? 
 
 Diogenes the First once did. This stupendous "They stand written in our Works of Science, 
 Section we, after long painful meditation, g^y you; in the accumulated records of man's 
 have found not to be unintelligible; but on the 50 Experience?— Was Man with his Experience 
 contrary to grow clear, nay radiant, and all- present at the Creation, then, to see how it 
 illuminating. Let the reader, turning on it all went on? Have any deepest scientific in- 
 what utmost force of speculative intellect is dividuals yet dived down to the foundations 
 in him, do his part; as we, by judicious se- of the Universe, and gauged everything there? 
 
 «P«Zm., cii. 26-27. 55 Did the Maker take them into His counsel* 
 
 U. e. succeeds in passing beyond the world of appear- ^jj^^^ ^j^gy j.^^^ jjjg ground-plan of the incom- 
 anoe woven by the senses on the loom of lime and •' ° _ . . -^r. , ^ 
 
 Space," to the world of the Real, the Essential which « In the tale of Ah Baba, m The Arabian N%ghts, Open 
 
 trarucends the visible and tangible. Sesame, was the magic phrase by which the robbers' 
 
 « The new birth, the regeneration. cavern was opened. 
 
 « Diogenes Teufelsdrockh. » V. II Kings, vi. 6. 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 673 
 
 prehensible All; and can say, This stands descriptive Pages, poetical and philosophical, 
 marked therein, and no more than this? Alas, spread out through Solar Systems, and Thou- 
 not in any wise! These scientific individuals sands of Years, we shall not try thee. It is a 
 have been nowhere but where we also are; Volume written in celestial hieroglyphs, in 
 have seen some handbreadths deeper than we 5 the true Sacred- writing; of which even Prophets 
 see into the Deep that is infinite, without are happy that they can read here a line and 
 bottom as without shore. there a line. As for your Institutes, and 
 
 "Laplace's Book on the Stars,^ wherein he Academies of Science they strive bravely; and 
 exhibits that certain Planets, with their Satel- from amid the thick-crowded, inextricably 
 lites, gyrate round our worthy Sun, at a rate 10 intertwisted hieroglyphic writing, pick out by 
 and in a course, which, by greatest good for- dexterous combination, some Letters in the 
 tune, he and the hke of him have succeeded in vulgar Character,' and therefrom put together 
 detecting, — is to me as precious as to another, this and the other economic Recipe, of high 
 But is this what thou namest 'Mechanism avail in Practice. That Nature is more than 
 of the Heavens,' and 'System of the World;' 15 some boundless Volume of such Recipes, or 
 this, wherein Sirius and the Pleiades, and all huge well-nigh inexhaustible Domestic-Cookery 
 Herschel's Fifteen-thousand Suns^ per minute, Book, of which the whole secret will in this 
 being left out, some paltry handful of Moons, manner one day evolve itself, the fewest dream, 
 and inert Balls, had been — looked at, nick- "Custom," continues the Professor, "doth 
 named, and marked in the Zodiacal way-bill; 20 make dotards of us all. Consider well, thou 
 so that we can now prate of their Whereabout; wilt find that Custom is the greatest of Weav- 
 their How, their Why, their What, being hid ers; and weaves air-raiment for all the Spirits 
 from us, as in the signless Inane? of the Universe; whereby indeed these dwell 
 
 "System of Nature! To the wisest man, with us visibly, as ministering servants, in 
 wide as is his vision. Nature remains of quite 25 our houses and workshops; but their spiritual 
 infinite depth, of quite infinite expansion; and nature becomes, to the most, for ever hidden. 
 all Experience thereof hmits itself to some Philosophy complains that Custom has hood- 
 few computed centuries, and measured square- winked us, from the first; that we do every- 
 miles. The course of Nature's phases, on this thing by Custom, even Believe by it; that our 
 our little fraction of a Planet, is partially 30 very Axioms, let us boast of Free-thinking as 
 known to us; but who knows what deeper we may, are oftenest simply such BeHefs as 
 courses these depend on; what infinitely larger we have never heard questioned. Nay, what 
 Cycle (of causes) our little Epicycle^ revolves is Philosophy throughout but a continual 
 on? To the Minnow every cranny and pebble, battle against Custom; an ever-renewed effort 
 and quality and accident, of its httle native 35 to transcend the sphere of blind Custom, and 
 Creek may have become f amihar : but does the so become Transcendental? 
 Minnow understand the Ocean Tides and "Innumerable are the illusions and legerde- 
 
 periodic Currents, the Trade-winds, and Mon- main-tricks of Custom: but of all these, perhaps 
 soons, and Moon's Eclipses; by all which the the cleverest is her knack of persuading us that 
 condition of its little Creek is regulated, and 40 the Miraculous, by simple repetition, ceases 
 may, from time to time, (wnmiraculously to be Miraculous. True, it is by this means 
 enough), be quite overset and reversed? Such we live: for man must work as well as wonder: 
 a minnow is man; his Creek this Planet Earth; and herein is Custom so far^'a kind nurse, guid- 
 his Ocean the , immeasurable All; his Mon- ing him to his true benefit. But she is a fond 
 soons and periodic Currents the mysterious 45 foohsh nurse, or rather we are false foolish 
 Course of Providence through Aeons of Aeons. nursUngs, when, in our resting and reflecting 
 
 "We speak of the Volume of Nature: and hours, we prolong the same deception. Am I 
 truly a Volume it is, — whose Author and to view the Stupendous with stupid indiffer- 
 Writer is God. To read it! Dost thou, does ence, because I have seen it twice, or two- 
 man, so much as well know the Alphabet 50 hundred or two-million times? There is no 
 thereof? With its Words, Sentences, and grand reason in Nature or in Art why I should: un- 
 
 .T , . J t:. u . M-T^o 100TN less, indeed, I am a mere Work-Machine, for 
 
 « Laplace, a noted French astronomer (1749-1827), ' ,, ' t • -fi. r rr<u Ui. 
 
 wrote M€canique Celeste, and Exposition du Systeme du whom the divme gltt Ot 1 fiOUght WCre no 
 
 ^«'"^«. to which Carlyie refers in the next sentence. o^-^er than the terrestrial gift of Steam is to 
 
 7 Sir Wilham Herschel (1738-1822), the discoverer of ^, „, . u u i.^ 
 
 the planet Saturn, erected a great telescope (completed 55 the StCam-engme; a power Whereby COtton 
 
 in 1789), by means of which he greatly extended our miorht be spun, and money and money 's worth 
 
 knowledge of the heavens and enlarged our conception °. , ^ ' "^ "^ 
 
 of the vastness of the universe. Carlyle means, that in realised. 
 
 every minute of time, 15,000 stars rise and begin their "Notable enough too, here as elsewhere, 
 
 westward course across the sky. . • • i -u 
 
 ' A cycle moving upon another cycle. • i. e. the common writing, legible to all. 
 
674 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 wilt thou find the potency of Names; which torically present in the First Century, convers- 
 indeed are but one kind of such custom-woven, ing face to face with Paul and Seneca; there 
 wonder-hiding Garments. Witchcraft, and prophetically in the Thirty-first, conversing 
 all manner of Spectre-work, and Demonology, also face to face with other Pauls and Senecas, 
 we have now named Madness, and Diseases of 5 who as yet stand hidden in the depth of that 
 the Nerves. Seldom reflecting that still the late time! 
 
 new question comes upon us: What is Madness, "Or thinkest thou, it were impossible, un- 
 
 what are Nerves? Ever, as before, does Mad- imaginable? Is the Past annihilated, then, 
 ness remain a mysterious-terrific, altogether or only past; is the Future non-extant, or only 
 infernal boiling-up of the Nether Chaotic lo future? Those mystic faculties of thine, 
 Deep, through this fair-painted Vision of Crea- Memory and Hope, already answer: already 
 tion, which swims thereon, which we name the through those mystic avenues, thou the Earth- 
 Real. Was Luther's Picture of the Devil^° less blinded summonest both Past and Future, and 
 a ReaUty, whether it were formed within the communest with them, though as yet darkly, 
 bodily eye, or without it? In every, the wisest 15 and with mute beckonings. The curtains of 
 Soul, lies a whole world of internal Madness, Yesterday drop down, the curtains of To- 
 an authentic Demon-Empire; out of which, morrow roll up; but Yesterday and Tomorrow 
 indeed, his world of Wisdom has been creatively both are. Pierce through the Time-Element, 
 built together, and now rests there, as on its glance into the Eternal. Believe what thou 
 dark foundations does a habitable flowery 20 findest written in the sanctuaries of Man's 
 Earth-rind. Soul, even as all Thinkers, in all ages, have 
 
 "But deepest of all illusory Appearances, for devoutly read it there: that Time and Space 
 hiding Wonder, as for many other ends, are are not God, but creations of God; that with 
 your two grand fundamental world-enveloping God as it is a universal here, so is it an ever- 
 Appearances, space and time. These, as 25 lasting now. 
 
 spun and woven for us before Birth itself, to "And seest thou therein any gUmpse of im- 
 clothe our celestial me for dwelling here, and mortality? O Heaven! Is the white Tomb 
 yet to bhnd it, — lie all-embracing, as the uni- of our Loved One, who died from our arms, 
 versal canvas, or warp and woof, whereby all and had to be left behind us there, which rises 
 minor Illusions, in this Phantasm Existence, 30 in the distance, like a pale, mournfully receding 
 weave and paint themselves. In vain, while Milestone, to tell how many toilsome un- 
 here on Earth, shall you endeavour to strip cheered miles we have journeyed on alone, — 
 them off; you can at best but rend them asunder but a pale spectral Illusion ! Is the lost Friend 
 for moments, and look through. still mysteriously Here, even as we are Here 
 
 "Fortunatus had a wishing Hat, which when 35 mysteriously with God! — Know of a truth 
 he put on, and wished himself Anywhere, be- that only the Time-shadows have perished, 
 hold he was There. By this means had For- or are perishable; that the real Being of what- 
 tunatus triumphed over Space, he had anni- ever was, and whatever is, and whatever will 
 hilated Space; for him there was no Where, be, is even now and for ever. This, should it 
 but all was Here. Were a Hatter to estabhsh 40 unhappily seem new, thou mayest ponder at 
 himself in the Wahngasse" of Weissnichtwo, thy leisure; for the next twenty years, or the 
 and make felts of this sort for all mankind, next twenty centuries: beheve it thou must; 
 what a world we should have of it! Still understand it thou canst not. 
 stranger, should, on the opposite side of the "That the Thought-forms, Space and Time, 
 street, another Hatter establish himseK; and, 45 wherein, once for all, we are sent into this 
 as his fellow-craftsman made Space-annihilat- Earth to Uve, should condition and determine 
 ing hats, make Time-annihilating! Of both our whole Practical reasonings, conceptions, 
 would I purchase, were it with my last gros- and imagings or imaginings, seems altogether 
 chen;!^ but chiefly of this latter. To clap on fit, just and unavoidable. But that they should 
 your felt, and, simply by wishing that you 50 furthermore, usurp such sway over pure spirit- 
 were Anywhere, straightway to be There! ual Meditation, and bhnd -us to the wonder 
 Next to clap on your other felt, and, simply everywhere lying close on us, seems nowise so. 
 by wishing that you were Anywhen, straight- Admit Space and Time to their due rank as 
 wsiy to he ThenI This were indeed the grander: Forms of Thought; nay, even if thou wilt, to 
 shooting at will from the Fire-Creation of the 55 their quite undue rank of Realities: and con- 
 World, to its Fire-Consummation; here his- sider, then, with thyself, how their thin dis- 
 
 10 The devil was so real to Luther, that according to the guises hide from US the brightest God-efful- 
 
 ^*°,^X!T^®°°'^^J?'■*'7.^^^^'^^P°****^°^• gences! Thus, were it not miraculous, could 
 
 11 illusion otreet. xi,i<..i i i i ■, ,i,-.« 
 
 " A small German coin. 1 stretch forth my hand and clutch the Sun? 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 675 
 
 Yet thou seest me daily stretch forth my hand, of elastic balls, was it less a stroke than if the 
 and therewith clutch many a thing, and swing last ball only had been struck, and sent flying? 
 it hither and thither. Art thou a grown Baby, Oh, could I (with the Time-annihilating Hat) 
 then, to fancy that the Miracle lies in miles transport thee direct from the Beginnings to 
 of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of weight; 5 the Endings, how were thy eyesight unsealed, 
 and not to see that the true inexphcable God- and thy heart set flaming in the Light-sea 
 revealing Miracle Ues in this, that I can stretch of celestial wonder! Then sawest thou that 
 forth my hand at all; that I have free Force this fair Universe, were it in the meanest 
 to clutch aught therewith? Innumerable other province thereof, is in very deed, the star- 
 of this sort are the deceptions, and wonder- lo domed City of God; that through every star, 
 hiding stupefactions, which Space practises through every grassblade, and most through 
 on us. every Living Soul, the glory of a present God 
 
 "StiU worse is it with regard to Time. Your still beams. But Nature, which is the Time- 
 grand anti-magician and universal wonder- vesture of God, and reveals Him to the wise, 
 hider, is this same lying Time. Had we but 15 hides Him from the foolish, 
 the Time-annihilating Hat, to put on for once "Again, could anything be more miraculous 
 only, we should see ourselves in a World of than an actual authentic Ghost? The English 
 Miracles, wherein all fabled or authentic Johnson ^^ longed, all his life, to see one; but 
 Thaumaturgy, and feats of Magic, were out- could not, though he went to Cock Lane, and 
 done. But unhappily we have not such a 20 thence to the church-vaults, and tapped on 
 Hat; and man, poor fool that he is, can seldom coffins. Foolish Doctor! Did he never with the 
 and scantily help himself without one. Mind's eye, as well as with the body's, look 
 
 "Were it not wonderful, for instance, had round him into that full tide of human Life 
 Orpheus, or Amphion, built the walls of Thebes he so loved; did he never so much as look into 
 by the mere sound of his Lyre?^^ Yet tell me, 25 Himself? The good Doctor was a Ghost, as 
 Who built these walls of Weissnichtwo; sum- actual and authentic as heart could wish; 
 moning out all the sandstone rocks, to dance wellnigh a million of Ghosts were travelling 
 along from the SteinhrucW-*- (now a huge Trog- the streets by his side. Once more I say, sweep 
 lodyte Chasm, 1^ with frightful green-mantled away the illusion of Time: compress the three- 
 pools); and shape themselves into Doric and 30 score years into three minutes: what else was 
 Ionic pillars, squared ashlar houses, and he, what else are we? Are we not Spirits, 
 noble streets? Was it not the still higher shaped into a Body, into an Appearance; and 
 Orpheus, or Orpheuses, who, in past centuries, that fade away again into air, and Invisibihty? 
 by the divine Music of Wisdom, succeeded in This is no metaphor, it is a simple scientific 
 civilizing Man? Our highest Orpheus walked 35 fact: we start out of Nothingness, take figure, 
 in Judea, eighteen-hundred years ago: his and are Apparitions; round us, as round the 
 sphere-melody, flowing in wild native tones, veriest spectre, is Eternity; and to Eternity 
 took captive the ravished souls of men; and minutes are as years and seons. Come there 
 being of a truth sphere-melody, still flows and not tones of Love and Faith, as from celestial 
 sounds, though now with thousandfold Ac- 40 harp-strings, Hke the Song of beatified Souls? 
 companiments, and rich symphonies, through And again, do not we squeak and gibber (in 
 all our hearts; and modulates and divinely leads our discordant screech-owlish debatings and 
 them. Is that a wonder, which happens in recriminatings); and gUde, bodeful, and feeble, 
 two hours; and does it cease to be wonderful, and fearful; or uproar (poUern), and revel in 
 if happening in two million? Not only was 45 our mad Dance of the Dead,^^ — till the scent 
 Thebes built, by the Music of an Orpheus; but of the morning-air summons us to our still 
 without the music of some inspired Orpheus, Home; and dreamy Night becomes awake 
 was no city ever built, no work that man and Day? Where now is Alexander of Mace- 
 glories in ever done. don: does the steel Host, that yelled in fierce 
 
 "Sweep away the Illusion of Time; glance, 50 battle-shouts at Issus and Arbela, remain 
 if thou have eyes, from the near moving- behind him; or have they all vanished utterly, 
 cause to its far distant Mover: The stroke even as perturbed Goblins must? Napoleon 
 that came transmitted through a whole galaxy too, and his Moscow Retreats and Auster- 
 
 „ww .1, . • ^r^ I ^ * A V,- * litz Campaigns! Was it all other than the 
 
 1' "Were the stones of Orpheus and of Amphion true, . ,o,r tt j. i--i-t. -xu -a 
 would they not be miraculous?" Orpheus gathered the 65 Veriest Spectre-Hunt; whlCh has now, Wltn itS 
 wild creatures of the forest about him to listen to his lyre; 
 
 and Amphion, by the mere power and beauty of his i» For the story of Dr. Johnson and the Cock Lane 
 
 music, built the walls of Thebes. ' Ghost, see Boswell's Johnson. 
 
 " A quarry. i7 The Dance of Death was a medieval allegory of 
 
 " A hole or cavern, like those once occupied by the Death; a skeleton musician leads the dance, in which all 
 
 Troglodytes, or pre-historic cave-dwellers. men join. 
 
676 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 howling tumult that made Night hideous, '"We are such stuj^ 
 
 flitted away? — Ghosts! There are nigh a As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 
 thousand-million walking the earth openly Is rounded with a sleep! '"^^ 
 
 at noontide; some half-hundred have vanished 
 
 from it, some half -hundred have arisen in it, 5 ^^^„ „ _ 
 
 ere thy watch ticks once. BOSWELL THE HERO-WORSHIPPER 
 
 "O Heaven, it is mysterious, it is awful to ^^^^^ ^ssay on Johnson, 1832) 
 
 consider that we not only carry each a future 
 
 Ghostwithinhim;butarein very deed, Ghosts! We have a word to say of James Boswell.* 
 
 These Limbs, whence had we them; this lo Boswell has already been much commented 
 stormy Force; this life-blood with its burning upon; but rather in the way of censure and 
 Passion? They are dust and shadow; a Shadow- vituperation than of true recognition. He was 
 system gathered round our me; wherein, a man that brought himself much before the 
 through some moments or years, the Divine world; confessed that he eagerly coveted fame, 
 Essence is to be revealed in the Flesh. That 15 or if that were not possible, notoriety; of Which 
 warrior on his strong war-horse, fire flashes latter as he gained far more than was his due, 
 through his eyes; force dwells in his arm and the public were incited, not only by their 
 heart: but warrior and war-horse are a vision; natural love of scandal, but by a special 
 a revealed Force, nothing more. Stately ground of envy, to say whatever ill of him 
 they tread the Earth, as if it were a firm sub- 20 could be said. Out of the fifteen millions that 
 stance: fool! the Earth is but a film; it craclcs then Uved, and had bed and board in the 
 in twain and warrior and war-horse sink be- British islands, this man has provided us a 
 yond plummet's sounding. Plummet's? Fan- greater pleasure than any other individual, 
 tasy herself will not follow them. A little while at whose cost we now enjoy ourselves; perhaps 
 ago, they were not; a little while, and they 25 has done us a greater service than can be es- 
 are not, their very ashes are not. pecially attributed to more than two or three: 
 
 "So has it been from the beginning, and so yet, ungrateful that we are, no written or 
 will it be to the end. Generation after genera- spoken eulogy of James Boswell anyivhere 
 tion takes to itself the Form of a Body; and exists; his recompense in solid pudding (so 
 forth-issuing from Cimmerian Night, ^^ on 30 far as copyright went) was not excessive; 
 heaven's mission appears. What Force and and as for the empty praise, it has altogether 
 Fire is in each he expends: one grinding in been denied him. Men are unwiser than 
 the mill of Industry; one hunter-Uke climbing children; they do not know the hand that feeds 
 the giddy Alpine heights of Science; one madly them. 
 
 dashed in pieces on the rocks of Strife, in war 35 Boswell was a person whose mean or bad 
 with his fellow: — and then the Heaven-sent qualities lay open to the general eye; visible, 
 is recalled; his earthly Vesture falls away, palpable to the dullest. His good qualities, 
 and soon even to Sense becomes a vanished again, belonged not to the time he lived in; 
 Shadow. Thus, like some wild-flaming, wild- were far from common then; indeed, in such a 
 thundering train of Heaven's Artillery, does 40 degree, were almost unexampled; not recog- 
 this mysterious Mankind thunder and flame, nizable therefore by every one; nay, apt even 
 in long-drawn, quick-succeeding grandeur, (so strange had they grown) to be confounded 
 through the unknown Deep. Thus hke a God- with the very vices they lay contiguous to and 
 created, fire-breathing Spirit-host, we emerge had sprung out of. That he was a wine- 
 from the Inane; haste stormfully across the 45 bibber and gross liver; gluttonously fond of 
 astonished Earth; then plunge again into the whatever would yield him a little solacempnt, 
 Inane. Earth's mountains are levelled, and were it only of a stomachic character, is un- 
 her seas filled up, in our passage: can the deniable enough. That he was vain, heedless. 
 Earth which is but dead and a vision, resist a babbler; had much of the sycophant, alter- 
 Spirits which have reality and are alive? On 50 nating with the braggadocio, curiously spiced 
 the hardest adamant some foot-print of us too with an all-pervading dash of the coxcomb; 
 is stamped-in; the last Rear of the host will that he gloried much when the tailor, by a 
 read traces of the earliest Van. But whence? — court-suit, had made a new man of him; that 
 O Heaven, whither? Sense knows not; Faith he appeared at the Shakespeare Jubilee with a 
 knows not; only that it is through Mystery to 55 ribbon, imprinted "Corsica Boswell,"^ round y 
 Mystery, from God and to God. his hat; and in short, if you will, lived no day ^ 
 
 »» Tempest, IV. 1^. 
 18 A proverbial expression for utter darkness. The ^ See p. 424, supra. 
 
 Cimmerians are mentioned by Homer as living beyond ^ An allusion to his adoption of the r-ause of Corsican 
 
 the ocean-stream in a land where no sun ever shines. independence and to his Account of Corsica, p}^ J 768, 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 677 
 
 of his life without doing and saying more than of all bipeds yet known. Boswell too was a 
 one pretentious ineptitude: all this unhappily Tory;^ of quite peculiarly feudal, genealogical, 
 is evident as the sun at noon. The very look pragmatical temper; had been nurtured in an 
 of Boswell seems to have signified so much, atmosphere of heraldry, at the feet of a very 
 In that cocked nose, cocked partly in triumph sGamaliel^ in that kind; within bare walls, 
 over his weaker fellow-creatures, partly to adorned only with pedigrees, amid serving- 
 snuff up the smell of coming pleasure, and men in threadbare livery; all things teaching 
 scent it from afar; in those bag-cheeks, hanging him, from birth upwards, that a laird was a 
 like half-filled wine-skins, still able to contain laird. Perhaps there was a special vanity in 
 more; in that coarsely protruded shelf-mouth, lohis very blood: old Auchinleck had, if not the 
 that fat dew-lapped chin: in all this, who sees gay, tail-spreading, peacock vanity of his son, 
 not sensuaHty, pretension, boisterous im- no little of the slow stalking, contentious, 
 becility enough; much that could not have hissing vanity of the gander; a still more fatal 
 been ornamental in the temper of a great man's species. Scottish advocates will tell you how 
 overfed great man (what the Scotch name 15 the ancient man, having chanced to be the 
 flunky), though it had been more natural first sheriff appointed (after the abolition of 
 there? The under part of Boswell's face is of *' hereditary jurisdiction "i°) by royal authority, 
 a low, almost brutish character. was wont, in dull-snuffling pompous tone, to 
 
 Unfortunately, on the other hand, what preface many a deliverance from the bench 
 great and genuine good lay in him was nowise 20 with these words: "I, the first king's sheriff 
 so self-evident. That Boswell was a hunter in Scotland." 
 
 after spiritual notabilities, that he loved such, And now behold the worthy Bozzy, so pre- 
 and longed, and even crept and crawled to be possessed and held back by nature and by 
 near them; that he first (in old Touchwood art, fly nevertheless like iron to its magnet 
 Auchinleck's' phraseology) "took on with 25 with what enclosures and encumbrances you 
 Paoli;"* and then being off with "the Corsican please — with wood, with rubbish, with brass: 
 landlouper,"^ took on with a schoolmaster,^ it matters not, the two feel each other, they 
 "ane that keeped a schule, and ca'd it an struggle restlessly towards each other, they 
 academy;" that he did all this, and could not vnll be together. The iron may be a Scottish 
 help doing it, had an "open sense," an open 30 squirelet, full of gulosity and "gigmanity;"" 
 loving heart, which so few have: where ex- The magnet an English plebeian, and moving 
 cellence existed, he was compelled to acknowl- rag-and-dust mountain, coarse, proud, iras- 
 edge it; was drawn towards it, and (let the cible, imperious: nevertheless, behold how they 
 old sulphur-brand of a laird say what he embrace, and inseparably cleave to one an- 
 liked) could not hut walk with it — if not as 35 other! It is one of the strangest phenomena 
 superior, if not as equal, then as inferior and of the past century, that at a time when the 
 lackey, better so than not at all. If we reflect old reverent feeling of discipleship (such as 
 now that this love of excellence had not only brought men from far countries with rich 
 such as evil nature to triumph over; but also gifts, and prostrate soul, to the feet of the 
 what an education and social position withstood 40 prophets) had passed utterly away from men's 
 it and weighed it down, its innate strength, practical experience, and was no longer sur- 
 victorious over all these things, may astonish mised to exist (as it does), perennial, inde- 
 us. Consider what an inward impulse there structible, in man's inmost heart — James Bos- 
 must have been, how many mountains of im- well should have been the individual, of all 
 pediment hurled aside, before the Scottish 45 others, predestined to recall it, in such singular 
 laird could, as humble servant, embrace the guise, to the wondering and, for a long while, 
 knees (the bosom was not permitted him) of laughing and unrecognizing world. It has been 
 the English dominie! Your Scottish laird, commonly said, "The man's vulgar vanity 
 says an English naturalist of these days, 
 may be defined as the hungriest and vainest 50 '^ member of the Toiy party, which was the ultra- 
 
 ^ ^ conservative party of the time. 
 
 ' Boswell's father, Alexander Boswell, who had the s Self-important, busy; engrossed with every-day 
 
 title of Lord Auchinleck from the name of his property business, and hence commonplace. 
 
 in Ayrshire. He was one of the Judges of the Court of » A member of the Sanhedrin, and St. Paul's instructor 
 
 Session. Carlyle calls him "Touchwood" in allusion to in the law. V. Acts v. 34-39; xxii. 3. Boswell's Ga- 
 
 his explosive irascibility. maliel presumably was his father. 
 
 ^Pasquale Paoli (1725-1807), a Corsican patriot, to lo In Scotland the Sherifif was the judge of the county, 
 
 whom Boswell was introduced by a letter from Rousseau, After 1748, the oflBce, which had been hereditary, was filled 
 
 and with whom he contracted a warm and lasting friend- by royal appointment, 
 
 ship. 11 Gulosity is gluttony, voracity; gigmanity is narrow- 
 
 ' An adventurer, a vagabond. minded respectability. The latter word was invented by 
 
 •i. e. Johnson himself, who set up an "academy" Carlyle (gig and man) to indicate the character of "one 
 
 near Litchfield, where "young gentlemen are boarded whose respectability is measured by his keeping a gig." 
 
678 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 was all that attached him to Johnson; he de- Johnson. Mr. Croker** says, Johnson was, to 
 lighted to be seen near him, to be thought con- the last, little regarded by the great world; 
 nected with him. Now let it be at once granted from which, for a vulgar vanity, all honor, 
 that no consideration springing out of vulgar as from its fountain, descends. Bozzy, even 
 Tanity could well be absent from the mind of 5 among Johnson's friends and special admirers, 
 James Boswell, in this his intercourse with seems rather to have been laughed at than 
 Johnson, or in any considerable transaction envied: his officious, whisking, consequential 
 of his hfe. At the same time, ask yourself; ways, the daily reproofs and rebufifs he under- 
 whether such vanity, and nothing else, ac- went, could gain from the world no golden but 
 tuated him therein; whether this was the true 10 only leaden opinions. His devout discipleship 
 essence and moving principle of the phenom- seemed nothing more than a mean spanielship, 
 enon, or not rather its outward vesture, and in the general eye. His mighty "constella- 
 the accidental environment (and defacement) tion," or sun, round whom he, as satellite, ob- 
 in which it came to light? The man was, by servantly gyrated, was, for the mass of men, 
 nature and habit, vain; a sycophant-coxcomb, 15 but a huge ill-snuffed tallow-light, and he a 
 be it granted : but had there been nothing more weak night-moth, circling foolishly, danger- 
 than vanity in him, was Samuel Johnson the ously about it, not knowing what he wanted, 
 man of men to whom he must attach himself? If he enjoyed Highland dinners and toasts, as 
 At the date when Johnson was a poor rusty- henchmen to a new sort of chieftain, Henry 
 coated "scholar," dwelling in Temple-lane, ^^ 20 Erskine^^ could hand him a shilling "for the 
 and indeed throughout their whole intercourse sight of his. bear." Doubtless the man was 
 afterwards, were there not chancellors and laughed at, and often heard himself laughed at 
 prime ministers enough; graceful gentlemen, for his Johnsonism. To be envied is the grand 
 the glass of fashion; honor-giving noblemen; and sole aim of vulgar vanity; to be filled with 
 dinner-giving rich men; renowned fire-eaters, 25 good things is that of sensuality: for Johnson 
 swordsmen, gownsmen, quacks and realities perhaps no man living enmed poor Bozzy; and 
 of all hues — any one of whom bulked much of good things (except himself paid for them) 
 larger in the world's eye than Johnson ever did? there was no vestige in that acquaintanceship. 
 To any one of whom, by half that submissive- Had nothing other or better than vanity and 
 ness and assiduity, our Bozzy might have 30 sensuality been there, Johnson and Boswell 
 recommended himself; and sat there, the envy had never come together, or had soon and 
 of surrounding Uckspittles; pocketing now finally separated again. 
 
 solid emolument, swallowing now well cooked In fact, the so copious terrestrial dross that 
 viands and wines of rich red vintage; in each welters chaotically, as the outer sphere of this 
 case, also, shone-on by some glittering reflex 35 man's character, does but render for us more 
 of renown or notoriety, so as to be the observed remarkable, more touching, the celestial spark 
 of innumerable observers. To no one of whom, of goodness, of hght, and reverence for wisdom 
 however, though otherwise a most diligent which dwelt in the interior, and could struggle 
 solicitor and purveyor, did he so attach him- through such encumbrances, and in some degree 
 self: such vulgar courtierships were his paid 40 illuminate and beautify them. There is much 
 drudgery, or leisure amusement; the worship lying yet undeveloped in the love of Boswell 
 of Johnson was his grand, ideal, voluntary for Johnson. A cheering proof, in a time which 
 business. Does not the frothy-hearted, yet else utterly wanted and still wants such, that 
 enthusiastic man, doffing his advocate's wig, Uving wisdom is quite infinitely precious to 
 regularly take post, and hurry up to London, 45 man, is the symbol of the god-like to him, 
 for the sake of his sage chiefly; as to a feast of which even weak eyes may discern; that loj?^- 
 tabernacles, the Sabbath of his whole year? alty, discipleship, all that was ever meant 
 The plate-licker and wine-bibber dives into by hero-worship, lives perennially in the human 
 Bolt Court, to sip muddy coffee with a cynical bosom, and waits, even in these dead days, only 
 old man and a sour-tempered bUnd old woman ^3 50 for occasions to unfold it, and inspire all men 
 (feeling the cups, whether they are full, with with it, and make again the world ahve! James 
 her finger); and patiently endures contradic- Boswell we can regard as a practical witness, 
 tions without end; too happy so he may be or real martyr, to this high everlasting truth, 
 but allowed to listen and live. Nay, it does not A wonderful martyr, if you will; and in a time 
 
 appear that vulgar vanity could ever have 55 " John Wilson Croker, editor of Boawell's Johnson, , 
 
 been much flattered by Boswell's relation to J^f Vame work.^'F.'^j.'eST.'^^'^"^' ^^"^"'""^ reviewed \ 
 
 12 V. selection, p. 425, supra. _ _ " Henry Erskine, a brother of Lord Buchan and Lord ' 
 
 1* Mrs. Anna Williams, who at this time had lodgings Erskine, was presented to Johnson by Boswell. while 
 
 in Bolt Court, Fleet Street, had formerly found an asylum on a visit to the Parliament House at Edinburgh in 1773. 
 
 in Johnson's house. The incident mentioned occurred on that occasion. 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 679 
 
 Which made such martyrdom doubly wonder- sight far deeper than the common. But Bos- 
 iulryet the time and its martyr perhaps suited well's grand intellectual talent was, as such 
 each other. For a decrepit, death-sick era, ever is, an unconscious one, of far higher reach, 
 when Cant had first decisively opened her and significance than logic; and showed itself 
 poison-breathing hps to proclaim that God- sin the whole, not in parts. Here again we 
 worship and Mammon-worship were one and have that old saying verified, "The heart sees 
 the same, that life was a lie, and the earth further than the head." 
 
 Beelzebub's, which the Supreme Quack should Thus does poor Bozzy stand out to us an 
 
 inherit, and so all things were fallen into the ill-assorted, glaring mixture of the highest and 
 yellow leaf, and fast hastening to noisome lo the lowest. What, indeed, is man's life gener- 
 corruption: for such an era, perhaps no better ally but a kind of beast godhood; the god in 
 prophet than a parti-colored zany^^.p^ophet, us triumphing in us more and more over the 
 concealing, from himself and others, his pro- beast; striving more and more to subdue it 
 phetic significance in such unexpected vestures, under his feet? Did not the ancients, in their 
 was deserved, or would have been in place. 15 wise, perennially-significant way, figure nature 
 A precious medicine lay hidden in floods of itself, in their sacred ALL, or PAN, as a por- 
 coarsest, most composite treacle; the world tentous commingling of these two discords; 
 swallowed the treacle, for it suited the world's as musical, humane, oracular in its upper part, 
 palate; and now, after half a century, may yet ending below in the cloven hairy feet of a 
 the medicine also begin to show itself! James 20 goat? The union of melodious, celestial free- 
 Boswell belonged, in his corruptible part, to will and reason with foul irrationality and lust; 
 the lowest classes of mankind; a foolish, in- in which, nevertheless, dwelt a mysterious 
 flated creature, swimming in an element of unspeakable fear and haK mad panic awe; as 
 self-conceit: but in his corruptible there dwelt for mortals there well might! And is not 
 an incorruptible, all the more impressive and 25 man a microcosm, or epitomized mirror of that 
 indubitable for the strange lodging it had taken, same universe; or rather, is not that universe 
 Consider, too, with what force, diligence, even himseK, the reflex of his own fearful and 
 and vivacity he has rendered back all this wonderful being, "the waste fantasy of his 
 which, in Johnson's neighborhood, his "open own dream?" No wonder that man, that 
 sense" had so eagerly and freely taken in. 30 each man, and James Boswell like the others. 
 That loose-flowing, careless-looking work of should resemble it! The peculiarity in his 
 his is as a picture by one of nature's own ar- case was the unusual defect of amalgamation 
 tists; the best possible remembrance of a and subordination: the highest lay side by side 
 reality; like the very image thereof in a clear with the lowest; not morally combined with it 
 miiTor. Which indeed it was: let but the 35 and spiritually transfiguring it, but tumbling 
 mirror be clear, this is the great point; the pic- in half-mechanical juxtaposition with it, and 
 ture must and will be genuine. How the from time to time, as the mad alternation 
 babbling Bozzy, inspired only by love, and the chanced, irradiating it, or eclipsed by it. 
 recognition which love can lend, epitomizes The world, as we said, has been but unjust 
 nightly the words of wisdom, the deeds and 40 to him; discerning only the outer terrestrial 
 aspects of wisdom, and so, by little and little, and often sordid mass; without eye, as it 
 unconsciously works together for us a whole generally is, for his inner divine secret; and 
 Johnsoniad^'' a more free, perfect, sunlit and thus figuring him nowise as a god Pan, but 
 spirit-speaking likeness than for many cen- simply of the bestial species, like the cattle 
 turies had been drawn by man of man! Scarcely 45 on a thousand hills. Nay, sometimes a strange 
 since the days of Homer has the feat been enough hj^othesis has been started of him ; as 
 equalled; indeed, in many senses, this also is if it were in virtue even of these same bad 
 a kind of heroic poem. The fit "Odyssey" of qualities that he did his good work; as if it 
 our unheroic age was to be written, not sung; were the very fact of his being among the worst 
 of a thinker, not of a fighter; and (for^ want of 50 men in this world that had enabled him to 
 a Homer) by the first open soul that might write one of the best books therein! Falser 
 offer — looked such even through the organs of hypothesis, we may venture to say, never rose 
 a Boswell. We do the man's intellectual en- in human soul. Bad is by its nature negative, 
 dowment great wrong, if we measure it by its and can do nothing; whatsoever enables us to 
 mere logical outcome; though, here too, there 55 do anything is by its very nature good. Alas, 
 is not wanting a light ingenuity, a figurative- that there should be teachers in Israel, or even 
 ness and fanciful sport, with glimpses of in- learners, to whom this world-ancient fact is 
 J --kfih f" lite still problematical, or even deniable! Boswell 
 
 " AaepS^oTjohS's^i? hLJuSd^MS!" ^ ^' wrote a good book because he had a heart and 
 
680 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 an eye to discern wisdom, and an utterance was to this man, what to the Thinker and 
 to render it forth; because of his free insight, Prophet it forever is, preternatural This 
 his hvely talent — above all, of his love and green flowery rock-built earth, the trees, the 
 open-mindedness. His sneaking sycophancies, mountains, rivers, many-sounding seas; — 
 his greediness and forwardness, whatever was 5 that great deep sea of azure that swims over- 
 bestial and earthy in him, are so many blem- head; the tdnds sweeping through it; the black 
 ishes in his book, which still disturb us in cloud fashioning itself together, now pouring 
 its clearness; wholly hindrances, not helps, out fire, now hail and rain; what is it? Ay, 
 Towards Johnson, however, his feeling was not what? At bottom we do not yet know; we 
 sycophancy, which is the lowest, but reverence, 10 can never know at all. It is not by our superior 
 which is the highest of human feehngs. None insight that we escape the difficulty; it is by 
 but a reverent man (which so unspeakably few our superior levity, our inattention, our want 
 are) could have found his way from Boswell's of insight. It is by not thinking that we cease 
 environment to Johnson's: if such worship for to wonder at it. Hardened round us, encasing 
 real God-made superiors, showed itself also as 15 wholly every notion we form, is a wrappage of 
 worship for apparent tailor-made superiors, traditions, hearsays, mere words. We call 
 even as hollow interested mouth-worship for that fire of the black thunder cloud "elec- 
 such — the case, in this composite human nature tricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and 
 of ours, was not miraculous, the more was the grind the like of it out of glass and silk; but 
 pity! But for ourselves, let every one of us 20 what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? 
 chng to this last article of faith, and know it Whither goes it? Science has done much for 
 as the beginning of all knowledge worthy the us; but it is a poor science that would hide 
 name: That neither James Boswell's good from us the great deep sacred infinitude of 
 book, nor any other good thing, in any time Nescience, whither we can never penetrate, on 
 or in any place, was, is, or can be performed by 25 which all science swims as a mere super- 
 any man in virtue of his badness, but always ficial film. This world, after all our science 
 and solely in spite thereof. and sciences, is still a miracle; wonderful, 
 
 inscrutable, magical and more, to whosoever 
 
 will think of it. 
 .^ ^ 30 That great mystery of Time, were there 
 
 itihj HHiKO jjQ other; the illimitable, silent, never-resting 
 
 (From Heroes and Hero WarsUp, 1841) t^i^S ^aUed Time rolling, rushing on swift, 
 
 silent, like an all-embracmg ocean-tide, on 
 You remember that fancy of Plato's,^ of a which we and all the Universe swim Uke ex- 
 man who had grown to maturity in some dark 35 halations, like apparitions which are, and then 
 distance, and was brought on a sudden into the are not; this is forever very literally a miracle; 
 upper air to see the sun rise. What would his a thing to strike us dumb, — for we have no 
 wonder be, his rapt astonishment at the sight word to speak about it. This Universe, ah me — 
 we daily witness with indifference! With the what could the wild man know of It; what 
 free open sense of a child, yet with the ripe 40 can we yet know? That it is a Force, and 
 faculty of a man, his whole heart would be thousandfold Complexity of forces; a Force 
 kindled by that sight, he would discern it which is not we. That is all; it is not we, it is 
 well to be Godlike, his soul would faU down altogether different from its. Force, Force, 
 in worship before it. Now, just such a childlike everywhere Force; we ourselves a mysterious 
 greatness was in the primitive nations. The 45 Force in the centre of that. "There is not a 
 first Pagan Thinker among rude men, the leaf rotting on the highway but has Force in it: 
 first man that began to think, was precisely how else could it rot?" Nay, surely, to the 
 this child-man of Plato's. Simple, open as a Atheistic Thinker, if such a one were possible, 
 child, yet with the depth and strength of a it must be a miracle too, this huge illimitable 
 man. Nature had as yet no name to him; he 50 whirlwind of Force, which envelopes us here; 
 had not yet united under a name the infinite never-resting whirlwind, high as Immensity, 
 variety of sights, sounds, shapes aad motions, old as Eternity. What is it? God's creation, 
 which we now collectively name Universe, the religious people answer; it is the Almighty 
 Nature, or the like — and so with a name dis- God's! Atheistic science babbles poorly of it, 
 miss it from us. To the wild deep-hearted 55 with scientific nomenclatures, experiments 
 man all was yet new, not veiled under names and what-not, as if it were a poor dead thing^ j 
 or formulas; it stood naked, flashing-in on him to be bottled-up in Leyden jars and sold over(,j 
 there, beautiful, awful, unspeakable. Nature counters: but the natural sense of man, in all 
 1 See Plato's Republic, Bk. VII. times, if he will honestly apply his sense, pro- 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 68V 
 
 olaims it to be a living thing, — ah, an unspeak- did, what the horse and camel did, — namely, 
 
 able, godhke thing; towards which the best nothing! 
 
 attitude for us, after never so much science, But now if all things whatsoever that we look 
 
 is awe, devout prostration and humility of soul; upon are emblems to us of the Highest God, 
 
 worship if not in words, then in silence. 5 1 add that more so than any of them is man 
 
 But now I remark farther: What in such a such an emblem. You have heard of St. 
 
 time as ours it requires a Prophet or Poet to Chrysostom's^ celebrated saying in reference 
 
 teach us, namely, the stripping off of those poor to the Shekinah, or Ark of Testimony, visible 
 
 undevout wrappages, nomenclatures and scien- Revelation of God, among the Hebrews: 
 tific hearsays, — this, the ancient earnest soul, 10 "The true Shekinah^ is Man!" Yes, it is even 
 
 as yet unencumbered with these things, did so: this is no vain phrase, it is veritably so. 
 
 for itself. The world, which is now divine only The essence of our being, the mystery in us 
 
 to the gifted, was then divine to whosoever that calls itseK "I," — ah, what words have we 
 
 would turn his eye upon it. He stood bare for such things? — is a breath of Heaven; the 
 before it face to face. "All was Godlike or 15 Highest Being reveals himself in man. This 
 
 God:" — Jean PauP still finds it so; the giant body, these faculties, this life of ours, is it not 
 
 Jean Paul, who has power to escape out of all as a vesture for that Unnamed? "There 
 
 hearsays: but there then were no hearsays, is but one Temple in the Universe," says the 
 
 Canopus,' shining-down over the desert, with devout Novalis,^ "and that is the Body of Man. 
 its blue diamond brightness (that wild blue 20 Nothing is holier than that high form. Bend- 
 
 spirit-hke brightness, far brighter than we ing before men is a reverence done to this 
 
 ever witness here), would pierce into the heart Revelation in the Flesh. We touch heaven 
 
 of the wild Ishmaelitish man, whom it was when we lay our hand on a human body." 
 
 guiding through the solitary waste there. This sounds much hke a mere flourish of rhet- 
 To his wild heart, with all feelings in it, with 25 oric; but it is not so. If well meditated, it 
 
 no speech for any feeling, it might seem a Httle will turn out to be a scientific fact; the expres- 
 
 eye, that Canopus, glancing-out on him from sion, in such words as can be had, of the actual 
 
 the great deep Eternity; reveahng the inner truth of the thing. We are the miracle of 
 
 splendour to him. Cannot we understand miracles, — the great inscrutable mystery of 
 how these men worshipped Canopus; became 30 God. We cannot understand it, we know not 
 
 what we call Sabeans,^ worshipping the stars? how to speak of it; but we may feel and know 
 
 Such is to me the secret of all forms of Pagan- it, if we hke, that it is verily so. 
 
 ism. Worship is transcendent wonder; wonder Well, these truths were once more readily 
 
 for which there is now no Umit or measure; felt than now. The young generations of the 
 that is worship. To these primeval men, all 35 world, who had in them the freshness of 
 
 things and everything they saw exist beside young children, and yet the depth of earnest 
 
 them were an emblem of the Godhke, of some men, who did not think that they had finished 
 
 God. off all things in Heaven and Earth by merely 
 
 And look what perennial fibre of truth was giving them scientific names, but had to gaze 
 in that. To us also, through every star, 40 direct at them there, with awe and wonder: 
 
 through every blade of grass, is not a God they felt better what of divinity is in man and 
 
 made visible, if we will open our minds and Nature; — they, without being mad, could 
 
 eyes? We do not worship in that way now: worship Nature, and man more than anything 
 
 but is it not reckoned still a merit, proof of else in Nature. Worship, that is, as I said 
 what we call a "poetic nature," that we 45 above, admire without hmit: this, in the full 
 
 recognize how every object has a divine beauty use of their faculties, with all sincerity of heart, 
 
 in it; how every object still verily is "a window they could do. I consider Hero-worship to 
 
 through which we may look into Infinitude be the grand modifying element in that 
 
 itself." He that can discern the lovehness of ancient system of thought. What I called the 
 things, we call him Poet, Painter, Man of 50 perplexed jungle of Paganism sprang, we may 
 
 Genius, gifted, loveable. These poor Sabeans say, out of many roots: every admiration, 
 
 did even what he does, — ^in their own fashion, adoration of a star or natural object, was a 
 That they did it, in what fashion soever, was a 
 
 merit: better than what the entirely stupid man ^^^/A,'^Z^Z) ZZ°o^ ^hS'^^lJ^^'lTtt 
 
 *Jean Paul Richter (1763-1825), one of the most early Fathers of the Church, especially famous for his 
 
 widely known of the German humorists and satirists. Homilies. 
 
 8 A very brilliant star of the Southern hemisphere, in « A term in Jewish and early Christian theology, ex- 
 
 the constellation of the ship Argo. According to Plu- pressing the divine presence either in heaven or upon 
 
 tarch, it was named from Canopus, the pilot of Menelaus. the earth, among the people of Israel or in the sanctuary. 
 
 * A people of Southern Arabia, formerly supposed to ^ A name assumed by Friederich von Hardenberg 
 
 be worshippers of the stars. (1772-1801), a German romantic writer. 
 
682 THE VICTORIAIsr AGE 
 
 root, or fibre of a root; but Hero-woi-ship is it was always and everywhere, and cannot 
 the deepest root of all; the tap-root, from cease till man himself ceases. 
 which in a great degree all the rest were nour- I am well aware that in these days Hero- 
 ished and grown. worship, the thing I call Hero-worship, pro- 
 
 And now if worship even of a star had some 5 f esses to have gone out, and finally ceased, 
 meaning in it, how much more might that of a This, for reasons which it will be worth while 
 Hero! Worship of a Hero is transcendent ad- sometime to inquire into, is an age that as it 
 miration of a great Man! I say great men were denies the existence of great men; denies 
 are still admirable; I say, there is at bottom, the desirableness of great men. Show our 
 nothing else admirable! No nobler feehng 10 critics a great man, a Luther for example, 
 than this of admiration for one higher than they begin to what they call "account" for 
 himself dwells in the breast of man. It is to him; not to worship him, but take the dimen- 
 this hour, and at all hours, the vivifying in- sions of him, — and bring him out to be a 
 fluence in man's life. Religions I find stand little kind of man! He was the "creature of the 
 upon it; not paganism only, but far higher and 15 Time," they say; the Time called him forth, 
 truer religions, — all reUgion hitherto known, the Time did everything, he nothing — but what 
 Hero-worship, heartfelt prostrate admiration, we the Httle critic could have done too! This 
 submission, burning, boundless, for a noblest seems to me but melancholy work. The Time 
 godhke Form of Man, — is not that the germ call forth? Alas, we have known Times call 
 of Christianity itself? The greatest of all 20 loudly enough for their great man; but not 
 Heroes is One — whom we do not name here! find him when they called! He was not there; 
 Let sacred silence meditate that sacred matter; Providence had not sent him; the Time, calling 
 you will find it the ultimate perfection of a its loudest, had to go down to confusion and 
 principle extant throughout man's history wreck because he would not come when called, 
 on earth. 25 For if we think of it, no Time need have 
 
 Or coming into lower, less unspeakable gone to ruin, could it have found a man great 
 provinces, is not all Loyalty akin to religious enough, a man wise and good enough: wisdom 
 Faith also? Faith is loyalty to some inspired to discern truly what the Time wanted, valour 
 Teacher, some spiritual Hero. And what to lead it on the right road thither; these are 
 therefore is loyalty proper, the Hf e-breath of all 30 the salvation of any Time. But I hken common 
 society, but an effluence of Hero-worshij), languid Times, with their unbelief, distress, 
 submissive admiration for the truly great? perplexity, with their languid doubting char- 
 Society is founded on Hero-worship. All acters and embarrassed circumstances, im- 
 dignities of rank, on which human association potently crumbling down into ever worse 
 rests, are what we may call a Heroaxchy (Gov- 35 distress towards final ruin: — all this I hken 
 ernment of Heroes), — or a Hierarchy,^ for it to dry dead fuel, waiting for the lightning 
 is "sacred" enough withal! The Duke means out of Heaven that shall kindle it. The great 
 Dux, Leader; King is Kon-ning, Kan-ning, man, with his free force direct out of God's 
 Man that knows or cans.^ Society everywhere own hand, is the lightning. His word is the 
 is some representation, not wsupportably 40 wise healing word which all can believe in. 
 inaccurate, of a graduated Worship of Heroes:— All blazes round him now, when he has once 
 reverence and obedience done to men really struck on it, into fire hke his own. The dry 
 great and wise. Not insupportably inaccurate, mouldering sticks are thought to have called 
 I say! They are all as bank-notes, these social him forth. They did want him greatly; but 
 dignitaries, all representing gold; — and several 45 as to calling him forth — ! Those are critics 
 of them alas, always are forged notes. We of small vision, I think, who cry: "See, is it 
 can do with some forged false notes; with a not the sticks that made the fire? " No sadder 
 good many even; but not with all, or the most proof can be given by a man of his own httle- 
 of them forged! No: there have to come ness than disbelief in great men. There is no 
 revolutions then; cries of Democracy, Liberty 50 sadder symptom of a generation than such 
 and Equahty, and I know not what: — the general bhndness to the spiritual lightning, 
 notes being all false, and no gold to be had for with faith only in the heap of barren dead fuel. 
 them, people take to crying in their depair It is the last consummation of unbelief. In 
 that there is no gold, that there never was any! all epochs of the world's history, we shall find 
 — "Gold," Hero-worship, is nevertheless, as 55 the Great Man to have been the indispensable 
 
 8 From the Greek hieros, sacred, and archo, I rule. ^^T^'^^l^^ }''^, epoch:-the hghtning, without\ 
 Here used as "government by the holy or sacred ones." WhlCn the lUel never WOUld nave burnt. i D.Q , 
 
 •This derivation of Ain^from con is a mistaken etymol- History of the World, I said akeady, was the 
 
 ogy. King comes from O. E. cynxng, and xs related to-r,. *', e ry a. -xit 
 
 English kin. Biography of Great Men, 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 683 
 
 BURNS his nobleness; voting pieces of plate to him! 
 
 (From the same) However, he was not lost; nothing is lost. 
 
 ^ Robert is there; the outcome of him, — and 
 
 It was a curious phenom 3non, in the with- indeed of many generations of such as him. 
 ered, unbeheving, secondhand Eighteenth Cen- 5 This Burns appeared under every disad- 
 tury, that of a hero starting up, among the vantage; uninstructed, poor, born only to hard 
 artificial pasteboard figures and productions, manual toil; and writing, when it came to that, 
 in the guise of a Robert Burns. Like a little in a rustic special dialect, known only to a 
 well in the rocky desert places, — hke a sudden small province of the country he Hved in. Had 
 splendour of Heaven in the artificial Vauxhall!* 10 he written, even what he did write, in the gen- 
 People knew not what to make of it. They eral language of England, I doubt not he had 
 took it for a piece of the Vauxhall firework; already become universally recognized as 
 alas, it let itself be so taken, though struggling being, or capable to be, one of our greatest 
 half-bhndly, as in bitterness of death, against men. That he should have tempted so many 
 that! Perhaps no man had such a false recep- 15 to penetrate through the rough husk of that 
 tion from his fellowmen. Once more a very dialect of his, is proof that there lay some- 
 wasteful life-drama was enacted under the sun. thing far from common within it. He has 
 
 The tragedy of Burns' life is known to all of gained a certain recognition, and is continu- 
 you. Surely we may say if discrepancy be- ing to do so over all quarters of our wide Saxon 
 tween place held and place merited constitute 20 world: wheresoever a Saxon dialect is spoken, 
 perverseness of lot for a man, no lot could be it begins to be understood, by personal inspec- 
 more perverse than Burns's. Among those tion of this and the other, that one of the most 
 secondhand acting-figures, mimes for most part, considerable Saxon men of the Eighteenth 
 of the Eighteenth Century, once more a giant Century was an Ayrshire Peasant named 
 Original Man; one of those men who reach 25 Robert Burns. Yes, I will say, here too was a 
 down to the perennial Deeps, who take rank piece of the right Saxon stuff: strong as the 
 with the Heroic among men: and he was born Harz-rock,^ rooted in the depths of the world; 
 in a poor Ayrshire hut. The largest soul of all — rock, yet with wells of living softness in it! 
 the British lands came among us in the shape A wild impetuous whirlwind of passion and 
 of a hard-handed Scottish Peasant. 30 faculty slumbered quiet there; such heavenly 
 
 His Father, a poor toiling man, tried various melody dwelhng in the heart of it. A noble 
 things; did not succeed in any; was involved in rough genuineness; homely, rustic, honest; 
 continual difficulties. 'The Steward, Factor true simplicity of strength; with its lightning- 
 as the Scotch call him, used to send letters and fire, with its soft dewy pity; — like the old 
 threatenings. Burns says, "which threw us 35 Norse Thor,^ the Peasant-god! 
 all into tears." The brave, hard-toiling, hard- Burns's brother Gilbert, a man of much sease 
 
 suffering Father, his brave heroine of a wife; and worth, has told me that Robert, in his 
 and those children, of whom Robert was one! young days, in spite of their hardship, was 
 In this Earth, so wide otherwise, no shelter usually the gayest of speech; a fellow of in- 
 iovihem. The letters "threw us all into tears:" 40 finite frolic, laughter, sense and heart; far 
 figure it. The brave Father, I say always; — a pleasanter to hear there, stript, cutting peats 
 silent Hero and Poet; without whom the son in the bog, or suchlike, than he ever afterwards 
 had never been a speaking one! Burns's school- knew him. I can well believe it. The basis 
 master^ came afterwards to London, learnt of mirth {"fond gaillard," as old Marquis 
 what good society was; but declares that in45Mirabeau calls it), a primal-element of sun- 
 no meeting of men did he ever enjoy better shine and joyfulness, coupled with his other 
 discourse than at the hearth of this peasant, deep and earnest qualities, is one of the most 
 And his poor "seven acres of nursery-ground," attractive characteristics of Burns. A large 
 — not that, nor the miserable patch of clay- fund of Hope dwells in him; spite of his tragical 
 farm, nor anything he tried to get a living by, 50 history, he is not a mourning man. He shakes 
 would prosper with him; he had a sore unequal his sorrows gallantly aside; bounds forth vic- 
 battle all his days. But he stood to it vahantly; torious over them. It is as the Hon shaking 
 a wise, faithful, unconquerable man; — swal- "dew-drops from his mane;" as the swift- 
 lowing down how many sore sufferings daily bounding horse, that laughs at the shaking of 
 into silence; fighting like an unseen Hero, — 55 the spear. — But indeed, Hope, Mirth, of the 
 nobody publishing newspaper paragraphs about sort hke Burns's, are they not the outcome 
 
 1 Vauxhall Gardens on the outskirts of London, a place 
 
 of public amusement. * Rocky mountains in Germany, the highest peak the 
 
 2 John Murdoch, who was instrumental in guiding Brocken is the scene of the witches in Goethe's Faust. 
 Burns's early reading. * The Scandinavian god of Thunder. 
 
684 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 properly of warm generous affection, — such unresting man. But the characteristic of 
 as is the beginning of all to every man? Mirabeau too is veracity and sense, power of 
 
 You would think it strange if I called Burns true insight, superiority of vision. The thing 
 the most gifted British soul we had in all that that he says is worth remembering. It is a 
 century of his: and yet I believe the day is 5 flash of insight into some object or other: so 
 coming when there will be little danger in say- do both these men speak. The same raging 
 ing so. His writings, all that he did under such passions; capable too in both of manifesting 
 obstructions are only a poor fragment of him. themselves as the tenderest noble affections. 
 Professor Stewart^ remarked very justly, what Wit, wild laughter, energy, directness, sin- 
 indeed is true of all Poets good for much, that 10 cerity: these were in both. The types of the 
 his poetry was not any particular faculty; but two men are not dissimilar. Burns too could 
 the general result of a naturally vigorous have governed, debated in National Assem- 
 original mind expressing itself in that way. bhes; policised, as few could. Alas, the cour- 
 Burns's gifts, expressed in conversation, are age which had to exhibit itseK in capture of 
 the theme of all that ever heard him. All kinds 15 smuggling schooners in the Solway Frith ;^ in 
 of gifts: from the gracefulest utterances of keeping silence over so much, where no good 
 courtesy, to the highest fire of passionate speech, but only inarticulate rage was possible: 
 speech; loud floods of mirth, soft waiUngs of this might have bellowed forth Ushers de Br4z4' 
 affection, laconic emphasis, clear piercing in- and the like; and made itself visible to all 
 sight; all was in him. Witty duchesses cele-20men, in managing of kingdoms, in ruling of 
 brate him as a man whose speech "led them great, ever-memorable epochs! But they said 
 off their feet." This is beautiful: but still to him reprovingly, his Official Superiors said, 
 more beautiful that which Mr. Lockhart^ has and wrote: "You are to work, not to think." 
 recorded, which I have more than once alluded Of your thinking-isiculty, the greatest in this 
 to, How the waiters and ostlers at inns would 25 land, we have no need; you are to gauge beer 
 get out of bed, and come crowding to hear there; for that only arfe you wanted. Very 
 this man speak! Waiters and ostlers: — they notable; — and worth mentioning, though we 
 too were men, and here was a man! I have know what is to be said and answered! As if 
 heard much about his speech; but one of the thought, Power of Thinking, were not at all 
 best things I ever heard of it was, last year, 30 times, in all places and situations of the world, 
 from a venerable gentleman long familiar with precisely the thing that was wanted. The 
 him. That it was speech distinguished by fatal man, is he not always the -unthinking 
 always having something in it. "He spoke man, the man who cannot think and see; but 
 rather Httle than much," this old man told only grope, and hallucinate; and missee the 
 me; "sat rather silent in those early days, as 35 nature of the thing he works with? He misses 
 in the company of persons above him; and it, mistakes it as we say; takes it for one thing, 
 always when he did speak, it was to throw and it is another thing, — and leaves him stand- 
 new light on the matter." I know not why ing hke a Futility there! He is the fatal man; 
 any one should ever speak otherwise! — But unutterably fatal, put in the high places of 
 if we look at his general force of soul, his healthy 40 men. — "Why complain of this?" say some: 
 robustness every way, the rugged downright- "Strength is mournfully denied its arena; thaf 
 ness, penetration, generous valour and man- was true from of old." Doubtless; and ^tht 
 fulness that was in him, — where shall we worse for the arena, answer I! Complainim 
 readily find a better-gifted man? profits Httle; stating of the truth may profit. 
 
 Among the great men of the Eighteenth 45 That a Europe, with its French Revolution 
 Century, I sometimes feel as if Burns might just breaking out, finds no need of a Burns 
 be found to resemble Mirabeau'^ more than except for gauging beer, — is a thing I, for one, 
 any other. They differ widely in vesture; yet cannot rejoice at. 
 
 look at them intrinsically. There is the same Once more we have to say here, that the 
 burly thick-necked strength of body as of 50 chief quahty of Burns is the sincerity of him. 
 soul; — built, in both cases, on what the old So in his Poetry, so in his hfe. The Song he 
 Marquis calls a fond gaillard. By nature by ^ ^^ ^,j^^.^^ ^^ 3^^^^, ^^^^^^,.^^ ^ ^^^-^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ 
 
 course of breedmg, mdeed by nation, Mirabeau gauger of ale at Dumfries, where it sometimes became his 
 
 has much more of bluster; a noisy, forward, duty to board and seize a smuggling brig, as was the 
 
 ' case on l^eb. ^7, 17y.i. 
 
 9 The Marquis de Br6z4 was Chief Usher to the Court\ 1 
 )rofes3or of moral at the time of the French Revolution. On one occasion, \ ( 
 June 22, 1789, when de Brez6 attempted to dismiss the '(f 
 and biographer National Deputies by the King's orders, Mirabeau defied ' 
 of Scott, wrote also a Life of Burns, 1828. him in the name of the will of the people, and thus held 
 
 ^ A famous French writer, orator, and statesman (1749- the deputies in session. V. Carlyle's French Revolution, \ 
 91). The "old Marquis," mentioned later, is his father. Vol. I., Bk. V., chap. II. j 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 685 
 
 sings is not of fantasticalities; it is of a thing message from on high; and must and will have 
 felt, really there; the prime merit of this, as itself obeyed. 
 
 of all in him, and of his life generally, is truth. My last remark is on that notablest phasis 
 
 The life of Burnp is what we may call a great of Burns's history, — his visit to Edinburgh. ^2 
 tragic sincerity. A sort of savage sincerity, — 5 Often it seems to me as if his demeanour there 
 not cruel, far from that; but wild, wrestling were the highest proof he gave of what a 
 naked with the truth of things. In that sense, fund of worth and genuine manhood was in 
 there is something of the savage in all great him. If we think of it, few heavier burdens 
 men. could be laid on the strength of a man. So 
 
 Hero-worship,— Odin, Bums? ^° Well: These 10 sudden; all common Lionism, which ruins 
 Men of Letters too were not without a kind of innumerable men, was as nothing to this. 
 Hero-worship; but what a strange condition It is as if Napoleon had been made a King of, 
 has that got into now! The waiters and ostlers not gradually, but at once from the Artillery 
 of Scotch inns, prying about the door, eager Lieutenantcy in the Regiment La F6re. Burns, 
 to catch any words that fell from Burns, were 15 still only in his twenty-seventh year, is no 
 doing unconscious reverence to the Heroic, longer even a ploughman; he is flying to the 
 Johnson had his Boswell for worshipper, Rous- West Indies to escape disgrace and jail. This 
 seau^^ had worshippers enough; princes calling month he is a ruined peasant, his wages seven 
 on him in his mean garret; the great, the pounds a year, and these gone from him: next 
 beautiful doing reverence to the poor moon- 20 month he is in the blaze of rank and beauty, 
 struck man. For himself a most portentous handing down jewelled Duchesses to dinner; 
 contradiction; the two ends of his life not to the cynosure of all eyes! Adversity is some- 
 be brought into harmony. He sits at the times hard upon a man; but for one man who 
 tables of grandees; and has to copy music can stand prosperity, there are a hundred 
 for his own living. He cannot even get his 25 that will stand adversity. I admire much the 
 music copied: "By dint of dining out," says way in which Burns met all this. Perhaps 
 he, "I run the risk of dying by starvation at no man one could point out, was ever so sorely 
 home." For his worshippers too a most tried, and so little forgot himself. Tranquil, 
 questionable thing! If doing Hero-worship unastonished; not abashed, not inflated, neither 
 well or badly be the test of vital wellbeing or 30 awkwardness nor afi"ectation : he feels that 
 illbeing to a generation, can we say that these he there is the man Robert Burns; that the 
 generations are very first-rate? — And yet "rank is but the guinea-stamp;" that the 
 our heroic Men of Letters do teach, govern, celebrity is but the candle-light, which will 
 are kings, priests, or what you like to call them; show what man, not in the least make him a 
 intrinsically there is no preventing it by any 35 better or other man! Alas, it may readily, 
 means whatever. The world has to obey him unless he look to it, make him a worse man; 
 who thinks and sees in the world. The world a wretched inflated wind-bag, — inflated till 
 can alter the manner of that; can either have he burst, and become a dead lion; for whom, 
 it as blessed continuous summer sunshine, or as some one has said, " there is no resurrection 
 as unblessed black thunder and tornado, — 40 of the body;" worse than a living dog! — Burns 
 with unspeakable difference of profit for the is admirable here. 
 
 world! The manner of it is very alterable; And yet, alas, as I have observed elsewhere, 
 
 the matter and fact of it is not alterable by any these Lion-hunters were the ruin and death of 
 power under the sky. Light; or, failing that. Burns. It was they that rendered it impossible 
 lightning: the world can take its choice. Not 45 for him to live! They gathered round him in his 
 whether we call an Odin god, prophet, priest. Farm; hindered his industry; no place was 
 or what we call him; but whether we believe remote enough from them. He could not get 
 the word he tells us: there it all lies. If it his Lionism forgotten, honestly as he was dis- 
 be a true word, we shall have to believe it; posed to do so. He falls into discontents, 
 believing it, we shall have to do it. What 60 into miseries, faults; the world getting ever 
 name or welcome we give him or it, is a point more desolate for him; health, character, 
 that concerns ourselves mainly. It, the new peace of mind, all gone; — solitary enough now. 
 Truth, new deeper revealing of the Secret It is tragical to think of! These men came but 
 
 of this Universe, is verily of the nature of a „_,, . ^ . ,_„„ ^ ^ i. • tt-j- u u 
 
 ' *^ 12 The winter of 1786-7, Burns spent m Edinburgh, 
 
 w Carlyle began his series of lectures on Heroes and Hero where he became the lion of the season and was courted 
 
 PTors/iip, with that on "The Hero as Divinity," in which by the witty, the fashionable, and the learned. Just 
 
 he first considered the Norse god Odin. before this be was on the point of leaving the country 
 
 " Rousseau (1712-78), was one of the greatest French "to escape disgrace, or jail," and "of flying to the West 
 
 writers of the pre-revolutionary period. Johnson, Rous- Indies." News of the success of his poems, however, 
 
 seau, and Burns, are the three illustrations of the "Hero determined him to go to Edinburgh to publish a second 
 
 as Man of Letters " used by Carlyle in this lecture. edition. 
 
686 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 to see him; it was out of no sympathy with which are far from thee. "Cannot I do what 
 him, nor no hatred to him. They came to get I hke with my own?" Gracious Heaven, my 
 a little amusement: they got their amusement; brother, this that thou seest with those sick 
 — and the Hero's life went for it! eyes is no firm Eldorado, and Corn-Law Para- 
 
 Richter says, in the Island of Sumatra there 5 dise of Donothings, but a dream of thy own 
 is a kind of "Lightchafers," large Fire-flies, fevered brain. It is a glass-window, I tell 
 which people stick upon spits, and illuminate thee, so many stories from the street; where 
 the ways with at night. Persons of condition are iron spikes and the law of gravitation! 
 can thus travel with a pleasant radiance, What is the meaning of nobleness, if this 
 
 which they much admire. Great honour to lO be "noble?" In a valiant suffering for others, 
 the Fire-flies! But — ! — not in a slothful making others suffer for us, 
 
 did nobleness ever lie. The chief of men is he 
 THE GrOSPEL OF WORK ^^^ stands in the van of men; fronting the 
 
 ,_, _, - „ 10 -ION P®^^^ which frightens back all others; which, if 
 
 (From Past and Present, 1843) ^^^^ be not vanquished, wiU devour the others. 
 
 A High Class without duties to do is like a Every noble crown is, and on Earth will forever 
 tree planted on precipices; from the roots of be, a crown of thorns. The Pagan Hercules, 
 which all the earth has been crumbUng. Nature why was he accounted a hero? Because he had 
 owns no man who is not a Martyr withal. Is slain Nemean Lions, cleaned Augean Stables, 
 there a man who pretends to Uve luxuriously 20 undergone Twelve Labors^ only not too heavy 
 housed up; screened from all work, from want, for a god. In modern, as in ancient and in all 
 danger, hardship, the victory over which is societies, the Aristocracy, doing them or not, 
 what we name work, — he himself to sit serene, have taken the post of honor; which is the post 
 amid down-bolsters and apphances, and have of difficulty, the post of danger, — of death, if 
 all his work and battling done by other men? 25 the difficulty be not overcome. II faut -payer 
 And such man calls himself a noWe-man? His de sa irie.^ Why was our hfe given us, if not 
 fathers worked for him, he says; or success- that we should manfully give it? Descend, 
 fully gambled for him: here he sits; professes, O Donothing Pomp; quit thy down-cushions; 
 not in sorrow but in pride, that he and his expose thyself to learn what wretches feel, 
 have done no work, time out of mind. It is 30 and how to cure it? The czar of Russia^ be- 
 the law of the land, and is thought to be the came a dusty toiling shipwright; worked with 
 law of the Universe, that he, alone of recorded his axe in the docks of Saardam; and his aim 
 men, shall have no task laid on him, except was small to thine. Descend thou: undertake 
 that of eating his cooked victuals, and not this horrid "living chaos of Ignorance and 
 flinging himself out of window. Once more 1 35 Hunger" weltering round thy feet; say, "I 
 will say, there was no stranger spectacle ever will heal it, or behold I will die foremost in it." 
 shown under this Sun. A veritable fact in Such is verily the law. Everywhere and 
 our England of the Nineteenth Century. His everywhen a man has to "pay with his life;" 
 victuals he does eat: but as for keeping in the to do his work, as a soldier does, at the expense 
 inside of the window — have not his friends, 40 of life. In no Pie-powder^ earthly court can 
 Uke me, enough to do? Truly, looking at you sue an Aristocracy to do its work, at this 
 his Corn-Laws, Game-Laws, Chandos-Clauses, moment: but in the Higher Court, which even 
 Bribery-Elections^ and much else, you do it calls "Court of Honor," and which is the 
 shudder over the tumbling and plunging he Court of Necessity withal, and the eternal 
 makes, held back by the lapels and coat- 45 Court of the Universe, in which all Fact comes 
 skirts; only a thin fence of window-glass before to plead, and every Human Soul is an appari- 
 him, — and in the streets mere horrid iron spikes! tor,^ — the Aristocracy is answerable, and even t 
 My sick brother, as in hospital-maladies men now answering, there. . . .' T 
 
 do, thou dreamest of Paradises and Eldorados, 2 The killing of the Nemean Lion, and the cleansing 
 
 of the Augean stable were two of the twelve labors of 
 
 ^ The Corn laws were a source of great agitation in the Hercules, 
 early 19th century. They were laws passed in the in- 3 One must pay with one's life. 
 
 terests of the land-owners; they restricted the importa- * Peter the Great (1672-1725), who, in his desire to 
 
 tion of grain by imposing a heavy tax on the im- create a Russian navy, visited among other countries, 
 
 ports. They were not repealed until 1846. The Game Holland, and worked as a common shipwright at Amster- 
 
 laws were very strict and cruel and were in the interests dam and Saardam. 
 
 of the landed gentry. The Chandos Clauses proposed by s The Pie powder courts of the middle ages in England 
 
 Lord Chandos in 1831, as an alteration of the First Re- had jurisdiction for the trial of controversies arising at v j 
 
 form Bill, extended the county suffrage to all tenants-at- fairs, markets, etc. The phrase is an English version of ^ ^| 
 
 will of £50 rental, and thus aimed to strengthen the the French piepoudre (pied poudre), "dusty foot" which y 
 
 aristocracy and in a measure to check the cause of Re- probably referred to the dusty-footed tradesmen, pedlars, 
 
 form. Bribery Elections refers to the extensive practice etc., who resorted to these courts. 
 
 of bribing voters at elections, which was partly corrected « An official who serves the summons and executes the 
 
 by the Corrupt Practices Prevention Act passed in 1854. process of an ecclesiastical court. 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 687 
 
 For there is a perennial nobleness, and even and spin! Of an idle unrevolving man the 
 sacredness, in Work. Were he never so be- kindest Destiny, like the most assiduous Potter 
 nighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is without wheel, can bake and knead nothing 
 always hope in a man that actually and earn- other than a botch; let her spend on him what 
 estly works: in Idleness alone is there perpetual 5 expensive coloring, what gilding and enameUing 
 despair. Work, never so mammonish, mean, she will, he is but a botch. Not a dish; no, a 
 is in communion with Nature: the real desire bulging, kneaded, crooked, shambhng, squint- 
 to get work done will itself lead one more and cornered, amorphous botch, — a mere enamelled 
 more to truth, to Nature's appointments and vessel of dishonor! Let the idle think of this, 
 regulations, which are truth. 10 Blessed is he who has found his work; let 
 
 The latest Gospel in this world is, Know thy him ask no other blessedness. He has a work, 
 work and do it. "Know thyself:" long enough a Ufe-purpose; he has found it, and will follow 
 has that poor "seK" of thine tormented thee; it! How, as a free-flowing channel, dug and 
 thou wilt never get to "know" it, I believe! torn by noble force through the sour mud- 
 Think it not thy business, this of knowing 15 swamp of one's existence, hke an ever-deepening 
 thyself; thou art an unknowable individual: river there, it runs and flows; — draining off 
 know what thou canst work at; and work at it, the sour festering water, gradually from the 
 like a Hercules! That will be thy better plan, root of the remotest grass-blade; making, 
 
 It has been written, "an endless signifi- instead of pestilential swamp, a green fruitful 
 cance hes in Work!" a man perfects himself 20 meadow itself, let the stream and its value be 
 by working. Foul jungles are cleared away, great or small! Labor is Life: from the inmost 
 fair seed-fields rise instead, and stately cities; heart of the Worker rises his god-given Force, 
 and withal the man himself first ceases to be a the sacred celestial life-essence breathed into 
 jungle and foul unwholesome desert thereby, him by Almighty God; from his inmost heart 
 Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of 25 awakens him to all nobleness, — to all knowl- 
 Labor, the whole soul of a man is composed edge, "self-knowledge" and much else, so 
 into a kind of real harmony, the instant he soon as Work fitly begins. Knov/ledge? The 
 sets himself to work! Doubt, Desire, Sorrow, knowledge that will hold good in working, 
 Remorse, Indignation, Despair itself, all these cleave thou to that; for Nature herself ac- 
 hke hell-dogs lie beleaguering the soul of the 30 credits that, says Yea to that. Properly thou 
 poor day-worker, as of every man: but he hast no other knowledge but what thou hast 
 bends himself with free valor against his task, got by working: the rest is yet all a hypothe- 
 and aU these are stilled, all these shrink mur- sis of knowledge; a thing to be argued of in 
 muring far off into their caves. The man is schools, a thing floating in the clouds, in endless 
 now a man. The blessed glow of Labor in 35 logic-vortices, till we try it and fix it. "Doubt, 
 him, is it not as purifying fire, wherein all of whatever kind, can be ended by Action 
 poison is burnt up, and of sour smoke itself alone." 
 there is made bright blessed flame! 
 
 Destiny, on the whole, has no other way 
 of cultivating us. A formless Chaos, once set 40 ®^Ottia0 llBabiUgtOtl ^aCHUla^ 
 it revolving, grows round and ever rounder; icnn_i«f^Q 
 
 ranges itself by mere force of gravity, into 1800-1859 
 
 strata, spherical courses; is no longer a Chaos, r>r\QTi7-i?T t 
 
 but a round compacted World. What would 130bW±.LL 
 
 become of the Earth, did she cease to revolve? 45 (F^om Review of Croker's BoswelVs Johnson, 
 In the poor old Earth, so long as she revolves, 1831) 
 
 all inequalities, irregularities, disperse them- 
 selves; all irregularities are incessantly be- The "Life of Johnson" is assuredly a great, 
 coming regular. Hast thou looked on the a very great work. Homer is not more decidedly 
 Potter's wheel, — one of the venerablest ob- 50 the first of dramatists, Demosthenes is not more 
 jects; old as the Prophet Ezekiel and far older? decidedly the first of orators, than Boswell is 
 Rude lumps of clay, how they spin themselves the first of biographers. He has no second, 
 up, by mere quick whirUng, into beautiful He has distanced all his competitors so de- 
 circular dishes. And fancy the most assiduous cidedly that it is not worth while to place 
 Potter, but without his wheel; reduced to 55 them. Eclipse is first, and the rest nowhere, 
 making dishes, or rather amorphous botches. We are not sure that there is in the whole 
 by mere kneading and baking! Even such a history of the human intellect so strange a 
 Potter were Destiny, with a human soul that phenomenon as this book. Many of the great- 
 would rest and lie at ease; that would not work est men that ever lived have written biography. 
 
688 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Boswell was one of the smallest men that ever frightened out of his wits at sea, and how the 
 lived, and he has beaten them all. He was, if sailors quieted him as they would have quieted 
 we are to give any credit to his own account a child, how tipsy he was at Lady Cork's one 
 or to the united testimony of all who knew him, evening and how much his merriment annoyed 
 a man of the meanest and feeblest intellect. 5 the ladies, how impertinent he was to the Duch- 
 Johnson described him as a fellow who had ess of Argle and with what stately contempt she 
 missed his only chance of immortality by not put down his impertinence, how Colonel 
 having been ahve when the "Dunciad" was Macleod sneered to his face at his impudent 
 written. Beauclerk^ used his name as a pro- obtrusiveness, how his father, and the very 
 verbial expression for a bore. He was the 10 wife of his bosom laughed and fretted at his 
 laughing-stock of the whole of that brilliant fooleries — all these things he proclaimed to all 
 society which has owed to him the greater the world, as if they had been subjects for 
 part of its fame. He was always laying him- pride and ostentatious rejoicing. All caprices 
 self at the feet of some eminent man, and beg- of his temper, all the illusions of his vanity, 
 ging to be spit upon and trampled upon. He 15 all his hypochondriac whimsies, all his castles 
 was always earning some ridiculous nickname, in the air, he displayed with a cool self- 
 and the "binding it as a crown unto him," complacency, a perfect unconsciousness that he 
 not merely in metaphor, but literally. He ex- was making a fool of himself, to which it is 
 hibited himself, at the Shakespeare Jubilee, , impossible to find a parallel in the whole history 
 to all the crowd which filled Stratford-on-Avon, 20 of mankind. He had used many people ill; 
 with a placard round his hat bearing the in- but assuredly he has used nobody so ill as 
 scrip tion of Corsica Boswell. ^ In his Tour, he himself. 
 
 proclaimed to all the world that at Edinburgh That such a man should have written one of 
 
 he was known by the appellation of Paoli the best books in the world is strange enough. 
 Boswell.3 Servile and impertinent, shallow 25 But this is not all. Many persons who have 
 and pedantic, a bigot and a sot, bloated with conducted themselves foolishly in active life, 
 family pride, and eternally blustering about and whose conversation has indicated no su- 
 the dignity of a born gentleman, yet stooping perior powers of mind, have left us valuable 
 to be a talebearer, and eavesdropper, a common works. Goldsmith was very justly described 
 butt in the taverns of London, so curious to 30 by one of his contemporaries as an inspired 
 know everybody that was talked about, that, idiot,^ and by another as a being. 
 Tory and High Churchman as he was, he " Who wrote like an angel, and talked like poor 
 manoeuvered, we have been told, for an in- Poll."^ 
 
 troduction to Tom Paine;* so vain of the most La Fontaine" was in society a mere simpleton, 
 childish distinctions, that when he had been 35 His blunders would not come in amiss among 
 to Court, he drove to the office where his book the stories of Hierocles.^ But these men at- 
 was printing without changing his clothes, and tained hterary eminence in spite of their weak- 
 summoned all the printer's devils to admire nesses. Boswell attained it by reason of his 
 his new ruffles and sword; such was this man, weaknesses. If he had not been a great fool, 
 and such he was content and proud to be. 40 he would never have been a great writer. 
 Everything which, another man would have Without all the qualities which made him 
 hidden, everything the publication of which the jest and the torment of those among whom 
 would have made another man hang himself, he lived, without the officiousness, the inquisi- 
 was matter of gay and clamorous exultation tiveness, the effrontery, the toad-eating, the 
 to his weak and diseased mind. What silly 45 insensibihty to all reproof, he never could have 
 things he said, what bitter retorts he provoked, produced so excellent a book. He was a slave 
 how at one place he was troubled with evil proud of his servitude, a Paul Pry,^ con • 
 presentiments which came to nothing, how at vinced that his own curiosity and garrulity 
 another place, on waking from a drunken were virtues, an unsafe companion who never 
 doze, he read the prayer-book and took a hair 50 scrupled to repay the most liberal hospitahty 
 
 of the dog that had bitten him, how he went b a remark of Horace Walpole's. Cf . Johnson's remark 
 
 to «PP TYiPn hano-pH and Pimp awav maudlin on Goldsmith, as reported by Boswell, " No man was 
 
 to see men nangea ana came away mauuun, ^^^^ ^^^^.^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^ ^^^ ^ ^^^ .^^ j^^^ j^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 how he added five hundred pounds to the tor- wise when he had." 
 
 tune of one of his babies because she was not ; Gamcg hnprom^tu__epjtap^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 scared at Johnson's ugly face, how he was 55 who wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll." , , 
 
 'Jean de La Fontaine (1621-95), a famous French \, 
 
 1 Topham Beauclerk, a young aristocrat who was the poet, noted for his tales and fables. 
 
 intimate friend of Johnson. ^ A very old collection of jokes and amusmg stories 
 
 2 V. p. 676, and n. 2. ' V. p. 677, and n. 4. in Greek, told under the name of Hierodes. 
 
 * The Anglo-American patriot and political philosopher, » An inquisitive character in a comedy, Paul Pry, by 
 
 author of Common Sense and The Rights of Man. John Poole, 1825. 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 689 
 
 by the basest violation of confidence, a man passions than proclaim all his little vanities 
 without delicacy, without shame, without sense and wild fancies. It would be easier to find 
 enough to know when he was hurting the feel- a person who would avow actions like those 
 ings of others or when he was exposing himself of Csesar Borgia^^ or Danton,i3 than one who 
 to derision; and because he was all this, he has, 5 would publish a day-dream like those of Al- 
 in an important department of literature, im- naschar^^ and Malvolio.i^ Those weaknesses 
 measurably surpassed such writers as Tacitus, which most men keep covered up in the most 
 Clarendon, Alfieri, and his own idoP" Johnson, secret places of the mind, not to be disclosed 
 Of the talents which ordinarily raise men to the eye of friendship or of love, were pre- 
 to eminence as writers, Boswell had absolutely 10 cisely the weaknesses which Boswell paraded 
 none. There is not in all his books a single before all the world. He was perfectly frank, 
 remark of his own on literature, politics, re- because the weakness of his understanding 
 ligion, or society, which is not either common- and the tumult of his spirits prevented him 
 place or absurd. His dissertations on heredi- from knowing when he made himseK ridiculous, 
 tary gentility, on the slave-trade, and on the 15 His book resembles nothing so much as the con- 
 entailing of landed estates, may serve as ex- versation of the inmates of the Palace of Truth, 
 amples. To say that these passages are His fame is great; and it will, we have no 
 sophistical would be to pay them an extrava- doubt, be lasting; but it is fame of a peculiar 
 gant compliment. They have no pretense to kind, and indeed marvellously resembles 
 argument, or even to meaning. He has re- 20 infamy. We remember no other case in which 
 ported innumerable observations made by the world has made so great a distinction be- 
 himself in the course of conversation. Of those tween a book and its author. The case of 
 observations we do not remember one which is Boswell is an exception, we think the only 
 above the intellectual capacity of a boy of exception, to this rule. His work is universally 
 fifteen. He has printed many of his own letters, 25 allowed to be interesting, instructive, eminently 
 and in these letters he is always ranting or original; yet it has brought him nothing but 
 twaddling. Logic, eloquence, wit, taste, all contempt. All the world reads it; yet we do 
 those things which are generally considered not remember ever to have read or ever to have 
 as making a book valuable were utterly wanting heard any expression of respect and admiration 
 to him. He had, indeed, a quick observation 30 for the man to whom we owe so much instruc- 
 and a retentive memory. These qualities, tion and amusement. While edition after 
 if he had been a man of sense and virtue would edition of his book was coming forth, his son, 
 scarcely of themselves have suflficed to make as Mr. Croker^^ tells us, was ashamed of it, and 
 him conspicuous; but because he was a dunce, hated to hear it mentioned. This feeling was 
 a parasite, and a coxcomb, they have made 35 natural and reasonable. Sir Alexander saw 
 him immortal. that, in proportion to the celebrity of the work, 
 
 Those parts of his book which, considered was the degradation of the author. The very 
 abstractedly, are most utterly worthless, are editors of this unfortunate gentleman's books 
 delightful when we read them as illustrations have forgotten their allegiance, and like those 
 of the character of the writer. Bad in them- 40 Puritan casuists who took arms by the author- 
 selves, they are good dramatically, like the ity of the king against his person, have attacked 
 nonsense of Justice Shallow, the cUpped the writer while doing homage to his writings. 
 Enghsh of Dr. Caius, or the misplaced conso- Mr. Croker, for example, has published two 
 nants of Fluellen." Of all confessors, Boswell thousand five hundred notes on the life of 
 is the most candid. Other mep. who have 45 Johnson, and yet scarcely ever mentions the 
 pretended to lay open their own hearts, Rous- biographer whose performance he has taken 
 seau, for example, and Lord Byron, have evi- such pains to illustrate without some expres- 
 dently written with a constant view to effect, sion of contempt. 
 
 and are to be then most distrusted when they An ill-natured man Boswell certainly was 
 seem to be most sincere. There is scarcely 50 not; yet the maUgnity of the most malignant 
 any man who would not rather accuse himself satirist could scarcely cut deeper than his 
 of great crimes and of dark and tempestuous thoughtless loquacity. Having himself no 
 
 1° Tacitus' Agricola, one of his most famous works, is 12 One of the most cruel and unscrupulous Italian 
 
 a masterpiece of biography. The earl of Clarendon dukes of the 15th century, was guilty of treachery and 
 
 (1609-74) wrote among other things a famous biography. murder in the furthering of his ambition. 
 
 Vittorio, Count Alfieri (1749-1803), an Italian dramatic " One of the leaders of the French Revolution, 
 
 poet, wrote an Autobiography of absorbing interest. 1* A character in the Arabian Nights, proverbial as a 
 
 Johnson's Lives of the Poets, is well known. dreamer. 
 
 " Justice Shallow is the weak-minded country justice of " The steward in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, who as- 
 
 Shakespeare's Merry Wives and II Henry IV.; Dr. Caius pires to the hand of his mistress. 
 
 is a physician in Merry Wives, and Fluellen is a Welsh is The editor of the edition of Boswell's Johnson which 
 
 Captain in Henry V. Macaulay is reviewing. 
 
090 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 sensibility to derision and contempt, he took teenth of February, 1788, the sittings of the 
 it for granted that all others were equally cal- Court commenced. There have been spec- 
 ious. He was not ashamed to exhibit to the tacles more dazzling to the eye, more gorgeous 
 whole world as a common spy, a common with jewellery and cloth of gold, more attrac- 
 
 tattler, a humble companion without the ex- 5 tive to grown-up children, than that which was 
 cuse of poverty, and to tell a hundred stories then exhibited at Westminster; but, perhaps, 
 of his own pertness and folly, and of the insults there never was a spectacle so well calculated 
 which his pertness and folly brought upon him. to strike a highly cultivated, a reflecting, 
 It was natural that he should show little dis- an imaginative mind. All the various kinds of 
 cretion in cases in which the feeUngs or the 10 interest which belong to the near and to the 
 honor of others might be concerned. No man, distant, to the present and to the past, were 
 surely, ever published such stories respecting collected on one spot and in one hour. All the 
 persons whom he professed to love and revere, talents and all the accomplishments which are 
 He would infallibly have made his hero as con- developed by Hberty and civilization were 
 temptible as he has made himself, had not his 15 now displayed, with every advantage which 
 hero really possessed some moral and intel- could be derived both from co-operation and 
 lectual qualities of a very high order. The from contrast. Every step in the proceedings 
 best proof that Johnson was really an extraor- carried the mind either backward, through 
 dinary man is that his character, instead of many troubled centuries, to the days when 
 being degraded, has, on the whole, been de-20the foundations of our constitution were laid; 
 cidedly raised by a work in which all his vices or far away, over boundless seas and deserts, 
 and weaknesses are exposed more unsparingly to dusky nations Uving under strange stars, 
 than they ever were exposed by Churchill or worshipping strange gods, and writing strange 
 by Kenrick." characters from right to left. The High Court 
 
 Johnson grown old, Johnson in the fulness 25 of Parhament was to sit, according to forms 
 of his fame and in the enjoyment of a competent handed down from the days of the Plantagenets, 
 fortune, is better known to us than any other on an Englishman accused of exercising tyranny 
 man in history. Everything about him, his over the lord of the holy city of Benares, and 
 coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, over the ladies of the princely house of Oude. 
 his St. Vitus's dance, his rolUng walk, his 30 The place was worthy of such a trial. It 
 blinking eye, the outward signs which too was the great hall of William Rufus, the hall 
 clearly marked his approbation of his dinner, which had resounded with acclamations at 
 his insatiable appetite for fish sauce and veal the inauguration of thirty kings, the hall 
 pie with plums, his inextinguishable thirst for which had witnessed the just sentence of Bacon^ 
 tea, his trick of touching the posts as he walked, 35 and the just absolution of Somers, the hall 
 his mysterious practice of treasuring up scraps where the eloquence of Strafford had for a 
 of orange peel, his morning slumbers, his mid- moment awed and melted a victorious party 
 night disputations, his contortions, his mutter- inflamed with just resentment, the hall 
 ings, his gruntings, his puffings, his vigorous, where Charles had confronted the High Court 
 acute, and ready eloquence, his sarcastic wit, 40 of Justice with the placid courage which has 
 his vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tem- half redeemed his fame. Neither military nor 
 pestuous rage, his queer inmates, old Mr. civil pomp was wanting. The avenues were 
 Levett^s and bUnd Mrs. Williams, ^^ the cat lined with grenadiers. The streets were kept 
 Hodge^o and the negro Frank, all are as f amihar clear by cavalry. The peers, robed in gold 
 to us as the objects by which we have been 45 and ermine, were marshalled by the heralds 
 surrounded from childhood. under Garter King-at-arms.^ The judges in 
 
 TVn? T^T?TAT ni? WA-RP17\r TTAQTTMPQl General of India in 1774. He made a capable ruler, though 
 
 IMili iKiAlj Ur WArvrtJiiN UAolliMjrO^ hia methods were sometimes open to question. On re- 
 
 ,^Q.-.\ turning to England in 1785, he was impeached for various 
 
 (1041; alleged acts of tyranny. He was tried before the bar at 
 
 ^ ,, ,. ,, .. i? .1 the House of Lords in Westminster Hall. The trial 
 
 In the meantime the preparations tor the opened February 13, 1788, and closed with Hasting's 
 
 trial had proceeded rapidly; and on the thir- acquittal seven years later, 1795. v. p. 403, supra, and 
 
 „ ^, , Mt X. 1 J T-. T t- J 1-- • 1 • * Lord Bacon was tried on the charge of bribery and 
 
 "Churchill attacked Dr. Johnson and his circle m foun^ g^ij^ j^ i62i. John, Lord Somers, Chancellor 
 
 The Ghost; Kenrick attacked Johnson s edition of Shake- under William and Mary, was tried and absolved in 
 
 speare. ,. ,. , ,, t^ u ^ t i.^ 1700. Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, one of the , 
 
 18 Johnsons humble friend, Mr. Robert Levett. an trusted advisers of Charles I, was tried and condemned \, 
 
 obscure practiser in physic amongst the lower people. q^ ^ charge of treason in 1641. Charles I himself was , 
 
 » V. p. 678, n. 13. _ tried and condemned in January, 1649. '^ 
 
 a> For a description of these pensioners of Johnson see j ^^ officer of the Order of the Gartsr. and the Chief 
 
 Macaulay's Essay on Johnson. Herald of England, one of whose duties it is to 
 
 1 Warren Hastings (1732-1818), was created Governor lords their seats in Parliament. 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 691 
 
 their vestments of state attended to give advice Cecilia, whose delicate features, lighted up by 
 on points of law. Near a hundred and seventy love and music, art has rescued from the corn- 
 lords, three fourths of the Upper House as the mon decay. There were the members of that 
 Upper House then was, walked in solemn order briUiant society, which quoted, criticized, 
 from their usual place of assembling to the sand exchanged repartees, under the rich 
 tribunal. The junior Baron present led the peacock-hangings of Mrs. Montague. 1° And 
 way, George Elliot, Lord Heathfield, recently there the ladies whose lips, more persuasive 
 ennobled for his memorable defence of Gibral- than those of Fox himself, had carried the 
 tar against the fleets and armies of France and Westminster election against palace and 
 Spain. The long procession was closed by the lo treasury, shone around Georgiana Duchess of 
 Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshall of the reahn, Devonshire. 
 
 by the great dignitaries and by the brothers and The Serjeants made proclamation. Hast- 
 
 sons of the King. Last of all came the Prince ings advanced to the bar, and bent his knee, 
 of Wales, conspicuous by his fine person and The culprit was indeed not unworthy of that 
 noble bearing. The grey old walls were hung 15 great presence. He had ruled an extensive 
 with scarlet. The long galleries were crowded and populous country, had made laws and 
 by an audience such as has rarely excited the treaties, had sent forth armies, had set up 
 fears or the emulations of an orator. There and pulled down princes. And in his high 
 were gathered together from all parts of a places had so borne himself, that all had feared 
 great, free, enlightened, and prosperous em- 20 him, that most had loved him, and that hatred 
 pire, grace and female lovehness, wit and learn- itself could deny him no title to glory, except 
 ing, the representatives of every science and of virtue. He looked Hke a great man, and not 
 every art. There were seated round the Queen like a bad man. A person small and emaciated, 
 the fair-haired young daughters of the House of yet deriving dignity from a carriage which, 
 Brunswick. There the Ambassadors of great 25 while it indicated deference to the Court, 
 Kings and Commonwealths gazed with ad- indicated also habitual self-possession and 
 miration on a spectacle which no other country self-respect, a high and intellectual forehead, 
 in the world could present. There Siddons,^ a brow pensive, but not gloomy, a mouth of 
 in the prime of her majestic beauty, looked inflexible decision, a face pale and worn, but 
 with emotion on a scene surpassing all the imi- 30 serene, on which was written, as legibly as 
 tations of the stage. There the historian of under the picture in the council-chamber 
 the Roman Empire^ thought of the days when at Calcutta, Mens cequa in arduis;^^ such was 
 Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily against Verres, the aspect with which the great Proconsul 
 and when, before a senate which still retained presented himself to his judges, 
 some show of freedom, Tacitus thundered 35 His counsel accompanied him, men all of 
 against the oppressor of Africa.^ There were whom were afterwards raised by their talents 
 seen side by side the greatest painter^ and the and learning to the highest post in their pro- 
 greatest scholar of the age.^ The spectacle fession, the bold and strong-minded Law, 
 had allured Reynolds from that easel which afterwards Chief Justice of the King's Bench; 
 preserved to us the thoughtful foreheads of 40 the more humane and eloquent Dallas, after- 
 so many writers and statesmen, and the sweet wards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas; 
 smiles of so many noble matrons. It had in- and Plomer who, near twenty years later, 
 duced Parr to suspend his labours in that successfully conducted in the same high court 
 dark and profound mine from which he had the defence of Lord Melville, ^2 and subse- 
 extracted a vast treasure of erudition, a treasure 45 quently became Vice-chancellor and Master 
 too often buried in the earth, too often paraded of the Rolls. 
 
 with injudicious and inelegant ostentation. But neither the culprit nor his advocates 
 
 but still, precious, massive, and splendid, attracted so much notice as the accusers. In 
 There appeared the voluptuous charms of her the midst of the blaze of red drapery, a space 
 to whom the heir of the throne had in secret 50 had been fitted up with green benches and 
 plighted his faith.' There too was she, the tables for the Commons. The managers, 
 beautiful mother of a beautiful race, the Saint with Burke at their head, appeared in full 
 
 *Saiah Siddons, a great English actress (1755-1831). w Elizabeth Montague (1720-1800), a writer of some 
 
 ' Edward Gibbon (1737-94), author of The Decline and note in her day, and a leader of London society, who 
 
 Fall of the Roman Empire. numbered among her visitors Walpole, Johnson, Burke, 
 
 « Marius Priscus, pro-consul of Africa, was charged Garrick, and Reynolds. 
 
 with extortion, and successfully prosecuted by Tacitus n A calm mind in the midst of troubles. 
 
 and Pliny the Younger. i^ Melville, who had been largely responsible for the 
 
 ' Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-92). investigation of Indian afifairs which led to the impeach- 
 
 8 Dr. Samuel Parr (1747-1825), a man of vast learning, ment of Hastings, was tried in 1806 for "gross malversa- 
 
 'The Prince of Wales (afterward George III), had tion and breach of duty," while acting as treasurer of the 
 
 married Mrs. Fitzherbert in 1785. Navy. 
 
692 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 dress. The collectors of gossip did not fail and animated eloquence of Charles, Earl Grey," 
 to remark that even Fox, generally so re- are able to form some estimate of the powers 
 gardless of his appearance, had paid to the of a race of men among whom he was not the 
 illustrious tribunal the compHment of wear- foremost. 
 
 ing a bag and sword. Pitt^^ had refused 5 The charges and the answers of Hastings 
 to be one of the conductors of the impeach- were first read. The ceremony occupied two 
 ment; and his commanding, copious, and whole days, and was rendered less tedious than 
 sonorous eloquence was wanting to that great it otherwise would have been by the silver 
 muster of various talents. Age and bhndness voice and just emphasis of Cowper, the clerk 
 had unfitted Lord North^^ for the duties of a 10 of the court, a near relation of the amiable 
 pubhc prosecutor; and his friends were left poet. On the third day Burke rose. Four 
 without the help of his excellent sense, his tact, sittings were occupied by his opening speech, 
 and his urbanity. But, in spite of the absence which was intended to be a general introduction 
 of these two distinguished members of the to all the charges. With an exuberance of 
 Lower House, the box in which the managers 15 thought and a splendor of diction which more 
 stood contained an array of speakers such as than satisfied the highly raised expectation of 
 perhaps had not appeared together since the the audience, he described the character and 
 great age of Athenian eloquence. There were institutions of the natives of India, recounted 
 Fox and Sheridan, the English Demosthenes the circumstances in which the Asiatic em- 
 and the EngUsh Hyperides.^^ There was20pire of Britain had originated, and set forth 
 Burke, ignorant indeed, or neghgent of the art the constitution of the Company" and of the 
 of adapting his reasonings and his style to the EngUsh presidencies. Having thus attempted 
 capacity and taste of his hearers, but in am- to communicate to his hearers an idea of 
 plitude of comprehension and richness of imagi- Eastern society, as vivid as that which ex- 
 nation superior to every orator, ancient or 25 isted in his own mind, he proceeded to arraign 
 modern. There, with eyes reverentially fixed the administration of Hastings as systematic- 
 on Burke, appeared the finest gentleman of the ally conducted in defiance of morahty and 
 age, his form developed by every manly exer- public law. The energy and pathos of the 
 cise, his face beaming with intelUgence and great orator extorted expressions of unwonted 
 spirit, the ingenious, the chivalrous, the high- 30 admiration from the stern and hostile Chan- 
 souled Windham. 1^ Nor, though surrounded cellor, and, for a moment seemed to pierce 
 by such men, did the youngest manager pass even the resolute heart of the defendant. The 
 unnoticed. At an age when most of those who ladies in the galleries, unaccustomed to such 
 distinguish themselves in life are still con- displays of eloquence, excited by the solemnity 
 tending for prizes and fellowships at coUege, 35 of the occasion, and perhaps not unwilhng to 
 he had won for himself a conspicuous place in display their taste and sensibihty, were in a 
 parliament. No advantage of fortune or con- state of uncontrollable emotion. Handker- 
 nection was wanting that could set off to the chiefs were pulled out; smelling bottles were 
 height his splendid talents, and his unblemished handed round; hysterical sobs and screams 
 honor. At twenty-three he had been thought 40 were heard; and Mrs. Sheridan^^ was carried 
 worthy to be ranked with the veteran states- out in a fit. At length the orator concluded, 
 men who appeared as the Delegates of the Raising his voice till the old arches of Irish 
 British Commons, at the bar of the British oak resounded, "Therefore," said he, "hath 
 nobility. All who stood at that bar, save him it with all confidence been ordered, by the 
 alone, are gone, culprit, advocates, accusers. 45 Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach 
 To the generation which is now in the vigor Warren Hastings of high crimes and misde- 
 of life, he is the sole representative of a great meanors. I impeach him in the name of the 
 age which has passed away. But those who. Commons' House of Parliament, whose trust 
 within the last ten years, have listened with he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of 
 delight, till the morning sun shone on the 50 the English nation, whose ancient honor he has 
 [tapestries of the House of Lords, to the lofty sullied. I impeach him in the name of the 
 
 ,2wir ■nz...x. V /^^cn iort«N "D • Tv/f • people of India, whose rights he has trodden 
 
 » Wilham Pitt the Younger (1759-1806), Pnme Minis- j^j. ju j-uux j 
 
 ter of England. Under foot, and whose country he has turned 
 
 "Prime Minister from 1770-82, he may be remembered jnto a desert. Lastly, in the name of human 
 
 by his obstinate adherence to the pohcy of oppression , •. ii? • j.u r u xu • i.i 
 
 with respect t9 America. 55 nature itself, m the name of both sexes, m th 
 
 1* An Athenian orator of the fourth century B. C, who 
 although a friend of Demosthenes was chosen to prosecute " Grey later became Prime Minister, and did mucii 
 
 him on a charge of bribery. toward the passing of the Reform Bill in 1832. 
 
 '6 William Windham, a member of Pariiament, and is The East India Company, 
 
 afterwardsamomberof the Ministry of the Pitt and Gren- "The wife of the dramatist and statesman RicharJ 
 
 ville administration. Brinsley Sheridan. 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 693 
 
 name of every age, in the name of every rank, came, and through life continued to be, a pas- 
 I impeach the common enemy and oppressor sionate admirer of the Irish music, and especi- 
 of all!"2o ally of the compositions of Carolan,i some of the 
 
 last notes of whose harp he heard. It ought to 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH ^^® added that OHver, though by birth one of 
 
 .^j,>^v the Englishry, and though connected by 
 
 ^ ^ numerous ties with the Established Church, 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith was one of the most pleas- never showed the least sign of that contemp- 
 ing English writers of the eighteenth century, tuous antipathy with which, in his days, the 
 He was of a Protestant and Saxon family which 10 ruling minority in Ireland too generally re- 
 had been long settled in Ireland, and which had, garded the subject majority. So far, indeed, 
 like most other Protestant and Saxon famihes, was he from sharing in the opinions and feelings 
 been, in troubled times, harassed and put in fear of the caste to which he belonged, that he 
 by the native population. His father, Charles conceived an aversion to the Glorious and 
 Goldsmith, studied, in the reign of Queen Anne, 15 Immortal Memory, and, even when George 
 at the diocesan school of Elphin, became at- the Third was on the throne, maintained that 
 tached to the daughter of the school-master, nothing but the restoration of the banished 
 married her, took orders, and settled at a place dynasty could save the country, 
 called Pallas, in the county of Longford. There From the humble academy kept by the old 
 he with difficulty supported his wife and 20 soldier Goldsmith was removed in his ninth 
 children on what he could earn, partly as a year. He went to several grammar-schools, 
 curate and partly as a farmer. and acquired some knowledge of the ancient 
 
 At Pallas, Oliver Goldsmith was born in No- languages. His life at this time seems to have 
 vember, 1728. That spot was then, for all prac- been far from happy. He had, as appears from 
 tical purposes, almost as remote from the busy 25 the admirable portrait of him at Knowle, 
 and spendid capital in which his later years were features harsh even to ughness. The small-pox 
 passed, as any clearing in Upper Canada or had set its mark on him with more than usual 
 any sheep-walk in Australasia now is. Even at severity. His stature was small, and his limbs 
 this day those enthusiasts who venture to make ill put together. Among boys little tenderness 
 a pilgrimage to the birthplace of the poet are 30 is shown to personal defects; and the ridicule 
 forced to perform the latter part of their journey excited by poor Ohver's appearance was height- 
 en foot. The hamlet hes far from any high- ened by a peculiar simplicity and a disposition 
 road, on a dreary plain which, in wet weather, to blunder which he retained to the last. He 
 is often a lake. The lanes would break any became the common butt of boys and masters, 
 jaunting-car to pieces; and there are ruts and 35 was pointed at as a fright in the play-ground, 
 sloughs through which the most strongly built and flogged as a dunce in the school-room, 
 wheels cannot be dragged. When he had risen to eminence, those who once 
 
 When Ohver was still a child, his father was derided him ransacked their memory for the 
 presented to a living, worth about two hundred events of his early years, and recited repartees 
 pounds a year, in the county of Westmeath. 40 and couplets which had dropped from him, and 
 The family accordingly quitted their cottage which, though httle noticed at the time, were 
 in the wilderness for a spacious house on a fre- supposed, a quarter of a century later, to in- 
 quented road, near the village of Lissoy. Here dicate the powers which produced the "Vicar of 
 the boy was taught his letters by a maid-servant, Wakefield" and the "Deserted Village." 
 and was sent, in his seventh year, to a village 45 In his seventeenth year Oliver went up to 
 school kept by an old quarter-master on half Trinity College, Dubhn, as a sizar. The 
 pay, who professed to teach nothing but read- sizars^ paid nothing for food and tuition, and 
 ing, writing and arithmetic, but who had an very little for lodging; but they had to perform 
 inexhaustible fund of stories about ghosts, some menial services from which they have 
 banshees, and fairies, about the great Rapparee 50 long been relieved. They swept the court; 
 chiefs, BaldeargO'Donnell and galloping Hogan they carried up the dinner to the fellows' 
 and about the exploits of Peterborough and table, and changed the plates and poured out 
 Stanhope, the surprise of Monjuich, and the the ale of the rulers of the society. Goldsmith 
 glorious disaster of Brihuega. This man must was quartered, not alone, in a garret, on the 
 have been of the Protestant religion, but he 55 
 was of the aboriginal race, and not only spoke ,^''^"TI°4 O'Carolan (1670-1738). One of the last of 
 
 ,,,•1-1 LiU e i.1- tne Irish bards, who spent his days wandering about 
 
 the Irish language, but could pour forth Un- Ireland, singing, and playing on his harp, 
 premeditated Irish verses. Oliver early be- ^ ^t Cambridge, and at Trinity College, Dublin, a sizar 
 
 was a student allowed free commons, and other gratui- 
 20 V. p. 406, supra. ties, in return for services rendered. 
 
694 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 window of which his name, scrawled by him- versity at which he had resided — in his twenty- 
 self, is still read with interest. From such seventh year, without a degree, with the 
 garrets many men of less parts than his have merest smattering of medical knowledge, and 
 made their way to the wool-sack' or to the with no property but his clothes and his 
 episcopal bench. But Goldsmith, while he 5 flute. His flute, however, proved a useful 
 suffered aU the humiliations, threw away all friend. He rambled on foot through Flanders, 
 the advantages of his situation. He neglected France, and Switzerland, playing tunes which 
 the studies of the place, stood low at the ex- everywhere set the peasantry dancing, and 
 aminations, was turned down to the bottom of which often procured for him a supper and a 
 his class for playing the buffoon in the lecture- 10 bed. He wandered as far as Italy. His musi- 
 room, was severely reprimanded for pumping cal performances, indeed, were not to the taste 
 on a constable, and was caned by a brutal of the Italians; but he contrived to live on the 
 tutor for giving a ball in the attic story of the alms which he obtained at the gates of con- 
 college to some gay youths and damsels from vents. It should, however, be observed, that 
 the city. 15 the stories which he told about this part of his 
 
 While Ohver was leading at DubUn a Hfe life ought to be received with great caution; 
 divided between squahd distress and squaUd for strict veracity was never one of his virtues, 
 dissipation, his father died, leaving a mere and a man who is ordinarily inaccurate in 
 pittance. The youth obtained his bachelor's narration is likely to be more than ordinarily 
 degree, and left the university. During some 20 inaccurate when he talks about his own travels. 
 time the humble dwelling to which his widowed Goldsmith, indeed, was so regardless of truth 
 mother had retired was his home. He was now as to assert in print that he was present at a 
 in his twenty-first year; it was necessary that most interesting conversation between Voltaire 
 he should do something; and his education and Fontenelle, and that this conversation took 
 seemed to have fitted him to do nothing but 25 place at Paris. Now, it is certain that Voltaire 
 to dress himself in gaudy colors, of which he never was within a hundred leagues of Paris 
 was as fond as a magpie, to take a hand at during the whole time which Goldsmith passed 
 cards, to sing Irish airs, to play the flute, on the continent. 
 
 to angle in summer, and to tell ghost stories In 1756 the wanderer landed at Dover, with- 
 by the fire in winter. He tried five or six pro- 30 out a shilhng, without a friend, and without 
 fessions in turn without success. He applied a caUing. He had, indeed, if his own unsup- 
 for ordination; but, as he applied in scarlet ported evidence may be trusted, obtained from 
 clothes, he was speedily turned out of the the University of Padua a doctor's degree; but 
 episcopal palace. He then became tutor in an this dignity proved utterly useless to him. In 
 opulent family, but soon quitted his situation in 35 England his flute was not in request: there were 
 consequence of a dispute about play. Then no convents; and he was forced to have recourse 
 he determined to emigrate to America. His rela- to a series of desperate expedients. He turned 
 tions, with much satisfaction, saw him set out strolling player; but his face and figure were ill 
 for Cork on a good horse, with thirty pounds suited to the boards even of the humblest 
 in his pocket. But in six weeks he came back 40 theatre. He pounded drugs and ran about 
 on a miserable hack, without a penny, and in- London with phials for charitable chemists, 
 formed his mother that the ship in which he He joined a swarm of beggars, which made its 
 had taken his passage, having got a fair wind nest in Axe Yard.* He was for a time usher of a 
 while he was at a party of pleasure, had sailed school, and felt the miseries and humiliations 
 without him. Then he resolved to study the 45 of this situation so keenly, that he thought it a 
 law. A generous kinsman advanced fifty promotion to be permitted to earn his bread 
 pounds. With this sum Goldsmith went to as a bookseller's hack; but he soon found the 
 Dublin, was enticed into a gaming-house, and new yoke more galling than the old one, and 
 lost every shilling. He then thought of medi- was glad to become an usher again. He ob- 
 cine. A small purse was made up; and in his 50 tained a medical appointment in the service 
 twenty-fourth year he was sent to Edinburgh, of the East India Company; but the appoint- 
 At Edinburgh he passed eighteen months in ment was speedily revoked. Why it was 
 nominal attendance on lectures, and picked up revoked we are not told. The subject was one 
 some superficial information about chemistry on which he never liked to talk. It is probable 
 and natural history. Thence he went to Leyden 55 that he was incompetent to perform the duties 
 still pretending to study physic. He left of the place. Then he presented himseK at 
 that celebrated university — the third uni- Surgeons' Hall for examination, as mate to a 
 
 »i. e. the oflSce of Lord High Chancellor, who sat * Probably Axe and Bottle Yard (now King Street), an 
 
 upon a cushion of wool. open space near the old Marahalsea Prison in Southward 
 
THOMA» BABINGTON MACAULAY 695 
 
 naval hospital. Even to so humble a post he certain natural grace and decorum, hardly 
 was found unequal. By this time the school- to be expected from a man a great part of 
 master whom he had served for a morsel of whose life had been passed among thieves and 
 food and the third part of a bed was no more, beggars, street-walkers, and merry-andrews. 
 Nothing remained but to return to the lowest 5 in those squalid dens which are the reproach of 
 drudgery of literature. Goldsmith took a great capitals. 
 
 garret in a miserable court, to which he had As his name gradually became known, the 
 to climb from the brink of Fleet Ditch by a circle of his acquaintance widened. He was 
 dizzy ladder of fiag-stones called Breakneck introduced to Johnson, who was then considered 
 St(^ps. The court and the ascent have long lo as the first of living English writers; to Rey- 
 disappeared; but old Londoners well remember nolds, the first of English painters; and to 
 both. Here, at thirty, the unlucky adventurer Burke, who had not yet entered Parliament, 
 sat down to toil like a galley-slave. but had distinguished himself greatly by his 
 
 In the succeeding six years he sent to the writings and by the eloquence of his conver- 
 press some things which have survived, andissation. With these eminent men Goldsmith 
 many which have perished. He produced became intimate. In 1763 he was one of the 
 articles for reviews, magazines, and news- nine original members of that celebrated 
 papers; children's books, which, bound in fraternity which has sometimes been called the 
 gilt paper and adorned with hideous wood- Literary Club, but which has always disclaimed 
 cuts, appeared in the window of the once far- 20 that epithet, and still glories in the simple 
 famed shop at the corner of St. Paul's Church- name of The Club. 
 
 yard; "An Inquiry into the" State of Polite By this time Goldsmith had quitted his 
 Learning in Europe," which, though of little miserable dwelling at the top of Breakneck 
 or no value, is still reprinted among his works; Steps, and had taken chambers in the more 
 a "Life of Beau Nash," which is not reprinted, 25 civihzed region of the Inns of Court. But he 
 though it well deserves to be so; a superficial was still often reduced to pitiable shifts. To- 
 and incorrect, but very readable, "History of ward the close of 1764 his rent was so long in 
 England,'^ in a series of letters purporting to arrear that his landlady one morning called in 
 be addressed by a nobleman to his son; and the help of a sheriff's officer. The debtor, in 
 some very lively and amusing "Sketches of 30 great perplexity, despatched a messenger to 
 London Society," in a series of letters pur- Johnson; and Johnson, always friendly, though 
 porting to be addressed by a Chinese traveller often surly, sent back the messenger with a 
 to his friends.^ All these works were anony- guinea, and promised to follow speedily.^ He 
 mous; but some of them were well known to be came, and found that Goldsmith had changed 
 Goldsmith's; and he gradually rose in the es-35 the guinea, and was railing at the landlady over 
 timation of the booksellers for whom he a bottle of Madeira. Johnson put the cork into 
 drudged. He was, indeed, emphatically a the bottle, and entreated his friend to consider 
 popular writer. For accurate research or calmly how money was to be procured. Gold- 
 grave disquisition he was not well qualified smith said that he had a novel ready for the 
 by nature or by education. He knew nothing4o press. Johnson glanced at the manuscript, 
 accurately: his reading had been desultory; nor saw that there were good things in it, took it to 
 had he meditated aeeply on what he had read, a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds, and soon 
 He had seen much of the world; but he had no- returned with the money. The rent was paid, 
 ticed and retained little more of what he had and the sheriff's officer withdrew. According 
 seen than some grotesque incidents and char- 45 to one story. Goldsmith gave his landlady a 
 acters which had happened to strike his fancy, sharp reprimand for her treatment of him ; 
 But, though his mind was very scantily stored according to another, he insisted on her joining 
 with materials, he used what materials he had him in a bowl of punch. Both stories are prob- 
 in such a way as to produce a wonderful ably true. The novel which was thus ushered 
 effect. There have been many greater writers; 50 into the world was the "Vicar of Wakefield." 
 but perhaps no writer was ever more uniformly But before the "Vicar of Wakefield" ap- 
 agreeable. His style was always pure and peared in print came the great crisis of Gold- 
 pasy, and, on proper occasions, pointed and smith's literary life. In Christmas week, 1764, 
 energetic. His narratives were always amusing, he published a poem, entitled the "Traveller." 
 his descriptions always picturesque, his humor 55 It was the first work to which he had put his 
 rich and joyous, yet not without an occasional name; and it at once raised him to the rank of a 
 tinge of amiable sadness. About everything legitimate English classic. The opinion of the 
 that he wrote, serious or sportive, there was a most skilful critics was that nothing finer had 
 * V. p. 397, supra. • For an account of this incident, v. p. 427, supro. 
 
696 THE YICTORIAK AGE 
 
 appeared in verse since the fourth book of the made by the "Traveller" and the "Vicar of 
 "Dunciad." In one respect, the "Traveller" Wakefield" together. The plot of the "Good- 
 differs from all Goldsmith's other writings. In natured Man" is, like almost all Goldsmith's 
 general, his designs were bad, and his execution plots, very ill constructed. But some passages 
 good. In the "Traveller," the execution, 5 are exquisitely ludicrous; much more ludicrous, 
 though deserving of much praise, is far inferior indeed, than suited the taste of the town at 
 to the design. No philosophical poem, ancient that time. A canting, mawkish play, entitled 
 or modern, has a plan so noble, and at the same "False DeHcacy," had just had an immense 
 time so simple. An English wanderer, seated run. Sentimentality was all the mode. During 
 on a crag among the Alps, near the point 10 some years, more tears were shed at comedies 
 where three great countries meet, looks down than at tragedies; and a pleasantry which 
 on the boundless prospect, reviews his long moved the audience to anything more than a 
 pilgrimage, recalls the varieties of scenery, of grave smile was reprobated as low. It is not 
 chmate, of government, of religion, of national strange, therefore, that the very best scene in 
 character, which he has observed, and comes 15 the "Good-natured Man" — that in which Miss 
 to the conclusion, just or unjust, that our hap- Richland finds her lover attended by the 
 piness depends httle on pohtical institutions, baihff and the baliff's follower in full court- 
 and much on the temper and regulation of our dresses — should have been mercilessly hissed, 
 own minds. and should have been omitted after the first 
 
 While the fourth edition of the "Traveller" 20 night, 
 was on the counters of the booksellers, the In 1770 appeared the "Deserted Village." In 
 
 "Vicar of Wakefield" appeared, and rapidly mere diction and versification, this celebrated 
 obtained a popularity which has lasted down poem is fully equal, perhaps superior, to the 
 to our own time, and which is hkely to last as "Traveller;" and it is generally preferred to 
 long as our language. The fable is indeed one 25 the "Traveller" by that large class of readers 
 of the worst that ever was constructed. It who think, with Bayes in the "Rehearsal,"Hhat 
 wants not merely that probability which the only use of a plan is to bring in fine things, 
 ought to be found in a tale of common English More discerning judges, however, while they 
 fife, but that consistency which ought to be admire the beauty of the details, are shocked 
 found even in the wildest fiction about witches, 30 by one unpardonable fault which pervades 
 giants, and fairies. But the earher chapters the whole. The fault we mean is not that 
 have all the sweetness of pastoral poetry, theory about wealth and luxury which has so 
 together with all the vivacity of comedy, often been censured by political economists. 
 Moses and his spectacles, the Vicar and his The theory is indeed false; but the poem, con- 
 monogamy, the Sharper and his cosmogony, 35 sidered merely as a poem, is not necessarily 
 the Squire proving from Aristotle that relatives the worse on that account. The finest poem 
 are related, OHvia preparing herself for the ar- in the Latin language,^ indeed the finest 
 duous task of converting a rakish lover by didactic poem in any language, was written 
 studying the controversy between Robinson in defense of the silliest and meanest of all 
 Crusoe and Friday, the great ladies with their 40 systems of natural and moral philosophy. A 
 scandal about Sir Tomkyn's amours and Dr. poet may easily be pardoned for reasoning 
 Burdock's verses, and Mr. Burchell with his ill; but he cannot be pardoned for describing 
 Fudge! have caused as much harmless mirth ill — for observing the world in which he Lives 
 as has ever been caused by matter packed into so carelessly that his portraits bear no re- 
 so small a number of pages. The latter part 45 semblance to the originals — for exhibiting as 
 of the tale is unworthy of the beginning. As we copies from real life monstrous combinations of 
 approach the catastrophe, the absurdities things which never were, and never could be, 
 lie thicker and thicker, and the gleams of pleas- found together. What would be thought of a 
 antry become rarer and rarer. painter who should mix August and January in 
 
 The success which had attended Goldsmith 50 one landscape? Who should introduce a frozen 
 as a novelist emboldened him to try his fortune river into a harvest scene? Would it be a 
 as a dramatist. He wrote the "Good-natured sufficient defense of such a picture to say that 
 Man," a piece which had a worse fate than it every part was exquisitely colored, that the 
 deserved. Garrick refused to produce it at , * i, * • /ri, r> », r i u *u t^ i * 
 
 T^ -. _, ,i,/-«i/^i- ^A character in The Rehearsal, a play by the Duke of 
 
 Drury Lane. It was acted at Covent Garden m 55 Buckingham, meant to satirize Dryden. 
 
 1768, but was coldly received. The author, /J^^/ ^^1""* iVaiura of Lucretius, a Roman poet 
 
 , ' , 1 1 1 • I n, • ^ 1 J 1 of the nrst century B. C In this poem {On the Nature 
 
 however, cleared by his benefat nights, and by of Things) Lucretius aspired to explain the origin of 
 
 the sale of the copyright, not less than five the universe by philosophical theories, and to ,at- 
 
 , , , , r> , • 1 111 tack and denounce all rehgion and the behef xn im- 
 
 hundred pounds — five times as much as he had mortality. 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 697 
 
 green hedges, the apple-trees loaded with covenanted to pay him eight hundred guineas, 
 fruit, the wagons reeling under the yellow These works he produced without any elaborate 
 sheaves, and the sunburnt reapers wiping their research, by merely selecting, abridging, and 
 foreheads were very fine, and that the ice and translating into his own clear, pure, and flowing 
 the boys sliding were also very fine? To such a 5 language, what he found in books well known 
 picture the "Deserted Village" bears a great to the world, but too bulky or too dry for boys 
 resemblance. It is made up of incongruoua and girls. He committed some strange blunders, 
 parts. The village in its happy days is a true for he knew nothing with accuracy. Thus, in 
 English village. The village in its decay is an his "History of England" he tells us that 
 Irish village. The felicity and the misery lo Naseby^o is in Yorkshire; nor did he correct 
 which Goldsmith has brought close together this mistake when the book was reprinted, 
 belong to two different countries, and to two He was very nearly hoaxed into putting into the 
 different stages in the progress of society. He "History of Greece" an account of a battle 
 had assuredly never seen in his native island between Alexander the Great and Montezuma, 
 such a rural paradise, such a seat of plenty, 15 In his "Animated Nature" he relates, with 
 content, and tranquillity, as his Auburn. He faith and with perfect gravity, all the most 
 had assuredly never seen in England all the in- absurd hes which he could find in books of 
 habitants of such a paradise turned out of travels about gigantic Patagonians, monkeys 
 their homes in one day, and forced to emigrate that preach sermons, nightingales that repeat 
 in a body to America. The hamlet he had 20 long conversations. "If he can tell a horse 
 probably seen in Kent; the ejectment he had from a cow," said Johnson, "that is the extent 
 probably seen in Munster; but by joining the of his knowledge of zoology." How Uttle Gold- 
 two, he has produced something which never smith was qualified to write about the physical 
 was and never will be seen in any part of the sciences is sufficiently proved by two anecdotes, 
 world. 25 He on one occasion denied that the sun is 
 
 In 1773 Goldsmith tried his chance at longer in the northern than in the southern 
 Covent Garden with a second play — "She signs. It was vain to cite the authority of 
 Stoops to Conquer." The manager was not Maupertuis. "Maupertuis!" he cried; "I 
 without great difficulty induced to bring this understand those matters better than Mau- 
 piece out. The sentimental comedy still 30 pertuis." On another occasion he, in defiance 
 reigned, and Goldsmith's comedies were not of the evidence of his own senses, maintained 
 sentimental. The "Good-natured Man" had obstinately, and even angrily, that he chewed 
 been too funny to succeed; yet the mirth of the his dinner by moving his upper jaw. 
 "Good-natured Man" was sober when com- Yet, ignorant as Goldsmith was, few writers 
 
 pared with the rich drollery of "She Stoops to 35' have done more to make the first steps in the 
 Conquer," which is, in truth, an incomparable laborious road to knowledge easy and pleasant. 
 farce in five acts. On this occasion, however. His compilations are widely distinguished 
 genius triumphed. Pit, boxes, and galleries from the compilations of ordinary book- 
 were in a constant roar of laughter. If any makers. He was a great, perhaps an unequalled 
 bigoted admirer of Kelly and Cumberland' 40 master of the arts of selection and condensa- 
 ventured to hiss or groan, he was speedily tion. In these respects his histories of Rome 
 silenced by a general cry of, "Turn him out!" and of England, and still more his own abridg- 
 or "Throw him over!" Two generations have ments of these histories, well deserve to be 
 since confirmed the verdict which was pro- studied. In general nothing is less attractive 
 nounced on that night. 45 than an epitome: but the epitomes of Gold- 
 
 While Goldsmith was writing the "Deserted smith, even when most concise, are always 
 Village" and "She Stoops to Conquer," he was amusing; and to read them is considered by 
 employed on works of a very different kind — intelligent children not as a task, but as a 
 works from which he derived little reputation, pleasure. 
 
 but much profit. He compiled for the use of 50 Goldsmith might now be considered as a 
 schools a "History of Rome," by which he prosperous man. He had the means of living 
 made three hundred pounds; a "History of in comfort, and even in what to one who had 
 England," by which he made six hundred so often slept in barns and on bulks must have 
 pounds; a "History of Greece," for which he been luxury. His fame was great, and was con- 
 received two hundred and fifty pounds; a 55 stantly rising. He lived in what was intel- 
 " Natural History," for which the booksellers lectually far the best society of the kingdom, 
 » Hugh Kelly was the author of False Delicacy, the in a society in which no talent or accomplish- 
 
 " canting, mawkish play" mentioned above. Richard 
 
 Cumberland was a novelist and dramatist, whose best i" ATase&y, where the battle was fought between Charles I 
 
 play is The West Indian. and Cromwell's army is in Northamptonshire. 
 
698 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 ment was wanting, and in which the art of con- heart was soft, even to weakness; he was so 
 versation was cultivated with splendid success, generous, that he quite forgot to be just; he 
 There probably were never four talkers more forgave injuries so readily, that he might be 
 admirable in four different ways than Johnson, said to invite them, and was so liberal to beg- 
 Burke, Beauclerk, and Garrick; and Goldsmith 5 gars that he had nothing left for his tailor and 
 was on terms of intimacy with all the four, his butcher. He was vain, sensual, frivolous, 
 He aspired to share in their colloquial renown; profuse, improvident. One vice of a darker 
 but never was ambition more unfortunate, shade was imputed to him — envy. But there 
 It may seem strange that a man who wrote is not the least reason to believe that this bad 
 with so much perspicuity, vivacity, and grace, lo passion, though it sometimes made him wince 
 should have been, whenever he took a part in and utter fretful exclamations, ever impelled 
 conversation, an empty, noisy, blundering rat- him to injure by wicked arts the reputation of 
 tie. But on this point the evidence is over- any of his rivals. The truth probably is, that 
 whelming. So extifaordinary was the contrast he was not more envious, but merely less 
 between Goldsmith's published works and the 15 prudent, than his neighbors. His heart was on 
 silly things which he said, that Horace Walpole his lips. All those small jealousies, which are 
 described him as an inspired idiot. "Noll," but too common among men of letters, but 
 said Garrick, "wrote like an angel, and talked which a man of letters who is also a man of the 
 like poor Poll." Chamier^i declared that it world does his best to conceal. Goldsmith 
 was a hard exercise of faith to believe that so 20 avowed with the simplicity of a child. When 
 fooUsh a chatterer could have really written he was envious, instead of affecting indiffer- 
 the "Traveller." Even Boswell could say, ence, instead of damning with faint praise, 
 with contemptuous compassion, that he liked instead of doing injuries slyly and in the dark, 
 very well to hear honest Goldsmith run on. he told everybody that he was envious. "Do 
 "Yes, sir," said Johnson, "but he should 25 not, pray do not, talk of Johnson in such terms," 
 not like to hear himself." Minds differ as he said to Boswell; "you harrow up my very 
 rivers differ. There are transparent and soul." George Steevens^ 2 ^ikJ Cumberland were 
 sparkling rivers from which it is dehghtful men far too cunning to say such a thing. Thoy 
 to drink as they flow; to such rivers the minds would have echoed the praises of the man whom 
 of such men as Burke and Johnson may be 30 they envied, and then have sent to the news- 
 compared. But there are rivers of which the papers anonymous libels upon him. Both 
 water when first drawn is turbid and noisome, what was good and what was bad in Goldsmith's 
 but becomes pellucid as crystal and dehcious character was to his associates a perfect se- 
 to the taste if it be suffered to stand till it has curity that he would never commit such villany. 
 deposited a sediment; and such a river is a 35 He was neither ill-natured enough, nor long- 
 type of the mind of Goldsmith. His first headed enough, to be guilty of any malicious 
 thoughts on every subject were confused even act which required contrivance and disguise. 
 to absurdity, but they required only a little Goldsmith has sometimes been represented 
 
 time to work themselves clear. When he wrote as a man of genius, cruelly treated by the world, 
 they had that time, and therefore his readers 40 and doomed to struggle with difficulties which 
 pronounced him a man of genius; but when at last broke his heart. But no representation 
 he talked, he talked nonsense, and made him- can be more remote from the truth. He did, 
 seK the laughing-stock of his hearers. He was indeed, go through much sharp misery before 
 painfully sensible of his inferiority in conver- he had done anything considerable in hterature. 
 sation; he felt every failure keenly; yet he had 45 But after his name had appeared on the title- 
 not sufficient judgment and self-command to page of the "Traveller," he had none but 
 hold his tongue. His animal spirits and vanity himseK to blame for his distresses. His average 
 were always impelling him to try to do the one income during the last seven years of his fife 
 thing which he could not do. After every certainly exceeded four hundred pounds a 
 attempt, he felt that he had exposed himself, 50 year, and four hundred pounds a year ranked, 
 and writhed with shame and vexation; yet among the incomes of that day, at least as 
 the next moment he began again. high as eight hundred pounds a year would 
 
 His associates seem to have regarded him rank at present. A single man Hving in the 
 with kindness, which, in spite of their admira- Temple with four hundred pounds a year 
 tion of his writings, was not unmixed with 55 might then be called opulent. Not one in ten 
 contempt. In truth, there was in his character of the young gentlemen of good families who 
 much to love, but very little to respect. His 
 
 12 A Shakespearean commentator. He was a friend of 
 11 Anthony Chamier, was one of the original members Johnson, and he made some valuable additiona to Dr. 
 of the Literary Club founded by Reynolds and Johnson. Johnson's work on Shakespeare. 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 699 
 
 were studying the law there had so much, our language lasts, associate the names of his 
 But all the wealth which Lord Clive had two illustrious friends with his own. It has 
 brought from Bengal, and Sir Lawrence Dundas already been mentioned that he sometimes felt 
 from Germany, joined together, would not have keenly the sarcasm which his wild, blundering 
 sufficed for Goldsmith. He spent twice as stalk brought upon him. He was, not long 
 much as he had. He wore fine clothes, gave before his last illness, provoked into retaliating, 
 dinners of several courses, paid court to venal He wisely betook himself to his pen, and at 
 beauties. He had also, it should be remembered that weapon he proved himself a match for all 
 to the honor of his heart, though not of his his assailants together. Within a small com- 
 head, a guinea, or five, or ten, according to the 10 pass he drew with a singularly easy and vigor- 
 state of his purse, ready for any tale of distress, ous pencil the characters of nine or ten of his 
 true or false. But it was not in dress or feasting, intimate associates. Though this little work 
 in promiscuous amours or promiscuous chari- did not receive his last touches, it must always 
 ties, that his chief expense lay. He had been be regarded as a master-piece. It is impossible, 
 from boyhood a gambler, and at once the most 15 however, not to wish that four or five Hkenesses 
 sanguine and the most unskilful of gamblers, which have no interest for posterity were 
 For a time he put off the day of inevitable wanting to that noble gallery, and that their 
 ruin by temporary expedients. He obtained places were supplied by sketches of Johnson 
 advances from booksellers by promising to and Gibbon, as happy and vivid as the sketches 
 execute works which he never began. But at 20 of Burke and Garrick. 
 
 length this source of supply failed. He owed Some of Goldsmith's friends and admirers 
 more than two thousand pounds, and he saw honored him with a cenotaph in Westminster 
 no hope of extrication from his embarrassments. Abbey. NoUekens^* was the sculptor, and 
 His spirits and health gave way. He was at- Johnson wrote the inscription. It is much 
 tacked by a nervous fever, which he thought 25 to be lamented that Johnson did not leave 
 himself competent to treat. It would have to posterity a more durable and a more 
 been happy for him if his medical skill had been valuable memorial of his friend. A hfe of 
 appreciated as justly by himseK as by others. Goldsmith would have been an inestimable 
 Notwithstanding the degree which he pre- addition to the "Lives of the Poets." No man 
 tended to have received at Padua, he could 30 appreciated Goldsmith's writings more justly 
 procure no patients. "I do not practise," he than Johnson; no man was better acquainted 
 once said; "I make it a rule to prescribe only with Goldsmith's character and habits; and 
 for mf friends." "Pray, dear Doctor," said no man was more competent to dehneate with 
 Beauclerk, "alter your rule, and prescribe truth and spirit the peculiarities of a mind in 
 only for your enemies." Goldsmith now, in 35 which great powers were found in company 
 spite of this excellent advice, prescribed for with great weaknesses. But the list of poets 
 himself. The remedy aggravated the malady, to whose works Johnson was requested by the 
 The sick man was induced to call in real phy- booksellers to furnish prefaces ended with 
 sicians, and they at one time imagined that Lyttleton, who died in 1773. The Une seems 
 they had cured the disease. Still his weakness 40 to have been drawn expressly for the purpose 
 and restlessness continued. He could get no of excluding the person whose portrait would 
 sleep; he could take no food. "You are worse," have most fitly closed the series. Goldsmith, 
 said one of his medical attendants, "than you however, has been fortunate in his biog- 
 should be from the degree of fever which you raphers. Within a few years his life has been 
 have. Is your mind at ease? " "No, it is not," 45 written by Mr. Prior, by Mr. Washington 
 were the last recorded words of Oliver Gold- Irving, and by Mr. Forster. The dihgence of 
 smith. He died on the 3d of April, 1774, in his Mr. Prior deserves great praise; the style of 
 forty-sixth year. He was laid in the churchyard Mr. Washington Irving is always pleasing; 
 of the Temple; but the spot was not marked by but the highest place must in justice be as- 
 any inscription, and is now forgotten. The cof- 50 signed to the eminently interesting work of 
 fin was followed by Burke and Reynolds. Both Mr. Forster. 
 these great men were sincere mourners. Burke, 
 
 when he heard of Goldsmith's death, had burst THE STATE OF ENGLAND IN 1685 
 
 into a flood of tears. Reynolds had been so / p / j ,0^0 -.onr^x 
 
 much moved by the news, that he had flung 55 (From History of England,^ 1848-1860) 
 aside his brush and palette for the day. I intend, in this chapter to give a description 
 
 A short time after Goldsmith's death, a of the state in which England was at the time 
 Uttle poemi3 appeared, which will, as long as ^^^^^^^^ Nollekens (1737-1823), a sculptor who exe- 
 
 IS Goldsmith's Retaliatunu cuted busts of Garrick, Sterne, Goldsmith, etc. 
 
700 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 when the crown passed from Charles the wars, no hostile standard has been seen here 
 Second to his brother. Such a description, but as a trophy. While revolutions have 
 composed from scanty and dispersed materials, taken place all around us, our government has 
 must necessarily be very imperfect. Yet it never once been subverted by violence. During 
 may perhaps correct some false notions which 5 more than a hundred years there has been in 
 would make the subsequent narrative unin- our island no tumult of sufficient importance 
 telligible or uninstructive. to be called an insurrection; nor has the law 
 
 If we would study with profit the history of been once borne down either by popular 
 our ancestors, we must be constantly on our fury or by regal tyranny: public credit has been 
 guard against the delusions which the well 10 held sacred: the administration of justice has 
 known names of families, places, and offices been pure: even in times which by English- 
 naturally produce, and must never forget men might be justly called evil times, we have 
 that the country of which we read was a very enjoyed what almost every other nation in the 
 different country from that in which we live, world would have considered as an ample meas- 
 In every experimental science there is a tend- I5ure of civil and religious freedom. Every man 
 ency towards perfection. In every human has felt entire confidence that the state would 
 being there is a wish to amehorate his own protect him in the possession of what had been 
 condition. These two principles have often earned by his diligence and hoarded by his 
 sufficed, even when counteracted by great self-denial. Under the benignant influence of 
 public calamities and by bad institutions, 20 peace and liberty, science has flourished, and 
 to carry civilisation rapidly forward. No has been applied to practical purposes on a 
 ordinary misfortune, no ordinary misgov- scale never before known. The consequence 
 ernment, will do so much to make a nation is that a change to which the history of the old 
 wretched, as the constant progress of physical world furnishes no parallel has taken place 
 knowledge and the constant effort of every 25 in our country. Could the England of 1685 
 man to better himself will do to make a nation be, by some magical process, set before our 
 prosperous. It has often been found that eyes, we should not know one landscape in a 
 profuse expenditure, heavy taxation, absurd hundred or one building in ten thousand. The 
 commercial restrictions, corrupt tribunals, country gentleman would not recognize his 
 disastrous wars, seditions, persecutions, con- 30 own fields. The inhabitant of the town would 
 flagrations, inundations, have not been able not recognise his own street. Everything has 
 to destroy capital so fast as the exertions of been changed, but the great features of nature, 
 private citizens have been able to create it. It and a few massive and durable works of human 
 can easily be proved that, in our own land, the art. We might find out Snowdon and Winder- 
 national wealth has, during at least six centur- 35 mere, the Cheddar Chffs and Beachy Head, 
 ies, been almost uninterruptedly increasing; We might find out here and there a Norman 
 that it was greater under the Tudors than minster, or a castle which witnessed the wars 
 under the Plantagenets; that it was greater of the Roses. But with such rare exceptions, 
 under the Stuarts than under the Tudors; everything would be strange to us. Many 
 that, in spite of battles, sieges and confisca- 40 thousands of square miles which are now 
 tions, it v/as greater on the day of the Restora- rich corn land and meadow, intersected by 
 tion than on the day when the Long Parlia- green hedgerows, and dotted with villages 
 ment met; that, in spite of maladministration, and pleasant country seats, would appear as 
 of extravagance, of public bankruptcy, of two moors overgrown with furze, or fens abandoned 
 costly and unsuccessful wars, of the pestilence 45 to wild ducks. We should see straggling huts 
 and of the fire, it was greater on the day of the built of wood and covered with thatch, where 
 death of Charles the Second than on the day we now see manufacturing towns and seaports 
 of his Restoration. This progress, having renowned to the farthest ends of the world, 
 continued during many ages became at length The capital itself would shrink to dimensions 
 about the middle of the eighteenth century, 50 not much exceeding those of its present suburb 
 portentously rapid, and has proceeded, during on the south of the Thames. Not less strange 
 the nineteenth, with accelerated velocity, to us would be the garb and manners of the 
 In consequence partly of our geographical and people, the furniture and the equipages, the 
 partly of our moral position, we have, during interior of the shops and dwellings. Such a 
 several generations, been exempt from evils 55 change in the state of a nation seems to be at 
 which have elsewhere impeded the efforts and least as well entitled to the notice of a his- 
 destroyed the fruits of industry. While every torian as any change of the dynasty or of the 
 part of the Continent, from Moscow to Lisbon, ministry, 
 has been the theatre of bloody and devastating 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 701 
 
 THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY SQUIRE tankard with drovers and hop merchants. His 
 (From the s ) chief pleasures were commonly derived from 
 
 ^ field sports and from an unrefined sensuality. 
 
 We should be much mistaken if we pictured His language and pronunciation were such as 
 to ourselves the squires of the seventeenth 5 we should now expect to hear only from the 
 century as men bearing a close resemblance most ignorant clowns. His oaths, coarse jests, 
 to their descendants, the county members scurrilous terms of abuse, were uttered with the 
 and chairmen of quarter sessions with whom broadest accent of his province. It was easy 
 we are familiar. The modern country gentle- to discern from the first words which he spoke, 
 man generally receives a liberal education, lo whether he came from Somersetshire or York- 
 passes from a distinguished school to a distin- shire. He troubled himself little about decorat- 
 guishcd college, and has ample opportunity ing his abode, and, if he attempted decoration, 
 to become an excellent scholar. He has gener- seldom produced anything but deformity, 
 ally seen something of foreign countries. A The htter of a farmyard gathered under the 
 considerable part of his life has generally been 15 windows of his bedchamber, and the cabbages 
 passed in the capital; and the refinements of and gooseberry bushes grew close to his hall 
 the capital follow him into the country. There door. His table was loaded v/ith coarse plenty; 
 is perhaps no class of dwellings so pleasing as and guests were cordially welcomed to it. 
 the rural seats of the English gentry. In the But as the habit of drinking to excess was 
 parks and pleasure grounds, nature, dressed 20 general in the class to which he belonged, and 
 yet not disguised by art, wears her most as his fortune did not enable him to intoxicate 
 alluring form. In the buildings, good sense large assembhes daily with claret or canary, 
 and good taste combine to produce a happy strong beer was the ordinary beverage. The 
 union of the comfortable and the graceful, quantity of beer consumed in those days was 
 The pictures, the musical instruments, the 25 indeed enormous. For beer then was to the 
 library, in any other country would be con- lower and middle classes, not only all that 
 sidered as proving the owner to be an eminently beer is, but all that wine, tea, and ardent spirits 
 polished and accomplished man. A country now are. It was only at great houses, or on 
 gentleman who witnessed the Revolution was great occasions, that foreign drink was placed 
 probably in receipt of about a fourth part of 30 upon the board. The ladies of the house, whose 
 the rent which his acres now yield to his pos- business it had commonly been to cook the 
 terity. He was, therefore, as compared with repast, retired as soon as the dishes had been 
 his posterity, a poor man, and was generally devoured, and left the gentlemen to their ale 
 under the necessity of residing, with little in- and tobacco. The coarse jollity of the after- 
 terruption, on his estate. To travel on the 35 noon was often prolonged till the revellers were 
 Continent, to maintain an establishment in laid under the table. 
 
 London, or even to visit London frequently, It was very seldom that the country gentle- 
 
 were pleasures in which only the great pro- man caught glimpses of the great world; and 
 prietors could indulge. It may be confidently what he saw of it tended rather to confuse than 
 affirmed that of the squires whose names were 40 to enlighten his understanding. His opinions 
 then in the Commissions of Peace and Lieu- respecting religion, government, foreign coun- 
 tenancy not one in twenty went to town once tries and former times, having been derived, 
 in five years, or had ever in his life wandered so not from study, from observation, or from con- 
 far as Paris. Many lords of manors had re- versation with enlightened companions, but 
 ceived an education difi"ering little from that 45 from such traditions as were current in his own 
 df their menial servants. The heir of an estate small circle, were the opinions of a child. He 
 often passed his boyhood and youth at the adhered to them, however, with the obstinacy 
 scat of his family with no better tutors than which is generally found in ignorant men ac- 
 grooms and gamekeepers, and scarce attained customed to be fed with flattery. His ani- 
 learning enough to sign his name to a Mitti- 50 mosities were numerous and bitter. He 
 mus. If he went to school and to college, hated Frenchmen and Italians, Scotchmen and 
 he generally returned before he was twenty to Irishmen, Papists and Presbyterians, In- 
 the seclusion of the old hall, and there, unless dependents and Baptists, Quakers and . Jews, 
 his mind were very happily constituted by Towards London and Londoners he felt an 
 nature, soon forgot his academical pursuits in 55 aversion which more than once produced im- 
 rural business and pleasures. His chief serious portant political effects. His wife and daughter 
 employment was the care of his property, were in tastes and acquirements below a house- 
 He examined samples of grain, handled pigs, keeper or a stillroom maid of the present day. 
 and, on market days, made bargains over a They stitched and spun, brewed gooseberry 
 
702 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 wine, cured marigolds, and made the crust for essentially a partisan, and had, in large meas- 
 the venison pasty. ure, both the virtues and the vices which 
 
 From this description it might be supposed flourish among men set from their birth in 
 that the English esquire of the seventeenth cen- high place, and used to respect themselves 
 tury did not materially differ from a rustic 5 and to be respected by others. It is not easy 
 miller or alehouse keeper of the present time, for a generation accustomed to find chivalrous 
 There are, however, some important parts of sentiments only in company with hberal 
 his character still to be noted, which will studies and polished manners, to image to 
 greatly modify this estimate. Unlettered as himself a man with the deportment, the 
 he was and unpolished, he was still in some 10 vocabulary, and the accent of a carter, yet 
 most important points a gentleman. He was punctilious on matters of genealogy and pre- 
 a member of a proud and powerful aristocracy, cedence, and ready to risk his life rather than 
 and was distinguished by many both of the see a stain cast on the honor of his house. It 
 good and of the bad qualities which belong to is, however, only by thus joining together 
 aristocrats. His family pride was beyond that 15 things seldom or never found together in our 
 of a Talbot or a Howard. He knew the geneal- own experience, that we can form a just idea 
 ogies and coats of arms of all his neighbors, of that rustic aristocracy which constituted 
 and could tell which of them had assumed the main strength of the armies of Charles 
 supporters without any right, and which of the First, and which long supported, with 
 them were so unfortunate as to be grandsons 20 strange fidelity, the interest of his descendants, 
 of aldermen. He was a magistrate, and, as 
 
 such, administered gratuitously to those who nmrTTTTT? TrmTQi? 
 
 dwelt around him a rude patriarchal justice, ^^^ ^Vbtihih MUUfeJ^i 
 
 which, in spite of innumerable blunders, and of (From the same) 
 
 occasional acts of tyranny, was yet better 25 
 
 than no justice at all. He was an officer of The coffee house must not be dismissed 
 the trainband;^ and his military dignity, though with a cursory mention. It might indeed at 
 it might move the mirth of gallants who had that time have been not improperly called a 
 served a campaign in Flanders, raised his most important poHtical institution. No Par- 
 character in his own eyes and in the eyes of 30 liament had sat for years. The municipal 
 his neighbors. Nor indeed was his soldiership council of the City had ceased to speak the 
 justly a subject of derision. In every county sense of the citizens. Public meetings, ha- 
 there were elderly gentlemen who had seen rangues, resolutions, and the rest of the modern 
 service which was no child's play. One had machinery of agitation had not yet come into 
 been knighted by Charles the First, after the 35 fashion. Nothing resembhng the modern 
 battle of Edgehill. Another still wore a patch newspaper existed. In such circumstances 
 over the scar which he had received at Naseby. the coffee houses were the chief organs through 
 A third had defended his old house till Fairfax which the public opinion of the metropohs 
 had blown in the door with a petard. The vented itself. 
 
 presence of these old Cavaliers, with their 40 The first of these establishments had been 
 old swords and holsters, and with their old set up by a Turkey merchant, who had acquired 
 stories about Goring and Lunsford, 2 gave to the among the Mahometans a taste for their 
 musters of the militia an earnest and warlike favorite beverage." The convenience of being 
 aspect which would otherwise have been want- able to make appointments in any part of the 
 ing. Even those country gentlemen who were 45 town, and of being able to pass evenings 
 too young to have themselves exchanged blows socially at a very small charge, was so great 
 with the cuirassiers of the ParHament had, that the fashion spread fast. Every man of 
 from childhood, been surrounded by the traces the upper or middle class went daily to his 
 of recent war, and fed with stories of the mai> coffee house to learn the news and to discuss it. 
 tial exploits of their fathers and their uncles. 50 Every coffee house had one or more orators 
 Thus the character of the English esquire to whose eloquence the crowd listened with 
 of the seventeenth century was compounded admiration, and who soon became, what the 
 of two elements which we seldom or never find journalists of our time have been called, a 
 united. His ignorance and uncouthness, his fourth Estate of the realm. ^ The Court had 
 low tastes and gross phrases, would, in our 55 long seen with uneasiness the growth of this\ 
 time, be considered as indicating a nature and new power in the state. An attempt had been V 
 a breeding thoroughly plebeian. Yet he was 
 
 1 Edmund Burke on one occasion referring to the Re- 
 iThe militia. porters' Gallery, said "Yonder sits the Fourth Estate, 
 
 * Two unprincipled Royalist leaders. more important than them all." 
 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 703 
 
 made, during Danby's administration, to whether Paradise Lost ought not to have been 
 close the coffee houses. But men of all parties in rhyme. To another an envious poetaster 
 missed their usual places of resort so much demonstrated that Venice Preserved* ought 
 that there was an universal outcry. The to have been hooted from the stage. Under 
 government did not venture, in opposition to 5 no roof was a greater variety of figures to be 
 a feeling so strong and general, to enforce a seen. There were Earls in stars and garters, 
 regulation of which the legahty might well be clergymen in cassocks and bands, pert Tem- 
 questioned. Since that time ten years had plars, sheepish lads from the Universities, 
 elapsed, and during those years the number and translators and index mak'^rs in ragged coats 
 influence of the coffee houses had been con- lo of frieze. The great press was to get near the 
 stantly increasing. Foreigners remarked that chair where John Dryden sate. In winter 
 the coffee house was that which especially that chair was always in the warmest nook 
 distinguished London from all other cities; by the fire; in summer it stood in the balcony, 
 that the coffee house was the Londoner's home, To bow to the Laureate, and to hear his opinion 
 and that those who wished to find a gentle- 15 of Racine's last tragedy or of Bossu's treatise 
 man commonly asked, not whether he lived on epic poetry,^ was thought a privilege. A 
 in Fleet Street or Chancery Lane, but whether pinch from his snuff box was an honour 
 he frequented the Grecian or the Rainbow, sufficient to turn the head of a young en- 
 Nobody was excluded from these places who thusiast. There were coffee houses where the 
 laid down his penny at the bar. Yet every 20 first medical men might be consulted. Doctor 
 rank and profession, and every shade of re- John Radchffe, who, in the year 1685, rose to 
 ligious and pohtical opinion, had its own head- the largest practice in London, came daily, 
 quarters. There were houses near St. James's at the hour when the Exchange was full, from 
 Park where fops congregated, their heads and his house in Bow Street, then a fashionable 
 shoulders covered with black or flaxen wigs, 25 part of the capital, to Garraway's, and was to 
 not less ample than those which are now worn be found, surrounded by surgeons and apothe- 
 by the Chancellor and by the Speaker of the caries, at a particular table. There were Puri- 
 House of Commons. The wig came from Paris tan coffee houses where no oath was heard 
 and so did the rest of the fine gentleman's and where lankhaired men discussed election, 
 ornaments, his embroidered coat, his fringed 30 and reprobation through their noses; Jew 
 gloves, and the tassel which upheld his pan- coffee houses where dark eyed money changers 
 taloons. The conversation was in that dialect from Venice and Amsterdam greeted each 
 which, long after it had ceased to be spoken other; and Popish coffee houses where, as good 
 in fashionable circles, continued in the mouth Protestants believed, Jesuits planned, over 
 of Lord Foppington,2 to excite the mirth of 35 their cups, another great fire, and cast silver 
 theatres. The atmosphere was like that of a bullets to shoot the King. These gregarious 
 perfumer's shop. Tobacco in any other form habits had no small share in forming the char- 
 than that of richly scented snuff was held in acter of the Londoner of that age. He was, 
 abomination. If any clown, ignorant of the indeed, a different being from the rustic Eng- 
 usages of the house, called for a pipe, the sneers 40 lishman. There was not then the intercourse 
 of the whole assembly and the short answers which now exists between the two classes, 
 of the waiters soon convinced him that he had Only very great men were in the habit of divid- 
 better go somewhere else. Nor, indeed, would ing the year between town and country, 
 he have had far to go. For, in general the Few esquires came to the capital thrice m their 
 coffee rooms reeked with tobacco Uke a guard 45 lives. Nor was it yet the practice of all citi- 
 room: and strangers sometimes expressed their zens in easy circumstances to breathe the fresh 
 surprise that so many people should leave their air of the fields and woods durmg some weeks 
 own firesides to sit in the midst of eternal fog of every summer. A cockney, m a rural 
 and stench. Nowhere was the smoking more village, was stared at as much as if he had in- 
 constant than at WiU's. That celebrated 50 truded into a Kraal of Hottentots. On the 
 house, situated between Covent Garden and other hand, when the lord of a Lincolnshire or 
 Bow Street, was sacred to polite letters. There Shropshire manor appeared in Fleet Street, he 
 the talk was about poetical justice and the was as easily distinguished from the^resident 
 unities of place and time. There was a faction population as a Turk or a Lascar. His dress, 
 for Perrault' and the moderns, a faction for 55 his gait, his accent, the manner in which he 
 Boileau and the ancients. One group debated (i636-1711) defended the indents against Perrault's 
 
 , : ^htteT^Si°u?:'(lf2tT7a !°dtS.fu>,h,d French ^f -^f f I MT^ a^y ^Cp"ubUTiiB TraiU 
 critic, precipitated the long dispute on the relative merits " RenS Le Bossu (1631-1680). who pubhshed his TraH6 
 
 I of the ancient and modern writers. Nicholas Boileau du poirne epique m 1075. 
 
704 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 gazed at the shops, stumbled into the gutters, will feel the moral dignity of his nature exalted." 
 ran against the porters, and stood under the He speaks also of physical knowledge as "being 
 waterspouts, marked him out as an excellent the means of useful occupation and rational 
 subject for the operations of swindlers and recreation;" of "the pleasures of knowledge" 
 banterers. Bullies jostled him into the kennel.^ 5 superseding "the indulgence of sensual ap- 
 Hackney coachmen splashed him from head petite," and of its "contributing to the intel- 
 to foot. Thieves explored with perfect security lectual and moral improvement of the com- 
 the huge pockets of his horseman's coat, while munity." Accordingly, he very consistently 
 he stood entranced by the splendour of the wishes it to be set before " the female as well as 
 Lord Mayor's show. Moneydroppers,^ sore 10 the male portion of the population;" otherwise, 
 from the cart's tail, introduced themselves to as he truly observes, "great injustice would 
 him, and appeared to him the most honest be done to the well-educated and virtuous" 
 friendly gentlemen he had ever seen. Painted women of the place. They are to "have 
 women, the refuse of Lewkner Lane and Whet- equal power and equal influence with others." 
 stone Park, passed themselves on him for 15 It will be difficult to exhaust the reflections 
 countesses and maids of honour. If he asked which rise in the mind on reading avowals 
 his way to St. James's, his informants sent of this nature. 
 
 him to Mile End. If he went into a shop. The first question which obviously suggests 
 
 he was instantly discerned to be a fit pur- itself is how these wonderful moral effects 
 chaser of everything that nobody else would 20 are to be wrought under the instrumentality 
 buy, of second-hand embroidery, copper rings, of the physical sciences. Can the process be 
 and watches that would not go. If he rambled analj-^zed and drawn out, or does it act like a 
 into any fashionable coffee house, he became dose or a charm which comes into general 
 a mark for the insolent derision of fops and the use empirically? Does Sir Robert Peel mean 
 grave waggery of Templars. Enraged and 25 to say, that whatever be the occult reasons 
 mortified, he soon returned to his mansion, for the result, so it is; you have but to drench 
 and there, in the homage of his tenants and the popular mind with physics, and moral 
 the conversation of his boon companions, and rehgious advancement follows on the 
 found consolation for the vexations and humil- whole, in spite of individual failures? Yet 
 iations which he had undergone. There he was 30 where has the experiment been tried on so 
 once more a great man, and saw nothing above large a scale as to justify such anticipations? 
 himself except when at the assizes he took Or rather, does he mean, that, from the nature 
 his seat on the bench near the Judge, or when of the case, he who is imbued with science and 
 at the muster of the militia he saluted the hterature, unless adverse influences interfere, 
 Lord Lieutenant. 35 cannot but be a better man? It is natural 
 
 and becoming to seek for some clear idea of 
 
 the meaning of so dark an oracle. To know 
 
 3l0l)n l^^nt^ 0t\X)XtXdXt is one thing, to do is another; the two things 
 
 are altogether distinct. A man knows he should 
 
 1801-1890 4Q gg^ yp jjj ^{jg morning, — he hes a-bed; he knows 
 
 ^.,^^^.^^^^ ....T^ ^^.^ .^r^-r.^ he should not lose his temper, yet he cannot 
 
 KNOWLEDGE AND CHARACTER keep it. A labouring man knows he should 
 
 (From Discussions and Arguments, 1841) ««* f *« the ale-house and his wife knows 
 
 ^^ she should not filch when she goes out charmg, 
 
 A distinguished Conservative statesman telfe 45 but, nevertheless, in these cases, the conscious- 
 us from a town-hall of Tamworth that "in ness of a duty is not all one with the perform- 
 becoming wiser a man will become better;" ance of it. There are then, large families of 
 meaning by wiser more conversant with the instances, to say the least, in which men may 
 facts and theories of physical science; and that become wiser, without becoming better; what, 
 such a man will "rise at once in the scale of 50 then, is the meaning of this great maxim in 
 intellectual and moral existence." "That," the mouth of its promulgators? 
 he adds, "is my belief." He avows, also, that Mr. Bentham would answer, that the knowl- 
 
 the fortunate individual whom he is describing, edge which carries virtue along with it, is the 
 by being "accustomed to such contemplations, knowledge how to take care of number one 
 
 6 The drainage gutter, which ran through the middle 55 — a clear appreciation of what is pleasurable, 
 of the street. , • . xu what painful, and what promotes the one and. 
 
 7 Sharpers who pretended to find a com, which they - xu i.u a a ,^^4^^^ ^r.»^ ;a\i 
 
 themselves had dropped, and return it to the owner in prevents the Other. An uneducated man IS ^ 
 
 order to win his confidence. They were frequently pun- gygj. mistaking his OWn interest, and standing 
 ished ^by being tied to a cart and whipped through the .^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ enjoyments. UsC- 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN '705 
 
 i"«^5.'''''^^^''f^1 !' *^^* r^'"^ *^°^' *^ ^^^^ ^^' by such skilful management, they get 
 
 us more useful to ourselves;-a most definite through the day without an outbreak. When 
 
 and mtelhgible account of the matter, and a child cries, the nurserymaid dances it about, 
 
 needmg no explanation But it would be a or points to the pretty black horses out of 
 
 great injustice, both to Lord Brougham and to 5 window, or shows how ashamed poll-parrot or 
 
 R'L i"^"" 'k • '".^??'^' Yu^"" *^^y *^^^ ^^ P°«^ P"«« ^"st be of its tantrums. Such is 
 Knowledge being Virtue, that they are Ben- the sort of prescription which Sir Robert Peel 
 thamizing. Bentham had not a spark of poetry ofifers to the good people of Tamworth He 
 m him; on the contrary, there is much of high makes no pretence of subduing the giant nature, 
 aspiration generous sentiment, and impas-ioin which we were born, of smiting the lions 
 sioned feeling m the tone of Lord Brougham of the domestic enemies of our peace, of over- 
 andbirRobertlhey speak of knowledge as throwing passion and fortifying reason: he 
 something pulchrum," fair and glorious, ex- does but offer to bribe the foe for the nonce 
 alted above the range of ordinary humanity, with gifts which will avail for that purpose 
 and so little connected with the personal in- 15 just so long as they will avail, and no longer 
 terest of its votaries, that, though Sir Robert This was mainly the philosophy of the great 
 does obiterHalk of improved methods of drain- Tully, except when it pleased him to speak 
 
 as a 
 
 mg, and the chemical properties of manure, disciple of the Porch. Cicero handed the recipe 
 yet he must not be supposed to come short of to Brougham, a'nd Brougham has passed it on to 
 the lofty enthusiasm of Lord Brougham, who 20 Peel. If we examine the old Roman's meaning 
 expressly panegyrizes certain ancient philoso- in "0 philosophia, vitce dux,"^ it was neither 
 phers who gave up riches, retired into solitude, more nor less than this;— that, whUe we were 
 or embraced a life of travel, smit with a sacred thinking of philosophy, we were not thinking of 
 curiosity about physical or mathematical truth, anything else; we did not feel grief, or anxiety. 
 Here Mr. Bentham, did it fall to him to offer 25 or passion, or ambition, or hatred all that 
 a criticism, doubtless would take leave to in- time, and the only point was to keep thinking 
 
 smell sweet, and die. But it is impossible to 30 rage, to be soothed; if in love, to be roused to 
 suspect so grave and practical a man as Sir the pursuit of glory. No inward change was 
 Robert Peel of using words hterally without contemplated, but a change of external objects; 
 any meaning at all; and though I think at as if we were all White Ladies or Undines,^ our 
 best they have not a very profound meaning, moral life being one of impulse and emotion, 
 yet, such as it is, we ought to attempt to draw 35 not subjected to laws, not consisting in habits, 
 ^^ ^"*- . nor capable of growth. When Cicero was out- 
 
 Now, without using exact theological Ian- witted by Csesar, he solaced himself with 
 guage, we may surely take it for granted, from Plato ;* when he lost his daughter, he wrote 
 the experience of facts, that the human mind a treatise on consolation. Such, too, was the 
 is at best in a very unformed or disordered 40 philosophy of that Lydian city, mentioned by 
 state; passions and conscience, likings and the historian,^ who in a famine played at dice 
 reason, conflicting,— might rising against right, to stay their stomachs. 
 
 with the prospect of things getting worse. And such is the rule of life advocated by 
 
 Under these circumstances, what is it that the Lord Brougham; and though, of course, he 
 School of philosophy in which Sir Robert has 45 protests that knowledge ''must invigorate 
 enrolled himself proposes to accomplish? Not the mind as well as entertain it, and refine 
 a victory of the mind over itself— not the su- and elevate the character, while it gives list- 
 premacy of the law— not the reduction of the lessness and weariness their most agreeable 
 rebels— not the unity of our complex nature— excitement and relaxation," yet his notions 
 not an harmonizing of the chaos— but the mere 50 of vigour and elevation, when analyzed, will 
 lulling of the passions to rest by turning the be found to resolve themselves into a mere 
 course of thought; not a change of character, preternatural excitement under the mfluence 
 but a mere removal of temptation. This 
 
 should be carefully observed. When a husband ^ "^ philosophy, guide of life." 
 is gloomy, or an old woman peevish and fretful, 55 borrTwitho'ut^a s^ful!^""' ^^"''"^ ^'' ^ ^^*"' "^"^^^ 
 
 those who are about them do all they can to * ^^^^^ the overthrow of Pompey's cause at the Battle 
 
 keen daneerous tonips nnH pnimps nf nff^nno ?■ ^^^^^f^^^ (48 B. C.) Cicero who, after much vacilla- 
 KtJep ud-iigerous topics ana causes 01 onence tion, had supported Pompey, found his political career 
 
 out of the way, and think themselves lucky, ^"'^ '^^^ ^^"^^ '^^ ^^ ^^^- ^^ his enforced inactivity he 
 ,,.,,,, •" turned to philosophy for consolation. 
 
 1 Incidentally. 6 Heroditus, Bk. I. 94. 
 
706' THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 of some stimulating object, or the peace which stop drinking, they gamble; stop gambling, 
 is attained by there being nothing to quarrel and a worse license follows. You do not get 
 with. ... rid of vice by human expedients; you can but 
 
 In morals, as in physics, the stream cannot use them according to circumstances, and in 
 rise higher than its source. Christianity raises 5 their place, as making the best of a bad matter, 
 men from earth, for it comes from heaven; You must go to a higher source for renovation 
 but human morality creeps, struts, or frets of the heart and of the will. You do but play 
 upon the earth's level, without wings to rise, a sort of "hunt the slipper" with the fault of 
 The Knowledge School does not contemplate our nature, till you go to Christianity, 
 raising man above himself; it merely aims at 10 I say, you must use human methods in their 
 disposing of his existing powers and tastes, place, and there they are useful; but they are 
 as is most convenient, or is practicable under worse than useless out of their place. I have 
 circumstances. It finds him, like the victims of no fanatical wish to deny to any whatever 
 the French Tyrant,^ doubled up in a cage in subject of thought or method of reason a place 
 which he can neither lie, stand, sit, nor kneel, 15 altogether, if it chooses to claim it, in the cul- 
 and its highest desire is to find an attitude in tivation of the mind. Mr. Bentham may de- 
 which his unrest may be least. Or it finds spise verse-making, or Mr. Dugald Stewart 
 him like some musical instrument, of great logic, but the great and true maxim is to sacri- 
 power and compass, but imperfect; from its fice none — to combine, and therefore to adjust, 
 very structure some keys must ever be out of 20 all. All cannot be first, and therefore each has 
 tune, and its object, when ambition is highest, its place, and the problem is to find it. It is 
 is to throw the fault of its nature where least at least not a lighter mistake to make what is 
 it will be observed. It leaves a man where it secondary first, than to leave it out altogether, 
 found him — man, and not an Angel — a sinner. Here then it is that the Knowledge Society, 
 not a Saint; but it tries to make him look as25Gower Street College, Tamworth Reading 
 much like what he is not as ever it can. The Room, Lord Brougham and Sir Robert Peel, 
 poor indulge in low pleasures; they use bad are all so deplorably mistaken. Christianity, 
 language, swear loudly and recklessly, laugh and nothing short of it, must be made the cle- 
 at coarse jests, and are rude and boorish, ment and principle of all education. Where 
 Sir Robert would open on them a wider range 30 it has been laid as the first stone, and acknowl- 
 of thought and more intellectual objects, by edged as the governing spirit, it will take up 
 teaching them science; but what warrant will into itself, assimilate, and give a character to 
 he give us that, if his object could be achieved, literature and science. Where Revealed 
 what they would gain in decency they would Truth has given the aim and direction to 
 not lose in natural humility and faith? If so, 35 Knowledge, Knowledge of all kinds will 
 he has exchanged a gross fault for a more minister to Revealed Truth. The evidences 
 subtle one. "Temperance topics" stop drink- of Religion, natural theology, metaphysics, — 
 ing; let us suppose it; but will much be gained, or, again, poetry, history, and the classics, — 
 if those who give up spirits take to opium? or physics and mathematics, may all be 
 Naturam expellas furcd, tamen usque recurrel,'' 40 grafted into the mind of a Christian, and give 
 is at least a heathen truth, and universities and take by the grafting. But if in education 
 and libraries which recur to heathenism may we begin with nature before grace, with evi- 
 reclaim it from the heathen for their motto, dences before faith, with science before con- 
 Nay, everywhere, so far as human nature re- science, with poetry before practice, we shall 
 mains hardly or partially Christianized, the 45 be doing much the same as if we were to indulge 
 heathen law remains in force; as is felt in a the appetites and passions, and turn a deaf 
 measure even in the most religious places and ear to the reason. In each case we misplace 
 societies. Even there, where Christianity has what in its place is a divine gift. If we attempt 
 power, the venom of the old Adam is not sub- to effect a moral improvement by means of 
 dued. Those who have to do with our Colleges 50 poetry, we shall but mature into a mawkish, 
 give us their experience, that in the case of the frivolous, and fastidious sentimentalism ; — if 
 young committed to their care, external dis- by means of argument, into a dry, unamiable 
 cipline may change the fashionable excess, but longheadedness; — if by good society, into a 
 cannot allay the principle of sinning. Stop polished outside, with hojlowness within, in 
 cigars, they will take to drinking parties; 55 which vice has lost its grossness, and perhaps 
 
 ^ . ,, ^ , -L xu • increased its malignity; — if by experimentalx 
 
 •Louis XI (1461-83). Scott describes these cages m . . , • u -r ^ 
 
 QuentinDurward,l.xv. " In point of fact these cages SCienCC, mtO an Uppish, SUpcrClllOUS temper l'^ 
 
 were eight feet long and about seven feet high." much inclined to scepticism. But reverse the i 
 
 wuVa^waysTeUa!'' '"' "'^'' "''^ ' "^ ' '' Older of things: put Faith first and Knowl- 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 707 
 
 edge second; let the University minister to and their civilization. The arts and philosophy 
 
 the Church, and then classical poetry becomes of the Asiatic coast were easily carried across 
 
 the type of Gospel truth, and physical science the sea, and there was Cimon, as I have said, 
 
 a comment on Genesis or Job, and Aristotle with his ample fortune, ready to receive them 
 
 changes into Butler, and Arcesilaus into Berk- 5 with due honours. Not content with patroniz- 
 
 eley.* ing their professors, he built the first of those 
 
 SITE OF A UNIVERSITY noble porticos, of which we hear so much in 
 
 /T^ mi. rMT- 7rTT 7 -XT . . . Hr^^.^ Athens, and he formed the groves, which in 
 
 (From The Office and Work of Universities, 1854) p.^^^^^ ^f ^i^^ became the celebrated Academy. 
 
 If we would know what a University is, con- lo Planting is one of the most graceful, as in 
 sidered in its elementary idea, we must betake Athens it was once the most beneficent, of 
 ourselves to the first and most celebrated employments. Cimon took in hand the wild 
 home of European literature and source of wood, pruned and dressed it, and laid it out 
 European civilization, to the bright and beau- with handsome walks and welcome fountains, 
 tiful Athens, — Athens, whose schools drew to 15 Nor, while hospitable to the authors of the 
 her bosom, and then sent back again to the city's civilization, was he ungrateful to the 
 business of life, the youth of the western world instruments of her prosperity. His trees ex- 
 for a long thousand years. Seated on the tended their cool, umbrageous branches over 
 verge of the continent, the city seemed hardly the merchants, who assembled in the Agora,* 
 suited for the duties of a central metropolis 20 for many generations. 
 
 of knowledge; yet, what it lost in convenience Those merchants certainly had deserved 
 
 of approach, it gained in its neighbourhood to that act of bounty; for all the while their ships 
 the traditions of the mysterious East, and of had been carrying forth the intellectual fame 
 the loveliness of the regions in which it lay. of Athens to the western world. Then com- 
 Hither, then, as to a sort of ideal land, where 25 menced what may be called her University 
 all archetypes of the great and the fair were existence. Pericles, who succeeded Cimon both 
 found in substantial being, and all departments in the government and in the patronage of art, 
 of truth explored, and all diversities of intel- is said by Plutarch to have entertained the 
 lectual power exhibited, where taste and idea of making Athens the capital of federated 
 philosophy were majestically enthroned as 30 Greece; in this he failed, but his encourage- 
 in a royal court, where there was no sover- ment of such men as Phidias and Anaxagoras 
 eignty but that of mind, and no nobility but led the way to her acquiring a far more lasting 
 that of genius, where professors were rulers, sovereignty over a far wider empire. Little 
 and princes did homage, hither flocked con- understanding the sources of her own great- 
 tinually from the very corners of the or6is 35 ness, Athens would go to ^ war: peace is the 
 terrarum,^ the many-tongued generation, just interest of a seat of commerce and the arts; 
 rising, or just risen into manhood, in order but to war she went; yet to her, whether peace 
 to gain wisdom. or war, it mattered not. The political power 
 
 Pisistratus ^ had in an early age discovered of Athens waned and disappeared; kingdoma 
 and nursed the infant genius of his people, and 40 rose and fell; centuries rolled away, — they did 
 Cimon,' after the Persian war, had given it a but bring fresh triumphs to the city of the 
 home. That war had established the naval poet and the sage. There at length the swarthy 
 supremacy of Athens; she had become an im- Moor and Spaniard were seen to meet the blue- 
 perial state; and the lonians, bound to her by eyed Gaul; and the Cappadocian, late subject 
 the double chain of kindred and of subjection, 45 of Mithridates, gazed without alarm at the 
 were importing into her both their merchandise haughty conquering Roman. Revolution after 
 
 revolution passed over the face of Europe, as 
 
 8 The two ancient Greek philosophers, Aristotle, the ii e n^^^/.^ K„+ o+ill aV,^ T,roc fV.QT.o 
 
 profound thinker and logician, and ArcmZaus. a sceptical Well as of Greece, but still she was there,— 
 teacher of the fourth century, who declared that certain Athens, the city of mind, — as radiant, aS splen- 
 
 ' "we's'of ZseThrjSSowLdge U" S; whfi? «> did, as delicate, as young, as ever slie had been. 
 
 Bishop Butler, who held in his Analogy that the revela- Many a more fruitful COast Or isle is washed 
 
 tion of God in nature confirmed the revelation of Him in . ,, ,1 ^^o-oon manv a Qnnf ia iht^vp^ mnrc^ 
 the Bible, and Bishop Berkeley, who, denying the existence ^y tne Dlue ^gean, many a spOt IS tnere more 
 
 of matter, found in ideas, or spirit, the one reahty, — beautiful or sublime to see, many a territory 
 to^fafth.'^^^ '° represent those who give the first place ^^^^ ^^pj^. y^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ .^ ^^_ 
 
 » "Of the circle of lands." 55 tica, which in the Same perfection was nowhere 
 
 * Pisistratus' administration was famous for its en- glgg^ The deep pastures of Arcadia, the plain 
 
 couragement of literature and the arts. He had a new ^ *^ 7 r- 
 edition of the Homeric poems prepared, and he built the 
 
 Lyceum and several temples. , * The market place, used not only for buying and sell- 
 
 ' This commander, after defeating the Persians, spent ing, but as a place of assembly for debating, elections, 
 
 much of his money on improving Athens. trials, etc. 
 
708 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 of Argos, the Thessalian vale, these had not would visit their Ionian cousins, a sort of via- 
 the gift; Boeotia, which lay to its immediate duct thereto across the sea; but that fancy 
 north, was notorious for its very want of it. would not occur to him, nor any admiration 
 The heavy atmosphere of that Boeotia might of the dark violet billows with their white 
 be good for vegetation, but it was associated Sedges down below; nor of those graceful, fan- 
 in popular belief with the dulness of the Boeo- like jets of silver upon the rocks, which slowly 
 tian intellect: on the contrary, the special rise aloft like water spirits from the deep, then 
 purity, elasticity, clearness, and salubrity of shiver, and break, and spread, and shroud 
 the air of Attica, fit concomitant and emblem themselves, and disappear, in a soft mist of 
 of its genius, did that for it which earth did 10 foam; nor of the gentle, incessant heaving 
 not; — it brought out every bright hue and ten- and panting of the whole liquid plain; nor of 
 der shade of the landscape over which it was the long waves, keeping steady time, like a 
 spread, and would have illuminated the face line of soldiery, as they resound upon the hol- 
 even of a more bare and rugged country. low shore, — he would not deign to notice that 
 
 A confined triangle, perhaps fifty miles its 15 restless living element at all, except to bless 
 greatest length, and thirty its greatest breadth; his stars that he was not upon it. Nor the 
 two elevated rocky barriers, meeting at an distinct detail, nor the refined colouring, nor 
 angle; three prominent mountains, command- the graceful outline and roseate golden hue of 
 ing the plain, — Parnes, Pentelicus, and Hymet- the jutting crags, nor the bold shadows cast 
 tus; an unsatisfactory soil; some streams, not 20 from Otus or Laurium^ by the declining sun; — 
 always full; — such is about the report which our agent of a mercantile firm would not value 
 the agent of a London company would have these matters even at a low figure. Rather 
 made of Attica. He would report that the we must turn for the sympathy we seek to 
 climate was mild; the hills were limestone; yon pilgrim student, come from a semi- 
 there was plenty of good marble; more pasture 25 barbarous land to that small corner of the earth, 
 land than at first survey might have been ex- as to a shrine, where he might take his fill of 
 pected, sufficient certainly for sheep and goats; gazing on those emblems and coruscations of 
 fisheries productive; silver mines once, but invisible unoriginate perfection. It was the 
 long since worked out; figs fair; oil first-rate; stranger from a remote province, from Britain 
 olives in profusion. But what he would not 30 or from Mauritania, who in a scene so different 
 think of noting down, was, that the olive tree from that of his chilly, woody swamps, or of 
 was so choice in nature and so noble in shape, his fiery choking sands, learned at once what 
 that it excited a religious veneration; and that a real University must be, by coming to under- 
 it took so kindly to the light soil, as to expand stand the sort of country, which was its suit- 
 into woods upon the open plain, and to climb 35 able home. 
 
 up and fringe the hills. He would not think of Nor was this all that a University required, 
 writing word to his employers, how that clear and found in Athens. No one, even there, 
 air, of which I have spoken, brought out, yet could live on poetry. If the students at that 
 blended and subdued, the colours on the mar- famous place had nothing better than bright 
 ble, till they had a softness and harmony, for 40 hues and soothing sounds, they would not have 
 all their richness, which in a picture looks ex- been able or disposed to turn their residence 
 aggerated, yet is after all within the truth. He there to much account. Of course they must 
 would not tell, how that same delicate and have the means of living, nay, in a certain 
 brilliant atmosphere freshened up the pale sense, of enjoyment, if Athens was to be an 
 olive, till the olive forgot its monotony, and 45 Alma Mater at the time, or to remain after- 
 its cheek glowed like the arbutus or beech of wards a pleasant thought in their memory, 
 the Umbrian hills. He would say nothing of And so they had: be it recollected Athens was 
 the thyme and thousand fragrant herbs which a port, and a mart of trade, perhaps the first 
 carpeted Hymettus; he would hear nothing of in Greece; and this was very much to the point, 
 the hum of its bees; nor take much account of 50 when a number of strangers were ever flocking 
 the rare fliavour of its honey, since Gozo and to it, whose combat was to be with intellectual, 
 Minor'^a were sufficient for the English de- not physical difficulties, and who claimed to 
 mand. He would look over the iEgean from have their bodily wants supplied, that they 
 the height he had ascended; he would follow might be at leisure to set about furnishing 
 with his eye the chain of islands, which, start- 55 their minds. Now, barren as was the soil of 
 ing from the Sunian ^ headland, seemed to Attica, and bare the face of the country, yet^j 
 offer the fabled divinities of Attica, when they it had only too many resources for an elegant, ^ 
 
 " A promontory forming the extreme southern point * Laurium was a mountain range in Attica. Otiis ia 
 
 of the province of Attica. apparently a misprint for Orus, the peak of Aegina. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 709 
 
 nay luxurious abode there. So abundant were at the time; and one point which he was strong 
 the imports of the place, that it was a common upon, and was evidently fond of urging, was 
 saying, that the productions, which were the material pomp and circumstance which 
 found singly elsewhere, were brought all to- should environ a seat of learning. He con- 
 gether in Athens. Corn and wine, the staple 5 sidered it was worth the consideration of the 
 of subsistence in such a climate, came from the government, whether Oxford should not stand 
 isles of the ^Egean; fine wool and carpeting in a domain of its own. An ample range, say 
 from Asia Minor; slaves, as now, from the four miles in diameter, should be turned into 
 Euxine, and timber too; and iron and brass wood and meadow, and the University should 
 from the coasts of the Mediterranean. The lo be approached on all sides by a magnificent 
 Athenian did not condescend to manufactures park, with fine trees in groups and groves and 
 himself, but encouraged them in others; and avenues, and with glimpses and views of the 
 a population of foreigners caught at the lucra- fair city, as the traveler drew near it. There 
 tive occupation both for home consumption is nothing surely absurd in the idea, though 
 and for exportation. Their cloth, and other 15 it would cost a round sum to realize it. What 
 textures for dress and furniture, and their has a better claim to the purest and fairest 
 hardware — for instance, armour — were in great possessions of nature, than the seat of wisdom? 
 request. Labour was cheap; stone and marble So thought my coach companion; and he did 
 in plenty; and the taste and skill, which at but express the tradition of ages and the in- 
 first were devoted to public buildings, as tem- 20 stinct of mankind, 
 pies and porticos, were in course of time ap- 
 plied to the mansions of public men. If nature _„„ .^,, ^^ . ^,^^^^^^^^_,, ^^-r^^o.^-. 
 did much for Athens, it is undeniable that art THE AIM OF A UNIVERSITY COURSE 
 
 did much more. ^ (From Idea of a University, 1852) 
 
 Here some one will mterrupt me with the 25 
 remark: "By the bye, where are we, and To-day I have confined myself to saying 
 whither are we going? — what has all this to that that training of the intellect, which is 
 do with a University? at least what has it to best for the individual himself, best enables 
 do with education? It is instructive doubtless; him to discharge his duties to society. The 
 but still how much has it to do with your sub-30 Philosopher, indeed, and the man of the world 
 ject?" Now I beg to assure the reader that I differ in their very notion, but the methods 
 am most conscientiously employed upon my by which they are respectively formed, are 
 subject; and I should have thought every one pretty much the same. The Philosopher has 
 would have seen this: however, since the ob- the same command of matters of thought, 
 jection is made, I may be allowed to pause 35 which the true citizen and gentleman has of 
 awhile, and show distinctly the drift of what matters of business and conduct. If then a 
 I have been saying, before I go farther. What practical end must be assigned to a University 
 has this to do with my subject! why, the ques- course; I say that it is that of training good 
 tion of the site is the very first that comes into members of society. Its art is the art of social 
 consideration, when a Studium Generate^ is 40 life; and its end is fitness for the world. It 
 contemplated; for that site should be a liberal neither confines its views to particular pro- 
 and a noble one; who will deny it? Allauthori- fessions on the one hand, nor creates heroes 
 ties agree in this, and very little reflection will or inspires genius on the other. Works indeed 
 be sufficient to make it clear. I recollect a con- of genius fall under no art; heroic minds come 
 versation I once had on this very subject with 45 under no rule; a University is not a birthplace of 
 a very eminent man. I was a youth of eighteen, poets or of immortal authors, of founders 
 and was leaving my University for the Long of schools, leaders of colonies, or conquerors of 
 Vacation, when I found myself in company nations. It does not promise a generation 
 in a public conveyance with a middle-aged of Aristotles or Newtons, of Napoleons or 
 person, whose face was strange to me. How- 50 Washingtons, of Raphaels or Shakespeares, 
 ever, it was the great academical luminary of though such miracles of nature it has before 
 the day, whom afterwards I knew very well, now contained within its precincts. Nor is it 
 Luckily for me, I did not suspect it; and luckily content on the other hand with forming the 
 too, it was a fancy of his, as his friends knew, critic or the experimentalist, the economist 
 to make himself on easy terms especially with 55 or the engineer, though such too it includes 
 stage-coach companions. So, what with my within its scope. But a University training is 
 flippancy and his condescension, I managed the great ordinary means to a great but or- 
 to hear many things which were novel to me dinary end; it aims at raising the intellectual 
 » A university, or school of universal learning. tone of society, at cultivating the public mind. 
 
710 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 at purifying the national taste, at supplying rather like those, which I dare say most of us 
 true principles to popular enthusiasm and here have had, at Pompeii, looking at Sallust's 
 fixed aims to popular aspiration, at giving house^ and the relics of an orgy: a dried wine- 
 enlargement and sobriety to the ideas of the jar or two, a charred supper-table, the breast 
 age, at facilitating the exercise of political 5 of a dancing-girl pressed against the ashes, the 
 power, and refining the intercourse of private laughing skull of a jester: a perfect stillness 
 life. It is the education which gives a man a round about, as the cicerone' twangs his moral, 
 clear conscious view of his own opinions and and the blue sky shines calmly over the ruin, 
 judgments, a truth in developing them, an The Congreve Muse is dead, and her song 
 eloquence in expressing them, and a force in 10 choked in Time's ashes. We gaze at the skele- 
 urging them. JHe is at home in any society, ton, and wonder at the life which once revelled 
 he has common ground with every class; he in its mad veins. We take the skull up, and 
 knows when to speak and when to be silent; muse over the frolic and daring, the wit, scorn, 
 he is able to converse, he is able to Hsten; he passion, hope, desire, with which that empty 
 can ask a question pertinently, and gain a 15 bowl once fermented. We think of the glances 
 lesson seasonably, when he has nothing to that allured, the tears that melted, of the bright 
 impart himself; he is ever ready, yet never in eyes that shone in those vacant sockets; and 
 the way; he is a pleasant companion, and a of lips whispering love, and cheeks dimpling 
 comrade you can depend upon; he knows when with smiles, that once covered yon ghastly 
 to be serious and when to trifle; and he has a 20 yellow framework. They used to call those 
 sure tact which enables him to trifle with teeth pearls once. See, there's the cup she 
 gracefulness and to be serious with effect. He drank from, the gold-chain she wore on her 
 has the repose of a mind which lives in itself, neck, the vase which held the rouge for her 
 while it lives in the world, and which has re- cheeks, her looking-glass, and the harp she 
 sources for its happiness at home when it can- 25 used to dance to. Instead of a feast we find 
 not go abroad. He has a gift which serves him a gravestone, and in place of a mistress, a 
 in public, and supports him in retirement, few bones! 
 
 without which good fortune is but vulgar, and Reading in these plays now, is like shutting 
 
 with which failure and disappointment have your ears and looking at people dancing. What 
 a charm. The art which tends to make a man 30 does it mean? the measures, the grimaces, the 
 all this, is in the object which it pursues as bowing, shuffling and retreating, the cavalier 
 useful as the art of wealth or the art of health, seul^ advancing upon those ladies — those 
 though it is less susceptible of method, and ladies and men twirling round at the end in a 
 less tangible, less certain, less complete, in its mad gallop, after which everybody bows and 
 result. * 35 the quaint rite is celebrated. Without the 
 
 music we can't understand that comic dance 
 
 of the last century — its strange gravity and 
 
 William £pakepeace QTI^ackera^ gaiety, its decorum or its Indecomm. It has 
 
 ^ jargon of its own quite unlike life; a sort of 
 40 moral of its own quite unlike life too. I'm 
 
 THF PF^TORATTOTM HRAMA ^^^^^^ ^^'^ ^ Heathen mystery, symboHzing a 
 
 THE REbTORATlON DRAMA p^g^^^ doctrine; protesting— as the Pompeians 
 
 (From "Congreve and Addison," in The Eng- very likely were, assembled at their theatre 
 lish Humourists, written 1851) ^^^ laughmg at their games; as Sallust and his 
 
 45 friends, and their mistresses, protested, crowned 
 There is life and death going on in everything: with flowers, with cups in their hands — against 
 truth and lies are always at battle. Pleasure the new, hard, ascetic, pleasure-hating doctrine 
 is always warring against self-restraint. Doubt whose gaunt disciples, lately passed over from 
 is always crying Psha! and sneering. A man the Asian shores of the Mediterranean, were 
 in life, a humourist in writing about life, sways 50 „ ^ , , , , . , , , , 
 
 , . . , ii .1 J 1 V 2 One of the houses laid bare by the excavations at 
 
 over to one prmciple or the other, and laughs Pompeii is commonly said to have belonged to Sallust. 
 
 with the reverence for right and the love of ^ is tlie contrast between the levity and licentiousness 
 
 , ,1 . , . , , 1 L i .1 e j.\. o* Pompeii, jesting almost within the shadow of a vol- 
 
 trutn m his heart, or laughs at these from the cano. and the inexorable and terrible doom that over- 
 
 Other side. Didn't I tell you that dancing <^akes it, which suggests and gives point to Thackeray's 
 
 , . .TTi 'oiTT- comparison. The witty and immoral comedies of Con- 
 
 was a senous business to Harlequin.'' ^ 1 have 55 greve, like the relics of Pompeiian orgies, speak of a deadv 
 
 read two or three of Congreve's plays over generation of triflers, of a gayety destined to be choked \ 
 
 before speaking of him; and my feelings were ^"a"!^ n^ame given to Italian guides for their volubility. ' 
 
 in humorous allusion to the fluency of the great Roman 
 1 The stage buffoon, one of the regular character types orator Cicero, 
 in French comedy. * The cavalier who dances alone. 
 
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 711 
 
 for breaking the fair images of Venus and fling- As the boy tosses the cup and sings his song — 
 ing the altars of Bacchus down. hark! what is that chaunt coming nearer and 
 
 I fancy poor Congreve's theatre is a temple nearer? What is that dirge which will disturb 
 of Pagan delights, and mysteries not permitted us? The lights of the festival burn dim— the 
 except among heathens. I fear the theatre 5 cheeks turn pale — the voice quavers — and 
 carries down that ancient tradition and wor- the cup drops on the floor. Who's there? 
 ship, as masons have carried their secret signs Death and Fate are at the gate, and they vrUl 
 and rites^ from temple to temple. When the come in. 
 libertine hero carries off the beauty in the 
 play, and the dotard is laughed to scorn for 10 
 
 having the young wife: in the ballad, when NIL NISI BONUMi 
 
 the poet bids his mistress to gather roses while ^^^^^ Roundabout Papers, 1860-1862) 
 
 she may, and warns her that old Time is still 
 
 a-flying: in the ballet, when honest Corydon Almost the last words which Sir Walter 
 
 courts Phillis under the treillage of the paste- 15 spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, "Be 
 board cottage, and leers at her over the head a good man, my dear!" and with the last 
 of grandpapa in red stockings, who is oppor- flicker of breath on his dying lips, he sighed 
 tunely asleep; and when seduced by the invi- a farewell to his family, and passed away 
 tations of the rosy youth she comes forward to blessing them. 
 
 the footlights, and they perform on each 20 Two men,^ famous, admired, beloved, have 
 other's tiptoes that pas which you all know, just left us, the Goldsmith and Gibbon of our 
 and which is only interrupted by old grand- time. Ere a few weeks are over, the critic's 
 papa awaking from his doze at the pasteboard pen will be at work, reviewing their lives, and 
 chdlet (whither he returns to take another nap passing judgment on their works. This is no 
 in case the young people get an encore) : when 25 review, or history, or criticism : only a word in 
 Harlequin, splendid in youth, strength, and testimony of respect and regard from a man 
 agility, arrayed in gold and a thousand colours, of letters, who owes to his own professional 
 springs over the heads of countless perils, labour the honour of becoming acquainted 
 leaps down the throat of bewildered giants, with these two eminent literary men. One 
 and, dauntless and splendid, dances danger 30 was the first ambassador whom the New World 
 down: when Mr. Punch, that Godless old rebel of Letters sent to the Old. He was born almost 
 breaks every law and laughs at it with odious with the republic; the pater patrioe had laid his 
 triumph, outwits his lawyer, bullies the beadle, hand on the child's head.* He bore Washing- 
 knocks his wife about the head, and hangs ton's name: he came amongst us bringing the 
 the hangman — don't you see in the comedy, in 35 kindest sympathy, the most artless, smiling 
 the song, in the dance, in the ragged little good-will. His new country (which some peo- 
 Punch's puppet-show— the Pagan protest? pie here might be disposed to regard rather 
 Doesn't it seem as if Life puts in its plea and superciliously) could send us, as he showed in 
 sings its comment? Look how the lovers walk his own person, a gentleman, who, though 
 and hold each other's hands and whisper! 40 himself bom in no very high sphere, was most 
 Sing the chorus— ''There is nothing like love, finished, polished, easy, witty, quiet; and, 
 there is nothing like youth, there is nothing socially, the equal of the most refined Euro- 
 like beauty of your springtime. Look! how peans. If Irving's welcome in England was a 
 old age tries to meddle with merry sport! Beat kind one, was it not also gratefully remem- 
 him with his own crutch, the wrinkled old 45 bered? If he ate our salt, did he not pay us 
 dotard! There is nothing like youth, there is with a thankful heart? Who can calculate 
 nothing like beauty, there is nothing like the amount of friendliness and good feelmg 
 strength. Strength and valour win beauty for our country which this writer's generous 
 and youth. Be brave and conquer. Be young and untiring regard for us disseminated in 
 and happy. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy! Would you 50 his own? His books are read by millions of his 
 know the Segreto per esserfeliceP Here it is, in countrymen, whom he has taught to love Eng- 
 a smiling mistress and a cup of Falemian."^ land, and why to love her. It would have been 
 
 ^ In the middle ages when skilled masons moved from ^ The. Latin Proverb nins De mortuis nil nm bonum. 
 
 place to place to work upon the great abbeys and cathe- concerning the dead not mg but go«d. Macau- 
 
 drals, it was important for them to have some sign by ^ Washington Irvmg died Nov. 28, 1859, Lord Macau 
 
 which they could be known as reliable workmen. Thus lay died Dec. ^\}^^'-,..^, -.jk, ._ xjew York a 
 
 originated the secret organization of free or enfranchised \I^"""«. ?°«„;^1„Y h^^d ^reVntod the bo^^^^ 
 
 operai^e nu^sons, from which modern Freemasonry de- f-^f J-'d ^ vant Imd j^^^^^^^ 
 
 nves Its symbols and rites. a bairn wis named after you." The president thereupon 
 
 SA'S^of'sTufi'U celebrated by the Latin ^a^riSmtis blessing. J. C. D. Warner's L./e o/ /r.n.. 
 
 p. 23. 
 
712 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 easy to speak otherwise than he did: to inflame New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and 
 national rancours, which, at the time when he Washington, and remarked how in every place 
 first became known as a public writer, war had he was honoured and welcomed. Every large j 
 just renewed: to cry down the old civilization city has its ''Irving House." The country 
 at the expense of the new: to point out our 5 takes pride in the fame of its men of letters, 
 faults, arrogance, short-comings, and give the The gate of his own charming Uttle domain on 
 repubUc to infer how much she was the parent the beautiful Hudson River was for ever swing- 
 state's superior. There are writers enough in ing before visitors who came to him. He shut 
 the United States, honest and otherwise, who out no one. I had seen many pictures of his 
 preach that kind of doctrine. But the good 10 house, and read descriptions of it, in both of 
 Irving, the peaceful, the friendly, had no place which it was treated with a not unusual Amer- 
 for bitterness in his heart, and no scheme but ican exaggeration. It was but a pretty httle 
 kindness. Received in England with extraor- cabin of a place; the gentleman of the press 
 dinary tenderness and friendship (Scott, who took notes of the place, whilst his kind old 
 Southey, Byron, a hundred others have borne 15 host was sleeping, might have visited the whole 
 witness to their liking for him), he was a mes- house in a couple of minutes, 
 senger of good-will and peace between his And how came it that this house was so 
 country and ours. "See, friends!" he seems small, when Mr. Irving's books were sold by 
 to say, " these English are not so wicked, rapa- hundreds of thousands, nay, millions, when 
 cious, callous, proud, as you have been taught 20 his profits were known to be large, and the 
 to believe them. I went amongst them a habits of life of the good old bachelor were 
 humble man; won my way by my pen; and, notoriously modest and simple? He had loved 
 when known, found every hand held out to me once in his life. The lady he loved died; and 
 with kindliness and welcome. Scott is a great he, whom all the world loved, never sought to 
 man you acknowledge. Did not Scott's King 25 replace her. I can't say how much the thought 
 of England give a gold medal to him, and of that fidelity has touched me. Does not the 
 another to me, your countryman, and a very cheerfulness of his after life add to the 
 stranger?" pathos of that untold story? To grieve always 
 
 Tradition in the United States still fondly was not in his nature; or, when he had his sor- 
 retains the history of the feasts and rejoicings 30 row, to bring all the world in to condole with 
 which awaited Irving on his return to his na- him and bemoan it. Deep and quiet he lays 
 tive country from Europe. He had a national the love of his heart, and buries it; and grass 
 welcome; he stammered m his speeches, hid and flowers grow over the scarred ground in 
 himself in confusion, and the people loved him due time. 
 
 the better. He had worthily represented 35 Irving had such a small house and such nar- 
 America in Europe. In that young community row rooms, because there was a great number 
 a man who brings home with him abundant of people to occupy them. He could only af- 
 European testimonials is still treated with ford to keep one old horse (which, lazy and 
 respect (I have found American writers, of aged as it was, managed once or twice to run 
 wide-world reputation, strangely sohcitous 40 away with that careless old horseman). He 
 about the opinions of quite obscure British could only afford to give plain sherry to that 
 critics, and elated or depressed by their judg- amiable British paragraph-monger, who saw 
 ments); and Irving went home medalled by the patriarch asleep over his modest, blame- 
 the King, diplomatized by the University, less cup, and fetched the public into his private 
 crowned and honoured and admired. He 45 chamber to look at him. Irving could only live 
 had not in any way intrigued for his honours, very modestly, because the wifeless, childless 
 he had fairly won them; and, in Irving's in- man had a number of children to whom he 
 stance, as in others, the old country was glad was as a father. He had as many as nine 
 and eager to pay them. nieces, I am told— I saw two of these ladies, 
 
 In America the love and regard for Irving 50 at his house— with all of whom the dear old, 
 was a national sentiment. Party wars are man had shared the produce of his labour and 
 perpetually raging there, and are carried on genius. ^ ; 
 
 by the press with a rancour and fierceness "Be a good man, my dear." One can t but 
 
 against individuals which exceed British, al- think of these last words of the veteran Chief 
 most Irish, virulence. It seemed to me, during 55 of Letters, who had tasted and tested the value 
 a year's travel in the country, as if no one ever of worldly success, admiration, prosperity«| 
 aimed a blow at Irving. All men held their Was Irving not good, and, of his works, wa^^ 
 hands from that harmless, friendly peace- not his life the best part? In his family, gentle, 
 maker. I had the good fortune to see him at generous, good-humoured, affectionate, self-W 
 
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 713 
 
 denying; in society, a delightful example of right. Years ago there was a wretched outcry 
 complete gentlemanhood; quite unspoiled by raised because Mr. Macaulay dated a letter 
 prosperity; never obsequious to the great (or, from Windsor Castle,« where he was staying, 
 worse still, to the base and mean, as some Immortal gods! Was this man not a fit guest 
 public men are forced to be in his and other 5 for any palace in the world? or a fit companion 
 countries); eager to acknowledge every con- for any man or woman in it? I dare say, after 
 temporary's merit; always kind and affable Austerlitz, the old K. K.^ court officials and 
 to the young members of his calling; in his pro- footmen sneered at Napoleon for dating from 
 fessional bargains and mercantile dealings deli- Schonbrunn.s But that miserable "Windsor 
 cately honest and grateful; one of the most 10 Castle" outcry is an echo out of fast-retreat- 
 charming masters of our fighter language; the ing old-world remembrances. The place of such 
 constant friend to us and to our nation; to men a natural chief was amongst the first of the 
 of letters doubly dear, not for his wit and land; and that country is best, according to 
 genius merely, but as an exemplar of goodness, our British notion at least, where the man of 
 probity, and pure fife:— I don't know what 15 eminence has the best chance of investing his 
 sort of testimonial will be raised to him in his genius and intellect. 
 
 own country, where generous and enthusiastic If a company of giants were got together, 
 
 acknowledgment of American merit is never very likely one or two of the mere six-feet-six 
 wanting: but Irving was in our service as well people might be angry in the incontestable 
 as theirs; and as they have placed a stone at 20 superiority of the very tallest of the party; 
 Greenwich yonder in memory of that gallant and so I have heard some London wits, rather 
 young Bellot,4 who shared the perils and fate peevish at Macaulay's superiority, complain 
 of some of our Arctic seamen, I would like to that he occupied too much of the talk, and so 
 hear of some memorial raised by English writers forth. Now that wonderful tongue is to speak 
 and friends of letters in affectionate remem- 25 no more, will not many a man grieve that he 
 brance of the dear and good Washington Irving, no longer has the chance to listen? To remem- 
 As for the other writer, whose departure ber the talk is to wonder: to think not only of 
 many friends, some few most dearly-loved, and the treasures he had in his memory, but of the 
 multitudes of admiring readers deplore, our trifles he had stored there, and could produce 
 republic has already decreed his statue, and 30 with equal readiness. Almost on the last day 
 he must have known that he had earned this I had the fortune to see him, a conversation 
 posthumous honour. He is not a poet and happened suddenly to spring up about senior 
 man of letters merely, but citizen, statesman, wranglers,^ and what they had done in after 
 a great British worthy. Almost from the first life. To the almost terror of the persons pres- 
 moment when he appears amongst boys, 35 ent, Macaulay began with the senior wrangler 
 amongst college students, amongst men, he is of 1801-2-3-4, and so on, giving the name of 
 marked, and takes rank as a great Englishman, each, and relating his subsequent career and 
 All sorts of successes are easy to him: as a lad rise. Every man who has known him has his 
 he goes down into the arena with others, and story regarding that astonishing memory. It 
 wins all the prizes to which he has a mind. A 40 may be that he was not ill pleased that you 
 place in the senate is straightway offered to should recognize it; but to those prodigious 
 the young man. He takes his seat there; he intellectual feats, which were so easy to him, 
 speaks, when so minded, without party anger who would grudge his tribute of homage? His 
 or intrigue, but not without party faith and a talk was, in a word, admirable, and we ad- 
 sort of heroic enthusiasm for his cause. Still 45 mired it. 
 
 he is poet and philosopher even more than Of the notices which have appeared regard- 
 
 orator. That he may have leisure and means ing Lord Macaulay, up to the day when the 
 to pursue his darling studies, he absents himself present lines are written (the 9th of January), 
 for a while, and accepts a richly-remunerative the reader should not deny himself the pleasure 
 post in the East.^ As learned a man may 50 ^ 
 live in a cottage or a college common-room; uI^^Stu^^'£''^'i;Slotlf^L!^t^:'\Ze^^^i 
 
 but it always seemed to me that ample means from Windsor Castle, the Royal Palace, as though it were 
 and recoffnizpd rank wprp MflPanlav'M n^ of ^'^ residence. The London Times attacked him. and 
 aiiu recoguizea ranK were iViacaUiay S as OI among those who had their laugh at his expense was 
 AT ». D x D 7; . /100C CON r? u I ^ Thackeray himself. But Thackeray made ample amends 
 * Joseph RenS Bellot (1826-53), a French naval officer for what Trevelyan calls "a very innocent and not ill- 
 and a volunteer m English Arctic expeditions, who lost natured touch of satire," in this passage 
 his life m the search for Franklin. Bellot's Straits, in the i K. K. in German stands for Kaiserlich KUnialich 
 North American Arctics, is named after him. He is i. e. Imperial Royal. ' 
 commemorated by a red granite obelisk on the river 8 The Austrian Imperial residence, three miles south- 
 terrace at Greenwich, seat of the Royal Naval College. west of Vienna. 
 
 5 Macaulay was a member of the Supreme Council at » In Cambridge University the student taking first 
 
 Calcutta, 1834-38. place in the mathematical tripos or honor examination. 
 
711 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 <,f looking CHpecially at two. It is a good sign straiige lore would he not fetch for you at your 
 o the times when such articles as these (I bidding! A volume of law or history a book 
 mean the articles in The Times and Saturday of poetry familiar or forgotten (except by him- 
 Renew) appear in our public prints about our self who forgot nothing), a novel ever so old, 
 public men. They educate us, as it were, to sand he had it at hand I spoke to him once 
 admire rightly. An uninstructed person in a about ''Clarissa." '' "Not read Clanssa ! 
 museum or at a concert may pass by without he cried out. "If you have once thoroughly 
 raoognizing a picture or a passage of music, entered on 'Clanssa and are mfected by it, 
 which the connoisseur by his side may show you can't leave it. When I was m India I 
 him is a masterpiece of harmony, or a wonder 10 passed one hot season at the hills, and there 
 of artistic skill. After reading these papers, were the Governor-General, and the Secretary 
 you like and respect more the person you have of Government, and the Commander-in-Chief, 
 admired so much already. And so with regard and their wives. I had ' Clarissa' with me: and, 
 to Macaulay's style there may be faults of as soon as they began to read, the whole sta- 
 couTse— what critic can't point them out? But 15 tion was in a passion of excitement about Miss 
 for the nonce we are not talking about faults: Harlowe and her misfortunes, and her scoun- 
 we want to say nil nisi bonum. Well— take drelly Lovelace! The Governor's wife seized 
 at hazanl any three pages of the "Essays" the book, and the Secretary waited for it, and 
 or "History;" — and, glimmering below the the Chief Justice could not read it for tears!" 
 stream of the narrative, as it were, you, an 20 He acted the whole scene: he paced up and 
 average reader, see one, two, three, a half-score down the "Athen^um" library: I dare say 
 of allusions to other historic facts, characters, he could have spoken pages of the book — of 
 literature, poetry, with which you are ac- that book, and of what countless piles of others. 
 quainted. Why is this epithet used? Whence In this little paper let us keep to the text of 
 is that simile drawn? How does he manage 25 nil nisi bonum. One paper I have read regard- 
 in two or three words, to paint an individual, ing Lord Macaulay says "he had no heart." 
 or to indicate a landscape? Your neighbour. Why, a man's books may not always speak 
 who has his reading, and his little stock of the truth, but they speak his mind in spite of 
 literature stowed away in his mind, shall de- himself: and it seems to me this man's heart is 
 tect more points, allusions, happy touches, 30 beating through every page he penned. He is 
 indicating not only the prodigious memory always in a storm of revolt and indignation 
 and vast learning of this master, but the against wrong, craft, tyranny. How he cheers 
 wonderful industry, the honest, humble pre- heroic resistance; how he backs and applauds 
 vious toil of this great scholar. He reads freedom struggling for its own; how he hates 
 twenty books to write a sentence; he travels a 35 scoundrels, ever so victorious and successful; 
 hundred miles to make a line of description. how he recognizes genius, though selfish vil- 
 
 Many Londoners — not all — have seen the lains possess it! The critic who says Macaulay 
 British Museum Library. I speak d cceur had no heart, might say that Johnson had 
 otwert,^'^ and pray the kindly reader to bear none: and two men more generous, and more 
 with me. I have seen all sorts of domes of 40 loving, and more hating, and more partial, 
 Peters and Pauls, Sophia, Pantheon, — what and more noble, do not hve in our history. 
 not?— and have been struck by none of them Those who knew Lord Macaulay knew how 
 ao much as by that CathoUc dome in Blooms- admirably tender and generous, and affec- 
 bury, under which our million volumes are tionate he was. It was not his business to 
 housed. What peace, what love, what truth, 45 bring his family before the theatre foothghts, 
 what beauty, what happiness for all, what and call for bouquets from the gallery as he 
 gmerous kindness for you and me, are here wept over them. 
 
 spread out! It seems to me one cannot sit If any young man of letters reads this little 
 down m that place without a heart fuU of sermon— and to him, indeed, it is addressed— 
 grateful reverence. I own to have said my 50 1 would say to him, "Bear Scott's words in 
 grace at the table, and to have thanked heaven your mind, and 'be good, my dear.'" Here 
 for this my English birthnght, freely to par- are two Uterary men, gone to their account, 
 take of th^ bountiful bcK)ks, and to speak and, laus Deo,^^ as far as we know, it is fair, 
 uiA^, , . t^' ^""^f }^^ ^°°'® ^^'''^ ^^ open, and clean. Here is no need of apolo- 
 held Macaulay 8 brain, and from which his 55 gies for shortcomings, or explanations of vices 
 solemn eyes looked out on the worid but a which would have been virtues but for un-\j 
 
 wnlSl^"^' 1\^^ ^ ''^^' ^^^'^"i^' T^ r i'f^^*«- '^<'''^^' Samuel Richardson's novel, pub- '^1 
 wonaenul store of learning was ranged! what ushed 1748. Lovelace, the principal male character in the 
 
 «• From an open heart. ^» pS to God!'^°"' •'^''*^'- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 715 
 
 avoidable &c. Here are two examples of men From an otherwise unaccountable association 
 most differently gifted: each pursuing his call- of him with a fiddle, we conclude that he was 
 mg; each speaking his truth as God bade him; of French extraction, and his name Fiddle, 
 each honest in his hfe; just and irreproachable He belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting 
 in his dealings; dear to his friends; honoured 5 a back-parlour, whose life appears to us to have 
 by his country; beloved at his fireside. It has been consumed in sniffing, and in wearing a 
 been the fortunate lot of each to give incal- brown beaver bonnet. For her, he would sit 
 culable happiness and delight to the world, up and balance cake upon his nose, and not 
 which thanks them in return with an immense eat it until twenty had been counted. To the 
 kindliness, respect, affection. It may not be lo best of our belief we were once called in to 
 our chance, brother scribe, to be endowed witness this performance; when, unable even 
 with such merit, or rewarded with such fame, in his milder moments, to endure our presence, 
 But the rewards of these men are rewards paid he instantly made at us, cake and all. 
 to our service. We may not win the baton or Why a something in mourning, called "Miss 
 epaulettes;" but God give us strength to guard 15 Frost," should still connect itself with our 
 the honour of the flag! preparatory school, we are unable to say. We 
 
 retain no impression of the beauty of Miss 
 
 Frost — if she were beautiful; or of the mental 
 
 Cl^Stto SDictentf fascinations of Miss Frost— if she were ac- 
 
 1812-1870 20complished; yet her name, and her black dress 
 
 hold an enduring place in our remembrance. 
 HTTP QPTrnnr ^^ equally impersonal boy, whose name has 
 
 UUK, Cj^^iiuUL. j^jjg gjjj^g shaped itself unalterably into 
 
 (From Household W(yrds, 1852) "Master Mawls," is not to be dislodged from 
 
 25 our brain. Retaining no vindictive feeling 
 
 We went to look at it, only this last Mid- towards Mawls — no feehng whatever, indeed — 
 summer, and found that the railway had cut we infer that neither he nor we can have loved 
 it up root and branch. A great trunk-line Miss Frost. Our first impression of Death and 
 had swallowed the play-ground, sliced away Burial is associated with this formless pair, 
 the schoolroom, and pared off the comer of 30 We all three nestled awfully in a corner one 
 the house, which thus curtailed of its propor- wintry day, when the wind was blowing shrill, 
 tions, presented itself, in a green stage of with Miss Frost's pinafore over our heads; and 
 stucco, profilewise towards the road, like a Miss Frost told us in a whisper about some- 
 forlorn flatiron without a handle, standing on body being "screwed down." It is the only 
 end. 35 distinct recollection we preserve of these im- 
 
 It seems as if our schools were doomed to palpable creatures, except a suspicion that 
 be the sport of change. We have faint recol- the manners of Master Mawls were susceptible 
 lections of a Preparatory Day-School, which of much improvement. Generally speaking, 
 we have sought in vain, and which must have we may observe that whenever we see a child 
 been pulled down to make a new street, ages 40 intently occupied with its nose, to the exclusion 
 ago. We have dim impressions, scarcely of all other subjects of interest, our mind re- 
 amounting to a belief, that it was over a dyer's verts in a flash to Master Mawls. 
 shop. We know that you went up steps to But, the School that was our School before 
 it; that you frequently grazed your knees in the Railroad came and overthrew it, was quite 
 doing so; that you generally got your leg over 45 another sort of place. We were old enough 
 the scraper, in trying to scrape the mud off a to be put into Virgil when we went there, and 
 very unsteady little shoe. The mistress of the to get prizes for a variety of polishing on which 
 establishment holds no place in our memory; the rust has long accumulated. It was a School 
 but rampant on one eternal door-mat, in an of some celebrity in its neighbourhood — no- 
 eternal entry long and narrow, is a puffy pug- 50 body could have said why— and we had the 
 dog, with a personal animosity towards us, honour to attain and hold the eminent posi- 
 who triumphs over Time. The bark of that tion of first boy. The master was supposed 
 baleful Pug, a certain radiating way he had of among us to know nothing, and one of the 
 snapping at our undefended legs, the ghastly ushers was supposed to know everything. We 
 grinning of his moist black muzzle and white 55 are still inclined to think the first-named sup- 
 teeth, and the insolence of his crisp tail curled position perfectly correct, 
 like a pastoral crook, all live and flourish. We have a general idea that its subject had 
 
 „,, ^ J. , , been in the leather trade, and had bought us — 
 
 " May not become commanding generals or even of- . u i r au • x 
 
 ficera. The 6a<on is the field marshal's stafif. meaning our scnool — Of another propnetof, 
 
716 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 who was immensely learned. Whether this him for the Spanish Main; but nothing cer- 
 beUef had any real foundation, we are not likely tain was ever known about his disappearance. 
 ever to know now. The only branches of At this hour we cannot thoroughly disconnect 
 education with which he showed the least him from California. 
 
 acquaintance, were, ruling and corporally 6 Our School was rather famous for mysterious 
 punishing. He was always ruling ciphering- pupils. There was another— a heavy young 
 books with a bloated mahogany ruler, or man, with a large double-cased silver watch, 
 smiting the palms of offenders with the same and a fat knife, the handle of which was a 
 diabolical instrument, or viciously drawing a perfect tool-box— who unaccountably appeared 
 pair of pantaloons tight with one of his large lo one day at a special desk of his own, erected 
 hands, and caning the wearer with the other, close to that of the Chief, with whom he held 
 We have no doubt whatever that this occupa- familiar converse. He Hved in the parlour, 
 tion was the principal solace of his existence, and went out for walks, and never took the 
 A profound respect for money pervaded least notice of us — even of us, the first boy — 
 Our School, which was of course, derived from 15 unless to give us a depreciatory kick, or grimly 
 its Chief. We remember an idiotic goggle- to take our hat off and throw it away, when he 
 eyed boy, with a big head, and half-crowns encountered us out of doors, which unpleasant 
 withoi^ end, who suddenly appeared as a ceremony he always performed as he passed — 
 parlour-boarder, and was rumoured to have not even condescending to stop for the purpose. 
 come by sea from some mysterious part of the 20 Some of us believed that the classical attain- 
 earth where his parents rolled in gold. He was ments of this phenomenon were terrific, but 
 usually called "Mr." by the Chief, and was that his penmanship and arithmetic were de- 
 said to feed in the parlour on steaks and gravy; fective, and he had come there to mend them; 
 likewise to drink currant wine. And he openly others, that he was going to set up a school, 
 stated that if rolls and coffee were ever denied 25 and had paid the Chief "twenty-five pound 
 him at breakfast, he would write home to that down," for leave to see Our School at work. 
 unknown part of the globe from which he had The gloomier spirits even said that he was 
 come, and cause himself to be recalled to the going to buy US, against which contingency 
 regions of gold. He was put into no form conspiracies were set on foot for a general 
 or cla.ss, but learnt alone, as little as he liked — 30 defection and running away. However, he 
 and he liked very Httle — and there was a belief never did that. After staying for a quarter, 
 among us that this was because he was too during which period, though closely observed, 
 wealthy to be "taken down." His special treat- he was never seen to do anything but make 
 ment, and our vague association of him with pens out of quills, write small-hand in a secret 
 the sea, and with storms, and sharks, and 35 portfolio, and punch the point of the sharpest 
 Coral Reefs occasioned the wildest legends to blade in his knife into his desk all over it, he 
 be circulated as his history. A tragedy in too disappeared, and his place knew him no 
 blank verse was written on the subject — ^if more. 
 
 our memory does not deceive us, by the hand There was another boy, a fair, meek boy, 
 that now chronicles these recollections— in 40 with a delicate complexion, and rich curling 
 which his father figured as a Pirate, and was hair, who, we found out, or thought we found 
 shot for a voluminous catalogue of atrocities: out (we have no idea now, and probably had 
 first imparting to his wife the secret of the none then, on what grounds, but it was con- 
 cave in which his wealth was stored, and from fidentially revealed from mouth to mouth) 
 which his only son's half-crowns now issued. 45 was the son of a Viscount who had deserted 
 Dumbledon (the boy's name) was represented his lovely mother. It was understood that if 
 as "yet unborn" when his brave father met he had his rights, he would be worth twenty 
 his fate; and the despair and grief of Mrs. thousand a year. And that if his mother ever 
 Dumbledon at that calamity was movingly met his father, she would shoot him with a 
 i^JT^ J ^ having weakened the par- 50 silver pistol, which she carried, always loaded 
 lour^oarder's mind. This production was re- to the muzzle, for that purpose. He was a 
 ceived with great favour, and was twice per- very suggestive topic. So was a young mulatto, 
 ^rmed with closed doors m the dining-room, who was always believed (though very amiable) 
 "i' w «^V7'^?' ^"^, ^^^ «^^^e^ ^ libellous, to have a dagger about him somewhere. But, 
 and brought the unlucky poet mto severe 55 we think they were both outshone, upon theV . 
 affhction. Some two years afterwards, aU of whole, by another boy who claimed to have \ 
 w^ wh? """"L .1' Dumbledon vanished. It been born on the twenty-ninth of February, ''' 
 
 Xn h^m'!"! t t, '^n ^t'"^ ^r'l^- ^"^ ^"^ ^^ ^^^^ «"^y «^^ birthday in five yea^! i 
 taken him down to the Docks, and reshipped We suspect this to have been a fiction-but 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 717 
 
 he lived upon it all the time he was at Our among us as equivalent to a declaration. We 
 School. ^ were of opinion on that occasion, that to the 
 
 The principal currency of Our School was last moment he expected Maxby's father to 
 slate pencil. It had some inexplicable value, ask him to dinner at five o'clock, and there- 
 that was never ascertained, never reduced to 5 fore neglected his own dinner at half-past one, 
 a standard. To have a great hoard of it, was and finally got none. We exaggerated in our 
 somehow to be rich. We used to bestow it in imaginations the extent to which he punished 
 charity, and confer it as a precious boon upon Maxby's father's cold meat at supper; and 
 our chosen friends. When the holidays were we agreed to believe that he was elevated with 
 coming, contributions were solicited for cer- lo wine and water when he came home. But, 
 tain boys whose relatives were in India, and we all liked him; for he had a good knowledge 
 who were appealed for under the generic names of boys, and would have made it a much better 
 of "Holiday-stoppers," appropriate marks of school if he had had more power. He was 
 remembrance that should enliven and cheer writing-master, mathematical master, English 
 them in their homeless state. Personally, we 15 master, made out the bills, mended the pens, 
 always contributed these tokens of sympathy and did all sorts of things. He divided the 
 in the form of slate pencil, and always felt little boys with the Latin master (they were 
 that it would be a comfort and a treasure to smuggled through their rudimentary books, 
 them. at odd times when there was nothing else to 
 
 Our School was remarkable for white mice. 20 do), and always called at parents' houses to 
 Red-polls, linnets, and even canaries, were kept inquire after sick boys, because he had gentle- 
 in desks, drawers, hat-boxes, and other, strange manly manners. He was rather musical, and 
 refuges for birds, but white mice were the on some remote quarter-day had bought an 
 favourite stock. The boys trained the mice, old trombone; but a bit of it was lost, and it 
 much better than the masters trained the 25 made the most extraordinary sounds when he 
 boys. We recall one white mouse, who lived sometimes tried to play it of an evening. His 
 in the cover of a Latin dictionary, who ran holidays never began (on account of the bills) 
 up ladders, drew Roman chariots, shouldered until long after ours; but, in the summer vaca- 
 muskets, turned wheels, and made even a very tions he used to take pedestrian excursions 
 creditable appearance on the stage as the Dog 30 with a knapsack ; and at Christmas-time he 
 of Montargis.i He might have achieved went to see his father at Chipping Norton, who 
 greater things, but for having the misfortune we all said (on no authority) was a dairy-fed- 
 to mistake his way in a triumphal procession pork-butcher. Poor fellow! He was very low 
 to the Capitol, when he fell into a deep ink- all day on Maxby's sister's wedding-day, and 
 stand, and was dyed black and drowned. The 35 afterwards was thought to favour Maxby 
 mice were the occasion of some most ingenious more than ever, though he had been expected 
 engineering, in the construction of their houses to spite him. He has been dead these twenty 
 and instruments of performance. The famous years. Poor fellow! 
 
 one belonged to a Company of proprietors. Our remembrance of Our School, presents 
 
 some of whom have since made Railroads, 40 the Latin master as a colourless, doubled-up. 
 Engines, and Telegraphs; the chairman has near-sighted man with a crutch, who was al- 
 erected mills and bridges in New Zealand. ways cold, and always putting onions into his 
 
 The usher at Our School, who was con- ears for deafness, and always disclosing ends 
 sidered to know everything, as opposed to of flannel under all his garments, and almost 
 the Chief, who was considered to know 45 always applying a ball of pocket-handkerchief 
 nothmg, was a bony, gentle-faced, clerical- to some part of his face with a screwing action 
 looking young man in rusty black. It was round and round. He was a very good scholar, 
 whispered that he was sweet upon one of and took great pains where he saw intelligence 
 Maxby's sisters (Maxby lived close by, and and a desire to learn: otherwise, perhaps not. 
 was a day pupil), and further that he "favoured 50 Our memory presents him (unless teased into 
 Maxby." As we remember, he taught Italian a passion) with as little energy as colour— as 
 to Maxby's sisters on half-holidays. He once having been worried and tormented into 
 went to the play with them, and wore a white monotonous feebleness— as havmg had the 
 waistcoat, and a rose; which was considered best part of his life ground out of him m a Mill 
 
 1 Aubrey of Montdidier was murdered ini37i. He had 55 of boys. We remember with terror how he 
 
 a dog. Dragon, who after the murder showed a marked fgH asleep one sultry afternoon With the little 
 
 dislike toward one. Richard of Macaire. Suspicion was __„,,_.„i„j pi„s!^ before him and awoke not 
 
 aroused, and Richard of Macaire was condemned to Smuggled Ciass DCIore mm, ana awoKe not 
 
 judicial combat with the dog. He was mortally wounded, when the foot-Step of the Chief fell heavy On 
 
 '^t^^Slt^^.t^eS^riS^tuio^'r^ '''''""'' the floor; how the Chief aroused him, in the 
 
718 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 midst of a dread silence, and said, "Mr. Blink- So fades and languishes, grows dim and dies, 
 
 ins, are you ill, sir?" how he blushingly re- All that this world is proud of, 
 
 plied, "Sir, rather so;" how the Chief retorted 
 
 with severity, "Mr. Blinkins, this is no place — and is not proud of , too. It had little reason 
 
 to be ill in" (which was very very true) and 5 to be proud of Our School, and has done much 
 
 walked back, solemn as the ghost in Hamlet, better since in that way, and will do far better 
 
 until, catching a wandering eye, he caned that yet. 
 
 boy for inattention, and happily expressed his , 
 
 feelings towards the Latin master through the ^tOt^t dcllOt 
 
 medium of a substitute. 10 (Mary Ann Evans) 
 
 There was a fat little dancmg-master who 
 used to come in a gig, and taught the more 1819-1880 
 
 advanced among us hornpipes (as an accom- r^r^Ar^ry -Dr^ATAo /^-r. -cixTi-T axtt^ 
 
 plishment in great social demand in after-life) ; ™E OLD COACH ROADS OF ENGLAND 
 and there was a brisk little French master who 15 (^^.^^ ^j^^ Introduction to Felix HoU, 1866) 
 used to come m the sunniest weather, with a 
 
 handleless umbrella, and to whom the Chief Five-and- thirty years ^ ago the glory had 
 
 was always polite, because (as we believed), not yet departed from the old coach roads: 
 if the Chief offended him he would instantly the great road-side inns were still brilliant with 
 address the Chief in French, and forever con- 20 well polished tankards, the smiling glances of 
 found him before the boys with his inability pretty barmaids, and the repartees of jocose 
 to understand or reply. hostlers; the mail still announced itself by the 
 
 There was besides a serving man, whose merry notes of the horn; the hedge-cutter or 
 name was Phil. Our retrospective glance the rick-thatcher might still know the exact 
 presents Phil as a shipwrecked carpenter, cast 25 hour by the unfailing yet otherwise meteoric 
 away upon the desert island of a school, and apparition of the pea-green Tally-ho or the 
 carrying into practice an ingenious inkling of yellow Independent; and elderly gentlemen 
 many trades. He mended whatever was in pony chaises, quartering^ nervously to make 
 broken, and made whatever was wanted. He way for the roUing, swinging swiftness, had 
 was general glazier, among other things, and 30 not yet ceased to remark that times were 
 mended all the broken windows — at the prime finely changed since they used to see the pack- 
 cost (as was darkly rumoured among us) of horses and hear the tinkling of their bells on 
 ninepence, for every square charged three-and- this very highway. 
 
 six to parents. We had a high opinion of his In those days there were pocket-boroughs,* 
 
 mechanical genius, and generally held that 35 a Birmingham unrepresented in Parliament and 
 the Chief "knew something bad of him," and compelled to make strong representations out 
 on pain of divulgence forced Phil to be his of it, unrepealed corn-laws,^ three-and-sixpenny 
 bondsman. We particularly remember that letters,^ a brawny and many-breeding pau- 
 Phil had a sovereign contempt for learning: perism, and other departed evils; but there 
 which engenders in us a respect for his sagacity, 40 were some pleasant things, too, which have 
 as it implies his accurate observation of the also departed. Non omnia grandior cetas quae 
 relative positions of the Chief and the ushers, fugiamus habet,^ says the wise goddess: you 
 He was an impenetrable man, who waited at have not the best of it in all things, oh young- 
 table between whiles, and throughout "the eters! the elderly man has his enviable mem- 
 half" kept th3 boxes in severe custody. He45ories, and not the least of them is the memory 
 was morose even to the Chief, and never smiled, of a long journey in midspring or autumn on 
 except at breaking-up, when in acknowledge- the outside of a stage-coach. Posterity may j 
 ment to the toast, "Success to Phil! Hooray!" be shot, hke a bullet, through a tube, by at- j 
 he would slowly carve a grin out of his wooden mospheric pressure from Winchester to New- | 
 face, where it would remain until we were all 50 castle: that is a fine result to have among our | 
 
 gone. Nevertheless, one time, when we had i i. e. about 1830, when travel by the railway had but 
 
 the scarlet fever in the school, Phil nursed all ^"?y ^^^°; 57g ^^ 3 
 
 the sick boys of his own accord, and was like 3 a 'borough controlled by one man, which, as it were- 
 
 a mother to them. There was another school ^^ carried in his pocket. There were many of them, and 
 , „ ~ , . , , 1 J 1 many important places hke Birmingham that were unrep- 
 
 not far off, and of course our school could nave 55 resented before the enactment of the Reform Bill in 1832. • \ | 
 
 nothing to say to that school. It is mostly the \y-^^f\^^^\^-'^-; , ^u - n- a- i) 
 
 ° - ~ , 1 , , (. 1 1. e. at that time it cost three snillings and six pence 'j1 
 
 way with schools, whether of boys or men. to send a letter. 
 
 Well! the railway has swallowed up ours, and the ' The older time does not hold all those things which 
 
 , . *' . 1 1 -i r w^ naturally avoid. 1 he passage is from Ovid s Meta- 
 
 locomotives now run smoothly over its asnes. morphoses, and the " wise goddess " is Minerva. 
 
GEORGE ELIOT 719 
 
 hopes; but the slow, old-fashioned way of blossomed, ruby-berried night-shade^ oi the 
 getting from one end of our country to the wild convolvulus climbing and spreadmg in 
 other is the better thmg to have in the memory, tendrilled strength till it made a great curtain 
 1 he tube-journey can never lend much of a of pale-green hearts and white trumpets, of 
 picture and narrative; it is as barren as an 5 the many-tubed honeysuckle, which, in its 
 exclamatory O! Whereas the happy outside most delicate fragrance, hid a charge more 
 passenger seated on the box from the dawn subtle and penetrating than beauty. Even if 
 to the gloaming gathered enough stories of it were winter the hedgerows showed their 
 English life, enough of English labors in town coral, the scarlet haws, the deep-crimson hips,i» 
 and country, enough aspects of earth and sky, lo with lingering brown leaves to make a resting 
 to make episodes for a modern Odyssey. Sup- place for the jewels of the hoar-frost. Such 
 pose only that his journey took him through hedgerows were often as tall as the laborers' 
 that central plain,^ watered at one extremity cottages dotted along the lanes, or clustered 
 by the Avon, at the other by the Trent. As into a small hamlet, their Uttle dingy windows 
 the morning silvered the meadows with their 15 telling, hke thick-filmed eyes, of nothing but 
 long lines of bushy willows marking the water- the darkness within. The passenger on the 
 courses, or burnished the golden corn-ricks coach-box, bowled along above such a hamlet, 
 clustered near the long roofs of some midland saw chiefly the roofs of it: probably it turned 
 homestead, he saw the full-uddered cows its back on the road, and seemed to He away 
 driven from their early pasture to the milking. 20 from everything but its own patch of earth 
 Perhaps it was the shepherd, head-servant of and sky, away from the parish church by long 
 the farm, who drove them, his sheep-dog fol- fields and green lanes, away from all intercourse 
 lowing with a heedless, unofficial air as of a except that of tramps. If its face could be 
 beadle in undress. The shepherd with a slow seen it was most likely dirty; but the dirt was 
 and slouching walk, timed by the walk of 25 Protestant dirt, and the big, bold, gin-breathing 
 grazing beasts, moved aside, as if unwillingly, tramps were Protestant tramps. There was 
 throwing out a monosyllabic hint to his cattle; no sign of superstition near, no crucifix or image 
 his glance, accustomed to rest on things very near to indicate a misguided reverence: the 
 near the earth, seemed to lift itself with dif- inhabitants were probably so free from super- 
 ficulty to the coachman. Mail or stage coach 30 stition that they were in much less awe of 
 for him belonged to that mysterious distant the parson than of the overseer. Yet they 
 system of things called "Gover'ment," which, were saved from the excesses of Protestantism 
 whatever it might be, was no business of his, by not knowing how to read, and by the ab- 
 any more than the most outlying nebula or the sence of hand-looms and mines to be the 
 coal-sacks of the southern hemisphere; his 35 pioneers of Dissent, they were kept safely in 
 solar system was the parish; the master's the via media}^ of indifference, and could have 
 temper and the casualties of lambing-time were registered themselves in the census by a big 
 his region of storms. He cut his bread and ba- black mark as members of the Church of 
 con with his pocket-knife, and felt no bitterness England. 
 
 except in the matter of pauper laborers and 40 But there were trim cheerful villages, too, 
 the bad luck that sent contrarious seasons and with a neat or handsome paruonage and grey 
 the sheep-rot. He and his cows were soon left church set in the midst; there was the pleasant 
 behind, and the homestead too, with its pond tinkle of the blacksmith's anvil, the patient 
 overhung by elder-trees, its untidy kitchen- cart-horses waiting at his door; the basket- 
 garden and cone-shaped yew-tree arbor. But 45 maker peeling his willow wands in the sunshine ; 
 everywhere the bushy hedgerows wasted the the wheelwright putting the last touch to a blue 
 land with their straggling beauty, shrouded the cart with red wheels; here and there a cottage 
 grassy borders of the pastures with cat-kined^ with bright, transparent windows showing 
 hazels, and tossed their long blackberry pots full of blooming balsams or geraniums, 
 branches on the corn-fields. Perhaps they 50 and little gardens in front, all double-daisies or 
 were white with May,^ or starred with pale- dark wall-flowers; at the well clean and comely 
 pink dog-roses; perhaps the urchins were women carrying yoked buckets, and toward 
 already nutting among them, or gathering the the free-school small Britons dawdling on, and 
 plenteous crabs. It was worth the journey handling their marbles in the pockets of un- 
 only to see those hedgerows, the liberal homes 55 patched corduroys adorned with brass buttons. 
 of unmarketable beauty — of the purple- The land round was rich and marly ;^2 great 
 
 ^ i. e. through the heart of England the Midlands, w Haws, the fruit of the hawthorne, and hips, the fruit 
 
 including Warwickshire, the county of Shakespeare and of the rose. " The middle way. 
 
 George Eliot. '" A soil rich in the mixture of calcium carbonate, clay, 
 
 ' Catkin. * Hawthorne. and sand. 
 
720 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 corn-stacks stood in the rick-yards — for the over all the surrounding country, filling the 
 rick-burners^^ had not found their way hither; air with eager unrest. Here was a population 
 the homesteads were those of rich farmers who not convinced that old England was as good 
 paid no rent, or had the rare advantage of a as possible; here were multitudinous men and 
 lease, and could afford to keep their corn till 5 women aware that their religion was not ex- 
 prices had risen. The coach would be sure to actly the religion of their rulers, who might 
 overtake some of them on their way to their therefore be better than they were, and who, if 
 outlying fields or to the market town, sitting better, might alter many things which now 
 heavily on their well-groomed horses, or weigh- made the world perhaps more painful than 
 ing down one side of an olive-green gig. They lo it need be, and certainly more sinful. Yet 
 probably thought of the coach with some con- there were the grey steeples, too, and the 
 tempt, as an accommodation for people who church-yards, with their grassy mounds and 
 had not their own gigs, or who, wanting to venerable head-stones, sleeping in the sunlight; 
 travel to London or such distant parts, be- there were broad fields and homesteads, and 
 longed to the trading and less solid part of the 15 fine old woods covering a rising ground, or 
 nation. The passenger on the box could see stretching far by the road-side, and allowing 
 that this was the district of protuberant opti- only peeps at the park and mansion which 
 mists, sure that old England was the best of all they shut in from the working-day world. In 
 countries, and that if there were any facts these midland districts the traveller passed 
 that had not fallen under their own observa- 20 rapidly from one phase of English life to an- 
 tion, they were facts not worth observing: the other; after looking down on a village dingy 
 district of clean little market towns without with coal-dust, noisy with the shaking of looms, 
 manufactures, of fat livings, an aristocratic he might skirt a parish all of fields, high hedges, 
 clergy, and low poor-rates. But as the day and deep-rutted lanes; after the coach had rat- 
 wore on the scene would change; the land 25 tied over the pavement of a manufacturing 
 would begin to be blackened with coal-pits, towTi, the scene of riots and trades-union 
 the rattle of hand-looms to be heard in hamlets meetings, it would take him in another ten 
 and villages. Here were powerful men walk- minutes into a rural region, where the neigh- 
 ing queerly with knees bent outward from borhood of the town was only felt in the ad- 
 squatting in the mine, going home to throw 30 vantages of a near market for corn, cheese, 
 themselves down in their blackened flannel and and hay, and where men with a considerable 
 sleep through the daylight, then rise and spend banking account were accustomed to say that 
 much of their high wages at the ale-house with ''they never meddled with politics themselves." 
 their fellows of the Benefit club; here the pale. The busy scenes of the shuttle and the wheel, 
 eager faces of hand-loom weavers, men and 35 of the roaring furnace, of the shaft and the 
 women, haggard from sitting up late at night pulley, seemed to make but crowded nests in 
 to finish the week's work, hardly begun till the midst of the large-spaced, slow-moving life 
 the Wednesday. Everywhere the cottagers of homesteads and far-away cottages and 
 and the small children were dirty, for the oak-sheltered parks. Looking at the dwellings 
 languid mothers gave their strength to the 40 scattered among the woody flats and the 
 loom — pious Dissenting women, perhaps, who ploughed uplands, under the low grey sky 
 took fife patiently, and thought that salvation which overhung them with an unchanging still- 
 depended chiefly on predestination, and not ness as if Time itself were pausing, it was easy 
 at all on cleanliness. The gables of Dissenting for the traveller to conceive that town and 
 chapels now made a visible sign of religion, 45 country had no pulse in common, except where 
 and of a meeting-place to counter-balance the the hand-looms made a far-reaching, strag- 
 ale-house, even in the hamlets; but if a couple gling fringe about the great centres of manu- 
 of old termagants were seen tearing each other's facture; that till the agitation about the Cath- 
 caps, it was a safe conclusion that, if they had olics in '29,^^ rural Englishmen had hardly 
 not received the sacraments of the Church, 50 known more of Catholics than of the fossil 
 they had not at least given in to schismatic mammals; and that their notion of Reform 
 rites, and were free from the errors of Volun- was a confused combination of rick-burners, 
 taryism.i* The breath of the manufacturing trades-unions, Nottingham riots, ^^ and in 
 
 town, which made a cloudy day and a red ,, ..^ u -4. *• t> n *u r v> r e nn . 
 
 , ' , . -^ ,, , .-^ ,.«. J .. ,. 15 After much agitation a Roman Catholic Relief Bill ij 
 
 gloom by night on the horizon, dlftusea itself 55 was passed in I829. removing many of the restrictions \* 
 
 from Roman Catholics, and making it possible for them 'jj 
 13 During the autumn of 1830, especially in the south- to sit in Parliament. '1 
 
 em counties of England, certain malcontents instituted '^ a reference to the popular agitation that arose when 
 
 a reign of terror by setting fire to the hay-ricks. the House of Lords registered the Reform Bill in 1832. 
 
 1* The system of those who believe in the separation of Nottingham was one of the important centres that was 
 Church and State. without representation. 
 
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE 721 
 
 general whatever required the calling out of into the abyss. Still he would soon relapse 
 the yeomanry. It was still easier to see that, from the high prophetic strain to the familiar 
 for the most part, they resisted the rotation one of narrative. He knew whose the land 
 of crops and stood by their fallows: and the was wherever he drove; what noblemen had 
 coachman would perhaps tell how in one parish 5 half ruined themselves by gambling; who 
 an innovating farmer, who talked of Sir Hum- made handsome returns of rent; and who was 
 phrey Davy,!^ had been fairly driven out by at daggers-drawn with his eldest son. He per- 
 popular dislike, as if he had been a confounded haps remembered the fathers of actual baron- 
 Radical; and how, the parson having one ets, and knew stories of their extravagant oi 
 Sunday preached from the words "Plough up 10 stingy housekeeping; whom they had married, 
 the fallow ground of your hearts, "^^ the people whom they had horsewhipped, whether they 
 thought he had made the text out of his own were particular about preserving their game, 
 head, otherwise it would never have come and whether they had had much to do with 
 "so pat" on a matter of business; but when canal companies. About any actual landed 
 they found it in the Bible at home, some said is proprietor he could also tell whether he was a 
 it was an argument for fallows (else why should Reformer or an Anti-Reformer. That was a 
 the Bible mention fallows?), but a few of the distinction which had "turned up" in later 
 weaker sort were shaken, and thought it was times, and along with it the paradox, very 
 an argument that fallows should be done away puzzling to the coachman's mind, that there 
 with, else the Bible would have said, " Let your 20 were men of old family and large estate who 
 hearts lie fallow;" and the next morning the had voted for the Bill. 2' He did not grapple 
 parson had a stroke of apoplexy, which, as with the paradox; he let it pass, with all the 
 coincident with a dispute about fallows, so discreetness of an experienced theologian or 
 set the parish against the innovating farmer learned scholiast, preferring to point his whip 
 and the rotation of crops, that he could stand 25 at some object which could raise no questions, 
 his ground no longer, and transferred his lease. 
 
 The coachman was an excellent travelling 
 companion and commentator on the landscape; 3l9^^^^ 3tntl)0n^ jFtOUDt 
 
 he could tell the name of sites and persons, and i«iS_iaQ4 
 
 explain the meaning of groups, as well as the 30 I5ls-l»y4 
 
 shade of Virgil in a more memorable journey;i9 MARY OTTFFN 
 
 he had as many stories about parishes, and THE EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN 
 the men and women in them, as the Wanderer ^^ bOUlfe 
 
 in the "Excursion,"2o only his style was dif- ^-p^.^^ History of England from the faU of WoU 
 ferent. His views of life had origmally been 35 ^^y ^^ ^/^^ ^^y^^^ ^f i^e Armada, 1856-1870) 
 genial, and such as became a man who was 
 
 well-warmed within and without, and held a The blow^ when it came at last, therefore 
 position of easy, undisputed authority; but came suddenly. Beale rode hard — for unless, 
 the recent initiation of Railways had embit- which is unlikely, he trusted the letter to Kent 
 tered him: he now, as in a perpetual vision, 40 to a second hand he called at Wrest on his 
 saw the ruined country strewn with shattered way down — and he arrived at Fotheringay 
 limbs, and regarded Mr. Huskisson's deatn" on Sunday evening. The purpose of his com- 
 as a proof of God's anger against Stephenson. 22 ing was not made known in the castle. Early 
 "Why, every inn on the road would be shut on Monday he went in search of Lord Shrews- 
 up!" and at that word the coachman looked 45 bury, while a message was dispatched to the 
 before him with the blank gaze of one who Sheriff of Northamptonshire, to be in attend- 
 had driven his coach to the outermost edge ance on Wednesday morning. On Monday 
 of the universe, and saw his leaders plunging evening the Earl of Kent came. Shrewsbury 
 
 appeared on Tuesday before noon, and when 
 
 " A great chemist. He lectured and wrote much on 59 the early castle dinner was over, they sent a 
 T.ti^VsSI^S''l'^\^^^^"'T^M-,tii^ servant to the Queen of Scots with a request 
 
 farmers who believed in the rotation of crops were op- ^q j^g admitted to her presence, 
 posed to these new ideas. 23 The Reform Bill 
 
 ^Wordsworth's Doemo that name. from the Scottish throne,, had taken refuge m England 
 
 -S^?;SmH«sltW was a prominent public official. in 1568 She ^eoame a prisoner of State and was p^^ 
 
 who died frominiuries received at the opemng of the under^he -- f/^.S^^iX" Babfn^^^^ plot oTssSfin"a?e 
 
 ^'""^^TeXTL^'^'^hel^v^^^^^^ the famous locomo- Sn ElizTeth a^d^ to usurp fhe throne. She was 
 
 tive fhe ''Socket" and wis the engineer who built the tried at Fotheringay Castle near Peterborough and con- 
 
 Liverpool and Manchester railway. demned to death. 
 
722 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Shrewsbury had not seen her since she had as anxious that her execution should wear its 
 passed from under his charge. He had not real character as she was herself determined to 
 been on the Commission w^hich tried her; ill- convert it into a martyrdom, refused, perhaps 
 ness had prevented him from attending the unwisely, to allow him access to her, and of- 
 last Parliament, and he had taken no public 5 fered her again the assistance of an Anglican 
 part in the prosecution ; and although he had Dean. They gave her an advantage over them 
 signified privately as his personal opinion that which she did not fail to use. She would not 
 her death was necessary, it could not have been let the Dean come near her. She sent a note 
 without emotion that he was once more brought to the chaplain telling him that she had meant 
 into a brief relation with her in so terrible a 10 to receive the sacrament, but as it might not 
 form. Kent was an austere Puritan, to whom be she must content herself with a general 
 she was merely a wicked woman overtaken confession. She bade him watch through the 
 at last by the punishment which she had too night and pray for her. In the morning when 
 long deserved and escaped. she was brought out she might perhaps see 
 
 Briefly, solemnly, and sternly they de- 15 him, and receive his blessing on her knees, 
 livered their awful message. They informed She supped cheerfully, giving her last meal 
 her that they had received a commission under with her attendants a character of sacred part- 
 the great seal to see her executed, and she was ing; afterwards she drew aside her apothecary, 
 told that she must prepare to suffer on the M. Gorion, and asked him if she might depend 
 following morning. 20 upon his fidelity : when he satisfied her that 
 
 She was dreadfully agitated. For a moment she might trust him, she said she had a letter 
 she refused to believe them. Then, as the and two diamonds which she wished to send 
 truth forced itself upon her, tossing her head to Mendoza.^ He undertook to melt some drug 
 in disdain and struggling to control herself, and conceal them in it where they would never 
 she called her physician and began to speak to 25 be looked for, and promised to deliver them 
 him of money that was owed to her in France, faithfully. One of the jewels was for Mendoza 
 At last it seems that she broke down altogether, himself; the other and the largest was for 
 and they left her with a fear either that she Philip.^ It was to be a sign that she was dying 
 would destroy herself in the night, or that she for the truth, and was meant also to bespeak 
 would refuse to come to the scaffold, and that 30 his care for her friends and servants. Every 
 it might be necessary to drag her there by one of them so far as she was able, without 
 violence. forgetting a name, she commended to his 
 
 The end had come. She had long professed liberality. Arundel, Paget, Morgan, the Arch- 
 to expect it, but the clearest expectation is bishop of Glasgow, Westmorland, Throgmor- 
 not certainty. The scene for which she had 35 ton, The Bishop of Ross, her two secretaries, 
 affected to prepare she was to encounter in the ladies who had shared the trials of her im- 
 its dread reality, and all her busy schemes, her prisonment, she remembered them all, and 
 dreams of vengeance, her visions of a revolu- specified the sums which she desired Philip 
 tion, with herself ascending out of the con- to bestow on them. And as Mary Stuart then 
 vulsion and seating herself on her rival's 40 and throughout her life never lacked gratitude 
 throne — all were gone. She had played deep, to those who had been true to her, so then as 
 and the dice had gone against her. always she remembered her enemies. There 
 
 Yet in death, if she encountered it bravely, was no cant about her, no unreal talk of 
 victory was still possible. Could she but sus- forgiveness of injuries. She bade Gorion tell 
 tain to the last the character of a calumniated 45 Philip it was her last prayer that he should 
 suppliant accepting heroically for God's sake persevere, notwithstanding her death, in the 
 and her creed's the concluding stroke of a long invasion of England. It was God's quarrel, 
 series of wrongs, she might stir a tempest of she said, and worthy of his greatness: and as 
 indignation which, if it could not save herself, soon as he had conquered it, she desired him 
 might at least overwhelm her enemy. Per- 50 not to forget how she had been treated by 
 sisting, as she persisted to the last, in denying Cecil, and Leicester, and Walsingham; by 
 all knowledge of Babington, it would be affec- Lord Huntingdon, who had ill-used her fifteen 
 tation to credit her with a genuine feeling of years before at Tutbury; by Sir Amyas Paulet, 
 religion; but the imperfection of her motive and Secretary Wade. 
 
 exalts the greatness of her fortitude. To an 55 Her last night was a busy one. As she said 
 impassioned believer death is comparatively herself there was much to be done and the 
 
 easy. 2 The Spanish ambassador to England, who by reason 
 
 Her chaplain was lodged in a separate part °^^^? i"*''i^"S^K^^^i°^V^?^ government, had be«i sent 
 
 - , fi mi /-. • • 1 out of England by Ehzabeth m 1584. 
 
 of the castle. The Commissioners, who were a phUip ii, King of Spain (1556 -1598). 
 
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE 723 
 
 time was short. A few lines to the King of said, "would never deny her so slight a re- 
 Jbrance were dated two hours after midnight, quest," and when Kent still hesitated, she 
 They were to msist for the last time that she added with tears, "You know I am cousin to 
 was mnocent of the conspiracy, that she was your Queen, of the blood of Henry the Seventh, 
 dymg for religion, and for having asserted her 5 a married Queen of France, and anointed 
 right to the crown; and to beg that out of the Queen of Scotland." 
 
 sum which he owed her, her servants' wages It was impossible to refuse. She was al- 
 might be paid, and masses provided for her lowed to take six of her own people with her, 
 soul. After this she slept for three or four and select them herself. She chose her physi- 
 hours, and then rose and with the most elabor- lo cian Burgoyne, Andrew Melville, the apothe- 
 ate care prepared to encounter the end. cary Gorion, and her surgeon, with two ladies, 
 
 At eight in the morning the Provost-marshal Elizabeth Kennedy and Curie's young wife 
 knocked at the outer door which communicated Barbara Mowbray, whose child she had bap- 
 with her suite of apartments. It was locked tised. 
 
 and no one answered, and he went back in 15 "AUons done," she then said— "Let us go," 
 some trepidation lest the fears might prove and passing out atterided by the Earls, and 
 true which had been entertained the preceding leaning on the arm of an officer of the guard, 
 evening. On his returning with the Sheriff, she descended the great staircase to the hall, 
 however, a few minutes later, the door was The news had spread far through the country, 
 open, and they were confronted with the tall 20 Thousands of people were collected outside 
 majestic figure of Mary Stuart standing before the walls. About three hundred knights and 
 them in splendour. The plain grey dress had gentlemen of the county had been admitted 
 been exchanged for a robe of black satin; her to witness the execution. The tables and forms 
 jacket was of black satin also, looped and had been removed, and a great wood fire was 
 slashed and trimmed with velvet. Her false 25 blazing in the chimney. At the upper end of 
 hair was arranged studiously with a coif, and the hall, above the fire-place, but near it, stood 
 over her head and falling down over her back the scaffold, twelve feet square and two feet 
 was a white veil of delicate lawn. A crucifix of and a half high. It was covered with black 
 gold hung from her neck. In her hand she cloth; a low rail ran round it covered with 
 held a crucifix of ivory, and a number of 30 black cloth also, and the Sheriff's guard of 
 jewelled Paternosters was attached to her gir- halberdiers were ranged on the floor below on 
 die. Led by two of Paulet's gentlemen, the the four sides to keep off the crowd. On the 
 Sheriff walking before her, she passed to the scaffold was the block, black like the rest; a 
 chamber of presence in which she had been square black cushion was placed behind it, and 
 tried, where Shrewsbury, Kent, Paulet, Drury 35 behind the cushion a black chair; on the right 
 and others were waiting to receive her. Andrew were two other chairs for the Earls. The axe 
 Melville, Sir Robert's brother, who had been leant against the rail, and two m^ked figures 
 master of her household, was kneeling in tears, stood like mutes on either side at the back. 
 "Melville," she said, "you should rather re- The Queen of Scots as she swept in seemed as 
 joice than weep that the end of my troubles 40 if coming to take a part in some solemn pa- 
 is come. Tell my friends I die a true Catholic, geant. Not a muscle of her face could be 
 Commend me to my son. Tell him I have done seen to quiver; she ascended the scaffold with 
 nothing to prejudice his kingdom of Scotland, absolute composure, looked round her smiling, 
 and so, good Melville, farewell." She kissed and sate down. Shrewsbury and Kent fol- 
 him, and turning asked for her chaplain Du 45 lowed and took their places, the Sheriff stood at 
 Preau. He was not present. There had been her left hand, and Beale then mounted a plat- 
 a fear of some religious melodrama which it form and read the warrant aloud. 
 was thought well to avoid. Her ladies, who In all the assembly Mary Stuart appeared 
 
 had attempted to follow her, had been kept the person least interested in the words which 
 back also. She could not afford to leave the 50 were consigning her to death, 
 account of her death to be reported by enemies "Madam," said Lord Shrewsbury to her, 
 
 and Puritans, and she required assistance for when the reading was ended, "you hear what 
 the scene which she meditated. Missing them we are commanded to do." 
 she asked the reason of their absence, and "You will do your duty," she answered, and 
 
 said she wished them to see her die. Kent 55 rose as if to kneel and pray, 
 said he feared they might scream or faint, or The Dean of Peterborough, Dr. Fletcher, 
 attempt perhaps to dip their handkerchiefs in approached the rail. "Madam," he^began, 
 her blood. She undertook that they should with a low obeisance, "the Queen's most ex- 
 be quiet and obedient. "The Queen/.' she cellent Majesty;" "Madam, the Queen's most 
 
724 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 excellent Majesty" — thrice he commenced his never had such grooms waiting on me before." 
 sentence, wanting words to pursue it. When Her ladies were allowed to come up upon the 
 he repeated the words a fourth time, she cut scafifold to assist her; for the work to be done 
 him short. was considerable, and had been prepared with 
 
 "Mr. Dean," she said, "I am a Catholic, 5 no common thought, 
 and must die a Catholic. It is useless to at- She laid her crucijSx on her chair. The chief 
 tempt to move me, and your prayers will avail executioner took it as a perquisite; but was 
 me but little." ordered instantly to lay it down. The lawn 
 
 " Change your opinion, Madam," he cried, veil was lifted carefully off, not to disturb the 
 his tongue being loosed at last; "repent of your lo hair, and was hung upon the rail. The black 
 sins, settle your faith in Christ, by Him to be robe was next removed. Below it was a petti- 
 saved." coat of crimson velvet. The black jacket fol- 
 
 *' Trouble not yourseK further, Mr. Dean," lowed, and under the jacket, was a body of 
 she answered; "I am settled in my own faith, crimson satin. One of her ladies handed her 
 for which I mean to shed my blood." 15 a pair of crimson sleeves, with which she 
 
 "I am sorry, Madarh," said Shrewsbury, hastily covered her arms; and thus she stood 
 "to see you so addicted to Popery." on the black scaffold with the black figures all 
 
 "That image of Christ you hold there," around her, blood-red from head to foot, 
 said Kent, "will not profit you if he be not Her reasons for adopting so extraordinary a 
 engraved in your heart." 20 costume must be left to conjecture. It is 
 
 She did not reply, and turning her back on only certain that it must have been carefully 
 Fletcher knelt for her own devotions. studied, and that the pictorial effect must have 
 
 He had been evidently instructed to impair been appalling, 
 the Catholic complexion of the scene, and the The women, whose firmness had hitherto 
 Queen of Scots was determined that he should 25 borne the trial, began now to give way, spas- 
 not succeed. When she knelt he commenced modic sobs bursting from them which they 
 an extempore prayer in which the assembly could not check. "Ne criez vous,"* she said, 
 joined. As his voice sounded out in the hall "j'ai promis pour vous." Struggling bravely, 
 she raised her own, reciting with powerful they crossed their breasts again and again, 
 deep-chested tones the penitential Psalms in 30 she crossing them in turn and bidding them 
 Latin, introducing English sentences at in- pray for her. Then she knelt on the cushion, 
 tervals, that the audience might know what Barbara Mowbray bound her eyes with a 
 she was saying, and praying with especial dis- handkerchief. "Adieu," she said, smiling for 
 tinctness for her holy father the Pope. the last time and waving her hand to them, 
 
 From time to time, with conspicuous ve- 35 "Adieu, au revoir." They stepped back from 
 hemence, she struck the crucifix against her off the scaffold and left her alone. On her knees 
 bosom, and then, as the Dean gave up the she repeated the Psalm, In te. Domino, con- 
 struggle, leaving her Latin, she prayed in fido,^ "In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust." 
 English wholly, still clear and loud. She prayed Her shoulders being exposed, two scars became 
 for the Church which she had been ready to 40 visible, one on either side, and the Earls being 
 betray, for her son, whom she had disinherited, now a httle behind her, Kent pointed to them 
 for the Queen, whom she had endeavoured to with his white wand and looked enquiringly 
 murder. She prayed God to avert his wrath at his companion. Shrewsbury whispered 
 from England, that England which she had that they were the remains of two abscesses 
 sent Philip a last message to beseech him to 45 from which she had suffered while living with 
 invade. She forgave her enemies, whom she him at Sheffield. 
 
 had invited Philip not to forget, and then, When the Psalm was finished she felt for 
 praying to the saints to intercede for her with the block, and laying down her head mut- 
 Christ, and kissing the crucifix and crossing tered: "In manus, Domine, tuas, commendo 
 her own breast, "Even as thy arms, O Jesus," 50animam meam."^ The hard wood seemed to 
 she cried, "were spread upon the cross, so hurt her, for she placed her hands under her 
 receive me into thy mercy and forgive my sins." neck. The executioners gently removed them. 
 
 With these words she rose; the black mutes lest they should deaden the blow, and then 
 stepped forward, and in the usual form begged one of them holding her slightly, the other 
 her forgiveness. 55 raised the axe and struck. The scene had been 
 
 "I forgive you," she said, "for now I hope too trying even for the practised headsman of 
 
 you shall end all my troubles." They offered 4 Do not weep: I have promised that you would not. 
 
 their help in arrangmg her dress. " Truly, my ' "I? t^^e. O Lord, do I put my trust." Ps., xxxi. 1. 
 
 1 J „ V -J -^1. M X XI- -n 1 /,T 6 "Father, mto thy hands I commend my ^xnt.' 
 
 lords," she said with a smile to the Earls, "I st. Luke, xxxiii. 46. 
 
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE 725 
 
 the Tower. His arm wandered. The blow fell "The people began to fall sick and faint- 
 on the knot of the handkerchief, and scarcely hearted— whereupon, very orderly, with good 
 broke the skin, bhe neither spoke nor moved, discretion, they entreated me to regard the 
 He struck again, this time effectively. The safety of mine own hfe, as well as the preserva- 
 head hung by a shred of skin, which he divided 5 tion of theirs; and that I should not, through 
 without withdrawing the axe; and at once a over-boldness, leave their widows and father- 
 metamorphosis was witnessed, strange as was less children to give me bitter curses, 
 ever wrought by wand of fabled enchanter. "Whereupon seeking counsel of God, it 
 
 The coif fell off, and the false plaits. The pleased His Divine Majesty to move my heart 
 laboured illusion vanished. The lady who had 10 to prosecute that which I hope shall be to His 
 knelt before the block was in the maturity of glory, and to the contentation^ of every Chris- 
 grace and loveliness. The executioner, when tian mind." 
 
 he raised the head, as usual, to shew it to the He had two vessels— one of some burthen, 
 crowd, exposed the withered features of a the other a pinnace^ of thirty tons. The result 
 grizzled, wrinkled old woman. 15 of the counsel which he had sought was, that 
 
 "So perish all enemies of the Queen," said he made over his own large vessel to such as 
 the Dean of Peterborough. A loud Amen rose wished to return, and himself, "thinking it 
 over the hall. "Such end," said the Earl of better to die with honour than to return with 
 Kent, rising and standing over the body, "to infamy," went on, with such volunteers as 
 the Queen's and the Gospel's enemies." 20 would follow him, in a poor leaky cutter, up 
 
 the sea now in commemoration of that adven- 
 ture called Davis's Straits. He ascended 4** 
 North of the furthest known point, among 
 JOHN DAVIS^ storms and icebergs, when the long days and 
 
 25 twilight nights alone saved him from being 
 
 AN EXAMPLE OF j^HB TRUE HERO destroyed, and, coasting back along the Amer- 
 
 (Fiom Short Studies on Great Subjects, 18Q7-77) i^an shore, he discovered Hudson's Straits, 
 
 supposed then to be the long-desired entrance 
 For the present, however, we are forced to into the Pacific. This exploit drew the atten- 
 content ourselves with a few sketches out of 30 tion of Walsingham,* and by him Davis was 
 the north-west voyages. Here is one, for in- presented to Burleigh,^ "who was also pleased 
 stance, which shows how an Englishman could to show him great encouragement." If either 
 deal with the Indians. Davis had landed at these statesmen or Elizabeth had been twenty 
 Gilbert Sound, and gone up the country ex- years younger, his name would have filled a 
 ploring. On his return he found his crew loud 35 larger space in history than a small corner of 
 in complaints of the thievish propensities of the map of the world; but if he was employed 
 the natives, and urgent to have an example at all in the last years of the century, no vates 
 made of some of them. On the next occasion sacer^ has been found to celebrate his work, 
 he fired a gun at them with blank cartridge; and no clue is left to guide us. He disappears; 
 but their nature was still too strong for them. 40 a cloud falls over him. He is known to have 
 "Seeing iron (he says), they could in no case commanded trading vessels in the Eastern seas, 
 forbear stealing; which, when I perceived, it and to have returned five times from India, 
 did but minister to me occasion of laughter to But the details are all lost, and accident has 
 see their simplicity, and I willed that they only parted the clouds for a moment to show 
 should not be hardly used, but that our com- 45 us the mournful setting with which he, too, 
 pany should be more diligent to keep their went down upon the sea. 
 things, supposing it to be very hard in so In taking out Sir Edward Michellthome to 
 short a time to make them know their India, in 1604, he fell in with a crew of Japa- 
 evils. . . ." nese, whose ship had been burnt, drifting at 
 
 Leaving Gilbert's Sound, Davis went on 50 sea, without provisions, in a leaky junk. He 
 to the northwest, and in lat. 63** fell in with a supposed them to be pirates, but he did not 
 barrier of ice, which he coasted for thirteen choose to leave them to so wretched a death, 
 days without finding an opening. The very and took them on board; and in a few hours, 
 sight of an iceberg was new to all his crew; and ^ contcDting. 
 
 the ropes and shrouds, though it was midsum-55 s a small saUing ship capable of being propelled by oars. 
 
 rviQr. K«««^;«« r,^^^^ccnA tttUVi ino * A member of the Privy Council and, after Burleigh. 
 
 mer, becoming compassed with ice,— q^^^^ Elizabeth's most important minister. 
 
 iJoAn Dam (c. 1550-1605), was an English navigator ^ Lord Burleigh, who as Secretary of State under 
 
 chiefly famous for three voyages he made in search of a Elizabeth originated the policy that made her reign 
 
 north-west passage. In the first of these voyages he dis- famous, 
 
 covered the strait which bears his name. « Holy prophet. 
 
726 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 watching their opportunity, they murdered i(l0l^1T l^U^l^tn 
 
 him. 
 
 As the fool dieth, so dieth the wise, and 1819-1900 
 
 there is no difference: it was the chance of the 
 
 sea, and the iU reward of a humane action-a 5 SOME SEA PICTURES OF TURNER 
 melancholy end for such a man-Hke the end (^^^^ j^^^^^ Painters,^ Part I, 1843) 
 
 of a warrior, not dymg Epammondas-like^ on 
 
 the field of victory, but cut off in some poor Few people, comparatively, have ever seen 
 brawl or ambuscade. But so it was with all the effect on the sea of a powerful gale con- 
 these men. They were cut off in the flower of 10 tinued without intermission for three or four 
 their days, and few of them laid their bones days and nights, and to those who have not, 
 in the sepulchres of their fathers. They knew I beheve it must be unimaginable, not from the 
 the service which they had chosen, and they mere force or size of surge, but from the com- 
 did not ask the wages for which they had not plete annihilation of the limit between sea and 
 laboured. Life with them was no summer 15 air. The water from its prolonged agitation 
 holiday, but a holy sacrifice offered up to duty, is beaten, not into mere creaming foam, but 
 and what their Master sent was welcome, into masses of accumulated yeast, which hang 
 Beautiful is old age — beautiful as the slow- in ropes and wreaths from wave to wave, and 
 dropping mellow autumn of a rich glorious where one curls over to break, form a festoon 
 summer. In the old man. Nature has fulfilled 20 like a drapery, from its edge; these are taken 
 her work; she loads him with her blessings; she up in wind, not in dissipating dust, but bodily, 
 fills him with the fruits of a well-spent life; in writhing, hanging, coiling masses, which 
 and surrounded by his children and his chil- make the air white and thick as with snow, 
 dren's children, she rocks him softly away to a only the flakes are a foot or two long each; the 
 grave, to which he is followed with blessings. 25 surges themselves are full of foam in their 
 God forbid we should not call it beautiful. It very bodies, underneath, making them white 
 is beautiful, but not the most beautiful. There all through, as the water is under a great 
 is another life, hard, rough, and thorny, trodden cataract; and their masses, being thus half 
 with bleeding feet and aching brow; the life water and half air, are torn to pieces by the 
 of which the cross is the symbol; a battle which 30 wind whenever they rise, and carried away in 
 no peace follows, this side the grave; which roaring smoke, which chokes and strangles 
 the grave gapes to finish, before the victory like actual water. Add to this that when the 
 is won; and — strange that it should be so — this air has been exhausted of its moisture by long 
 is the highest life of man. Look back along the rain, the spray of the sea is caught by it as 
 great names of history; there is none whose 35 described above (Section III. chap, vi., § 13), 
 life has been other than this. They to whom it and covers its surface not merely with the 
 has been given to do the really highest work in smoke of finely divided water, but with boiling 
 this earth — whoever they are, Jew or Gentile, mist; imagine also the low rain-clouds brought 
 Pagan or Christian, warriors, legislators, phil- down to the very level of the sea, as I have 
 osophers, priests, poets, kings, slaves — one and 40 often seen them, whirling and flying in rags 
 all, their fate has been the same — the same and fragments from wave to wave; and finally, 
 bitter cup has been given to them to drink, conceive the surges themselves in their utmost 
 And so it was with the servants of England in pitch of power, velocity, vastness, and madness, 
 the sixteenth century. Their life was a long lifting themselves in precipices and peaks, 
 battle, either with the elements or with men ; 45 furrowed with the whirl of ascent, through all 
 and it was enough for them to fulfil their work, this chaos; and you will understand that there 
 and to pass away in the hour when God had is indeed no distinction left between the sea 
 nothing more to bid them do. They did not and air; that no object, nor horizon, nor any 
 complain, and why should we complain for landmark or natural evidence of position is 
 them? Peaceful life was not what they desired, 50 left; that the heaven is all spray, and the ocean 
 and an honourable death had no terrors for all cloud, and that you can see no farther in 
 them. . . . any direction than you could see through a 
 
 "Seeing," in Gilbert's* own brave words, cataract. Suppose the effect of the first sun- 
 "that death is inevitable, and the fame of beam sent from above to shew this annihila- j 
 virtue is immortal; wherefore in this behalf 55 tion to itself, and you have the sea picture of J 
 mutare vel timere sperno." ^ the Academy, 1842 — the Snowstorm, one of "^ 
 
 "> A great general and statesman of Thebes. ' Modern Painters, a book in five volumes, was under- 
 
 8 Sir Humphrey Gilbert the great explorer, who was lost taken as an answer to the critics of Turner's paintings, 
 
 in a storm ofif the Azores in 1583. V. p. 179, and n. 1, in it Ruskin desired to demonstrate Turner's ess«itial 
 
 supra. » I scorn either to change or to fear. truth to nature. 
 
 I 
 
JOHN RUSKIN 727 
 
 the very grandest statements of sea-motion, and mixes its flaming flood with the sunlight,— 
 mist, and light, that has ever been put on can- and cast far along the desolate heave of the 
 vas, even by Turner. ^ Of course it was not sepulchral waves, incarnadines the multitudi- 
 understood; his finest works never are; but nous sea.^ 
 
 there was some apology for the public's not 5 I believe, if I were reduced to rest Turner's 
 comprehending this, for few people have had immortality upon any single work, I should 
 the opportunity of seeing the sea at such a choose this. Its daring conception— ideal in 
 time, and when they have, cannot face it. the highest sense of the word— is based on the 
 To hold by a mast or a rock, and watch it, is purest truth, and wrought out with the con- 
 a prolonged endurance of drowning which few 10 centrated knowledge of a life; its color is 
 people have the courage to go through. To absolutely perfect, not one false or morbid hue 
 those who have, it is one of the noblest lessons in any part or line, and so modulated that 
 of nature. every square inch of canvas is a perfect com- 
 
 But I think the noblest sea that Turner has position; its drawing as accurate as fearless; 
 ever painted, and, if so, the noblest certainly 15 the ship buoyant, bending, and full of motion; 
 ever painted by man, is that of the Slave Ship, its tones as true as they are wonderful; and the 
 the chief Academy picture of the exhibition whole picture dedicated to the most sublime 
 of 1840. It is a sunset on the Atlantic after of subjects and impressions — (completing the 
 prolonged storm; but the storm is partially perfect system of all truth, which we have 
 lulled, and the torn and streaming rain-clouds 20 shown to be formed by Turner's works) — the 
 are partially moving in scarlet lines to lose power, majesty, and deathfulness of the open, 
 themselves in the hollow of the night. The deep, illimitable sea. 
 whole surface of sea included in the picture 
 
 is divided into two ridges of enormous swell, r r\ r^ 
 
 not high, nor local, but a low, broad heaving 25 ^HE LAMP OF MEMORY 
 
 of the whole ocean, like the lifting of its bosom ^^^^^ rpj^^ g^^^^ j^ ^j Architecture, 1849) 
 
 by deep-drawn breath after the torture of the 
 
 storm. Between these two ridges, the fire of I. Among the hours of his life to which the 
 
 the sunset falls along the trough of the sea, writer looks back with peculiar gratitude, as 
 dyeing it with an awful but glorious light, 30 having been m-arked by more than ordinary 
 the intense and lurid splendor which burns fulness of joy or clearness of teaching, is one 
 like gold and bathes like blood. Along this passed, now some years ago, near time of sun- 
 fiery path and valley, the tossing waves by set, among the broken masses of pine forest 
 which the swell of the sea is restlessly divided, which skirt the course of the Ain,^ above the 
 lift themselves in dark, indefinite, fantastic 35 village of Champagnole,^ in the Jura. It is 
 forms, each casting a faint and ghastly shadow a spot which has all the solemnity, with none 
 behind it along the illumined foam. They do of the savageness, of the Alps; where there is 
 not rise everywhere, but fhree or four together the sense of a great power beginning to be 
 in wild groups, fitfully and furiously, as the manifested in the earth, and of a deep and 
 under strength of the swell compels or permits 40 majestic concord in the rise of the long low 
 them ; leaving between them treacherous spaces lines of piny hills; the first utterance of those 
 of level and whirling water, now lighted with mighty mountain symphonies, soon to be more 
 green and lamplike fire, now flashing back the loudly lifted and wildly broken along the battle- 
 gold of the declining sun, now fearfully dyed ments of the Alps. But their strength is as 
 from above with the indistinguishable images 45 yet restrained; and the far reaching ridges of 
 of the burning clouds, which fall upon them in pastoral mountain succeed each other, like the 
 flakes of crimson and scarlet, and give to the long and sighing swell which moves over quiet 
 reckless waves the added motion of their own waters from some far off stormy sea. And 
 fiery flying. Purple and blue, the lurid shadows there is a deep tenderness pervading that vast 
 of the hollow breakers are cast upon the mist 50 monotony. The destructive forces and the 
 of the night, which gathers cold and low, ad- stern expression of the central ranges are 
 vancing like the shadow of death upon the alike withdrawn. No frost-ploughed, dust- 
 guilty ship' as it labors amidst the lightning encumbered paths of ancient glacier fret the 
 of the sea, its thin masts written upon the sky soft Jura pastures; no splintered heaps of ruin 
 in lines of blood, girded with condemnation in 55 break the fair ranks of her forest; no pale, 
 that fearful hue which signs the sky with horror, defiled, or furious rivers send their rude and 
 
 2/. M. W. Turner (1775-1851), an English landscape * " The multitudinous seas incarnadine." Macb. II. u. 
 
 painter. ^ A river in the eastern part of France, rising in the 
 
 » "She is a slaver, throwing her slaves overboard. The Jura mountains, 
 
 near sea is encumbered with corpses." — Uuakin. * A small town on the river Am. 
 
728 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 changeful ways among her rocks. Patiently, precious in their memories than it, in its re- 
 eddy by eddy, the clear green streams wind newing. Those ever springing flowers and ever 
 along their well-known beds; and under the flowing streams had been dyed by the deep 
 dark quietness of the undisturbed pines, there colours of human endurance, valour, and vir- 
 spring up, year by year, such company of 5 tue; and the crests of the sable hills that rose 
 joyful flowers as I know not the like of among against the evening sky received a deeper 
 all the blessings of the earth. It was spring worship, because their far shadows fell east- 
 time, too; and all were coming forth in clusters ward over the iron wall of Joux,« and the four- 
 crowded for very love; there was room enough square keep of Granson.' 
 for all, but they crushed their leaves into all lo II. It is as the centrahsation and protectress 
 manner of strange shapes only to be nearer of this sacred influence, that Architecture is 
 each other. There was the wood anemone, to be regarded by us with the most serious 
 star after star, closing every now and then thought. We may live without her, and wor- 
 into nebulae; and there was the oxalis, troop by ship without her, but we cannot remember 
 troop, like virginal processions of the Mois de 15 without her. How cold is all history, how life- 
 Marie, ^ the dark vertical clefts in the limestone less all imagery, compared to that which the 
 choked up with them as with heavy snow, and living nation writes, and the uncorrupted 
 touched with ivy on the edges — ivy as light and marble bears! — how many pages of doubtful 
 lovely as the vine; and, ever and anon, a blue record might we not often spare, for a few 
 gush of violets, and cowslip bells in sunny 20 stones left one upon another! The ambition 
 places; and in the more open ground, the of the old Babel builders' was well directed 
 vetch, and comfrey,* and mezereon,^ and the for this world: tl ^gre are but two str ong con- 
 small sapphire buds of the Polygala Alpina, qi ^rors of t^ fr>rgoii^ii]^^,gg m Tr>Qn^ ^^ rtpffpY^R TrrK 
 and the wild strawberry, just a blossom or ArckitectureTand the latter in some sort m- 
 two, all showered amidst the golden softness 25 clildey the lofmer, and is mightier in its reality : 
 of deep, warm, amber-coloured moss. I came it is well to have, not only what men have 
 out presently on the edge of the ravine: the thought and felt, but what their hands have 
 solemn murmur of its waters rose suddenly handled, and their strength wrought, and their 
 from beneath, mixed with the singing of the eyes beheld, all the days of their life. The age 
 thrushes among the pine boughs; and, on the 30 of Homer is surrounded with darkness, his 
 opposite side of the valley, walled all along as very personality with doubt. Not so that of 
 it was by grey cliffs of Umestone, there was a Pericles:^ and the day is coming when we shall 
 hawk sailing slowly off their brow, touching confess, that we have learned more of Greece 
 them nearly with his wings, and with the out of the crumbled fragments of her sculpture 
 shadows of the pines flickering upon his plu- 35 than even from her sweet singers or soldier 
 mage from above; but with the fall of a hundred historians. And if indeed there be any profit 
 fathoms under his breast, and the curling pools in our knowledge of the past, or any joy in the 
 of the green river gliding and glittering dizzily thought of being remembered hereafter, which 
 beneath him, their foam globes moving with can give strength to present exertion, or pa- 
 him as he flew. It would be difficult to con- 40 tience to present endurance, there are two du- 
 ceive a scene less dependent upon any other ties respecting national architecture whose 
 interest than that of its own secluded and importance it is impossible to overrate: the 
 serious beauty; but the writer well remembers first, to render the architecture of the day, 
 the sudden blankness and chill which were historical; and, the second, to preserve, as the 
 cast upon it when he endeavoured, in order 45 most precious of inheritances, that of past ages, 
 more strictly to arrive at the sources of its 
 
 impressiveness, to unagine it, for a moment, SCIENCE AND MODERN PROGRESS 
 a scene in some aboriginal forest of the New ^^ ,, , _ ^ t^t ^r^^«^ 
 
 Continent. The flowers in an mstant lost their (From Modem Painters, Part IV, 1856) 
 
 light, the river its music; the hills became op- 50 The great mechanical impulses of the age, 
 pressively desolate; a heaviness in the boughs of which most of us are so proud, are a mere 
 of the darkened forest showed how much of « rp, , _* «^ r • *i, t ^u u a * 
 
 . , . - 1 1 1. 1 J - * The fort of Joux m the Jura, near the boundary of 
 
 their former power had been dependent upon a Switzerland. 
 
 Hfe which was not theirs, how much of the ^ An ancient village on the Lake of Neuchatel in Swit- 
 
 glory of the imperishable, or continually re- 55 «Gen'., xi. 4. "And they said one to another, Go to, \ 
 newed, creation is reflected from things more '^t us build us a, city and a tower whose top may reach 
 
 ' unto heaven, and let us make us a name; lest we be scat- ' 
 
 tered abroad upon the face of the whole earth." 
 ' May (Month of Mary) held sacred to the Virgin. ' Pericles became the ruler of Athens after he had 
 
 * A plant of the Borage family. ostracized Cimon. The Age of Pericles is noted for the 
 
 ' A shrub bearing fragrant flowers. adornment of the city and for its brilliant culture. 
 
JOHN RUSKIN 729 
 
 passing fever, half-speculative, half-childish. cate that, we could have done it in less than 
 People will discover at last that royal roads to 1800 years, without steam. Most of the good 
 anything can no more be laid in iron than they religious communication that I remember has 
 can in dust; that there are, m fact, no royal been, done on foot; and it cannot easily be done 
 roads to anywhere worth going to, that if there 5 faster than at foot pace. Is it science? But 
 were, it would that instant cease to be worth what science— of motion, meat, and medicine? 
 going to,— I mean so far as the things to be Well; when you have moved your savage, and 
 obtamed are m any way estimable in terms of dressed your savage, fed him with white bread, 
 price. For there are two classes of precious and shown him how to set a limb,— what next? 
 things m the world: those that God gives us for lo Follow out that question. Suppose every ob- 
 nothing— sun, air, and life (both mortal life stacle overcome; give your savage every ad- 
 and immortal); and the secondarily precious vantage of civihzation to the full: suppose 
 things, worldly wine and milk, can only be that you have put the Red Indian in tight 
 bought for definite money; they can never be shoes; taught the Chinese how to make Wedge- 
 cheapened. No cheating nor bargaining will 15 wood's ware, and to paint it with colors that 
 ever get a single thing out of nature's "estab- will rub off; and persuaded all Hindoo women 
 hshment" at half price. Do we want to be that it is more pious to torment husbands into 
 strong?— we must work. To be hungry?— we graves than to bum themselves at the burial,— 
 must starve. To be happy?— we must be what next? Gradually, thinking on from point 
 kind. To be wise?— we must look and think. 20 to point, we shall come to perceive that all 
 No changing of place at a hundred miles an true happiness and nobleness are near us, and 
 hour, nor making of stuffs a thousand yards yet neglected by us; and that till we have 
 a minute, will make us one whit stronger, hap- learned how to be happy and noble, we have 
 pier, or wiser. There was always more in the not much to tell, even to Red Indians. The 
 world than men could see, walked they ever 25 delights of horse-racing and hunting, of as- 
 so slowly; they will see it no better for going semblies in the night instead of the day, of 
 fast. And they will at last, and soon too, find costly and wearisome music, of costly and 
 out that their grand inventions for conquering burdensome dress, of chagrined contention 
 (as they think) space and time, do, in reahty, for place or power, or wealth, or the eyes of 
 conquer nothing; for space and time are, in 30 the multitude; and all the endless occupation 
 their own essence, unconquerable, and besides without purpose, and idleness without rest, 
 did not want any sort of conquering; they of our vulgar world, are not, it seems to me, 
 wanted using. A fool always wants to shorten enjoyments we need be ambitious to communi- 
 space and time; a wise man wants to lengthen cate. And all real and wholesome enjoyments 
 both. A fool wants to kill space and kill time: 35 possible to man have been just as possible to 
 a wise man, first to gain them, then to animate him, since first he was made of the earth, as 
 them. Your railroad, when you come to under- they are now; and they are possible to him 
 stand it, is only a device for making the world chiefly in peace. To watch the corn grow, and 
 smaller: and as for being able to talk from place the blossoms set; to draw hard breath over 
 to place, that is, indeed, well and convenient ; 40 ploughshare or spade; to read, to think, to 
 but suppose you have originally nothing to love, to hope, to pray, — these are the things 
 say. We shall be obliged at last to confess, that. make men happy; they have always had 
 what we should long ago have known, that the the power of doing these, they never vnll have 
 really precious things are thought and sight, power to do more. The world's prosperity 
 not pace. It does a bullet no good to go fast; 45 or adversity depends upon our knowing and 
 and a man, if he be truly a man, no harm to teaching these few things: but upon iron, or 
 go slow; for his glory is not at all in going, glass, or electricity, or steam, in no wise, 
 but in being. And I am Utopian and enthusiastic enough 
 
 "Well; but railroads and telegraphs are so to believe, that the time will come when the 
 useful for communicating knowledge to savage 50 world will discover this. It has now made its 
 nations." Yes, if you have any to give them, experiments in every possible direction but the 
 If you know nothing but railroads, and can right one; and it seems that it must, at last, 
 communicate nothing but aqueous vapor and try the right one, in a mathematical necessity, 
 gunpowder, — what then? But if you have It has tried fighting, and preaching, and fast- 
 any other thing than those to give, then the 55 ing, buying and selhng, pomp and parsimony, 
 railroad is of use only because it communi- pride and humihation, — every possible man- 
 cates that other thing, and the question is, — ner of existence in which it could conjecture 
 what that other thing may be. Is it religion? there was any happiness or dignity; and all 
 I believe if we had really wanted to communi- the while, as it bought, sold, and fought, and 
 
730 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 fasted, and wearied itself with policies, and not work, and the wasteful person who lays 
 ambitions, and self-denials, God had placed nothing by, at the end of the same time will be 
 its real happiness in the keeping of the little doubly poor — poor in possession, and dis- 
 mosses of the wayside, and of the clouds of solute in moral habit; and he will then naturally 
 the firmament. Now and then a weary king, 5 covet the money which the other has saved, 
 or a tormented slave, found out where the true And if he is then allowed to attack the other, 
 kingdoms of the world were, and possessed and rob him of his well earned wealth, there 
 himself, in a furrow or two of garden ground, is no more any motive for saving, or any re- 
 of a truly infinite dominion. But the world ward for good conduct ; and all society is there- 
 would not beUeve their report, and went on lo upon dissolved, or exists only in systems of 
 trampling down the mosses, and forgetting rapine. Therefore the first necessity of social 
 the clouds, and seeking happiness in its own life is the clearness of national conscience in 
 way, until, at last, blundering and late, came enforcing the law — that he should keep who 
 natural science; and in natural science not only has Justly Earned. 
 
 the observation of things, but the finding out of 15 That law I say, is the proper basis of dis- 
 new uses for them. Of course the world, hav- tinction between rich and poor. But there is 
 ing a choice left to it, went wrong as usual, and also a false basis of distinction; namely, the 
 thought that these mere material uses were power held over those who are earning wealth 
 to be the sources of its happiness. It got the by those who already possess it, and only use 
 clouds packed into iron cylinders, and made 20 it to gain more. There will be always a num- 
 it carry its wise self at their own cloud pace, ber of men who would fain set themselves to 
 It got weaveable fibres out of the mosses, and the accumulation of wealth as the sole object 
 made clothes for itself, cheap and fine, — here of their lives. Necessarily that class of men 
 was happiness at last. To go as fast as the is an uneducated class, inferior in intellect, 
 clouds, and manufacture everything out of 25 and more or less cowardly. It is physically 
 anything, — here was paradise, indeed! impossible for a well-educated, intellectual, 
 
 And now, when in a little while it is unpara- or brave man to make money the chief object 
 dised again, if there were any other mistake of his thoughts; just as it is for him to make 
 that the world could make, it would of course his dinner the principal object of them. All 
 make it. But I see not that there is any other; 30 healthy people like their dinners, but their 
 and, standing fairly well at its wits' end, having dinner is not the main object of their lives. So 
 found that going fast, when it is used to it, all healthily-minded people, like making 
 is no more paradisiacal than going slow; and money — ought to like it, and to enjoy the 
 that all the prints and cottons in Manchester sensation of winning it: but the main object 
 cannot make it comfortable in its mind, I do 35 of their life is not money ; it is something better 
 verily believe it will come, finally to under- than money. A good soldier, for instance, 
 stand that God paints the clouds and shapes mainly wishes to do his fighting well. He is 
 the moss-fibres, that men may be happy in glad of his pay — very properly so, and justly 
 seeing Him at His work, and that in resting grumbles when you keep him ten years with- 
 quietly beside Him, and watching His work- 40 out it — still, his main notion of life is to win 
 ing, and — according to the power He has com- battles, not to be paid for winning them. So 
 municated to ourselves, and the guidance He of clergymen. They like pew-rents, and bap- 
 grants, — in carrying out His purposes of peace tismal fees, of course; but yet, if they are brave 
 and charity among all His creatures, are the and well-educated, the pew-rent is not the sole 
 only real happinesses that ever were, or will be, 45 object of their lives, and the baptismal fee is 
 possible to mankind. not the sole purpose of the baptism ; the clergy- 
 
 man's object is essentially to baptize and 
 A/rr»xn?v preach, not to be paid for preaching. So of 
 
 MONEY doctors. They like fees no doubt,— ought to 
 
 (From The Crcrum of Wild Olive, 1866) ^Olike them; yet if they are brave and well-edu- 
 cated the entire object of their lives is not lees. 
 
 The lawful basis of wealth is, that a man who They, on the whole, desire to cure the sick; 
 works should be paid the fair value of his and,— if they are good doctors, and the choice 
 work; and that if he does not choose to spend were fairly put to them— would rather cure 
 it today, he should have free leave to keep it, 55 their patient, and lose their fee, than kill him , 
 and spend it tomorrow. Thus, an industrjlsus and get it. And so with all other brave and\; 
 man working daily, attains at last the posses- rightly trained men; their work is first, their \ 
 sion of an accumulated sum of wealth, to which fee second— very important always, but still, 
 he has absolute right. The idle person who wiU second. But in every nation, as I said, there are 
 
JOHN RUSKIN 731 
 
 a vast class who are ill-educated, cowardly, that benevolent business; makes his own little 
 and more or less stupid. And with these job out of it at all events, come what will, 
 people, just as certamly the fee is first, and the And thus, out of every mass of men, you have 
 work second, as with the brave people the work a certain number of bagmen— your "fee-first" 
 IS first, and the fee second. And this is no small 5 men, whose main object is to make money, 
 distmction. It is between life and death in a And they do make it— make it in all sorts of 
 man; between heaven and hell for him. You unfair ways, chiefly by the force and weight of 
 cannot serve two masters:— you must serve money itself, or what is called the power of 
 one or other. If your work is first with you, capital; that is to say, the power which money, 
 and your fee second, work is your master, and lo once obtained, has over the labour of the poor, 
 the lord of work, who is God. But if your fee so that the capitalist can take all its produce 
 is first with you, and your work second, fee is to himself, except the labourer's food. That 
 your master, and the lord of fee, who is the is the modern Judas's way of "carrying the 
 Devil; and not only the Devil, but the lowest bag," and "bearing what is put therein." 
 of devils— the "leaft erected fiend that fell."i 15 Nay, but (it is asked) how is that an unfair 
 So there you hava it in brief terms; Work advantage? Has not the man who has worked 
 first— you are God's servants; Fee first— you for the money a right to use it as he best can? 
 are the Fiend's. And it makes a difference, No, in this respect, money is now exactly what 
 now and ever, believe me, whether you serve mountain promontories over public roads were 
 him who has on His vesture and thigh written, 20 in old times. The barons fought for them 
 "King of Kings,"2 and whose service is perfect fairly ;— the strongest and cunningest got them; 
 freedom; or him on whose vesture and thigh then fortified them, and made every one who 
 the name is written, "Slave of Slaves," and passed below pay toll. Well, capital now is 
 whose service is perfect slavery. exactly what crags were then. Men fight 
 
 However in every nation there are, and must 25 fairly (we will, at least, grant so much, though 
 always be, a certain number of these Fiend's it is more than we ought) for their money; but, 
 servants, who have it principally for the object once having got it, the fortified millionaire 
 of their life to make money. They are always, can make everybody who passes below pay 
 as I said, more or less stupid, and cannot con- toll to his million, and build another tower of 
 ceive of anything else so nice as money. Stu- 30 his money castle. And I can tell you, the poor 
 pidity is always the basis of the Judas bargain, vagrants by the roadside suffer quite as much 
 We do great injustice to Iscariot, in thinking from the bag-baron, as ever they did from the 
 him wicked above all common wickedness, crag-baron. Bags and crags have just the same 
 He was only a common money-lover, and, like result on rags. I have no time however, to- 
 all money-lovers, did not understand Christ; — 35 night, to show you in how many ways the 
 could not make out the worth of Him, or mean- power of capital is unjust; but remember this 
 ing of Him. He never thought he would be one great principle — you will find it unfailing — 
 killed. He was horror-struck when he found that whenever money is the principal object 
 that Christ would be killed; threw his money of life with either man or nation, it is both got 
 away instantly, and hanged himself. How 40 ill, and spent ill; and does harm both in the 
 many of our present money-seekers, think getting and spending; but when it is not the 
 you, would Ijia-ve the grace to hang themselves, principal object, it and all other things will 
 whoever was*^-k:lled? But Judas was a com- be well got, and well spent, 
 mon, selfish, muddle-headed, pilfering fellow; 
 
 his hand always in the bag of the poor, not 45 T'AQTT? 
 
 caring for them. Helpless to understand lAblH. 
 
 Christ, he yet believed in Him, much more (From the same) 
 
 than most of us do ; had seen Him do miracles, 
 
 thought he was quite strong enough to shift Now pardon me for telling you^ frankly 
 
 for Himself, and he, Judas, might as well make 50 you cannot have good architecture merely by 
 his own Httle bye-perquisites out of the affair, asking people's advice on occasion. All good 
 Christ would come out of it well enough, and architecture is the expression of national life 
 he have his thirty pieces. Now, that is the and character; and it is produced by a preva- 
 money-seeker's idea, all over the world. He lent and eager national taste, or desire for 
 
 doesn't hate Christ, but can't understand 55 iThis selection is from an address delivered in the 
 
 Him doP^n't pnrp fnr Him sees no eood in Town Hall at Bradford, a proaporous inanufacturing 
 
 mm aoesn l care lOr mm bees iiu guuu m ^.^^ ^^ Yorkshire. Ruskin had been invited to lecture 
 
 there on an Exchange which the city proposed to build. 
 
 1 "Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell." Milton, He said little of the Exchange, but spoke of the relation 
 Par. Lost I. 679. of industrial civilization to art. The address was after- 
 
 2 jr^eo., jdx. 16. wards included in The Crown of Wild Olive. 
 
732 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 beauty. And I want you to think a little of the is to make people not merely do the right things, 
 deep significance of this word "taste;" for no but enjoy the right things: — not merely indus- 
 statement of mine has been more earnestly or trious, but to love industry — not merely 
 oftener controverted than that good taste is es- learned, but to love knowledge — not merely 
 sentially a moral quahty. "No," say many of 5 pure, but to love purity — not merely just, but 
 my antagonists, "taste is one thing, morahty to hunger and thirst after justice, 
 is another. Tell us what is pretty: we shall be But you may answer or think, "Is the hking 
 
 glad to know that; but we need no sermons, for outside ornaments, — for pictures, or statues, 
 even were you able to preach them, which or furniture, or architecture, amoral quality?" 
 may be doubted." 10 Yes, most surely, if a rightly set hking. Taste 
 
 Permit me, therefore, to fortify this old for any pictures or statues is not a moral qual- 
 dogma of mine somewhat. Taste is not only ity, but taste for good ones is. Only here again 
 a part and an index of morahty; — it is the we have to define the word "good," clever — 
 ONLY morahty. The first, and last, and or learned — or difficult in the doing. Take a 
 closest trial question to any hving creature is, 15 picture by Teniers, of sots quarreling over 
 "What do you hke?" Tell me what you hke their dice; it is an entirely clever picture; so 
 and I'll tell you what you are. Go out into clever that nothing in its kind has ever been 
 the street, and ask the first man or woman you done equal to it; but it is also an entirely base 
 meet, what their "taste" is; and if they answer and evil picture. It is an expression of delight 
 candidly, you know them, body and soul. 20 in the prolonged contemplation of a vile thing, 
 " You, my friend in the rags, with the unsteady and delight in that is an "unmannered," or 
 gait, what do you like?" "A pipe and a quar- "immoral" quahty. It is "bad taste" in the 
 tern of gin." I know you. "You, good prof oundest sense — it is the taste of the devils, 
 woman, with the quick step and tidy bonnet. On the other hand, a picture of Titian's, or a 
 what do you like?" "A swept hearth, and a 25 Greek statue, or a Greek coin, or a Turner 
 clean tea-table; and my husband opposite me, landscape, expresses delight in the perpetual 
 and a baby at my breast." Good, I know you contemplation of a good and perfect thing, 
 also. "You, little girl with the golden hair That is an entirely moral quality — it is the 
 and the soft eyes, what do you like?" "My taste of the angels. And all dehght in fine art, 
 canary, and a run among the wood hyacinths." 30 and all love of it, resolve themselves into simple 
 "You, httle boy with the dirty hands, and the love of that which deserves love. That de- 
 low forehead, what do you like?" "A shy at serving is the quality which we call "loveli- 
 the sparrows, and a game at pitch farthing." ness" (we ought to have an opposite word, 
 Good; we know them all now. What more hateliness, to be said of the things which de- 
 need we ask? 35 serve to be hated) ; and it is not an indifferent 
 
 "Nay," perhaps you answer; "we need nor optional thing whether we love this or 
 rather to ask what these people and children that; but it is just the vital function of all our 
 do, than what they like. If they do right, it is being. What we like determines what we are, 
 no matter that they like what is wrong; and if and is the sign of what we are; and to teach 
 they do wrong, it is no matter that they like 40 taste is to inevitably form character, 
 what is right. Doing is the great thing; and As I was thinking over this, in walking up 
 it does not matter that the man likes drinking. Fleet Street the other day, my eye caught the 
 so that he does not drink; nor that the little title of a book standing open in a bookseller's 
 girl likes to be kind to her canary, if she will window. It was — "On the necessity of the 
 not learn her lessons; nor that the httle boy 45 diffusion of taste among all classes." "Ah," I 
 likes throwing stones at the sparrows, if he thought to myself, "my classifying friend, 
 goes to the Sunday school.'* Indeed for a when you have diffused your taste, where will 
 short time, and in a provisional sense, this is your classes be? The man who likes what you 
 true. For if, resolutely, people do what is like, belongs to the same class with you, I 
 right, in time to come they like doing it. But 50 think. Inevitably so. You may put him to 
 they only are in a right moral state when they other work if you choose; but, by the condi- 
 have come to like doing it; and as long as they tion you have brought him into, he will dislike 
 don't hke it, they are still in a vicious state, the work as much as you would yourself. You 
 The man is not in health of body who is always get hold of a scavenger or a costermonger, 
 thinking of the bottle in the cupboard, though 55 who enjoyed the Newgate Calendar^ for htera- \ 
 he bravely bears his thirst; but the man who ture, and "Pop goes the weasel" for music, 
 heartily enjoys water in the morning, and You think you can make him like Dante and 
 wine in the evening, each in its own proper ,. x** -iluj j 
 
 . , ,, ,. 1 • X *. X J X- *An account of famous criminals who had served 
 
 time. And the entire object of true education terms in Newgate prison. 
 
JOHN RUSKIN 733 
 
 Beethoven? I wish you joy of your lessons; If stone work is well put together, it means 
 but if you do, you have made a gentleman of that a thoughtful man planned it, and a care- 
 him: he wont hke to go back to his coster- ful man cut it, and an honest man cemented 
 mongermg. it. if it has too much ornament, it means that 
 
 sits carver was too greedy of pleasure; if too 
 little, that he was rude, or insensitive, or stupid, 
 
 ART AND CHARACTER f^ ^^\^^^: ^""iwf when once you have 
 
 learned how to spell these most precious of all 
 (From The Queen of the Air, 1869) legends,— pictures and buildings,— you may 
 
 10 read the characters of men, and of nations, in 
 
 I have now only a few words to say, bearing their art, as in a mirror; — nay, as in a micro- 
 on what seems to me present need, respecting scope, and magnified a hundredfold; for the char- 
 the third function of Athena, conceived as the acter becomes passionate in the art, and inten- 
 directress of human passion, resolution, and sifies itself in all its noblest or meanest delights, 
 labour. 15 Nay, not only as in a microscope, but as under 
 
 Few words, for I am not yet prepared to give a scalpel, and in dissection; for a man may 
 an accurate distinction between the intellec- hide himself from you, or misrepresent himseK 
 tual rule of Athena and that of the Muses: but, to you, every other way; but he cannot in his 
 broadly, the Muses, with their king, preside work: there, be sure, you have him to the in- 
 over meditative, historical, and poetic arts, 20 most. All that he hkes, all that he sees, — all 
 whose end is the discovery of light or truth, that he can do, — his imaginations, his affec- 
 and the creation of beauty: but Athena rules tions, his perseverance, his impatience, his 
 over moral passion, and practically useful art. clumsiness, cleverness, everything is there. 
 She does not make men learned, but prudent If the work is a cobweb, you know it was made 
 and subtle: she does not teach them to make 25 by a spider; if a honeycomb, by a bee; a worm- 
 their work beautiful, but to make it right. cast is thrown up by a worm, and a nest 
 
 In different places of my writings, and wreathed by a bird; and a house built by a 
 through many years of endeavour to define man, worthily, if he be worthy, and ignobly, 
 the laws of art, I have insisted on this rightness if he is ignoble. 
 
 in work, and on its connection with virtue of 30 And always, from the least to the greatest, 
 character, in so many partial ways, that the as the made thing is good or bad, so is the 
 impression left on the reader's mind — if, in- maker of it. 
 
 deed, it was ever impressed at all — has been You all use this faculty of judgment more 
 confused and uncertain. In beginning the or less, whether you theoretically admit the 
 series of my corrected works, I wish this prin- 35 principle or not. Take that floral gable; you 
 ciple (in my own mind the foundation of every don't suppose the man who built Stonehenge 
 other) to be mad^ plain, if nothing else is: and could have built that, or that the man who built 
 will try, therefore, to make it so, as far as, by that, would have built Stonehenge? Do you 
 any effort, I can put it into unmistakable think an old Roman would have liked such a 
 words. And, first, here is a very simple state- 40 piece of filagree work? or that Michael Angelo 
 ment of it, given lately in a lecture on the Archi- would have spent his time in twisting these 
 tecture of the Valley of the Somme, which will stems of roses in and out? Or, of modem hand- 
 be better read in this place than in its incidental craftsmen, do you think a burglar, or a brute, 
 connection with my account of the porches of or a pickpocket, could have carved it? Could 
 Abbeville. 45 Bill Sykes have done it? or the Dodger, ^ dex- 
 
 I had used, in a preceding part of the lee- terous with finger and tool? You will find in 
 ture, the expression, "by what faults" this the end, that no man could have done it but ex- 
 Gothic architecture fell. We continually speak actly the man who did it; and by looking close 
 thus of works of art. We talk of their faults at it, you may, if you know your letters, read 
 and merits, as of virtues and vices. What do 50 precisely the manner of man he was. 
 we mean by talking of the faults of a picture, Now I must insist on this matter, for a grave 
 
 or the merits of a piece of stone? reason. Of all facts concerning art, this is the 
 
 The faults of a work of art are the faults of one most necessary to be known, that, while 
 its workman, and its virtues his virtues. manufacture is the work of hands only, art is 
 
 Great art is the expression of the mind of a 55 the work of the whole spirit of man; and as 
 great man, and mean art, that of the want of that spirit is, so is the deed of it: and by what- 
 mind of a weak man. A foolish person builds ever power of vice or virtue any art is produced, 
 foolishly, and a wise one, sensibly; a virtuous the same vice or virtue it reproduces and 
 one, beautifully; and a vicious one, basely. i criminal charactera in Dickens' OKocr rtn'«<. 
 
734 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 teaches. That which is bom of evil begets of moral character' in war. I must make both 
 evil; and that which is bom of valour and these assertions clearer, and prove them, 
 honour, teaches valour and honour. All art is First, of the foundation of art in moral char- 
 
 either infection or education. It must be one acter. Of course art-gift and amiability of 
 or other of these. 5 disposition are two different things; a good man 
 
 This, I repeat, of all truths respecting art, is not necessarily a painter, nor does an eye 
 is the one of which understanding is the most for colour necessarily imply an honest mind, 
 precious, and denial the most deadly. And But great art implies the union of both powers: 
 I assert it the more, because it has of late been it is the expression, by an art-gift, of a pure 
 repeatedly, expressly, and with contumely de- 10 soul. If the gift is not there, we can have no 
 nied; and that by high authority: and I hold art at all; and if the soul — and a right soul too 
 it one of the most sorrowful facts connected — is not there, the art is bad, however dextrous, 
 with the decline of the arts among us, that But also, remember, that the art-gift itself 
 
 English gentlemen, of high standing as scholars is only the result of the moral character of 
 and artists, should have been blinded into the 15 generations. A bad woman may have a sweet 
 acceptance, and been betrayed into the asser- voice; but that sweetness of voice comes of the 
 tion, of a fallacy which only authority such as past morality of her race. That she can sing 
 theirs could have rendered for an instant with it at all, she owes to the determination 
 credible. For the contrary of it is written in of laws of music by the morality of the past, 
 the history of all great nations; it is the one 20 Every act, every impulse, of virtue and vice, 
 sentence always inscribed on the steps of their affects in any creature, face, voice, nervous 
 thrones; the one concordant voice in which power, and vigour and harmony of invention, 
 they speak to us out of the dust. at once. Perseverance in rightness of human 
 
 All such nations first manifest themselves conduct, renders, after a certain number of 
 as a pure and beautiful animal race, with in- 25 generations, human art possible; every sin 
 tense energy and imagination. They live clouds it, be it ever so little a one; and persist- 
 lives of hardship by choice, and by grand in- ent vicious living and following of pleasure 
 stinct of manly discipline: they become fierce render, after a certain number of generations, 
 and irresistible soldiers; the nation is always all art impossible. Men are deceived by the 
 its own army, and their king, or chief head of 30 long-suffering of the laws of nature; and mis- 
 government, is always their first soldier, take in a nation, the reward of the virtue of its 
 Pharaoh, or David, or Leonidas, or Valerius, sires for the issue of its own sins. The time 
 or Barbarossa, or Coeur de Lion, or St. Louis, of their visitation will come, and that inevi- 
 or Dandolo, or Frederick the Great; — Egyp- tably; for, it is always true, that if the fathers 
 tian, Jew, Greek, Roman, German, English, 35 have eaten sour grapes, the children's teeth 
 French, Venetian, — that is inviolable law for are set on edge. And for the individual, as 
 them all; their king must be their first soldier, soon as you have learned to read, you may, 
 or they cannot be in progressive power. Then, as I have said, know him to the heart's core, 
 after their great military period; in which, through his art. Let his art-gift be never so 
 without betraying the discipline of war, they 40 great, and cultivated to the height by the 
 add to their great soldiership the delights and schools of a great race of men; and it is still but 
 possessions of a delicate and tender home-life; a tapestry thrown over his own being and inner 
 and then, for all nations, is the time of their soul; and the bearing of it will show, infallibly, 
 perfect art, which is the fruit, the evidence, whether it hangs on a man, or on a skeleton, 
 the reward of their national ideal of character, 45 If you are dim-eyed, you may not see the 
 developed by the finished care of the occupa- difference in the fall of the folds at first, but 
 tions of peace. That is the history of all true learn how to look, and the folds themselves will ' 
 art that ever was, or can be: palpably the his- become transparent, and you shall see through 
 tory of it, — unmistakably, — written on the them the death's shape, or the divine one, 
 forehead of it in letters of light, — in tongues of 50 making the tissue above it as a cloud of light, 
 fire, by which the seal of virtue is branded as or as a winding sheet. 
 
 deep as ever iron burnt into a convict's flesh Then farther, observe, I have said (and you 
 
 the seal of crime. But always, hitherto, after will find it true, and that to the uttermost) 
 the great period, has followed the day of luxury, that, as all lovely art is rooted in virtue, so it , 
 and pursuit of the arts for pleasure only. And 55 bears fruit of virtue, and is didactic in its own \j 
 all has so ended. nature. It is often didactic also in actually ex- 'lj| 
 
 Thus far of Abbeville building. Now I have pressed thought, as Giotto's, Michael Angelo's, :j 
 here asserted two things, — first, the foundation Diirer's, and hundreds more; but that is not 
 of art in moral character; next, the foundation its special function, — it is didactic chiefly by 
 
JOHN RUSKIN 735 
 
 being beautiful; but beautiful with haunting its first sea kings; and also the compassion and 
 thought, no less than with form, and full of the joy that are woven into the innermost fabric 
 mj^ths that can be read only with the heart. of every great imaginative spirit, born now in 
 
 For instance, there is at this moment open countries that have lived by the Christian faith 
 beside me as I write, a page of Persian manu- 5 with any courage or truth. And the picture 
 script, wrought with wreathed azure and gold, contains also, for us, just this which its maker 
 and soft green, and violet, and ruby and scar- had in him to give; and can convey it to us, 
 let, into one field of pure resplendence. It is just so far as we are of the temper in which it 
 wrought to deUght the eyes only; and it does must be received. It is didactic, if we are 
 delight them; and the man who did it surely 10 worthy to be taught, no otherwise. The pure 
 had eyes in his head; but not much more. It is heart, it will make more pure; the thoughtful, 
 not didactic art, but its author was happy: more thoughtful. It has in it no words for the 
 and it will do the good, and the harm, that reckless or the base. 
 
 mere pleasure can do. But, opposite me, is an As I myself look at it, there is no fault nor 
 early Turner drawing of the lake of Geneva, 15 folly of my life, — and both have been many and 
 taken about two miles from Geneva, on the great, — that does not rise up against me, and 
 Lausanne road, with Mont Blanc in the dis- take away my joy, and shorten my power of 
 tance. The old city is seen lying beyond the possession, of sight, of understanding. And 
 waveless waters, veiled with a sweet misty veil every past effort of my life, every gleam of 
 of Athena's weaving: a faint light of morning, 20 rightness or good in it, is with me now, to help 
 peaceful exceedingly, and almost colourless, me in my grasp of this heart, and its vision, 
 shed from behind the Voirons, increases into So far as I can rejoice in, or interpret either, 
 soft amber along the slopes of the Sal^ve, and my power is owing to what of right there is in 
 is just seen, and no more, on the fair warm fields me. I dare to say it, that, because through all 
 of its summit, between the folds of a white 25 my life I have desired good, and not evil; be- 
 cloud that rests upon the grass, but rises, high cause I have been kind to many; have wished 
 and towerlike, into the zenith of dawn above, to be kind to all; have willfully injured none; 
 
 There is not as much colour in that low and because I have loved much, and not sel- 
 amber light upon the hillside as there is in the fishly; — therefore, the morning light is yet 
 palest dead leaf. The lake is not blue, but 30 visible to me on those hills, and you, who read, 
 grey in mist, passing into deep shadow beneath may trust my thought and word in such work 
 the Voirons' pines; a few dark clusters of leaves, as I have to do for you; and you will be glad 
 a single white flower — scarcely seen — are all afterwards that you have trusted them, 
 the gladness given to the rocks of the shore. 
 One of the ruby spots of the eastern manu- 35 
 
 script would give colour enough for all the -rf^TRATNT 
 
 red that is in Turner's entire drawing. For LIBERTY AND REbTRAlNT 
 
 the mere pleasure of the eye, there is not so (From the same) 
 
 much in all those fines of his, throughout the 
 
 entire landscape, as in half an inch square of 40 Next to Modesty, and her delight in meas- 
 the Persian's page. What made him take ures, let us reflect a fittle on the character of 
 pleasure in the low colour that is only like the her adversary, the Goddess of Liberty, and her 
 brown of a dead leaf? in the cold grey of dawn — delight in absence of measures, or in false ones, 
 in the one white flower among the rocks — in It is true that there are liberties and liberties, 
 these— and no more than these? 45 Yonder torrent, crystal-clear, and arrow-swift. 
 
 He took pleasure in them because he had with its spray leaping into the air fike white 
 been bred among Engfish fields and hills; be- troops of fawns, is free enough. Lost, presently, 
 cause the gentleness of a great race was in his amidst bankless, boundless marsh— soaking 
 heart, and its power of thought in his brain; in slow shallowness, as it will, hither and 
 because he knew the stories of the Alps, and 60 thither, fistless, among the poisonous reeds 
 of the cities at their feet; because he had read and unresisting sfime— it is free also. We may 
 the Homeric legends of the clouds, and beheld choose which liberty we fike,- the restramt of 
 the clouds of dawn, and the givers of dew to voiceful rock, or the dumb and edgeless shore 
 the fields; because he knew the face of the of darkened sand. Of that evil liberty, which 
 crags, and the imagery of the passionate moun- 55 men are now glonfying, and proclaiming as 
 tains, as a man knows the face of his friend; essence of gospel to all the earth, and wiU 
 because he had in him the wonder and sorrow presently, I suppose, proclaim also to the stars, 
 concerning fife and death, which are the in- with invitation to them out of their courses,— 
 heritance of the Gothic soul from the days of and of its opposite continence, which is the 
 
736 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 clasp and XP^o-^ TrepSmj i of Aglaia's cestus, sensation only. With help of right, and in 
 we must try to find out something true, action on a substance which does not quiver 
 For no quality of art has been more powerful nor yield, a fine artist's line is measurable in 
 in its influence on pubUc mind; none is more its purposed direction to considerably less than 
 frequently the subject of popular praise, or 5 the thousandth of an inch, 
 the end of vulgar effort, than what we call A wide freedom truly! 
 
 "Freedom." It is necessary to determine the The conditions of popular art which most 
 justice or injustice of this popular praise. foster the common ideas about freedom, are 
 
 I said, a little while ago, that the practical merely results of irregularly energetic effort 
 teaching of the masters of Art was summed up 10 by men imperfectly educated; these conditions 
 by the O of Giotto. ^ "You may judge my being variously mingled with cruder man- 
 masterhood of craft," Giotto tells us, "by see- nerisms resulting from timidity, or actual im- 
 ing that I can draw a circle unerringly." And perfection of body. Northern hands and eyes 
 we may safely believe him, understanding him are, of course, never so subtle as Southern; and 
 to mean, that — though more may be necessary 15 in very cold countries, artistic execution is 
 to an artist than such a power — at least this palsied. The effort to break through this 
 power is necessary. The qualities of hand and timidity, or to refine the bluntness, may lead 
 eye needful to do this are the first conditions to a licentious impetuosity, or an ostentatious 
 of artistic craft. minuteness. Every man's manner has this 
 
 Try to draw a circle yourself with the "free" 20 kind of relation to some defect in his physical 
 hand, and with a single fine. You cannot do powers or modes of thought; so that in the 
 it if your hand trembles, nor if it hesitates, greatest work there is no manner visible. It is 
 nor if it is unmanageable, nor if it is in the at first uninteresting from its quietness; the 
 common sense of the word "free." So far majesty of restrained power only dawns gradu- 
 from being free, it must be under a control as 25 ally upon us, as we walk towards its horizon, 
 absolute and accurate as if it were fastened to There is, indeed, often great delightfulness 
 an inflexible bar of steel. And yet it must in the innocent manners of artists who have 
 move under this necessary control, with per- real power and honesty, and draw, in this way 
 feet untormented serenity of ease. or that, as best they can, under such and such 
 
 That is the condition of all good work what- 30 untoward circumstances of fife. But the 
 soever. All freedom is error. Every line you greater part of the looseness, flimsiness, or 
 lay down is either right or wrong: it may be audacity of modern work is the expression of 
 timidly and awkwardly wrong, or fearlessly an inner spirit of license in mind and heart, 
 and impudently wrong; the aspect of the im- connected, as I said, with the peculiar folly of 
 pudent wrongness is pleasurable to vulgar 35 this age, its hope of, and trust in, "liberty." 
 persons; and it is what they commonly call Of which we must reason a Httle in more general 
 "free" execution: the timid, tottering, hesitat- terms. 
 
 ing wrongness is rarely so attractive; yet some- I believe we can nowhere find a better type 
 times, if accompanied with good qualities, of a perfectly free creature than in the com- 
 and right aims in other directions, it becomes 40 mon house fly. Nor free only, but brave; and 
 in a manner charming, like the inarticulateness irreverent to a degree which I think no human 
 of a child: but, whatever the charm or manner republican could by any philosophy exalt 
 of the error, there is but one question ulti- himself to. There is no courtesy in him; he 
 mately to be asked respecting every line you does not care whether it is king or clown whom 
 draw. Is it right or wrong? If right, it most 45 he teases; and in every step of his swift me- 
 assuredly is not a "free" line, but an intensely chanical march, and in every pause of his res- 
 continent, restrained, and considered line; and olute observation, there is one and the same 
 the action of the hand in laying it is just as expression of perfect egotism, perfect inde- 
 decisive, and just as "free" as the hand of a pendence and self-confidence, and conviction 
 first-rate surgeon in a critical incision. A 50 of the world's having been made for flies, 
 great operator told me that his hand could Strike at him with your hand; and to him, the 
 check itseK within about the two-hundredth mechanical fact and external aspect of the 
 of an inch, in penetrating a membrane, and matter is, what to you it would be, if an acre 
 this, of course, without the help of sight, by of red clay, ten feet thick, tore itself up from^ 
 
 1 Golden buckle. Aglaia (splendor) was one of the 55 the ground in one massive field, hovered over /^ 
 ^^^^^- S^^^^ is a girdle. . you in the air for a second, and came crashing 
 
 ' The Pope once sent a messenger to obtain specimens r, ., . rpr j. • j-u i.^,^^1 <,.^, „<- 
 
 of the work of the chief artists of Italy. Giotto simply down With an aim. Ihat IS the external aspect 
 
 drew a circle and gave it to the amazed messenger, who Qf H' tJjg inner aspect, to his fly's mind, is of a 
 asked if that was all. "Send it," said Giotto, "and we ..' , , j . _. . 
 
 Bhall see if his HoUness understands the hint." quite natural and unimportant occun'ence^ 
 
JOHN RUSKIN 737 
 
 one of the momentary conditions of his active forget) the infinite follies of modem thought 
 life. He steps out of the way of your hand, in this matter, centred in the notion that lib- 
 and alights on the back of it. You cannot ter- erty is good for a man, irrespectively of the 
 rify him, nor govern him, nor persuade him, use he is likely to make of it. Folly unfathon^ 
 nor convince him. He has his own positive sable! unspeakable! unendurable to look in the 
 opinion on all matters; not an unwise one, full face of, as the laugh of a cretin. You will 
 usually, for his own ends; and will ask no ad- send your child, will you, into a room, where a 
 vice of yours. He has no work to do — no table is loaded with sweet wine and fruit — some 
 tyrannical instinct to obey. The earthworm poisoned, some not? — you will say to him, 
 has his digging, the bee her gathering and 10 "Choose freely, my little child! it is so good for 
 building; the spider her cunning network; the you to have freedom of choice; it forms your 
 ant her treasury and accounts. All these are character — your individuahty ! If you take the 
 comparatively slaves, or people of vulgar wrong cup, or the wrong berry, you will die 
 business. But your fly, free in the air, free in before the day is over, but you will have ac- 
 the chamber — a black incarnation of caprice — 15 quired the dignity of a Free child?" 
 wandering, investigating, flitting, flirting. You think that puts the case too sharply? 
 
 feasting at his will, with rich variety of choice I tell you, lover of hberty, there is no choice 
 in feast, from the heaped sweets in the grocer's offered to you, but it is similarly between life 
 window to those of the butcher's back-yard, and death. There is no act, nor option of act, 
 and from the galled place on your cab-horse's 20 possible, but the wrong deed or option has 
 back, to the brown spot in the road, from whicK, poison in it, which will stay in your veins there- 
 as the hoof disturbs him, he rises with angry after for ever. Never more to all eternity 
 republican buzz — what freedom is like his? can you be as you might have been, had you 
 
 For captivity, again, perhaps your poor not done that— chosen that. You have 
 watch-dog is as sorrowful a type as you will 25 "formed your character," forsooth! No! if 
 easily find. Mine certainly is. The day is you have chosen ill, you have Deformed it, 
 lovely, but I must write this, and cannot go and that for ever! In some choices, it had 
 out with him. He is chained in the yard, be- been better for you that a red-hot iron bar 
 cause I do not like dogs in rooms, and the struck you aside, scarred and helpless, than 
 gardener does not like dogs in gardens. He 30 that you had so chosen. "You will know bet- 
 has no books, — nothing but his own weary ter next time!" No. Next time will never 
 thoughts for company, and a group of those come. Next time the choice will be in quite 
 free flies whom he snaps at, with sullen ill another aspect — between quite different things, 
 success. Such 5im hope as he may have that — you, weaker than you were by the evil into 
 I may yet take him out with me, will be, hour 35 which you have fallen; it, more doubtful than 
 by hour, wearily disappointed; or, worse, it was, by the increased dimness of your sight, 
 darkened at once into a leaden despair by an No one ever gets wiser by doing wrong, nor 
 authoritative " No " — too well understood. His stronger. You will get wiser and stronger only 
 fidelity only seals his fate; if he would not watch by doing right, whether forced or not; the 
 for me, he would be sent away, and go hunting 40 prime, the one need is to do that, under what- 
 with some happier master: but he watches, ever compulsion, until you can do it without 
 and is wise and faithful, and miserable; and compulsion. And then you are a Man. 
 his high animal intellect only gives him the 
 
 wistful powers of wonder, and sorrow, and t t t:^ 
 
 desire, and affection, which embitter his cap- 45 SCIENCE AND LIFE 
 
 tivity. Yet of the two would we rather be (^^^^ p,^^^ Clavigera, 1871-1878) 
 
 watch-dog, or fly? 
 
 Indeed the first point we have all to deter- And all true science — which my Savoyard 
 mine is not how free we are, but what kind of guide rightly scorned me when he thought I 
 creatures we are. It is of small importance to 50 had not, — all true science is "savoir vivre." 
 any of us whether we get liberty; but of the But all your modem science is the contrary of 
 greatest that we deserve it. Whether we can that. It is "savoir mourir." 
 win it, fate must determine; but that we will be And of its very discoveries, such as they 
 worthy of it, we may ourselves determine; are, it cannot make use. 
 
 and the sorrowfullest fate, of all that we can 55 That telegraphic signalling was a discovery ; 
 suffer, is to have it, without deserving it. and conceivably, some day, may be a useful one. 
 
 I have hardly patience to hold my pen and And there was some excuse for your being a 
 go on writing, as I remember (I would that it little proud when, about last sixth of April 
 were possible for a few consecutive instants to (Coeur de Lion's death-day, and Albert 
 
738 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Durer's), you knotted a copper wire allthe way be something to boast of. But are you so 
 to Bombay, and flashed a message along it, entirely sure that you have got it— that the 
 and back. mortal disease of plenty, and afflictive afflu- 
 
 But what was the message, and what the ence of good things, are all you have to 
 answer? Is India the better for what you 5 dread? 
 
 said to her? Are you the better for what she Observe. A man and a woman, with their 
 rephed? children properly trained, are able easily to 
 
 If not, you have only wasted an all-round- cultivate as much ground as will feed them; 
 the-world's length of copper wire,— which is, to build as much wall and roof as will lodge 
 indeed, about the sum of your doing. If you 10 them, and to spin and weave as much cloth as 
 had had, perchance, two words of common will clothe them. They can all be perfectly 
 sense to say, though you had taken wearisome happy and healthy in doing this. Supposing 
 time and trouble to send them;— though you that they invent machinery which will build, 
 had written them slowly in gold, and sealed plough, thresh, cook, and weave, and that they 
 them with a hundred seals, and sent a squadron 15 have none of these things any more to do, but 
 of ships of the Une to carry the scroll, and the may read, or play croquet, or cricket, all day 
 squadron had fought its way round the Cape long, I believe myself that they will neither be 
 of Good Hope, through a year of storms, with so good nor so happy as without the machines, 
 loss of all its ships but one,— the two words of But I waive my belief in this matter for the 
 common sense would have been worth the 20 time. I will assume that they become more 
 carriage, and more. But you have not any- refined and moral persons, and that idleness in 
 thing like so much as that, to say, either to future is to be the mother of all good. But 
 India or to any other place. observe, I repeat, the power of your machine 
 
 You think it a great triumph to make the is only in enabling them to be idle. It will not 
 sun draw brown landscapes for you. 25 enable them to live better than they did be- 
 
 That was also a discovery, and some day fore, nor to live in greater numbers. Get your 
 may be useful. But the sun had drawn land- heads quite clear on this matter. Out of so 
 scapes before for you, not in brown, but in much ground, only so much living is to be 
 green, and blue, and all imaginable colours, here got, with or without machinery. You may 
 in England. Not one of you ever looked at them 30 set a million of steam-ploughs to work on an 
 then; not one of you cares for the loss of them acre, if you like— out of that acre only a given 
 now, when you have shut the sun out with number of grains of com will grow, scratcj^or 
 smoke, so that he can draw nothing more, scorch it as you will. So that the question is 
 except brown blots through a hole in a box. not at all whether, by having more machines, 
 There was a rocky valley between Buxton and 35 more of you can live. No machines will in- 
 Bakewell, once upon a time, divine as the Vale crease the possibilities of Ufe. They only in- 
 of Tenape; you might have seen the Gods there crease the possibilities of idleness. Suppose, 
 morning and evening— Apollo and all the for instance, you could get the oxen in your 
 sweet Muses of the Light— walking in fair plough driven by a goblin, who would ask for 
 processions on the lawns of it, and to and fro 40 no pay, not even a cream bowl, — (you have 
 anaong the pinnacles of its crags. You cared nearly managed to get it driven by an iron 
 neither for Gods nor grass, but for cash (which goblin, as it is;)— Well, your furrow will take 
 you did not know the way to get) ; you thought no more seeds than if you had held the stilts 
 you could get it by what the Times calls "Rail- yourself. But, instead of holding them, you 
 road Enterprise." You Enterprised a Railroad 45 sit, I presume, on a bank beside the field, 
 through the valley — you blasted its rocks under an eglantine; — watch the goblin at his 
 away, heaped thousands of tons of shale into work, and read poetry. Meantime, your wife 
 its lovely stream. The valley is gone, and the in the house has also got a goblin to weave and 
 Gods with it; and now, every fool in Buxton wash for her. And she is lying on the sofa, j 
 can be at Bakewell in half an hour, and every 50 reading poetry. I 
 
 fool in Bakewell at Buxton; which you think a Now, as I said, I don't believe you would 
 lucrative process of exchanges— you Fools be happier so, but I am willing to believe it; 
 Everywhere. ^ only, since you are already such brave me 
 
 To talk at a distance, when you have nothing chanists, show me at least one or two plac( 
 to say, though you were ever so near; to go fast 55 where you are happier. Let me see one smai 
 from this place to that, with nothing to do example of approach to this seraphic condition 
 either at one or the other: these are powers I can show you examples, millions of them, of 
 certainly. Much more, power of increased happy people, made happy by their own in- | 
 Production, if you, indeed, had got it, would dustry. Farm after farm I can show you in 
 
JOHN RUSKIN 739 
 
 Bavaria, Switzerland, the Tyrol, and such be able to show me five hundred dresses for 
 other places, where men and women are per- one that used to be; tidiness ought to have 
 fectly happy and good, without any iron become five hundred fold tidier; tapestry 
 servants. Show me, therefore, some Enghsh should be increased in cinque-cento-fold^ iri- 
 family, with its fiery familiar, happier than 5 descence of tapestry. Not only your peasant 
 these. Or bring me— for I am not inconvincible girl ought to be lying on the sofa reading poetry, 
 by any kind of evidence,— bring me the testi- but she ought to have in her wardrobe five 
 mony of an English family or two to their in- hundred petticoats instead of one. Is that, 
 creased fehcity. Or if you cannot do so much indeed, your issue? or are you only on a 
 as that, can you convince even themselves of lO curiously crooked way to it? 
 it? They are perhaps happy, if only they knew It is just possible, indeed, that you may not 
 how happy they were; Virgil thought so,i long have been allowed to get the use of the goblin's 
 ago, of simple rustics; but you hear at present work — that other people may have got the 
 your steam-propelled rustics are crying out use of it, and you none; because, perhaps, you 
 that they are anything else than happy, and 15 have not been able to evoke goblins wholly 
 that they regard their boasted progress *'in for your own personal service; but have been 
 the fight of a monstrous Sham." I must tell borrowing gobhns from the capitalist, and 
 you one Httle thing however, which greatly paying interest, in the "position of William," 
 perplexes my imagination of the relieved on ghostly self-going planes, but suppose you 
 ploughman sittmg under his rose bower, 20 had laid by capital enough, yourselves, to 
 reading poetry. I have told it you before, hire all the demons in the world,— nay,— all 
 indeed, but I forget where. There was really that are inside of it; are you quite sure you 
 a great festivity, and expression of satisfaction know what you might best set them to work 
 in the new order of things, down in Cumber- at? and what "useful things" you should com- 
 land, a little while ago; some first of May, l25mand them to make for you? I told you, last 
 think it was, a country festival, such as the month, that no economist going (whether by 
 old heathens, who had no iron servants, used steam, or ghost,) knew what are useful things 
 to keep with piping and dancing. So I thought and what are not. Very few of you know, 
 from the liberated country people — their work yourselves, except by bitter experience of the 
 all done for them by goblins — we should have 30 want of them. And no demons, either of iron 
 some extraordinary piping and dancing. But or spirit, can ever make them, 
 there was no dancing at all, and they could not There are three Material things, not only 
 
 even provide their own piping. They had their useful, but essential to Life. No one "knows 
 goblin to Pipe for them. They walked in pro- how to live" till he has got them, 
 cession after their steam plough, and their 35 These are. Pure Air, Water, and Earth, 
 steam plough whistled to them occasionally in There are three Immaterial things, not only 
 the most melodious manner it could. Which useful, but essential to Life. No one knows 
 seemed to me, indeed, a return to more than how to live till he has got them also. 
 Arcadian simplicity; for in old Arcadia, plough- These are. Admiration, Hope, and Love.^ 
 boys truly whistled as they went, for want 40 Admiration — the power of discerning and 
 of thought; whereas, here was verily a large taking delight in what is beautiful in visible 
 company walking without thought, but not form, and lovely in human Character; and, 
 having any more even the capacity of doing necessarily, striving to produce what is beau- 
 their own Whistling. tiful in form, and to become what is lovely 
 
 But next, as to the inside of the house. Be- 45 in character, 
 fore you got your power-looms, a woman could Hope, the recognition, by true Foresight, 
 
 always make herself a chemise and petticoat of better things to be reached hereafter, 
 of bright and pretty appearance. I have seen whether by ourselves or others; necessarily 
 a Bavarian peasant-woman at church in issuing in the straightforward and undisap- 
 Munich, looking a much grander creature, 50 pointable effort to advance, according to our 
 and more beautifully dressed, than any of the proper power, the gaining of them, 
 crossed and embroidered angels in Hesse's Love, both of family and neighbour, faithful, 
 high-art frescoes; (which happened to be just and satisfied. 
 
 above her, so that I could look from one to the These are the six chiefly useful things to be 
 other). Well, here you are, in England, served 55 got by PoUtical Economy, when it has become 
 by household demons, with five hundred fin- a science. I will briefly tell you what Modern 
 gers, at least, weaving, for one that used to 
 weave in the days of Minerva. You ought to f ]^7^i'."°J^''®*^ !^'.'*' =, • r»i a ..x^r r u 
 
 ■^ *= 3Cf. Wordsworth's Excursion, Bk. 4. "We live by 
 
 1 Qeorgics, II. 458. V. PortunatiNimium, p. 172, su-pra. admiration, hope and love." 
 
740 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Political Economy — the great "savoir mou- Earth, Tisiphone* — ^with the voice of your 
 rir" — is doing with them. brother's blood crying out of it, in one wild 
 
 The first three, I said, are Pure Air, Water, harmony round all its murderous sphere, 
 and Earth. That is what you have done for the Three 
 
 Heaven gives you the main elements of 5 Material Useful Things, 
 these. You can destroy them at your pleasure. Then for the Three Immaterial Useful 
 
 or increase, almost without limit, the available Things. For Admiration you have learned 
 quantities of them. contempt and conceit. There is no lovely 
 
 You can vitiate the air by your manner of thing ever yet done by man that you care for, 
 life, and of death, to any extent. You might lo or can understand ; but you are persuaded that 
 easily vitiate it so as to bring such a pestilence you are able to do much finer things your- 
 on the globe as would end all of you. You or selves. You gather and exhibit together, as 
 your fellows, German and French, are at if equally instructive, what is infinitely bad, 
 present vitiating it to the best of your power with what is infinitely good. You do not know 
 in every direction; — chiefly at this moment 15 which is which; you instinctively prefer the 
 with corpses, and animal and vegetable ruin Bad, and do more of it. You instinctively 
 in war: changing men, horses, and garden-stuff hate the Good, and destroy it. 
 into noxious gas. But everywhere, and all Then secondly, for Hope. You have not 
 
 day long, you are vitiating it with foul chemical so much spirit of it in you as to begin any 
 exhalations; and the horrible nests, which you 20 plan which will not pay for ten years; nor so 
 call towns, are little more than laboratories much intelligence of it in you, (either politicians 
 for the distillation into leven of venomous or workmen), as to be able to form one clear 
 smokes and smells, mixed with effluvia from idea of what you would like your country to 
 decajdng animal matter, and infectious mias- become, 
 mata from purulent disease. 25 Then, thirdly, for Love. You were ordered 
 
 On the other hand, your power of purifying by the Founder of j'our religion to love your 
 the air, by dealing properly and swiftly with neighbour as yourselves, 
 all substances in corruption; by absolutely for- You have founded an entire science of Polit- 
 bidding noxious manufactures; and by plant- ical Economy, on what you have stated to be 
 ing in all soils the trees which cleanse and 30 the constant instinct of man — the desire to de- 
 invigorate earth and atmosphere, — is literally fraud his neighbour. 
 
 infinite. You might make every breath of And you have driven your women mad, so 
 
 air you draw, food. that they ask no more for Love, nor for fellow- 
 
 Secondly, your power over the rain and river- ship with you; but stand against you, and 
 waters of the earth is infinite. You can bring 35 ask for "justice." 
 
 rain where you will, by planting wisely and Are there any of you who are tired of all 
 
 tending carefully; — drought, where you will, by this? Any of you, Landlords or Tenants? 
 ravage of woods and neglect of the soil. Employers, or Workmen? 
 You might have the rivers of England as pure Are there any Landlords — any masters, — 
 
 as the crystal of the rock, — beautiful in falls, 40 who would like better to be served by men than 
 in lakes, in living pools; — so full of fish that by iron devils? 
 
 you might take them out with your hands in- Any tenants, any workmen, who can be 
 
 stead of nets. Or you may do always as you true to their leaders and to each other? who 
 have done now, turn every river of England can vow to work and to live faithfully, for the 
 into a common sewer, so that you cannot so 45 sake of the joy of their homes? 
 much as baptize an English baby but with Will any such give the tenth of what they 
 
 filth, unless you hold its face out in the rain; have; and of what they earn, — not to emigrate 
 and even </iai falls dirty. with, but to stay in England with; and do 
 
 Then for the third. Earth, — meant to be what is in their hands and hearts to make her 
 nourishing for you, and blossoming. You 50 a happy England? 
 have learned, about it, that there is no such 
 
 thing as a flower; and as far as your scientific «One of the Furies, the "blood-avenger." Cf. Shake- 
 hands and scientific brams, mventive of explo- ..^^^ j^ ^^^ ^^^^^ pj^^ ^^ j^ ^,^3 
 
 sive and deathful, instead of blossoming and That villainoua saltpetre should b§ digg'd 
 
 life-giving, Dust, can contrive, you have turned 55 Out^ "^ S«yTgrd tall fdlowTadSroyd ^ 
 
 the Mother-Earth, Demeter, into the Avenger- So cowardly." 
 
CHARLES KINGSLEY 741 
 
 C|)atk0 ^tngpSrlq^ For there are islands in the sea which have 
 
 1819-1875 escaped the destroying deluge of peat-moss, — 
 
 out-crops of firm and fertile land, which in the 
 ST GUTHLAG ^^^^^ Middle Age were so many natural parks, 
 
 5 covered with richest grass and stateliest trees, 
 (From The Hermits, 1867) swarming with deer and roe, goat and boar, 
 
 as the streams around swarmed with otter 
 Hermits dwelling in the wilderness, as far and beaver, and with fowl of every feather, 
 as I am aware, were to be seen only in the and fish of every scale. 
 
 northern and western parts of the island, where lo Beautiful after their kind were those far 
 not only did the forest afford concealment, isles in the eyes of the monks who were the 
 but the crags and caves shelter. The southern first settlers in the wilderness. The author of 
 and eastern EngUsh seldom possess the vivid the "History of Ramsey,"^ grows enthusiastic, 
 imagination of the Briton, the Northumbrian, and somewhat bombastic also, as he describes 
 andtheScot; while the rich lowlands of central, 15 the lovely isle, which got its name from the 
 southern, and eastern England, well peopled solitary ram which had wandered thither, 
 and well tilled, offered few spots lonely enough either in extreme drought or over the winter 
 for the hermit's cell. ice, and never able to return, was found feed- 
 
 One district only was desolate enough to ing among the wild deer, fat beyond the wont 
 attract those who wished to be free from the 20 of rams. He tells of the stately ashes, most 
 world, — namely, the great fens north of Cam- of them cut in his time, to furnish mighty beams 
 bridge; and there, accordingly, as early as the for the church roof; of the rich pastures painted 
 seventh century, hermits settled in morasses with all gay flowers in spring; of the "green 
 now so utterly transformed that it is difficult to crown" or reed and alder which encircled the 
 restore in one's imagination the original 25 isle; of the fair wide mere (now drained) with 
 scenery. its "sandy beach" along the forest side, "a 
 
 The fens in the seventh century were prob- delight," he says, "to all who look thereon." 
 ably very like the forests at the mouth of the In like humour William of Malm esbury,* writ- 
 Mississippi, or the swampy shores of the ing in the first half of the twelfth century, 
 Carolinas. Their vast plain is now, in summer, 30 speaks of Thomey Abbey^ and its isle. "It 
 oneseaof golden corn; in winter, a black dreary represents," says he, "a very paradise; for 
 fallow, cut into squares by stagnant dykes, that in pleasure and delight it resembles heaven 
 and broken only by unsightly pumping mills, itself. These marshes abound in trees, whose 
 and doleful hnes of poplar trees. Of old it length, without a knot, doth emulate the stars, 
 was a labyrinth of black wandering streams; 35 The plain there is as level as the sea, alluring 
 broad lagoons; morasses submerged every the eye with its green grass, and so smooth 
 springtide; vast beds of reed and sedge and that there is naught to trip the foot of him 
 fern; vast copses of willow, alder, and gray who runs through it. Neither is there any 
 poplar, rooted in the floating peat, which was waste place; for in some parts are apples, in 
 swallowing up slowly, all-devouring, yet all- 40 others vines, which are either spread on the 
 preserving, the forests of fir and oak, ash and ground, or raised on poles. A mutual strife 
 poplar, hazel and yew, which had once grown there is between Nature and Art; so that what 
 on that low rank soil, sinking slowly (so geol- one produces not the other supplies. What 
 ogists assure us) beneath the sea from age to shall I say of those fair buildings, which 'tis 
 age. Trees, torn down by flood and storm, 45 so wonderful to see the ground among those 
 floated and lodged in rafts, damming the waters fens upbear? " 
 
 back upon the land. Streams, bewildered in So wrote William of Malmesbury, after the 
 the flats, changed their channels, mingling wisdom and industry of the monks, for more 
 ' silt and sand with the peat-moss. Nature, than four centuries, had been at work to civilize 
 left to herself, ran into wild riot and chaos 50 and cultivate the wilderness. Yet even then 
 more and more, till the whole fen became one there was another side to the picture; and 
 "Dismal Swamp," i in which at the time of Thomey, Ramsey, or Crowland would have 
 the Norman Conquest, the "Last of the Eng- seemed, for nine months every year, sad places 
 lish,"2 like Dred in Mrs. Stowe's tale, took enough to us comfortable folk of the nineteenth 
 refuge from their tyrants, and lived, like him, 55 century. But men lived hard in those days, 
 a free and joyous life awhile. even the most high-bom, and luxurious nobles 
 
 1 In Mrs. Stowe's novel Dred, the hero, a runaway slave, ^ Ramsey Abbey, near Peterborough in the Fen Country. 
 
 Uvea in the Dismal Swamp. . . ,. * V. p. 45, supra. , ^ , ^ .,, , . , 
 
 « Hereward the Wake, one of the last to resist William » Thorney Abbey and Crowland Abbey (mentioned 
 
 the Conqueror. later) are short distances from Peterborough. 
 
IJ THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 ixnA ladiee; under dark skies, in houses which especial fondness for old heathen barrows with 
 we should think, from darkness, draught, and their fancied treasure-hoards; how they "filled 
 want of space, unfit for felons' cells. Hardly the house with their coming, and poured in on 
 they lived; and easily were they pleased; and every side, from above, and from beneath, 
 thanked God for the least gleam of sunshine, 5 and everywhere. They were in countenance 
 the least patch of green, after the terrible and horrible, and they had great heads, and a long 
 long winters of the Middle Ages. And ugly neck, and a lean visage; they were filthy and 
 enough thoee winters must have been, what squalid in their beards, and they had rough 
 with snow and darkness, flood and ice, ague ears, and crooked "nebs," and fierce eyes, and 
 and rheumatism; while through the dreary 10 foul mouths; and their teeth were like horses' 
 winter's night the whistle of the wind and the tusks; and their throats were filled with flame, 
 wild cries of the waterfowl were translated into and they were grating in their voice; they had 
 the howls of witches and demons; and (as in crooked shanks, and knees big and great be- 
 St. Guthlac's case) the dehrious fancies of hind, and distorted toes, and cried hoarsely with 
 marsh fever made those fiends take hideous 15 their voices. . . . And they tugged and led 
 shapes before the inner eye, and act fantastic him out of the cot, and led him to the swart 
 horrors round the fen-man's bed of sedge. fen, and threw and sunk him in the muddy 
 
 Concerning this St. Guthlac« full details waters. After that they brought him into the 
 remain, both in Latin and Anglo-Saxon; the wild places of the wilderness, among the thick 
 author of the original document professing to 20 beds of brambles that all his body was torn. . . . 
 be one Felix, a monk of Ramsey, near by, who After that they took him and beat him with 
 wrote possibly as early as the eighth century. iron whips, and after that they brought him 
 
 There we may read how the young warrior — on their creaking wings between the cold re- 
 noble Guthlac ("The Battle-Play," the "Sport gions of the air." 
 
 of War,") tired of slaying and sinning, be- 25 But there are gentler and more human 
 thought him to fulfil the prodigies seen at his touches in that old legend. You may read in 
 birth; how he wandered into the fen, where it how all the wild birds of the fen came to St. 
 one Tatwin (who after became a saint hkewise) Guthlac, and he fed them after their kind; 
 took him in his canoe to a spot so lonely as to how the ravens tormented him, stealing let- 
 be almost unknown, buried in reeds and alders 30 ters, gloves, and what not, from his visitors; 
 and how he found among the trees naught but and then, seized with compunction at his 
 an old "law," as the Scots still call a mound, reproofs, brought them back, or hanged them 
 which men of old had broken into, seeking for on the reeds; and how, as Wilfred, a holy visit- 
 treaaure, and a httle pond; and how he built ant, was sitting with him, discoursing of the 
 himself a hermit's cell thereon, and saw visions 35 contemplative life, two swallows came flying 
 and wrought miracles; and how men came to in, and lifted up their song, sitting now on the 
 him, as to a faku- or shaman^ of the East; saint's hand, now on his shoulder, now on his 
 notably one Beccd, who acted as his servant; knee; and how, when Wilfrid wondered thereat, 
 and how as Beccel was shaving the samt one Guthlac made answer, "Know you not that 
 day there feu on him a great temptation: 40 he who hath led his life according to God's 
 Why should he not cut St. Guthlac's throat, wiU, to him the wild beasts and the wild birds 
 and instal himself m his cell, that he might draw the more near? " 
 
 sf'^M'ljM^T'" ^if ^?7 -^ sainthood? But After fifteen years of such a life, in fever, 
 fihSh^^iriT?? the inward temptation ague, and starvation, no wonder St. Guthlac 
 h!lf tv^^f;n? J'^T^^'ft^ of those45died. They buried him in a leaden coffin (a 
 ^n^^nf^nn «^H 1? ^^^uked the ofTender grand and expensive luxury in the seventh 
 
 ^?.^!^,^;r J 7'"' ""f /m^5' '°^- '^"^"^y) ^bi^^ ^^ been sent to him during 
 
 of The F^na now^'htn^ ^ detailed account his life by a Saxon princess; and then over hi! 
 or the I<auna now happily extinct m the fens; sacred and wonder-workine cornse as over 
 
 fut'oVS^'h!^ d^^^^^hro'^^'^.^r^^^*^^^ ^' ^ ^-^^^-^ saTntthLTo::' a^haM 
 ^ him aloft th,^.^^^ ^^' T^°^'' ""'^^ ^ community of monks, companies of pill 
 
 rLSTuttl^r^?^^^^^^^^^ i:zi^, ^::^;r^£t ^'^ tt 
 
 likewise St. BotolDh ffrom whom Rnf„lf=f Sl„_^f / *'^} ^\ ^^^' founded on great piles 
 
 Boston, 
 to haunt 
 
 Vs KoM^it^'lZT^'Tf " ^/■^''^'^■- «" ^' '^t. founded on great pile^ 
 
 A/oWrM.religioua mendicant, especially amone the rr •' ^^ PiOUgWands, from which in time 
 
 A^«^.^ A .. :, . _..= ._ . y « of famine, the monks of Crowland fed all people 
 
 of the neighbouring fens; with its tower with 
 
 JSSSriS;2rS<te iib^'* " * °»e<ii<:'°e-man or sorcerer! ^f famine, the monks of Crowland fed all people 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 743 
 
 seven bolls, which had not their like in Eng- wooden abbey, destroyed by fire, was being 
 land; Its twelve altars rich with the gifts of replaced by that noble pile of stone whose 
 the Danish vikmgs and princes, and even with ruins are still standing, the French Abbot of 
 twelve white bear-skins, the gift of Canute's Crowland (so runs the legend) sent French 
 self; while all around were the cottages of the 5 monks to open a school under the new French 
 corrodiers, or folk, who for corrody, or Hfe donjon, in the little Roman town of Grante- 
 pittance from the abbey, had given away their brigge; whereby— so does all earnest work, 
 lands, to the wrong and detriment of their however mistaken, grow and spread in this 
 ^^^i^' • u- u world, infinitely and for ever— St. Guthlac, by 
 But withm those four rivers, at least, were 10 his canoe voyage into Crowland Island, be- 
 neither tyranny nor slavery. Those who took came the spiritual father of the University of 
 refuge in St. Guthlac's place from cruel lords Cambridge in the old world; and therefore of 
 must keep his peace toward each other, and her noble daughter, the University of Cam- 
 earn their living like honest men, safe while bridge, in the new world, which fen-men sailing 
 they so did: for between those four rivers 15 from Boston deeps colonized and Christianized 
 St. Guthlac and his abbot were the only lords; 800 years after St. Guthlac's death, 
 and neither summoner, nor sheriff of the king, 
 
 nor armed forces of knight or earl, could enter— ©atth^iO j^molD 
 "the inheritance of the Lord, the soil of St. 
 
 Mary and St. Bartholomew, the most holy 20 1822-1888 
 sanctuary of St. Guthlac and his monks; the 
 
 ministerfreefrom worldly servitude; the special THE GRAND STYLE 
 
 ^w^of °^ '"'"'■ "'"^t7°"%kings; the sole (p^„^ 0„ Tramlating Homer, 1861) 
 
 refuge of anyone m worldly tnbulation; the -t/ > / 
 
 perpetual abode of the saints; the possession 25 So deeply seated is the difference between 
 of religious men, especially set apart by the the ballad-manner and Homer's that even a 
 common council of the realm; by reason of man of the highest powers, even a man of the 
 the frequent miracles of the holy confessor St. greatest vigour of spirit and of true genius, — 
 Guthlac, an ever fruitful mother of camphire the Coryphseus^ of balladists. Sir Walter Scott, 
 in the vineyards of Engadi;^ and, by reason 30 —fails with a manner of this kind to produce 
 of the privileges granted by the kings, a city an effect at all like the effect of Homer. "I 
 of grace and safety to all who repent." am not so rash," declares Mr. Newman, "as 
 
 Does not all this sound like a voice from to say that if freedom be given to rhyme as in 
 another planet? It is all gone; and it -was Walter Scott's poetry,"— Walter Scott, "by 
 good and right that it should go when it had 35 far the most Homeric of our poets," as in an- 
 done its work, and that the civilisation of the other place he calls him, — "a genius may not 
 fen should be taken up and carried out by arise who will translate Homer into the melo- 
 men like the good knight, Richard of Rulos, dies of Marmion." "The truly classical and 
 who two generations after the Conquest, marry- the truly romantic," says Dr. Maginn, "are 
 
 i ing Hereward's granddaughter, and becoming 40 one; the moss-troopmg Nestor reappears in the 
 Lord of Deeping (the deep meadow), thought moss-trooping heroes of Percy's Reliques;" 
 that he could do the same work from the and a description by Scott, which he quotes, 
 hall of Bourne as the monks did from their he calls "graphic, and therefore Homeric." 
 
 j cloisters; got permission from the Crowland He forgets our fourth axiom, — that Homer is 
 
 monks, for twenty marks of silver, to drain as 45 not only graphic; he is also noble, and has 
 
 much as he could of the common marshes; and the grand style. Human nature under like 
 
 then shut out the Welland by strong dykes, circumstances is probably in all ages much the 
 
 built cottages, marked out gardens, and tilled same; and so far it may be said that "the truly 
 
 fields, till "out of slough and bogs accursed, classical, and the truly romantic are one;" 
 
 he made a garden of pleasure." 50 but it is of little use to tell us this, because we 
 
 Yet one lasting work those monks of Crow- know the human nature of other ages only 
 
 land seem to have done besides those firm through the representations of them which 
 
 dykes and rich cornlands of Porsand which have come down to us, and the classical and 
 
 ^ endure unto this day. For within two genera- romantic modes of representation are so far 
 
 lions of the Norman conquest, while the old 55 from being "one," that they remain eternally 
 
 ,^, „ . „ - . 1^ ..Tv/r K i^„^^ ja „T,t« rr,o dlstluct, BX16. hfxwQ created for us a separation 
 
 8Cf. Song of Solomon, i. 14: "My beloved la unto me \-, , u u* u xu x- i 
 
 aa a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of En-gedi." between the twO WOrldS WhlCh they respectively 
 The vineyards of En-gedi were watered by a spring, the 
 
 region about being desolate, on the west shore of the i The leader and speaker of the chorus in Greek drama 
 
 Dead Sea. The phrase is analogous to "prince of balladists." 
 
744 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 represent. Therefore to call Nestor the "moss- style, and to put them side by side with this! 
 
 trooping^ Nestor" is absurd, because, though of Scott. For example, when Homer says : — 
 
 Nestor may possibly have been much the same ,^ ^ , ,> „, , , , ,^ 
 
 sort of man as many a moss-trooper, he has yet '^^^J ^^°^' ?^r' """l ''^'/^^ o\v<i>vpeaL ofJrajs,'^ I 
 
 come to us through a mode of representation 5 r , r ,J 
 
 so unlike that of Percy's Reliques, that instead that is in the grand style. When Virgil says:" 
 
 of "reappearing in the moss-trooping heroes" ,,^. 
 
 of these poems, he exists in our imagination as ^' borem ^''^ vuiiutem ex me verumque li 
 
 something utterly unlike them^ and as belong- poj-tunl^ex aliis," 
 
 mg to another world. So the Greeks m Shake- 10 
 
 speare's Troilus and Cressida are no longer the that is in the grand style. When Dante says:^ 
 
 Greeks whom we have known in Homer, be- . i /. i ^ ■ j ^ • •-, 
 
 cause they come to us through a mode of repre- La^cio lo fele, et vo pei dolci pomi^ 
 
 ^ .• c ±.^. i- ij r>4-Ti. Promessi a me per lo verace Duca; 
 
 sentation of the romantic world. But I must ^^ g^^ ^j ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^.^^ ^^, \^ ^^^i , 
 
 not forget Scott. 15 
 
 I suppose that when Scott is in what may that is in the grand style. When Milton says :- 
 be called full ballad swing, no one will hesitate 
 
 to pronounce his manner neither Homeric nor ^„ , "His form had yet not lost 
 the grand manner. When he says, for in- All her original brightness, nor appeared 
 , ^ r.,^ Less than an archangel ruined, and the exce 
 
 "I do not rhyme to that dull elf' , ^ „ . . , ^ ^ ^t ^ . 
 
 Who cannot ipage to himself," that, finally is m the grand style. Now let ^nf 
 
 one, after repeating to himself these four pas- 
 
 and so on, any scholar will feel that this is not sages, repeat again the passage of Scott, and 
 
 Homer's manner. But let us take Scott's 25 he will perceive that there is something In 
 
 poetry at its best; and when it is at its best, it style which the four first have in common, ; ' 
 
 is undoubtedly very good indeed: — which the last is without; and this somethr g 
 
 "Tunstall lies dead upon the field,^ i« precisely the grand manner. It is no dis- 
 
 His life-blood stains the spotless shield; respect to Scott to say that he does not attain 
 
 Edmund is down,— my life is reft,— 30 to this manner in his poetry; to say so, is 
 
 The Admiral alone is left. merely to say that he is not among the five 
 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — or six supreme poets of the world. Among 
 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, these he is not; but, being a man of far greater 
 
 FuU upon Scotland's central host, powers than the ballad-poets, he has tried 
 
 Or victory and England s lost. 35 gj^^ ^^ ^^^^^ instrument a compass and . , 
 
 That is, no doubt, as vigorous as possible, as elevation which it does not nat-urally possess, 
 
 spirited as possible; it is exceedingly fine poe- in order to enable him to come nearer to the 
 
 try. Now, how shall I make him who doubts effects of the instrument used by the gre 
 
 this feel that I say true; that these lines of epic poets, — an instrument which he felt 
 
 Scott are essentially neither in Homer's style 40 could not truly use, — and in this attempt 
 
 nor in the grand style? I may point out to has but imperfectly succeeded. The poetij 
 
 him that the movement of Scott's fines, while style of Scott is — (it becomes necessary to say 
 
 it is fapid, is also at the same time what the so when it is proposed to "translate Homer 
 
 French call saccade, its rapidity is "jerky;" into the melodies of Marmion") — it is, tried 
 
 whereas Homer's rapidity is a flowing rapidity. 45 by the highest standards, a bastard epic style; 
 
 But this is something external and material; and that is why, out of his own powerful hands, 
 
 it is but the outward and visible sign of an it has had so little success. It is a less nat- 
 
 inward and spiritual diversity. I may discuss ural, and therefore a less good style, than the 
 
 what, in the abstract, constitutes the grand original ballad style; while it shares with the 
 
 style; but that sort of general discussion never 50 ballad style the inherent incapacity of rising! 
 
 much helps our judgment of particular in- into the grand style, of adequately rendering) 
 
 stances. I may say that the presence or ab- Homer. Scott is certainly at his best in his 
 
 sence of the grand style can only be spiritually ^ 
 
 discerned; and this is true, but to plead this '';^^?.°°*?k*' ^^"^^^IT^'-^'I pf?Ji}°"'*^^^;i^ 
 
 , , ,. ' -. ,, ,.' ,. Ti-^ 1 , mentest thou thyself on thiswise? Patroclus, too, ai^«| 
 
 looks like evading the dlinculty. My best 65 who was a far better than thou." Iliad, xxi. 106. \l 
 
 way is to take eminent specimens of the grand ,^ ''J-- r^^^rji "?"om X?a"S'^Se«. Z'/aT 
 
 'The marauders between England and Scotland were ^ "I leave the gall of bitterness, and I go for the apples' 
 
 called 7woss-iJrooper« because of their constant riding over of sweetness promised unto me by my faithful Guii 
 
 the moss or bogs. but far as the centre it behoaves me first to fall." ii' 
 
 * Marmion, c vi. 38. * Marmion, c. vi. 29. xvi. 61. 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 745 
 
 attles. Of Homer you could not say this; merits of the Middle Age, who will deny that 
 
 e 13 not better in his battles than elsewhere; Oxford, by her ineffable charm, keeps ever 
 
 ut even between the battle-pieces of the two calling us nearer to the true goal of all of us, 
 
 here exists all the difference which there is to the ideal, to perfection,— to beauty, in a 
 
 ctween an able work and a masterpiece. sword, which is only truth seen from another 
 
 "Tunstall lies dead upon the field, Tnt-~°^r''AT'^t?'' f'^'' ^" the^ science of 
 
 His life-blood stains the spotless shield; Tubingen.^ Adorable dreamer, whose heart 
 
 Edmund is down,— my life is reft,— ^^^ ^^^" ^^ romantic! who hast given thyself 
 
 The Admiral alone is left." ^^ prodigally, given thyself to sides and to 
 
 10 heroes not mine; only never to the Philistines! 
 "For not in the hands of Diomede the son home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and 
 f Tydeus rages the spear, to ward off destruc- unpopular names, and impossible loyalties! 
 ion from the Danaans; neither as yet have I what example could ever so inspire us to keep 
 card the voice of the son of Atreus, shouting down the Philistine^ in ourselves, what teacher 
 ut of his hated mouth; but the voice of Hector 15 could ever so save us from that bondage which 
 he slayer of men bursts round me, as he cheers Goethe, in his incomparable lines on the death 
 n the Trojans; and they with their yellings of Schiller, makes it his friend's highest praise 
 II all the plain, overcoming the Achaians in (and nobly did Schiller deserve the praise) to 
 he battle." — I protest that, to my feeling, have left miles out of sight behind him;— the 
 Tomer's performance, even through that pale 20 bondage of "was uns alle bdndigt,* das Ge- 
 nd far-off shadow of a prose translation, still meine!" She will forgive me, even if I have 
 as a hundred times more of the grand manner unwittingly drawn upon her a shot or two 
 bout it, than the original poetry of Scott. aimed at her unworthy son; for she is generous. 
 
 Well, then, the ballad manner and the and the cause in which I fight is, after all, hers. 
 •aJlad-measure, whether in the hands of the 25 Apparitions of a day, what is our puny warfare 
 Id ballad poets, or arranged by Chapman, or which this queen of romance has been waging 
 rranged by Mr. Newman, or, even arranged against them for centuries, and will wage after 
 y Sir Walter Scott, cannot worthily render we are gone? 
 lomer. And for one reason: Homer is plain, 
 
 are they; Homer is natural, so are they; 30 rTTTTTP qptrtt 
 
 ut Homer is sustainedly noble, and they are ^^^ ^h^hliK^ bFlKll 
 
 ot. Homer and they are both of them natural, (^j.^^^ j,f^^ ^^^y ^j (j^^^ Literature, 1867) 
 
 nd therefore touching and stirring; but the 
 
 rand style, which is Homer's, is something Let me repeat what I have often said of the 
 lore than touching and stirring; it can form 35 characteristics which mark the English spirit, 
 be character, it is edifying. The old English the English genius. This spirit, this genius, 
 alladist may stir Sir Philip Sidney's heart judged to be sure, rather from a friend's than 
 ke a trumpet, and this is much; but Homer, an enemy's point of view, yet judged on the 
 ut the few artists in the grand style, can do whole fairly, is characterised, I have repeat- 
 lore; they can refine the raw natural man, 40edly said, by energy with honesty. Take away 
 hey can transmute him. some of the energy which comes to us, as I 
 
 believe, in part from Celtic and Roman sources; 
 
 instead of energy, say rather steadiness; and 
 
 OXFORD you have the Germanic genius: steadiness wiih 
 
 From Preface to Essays in Cnticism, First ^5 /^^nesfy. It is evident how nearly the twc 
 
 ixuiii xiciauc "^ y characterisations approach one another; and 
 
 ' -^ yet they leave, as we shall see, a great deal of 
 
 No, we are all seekers still! seekers often room for difference. Steadiness with honesty; 
 
 lake mistakes and I wish mine to redound the danger for a national spirit thus composed 
 
 o my own discredit only, and not to touch 50 is the humdrum, the plain and ugly, the ig- 
 
 )xford. Beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely, noble: in a word, das Gemeine, die Gemeinheit,^ 
 
 o unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of that curse of Germany, against which Goethe 
 
 ur century, so serene! was all his life fighting. The excellence of a 
 
 , . 1, ^ , fin national spirit thus composed is freedom from 
 
 There are our young barbarians, all at play I ^^ 
 
 , .. a Tubingen University, which had a faculty on natural 
 
 ^nd yet, steeped in sentiment as she lies, acience. , .. . . 
 
 preaxiing her gardens to the moonlight, and ^p'JJ^J focS' "re"^ '^" "^^'^ ''*^'' '°''* * °^ 
 
 whispering from her towers the last enchant- < "That which binds us all, the commonplace." 
 
 1 Byron, Childe Harold, o. iv. at. 141. » The ordinary, the commonplace. 
 
746 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 whim, flightiness, perverseness; patient fidelity however well it may do for the Cymri, wil 
 to Nature, — in a word, science, — leading it at never do for the Gael, never do for the typical 
 last, though slowly, and not by the most bril- Irishman of Donnybrook fair. Again, M 
 liant road, out of the bondage of the hum- Hen&n'sinfiniedelicatessede sentiment qui carac- 
 drum and common, into the better life. The 5 terise la race Celtique;^ how little that accords 
 universal dead-level of plainness and homeli- with the popular conception of an Irishmar 
 ness, the lack of all beauty and distinction in who wants to borrow money. Sentiment is 
 form and feature, the slowness and clumsiness however, the word which marks where the 
 of the language, the eternal beer, sausages, and Celtic races really touch and are one; senti- 
 bad tobacco, the blank commonness every- 10 mental, if the Celtic nature is to be charac- 
 where, pressing at last like a weight on the terised by a single term, is the best term to take 
 spirits of the traveller in Northern Germany, An organisation quick to feel impressions, anc 
 and making him impatient to be gone, — this feeling them very strongly; a lively personality 
 is the weak side; the industry, the well-doing, therefore, keenly sensitive to joy and to sor- 
 the patient steady elaboration of things, the 15 row; this is the main point. If the downs ol 
 idea of science governing all departments of life too much outnumber the ups, this tempera- 
 human activity, — this is the strong side; and ment, just because it is so quickly and nearl> 
 through this side of her genius, Germany has conscious of all impressions, may no doubt be 
 already obtained excellent results, and is des- seen shy and wounded; it may be seen in wist- 
 tined, we may depend upon it, however her 20 ful regret, it may be seen in passionate, pene- 
 pedantry, her slowness, her fumbling, her inef- trating melancholy; but its essence is to aspire 
 fectiveness, her bad government, may at times ardently after life, light, and emotion, to be 
 make us cry out, to an immense development. expansive, adventurous, and gay. Our wore; 
 For didness, the creeping Saxons, — says an gay, it is said, is itself Celtic. It is not frorr 
 old Irish poem, assigning the characteristics 25 (/aMc/zum, but from the Celtic gair, to laugh 
 for which different nations are celebrated: — and the impressionable Celt, soon up ane: 
 
 soon down, is the more down because it is sc 
 For acuteness and valour^ the Greeks, j^jg ^^^^^^ to be ^ ^^ ^e sociable, hospi- 
 
 For excessive pride, the Romans, ^^1 eloquent, admired, figuring away bril- 
 
 For dulness, the creepmg Saxons, „„,. .,' tt i u • ui. i \, -i u 
 
 For beauty anei amorousness, the Gaedhils. ^0 liantly. He loves bright colours, he easily be- 
 comes audacious, overcrowing, full of fan- 
 We have seen in what sense, and with what faronade. The German, say the physiologists, 
 explanation, this characterisation of the Ger- has the larger volume of intestines (and whc 
 man may be allowed to stand; now let us come that has ever seen a German at a table-d'h6te 
 to the beautiful and amorous Gaedhil. Or 35 will not readily believe this?), the Frencbmar 
 rather, let us find a definition which may suit has the more developed organs of respiration, 
 both branches of the Celtic family, the Cymri That is just the expansive, eager, Celtic nature 
 as well as the Gael. It is clear that special the head in the air, snuffing and snorting; c 
 circumstances may have developed some one proud look and a high stomach,^ as the Psalmisi 
 side in the national character of the Cymri 40 says, but without any such settled savage 
 or Gael, Welshman or Irishman, so that the temper as the Psalmist seems to impute b\ 
 observer's notice shall be readily caught by those words. For good and for bad, the Celtic 
 this side, and yet it may be impossible to adopt genius is more airy and unsubstantial, goes less 
 it as characteristic of the Celtic nature gener- near the ground, than the German. The CcH 
 ally. For instance, in his beautiful essay on 45 is often called sensual; but it is not so much 
 the poetry of the Celtic races, M. Renan,^ with the vulgar satisfactions of sense that attraci 
 his eyes fixed on the Bretons and the Welsh, him as emotion and excitement; he is truly 
 is struck with the timidity, the shyness, the as I began by saying, sentimental, 
 delicacy of the Celtic nature, its preference for Sentimental, — always ready to react agains 
 a retired fife, its embarrassment at having to 50 the despotism of fact; that is the description i 
 deal with the great world. He talks of the great friend of the Celt^ gives of him; and it h 
 douce petite race naturellement chrkienne,^ his not a bad description of the sentimental tem^ 
 race fiire et timide, d Vexterieur gav/^he et em- perament; it lets us into the secret of its dan- 
 harrassee.* It is evident that this description, gers and of its habitual want of success. Bal- 
 
 6 In6nlte delicacy of sentiment which characteriza 
 
 * A religious historian of France. His essay on The the Celtic race. > 
 Poetry of the Celtic Races was Arnold's chief inspiration ^Psalms, ci. 7. <Prayer-Book version) "Whoso ha^* 
 for his Study of Celtic Literature. also a proud look and high stomach, I will not suffer him. 
 
 » Gentle little race, naturally Christian. ' " Monsieur Henri Martin, whose chapters on the Celt! 
 
 * Proud and shy, outwardly awkward and embar- in his Histoire de France, are full of information and in 
 rassed. terest." Arnold. 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 747 
 
 f,iice, measure, and patience, these are the has not patience for. So he runs off into technic 
 eternal conditions, even supposing the hap- where he employs the utmost elaboration, and 
 piest temperament to start with, of high sue- attains astonishing skill; but in the contents 
 cess; and balance, measure, and patience are of his poetry you have only so much interpreta- 
 just what the Celt has never had. Even in 5tion of the world as the first dash of a quick, 
 the world of spiritual creation, he has never, in strong perception, and then sentiment, in- 
 spite of his admirable gifts of quick perception finite sentiment, can bring you. Here, too, 
 and warm emotion, succeeded perfectly, be- his want of sanity and steadfastness has kept 
 cause he has never had steadiness, patience, the Celt back from the highest success, 
 sanity enough to comply with the conditions lo If his rebellion against fact has thus lamed 
 under which alone can expression be given the Celt even in spiritual work, how much more 
 to the finest perceptions and emotions. The must it have lamed him in the world of business 
 Greek has the same perceptive, emotional and poHtics! The skilful and resolute appli- 
 temperament as the Celt; but he adds to this ance of means to ends which is needed both to 
 temperament the sense of measure; hence his 15 make progress in material civilisation, and also 
 admirable success in the plastic arts, in which to form powerful states, is just what the Celt 
 the Celtic genius, with its chafing against the has least turn for. He is sensual, as I have 
 despotism of fact, its perpetual straining after said, or at least sensuous; and here he is Hke 
 raere emotion, has accomplished nothing. In the Greek and Latin races; but compare the 
 the comparatively petty art of ornamentation, 20 talent the Greek and Latin (or Latinised) races 
 iQ rings, brooches, crosiers, relic-cases, and have shown for gratifying their senses, for 
 bo on, he has done just enough to show his procuring an outward life, rich, luxurious, 
 ehcacy of taste, his happy temperament; splendid, with the Celt's failure to reach any 
 but the grand difficulties of painting and sculp- material civilisation sound and satisfying, and 
 ture, the prolonged deahngs of spirit with 25 not out at elbows, poor, slovenly, and half- 
 matter, he has never had patience for. Take barbarous. The sensuousness of the Greek 
 the more spiritual arts of music and poetry, made Sybaris and Corinth, the sensuousness 
 ^Ul that emotion alone can do in music the of the Latin made Rome and Baiae, the sensu- 
 (^elt has done; the very soul of emotion breathes ousness of the Latinised Frenchman makes 
 in the Scotch and Irish airs; but with all this 30 Paris; the sensuousness of the Celt proper has 
 power of musical feeling, what has the Celt, made Ireland. Even in his ideal, heroic times, 
 so eager for emotion that he has not patience his gay and sensuous nature cannot carry him, 
 for science, effected in music, to be compared in the appliances of his favorite life of socia- 
 wiih what the less emotional German, steadily bility and pleasure, beyond the gross and 
 developing his musical feeling with the science 35 creeping Saxon whom he despises; the regent 
 of a Sebastian Bach or a Beethoven, has ef- Breas, we are told in the Battle of Moytura of 
 fected? In poetry, again, — poetry which the the Fomorians, became unpopular because 
 Celt has so passionately, so nobly loved; poetry "the knives of his people were not greased at 
 where emotion counts for so much, but where his table, nor did their breath smell of ale at 
 reason, too, reason, measure, sanity, also40 the banquet." In its grossness and barbarous- 
 count for so much, — the Celt has shown genius; ness is not that Saxon, as Saxon as it can be? 
 but even here his faults have clung to him, and just what the Latinised Norman, sensuous 
 hindered him from producing great works, and sociable like the Celt, but with the talent 
 such as other nations with a genius for poetry, to make this bent of his serve to a practical 
 — the Greeks, say, or the Itahans, — have pro- 45 embeUishment of his mode of living, found so 
 duced. The Celt has not produced great disgusting in the Saxon. 
 
 poetical works, he has only produced poetry And as in material civilisation he has been 
 
 with an air of greatness investing it all, and ineffectual, so has the Celt been ineffectual 
 sometimes giving moreover, to short pieces, in politics. The colossal, impetuous, adventur- 
 er to passages, lines, and snatches of long50ous wanderer, the Titan of the early world, 
 pieces, singular beauty and power. And yet who in primitive times fills so large a place 
 he loved poetry so much that he grudged no on earth's scene, dwindles and dwindles as 
 pains to it; but the true art, the architectonice^ history goes on, and at last is shrunk to what 
 which shapes great works, such as the A gamem- we now see him. For ages and ages the world 
 non or the Divine Comedy, comes only after a 55 has been constantly sHpping, ever more and 
 steady, deep-searching survey, a firm concep- more, out of the Celt's grasp. "They went 
 tion of the facts of human life, which the Celt forth to war," Ossian says most truly, '^but 
 
 8 The art of the master-builder which enables him to ^^^^ always fell." 
 Man and execute great works. 
 
748 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 CULTURE but always in machinery, as if it had a value in 
 
 (From Culture and Anarchy, 1869) ^f J°' '^^^^' ,^.^^* is /reedom but machinery? 
 
 *" ' what IS population but machmery? what is 
 
 If culture, then, is a study of perfection, and coal but machinery? what are railroads but 
 of harmonious perfection, general perfection 5 machinery? what is wealth but machinery? 
 and perfection which consists in becoming what are, even, religious organisations but 
 something rather than in having something, machinery? Now almost every voice in Eng- 
 in an inward condition of the mind and spirit, land is accustomed to speak of these things as 
 not in an outward set of circumstances, — it is if they were precious ends in themselves, and 
 clear that culture, instead of being the frivolous 10 therefore had some of the characters of perfec- 
 and useless thing which Mr. Bright, and Mr. tion indisputably joined to them. I have 
 Frederic Harrison, and many other Liberals before now noticed Mr. Roebuck's stock argu- 
 are apt to call it, has a very important func- ment for proving the greatness and happiness 
 tion to fulfil for mankind. And this function is of England as she is, and for quite stopping 
 particularly important in our modem world, 15 the mouths of all gainsayers. Mr. Roebuck is 
 of which the whole civilisation is, to a much never weary of reiterating this argument of 
 greater degree than the civilisation of Greece his, so I do not know why I should be weary 
 and Rome, mechanical and external, and tends of noticing it. ''May not every man in Eng- 
 constantly to become more and more so. But land say what he likes?" — Mr. Roebuck per- 
 above all in our own country has culture a 20 petually asks; and that, he thinks, is quite 
 weighty part to perform, because here that sufficient, and when every man may say what 
 mechanical character, which civilisation tends he likes, our aspirations ought to be satisfied, 
 to take everywhere, is shown in the most But the aspirations of culture, which is the 
 eminent degree. Indeed nearly all the charac- study of perfection, are not satisfied, unless 
 ters of perfection, as culture teaches us to fix 25 what men say, when they may say what they 
 them, meet in this country with some powerful like, is worth saying, — has good in it, and more 
 tendency which thwarts them and sets them good than bad. In the same way the Times, re- 
 at defiance. The idea of perfection as an in- plying to some foreign strictures on the dress, 
 ward condition of the mind and spirit is at looks, and behaviour of the English abroad, 
 variance with the mechanical and material 30 urges that the English ideal is that everyone 
 civilisation in esteem with us. The idea of should be free to do and to look just as he likes, 
 perfection as a general expansion of the human But culture indefatigably tries, not to make 
 family is at variance with our strong individ- what each raw person may like, the rule by 
 ualism, our hatred of all limits to the unre- which he fashions himself; but to draw ever 
 strained swing of the individual's personality, 35 nearer to a sense of what is indeed beautiful, 
 our maxim of "every man for himself." Above graceful, and becoming, and to get the raw 
 all, the idea of perfection as a harmonious ex- person to Hke that. 
 
 pansion of human nature is at variance with And in the same way with respect to rail- 
 our want of flexibility, with our inaptitude roads and coal. Everyone must have ob- 
 for seeing more than one side of a thing, with 40 served the strange language current during the 
 our intense energetic absorption in the par- late discussions as to the possible failures of 
 ticular pursuit we happen to be following. So our supplies of coal. Our coal, thousands 
 culture has a rough task to achieve in this of people were saying, is the real basis of our 
 country. Its preachers have, and are likely national greatness; if our coal runs short, there 
 long to have, a hard time of it, and they will 45 is an end of the greatness of England. But 
 much oftener be regarded, for a great while to what is greatness? — culture makes us ask. 
 come, as elegant or spurious Jeremiahs than Greatness is a spiritual condition worthy to 
 as friends and benefactors. That, however, excite love, interest, and admiration; and the 
 will not prevent their doing in the end good outward proof of possessing greatness is that 
 service if they persevere. And, meanwhile, 50 we excite love, interest and admiration. If 
 the mode of action that they have to pursue, England were swallowed up by the sea to- 
 and the sort of habits they must fight against, morrow, which of the two, a hundred years 
 ought to be made quite clear for everyone to hence, would most excite the love, interest, 
 see, who may be willing to look at the matter and admiration of mankind, — would most, 
 attentively and dispassionately. 55 therefore, show the evidences of having pos- 
 
 Faith in machinery is, I said, our besetting sessed greatness, — the England of the last 
 danger; often in machinery most absurdly twenty years, or the England of Elizabeth, of 
 disproportioned to the end which this ma- a time of splendid spiritual effort, but wheh,,^ 
 chinery, if it is to do any good at all, is to serve; our coal, and our industrial operations depend- 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 749 
 
 ing on coal, were very little developed? Well, him forever. No such' voices as those which 
 then, what an unsound habit of mind it must we heard in our youth at Oxford are sounding 
 be which makes us talk of things like coal or there now. Oxford has more criticism now, 
 iron as constituting the greatness of England, more knowledge, more light; but such voices 
 and how salutary a friend is culture, bent on 5 as those of our youth it has no longer. The 
 seeing things as they are, and thus dissipating name of Cardinal Newman^ is a great name 
 delusions of this kind and fixing standards of to the imagination still; his genius and his 
 perfection that are real! style are still things of power. But he is over 
 
 Wealth, again, that end to which our pro- eighty years old, he is in the Oratory at Bir- 
 digious works for material advantage are lomingham; he has adopted, for the doubts and 
 directed, — the commonest of commonplace difficulties which beset men's minds to-day, 
 tells us how men are always apt to regard a solution which, to speak frankly, is impos- 
 wealth as a precious end in itself; and certainly sible. Forty years ago he was in the very 
 they have never been so apt thus to regard it prime of Ufe; he was close at hand to us at 
 as they are in England at the present time. 15 Oxford; he was preaching in St. Mary's pulpit^ 
 Never did people believe anything more firmly every Sunday; he seemed about to transform 
 than nine Englishmen out of ten at the present and to renew what was for us the most na- 
 day believe that our greatness and welfare are tional and natural institution in the world, 
 proved by our being so very rich. Now, the the Church of England. Who could resist the 
 use of culture is that it helps us, by means of 20 charm of that spiritual apparition, gliding in 
 its spiritual standard of perfection, to regard the dim afternoon fight through the aisles of 
 wealth as but machinery, and not only to say St. Mary's, rising into the pulpit, and then, in 
 as a matter of words that we regard wealth as the most entrancing of voices, breaking the 
 but machinery, but really to perceive and feel silence with words and thoughts which were 
 that it is so. If it were not for this purging 25 a refigious music, — subtle, sweet, mournful? 
 effect wrought upon our minds by culture, the I seem to hear him still, saying: "After the fever 
 whole world, the future as well as the present, of life, after wearinesses and sicknesses, fight- 
 would inevitably belong to the Philistines, ings and despondings, languor and fretfulness, 
 The people who befieve most that our greatness struggling and succeeding; after all the changes 
 and welfare are proved by our being very 30 and chances of this troubled, unhealthy state, 
 rich, and who most give their fives and thoughts — at length comes death, at length the white 
 to becoming rich, are just the very people whom throne of God, at length the beatific vision." 
 we call Phifistines. Culture says: "Consider Or, if we followed him back to his seclusion at 
 these people, then, their way of life, their habits, Littlemore,' that dreary village by th^ London 
 their manners, the very tones of voice; look at 35 road, and to the house of retreat and the church 
 them attentively; observe the literature they which he built there, — a mean house such as 
 read, the things which give them pleasure, the Paul might have fived in when he was tent- 
 words which come forth out of their mouths, making at Ephesus, a church plain and thinly 
 the thoughts which make the furniture of their sown with worshippers, — who could resist him 
 minds; would any amount of wealth be worth 40 there either, welcoming back to the severe 
 having with the condition that one was to be- joys of church-fellowship, and of daily worship 
 come just like these people by having it?" and prayer, the firstfings of a generation which 
 And thus culture begets a dissatisfaction which had well-nigh forgot them? Again I seem to 
 is of the highest possible value in stemming the hear him: "The season is chifi and dark, and 
 common tide of men's thoughts in a wealthy 45 the breath of the morning is damp, and wor- 
 and industrial community, and which saves shippers are few; but all this befits those who 
 the future, as one may hope, from being vul- are by their profession penitents and mourners, 
 garised, even if it cannot save the present. watcher^ and pilgrims. More dear to them 
 
 that loneliness, more cheerful that severity, 
 
 IMH. VUlCl^.b Ui^ YUUIH ^jjg ^^^ appliances of luxury by which men 
 
 (From "Emerson," in Discourses in America, nowadays attempt to make prayer less dis- 
 
 jggg) agreeable to them. True faith does not covet 
 
 comforts; they who realise that awful day, 
 
 Forty years ago, when I was an undergradu- 55 
 
 ate at Oxford, voices were in the air there '^^^ "^ *^e ^^^^^ leaders of the Oxford movement. 
 
 , . , , , ' ,.,, T-T ,, iVerf;man became a convert to the Romsm Catholic Churob 
 
 wnicn haunt my memory still. ilappy the in 1845, and thereafter spent the greater part of his life 
 
 man who in that susceptible season of youth at the Oratory at Birmingham He died in 1890. 
 
 1 1 • I ^i_ • X 2 The University Church at Oxford. 
 
 nears such voices! tney are a possession to s Newman's residence just outside of Oxford. 
 
750 THE VICTORIAN AGE • 
 
 when they shall see Him face to face whose a present object for your heart and imagine 
 eyes are as a flame of fire, will as little bargain tion. That is surely the most potent of a 
 to pray pleasantly now, as they will think of influences! nothing can come up to it. To i 
 doing so then." at Oxford Emerson was but a voice speakin 
 
 Somewhere or other I have spoken of those 5 from three thousand miles away. But so we 
 "last enchantments of the Middle Age"-* he spoke, that from that time forth Bosto 
 which Oxford sheds around us, and here they Bay and Concord were names invested t 
 were! But there were other voices sounding my ear with a sentiment akin to that whic 
 in our ear besides Newman's. There was the invests for me the names of Oxford and c 
 puissant voice of Carlyle; so sorely strained, lo Weimar; and snatches of Emerson's strai 
 over-used, and misused since, but then fresh, fixed themselves in my mind as imperishabl 
 comparatively sound, and reaching our hearts as any of the eloquent words which I hav 
 with true, pathetic eloquence. Who can forget been just now quoting. "Then dies the ma 
 the emotion of receiving in its first freshness in you; then once more perish the buds of an 
 such a sentence as that sentence of Carlyle 15 poetry, and science, as they have died alread 
 upon Edward Irving, then just dead: "Scot- in a thousand thousand men." "What Plat 
 land sent him forth a herculean man; our mad has thought, he may think; what a saint ha 
 Babylon wore and wasted him with all her felt, he may feel; what at any time has bf 
 engines, — and it took her twelve years!" A fallen any man, he can understand." "Trui 
 greater voice still, — the greatest voice of that 20 thyself! every heart vibrates to that iron string 
 century, — came to us in those youthful years Accept the place the Divine Providence ha 
 through Carlyle: the voice of Goethe. To this found for you, the society of your contempor 
 day, — such is the force of youthful associa- aries, the connexion of events. Great mei 
 tions, — I read the WUhelm Meister with more have always done so, and confided themselve 
 pleasure in Carlyle's translation than in the 25 childhke to the genius of their age; betray in 
 original. The large, liberal view of human fife their perception that the Eternal was stirrinj 
 in WUhelm Meister, how novel it was to the at their heart, working through their hands 
 Englishman in those days! and it was salutary, predominating in all their being. And we ar 
 too, and educative for him, doubtless, as well now men, and must accept in the highes 
 as novel. But what moved us most in WUhelm 30 spirit the same transcendent destiny; and no 
 Meister was that which, after all, will always pinched in a corner, not cowards fleeing be 
 move the young most, — the poetry, the elo- fore a revolution, but redeemers and bene 
 quence. Never, surely, was Carlyle's prose so factors, pious aspirants to be noble clay plasti( 
 beautiful and pure as in the rendering of the under the Almighty effort, let us advance anci 
 Youth's dirge over Mignon! — "Well is our 35 advance on chaos and the dark ! " These loft j 
 treasure now laid up, the fair image of the past, sentences of Emerson, and a' hundred othen 
 Here sleeps it in the marble, undecaying; in of hke strain, I have never lost out of mj 
 your hearts, also, it fives, it works. Travel, memory; I never can lose them. { 
 
 travel, back into life! Take along with you 
 this holy earnestness, for earnestness alone 40 
 
 makes fife eternity." Here we had the voice WORDSWORTH 
 
 of the great Goethe; — not the stiff, and hin- . „ . . ^ , n. • 
 
 dered, and frigid, and factitious Goethe who (From Essays m Cnttcism, Second Series, 
 speaks to us too often from those sixty volumes 1888) 
 
 of his, but of the great Goethe, and the true 45 Long ago, in speaking of Homer, I said that 
 one. the noble and profound application of ideas 
 
 And besides those voices, there came to us to fife* is the most essential part of poetic great- 
 in that old Oxford time a voice also from this ness. I said that a great poet receives his dis- 
 side of the Atlantic, — a clear and pure voice, tinctive character of superiority from his 
 which for my ear, at any rate, brought a strain 50 application, under the conditions immutably 
 as new, and moving, and unforgettable, as fixed by the laws of poetic beauty and poetic 
 the strain of Newman, or Carlyle, or Goethe, truth, from his application, I say, to his sub- 
 Mr. Lowell has well described the apparition ject, whatever it may be, of the ideas 
 of Emerson to your young generation here, in ,.^^ ^^ ^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^ „ 
 
 that distant time of which I am speaking, and 55 ' 
 
 of his workings upon them. He was your New- which he has acquired for himself. The fine 
 
 man, your man of soul and genius visible to quoted is Wordsworth's own; and his su- 
 
 you in the flesh, speaking to your bodily ears, periority arises from his powerful use; in hie 
 
 «7. p. 745. best pieces, his powerful application to Ma 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 751 
 
 biect, of ideas "on man, on nature, and on makes hardly any difference, because human 
 lianlife." li^e itself is in so preponderatmg a degree 
 
 Voltaire with his signal, acuteness, most moral. x u ij r ^ 4 
 
 ily remarked that "no nation has treated It is important, therefore, to hold last to 
 
 poetry moral ideas with more energy and 5 this: that poetry is at bottom a criticism ot 
 ^jth than the English nation." And he adds: life; that the greatness of a poet lies m his 
 There, it seems to me, is the great merit of powerful and beautiful application of ideas to 
 II English poets." Voltaire does not mean, life,— to the question: How to live. Morals 
 .' "treating in poetry moral ideas," the are often treated in a narrow and false fashion; 
 
 Tiposing moral and didactic poems;— that lo they are bound up with systems of thought 
 rings us but a very little way in poetry. He and beUef which have had their day; they are 
 (^ans just the same thing as was meant when fallen into the hands of pedants and profes- 
 spoke above "of the noble and profound ap- sional dealers; they grow tiresome to some ot 
 lication of ideas to hfe;" and he means the us. We find attraction, at times, even m a 
 pplication of these ideas under the conditions 15 poetry of revolt against them ; m a poetry which 
 xed for us by the laws of poetic beauty and might take for its motto Omar Khayydm s 
 oetic truth If it is said to call these ideas words: "Let us make up in the tavern for the 
 loral ideas is to introduce a strong and in- time which we have wasted m the mosque, 
 irious Umitation, I answer that it is to do Or we find attractions m a poetry indifferent 
 .thing of the kind, because moral ideas are 20 to them; in a poetry where the contents may 
 ally so main a part of human life. The ques- be what they will, but where the form is studied 
 m how to live, is itself a moral idea; and it is and exquisite. We delude ourselves in either 
 
 e question which most interests every man, case; and the best cure for our delusion is to 
 id with which, in some way or other, he is let our minds rest upon that great and inex- 
 'rpetually occupied. A large sense is of course 25 haustible word life, until we learn to enter into 
 ,' be given to the term moral. Whatever bears its meaning. A poetry of revolt agamst moral 
 oon the question, "how to Hve," comes under ideas is a poetry of revolt against life; of indif- 
 ference towards moral ideas is a poetry ot m- 
 1 u X xu difference towards life. 
 
 Nor love thy life, nor hate; but, what thoUgg Epictetus had a happy figure for things like 
 
 ^^^'f.*V 1 u * •^f^i.oo^An" the play of the senses, or hterary form and 
 
 ive well; how long or short, permit to heaven. ^^^^^^ ^^ argumentative mgenuity , in compan- 
 
 ^a those fine lines Milton utters, as every one son with "the best and master thing" for us, 
 tt once perceives, a moral idea. Yes, but so as he called it, the concern, how to live, feome 
 .00 when Keats consoles the forward-bending 35 people were afraid of them, he said, or tney 
 over on the Grecian Urn, the lover arrested disliked and undervalued them Such people 
 and presented in immortal relief by the sculp- were wrong; they were unthankful or cowardly 
 :or's hand before he can kiss, with the fine. But the things might also be over-prized, and 
 
 , , , . . „ treated as final when they are not. They bear 
 "For ever wilt thou love, and she be tair — ^^^^ Uf^ ^^le relation which inns bear to home, 
 be utters a moral idea. When Shakespeare "As if a man, journeying home and finding a 
 ■^^„ that nice inn on the road, and likmg it, were to stay 
 
 '^^ ' for ever at the inn! Man, thou hast forgotten 
 
 "We are such stuff t,hine object; thy journey was not to this, but 
 
 As dreams are made of , and our little life 4^5 through this. * But this mn is taking.' And 
 Is rounded with a sleep, j^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ ijj^g^ too, are taking, and 
 
 he utters a moral idea how many fields and meadows! but as place^ 
 
 Voltaire was right m thinking that th^ ener- of passage merely. You have an object which 
 getic and profound treatment of moral ideas, is this: to get home, to do y^^^ ^uty to your 
 in this large sense, is what distinguishes the 50 family, friends, and fellow-countrymen, to 
 English poetry. He sincerely meant praise, attain inward freedom, seremty, happiness 
 not dispraise or hint of limitation; and they contentment Style takes your fancy arguing 
 err who suppose that poetic hmitation is a takes your fancy, and you ^^/gf^ ^^^^^^^^^^ 
 necessary consequence of the fact, the fact and want to make your abode with them and 
 being granted as Voltaire states it. If what 55 to stay with them, on the plea that they are 
 disting^shes the greatest poets is their power- taking. Who demes that they are taking? but 
 ful and profound appUcation of ideas to life, as places of passa,ge, as inns And when i 
 which surely no good critic will deny, then to say this, you suppose me to be attacking the 
 prefix to the term ideas here the term moral care for style, the care for argument. I am 
 
752 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 not; I attack the resting in them, the not that his poetry is informed by ideas which ''fal 
 looking to the end which is beyond them." spontaneously into a scientific system oi 
 
 Now, when we come across a poet like Th^o- thought." But we must be on our guarc 
 phile Gautier, we have a poet who has taken against the Wordsworthians, if we want tc 
 up his abode at an inn, and never got farther. 5 secure for Wordsworth his due rank as a poet 
 There may be inducements to this or to that The Wordsworthians are apt to praise him foi 
 one of us, at this or that moment, to find de- the wrong things, and to lay far too much stress 
 light in him, to cleave to him, — we only stay upon what they call his philosophy. His 
 ourselves in his inn along with him. And when poetry is the reality, his philosophy, — so far, 
 we come across a poet like Wordsworth, who lo at least, as it may put on the form and hal^it 
 sings of "a scientific system of thought," and the 
 
 11 11 more that it puts them on, — is the illusion. 
 
 Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love and hope. Perhaps we shaU one day learn to make this 
 rbirsK^^olS^r ^^^^^ portion general and to say : Poetry is the 
 
 Of moral strength and intellectual power, ^^ reality, philosophy the illusion. But m Words- 
 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread"— worth's case, at any rate, we cannot do him 
 
 justice until we dismiss his formal philosophy. 
 Then we have a poet intent on "the best and The Excursion abounds with philosophy, 
 
 master thing," and who prosecutes his journey and therefore the Excursion is to the Words- 
 home. We say, for brevity's sake, that he deals 20 worthian what it can never be to the disinter- 
 with life, because he deals with that in which ested lover of poetry, — a satisfactory work, 
 life really consists. This is what Voltaire "Duty exists," says Wordsworth, in the ^xcwr- 
 means to praise in the English poets, — this sion; and then he proceeds thus — 
 dealing with what is really life. But always 
 
 it is the mark of the greatest poets that they 25 ^ "Immutably survive, 
 
 deal with it; and to say that the English poets l^T '""Pi^T*' f f measures and the forms, 
 
 1 ui f A r -^v, -T ;o \.^i,r Which an abstract intelligence supplies, 
 
 are remarkable for dealing with it, is only ^^^^ Kingdom is, where time and space are 
 another way of saying, what is true, that in not." 
 
 poetry, the English genius has especially shown 
 its power. 30 And the Wordsworthian is delighted, and 
 
 Wordsworth deals with it, and his greatness thinks that here is a sweet union of philosophy 
 lies in his dealing with it so powerfully. I have and poetry. But the disinterested lover of 
 named a number of celebrated poets above all poetry will feel that the lines carry us really 
 of whom he, in my opinion, deserves to be not a step farther than the proposition which 
 placed. He is to be placed above poets like 35 they would intei-pret; that they are a tissue 
 Voltaire, Dryden, Pope, Lessing, Schiller, be- of elevated but abstract verbiage, alien to the 
 cause these famous personages with a thousand very nature of poetry. 
 
 gifts and merits, never, or scarcely ever, attain Or let us come direct to the centre of Words- 
 the distinctive accent and utterance of the worth's philosophy, as "an ethical system, as 
 high and genuine poets — 40 distinctive and capable of systematical exposi- 
 
 "Quiqui pii vates et Phoebo digna locuti,"^ ^^^^ ^ ^^«^«P Butler's"- 
 
 at all. Bums, Keats, Heine, not to speak of "... One adequate support 
 
 others in our list, have this accent;— who can For the calamities of mortal life 
 
 doubt it? And at the same tim^ they have 45 Exists one only ;-an assured belief 
 uuuuu ^iiv^ c r r •. • r That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
 
 treasures of humour, felicity, passion, for Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
 
 which m Wordsworth we shall look m vain. q£ infinite benevolence and power; 
 
 Where, then, is Wordsworth's supenonty? Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 
 It is here; he deals with more of life than they All accidents, converting them to good. ' 
 
 do; he deals with life, as a whole, more power- 50 
 fuHv. That is doctrine such as we hear in church. 
 
 No Wordsworthian will doubt this. Nay, too, religious and philosophic doctrine; and 
 the fervent Wordsworthian will add, as Mr. the attached Wordsworthian loves passages 
 Leslie Stephen does, that Wordsworth's poetry of such doctrine, and brings them forward in 
 is precious because his philosophy is sound ; 55 proof of his poet's excellence. But however 
 that his "ethical system is as distinctive and true the doctrine may be, it has, as here pre- 
 capable of exposition as Bishop Butler's;" sented, none of the characters of poetic truth, 
 
 the kind of truth which we require from a 
 
 'r;i,t"ofAnoiio.'^ poet-prophets. who spoke thmgs p^et, and in which Wordsworth is really Strong. 
 
 worthy of Apollo." 
 
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY 753 
 
 Even the "intimations" of the famous Ode,^ of a "scientific system of thought" in Words- 
 
 those corner-stones of the supposed philosophic worth's poetry. The poetry will never be seen 
 
 system of Wordsworth, — the idea of the high aright while they thus exhibit it. The cause 
 
 iostincts and affections coming out in child- of its greatness is simple, and may be told 
 
 hood, testifying of a divine home recently 5 quite simply. Wordsworth's poetry is great 
 
 left, and fading away as our life proceeds, — because of the extraordinary power with which 
 
 this idea, of undeniable beauty as a play of Wordsworth feels the joy offered to us in na- 
 
 f ancy, has itself not the character of poetic ture, the joy offered to us in the simple primary 
 
 truth of the best kind; it has no real solidity, affections and duties; and because of the ex- 
 rhe instinct of delight in Nature and her lo traordinary power with which, in case after case, 
 
 beauty had no doubt extraordinary strength he shows us this joy, and renders it so as to 
 
 in Wordsworth himself as a child. But to say make us share it. 
 that universally this instinct is mighty in 
 childhood, and tends to die away afterwards, 
 
 is to say what is extremely doubtful. In many 15 uTI^Omafl? ^tXtt^ ^XlXlC^ 
 people, perhaps with the majority of educated 1825-1895 
 persons, the love of nature is nearly imper- 
 ceptible at ten years old, but strong and opera- ON THE ADVISABLENESS OF IMPROV- 
 tive at thirty. In general we may say of these ING NATURAL KNOWLEDGE 
 high instincts of early childhood, the base of 20 .-, to ,477 j t^ • 
 the alleged systematic philosophy of Words- (^rom Lay Sermons Addresses, and Reviews, 
 
 worth, what Thucydides says of the earliest -^ 
 
 achievements of the Greek race: "It is im- This time two hundred y°ars ago^ in the 
 possible to speak with certainty of what is so beginning of January, 1666 — those of our fore- 
 remote; but from all that we can really investi- 25 fathers who inhabited this great and ancient 
 gate, I should say that they were no very great city, took breath between the shocks of two 
 things." fearful calamities: one not quite past, although 
 
 Finally, the "scientific system of thought" its fury had abated; the other to come, 
 in Wordsworth gives us at last such poetry as Within a few yards of the very spot^ on 
 
 this, which the devout Wordsworthian accepts: 30 which we are assembled, so the tradition runs, 
 "O for the coming of that glorious time *^^* ^^f¥ and deadly malady the Plague, 
 
 When prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth appeared m the latter months of 1664, and 
 And best protection, this Imperial Realm, though no new visitor, smote the people of 
 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit England and especially of her capital, with a 
 
 An obligation, on her part, to teach 35 violence unknown before, in the course of the 
 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey; following year. The hand of a master has pic- 
 
 Binding herself by statute to secure, tured what happened in those dismal months; 
 
 For all the children whom her soil maintains, ^^^ ^^ the truest of fictions, "The History of 
 The rudiments of letters and inform ^^ pj Year,"3 Defoe shows death, with 
 
 The mind with moral and religious truth." ^^ ^ • i. r • j i^„„^„ 
 
 '^ 40 every accompaniment of pam and terror, 
 
 Wordsworth calls Voltaire dull, and surely the stalking through the narrow streets of old Lon- 
 production of these unVoltarian Unes must have don, and changing their busy hum into a 
 been imposed on him as a judgment! One can silence broken only by the wailing of the moum- 
 hear them being quoted at a Social Science ers of fifty thousand dead; by the woful de- 
 Congress; one can call up the whole scene. A 45 nunciations and mad prayers of fanatics; and 
 great room in one of our dismal provincial by the madder yells of despairing profligates, 
 towns; dusty air and jaded afternoon daylight; But, about this time in 1666, the death-rate 
 
 benches full of men with bald heads and women had sunk to nearly its ordinary amount; a case 
 in spectacles; an orator lifting up his face from of plague occurred only here and there, and 
 a manuscript written within and without to 50 the richer citizens who had flown from the 
 declaim these lines of Wordsworth; and in the pest had returned to their dwellings. The 
 soul of any poor child of nature who may have remnant of the people began to toil at the ac- 
 wandered in thither, an unutterable sense of customed round of duty, or of pleasure; and 
 lamentation, and mourning, and woe! the stream of city life bid fair to flow back 
 
 "But turn we," as Wordsworth says, "from 55 along its old bed, with renewed and uninter- 
 these bold, bad men," the haunters of Social rupted vigour. 
 
 Science Congresses. And let us be on our 1 Huxley's Address was delivered in 1866. 
 
 guard, too, against the exhibitors and extoUers xrlfa^g^r^stul'e^ lSou!^^' ^""^ ^"^"' ^^'^'^' ''^*' 
 
 2 V. p. 478, supra. » V. p. 316, supra. 
 
754 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 The newly kindled hope was deceitful. The knowledge." The ends they proposed to attain 
 KTcat pla^e, indeed, returned no more; but cannot be stated more clearly than in the 
 what it hati done for the Londoners, the great words of one of the founders of the organiza- 
 firc, which broke out in the autumn of 1666, tion:— , , ,. 
 
 did for London; and, in September of that year, 5 "Our busmess was (precludmg matters of 
 a heap of aahes and the indestructible energy theology and state affairs) to discourse and 
 of the people were all that remained of the consider of philosophical enquiries, and such 
 glory of five-sixtlis of the city withm the walls, as related thereunto:— as Physic, Anatomy, 
 
 Our forefathers had their own ways of ac- Geometry, Astronomy, Navigation, Staticks, 
 counting for each of these calamities. They 10 Magneticks, Chymicks, Mechanicks, and Nat- 
 submitted to the plague in humility and in ural Experiments; with the state of these 
 penitence, for they beUeved it to be the judg- studies and their cultivation at home and 
 ment of God. But, towards the fire they were abroad. We then discoursed of the circulation 
 furiously indignant, interpreting it as the effect of the blood, the valves in the veins, the veni© 
 of the malice of man, — as the work of the 15 lacteae, the lymphatic vessels, the Copernican 
 Republicans, or of the Papists, according as hypothesis, the nature of comets and new 
 their prepoeseesions ran in favour of loyalty stars, the satellites of Jupiter, the oval shape 
 or Puritanism. (as it then appeared) of Saturn, the spots on 
 
 It would, I fancy, have fared but ill with one the sun and its turning on its own axis, the 
 who, standing where I now stand, m what was 20 inequalities and selenography" of the moon, 
 then a thickly peopled and fashionable part the several phases of Venus and Mercury, the 
 of London, should have broached to our ances- improvement of telescopes and grinding of 
 tors the doctrine which I now propound to glasses for that purpose, the weight of air, the 
 you — that all their hypotheses were alike possibility or impossibiUty of vacuities and 
 wrong; that the plague was no more, in their 25 nature's abhorrence thereof, the Torricellian 
 sense, Divine judgment, than the fire was the experiment' in quicksilver, the descent of 
 work of any political, or of any religious, sect; heavy bodies and the degree of acceleration 
 but that they were themselves the authors of therein, with divers other things of hke nature, 
 both plague and fire, and that they must look some of which were then new discoveries, and 
 to themselves to prevent the recurrence of 30 others not so generally known and embraced 
 calamities, to all appearance so pecuUarly as now they are; with other things appertain- 
 beyond the reach of human control — so evi- ing to what hath been called the New Philos- 
 dently the result of the wrath of God, or of the ophy, which, from the times of Galileo at 
 craft and subtlety of an enemy. Florence, and Sir Francis Bacon (Lord Verulam) 
 
 And one may picture to oneself how har-35in England, hath been much cultivated in 
 monioualy the holy cursing of the Puritan of Italy, France, Germany, and other parts 
 that day would have chimed in with the unholy abroad, as well as with us in England." 
 cursing and the cracklmg wit of the Rochesters The learned Dr. WaUis,^ writing in 1696, 
 and Sedleys,* and with the revilings of the narrates, in these words, what happened half 
 political fanatics, if my imaginary plain dealer 40 a century before, or about 1645. The asso- 
 had gone on to say that, if the return of such ciates met at Oxford, in the rooms of Dr. Wil- 
 misfortunes were ever rendered impossible, kins, who was destined to become a bishop; 
 it would not be in virtue of the victory of the and subsequently coming together in London, 
 faith of Laud,' or of that of Milton; and, as they attracted the notice of the king. And it 
 little, by the triumph of republicanism, as by 45 is a strange evidence of the taste for knowledge 
 that of monarchy. But that the one thing which the most obviously worthless of the 
 needful for the compassing this end was, that Stuarts shared with his father and grandfather, 
 the people of England should second the efforts that Charies the Second was not content with 
 of an insignificant corporation, the estabhsh- saying witty things about his philosophers, 
 ment of which, a few years before the epoch 50 but did wise things with regard to them. For 
 of the great plague and the great fire, had been he not only bestowed upon them such atten- 
 as litUe noticed, as they were conspicuous. tion as he could spare from his poodles and 
 
 Borne twenty years before the outbreak of his mistresses, but, being in his usual state of 
 i. frP?^ * , ^™ ^°^ thoughtful students impecuniosity, begged for them of the Duke 
 banded themselves together for the purpose, 55 of Ormond; and, that step being without 
 as they phrased it, of "improving natural 
 
 • The study of the physical condition of the moon. 
 JO^m of Charles Il'a time, noted for their wit and the WoSrtS mts' ^^^^^^''^'^ °^ '^^ P"^«iP'« °^ 
 "ySSLhop of Canterbury. JtheL'ticf SlllTOS)?"'' ^'^''''^'' ^ *^« ^^^^ f ; 
 
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY 755 
 
 3lect, gave them Chelsea College, a charter, Royal Society stands without a parallel in the 
 
 ind a mace; crowning his favours in the best history of mankind. 
 
 A'ay they could be crowned, by burdening A series of volumes as bulky as the Transac- 
 
 ihem no further with royal patronage or state tions of the Royal Society might possibly be 
 
 iiterference. 5 filled with the speculations of the Schoolmen; 
 
 Thus it was that the half-dozen young men, not improbably, the obtaining a mastery over 
 
 tudious of the "New Philosophy,"^ who met the products of mediaeval thought might neces- 
 
 1 one another's lodgings in Oxford or in Lon- sitate an even greater expenditure of time and 
 
 [on, in the middle of the seventeenth century, of energy than the acquirement of the "New 
 
 2,Tew in numerical and in real strength, until, lo Philosophy;" but though such work en£. 
 a its latter part, the "Royal Society for the the best intellects of Europe for a longer time 
 Improvement of Natural Knowledge" had than has elapsed since the great fire, its effects 
 already become famous, and had acquired were "writ In water," so far as our social state 
 
 claim upon the veneration of Englishmen, is concerned, 
 orhich it has ever since retained, as the principal 15 On the other hand, if the noble first Presi- 
 focus of scientific activity in our islands, and dent^^ of the Royal Society could revisit the 
 the chief champion of the cause it was formed upper air and once more gladden his eyes with 
 to support. the sight of the familiar mace, he would find 
 
 It was by the aid of the Royal Society that himself in the midst of a material civilization 
 Newton^" published his "Principia." If all 20 more different from that of his day, than that 
 be books in the world, except the Philosophical of the seventeenth, was from that of the first, 
 Transactions,^^ were destroyed, it is safe to century. And if Lord Brouncker's native 
 say that the foundations of physical science sagacity had not deserted his ghost, he would 
 would remain unshaken, and the vast intel- need no long reflection to discover that all 
 lectual progress of the last two centuries would 25 these great ships, these railways, these tele- 
 be largely, though incompletely, recorded, graphs, these factories, these printing-presses, 
 Nor have any signs of halting or of decrepitude without which the whole fabric of modem 
 manifested themselves in our own times. As English society would collapse into a mass of 
 in Dr. Wallis's days, so in these, "our business stagnant and starving pauperism,— that all 
 is, precluding theology and state affairs, to 30 these pillars of our State are but the ripples 
 discourse and consider of philosophical en- and the bubbles upon the surface of that great 
 quiries." But our "Mathematick" is one spiritual stream, the springs of which, only, 
 which Newton would have to go to school to he and his fellows were privileged to see; and 
 learn; our "Staticks, Mechanicks, Magneticks, seeing, to recognise as that which it behoved 
 Chymicks, and Natural Experiments" con- 35 them above all things to keep pure and unde- 
 stitute a mass of physical and chemical knowl- filed. 
 
 edge, a gUmpse at which would compensate It may not be too great a flight of imagma- 
 Galileo for the doings of a score of inquisitorial tion to conceive our noble revenant''^ not for- 
 cardinals;i2 our "Physick" and "Anatomy" getful of the troubles of his ovv-n «ay, and 
 have embraced such infinite varieties of being, 40 anxious to know how often London had been 
 have laid open such new worlds in time and burned down since his time, and how olten 
 space, have grappled, not unsucessfully, with the plague had carried off its thousands. He 
 such complex problems, that the eyes of Vesa- would have to learn that, although London 
 liusi3 and of Haxveyi* niight be dazzled by the contains tenfold the inflammable matter that 
 sight of the tree that has grown out of their 45 it did in 1666; though, not co"^,^"^^^^^ filling 
 grain of mustard seed. our rooms with woodwork ^-"^ light draF^ru^. 
 
 The fact is perhaps rather too much, than we must needs lead inflammable and explosive 
 too Httle, forced upon one's notice, nowadays, gases into every comer of ^^J f^^^\^"^ 
 that all this marveUous inteUectual growth has houses, we never allow even a street to bum 
 a no less wonderful expression in practical life; 50 down. And if he asked ^^o^ this ha^ c^"^e 
 and that, in this respect, if in no other, the about, we should have to ex^ain that the 
 movement symbolized by the progress of the STufw^Lzerol nrcSor ThrLw- 
 
 » The principles set forth in Bacon's Novum Or g^um jng water upon fires, any one of whlch WOuld 
 w Sir Isaac Newton, who was elected to the Royal ^^ ^^^^ fumishcd the ingeniOUS Mr. Hooke, the 
 
 ^^^TKipublications of the Royal Society. first "curator and experimenter" of the Royal 
 
 12 Galileo's views of the Copernican theory were con- 
 demned by the Pope. . w,=i. i=R4^ nLord Brouncker, the first president of the Royal 
 
 Circulation of the blood. 
 
756 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Society, with ample materials for discourse Surely, the principles involved in them are 
 before half a dozen meetings of that body; and now admitted among the fixed beliefs of all' 
 that, to say truth, except for the progress of thinking men? Surely, it is true that our 
 natural knowletlge, we should not have been countrymen are less subject to fire, famine, 
 able to make even the tools by which these 5 pestilence, and all the evils which result from 
 machines are constructed. And, further, it a want of command over and due anticipation 
 would be necessary to add, that although of the course of Nature, than were the country- 
 severe fires sometimes occur^and inflict great men of Milton; and health, wealth, and well- 
 damage, the loss is very generally compensated being are more abundant with us than with 
 by societies, the operations of which have been lO them? But no less certainly is the difference 
 rendered possible only by the progress of nat- due to the improvement of our knowledge of 
 ural knowledge in the direction of mathe- Nature, and the extent to which that improved 
 matics, and the accumulation of wealth in knowledge has been incorporated with the 
 virtue of other natural knowledge. household words of men, and has supplied 
 
 But the plague? My Lord Brouncker's ob- 15 the springs of their daily actions. 
 servation would not, I fear, lead him to think Granting for a moment, then, the truth of 
 that Englishmen of the nineteenth century are that which the depreciators of natural knowl- 
 purer in life, or more fervent in religious faith, edge are so fond of urging, that its improve-' 
 . than the generation which could produce a ment can only add to the resources of our ma- 
 Boyle," an Evelyn," and a Milton. He might 20 terial civilization; admitting it to be possibly 
 find the mud of society at the bottom, instead that the founders of the Royal Society thera- 
 of at the top, but I fear that the sum total selves looked for no other reward than this, I 
 would be as deserving of swift judgment as at cannot confess that I was so guilty of exaggerft- 
 the time of the Restoration. And it would be tion when I hinted, that to him who had the 
 our duty to explain once more, and this time 25 gift of distinguishing between prominent events 
 not without shame, that we have no reason to and important events, the origin of a com- 
 believe that it is the improvement of our faith, bined effort on the part of mankind to improve 
 nor that of our morals, which keeps the plague natural knowledge might have loomed larger 
 fromourcity;but, again, that it is the improve- than the Plague and have outshone the glare 
 ment of our natural knowledge. 30 of the Fire; as a something fraught with the 
 
 We have learned that pestilences will only wealth of beneficence to mankind, in compari- 
 take up their abode among those who have son with which the damage done by those 
 prepared unswept and ungamished residences ghastly evils would shrink into insignificance. 
 for them. Their cities must have narrow, un- It is very certain that for every victim slain 
 watered streets, foul with accumulated gar- 35 by the plague, hundreds of mankind exist and 
 bage. Their houses must be ill-drained, ill- find a fair share of happiness in the world, by 
 lighted, ill-ventilated. Their subjects must be the aid of the spinning jenny. And the great 
 ill-washed, ill-fed, ill-clothed. The London of fire, at its worst, could not have burned the 
 1665 was such a city. The cities of the East, supply of coal, the daily working of which, 
 where plague has an enduring dwelling, are 40 in the bowels of the earth, made possible by 
 such cities. We, in later time, have learned the steam pump, gives rise to an amount of 
 somewhat of nature, and partly obey her. wealth to which the millions lost in old London 
 Because of this partial improvement of our are but as an old song. 
 
 natural knowledge and of that fractional obedi- But spinning jenny and steam pump are, 
 ence, we have no plague; because that knowl- 45 after all, but toys, possessing an accidental 
 edge is still very imperfect and that obedience value; and natural knowledge creates multi- 
 yet mcomplete, typhus is our companion and tudes of more subtle contrivances, the praises 
 cholera our visitor. But it is not presumptuous of which do not happen to be sung because 
 to express the belief that, when our knowledge they are not directly convertible into instru- 
 w more complete and our obedience the expres- 50 ments for creating wealth. When I contera- 
 sion of our knowledge, London will count her plate natural knowledge squandering such 
 centuries of freedom from typhus and cholera, gifts among men, the only appropriate com- 
 as sue now gratefuUy reckons her two hundred parison I can find for her is, to liken her to 
 years of ignorance of that plague which swooped such a peasant woman as one sees in the Alps, 
 upon her thnce m the first half of the seven- 55 striding ever upward, heavily burdened, and 
 
 Rntr^'^u^'- t-. . , ^^^^ "^^"d bent only on her home; but yet, 
 
 -,»>;^r • ' ^*^^/® »s °o\t^»°« ^ tliese explanations without effort and without thought, knitting 
 
 Which is not fully borne out by the facts? for her children. Now stockings are good and 
 
 ' iMmtBoyU, unEugluixchtwiBi. " F. p. 280, supra. comfortable things, and the children will un- 
 
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY 757 
 
 doubtedly be much the better for them; but Let us take these points separately; and, 
 surely it would be short-sighted, to say the first, what great ideas has natural knowledge 
 least of it, to depreciate this toiling mother as introduced into men's minds? 
 a mere stocking-machine— a mere provider I cannot but think that the foundations of 
 of physical comforts? 5 all natural knowledge were laid when the 
 
 However, there are blind leaders of the blind, reason of man first came face to face with the 
 and not a few of them, who take this view of facts of Nature; when the savage first learned 
 natural knowledge, and can see nothing in the that the fingers of one hand are fewer than those 
 bountiful mother of humanity but a sort of of both; that it is shorter to cross a stream than 
 comfort-grinding machine. According to them, lo to head it; that a stone stops where it is unless 
 the improvement in natural knowledge always it be moved, and that it drops from the hand 
 has been, and always must be, synonymous which lets it go; that light and heat come and 
 with no more than the improvement of the go with the sun; that sticks burn away in a 
 material resources and the increase of the fire; that plants and animals grow and die; 
 gratifications of men. 15 that if he struck his fellow-savage a blow he 
 
 Natural knowledge is, in their eyes, no real would make him angry, and perhaps get a blow 
 mother of mankind, bringing them up with in return, while if he offered him a fruit he 
 kindness, and, if need be, with sternness, in the would please him, and perhaps receive a fish 
 way they should go, and instructing them in in exchange. When men had acquired this 
 all things needful for their welfare; but a sort 20 much knowledge, the outlines, rude though 
 of fairy godmother, ready to furnish her pets they were, of mathematics, of physics, of 
 with shoes of swiftness, swords of sharpness, chemistry, of biology, of moral, economical, 
 and omnipotent Aladdin's lamps, so that they and political science, were sketched. Nor did 
 may have telegraphs to Saturn, and see the the germ of religion fail when science began to 
 other side of the moon, and thank God they 25 bud. Listen to words which, though new, are 
 are better than their benighted ancestors. yet three thousand years old: — 
 
 If this talk were true, I, for one, should not 
 greatly care to toil in the service of natural " • • • When in heaven the stars about the 
 
 knowledge. I think I would just as soon be ^ ^P^P^ ... t , n +u^^;r,^., or.«io;^ 
 . ,, \. . «•„+' ^„ „r. ^„ +1,^ „^ Look beautiful, when all the wmds are laid, 
 
 quietly chipping my own flmt axe, after theso^^^^^^^yj^^jg'j^^^Q^^^g out, and jutting peak 
 manner of my forefathers a few thousand years j^^^ valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
 back, as be troubled with the endless malady Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
 of thought which now infests us all, for such Shine, and the shepherd gladdens in his heart."" 
 reward. But I venture to say that such views 
 
 are contrary alike to reason and to feet. Those 35 If the half-savage Greek could share our feel- 
 who discourse in such fashion seem to me to ings thus far, is it irrational to doubt that he 
 be so intent upon trying to see what is above went further, to find, as we do, that upon that 
 Nature, or what is behind her, that they are brief gladness there follows a certain sorrow,— 
 blind to what stares them in the face of her. the little light of awakened human intelligence 
 
 I should not venture to speak thus strongly 40 shines so mere a spark amidst the abyss of 
 if my justification were not to be found in the the unknown and unknowable; seems so in- 
 simplest and most obvious facts,— if it needed sufficient to do more than illuminate the im- 
 more than an appeal to the most notorious perfections that cannot be remedied, the as- 
 truths to justify my assertion, that the improve- pirations that cannot be realized, of man s own 
 ment of natural knowledge, whatever direction 45 nature. But in this sadness, this consciousness 
 it has taken, and however low the aims of of the limitation of man, this sense of an open 
 those who may have commenced it-has not secret which he cannot penetrate, hes the es- 
 only conferred practical benefits on men, but sence of all religion; and ^he attempt to em- 
 in so doing, has effected a revolution in their body it in the forms furnished by the mteUect 
 conceptions of the universe and of themselves, 50 is the origin of the higher theologies, 
 and has profoundly altered their modes of Thus it seems impossible to imagine but 
 thinking and their views of right and wrong, that the foundations of a" knowledg^^^^^^^ 
 I say that natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy or sacred-were laid when mteUig^nce dawned 
 natural wants, has found the idea^ which can though the superstructure J^^^^^^^'J^^^l 
 alone still spiritual cravings. I say that nat.55ages so sligh and feeble ^ 1^^" 3 tfew 
 ural knowledge in desiring to ascertain the with the existence of almost any general view 
 Taws of comfort, ha. been driven to discover respecting the mode of governance of the urn- 
 
 those of conduct, and to lay foundations of a „ p^.^^^ Tennyson's Specimens of a Translation of the 
 
 new morality. -f"«<^ »" ^^«"* ^'^''- 
 
768 ^ THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 Terae. No doubt, from the first, there were us to contemplate phenomena the very nature 
 oertain phenomena which, to the rudest mind, of which demonstrates that they must have 
 preeented a constancy of occurrence, and sug- had a beginning, and that they must have an 
 Rested that a fixed order ruled, at any rate, end, but the very nature of which also proves 
 among them. I doubt if the grossest of Fetish 5 that the beginning was, to our conceptions of 
 worshippers ever imagined that a stone must time, infinitely remote, and that the end is as 
 have a god within it to make it fall, or that a immeasurably distant. 
 
 fruit had a god within it to make it taste sweet. But it is not alone those who pursue as- 
 With regard to such matters as these, it is tronomy who ask for bread and receive ideas. 
 hardly questionable that mankind from the lo What more harmless than the attempt to lift 
 first took strictly positive and scientific views, and distribute water by pumping it; what more 
 
 But, with respect to all the less familiar absolutely and grossly utilitarian? But out 
 occurrences which present themselves, uncul- of pumps grew the discussions about Nature's 
 turtjd man, no doubt, has always taken himself abhorrence of a vacuum; and then it was dis- 
 ss the standard of comparison, as the centre 15 covered that Nature does not abhor a vacuum, 
 and measure of the world; nor could he well but that air has weight; and that notion paved 
 avoid doing so. And finding that his appar- the way for the doctrine that all matter has 
 ently uncaused will has a powerful effect in weight, and that the force which produces 
 giving rise to many occurrences, he naturally weight is co-extensive with the universe, — in 
 enough ascribed other and greater events to 20 short, to the theory of universal gravitation 
 other and greater voUtions, and came to look and endless force. While learning how to 
 upon the world and all that therein is, as the handle gases led to the discovery of oxygen, and 
 product of the volitions of persons like him- to modem chemistry, and to the notion of tlio 
 self, but stronger, and capable of being ap- indestructibility of matter. 
 peased or angered, as he himself might be 25 Again, what simpler, or more absolutely 
 soothed or irritated. Through such conceptions practical, than the attempt to keep the axle 
 of the plan and working of the universe all of a wheel from heating when the wheel turns 
 mankind have passed, or are passing. And we round very fast? How useful for carters and 
 may now consider, what has been the effect gig drivers to know something about this; and 
 of the improvement of natural knowledge on 30 how good were it, if any ingenious person would 
 the views of men who have reached this stage, find out the cause of such phenomena, and 
 and who have begun to cultivate natural thence educe a general remedy for them. Such 
 knowledge with no desire but that of "increas- an ingenious person was Count Rumford;-*^ 
 ing God's honour and bettering man's estate." and he and his successors have landed us in the 
 
 For example: what could seem wiser, from 35 theory of the persistence, or indestructibility, 
 a mere material point of view, more innocent, of force. And in the infinitely minute, as i'l 
 from a theological one, to an ancient people, the infinitely great, the seekers after natural 
 than that they should learn the exact succes- knowledge, of the kinds called physical and 
 sion of the seasons, as warnings for their hus- chemical, have everywhere found a definite 
 bandmen;orthepositionof the stars, as guides 40 order and succession of events which never 
 to their rude navigators? But what has grown seemed to be infringed. 
 
 out of this search for natural knowledge of And how has it fared with "Physick" and 
 so merely useful a character? You all know the Anatomy? Have the anatomist, the physiol- 
 reply. Astronomy, — which of all sciences has ogist, or the physician, whose business it has 
 filled men's minds with general ideas of a 45 been to devote themselves assiduously to that 
 character most foreign to their daily experience, eminently practical and direct end, the al- 
 and has, more than any other, rendered it leviation of the sufferings of mankind,— have 
 impossible for them to accept the beliefs of they been able to confine their vision more 
 their fathers. Astronomy,— which tells them absolutely to the strictly useful? I fear that 
 that this so vast and seemingly sohd earth is 50 they are the worst offenders of all. For if the 
 but an atom among atoms, whirhng, no man astronomer has set before us the infinite mag- 
 knows whither, through inimitable space; which nitude of space, and the practical eternity of 
 demonstrates that what we call the peaceful the duration of the universe; if the physical 
 heavOT above us, is but that space, filled by and chemical philosophers have demonstrated 
 an infinitely subtle matter whose particles are 55 the infinite minuteness of its constituent parts, j 
 seethmg and surgmg, like the waves of an and the practical eternity of matter and of 
 angry sea; which opens up to us infinite regions force; and if both have alike proclaimed the 
 where nothing is known, but matter and force, 1 
 
 operating according to rijdd rules* which lpad«« » A distinguished scientist of American birth, chiefly \| 
 
 r p, »v**"6 w iij^u luiCB, wiucn ieaas remembered for his experiments on the nature of heat. ^ 
 
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY 759 
 
 laiversality of a definite and predicable order made in natural knowledge has tended to ex- 
 iQd succession of events, the workers in biology tend and rivet in their minds the conception 
 lave not only accepted all these, but have of a definite order of the universe— which is 
 idded more startling theses of their own. For, embodied in what are called, by an unhappy 
 IS the astronomers discover in the earth no 5 metaphor, the laws of Nature — and to nar- 
 :entre of the universe, but an eccentric speck, row the range and loosen the force of men's 
 ?o the naturalists find man to be no centre of belief in spontaneity, or in changes other than 
 he living world, but one amidst endless modi- such as arise out of that definite order itself, 
 ications of life; and as the astronomer ob- Whether these ideas are well or ill founded 
 serves the mark of practically endless time set lo is not the question. No one can deny that 
 ipon the arrangements of the solar system so they exist, and have been the inevitable out- 
 the student of life finds the records of ancient growth of the improvement of natural knowl- 
 [orms of existence peopling the world for ages, edge. And if so, it cannot be doubted that 
 which, in relation to human experience, are they are changing the form of men's most 
 infinite l^ cherished and most important convictions. 
 
 Furthermore, the physiologist finds life to And as regards the second point— the extent 
 be as dependent for its manifestation on par- to which the improvement of natural knowl- 
 ticular molecular arrangements as any phys- edge has remodelled and altered what may be 
 ical or chemical phenomenon; and, wherever termed the intellectual ethics of men,— what 
 he extends his researches, fixed order and un- 20 are among the moral convictions most fondly 
 changing causation reveal themselves, as held by barbarous and semi-barbarous people/ 
 plainly as in the rest of Nature. They are the convictions that authority is 
 
 Nor can I find that any other fate has the soundest basis of belief ; that merit attaches 
 awaited the germ of Religion. Arising, like to a readiness to believe; that the doubtmg 
 all other kinds of knowledge, out of the action 25 disposition is a bad one, and scepticism a sm 
 and interaction of man's mind, with that which that when good authority has Pronounced 
 ^s not man's mind, it has taken the intellectua what is to be believed, and fai h has accepted 
 coverings of Fetishism or Polytheism; of it, reason haa no further duty Jfre^re 
 ThTm or Atheism; of Superstition or Ra. many excellent persons who yet hold by these 
 tionalSm With these, and their relative 30 principles, and it is not my present bu^^^^^^^^^ 
 merits and demerits, I have nothing to do; or intention, to discuss their views All I wish 
 Sit this^t is n^edfu for my purpose to say, clearly to bring before your mmd is the un- 
 that^therSof theprese^^ questionable fact, that t^e improvement of 
 
 that of the past,Tt is because the theology of natural knowledge is effected by methods 
 the present^ become more scientific than 35 which directly give the he to all these convic- 
 thatTthe p^t; because it has not only re- tions, and assume the exact reverse of each to 
 nnnnred idols of wood and idols of stone, but be true. , , 1 1 ^„« oK 
 
 ideas of the practically infinite extent of the not be<^"f«/"° "T their verity is tested by 
 universe and of its practical eternity; they are them; not because ^^\l^"^ ^ his ex- 
 faS'th the conception that our earth ij^^Porten^f ^^ wo^^e^. but be^^^^^ 
 
 but an infinitesimal fragment of that Part of ^™°«« t^^*f ,^'„^S^^ contact with 
 the universe which can be seen; and that '» ji™^ *°!^^^°°;es, Nature-whenever he 
 nevertheless, its duration is a^ compared vnth «^e.r Pnmary «)urc^, i ^^ 
 
 Tthl S2"::^1hrtL°;itnT:x= fr inli^Siotlt by faith, but by ver- 
 
700 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 despise the practical results of the improve- theum/ pronounce Fielding to be low, and 
 ment of natural knowledge, and its beneficial Mozart to be passe. As boys love lollipops, 
 influence on material civilization it must, I so these juvenile fops love to roll phrases about 
 think, be admitted that the great ideas, some under the tongue, as if phrases in themselves 
 of which 1 have indicated, and the ethical shad a value apart from thoughts, feelings, 
 spirit which I have endeavoured to sketch, in great conceptions, or human sympathy. For 
 the few moments which remained at my dis- Scott is just one of the poets (we may call 
 poeal, constitute the real and permanent sig- poets all the great creators in prose or in verse) 
 nificance of natural knowledge. of whom one never wearies, just as one can 
 
 If these ideas be destined, as I beUeve they lo listen to Beethoven, or watch the sunrise or 
 are, to be more and more firmly established the sunset day by day with new delight. I 
 as the world grows older; if that spirit be think I can read the Antiquary, or the Bride 
 fated, as I believe it is, to extend itself into all of Lammermoor, Ivanhoe, Quentin Durivard, 
 departments of human thought, and to become and Old Mortality, at least once a year afresh. 
 co-extendve with the range of knowledge; if, is Scott is a perfect library in himself. A con- 
 as our race approaches its maturity, it dis- stant reader of romances would find that it 
 covers, as I believe it will, that there is but needed months to go through even the best 
 one kind of knowledge and but one method of pieces of the inexhaustible painter of eight 
 acquiring it; then we, who are still children, full centuries and every type of man; and 
 may justly feel it our highest duty to recognize 20 he might repeat the process of reading him 
 the advisableness of improving natural knowl- ten times in a lifetime without a sense of 
 edge, and so to aid ourselves and our successors fatigue or sameness. The poetic beauty of 
 in their course towards the noble goal which Scott's creations is almost the least of his great 
 lies before mankind. qualities. It is the universality of his sym- 
 
 25pathy that is so truly great, the justice of his 
 
 estimates, the insight into the spirit of each 
 
 age, his intense absorption of self in the vast 
 
 ifr^Dfricfe ^dXtiiOXl epic of human civilisation. What are the old 
 
 -Q„, almanacs that they so often give us as his- 
 
 30 tones beside these living pictures of the ordered 
 
 WALTFR SrOTT succession of ages? As in Homer himself, we 
 
 see in this prose Iliad of modern history, the 
 (Prom The Choice of Books, 1880) battle of the old and the new, the heroic de- 
 
 fence of ancient strongholds, the long impend- 
 In Europe, as in England, Walter Scott re- 35 ing and inevitable doom of mediaeval life. 
 mains as yet the last in the series of the great Strong men and proud women struggle against 
 creative spirits of the human race. No one the destiny of modern society, unconsciously 
 of his successors, however clear be the genius working out its ways, undauntedly defying 
 and the partial success of some of them, be- its power. How just is our island Homer! 
 longs to the same grand type of mind, or has 40 Neither Greek nor Trojan sways him; Achilles 
 now a lasting place in the roU of the immortals, is his hero; Hector is his favorite; he loves the 
 It should make us sad to reflect that a genera- councils of chiefs, and the palace of Priam; but 
 tion, which already has begun to treat Scott the swine-herd, the charioteer, the slave-girl, 
 with the indifference that is the lot of a "clas- the hound, the beggar, and the herds-man, all 
 SIC, should be ready to fill its insatiable maw 45 glow alike in the harmonious colouring of his 
 with the ephemeral wares of the booksellers, peopled epic. We see the dawn of our English 
 and the reeking garbage of the boulevard. nation, the defence of Christendom against the 
 
 We aU read^ Scott s romances, as we have Koran, the grace and terror of feudalism, the 
 all read Hume s History of England; but how rise of monarchy out of baronies, the rise of 
 often do we read them, how zealously, with 50 parliaments out of monarchy, the rise of indus- 
 )lwtKTr^^.^° understanding? I am try out of serfage, the pathetic ruin of chivalry, 
 UfK^ti^^' '''''''^'^°^T^^'°'"^^"'^ *^« «Pl^°did death-struggle of Catholicism, 
 
 vnln. f^ f ^"^^ •' ^°7;["°°P^^««; tba^ the the sylvan tribes of the mountain (remnants 
 \ZZ ?ZfrT ""r^^^^^f ^'^ ^^'}^^ '?^ of our pre-historic forefathers) beating them- 
 
 d^ArZll tI f^'^Z^^f^^^ *° Pi^^^« ^g^i^st the hard advance of 
 
 descnptions. They prefer Mr. Swinburne, 
 
 Mr. Mallock, and the Euphuism of VOUne Ox- .k^ u *®™?'t^° Athens, (so named because it contained 
 
 ford iuat J anmA r.n^r.\a ZTr^J rT V ?^ ^"'* ° Erectheus), generaUy regarded as one of the 
 
 lora, JUSl as some people prefer a Dresden finest specimens of Greek architecture. The Caryatides 
 
 ObepberdeaS to the Caryatides of the Erer- ^^^/^^ robed female figures which support the Erecthewm, 
 
 J y, uuc A^ico and are choice examples of architectural sculpture. 
 
FREDERICK HARRISON 761 
 
 modern industry; we see the grim heroism of dreadful an abortion of a book the rare volume 
 the Bible-martyrs, the catastrophe of feudalism may be, the more desperate is the struggle of 
 overwhelmed by a practical age which knew libraries to possess it. Civilisation in fact has 
 little of its graces, and almost nothing of its evolved a complete apparatus, an order of 
 virtues. Such is Scott, who, we may say, has 5 men, and a code of ideas, for the express pur- 
 done for the various phases of modern history, pose one may say of degrading the great books, 
 what Shakespeare has done for the manifold and gives the place of honour to that which is 
 types of human character. And this glorious plainly literary carrion. 
 
 and most human and most historical of poets, Now I suppose, at the bottom of all this lies 
 
 without whom our very conception of human lo that rattle and restlessness of life which belongs 
 development would have ever been imperfect, to the industrial Maelstrom wherein we ever 
 this manliest, and truest, and widest of ro- revolve. And connected therewith comes also 
 mancers we neglect for some hothouse hybrid that literary dandyism, which results from the 
 of psychological analysis, for the wretched pursuit of letters without any social purpose 
 imitators of Balzac, and the jackanapes phrase- 15 or any systematic faith. To read from the 
 mongering of some Osric'^ of the day, who pricking of some cerebral itch rather than from 
 assures us that Scott is an absolute Philistine, a desire of forming judgments; to get, like an 
 
 Alpine club striphng, to the top of some un- 
 sealed pinnacle of culture; to use books as a 
 ON READING 20 sedative, as a means of exciting a mild intellec- 
 
 (From the same) *^^^ titillation, instead of as a means of ele- 
 
 vating the nature; to dribble on in a perpetual 
 Collecting rare books and forgotten authors literary gossip, in order to avoid the effort of 
 is perhaps of all the collecting manias the most bracing the mind to think — such is our habit 
 foolish in our day. There is much to be said 25 in an age of utterly chaotic education. We 
 for rare china and curious beetles. The china read, as the bereaved poet made rhymes — 
 is occasionally beautiful; and the beetles at ,,^^^ ^^^ ^ ^^^^^ ^^^ 
 
 least are droll. But rare books now are, by ^ ^^^ in measured language lies; 
 
 the nature of the case, worthless books; and rpj^^ ^^^ mechanic exercise, 
 
 their rarity usually consists in this, that the 30 Like dull narcotics numbing pain."* 
 printer made a blunder in the text, or that 
 
 they contain something exceptionally nasty or We, to whom steam and electricity have given 
 silly. To affect a profound interest in neg- almost everything excepting bigger brains and 
 lected authors and uncommon books, is a sign hearts, who have a new invention ready for 
 for the most part— not that a man has ex- 35 every meeting of the Royal Institution,^ who 
 hausted the resources of ordinary hterature— want new things to talk about faster than 
 but that he has no real respect for the greatest children want new toys to break, we cannot 
 productions of the greatest men of the worid. take up the books we have seen about us smce 
 This bibliomania seizes hold of rational beings our childhood: Milton, or MoliSre, or Scott, 
 and so perverts them, that in the sufferer's 40 It feels like donning knee-breeches and buckles, 
 mind the human race exists for the sake of the to read what everybody has read, what every- 
 books and not the books for the sake of the body can read, and which our very fathers 
 human race. There is one book they might thought good entertainment scores of years 
 read to good purpose, the doings of a great ago. Hard-worked men and overwrought 
 book collector— who once lived in La Mancha.i 45 women ^rave an occupation which shall Iree 
 To the collector, and sometimes to the scholar, them from their thoughts and yet not take 
 the book becomes a fetich or idol, and is worthy them from their world. And thus it comes 
 of the worship of mankind, even if it be not of that we need at least a thousand new books 
 the slightest use to anybody. As the book every season, whilst we have rarely a spare 
 exists it must have the compliment paid it 50 hour left for the greatest of all. Butlamget- 
 of being invited to the shelves. The "library ting into a vein too serious for our purpose; 
 is imperfect without it," although the library education is a long and thorny topic i will 
 will, so to speak stink, when it is there. The cite but the words on this hea.1 of the great 
 great books are of course the common books; Bishop Butler. "The great number of books 
 and these are treated by collectors and li-55and papers of amusement which, of one kind 
 brarians with sovereign contempt. The more or another, daily come in ones way, have in 
 
 . . „ 2 Tennyson's /"n Meworwm. V. 5. . ,,r.n * 
 
 8 An affected courtier in Hamlet, noted for his high flown 3 Founded by Count Ruinford and othera in 1799, for 
 
 phrases the furthering of mechanical inventions and the teaching 
 
 1 Don Quixote in the romance of Cervantes. of applied science. 
 
THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 ■ I and moflt perfectly fall in The greatest men amongst them, Swift or a 
 
 ir this idle way of reading and Johnson, have indeed a sense — perhaps a really 
 
 ::s. By this means time, even stronger sense than Browne or Taylor — of the 
 
 ippily got rid of, without the pettiness of our lives and the narrow limits of 
 
 : neither is any part of it more 5 our knowledge. No great man could ever be 
 
 :!it of idleness, one can scarce without it. But the awe of the infinite and the 
 
 spent with less thought, than unseen does not induce them to brood over 
 
 It which is spent in reading." the mysterious, and find utterance for bewil- 
 
 . ' wntten a century and a half ago, dered musings on the inscrutable enigma. 
 
 lice which date, let us trust, the 10 It is only felt in a certain habitual sadness 
 
 may of print and the habits of desul- which clouds their whole tone of thought. 
 
 v:uiing have considerably abated. . . . They turn their backs upon the infinite and 
 
 U . need to be reminded every day, how abandon the efifort at a solution. Their eyes 
 
 ;iny are the books of inimitable glory, which, are fixed upon the world around them, and they 
 
 •wlh all our eagerness after reading, we have 15 regard as foolish and presumptuous any one 
 
 never taken in our hands. It will astonish who dares to contemplate the great darkness. 
 
 tnott of us to find how much of our verj' Indus- The expression of this sentiment in literature 
 
 t ry k giTtn to the books which leave no mark, is a marked disposition to turn aside from 
 
 ^^ow often we rake in the litter of the printing- pure speculation, combined with a deep in- 
 
 r»"ss, whilst a crown of gold and rubies is20terest in social and moral laws. The absence 
 
 iTered us in vain. of any deeper speculative ground makes the 
 
 immediate practical questions of life all the 
 
 more interesting. We know not what we are, 
 
 j&ir iltfi^ &ttp})ttl nor whither we are going, nor whence we 
 
 lRS2-iqru 25 come; but we can, by the help of common 
 
 1N5^ iyu4 sense, discover a suflScient share of moral 
 
 WIFT' ANH THF <5PTPTT nv TTTQ TTiUT? ^^xims for our guidance in life; and we can 
 
 \N IFT AND THE SPIRIT OF HIS TIME analyse human passions, and discover what are 
 
 i rom History of English Thought in the Eight- *^® moving forces of society, without going 
 eenth Century, 1876) 30 back to first principles. Knowledge of human 
 
 nature, as it actually presented itself in the 
 
 A hatred for enthusiasm was as strongly shifting scene before them, and a vivid appre- 
 
 impreased upon the whole character of con- ciation of the importance of the moral law, 
 
 rnporary thought aa a hatrefl of scepticism, are the staple of the best literature of the time. 
 
 •id thus the hterary expression of the feeUng is 35 As ethical speculation was prominent in the 
 
 .'her a dislike to all speculation than a dislike philosophy, the enforcement of ethical prin- 
 
 a particular school of speculatists. The whole ciples is the task of those who were inclined 
 
 bject was dangerous, and should be avoided to despise philosophy. When a creed is dying, 
 
 reasonable men. A good common-sense reU- the importance of preserving the moral law 
 
 ". Ji tr 1°^°^^^"^^'^"^"^^"^'^^°^*"''^^ becomes a pressing consideration 
 u^ked. If the philosophy of the time with all strong natures. 
 
 ^'^^J^ ^^^^'' '^ '^^' ^""'^ ^^^ ^^® ^ ^^^^ ^^"Pl^ Swift and Johnson as the two 
 
 unhtted to stimulate the emotions, most vigorous representatives of this tendency. 
 
 r..f<,rf. for prm^tical hfe. With Shake- Between them there is a curious analogy as 
 
 ^ .'Mr I homas Browne, or Jeremy Taylor, 45 well as a striking contrast. They are alike in 
 
 Milton, man is contemplated m his rela- that shrewd humorous common sense which 
 
 M^fi'^l^'Tr' ^^ "^u"? ?'?^"'^ ""^ ^^^'- '^^°"' ^ b^ the special endowment of the Eng- 
 
 rf^'Z\^^ '" %r "^"T"' ""^ ^'5 ^?^ '^'^- ^^^y ^^^ ^lik«' too, m this; that 
 
 w^h^^fv. -w u'^""^' ^^''^^ ^^ *^^y ^^P^^«^ t^^ reaction against the com- 
 
 r fripnl vol?!''- ?^^^^^^ optimism of the Pope-Shaftesbury va- 
 
 i^rnvst^ T^n'^'fVf^V^ ""'y- They illustrate the incapacity of that 
 
 .r« of the S^htlntf T^ *^°"^^':? '^''^'^ ^^ *^°"S^t t« ^^tisfy men of powerful 
 
 " ?r evL^^ .T^""^ '^?I!f^ emotional nature. The writings of each might 
 
 Uk'e Sir Thomt^^ "" T^t ^' '"°^°^^ ^^ ^^ ^ P^^^«^ embodying the most 
 
 ' ' s b ^X ATtT';-^1;^^^''''?'rP;°°'^^^^^ P^^test against the optimist 
 
 n i^ ?^n. h """^-S^- °' f^'^^^P^y- Swift says, with unrivalled in- 
 
 ' L r^tn tl ^- fi T' *'°'!y' *^^^ ^^' °^tural man is not, as theorists 
 
 ' gaze into the mfimte. would maintain, a reasonable and virtuous 
 
 '• '^^ ^- ^' «^^^J but, for the most part, a knave and a 
 
 rni 
 
SIR LESLIE STEPHEN 763 
 
 tion in liigh places, of starvation and nakedness You who through Frailty stopt aside 
 amongst the low, of wars, and pestilences, And you who never fell— from pride; 
 
 and famines, of selfish ambition trampling on ^ou who in different sects were shammed, 
 thousands, and wasted heroism strengthening 4?^ ^°°^® *^ see each other damned 
 oppression by its failure, of oetty domestic 15 1?° ^^^ ^^^^ told you, but they knew 
 tyranny, of lying, hypocrisy, and treachery, ¥hpTnrlH'« r^Lll. • '^"^ than you-) 
 
 which run through all the sokl organism ^e I^I Yr^n\^hle'= nol^^^' 
 a malignant ulcer, and see how far your specious I to such blockheads set my witi 
 maxim will take you. I damn such fools! Go, go, you're bit. 
 
 That is the melancholy burden of the teach- 20 
 ing of each of these great men; and it was That is genuine feeling. The orthodox phrases 
 echoed m various tones by many who felt that are no more part of Swift than his bands and 
 the grain of a sham philosophy consisted cassock. 
 
 chiefly of unprofitable husks. Between Swift Swift's idiosyncrasy would doubtless have 
 and Johnson, indeed, there was a wide dif- 25 made itself felt at any time. The special direc- 
 ference; and the sturdy moralist had a hearty tion of his haughty passions and intense in- 
 dislike for the misanthropist whose teaching tellect is determined by the conditions of th. 
 was so far at one with his own. The strong time. In a time of strong beliefs he would hav. 
 sense of evil which, in Johnson's generous na- been a vehement partisan. . . . He felt to 
 ture, produced rather sadness than anger, had 30 the depths of his soul the want of any of the 
 driven Swift to moody hatred of his species, principles which in trj'ing times take concrete 
 He is the most tragic figure in our literature, shape in heroic natures; and he assumed that 
 Beside the deep agony of his soul, all other the whole race of the courtiers of kings and 
 suffering, and especially that which takes a mobs in all ages were such vile crawling crea- 
 morbid delight in contemplating itself, is pale35tures as could sell England or starve Ireland 
 and colourless. He resembles a victim tied to put a few thousands in their pockets. He 
 to the stake and slowly tortured to madness felt the want of some religion, and therefore 
 and death; whilst from his proudly compressed scalped poor Collins,* and argued with his 
 lips there issue no weak lamentations but the marvellous ingenuity of irony against "the 
 deep curses of which one syllable is more effec- 40 abolition of Christianity;"' but the dogmas 
 tive than a volume of shrieks. Through the of theologians were mere matter for the Ho- 
 more petty feelings of mere personal spite and meric laughter of the "Tale of a Tub." He had 
 disappointed ambition we feel the glow of not the unselfish qualities or the indomitable 
 generous passions doomed to express them- belief in the potential excellence of human nu- 
 selves only in the language of defiant hatred. 45 ture to become a reformer of manners, or the 
 The total impression made by Swift's writings speculative power to endeavour to remould 
 is unique and almost appaUing; for even the the ancient creeds. He stands in fierce isola- 
 sheer brutahty suggests some strange disease, tion amongst the calmer or shallower intellect.^ 
 and the elaborate triflings remind us of a of his time, with insight enough to see th( 
 statesman amusing himself with spiders in a 50 hollowness of their beliefs, with moral depth 
 Bastille. If we ask what were the genuine enough to give such forcible utterance to hi> 
 creeds of this singular intellect, the answer feelings as has scarcely been rimlled in oui 
 must be a blank. The "Tale of a Tub" is the literature. But he had not the power or the 
 keenest of satire against all theologians; "Gul- , j ^ ^^^^ thirty-niM articUt in the Prayer-book, 
 liver's Travels" expresses the concentrated 55 » r. p 295. ««pra. ^,. ^ , . ,_,, _. 
 
 % ^ ^i.u^^ ^loQcoc. r»f * Anthony Collins, publinhed m 1713. a Dtscourse ■ 
 
 essence of contempt for all other classes Ol preethinkino.m^Khich he ridiculed the chtfor. the Moanu 
 
 mankind; the sermons and tracts defend the Law. aud the evidences of revealed religion. Swift Ht- 
 
 Church of England in good set terms, and ^\^^^ SlSion'tJ Swift's Argument Again^ th€ AMi*h- 
 
 prove beyond all question his scorn of dis- iny of chriatianity, 1708. 
 
704 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 n.hilitv of nature to become a true poet or ence of the people itself lessened as they felt 
 
 ■' ^Mi.her or reformer. When a shallow op- the pressure and taxation of the war. Of old, 
 
 t he most Uving creed, a man of strong men had pressed to see the Queen as if it were 
 
 .•omee a scornful pessunist. a glimpse of heaven. "In the year 1588," a 
 
 6 Bishop tells us who was then a country boy 
 
 fresh come to town, "I did live at the upper 
 
 ^aiobn HicbarD &tttn ^nd of the strand near St. Clement's Church, 
 
 ^ ^ ^ when suddenly there came a report to us (it 
 
 1837-1883 was in December, much about five o'clock of 
 
 10 the night, very dark) that the Queen was gone 
 
 THE DEATH OF QUEEN ELIZABETH ^o Council, "and if you would see the Queen 
 
 ,,. . i. .L r. /• I. D. ^7. vou must come quickly. Then we all ran, when 
 
 (From ^«tory ^ '^"^^"^ ^^«P^^' ihe Court gates were set open, and no man did 
 
 1877 1880; hinder us from coming in. There w^e came, 
 
 The triumph of Mountjoy* flung its lustre 15 where there was a far greater company than 
 
 .vtr the last days of Elizabeth, but no outer was usually at Lenten sermons; and when we 
 
 triumph could break the gloom which gathered had staid there an hour and that the yard was 
 
 round the dying Queen. Lonely as she had full, there being a number of torches, the 
 
 alwmys been, her loneliness deepened as she queen came out in great state. When we 
 
 drew towanis the grave. The statesmen and 20 cried 'God save your Majesty! God save 
 
 warriors of her earlier days had dropped one your Majesty!' Then the Queen turned to 
 
 by one from her Council board. Leicester^ us and said, 'God bless you all, my good 
 
 hid died in the year of the Armada; two years people!' Then we cried again, *God bless 
 
 later Walaingham* followed him to the grave; your Majesty! God bless your Majesty!' 
 
 in 1.598 Burleigh* himself passed away. Their 25 Then the Queen said again to us, 'You may 
 
 i^Mn^eison were watching her last moments, well have a greater prince, but you shall never 
 
 and intriguing for favour in the coming reign, have a more loving prince.' And so looking 
 
 Her favourite, Lord Essex, not only courted one upon another a while, the Queen departed. 
 
 favour with James of Scotland,^ but brought This wrought such an impression on us, for 
 
 him to suspect Robert Cecil," who had sue- 30 shows and pageantry are ever best seen by 
 
 ceeded his father at the Queen's Council- torchlight, that all the way long we did noth- 
 
 board, of designs against his succession. The ing but talk what an admirable Queen she was, 
 
 rivalry between the two ministers hurried and how we would adventure our lives to do 
 
 Eanex into fatal projects which led to his failure her service." But now, as Elizabeth passed 
 
 in Ireland and to an insane outbreak of revolt 35 along in her progresses, the people whose ap- 
 
 which brought him in 1601 to the block. But plause she courted remained cold and silent. 
 
 Cecil had no sooner proved the victor in this The temper of the age in fact was changing. 
 
 .-truggle at court than he himself entered into and isolating her as it changed. Her own Eng- 
 
 a s*>cret correspondence with the King of Scots. lang, the England which had grown up around 
 
 His action was wise; it brought James again 40 her, serious, moral, prosaic, shrank coldly from 
 
 into friendly relations with the Queen; and this brilliant, fanciful, unscrupulous child of 
 
 {.lived the way for a peaceful transfer of the earth and the Renascence. 
 
 cruwn. But hidden as this correspondence But if ministers and courtiers were counting 
 
 was from EUzabeth, the suspicion of it only on her death, Elizabeth had no mind to die. 
 
 added to her distrust. The troubles of the 45 She had enjoyed life as men of her day enjoyed 
 
 war in Ireland brought fresh cares to the aged it, and now that they were gone she clung to 
 
 Queen. It drained her treasury. The old it with a fierce tenacity. She hunted, she 
 
 ^pKn.Iour of her Court waned and disappeared, danced, she jested with her young favourites, 
 
 " :v cfTirmls remained about her, "the other she coquetted and scolded and frolicked at 
 
 imcil and nobility estranged them- 50 sixty-seven as she had done at thirtv. "The 
 
 . aU occasions." The love and rever- Queen," wrote a courtier a few months before 
 
 >Ijorrf Mouidicu. the Queen's Lieutenant in Ireland. ^^^ death, "was never SO gallant these many 
 
 Ud Just «ic«^h1«i after three .veairB of ruthless warfare, years nor SO Set upon jollity." She persisted 
 
 ''• ' '••'H'liion in Irt'Iand ^ed bv Hueh O Neil. ;« c^u^ e -i- • i. 
 
 '• ii«!. and the Karl of Desmond. This ^° spite ol opposition, in her gorgeous progresses 
 
 "'^Hoi^nu^^^^^^^^^ '? country-house. She 
 
 ■•<»eofElii»betb*»favoritt.rounciUora. clung to business as of old, and rated in her 
 
 '^J^''vi%}'Aol'%Von EHzibe?h';Vath "'"^^ ^^^^^" T.^"" Y^^ "^^^^^f, "«^' ^« ^^^^^^ 
 
 (l«03)b«mine King James I of England! "P some matter of account." But death 
 
 •TUtoBorLortTBurieigh. crept on. Her face became haggard, and her 
 
JOHN RICHARD GREEN 765 
 
 frame shrank almost to a skeleton. At last her of government and the wisest and most lasting 
 taste for finery disappeared, and she refused forms of rule, travellers turned aside from the 
 tx) change her dresses for a week together, frescoes of Giorgione to study the aristocratic 
 -QK T M ^^^^"^^/^^y ^^^tled down on her. polity of Venice, and Jesuits borrowed from 
 fehe held in her hand, says one who saw 5 the schoolmen of the middle ages a doctrine of 
 her m her last days "a golden cup which she popular rights which still forms the theory of 
 otten put to her lips, but m truth her heart modem democracy. On the other hand 'the 
 seemed too full to need more filling." Gradu- nation was learning to rely on itself, to believe 
 ally her mind gave way. She lost her memory, in its own strength and vigour, to crave for a 
 the violence of her temper became unbearable, lo share in the guidance of its own life. . . . 
 her very courage seemed to forsake her. She The nation which gave itself to the rule of 
 called for a sword to lie constantly beside her the Stewarts was another nation from the panio- 
 and thrust it from time to time through the struck people that gave itself in the crash 
 arras, as if she heard murderers stirring there, of social and rehgious order to the guidance of 
 Food and rest became alike distasteful. She 15 the Tudors. It was plain that a new age of 
 sate day and night propped up with pillows our history must open when the lofty pat riot- 
 on a stool, her finger on her lip, her eyes fixed ism, the dauntless energj', the overpowering 
 on the floor, without a word. If once she broke sense of effort and triumph, which rose into 
 the silence, it was with a flash of her old queen- their full grandeur through the war with 
 liness. When Robert Cecil declared that she 20 Spain, turned from the strife with Philip to 
 ''must" go to bed, the word roused her like a seek a new sphere of activity at home, 
 trumpet. "Must!" she exclaimed; "is must What had hindered this force from telling 
 a word to be addressed to princes? Little man, as yet fully on national affairs was the breadth 
 little man! thy father, if he had been alive, and largeness which characterized the temper 
 durst not have used that word." Then, as 25 of the Renascence. Through the past half 
 her anger spent itself, she sank into her old century the aims of Englishmen had been 
 dejection. "Thou art so presumptuous," she drawn far over the narrow bounds of England 
 said, "because thou knowest I shall die." itself to every land and every sea; while their 
 She rallied once more w-hen the ministers be- mental activity spent itself as freely on poetr>* 
 side her bed named Lord Beauchamp, the heir 30 and science as on religion and politics. But 
 to the Suffolk claim,^ as a possible successor, at the moment which we have reached the 
 "I will have no rogue's son," she cried hoarsely, whole of this energy was seized upon and oon- 
 "in my seat." But she gave no sign save a centrated by a single force. For a hundred 
 motion of the head, at the mention of the King years past men had been living in the midst 
 of Scots. She was in fact fast becoming insen- 35 of a spiritual revolution. Not only the world 
 sible; and early the next morning on the about them but the world of thought and 
 twenty-fourth of March, 1603, the life of feeling within every breast had been utterly 
 Elizabeth, a life so great, so strange and lonely transformed. The work of the sixteenth cen- 
 in its greatness, ebbed quietly away. tury had wrecked that tradition of rehgion, of 
 
 40 political and social order, which ha<l been ao- 
 
 ^„ cepted without question by the Middle Agra. 
 
 RELIGION AND THE BIBLE IN 16TH rj.^^ sudden freedom of the mind from these 
 
 AND 17TH CENTURY ENGLAND ^j^gj. ^onds brought a consciousness of power 
 
 . such as had never been felt before; and the 
 
 (From the same) 45 restless energy, the universal activity of the 
 
 The immense advance of the people as a Renascence were but outer expressions of the 
 whole in knowledge and in intelligence through- pride, the joy, t^^^, *™^^"f. .f "jf^"^; 
 out the reign of Elizabeth was in itself a revolu- with which man ^'f^^^ I^.'^.i^Hnf ^th^n 
 tion. The hold of tradition, the unquestioning the energies which ha<l lain «JV "^;>"«^^ >^^ 
 awe which formed the main strength of the 50 him /ut his pride and self-rchan^^^ 
 Tudor throne, had been sapped and weakened dashed by a feehrrg ^f^^^^^Z , ,^' j^^™^ 
 by the intellectual activity of the Renascence, ening sense of human "^J^^^"^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ^ri^r^ii^rst^^w^^^^ Kxrr^ijj'porr^'pp 
 :rtktrmefreiLdisL^^^^ 
 
 7 Edward Seymour, Lord Beauchamp ^f „d««fj°;i^,^ cood or for ill. the drama towercd into sub- 
 
 doubt aa to the legitimacy of the marriage of Lord Beau- ^jj^Jj^q q^q breafits of Othcllo and MacbetH. 
 
 champ's parents. 
 
THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 . ; into mot aphysicians as they strove small Geneva Bibles^ carried the Scripture 
 1 111.' workings of conscience within into every home, and wove it into the life of 
 From that hour one dominant in- every Enghsh family, 
 told on human action: and all the Religion indeed was only one of the causes 
 - zies that had been called into life 5 for this sudden popularity of the Bible. The 
 .;it was passing away were seized, book was equally important in its bearing on 
 and steadied to a definite aim the intellectual development of the people. 
 , ,f reUgion. All the prose hterature of England, save the 
 .uMc- temper of the nation felt the forgotten tracts of Wyclif, has grown up since 
 Theology rules there;" said GrotiusMothe translation of the Scriptures by Tyndale 
 ud only two years after EUzabeth's and Coverdale.* So far as the nation at large 
 ad when Casaubon' was invited by was concerned, no history, no romance, hardly 
 ssor to his court he found both king any poetry save the little-known verse of 
 >le indifTortmt to pure letters. "There Chaucer, existed in the English tongue when 
 it abundance of theologians in Eng-i5the Bible was ordered to be set up in the 
 ■ says; "all point their studies in that Churches. Sunday after Sunday, day after 
 " Even a country gentleman, like day, the crowds that gathered round the 
 hinson,' felt the theological im- Bible in the nave of St. Paul's, or the family 
 ,. .. - .1. soon as he had improved his nat- group that hung on its words in the devotional 
 unil understanding with the acquisition of 20 exercises at home, were leavened with a new 
 Icjiming, the first studies he exercised himself literature. Legend and annal, war song and 
 in were the principles of religion." It was nat- psalm. State roll and biography, and the mighty 
 ural that literature should reflect the tendency voices of prophets, the parables of Evangelists, 
 of the time; and the dumpy Uttle quartos of stories of mission journeys, of perils by the 
 controversy and piety which stiU crowd our 25 sea and among the heathen, philosophic argu- 
 «>IM< r libraries drove before them the classical ments, apocalyptic visions, all were flung 
 tr.inslations and Italian novelettes of the age broadcast over minds unoccupied for the most 
 (•f the Renascence. But their influence was part by any rival learning. The disclosure of 
 -fn ill hoaide that of the Bible. The popularity the stories of Greek literature had wrought the 
 "ible had been growing fast from the 30 revolution of the Renascence. The disclosure 
 :; Bishop Bonner* set up the first six of the older mass of Hebrew literature wrought 
 «..| I'aul's. Even then, we are told, the revolution of the Reformation. But one 
 'III iisposed people used much to revolution was far deeper and wider in its 
 n-^>rt lo the hearing thereof, especially when effects than the other. No version could trans- 
 •'i •'.• muld get any that had an audible voice 35 fer to another tongue the peculiar charm of 
 to them." . . . "One John Porter language which gave their value to the authors 
 ttimes to be occupied in that goodly of Greece and Rome. Classical letters there- 
 . \. rci^, to the edifying of himself as well as fore remained m the possession of the learned, 
 of l.,.Ts. This Porter was a fresh young man and that is, of the few; and among these, with the 
 "! a big stature; and great multitudes would 40 exception of Colet and More,' or of the pedants 
 r-ort thither to hear him, because he could who revived a Pagan worship in the gardens 
 T '^^".,*°^ ^^ ^ audible voice." But of the Florentine Academy,8 their direct in- 
 th. "goodly exercise" of readers such as Por- fluence was purely intellectual. But the Ian- 
 soon superseded by the continued guage of the Hebrew, the idiom of the Hellen- 
 of both Old Testament and New in 45 istic Greek, lent themselves with a curious 
 " ■ . rvices of the Church; while the felicity to the purposes of translation. As a 
 , '.' .torian"°"* ^"^^ theologian, states- mere literary monument the English version 
 >. a French theologian and student of ^^ *^® Bible remains the noblest example of 
 
 < oming to England in 1610 he was ap- 
 
 ' r^n^'i^esl^msZ^M^y^^^ - y. 'Coiries of the Bible prepared at Geneva. 1557-60. 
 
 ' (leiSw o?.P of tL n«m te English refugees who had fled there in Mary's reign. 
 
 • e death^arrant of rhlr£T ^^^^ ^^•'"f ^° P^^^^^ ^yp^ divided into chapters and 
 
 > m^il ^f Tk t Ki ^^^^^^^ I- verses, with marginal notes. 
 
 Mm^ He JoLbTned"an°inSn^ • J^t«iam JT^mtoi^ published a New- Testament at 
 
 ' 'ove of musir and Hp^,?^ S^'"'^' ^'^^S, and in 1530 translations of parts of the 
 
 - Lrio,« fnd f^P fm^^o' ^^^ Testament. Miles Coverdale published the first 
 
 atTon S fmm hi« ^^.'t ^on^Plfte English Bible, including the Apocrypha. 
 
 ,. "'^''"' " '™™ ^ ^^® « ' -fohn Colet. Dean of St. Paul's, and Sir Thorrms Mare, 
 
 H.„„^, Buihopof London, propured six -^m^^^I u "°der Henry VlII, were not only learned 
 
 '■ Great BibU nnd set them ' i?™on^nient ''"tfme o'?*t^P''\\' PFe^chei^ and teachers as well. 
 
 P»ur» cathedral, shortly after the Kine's r Pu!^^; k^^^^^"^'^-^^ °^ the new learmng formec* 
 
 pr .-lam^uoa of 1538. ordering a copy to iSput in ever^ Ld iiZ.n^'/f'^ ^* Florence in the 15th centu^, 
 
 church. — • H7 "« vut- "i «-very and attempted to harmomze mythology and philosophy 
 
 ^ with Qbnstianity. ^ -^ i^ ^ f-v 
 
WALTER PATER 767 
 
 the English tongue, while its perpetual use of Shakespeare's day, pressed for an answer 
 made it from the instant of its appearance the not only from noble and scholar but front 
 standard of our language. farmer and shopkeeper in the age that followed 
 
 For the moment however its literary effect him. The answer they found was ahnont o{ 
 was less than its social. The power of the 5 necessity a Calvinistic answer. Unlike .ts 
 book over the mass of Englishmen showed the spirit of Calvinism seemed to the spirit of 
 Itself in a thousand superficial ways, and in the Renascence, both found a point of union 
 none more conspicuously than in the mfluence in their exaltation of the individual man. The 
 it exerted on ordinary speech. It formed, we mighty strife of good and evil within the soul 
 must repeat, the whole hterature which was lo itself which had overawed the imagination of 
 practically accessible to ordinary Englishmen; dramatist and poet became the one spiritual 
 and when we recall the number of common conception in the mind of the Puritan. The 
 phrases which we owe to great authors, the Calvinist looked on churches and communionH 
 bits of Shakespeare or Milton, or Dickens, or as convenient groupings of pious Christians; it 
 Thackeray, which unconsciously interweave 15 might be as even indispensable parte of aChri»- 
 themselves in our ordinary talk, we shall better tian order. But religion in its deepest and 
 understand the strange mosaic of Biblical innermost sense had to do not with churche« 
 words and phrases which coloured English but with the individual soul. It was each 
 talk two hundred years ago. The mass of Christian man who held in his power the issuetj 
 picturesque allusion and illustration which we 20 of life and death. It was in each Christian 
 borrow from a thousand books, our fathers conscience that the strife was waged between 
 were forced to borrow from one; and the bor- Heaven and Hell. Not as one of a body, but 
 rowing was the easier and the more natural as a single soul, could each Christian claim his 
 that the range of the Hebrew literature fitted part in the mystery of redemption. In the 
 it for the expression of every phase of feeling. 25 outer world of worship and discipline the Cal- 
 When Spenser poured forth his warmest love- vinist might call himself one of many brethren, 
 notes in the "Epithalamion," he adopted the but at every moment of his inner existence, 
 very words of the Psalmist,^ as he bade the in the hour of temptation and of struggle, in 
 gates open for the entrance of his bride. When his dark and troubled wrestlmg with sin, in 
 Cromwell saw the mists break over the hills 30 the glory of conversion, in the peace of ac- 
 of Dunbar, he hailed the sunburst with the ceptance with God, he stood utterly alone, 
 cry of David: "Let God arise, and let His With such a conception of human life Puri- 
 enemies be scattered. Like as the smoke tanism offered the natural form for English 
 vanisheth, so shalt Thou drive them away!"^° religion at a time when the feeUng with which 
 Even to common minds this famiHarity with 35 rehgion could most easily ally ^it^lf was the 
 grand poetic imagery in prophet and apocalypse sense of individuality. The 'prentice who 
 gave a loftiness and ardour of expression that sate awed in the pit of the theatre as the storm 
 with all its tendency to exaggeration and bom- in the mmd of Lear outdid the storm among 
 bast we may prefer to the sUp-shod vulgarisms the elements passed easily into the Calvinist 
 of to-day 40 who saw himself day by day the theatre of a 
 
 But far greater than its effect on literature yet mightier struggle between the powers of 
 or social phrase was the effect of the Bible on light and the powers of darkness, and his soul 
 the character of the people at large. The the prize of an eternal conflict between Heaven 
 Bible was as yet the one book which was fa- and Hell. 
 miliar to every Englishman; and everywhere its 46 
 
 words, as they feU on ears which custom had ^«u^ i««i.#r 
 
 not deadened to their force and beauty, kindled Wmtt \p^in 
 
 a startling enthusiasm. The whole moral effect 1839-1894 
 
 which is produced now-a-days by the reUgious 
 
 newspaper, the tract, the essay, the missionary 50 ^j^ PERCEPTION OP BEAUTY 
 report, the sermon, was then produced by the 
 Bible alone; and its effect in this way however (prom the Preface to The Eenaitaanee, 1873) 
 
 SrrS wirnSUUra S. Many att^mpU have been made by wn^ 
 The problems oMite and death, whose ques- »on art and poetry to define b«.uty m the^ 
 Sl^n^ilLd no answer in the higher minds --';, -X':::a\\:n:!lTr\rto1X 
 
 •If, as appears probable. Green had in mind P«iZm of SUch attempts has most often been in the 
 
 xxiv. 7, Spenser's language ia similar, but not idenUcai. sujTcestive and penetratmg thmgs Sdld by the 
 
 w Psalma, Ixviii. 1-2. *^ 
 
;^is THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 WAV Such diflcuasiona help us very little to Gioconda,^ The hills of Carrara,^ Pico of Miran- 
 cnioV what has been well done in art or poetry, dola." are valuable for their virtues, as we say in 
 to cii^riminate between what is more and speaking of a herb, a wine, a gem; for the prop- 
 wh-it is less excellent in them, or to use words erty each has of affecting one with a special 
 like Iwauty excellence, art, poetry, with more 5 unique impression of pleasure. Our education 
 moaning " than they would otherwise have, becomes complete in proportion as our suscepti- 
 Boauly like all other qualities presented to bility to these impressions increases in depth 
 human 'experience, is relative; and the defini- and variety. And the function of the aesthetic 
 tioQ of it becomes unmeaning and useless m critic is to distinguish, analyse, and separate 
 proportioD to its abstractness. To define lo from its adjuncts, the virtue by which a pic- 
 beauty, not in the most abstract, but in the ture, a landscape, a fair personality in life or 
 moet concrete terms possible, to find, not a in a book, produces this special impression 
 universal formula for it, but the formula which of beauty or pleasure, to indicate what the 
 expreeses moet adequately this or that special source of that impression is, and under what 
 manifestation of it, is the aim of the true 15 conditions it is experienced. His end is reached 
 student of a?8thetics. when he has disengaged that virtue, and noted 
 
 "To see the object as in itself it really is,"^ it, as a chemist notes some natural element, 
 has been justly said to be the aim of all true for himself and others; and the rule for those 
 criticism whatever; and in aesthetic criticism who would reach this end is stated with great 
 the first step towards seeing one's object as it 20 exactness in the words of a recent critic of 
 really is, is to know one's own impression as Sainte-Beuve: — De se borner d connditre de 
 it r^dly is, to discriminate, to realize it dis- pres les belles choses, et d s'en nourrir en exquis 
 tinctly. The objects with which aesthetic amateurs, en humanistes accomplish 
 criticism deals, music, poetry, artistic and What is important, then, is not that the 
 accomplished forms of human life, are indeed 25 critic should possess a correct abstract defini- 
 reoeptacles of so many powers or forces; they tion of beauty for the intellect, but a certain 
 poflsess, like natural elements so many virtues kind of temperament, the power of being 
 or qualities. What is this song or picture, deeply moved by the presence of beautiful 
 this engaging personality presented in life or objects. He will remember always that beauty 
 in a book, to met What effect does it really 30 exists in many forms. To him all periods, 
 produce on me? Does it give me pleasure? types, schools of taste, are in themselves equal. 
 and if so, what sort or degree of pleasure? In all ages there have been some excellent 
 How Is my nature modified by its presence, workmen, and some excellent work done, 
 an-l u ruler its influence? The answers to these The question he asks is always — In whom did 
 (jwcstion.s are the original facts with which the 35 the stir, the genius, the sentiment of the period 
 asthetic critic has to do; and, as in the study find itself? who was the receptacle of its refine- 
 of light, of morals, of number, one must realise ment, its elevation, its taste? *'The ages are 
 such primary data for one's self, or not at all. all equal," says William Blake, "but genius is 
 And he who experiences these impressions always above its age." 
 
 8lrongly, and drives directly at the discrimina- 40 Often it will require great nicety to disen- 
 tion and analysis of them, need not trouble gage this virtue from the commoner elements 
 himself with the abstract question what beauty with which it may be found in combination. 
 is in itself, or what its exact relation to truth Few artists, not Goethe or Byron even, work 
 or ,^ experience— metaphysical questions, as quite cleanly, casting off all dthris, and leaving 
 unprofitable as metaphysical questions else- 45 us only what the heat of their imagination has 
 
 '^*!!!!!Lu?® °^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^ ^®^°S' wholly fused and transformed. Take for in- 
 answcrable or not, of no interest to him. stance the writings of Wordsworth. The heat 
 
 The esthetic ^ cntic, then, regards all the of his genius, entering into the substance of his 
 object* with which he has to do, all works of work, has crystallised a part, but only a part, 
 art, aod the fairer forms of nature and human so of it; and in that great mass of verse there is 
 life, as powers or forces producing pleasurable much which might well be forgotten. But 
 senations, each of a more or less pecuHar and scattered up and down it, sometimes fusing 
 unique kind. This influence he feels, and wishes and transforming entire compositions, like the 
 to explain, analysing it, and reducing it to its 
 
 .To him. the picture, the landscape, 65 Vil'irbS k^ow^as mThTS"'"" ^^ '^'°""'''° ^^ 
 
 engaging personaUty in hfe or in a book, La \ Carrara in northern Italy is famous for its marble. 
 
 « An Italian philosopher and theologian (1463-94), one 
 
 __ Anjold In his eaaav "On thft Fnnnfi^r, ^f of the most astonishingly facile scholars of the renaissance. 
 CHtW«D at iSb PreaeSt TiiSJ^'^in SLJ. ZcrJ^.^^ ■\'' '^^J'^^ P.^*^^ «^'^ ^i^h beautiful things, and to 
 
 n^ a-i- "" '^"*eo' iimc. m JSaaauo in Crtltctam, nourish one's self as an exquisite amateur and accom- 
 plished humanist." 
 
WALTER PATER 769 
 
 Stanzas on Resolution and Independence and the And the mixture in his work, as it actually 
 Ode on the Recollections of Childhood,^ sometimes, stands, is so perplexed, that one fears to miss 
 as if at random, turning a fine crystal here the least promising composition, lest some 
 and there, in a matter it does not wholly search precious morsel should be lying hidden within 
 through and transform, we trace the action 5 the few perfect lines, the phrase, the single 
 of his unique, incommunicable faculty, that word perhaps, to which he often works up 
 strange, mystical sense of life in natural things, mechanically through a poem, ahnost the 
 and of man's Ufe as a part of nature, drawing whole of which may be tame enough. He who 
 strength and colour and character from local thought that in all creative work the larger 
 influences, from the hills and streams, and lo part was given passively, to the recipient mind, 
 from natural sights and sounds. Well! that who waited so dutifully upon the gift, to whom 
 is the virtue, the active principle in Words- so large a measure was sometimes given, had 
 worth's poetry; and then the function of the his times also of desertion and relapse; and he 
 critic of Wordsworth is to trace that active has permitted the impress of these too to re- 
 principle, to disengage it, to mark the degree 15 main in his work. And this duality there — the 
 in which it penetrates his verse. fitfulness with which the higher qualities mani- 
 
 fest themselves in it, gives the effect in his 
 WORn^^WORTTT poetry of a power not altogether his own, or 
 
 wuriuowu«,iJi under his control, which comes and goes when 
 
 (From "Wordsworth" in Appreciations, 1889) 20 it will, lifting or lowering a matter, poor in 
 
 itself; so that that old fancy which made the 
 Nowhere is there so perplexed a mixture as poet's art an enthusiasm, a form of divine pos- 
 in Wordsworth's own poetry, of work touched session, seems almost literally true of him. . . . 
 with intense and individual power, with work But although the necessity of selecting these 
 
 of almost no character at all. He has much 25 precious morsels for oneself is an opportunity 
 conventional sentiment, and some of that in- for the exercise of Wordsworth's peculiar in- 
 sincere poetic diction, against which his most fluence, and induces a kind of just criticism 
 serious critical efforts were directed : the reac- and true estimate of it, yet the purely literary 
 tion in his political ideas, consequent on the product would have been more excellent, had 
 excesses of 1795,^ makes him, at times, a mere 30 the writer himself purged away that alien ele- 
 declaimer on moral and social topics; and he ment. How perfect would have been the little 
 seems, sometimes, to force an unwilling pen, treasury, shut between the covers of how thin 
 and write by rule. By making the most of a book! Let us suppose the desired separation 
 these blemishes it is possible to obscure the made, the electric thread untwined, the golden 
 true aesthetic value of his work, just as his life 35 pieces, great and small, lying apart together, 
 also, a life of much quiet delicacy and inde- What are the peculiarities of this residue? 
 pendence, might easily be placed in a false What special sense does Wordsworth exercise, 
 focus, and made to appear a somewhat tame and what instincts does he satisfy? Wliat are 
 theme in illustration of the more obvious the subjects and the motives which in him ex- 
 parochial virtues. And those who wish to 40 cite the imaginative faculty? What are the 
 understand his influence, and experience his qualities in things and persons which he values, 
 peculiar savour, must bear with patience the the impression and sense of which he can 
 presence of an alien element in Wordsworth's convey to others in an extraordinary way? 
 work, which never coalesced with what is An intimate consciousness of the expression 
 really dehghtful in it, nor underwent his special 45 of natural things, which weighs, listens, pene- 
 power. Who that values his writings most has trates, where the earlier mind passed roughly 
 not felt the intrusion there, from time to time, by, is a large element in the complexion of 
 of something tedious and prosaic? Of all poets modern poetry. It has been remarked as a 
 equally great, he would gain most by a skU- fact in mental history again and again. It 
 fully made anthology. Such a selection would 50 reveals itself in many forms; but is strongest 
 show, in truth, not so much what he was, or and most attractive in what is strongest and 
 to himself or others seemed to be, as what, most attractive in modern literature. . . . 
 by the more energetic and fertile quality in It has doubtless some latent connection 
 his writings, he was ever tending to become, with those pantheistic theories^ which locate 
 
 55 an intelligent soul in material things, and have 
 »7.pp.478.and48l,su^a. largely exercised men's mmds in some modem 
 
 iThe great reacwon in Wordsworth's sentiments be- *=• "^ 
 
 gan in 1793, when, at the time of the Reign of Terror, 
 
 England declared war against France. Wordsworth * ;. e. theories of the all-pervading presence and in- 
 
 describes the effect as being a revolution in bis whole fluence of spirit or soul; the theory that the Divine Spirit 
 
 moral nature. is in all inanimate, as well aa in animate creation. 
 
770 'the VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 BvatemB of philoeophy : it is traceable even in sound as even moulding the human counte- 
 tho graver writings of historians: it makes as nance to nobler types, and as somethmg actually 
 much difference between ancient and modem "profaned" by colour, by visible form, or 
 landscape art, as there is between the rough image. He has a power hkewise of realismg, 
 masks of an early mosaic and a portrait by 5 and conveying to the consciousness of the 
 Ileynolds or Gainsborough. Of this new sense, reader, abstract and elementary impressions— 
 the writings of Wordsworth are the central silence, darkness, absolute motionlessness: or, 
 and elementary expression: he is more simply again, the whole complex sentiment of a par- 
 and entirely occupied with it than any other ticular place, the abstract expression of desola- 
 poet, though there are fine expressions of pre- lO tion in the long white road, of peacef ulness in 
 ciady the same thing in so different a poet as a particular folding of the hills. In the airy 
 Shelley. There was in his own character a building of the brain, a special day or hour 
 certain contentment, a sort of inborn religious even, comes to have for him a sort of personal 
 placidity, seldom found united with a sensi- identity, a spirit or angel given to it, by which, 
 bility 80 mobile as his, which was favourable 15 for its exceptional insight, or the happy light 
 to the quiet, habitual observation of inanimate upon it, it has a presence in one's history, and 
 or imperfectly animate, existence. His life of acts there, as a separate power or accomplish- 
 ei^ty years is divided by no very profoundly ment; and he has celebrated in many of his 
 fdt incidents: its changes are almost wholly poems the "efficacious spirit," which, as he 
 inwaid, and it falls into broad, untroubled, 20 says, resides in these "particular spots" 
 pcrfaape somewhat monotonous spaces. What of time. 
 
 it most resembles is the Ufe of one of those early It is to such a world, and to a world of con- 
 Italian or Flemish painters, who, just because gruous meditation thereon, that we see him 
 their minds were full of heavenly visions, passed retiring in his but lately published poem of 
 some of them, the better part of sixty years 25 The Recluse — taking leave, without much 
 in quiet, systematic industry. This placid life count of costs, of the world of business, of ac- 
 matured a quite unusual sensibiUty, really tion and ambition, as also of all that for the 
 mate in him, to the sights and sounds of the majority of mankind counts as sensuous en- 
 natural world — the flower and its shadow on joyment. 
 
 the stone, the cuckoo and its echo. The poem 30 And so it came about that this sense of a life 
 of Reiolution and Independence is a storehouse in natural objects which in most poetry is but 
 of such records: for its fulness of imagery it a rhetorical artifice; is with Wordsworth the 
 may be compared to Keats's St. Agnes' Eve.^ assertion of what for him is almost literal fact. 
 To read one of his longer pastoral poems for the To him every natural object seemed to possess 
 first time, is like a day spent in a new country: 35 more or less of a moral or spiritual life, to be 
 the memory is crowded for awhile with its capable of a companionship with man, full of 
 precise and vivid incidents — expression, of inexplicable affinities and deli- 
 
 ^^—,. ... cacies of intercourse. An emanation, a particu- 
 
 "The pliant harebell swingmg in the breeze lar spirit, belonged, not to the moving leaves 
 
 nn some grey rock; — « 40 ^^ water only, but to the distant peak of the 
 
 •The single sheep and the one blasted tree, «n!l^.fjrV'''^'^?J^' ^^ ''''^l '^^""^^ f ^T 
 
 And the bleak music from that old stone wall; "5 sP^^l^ive, above the nearer horizon, to the 
 
 passmg space of hght across the plam, to the 
 " In the meadows and the lower ground hchened Druidic stone even, for a certain 
 
 Was all the sweetness of a common dawn;"<» ^^ weird fellowship in it with the moods of men. 
 
 It was like a "survival," in the peculiar intel- 
 
 ■ And that green com all day is rustUng in thine lectual temperament of a man of letters at the 
 
 *•*■• end of the eighteenth century, of that primi- 
 
 ^ J . r *^^® condition, which some philosophers have 
 
 V.lear and delicate at once, as he is in the 50 traced in the general history of human culture, 
 
 ouUinmg of visible imagery, he is more clear wherein all outward objects alike, including 
 
 and delicate still, and finely scrupulous, in the even the works of men's hands, were beheved 
 
 noting cf sounds; so that he conceives of noble to be endowed with animation, and the world 
 
 •ri>.S30tttiirti *ThePrduA RW'5r977_« ^^s "^uU of souls"— that mood in which the 
 
 •/WL, Bk.' X. 3ii-20. • Ibid., Bk ivr&2-3. ^^ ^^^ ^^eek gods were first begotten, and which 
 
 » Th« p«t Lamb. had many strange aftergrowths. 
 
FREDERICK W. H. MYERS 771 
 
 ifr^tietick W* J^t ^^tti sound— the actual sonority of the passage— 
 
 ^ ^ quite subordinate element in the effect 
 154(5-1901 which is produced mainly by relations and se- 
 
 pniT'TPV quences of vowels and consonants, too varying 
 
 rUhiliix 5 and delicate to be reproducible by rule al- 
 
 (From ^'Virgil" in Essays Classical and Mod- though far more widely similar, among Euro- 
 ern 1883) pean languages at least, than is commonly 
 
 perceived. But this limitation of the means 
 The range of human thoughts and emotions employed, which may itself be an added source 
 greatly transcends the range of such symbols lo of pleasure from the sense which it may give of 
 as man has invented to express them; and it difficulty overcome, is by no means without 
 becomes therefore, the business of Art to use analogies in other forms of art. The poet 
 these symbols in a double way. They must thrills us with delight by a collocation of con- 
 be used for the direct representation of thought sonants, much as the etcher suggests infinity 
 and feeling; but they must also be combined 15 by a scratch of the needle, 
 by so subtle an imagination as to suggest much And, indeed, in poetry of the first order, al- 
 which there is no means of directly expressing, most every word (to use a mathematical meta- 
 And this can be done; for experience shows phor) is raised to a higher power. It continues 
 that it is possible so to arrange forms, colours, to be an articulate sound and a logical step in 
 and sounds as to stimulate the imagination 20 the argument; but it becomes also a musical 
 in a new and inexplicable way. This power sound and a centre of emotional force. It 
 makes the painter's art an imaginative as well becomes a musical sound; — that is to say, its 
 as an imitative one; and gives birth to the art consonants and vowels are arranged to bear a 
 of the musician, whose symbols are hardly relation to the consonants and vowels near it, — 
 imitative at all, but express emotions which, 25 a relation of which accent, quantity, rhyme, 
 till music suggests them, have been not only assonance, and alliteration are specialized 
 unknown but unimaginable. Poetry is both forms, but which may be of a character more 
 an imitative and an imaginative art. As a subtle than any of these. And it becomes a 
 choice and condensed form of emotional speech centre of emotional force; that is to say, the 
 it possesses the reality which depends on its 30 complex associations which it evokes modify 
 directly recalling our previous thoughts and the associations evoked by other words in the 
 feelings. But as a system of rhythmical and same passage in a way quite distinct from 
 melodious effects — not indebted for their po- grammatical or logical connection. The poet 
 tency to their associated ideas alone — it ap- therefore must avoid two opposite dangers, 
 peals also to that mysterious power by which 35 If he thinks too exclusively of the music and 
 mere arrangements of sound can convey an the colouring of his verse — of the imaginative 
 emotion which no one could have predicted means of suggesting thought and feeling — 
 beforehand, and which no known laws can ex- what he writes will lack reality and sense, 
 plain. But if he cares only to communicate definite 
 
 It is true that the limits of melody within 40 thought and feeling according to the ordinary 
 which poetry works are very narrow. Between laws of eloquent speech, his verse is lil^ely to be 
 an exquisite and a worthless line there is no deficient in magical and suggestive power, 
 difference of sound in any way noticeable to And what is meant by the vague praise so 
 an unintelligent ear. For the mere volume of often bestowed on Virgil's unequalled style is 
 
 45 practically this, that he has been, perhaps, 
 \P. W. H. Myers, the son oi an English clergyman j^ore successful than any other poet in fusing 
 
 and author, was born at Keswick, in the Lake Ooun- , , i , , i j j-u 4- j 
 
 try," in 1843. He graduated at Trinity College. Cam- together the expressed and the Suggested emo- 
 
 bridge, in 1864, and was made Fellow and Classical lee- ^Jqq ^^^q^^ j^g j^^g discovered the hidden music 
 turer in 1865. From 1872 to 1900, he was inspector of . . '. . , u ^ c c ^' -^^ 
 
 schools. He became deeply interested in the scientific whlch can give to every Shade Ot feeling its 
 
 investigation of the problems of the spiritual life, and 5Q distinction, its permanence, and its charm; 
 
 he was one of the founders of the Society for Psychical ,, , , • xi Ui. ^ ^^^^4- i-u 
 
 Research in 1882. Myers wrote little. A few slender that hlS thoughts seem tO COme tO US on the 
 
 volumes of verse, some essays, an admirable life of Words- wingS of melodies prepared for them from the 
 
 worth, and a book on personal immortahty in the light , j x- r +u i^ -Q,,*- i^ +^^..4^4^^ ^( 
 
 of psychical research, practically complete the list.. But foundation of the WOrld. But m treating of 
 
 he was a scholar and the son of a scholar; and while he go ^iry and abstract a matter it is well to have 
 
 lacked those popular qualities which seem necessary in . "^ , , j. mi j. j.* 
 
 our democratic age to win the applause of the crowd, 55 frequent recourse to Concrete illustration. 
 
 his work is distinguished by that refinement and delicacy Before we attempt further description of Vir- 
 of feeling, that purity and elevation of tone, which are .,, , , u* i, u-t. i i r • j i 4. 
 
 the rewards of true culture. A recent critic has pro- gll S style, Or hlS habitual mood of mmd, let 
 nounced Myers" FtVffii and Francis Thompson's Shelley ^S clear OUr conceptions by a careful examina- 
 (». p. 779) the two best English Essays on Poetry of,. ,. -. c ^ w a 
 
 our day." ^ j j ^^^^ ^^ g^^j^g fewpassages from his poems. As 
 
772 
 
 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 we turn the leaves of the book we find it hard lized world. No poet has lain so close to so 
 to know on what passages it were best to dwell, many hearts; no words so often as his have 
 What varied memories are stirreti by one line sprung to men's lips in moments of excite- 
 after another as we read! What associations ment and self-revelation, from the one fierce 
 of all datca, from Virgil's own Ufetime down to 6 line retained and chanted by the untameable 
 the political debates of today! On this line^ boy who was to be Emperor of Rome,^° to 
 the poet's own voice faltered as he read. At the impassioned prophecy of the great English 
 this* Augustus and Octavia melted into pas- statesman" as he pleaded till morning's light 
 sionatc weeping. Here is the verse* which for the freedom of a continent of slaves. 
 Augustine quotes as typical in its majestic lO And those who have followed by more secret 
 rhythm of all the pathos and the glory of pagan ways the influence which these utterances have 
 art, from which the Christian was bound to exercised on mankind know well, perhaps 
 flee. This is the couplet' which Fenelon could themselves have shared, the mass of emotion 
 never read without admiring tears. This line which has slowly gathered round certain lines 
 Filippo Strozzi scrawled on his prison wall, 15 of Virgil's as it has round certain texts of the 
 when he slew himself to avoid worse ill.* These Bible, till they come to us charged with more 
 are the words' which, like a trumpet-call, than an individual passion and with a meaning 
 roused Savonarola to seek the things that are wider than their own — with the cry of the de- 
 above. And this line" Dante heard on the spair of all generations, ^2 ^^^ ^jjg yearning of 
 lips of the Church Triumphant, at the opening 20 all loves unappeased,!^ ^[^^ |j^g anguish of all 
 of the Paradise of God. Here, too, are the partings, i* "beneath the pressure of separate 
 long roll of prophecies, sought tremblingly in eternities." 
 the monk's secret cell, or echoing in the ears 
 of emperon^ from Apollo's shrine, which have 
 answered the appeal made by so many an 25 
 heart to the Virgilian Lots— that strange 
 
 invocation which has been addressed, I beheve, 
 to Homer, Virgil, and the Bible alone; the off- 
 spring of men's passionate desire to bring to 
 bear on their own lives the wisdom and the: 
 beuity which they revered in the past, to make 
 their prophets in such wise as they might — 
 
 1845-1894 
 
 MS TRIPLEXi 
 (From Virginibus Puerisque, 1881) 
 
 'Speak from those lips of immemorial speech, 
 If but one word for each." 
 
 The changes wrought by death are in them- 
 selves so sharp and final, and so terrible and 
 melancholy in their consequences, that the 
 Q , , . , . 35 thing stands alone in man's experience, and 
 
 . .♦» ^^^^^ ^^^^ be multiplied indef- has no parallel upon earth. It outdoes all 
 mitely But there is not at any rate need to other accidents because it is last of them. 
 h^r- X ««^""ft^o"^^7bich Virgil has been Sometimes it leaps suddenly upon its victims, 
 
 w^ir n^f/tL ^t ^^T u ^^^^ *?^^*^°° ^^^ ^ "^^^g' sometimes it lays a regular siege 
 would only be weakened by specification. 40 j ^ & 
 
 "The chastest poet," in Bacon's words, "and 
 
 royalist, Virgilius Maro, that to the memory 
 
 of man is known," has lacked in no age until 
 
 our own the concordant testimony of the civi- 
 
 •kI^ *^"*" "^^^ quoniam de conjuge restat. Since 
 Sl.^k*IV *324 ''^'^ "* * *^** remains of our union. 
 You will be a Marcellus in- 
 
 Bk. IV. 324. 
 • Tu Marcellu* arU, etc 
 Mn,, Bk. VI. 883. 
 In/tUx nmulacrum 
 
 Sjr'-^ 
 
 aigue ipaitu umbra Creusce. 
 of CreuasB herself. 
 
 ^n., 
 
 Un- 
 Bk. II. 
 
 toXLSi itl??K* ^A* "^'^ '"?"' *<'^"*- I^a'-e. O Guest. 
 ■r«S^lS!*!^ . *°° ^t. ^^A" yourself also worthy of 
 S^y i;..°Bk'viir 36l!'^ '"'^ '^" surroundings of 
 aliquia nottria ex o^nibua ultor. May some 
 
 •''y*^ •«i«e from nay 
 
 • Umt!/uo€ cnuUlia i 
 
 ih» eraal retion. fly tl 
 
 ashes, ^n., Bk. IV. 625 
 Urran, fuge littis avarum. Alas! fl 
 ^n., Bk 
 
 the rapacious shore. 
 
 !fly 
 III. 
 
 .!i^*^ '^« VL sS'*"' ^"°* ""^ '^'^ generous 
 "^n Severw,..eic ''in templo Apol- 
 ». In the temple of the Cum»aa oracle. 
 
 1° Clodius Albinus. Arma amens capio; nee sat rationis 
 tn armis. Frenzied I take arms, not that there is any 
 reason m taking arms. ^n. II. 315 
 
 " Pitt. 
 Nosque ubi primus equis Oriens adflavit anhelis, 
 Illic sera rubens accendit lumina Vesper. 
 Aurora returns to them when she leaves us, and brings 
 them back the day, and as among us the rising day first 
 breathes her panting steeds, etc. Georg., i. 250, 
 
 12 Quo res summa loco, Panthu? quam prendimus arcemf 
 How 13 ;t with the state Panthus? How do we defend 
 the citadel? ^n., Bk. II. 322. 
 
 ^^ Ilium absens absentem auditque videique. Him absent 
 she both sees and hears, ^n., iv. 83. 
 
 " Quem fugis? extremum falo, quod te adloquor, hoc est. 
 Whom would you fly from? This is the last word which 
 late allows me to address to you. JEn., vi. 466. 
 
 1^8 Tripl(a>. (Lat., threefold brass.) The title of 
 the essay is taken from Horace: 
 Illi robur et ces triplex 
 
 Circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci 
 
 Commisit pelago ratem. 
 
 «.rk 1 J T- . . Odes, I. iii. 9-11. 
 
 Oak and brass of triple fold 
 Encompassed sure that heart, which first made bold 
 lo the ragmg sea to trust 
 A fragile bark." 
 
 Conington'a trar^s. 
 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 773 
 
 and creeps upon their citadel during a score of it seems, could hardly be relished in such cir- 
 years. And when the business is done, there cumstances without something like a defiance 
 is sore havoc made in other people's lives, and of the Creator. It should be a place for nobody 
 a pin knocked out by which many subsidiary but hermits dwelling in prayer and maceration, 
 friendships hung together. There are empty 5 or mere born-devils drowning care in a per- 
 ch airs, solitary walks, and single beds at night, petual carouse. 
 
 Again, in taking away our friends, death does And yet, when one comes to think upon it 
 not take them away utterly, but leaves behind calmly, the situation of these South American 
 a mocking, tragical, and soon intolerable resi- citizens^ forms only a very pale figure for the 
 due, which must be hurriedly concealed. Hence lo state of ordinary mankind. This world itself, 
 a whole chapter of sights and customs striking travelling blindly and swiftly in overcrowded 
 to the mind, from the pyramids of Egypt to space, among a million other worlds travelling 
 the gibbets and dule^ trees of mediaeval Europe, blindly and swiftly in contrary directions, may 
 The poorest persons have a bit of pageant very well come by a knock that would set it 
 going towards the tomb; mem6rial stones are 15 into explosion like a penny squib. And what, 
 set up over the least memorable; and, in order pathologically looked at, is the human body 
 to preserve some show of respect for what re- with all its organs, but a mere bagful of pe- 
 mains of our old loves and friendships, we must tards?* The least of these is as dangerous to 
 accompany it with much grimly ludicrous the whole economy as the ship's powder- 
 ceremonial, and the hired undertaker parades 20 magazine to the ship; and with every breath 
 before the door. All this, and much more of we breathe, and every meal we eat, we are 
 the same sort, accompanied by the eloquence putting one or more of them in peril. If we 
 of poets, has gone a great way to put hu- clung as devotedly as some philosophers pre- 
 manity in error; nay, in many philosophies tend we do to the abstract idea of life, or were 
 the error has been embodied and laid down 25 half as frightened as they make out we are, 
 with every circumstance of logic; although in for the subversive accident that ends it all, 
 real life the bustle and swiftness, in leaving the trumpets might sound by the hour and 
 people little time to think, have not left them no one would follow them into battle — the 
 time enough to go dangerously wrong in prac- blue-peter^ might fly at the truck, but who 
 tice. 30 would climb into a sea-going ship? Think 
 
 As a matter of fact, although few things are (if these philosophers were right) with what a 
 spoken of with more fearful whisperings than preparation of spirit we should affront the daily 
 this prospect of death, few have less influence peril of the dinner-table: a deadlier spot than 
 on conduct under healthy circumstances. We any battle-field in history, where the far greater 
 have all heard of cities in South America built 35 proportion of our ancestors have miserably 
 upon the side of fiery mountains, and how, left their bones! What woman would ever be 
 even in this tremendous neighbourhood, the lured into marriage, so much more dangerous 
 inhabitants are not a jot more impressed by the than the wildest sea? And what would it be 
 solemnity of mortal conditions than if they were to grow old? For, after a certain distance, 
 delving gardens in the greenest corner of 40 every step we take in life we find the ice grow- 
 England. There are serenades and suppers ing thinner below our feet, and all around us 
 and much gallantrj'' among the myrtles over- and behind us we see our contemporaries 
 head; and meanwhile the foundation shudders going through. By the time a man gets well 
 underfoot, the bowels of the mountain growl, into the seventies, his continued existence is a 
 and at any moment living ruin may leap sky- 45 mere miracle; and when he lays his old bones 
 high into the moonlight, and tumble man and in bed for the night, there is an overwhelming 
 his merry-making in the dust. In the eyes of probability that he will never see the day. Do 
 very young people, and very dull old ones, the old men mind it, as a matter of fact? Why, 
 there is something indescribably reckless and no. They were never merrier; they have their 
 desperate in such a picture. It seems not 50 grog at night, and tell the raciest stories; they 
 credible that respectable married people, with hear of the death of people about their own 
 umbrellas, should find appetite for a bit of sup- age, or even younger, not as if it were a grisly 
 per within quite a long distance of a fiery moun- 
 tain; ordinary life begins to smell of high- ^ 'The fate of St. Pierre (1902) aflfords a sM^^ 
 , 1,1,, , • , . -J 1 tration of Stevenson s statement, and in the light of that 
 
 handed debauch when it is carried on so close 55 recent catastrophe the whole passage becomes eloquent 
 
 to a catastrophe; and even cheese and salad, "'^VkLToTbotlfformerly u^ to blow up .ate, .od 
 
 walls. 
 * Trees of mourning; a name given in Scotland to trees * A blue flag with a white square in the centre, flown 
 
 under which the clan gathered to bewail its dead. Spelled in the merchant marine aa a signal that the vessel is 
 also dool-tree. (Lat. dolor, grief, lamentation.) ready to depart. 
 
774 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 warning, but with a simple childlike pleasure to understand the more we think about them. 
 at having outUve<i some one else; and when a It is a well-known fact that an immense pro- 
 draft might puff them out like a guttering portion of boat accidents would never happen if 
 candle, or a bit of a stumble shatter them like people held the sheet in their hands instead of 
 ao much glaas, their old hearts keep sound and 5 making it fast; and yet, unless it be some mar- 
 unaffrighted, and they go on, bubbling with tinet of a professional mariner or some lands- 
 laughter, through years of man's age compared man with shattered nerves, every one of God's 
 to which the valley at Balaklava' was as safe creatures makes it fast. A strange instance of < 
 and peaceful as a village cricket-green on Sun- man's unconcern and brazen boldness in the ' 
 day. It may fairly be questioned (if we look 10 face of death! 
 
 to the peril only) whether it was a much more We confound ourselves with metaphysical 
 <laring feat for Curtius^ to plunge into the phrases, which we import into daily talk with 
 gulf, than for any old gentleman of ninety to noble inappropriateness. We have no idea of 
 doff hb clothes and clamber into bed. what death is, apart from its circumstances 
 
 Indeed, it is a memorable subject for con- 15 and some of its consequences to others; and 
 dderation, with what unconcern and gaiety although we have some experience of living, 
 mankind pricks on along the Valley of the there is not a man on earth who has flown so 
 Shadow of Death. The whole way is one wil- high into abstraction as to have any practical 
 demoas of snares, and the end of it, for those guess at the meaning of the word life. All 
 who fear the last pinch, Ls irrevocable ruin. 20 literature, from Job and Omar Khayyd,m^° to 
 And yet we go spinning through it all, like a Thomas Carlyle or Walt Whitman, is but an 
 party for the Derby.* Perhaps the reader attempt to look upon the human state with 
 remembers one of the humorous devices of such largeness of view as shall enable us to rise 
 the deified Cahgula,' how he encouraged a vast from the consideration of living to the Defini- 
 ooocourBe of hoUdaymakers on to his bridge 25 tion of Life. And our sages give us about the 
 over Bai» bay; and when they were in the best satisfaction in their power when they 
 height of their enjoyment, turned loose the say it is a vapour, or a show, or made out of 
 Pnetorian guards among the company, and the same stuff with dreams. Philosophy, in 
 had them tossed into the sea. This is no bad its more rigid sense, has been at the same 
 miniature of the dealings of nature with the 30 work for ages; and after a myriad bald heads 
 iranidtoryraceof man. Only, what a chequered have wagged over the problem, and piles of 
 picnic we have of it, even while it lasts! and words have been heaped one upon another 
 into what great waters, not to be crossed by into dry and cloudy volumes without end, 
 any swimmer, God's pale Praetorian throws us philosophy has the honour of laying before us, 
 over in the end! 35 with modest pride, her contribution towards 
 
 We Uve the time that a match flickers; we the subject: that life is a Permanent Possibility 
 pop the cork of a ginger-beer bottle, and the of Sensation. Truly a fine result! A man may 
 earthquake swallows us on the instant. Is very well love beef, or hunting, or a woman; 
 It not odd, IS It not mcongruous, is it not, in but surely, surely, not a Permanent Possibility 
 the highest sense of the human speech, in- 40 of Sensation! He may be afraid of a precipice, 
 credible, that w-e should think so liighly of the or a dentist, or a large enemy with a club, or 
 ginger-beer, aiid r^ard so httle the devouring even an undertaker's man; but not certainly 
 wrthquake? The love of Life and the fear of of abstract death. We may trick with the 
 Ueath are two famous phrases that grow harder word life in its dozen senses untU we are weary 
 • iiitiMirvm«..#K--««^-^»*k t u , L ^^^^ tricking; we may argue in terms of all the 
 
 « ._i" iP? ^^n™^ '™ **'*® <*» *Q® 'a™ou8 charge of the ,^u:i^ u- -i i i^ r . 
 
 Uj*t BrUpde. Through a mistaken order, a brigade of pnUosophies on earth, but one fact remams 
 
 5Si£^o?J7t^onTy"i98?^tuTnid?' '^'"^ ^'^'^'' true throughout-that we do not love life, 
 
 'AeoordiQg to tradition a chasm appeared in the *^ ^^^ ^^^^® t^^* we are greatly preoccupied 
 
 SSS ^"S 'S^ S' b^'^Z toJlf^R^m^, ^ "'^o"' its conservation; that we do not, prep- 
 
 rjMwttreMure. Thereupon Marcua Curtiua, a young ^ ^"^ Speakmg, love hf e at all, but hving. Into 
 
 wMeh immed iately closed over him. ' ^ome degree of providence; no man's eyes are 
 
 of ^-l^^^'^^^nZ^^^^^^ fi-^^ ^^^ir^ly «^ the passing hour; but although 
 
 ^faMfSw"* •^•'^'•* *°** '* "^'^ ^ ^ attended by ^'^ "^^e some anticipation of good health, good 
 •EtSSSrofRSme. 37-41 A. D.. and noted for his '' "^^f ^^'' ™^' .^^^^^^ employment, love, and 
 
 l!IT?!JS5'*^ j*"^ eitravaganper"'HT"cau8^" Wi^if self-approval, the sum of these anticipations 
 
 Ti?irSurS?K mT ? «'*♦'• »°'* ^^'^ ^''' ^""^ ™«le consul. 
 
 Kr^W uil'^fi^lK ?a?e"r b"^Querin°"thl n.^H^'f ^^T^^ ^^' «.? '^' ^^ of the eleventh centuiy. 
 
 aidit of it. which coded a. tteveiSn dLcrib2i ^ '^^ SanLfion '*V*° ^^€'^ '"^^^^^ ^^ ^^'^^'i Fitzgerald's 
 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 775 
 
 does not amount to anything like a general its vanity and brevity; whether we look justly 
 view of life's possibilities and issues; nor are for years of health and vigour, or are about to 
 those who cherish them most vividly, at all the mount into a bath-chair, as a step towards 
 most scrupulous of their personal safety. To the hearse; in each and aU of these views and 
 be deeply interested in the accidents of our 5 situations there is but one conclusion possible: 
 existence, to enjoy keenly the mixed texture of that a man should stop his ears against para- 
 human experience, rather leads a man to dis- lysing terror, and run the race that is set be- 
 regard precautions, and risk his neck against fore him with a single mind. No one surely 
 a straw. For surely the love of living is stronger could have recoiled with more heartache and 
 in an Alpine climber roping over a peril, or a 10 terror from the thought of death than our 
 hunter riding merrily at a stiff fence, than in respected lexicographer ;^3 ^nd yet we know 
 a creature who Uves upon a diet and walks a how Httle it affected his conduct, how wisely 
 measured distance in the interest of his con- and boldly he walked, and in what a fresh and 
 stitution. lively vein he spoke of life. Already an old 
 
 There is a great deal of very vile nonsense 15 man, he ventured on his Highland tour^^ and 
 talked upon both sides of the matter: tearing his heart, bound with triple brass, ^^ did not 
 divines reducing life to the dimensions of a recoil before twenty-seven individual cups of 
 mere funeral procession, so short as to be tea. As courage and intelligence are the two 
 hardly decent; and melancholy unbehevers quaUties best worth a good man's cultivation, 
 yearning for the tomb as if it were a world too 20 so it is the first part of intelligence to recognise 
 far away. Both sides must feel a little ashamed our precarious estate in life, and the first part 
 of their performances now and again when they of courage to be not at all abashed before the 
 draw in their chairs to dinner. Indeed, a good fact. A franlc and somewhat headlong carriage, 
 meal and a bottle of wine is an answer to most not looking too anxiously before, not dallying 
 standard works upon the question. When a 25 in maudlin regret over the past, stamps the 
 man's heart warms to his viands, he forgets a man who is well armoured for this world, 
 great deal of sophistry, and soars into a rosy And not only well armoured for himself, 
 zone of contemplation. Death may be knock- but a good friend and a good citizen to boot, 
 ing at the door, hke the Commander's statue ;^^ We do not go to cowards for tender dealing; 
 we have something else in hand, thank God, so there is nothmg so cruel as panic; the man who 
 and let him knock. Passing bells are ringing has least fear for his own carcase, has most time 
 all the world over. All the world over, and to consider others. That eminent chemist^^ 
 every hour, some one is parting company with who took his walks abroad in tin shoes, and 
 all his aches and ecstasies. For us also the subsisted wholly upon tepid milk, had all his 
 trap is laid. But we are so fond of life that we 35 work cut out for him in considerate dealings 
 have no leisure to entertain the terror of death, with his own digestion. So soon as prudence 
 It is a honeymoon with us all through, and has begun to grow up in the brain, Uke a dismal 
 none of the longest. Small blame to us if we fungus, it finds its first expression in a paralysis 
 give our whole hearts to this glowing bride of of generous acts. The victim begins to shrink 
 ours, to the appetites, to honour, to the hungry 40 spiritually; he develops a fancy for parlours 
 curiosity of the mind, to the pleasure of the with a regulated temperature, and takes his 
 eyes in nature, and the pride of our own nimble morality on the principle of tin shoes and tepid 
 bodies. milk. The care of one important body or soul 
 
 We all of us appreciate the sensations; but becomes so engrossing, that all the noises of 
 as for caring about the Permanence of the 45 the outer world begin to come thin and faint 
 Possibility, a man's head is generally very bald, into the parlour with the regulated tempera- 
 and his senses very dull, before he comes to ture; and the tin shoes go equably forward 
 that. Whether we regard life as a lane leading over blood and rain. To be overwise is to 
 to a dead wall — a mere bag's end,^^ ^s the ossify; and the scruple-monger ends by stand- 
 French say — or whether we think of it as a 50 ing stockstill. Now the man who has his heart 
 vestibule or gymnasium, where we wait our on his sleeve, and a good whirling weathercock 
 turn and prepare our faculties for some more of a brain, who reckons his fife as a thing to 
 noble destiny; whether we thunder in a pulpit, be dashingly used and cheerfuUy hazarded, 
 or pule in little atheistic poetry-books, about makes a very different acquaintance of the 
 
 " In Spanish legend, Don Juan, after he had mur- " Dr. Samuel Johnson, 
 
 dered the Commandant of UUoa, was enticed to a certain " In 1773, Dr. Johnson, aged 64, accompanied by his 
 
 monastery, and there killed by the monks, who asserted faithful Boswell, made his celebrated tour to Scotland 
 
 that the statue of the Commandant (erected there) had and the Hebrides, 
 come down from its pedestal and dragged Juan off to i^ y. p. 772, n. 1. 
 
 Hell. »« Dr. Joseph Black (1728-1799), prof«»ssor of chemis- 
 
 12 Xhe French expression is cid de sac. try at Edinburgh. 
 
776 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 world, keeps all his pulses going true and the sickroom. By all means begin your folio; 
 fast, and fl;athera impetus as he runs, until, even if the doctor does not give you a year, 
 if ho be nmning ti)wards anything better than even if he hesitates about a month, make one 
 a wildfire, he may shoot up and become a con- brave push and see what can be accomplished 
 itellation' in the end. Lord look after his sin a week. It is not , only in finished under- 
 beallh, Lonl have a care of his soul, says he; takings that we ought to honour useful labour. 
 and he has at the key of the position, and A spirit goes out of the man who means execu- 
 awashes through incongruity and peril towards tion, which outlives the most untimely ending. 
 his aim. Death is on all sides of him with All who have meant good work with their' 
 pointed batteries, as he is on all sides of all of lO whole hearts, have done good work, although 
 us; unfortunate surprises gird him round; mim- they may die before they have the time' to sign 
 mouthed >' friends and relations hold up their it. Every heart that has beat strong and 
 hands in quite a little elegiacal synod about his cheerfully has left a hopeful impulse behind 
 path; and what cares he for all this? Being it in the world, and bettered the tradition of 
 a true lover of living, a fellow with something 15 mankind. And even if death catch people, like 
 pushing and spontaneous in his inside, he an open pitfall, and in mid-career, laying out 
 must, like any other soldier, in any other vast projects, and planning monstrous founda- 
 stirring, deadly warfare, push on at his best tions, flushed with hope, and their mouths full 
 pace until he touch the goal. "A peerage or of boastful language, they should be at once 
 Westminster Abbey!"*' cried Nelson in his 20 tripped up and silenced : is there not something 
 bright, boyish, heroic manner. These are great brave and spirited in such a termination? and 
 incentives; not for any of these, but for the does not Hfe go down with a better grace, foam- 
 plain satisfaction of living, of being about their ing in full body over a precipice, than miserably 
 busine^ in some sort or other, do the brave, straggling to an end in sandy deltas? When 
 aerviceable men* of every nation tread down 25 the Greeks made their fine saying that those 
 the nettle danger, and pass flyingly over all whom the gods love die young, 20 1 cannot help 
 the stumbling-blocks of prudence. Think of believing they had this sort of death also m 
 the heroism of Johnson, think of that superb their eye. For surely, at whatever age it over- 
 indifference to mortal limitation that set him take the man, this is to die young. Death has 
 upon his dictionary, and carried him through 30 not been suffered to take so much as an illu- 
 triumphantly until the end! Who, if he were sion from his heart. In the hot-fit of life, a 
 wisely considerate of things at large, would tip-toe on the highest point of being, he passes 
 ever embark upon any work much more con- at a bound on to the other side. The noise of ' 
 siderable than a halfpenny post card? Who the mallet and chisel -is scarcely quenched,- 
 would project a serial novel, after Thackeray 35 the trumpets are hardly done blowing, when, 
 and Dickens had each fallen in mid-course?*» trailing with him clouds of glory,2i this happy- 
 Who would find heart enough to begin to live starred, full-blooded spirit shoots into the 
 if he dallied with the consideration of death? spiritual land. 
 
 And, after all, what sorry and pitiful quib- 
 bling all this is! To forego all the issues of 40 
 
 living in a parlour with a regulated tempera- PULVIS ET UMBRA^ 
 
 ture— as if that were not to die a hundred times /Trx^rv, a^^„„ yi.^ r.?^ -^^ 1 Qno\ 
 
 , over, and for ten years at a stretch! As if it were ^^'^^^ ^"^^'^ ^^' ^^'""'^ ^^^^^ 
 
 not to die in one's own lifetime, and without We look for some reward of our endeavours 
 even the sad immunities of death! As if it 45 and are disappointed; not success, not hap^ 
 were not to die, and yet be the patient spec- piness, not even peace of conscience, crowns 
 totore of our own pitiable change! The Per- our ineffectual efforts to do well. Our frailties 
 manent Possibility is preserved, but the sensa- are invincible, our virtues barren; the battle 
 tions carefully held at arm's length, as if one goes sore against us to the going down of the 
 kept a photographic plate in a dark cliamber. 60 » Aftr;K„f^^ + a/t ^ nr t,, . 01... 
 
 Ufa K^tfA. t^ 1^«^ u uu ri 1., 'r. . ^Attributed to Menander. Cf. Plautus, Bacchtdes, 
 
 la better to lose health like a spendthrift iv. 7. is. 
 
 than to waste it like a miser. It is better to /•* ^^' Wordsworth's Ode on the Intimations of Immor- 
 
 live and be done with it, than to die daily in *'^' ^' But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 n !/• • Oil.* , From God, who is our home." 
 
 •TWk.™, left D.m. Duval >,nfi»i,hed, .nd Dickers '^""^ " """"■" "'"""■ H„r m IV 7 14 
 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON » 777 
 
 sun. The canting moralist tells us of right dust, used as we are to it, yet strikes us with 
 and wrong; and we look abroad, even on the occasional disgust, and the profusion of worms 
 face of our small earth, and find them change in a piece of ancient turf, or the air of a marsh 
 with every climate, and no country where darkened with insects, will sometimes check 
 some action is not honoured for a virtue and sour breathing so that we aspire for cleaner 
 none where it is not branded for a vice; and places. But none is clean: the moving sand is 
 we look in our experience, and find no vital infected with lice; the pure spring, where it 
 congruity in the wisest rules, but at the besL bursts out of the mountain, is a mere issue of 
 a municipal fitness. , It is not strange if we worms; even in the hard rock the crystal is 
 are tempted to despair of good. We ask too lo forming. 
 
 much. Our religions and moralities have been In two main shapes this eruption covers the 
 
 trimmed to flatter us, till they are all emascu- countenance of the earth: the animal and the 
 late and sentimentalised, and only please and vegetable: one in some degree the inversion of 
 v/eaken. Truth is of a rougher strain. In the the other: the second rooted to the spot; the 
 harsh face of life, faith can read a bracing 15 first coming detached out of its natal mud, 
 gospel. The human race is a thing more an- and scurrying abroad with the myriad feet of 
 cient than the ten commandments; and the insects or towering into the heavens on the 
 bones and revolutions of the Kosmos, in whose wings of birds: a thing so inconceivable that, 
 joints we are but moss and fungus, more an- if it be well considered, the heart stops. To 
 cient still. 20 what passes with the anchored vermin, we have 
 
 little clue; doubtless they have their joys and 
 ' •*• • sorrows, their delights and killing agonies: it 
 
 Of the Kosmos in the last resort, science re- appears not how. But of the locomotory, 
 ports many doubtful things and all of them to which we ourselves belong, we can tell more. 
 appalUng. There seems no substance to this 25 These share with us a thousand miracles: the 
 solid globe on which we stamp: nothing but miracles of sight, of hearing, of the projection 
 symbols and ratios. Symbols and ratios carry of sound, things that bridge space; the miracles 
 us and bring us forth and beat us down; gravity of memory and reason, by which the present 
 that swings the incommensurable suns and is conceived, and when it is gone, its image 
 worlds through space, is but a figment varying 30 kept living in the brains of man and brute; 
 inversely as the squares of distances; and the the miracle of reproduction, with its imperious 
 suns and worlds themselves, imponderable desires and staggering consequences. And to 
 figures of abstraction, NH3 and H2O. ^ Con- put the last touch upon this mountain mass 
 sideration dares not dwell upon this view; that of the revolting and the inconceivable, all 
 way madness lies;' science carries us into zones 35 these prey upon each other, lives tearing other 
 of speculation, where there is no habitable city lives in pieces, cramming them inside them- 
 for the mind of man. selves, and by that summary process, growing 
 
 But take the Kosmos with a grosser faith, fat: the vegetarian, the whale, perhaps the 
 as our senses give it us. We behold space tree, not less than the lion of the desert; for 
 sown with rotatory islands, suns and worlds 40 the vegetarian is only the eater of the dumb, 
 and the shards and wrecks of systems: some. Meanwhile our rotatory island loaded with 
 
 like the sun, still blazing; some rotting, like predatory life, and more drenched with blood, 
 the earth; others, like the moon, stable in both animal and vegetable, than ever mutinied 
 desolation. All of these we take to be made of ship, scuds through space with unimaginable 
 something we call matter: a thing which no 45 speed, and turns alternate cheeks to the rever- 
 analysis can help us to conceive; to whose beration of a blazing world, ninety million 
 incredible properties no familiarities can recon- miles away, 
 cile our minds. This stuff, when not purified 
 
 by the lustration of fire, rots uncleanly into ^^ 
 
 something we call life; seized through all its 50 What a monstrous spectre is this man, the 
 atoms with a pediculous malady; swelling in disease of the agglutinated dust,^ lifting alter- 
 tumours that become independent, sometimes nate feet or lying drugged with slumber; kill- 
 even (by an abhorrent prodigy) locomotory; ing, feeding, growing, bringing forth small 
 one splitting into millions, millions cohering copies of himself; grown upon with hair hke 
 into one, as the malady proceeds through 55 grass, fitted with eyes that move and glitter 
 varying stages. This vital putrescence of the , ..^^^^ ^ p.^^^ ^^ ^^^^ .^ ^^^, ^^^ ^^^ ^ ^^^ 
 
 , • J i what ia this guirt/esscAtce »/ rfusi.' " etc. //arn.. II. ii. 295. 
 
 « NHs and H2O, 1. e. ammonia and water. The style and rhythm of Stevenson's passage are strik- 
 
 • Oh, that way madness lies, let me shun that. ingly close to the famous speech of Hamlet, from which 
 
 Lear, III. iv. 21. the above lines are quoted. 
 
778 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 in his face; a thing to set children screaming; — fections of the best. They cannot be too darkly 
 and yet looked at nearlier, known as his fellows drawn. Man is indeed marked for failure in 
 know him, how surprising are his attributes! his efforts to do right. But where the best 
 Poor soul, here for so little, cast among so consistently miscarry, how tenfold more re- 
 many hardships, filled with desires so incom- smarkable that all should continue to strive; 
 mensurate and so inconsistent, savagely sur- and surely we should find it both touching 
 rounded, savagely descended, irremediably and inspiriting, that in a field from which 
 condemned to prey upon his fellow fives: who success is banished, our race should not cease 
 should have blamed him had he been of a piece to labour. 
 
 with bis destiny and a being merely barbarous? lo If the first view of this creature, stalking in 
 And we look and behold him instead filled with his rotatory isle, be a thing to shake the cour- 
 imperfect virtues: infinitely childish, often age of the stoutest, on this nearer sight, he 
 admirably valiant, often touchingly kind; startles us with an admiring wonder. It mat- 
 sitting down, amidst his momentary life, to ters not where we look, under what climate we 
 debate of right and wrong and the attributes 15 observe him, in what stage of society, in what 
 of the deity; rising up to do battle for an egg^ depth of ignorance, burthened with what 
 or die for an idea; singling out his friends and erroneous morality; by camp-fires in Assiniboia, 
 his mate with cordial affection; bringing forth the snow powdering his shoulders, the wind 
 in pain, rearing with long-suffering solicitude, plucking his blanket, as he sits, passing the 
 his young. To touch the heart of his mystery, 20 ceremonial calumet and uttering his grave 
 we find in him one thought, strange to the opinions like a Roman senator; in ships at 
 point of lunacy: the thought of duty; the sea, a man inured to hardship and vile pleas- 
 thought of something owing to himself, to his ures, his brightest hope a fiddle in a tavern and 
 neighbour, to his God: an ideal of decency, to a bedizened trull who sells herself to rob him, 
 which he would rise if it were possible; a limit 25 and he for all that simple, innocent, cheerful, 
 of shame, below which, if it be possible, he kindly like a child, constant to toil, brave to 
 will not stoop. The design in most men is drown, for others; in the slums of cities, mov- 
 one of conformity; here and there, in picked ing among indifferent millions to mechanical 
 natures, it transcends itself and soars on the employment, without hope of change in the 
 other side, arming martyrs with independence; 30 future, with scarce a pleasure in the present, 
 but in all, in their degrees, it is a bosom thought: and yet true to his virtues, honest up to his 
 —Not in man alone, for we trace it in dogs lights, kind to his neighbours, tempted per- 
 and cats whom we know fairly well, and doubt- haps in vain by the bright gin-palace, perhaps 
 less some similar point of honour sways the long-suffering with the drunken wife that ruins 
 elephant, the oyster, and the louse, of whom 35 him; in India (a woman this time) kneeling 
 we know so little: — But in man, at least, it with broken cries and streaming tears, as she 
 sways with so complete an empire that merely drowns her child in the sacred river; in the 
 selfish things come second, even with the sel- brothel, the discard of society, hving mainly 
 fish: that appetites are starved, fears are con- on strong drink, fed with affronts, a fool, a 
 quered, pains supported; that almost the dullest 40 thief, the comrade of thieves, and even here 
 shrinks from the reproof of a glance, although keeping the point of honour and the touch of 
 it were a child's; and all but the most cowardly pity, often repaying the world's scorn with 
 stand amid the risks of war; and the more service, often standing firm upon a scruple, 
 noble having strongly conceived an act as due and at a certain cost, rejecting riches:— every- 
 to their ideal, affront and embrace death. 45 where some virtue cherished or affected, 
 Strange enough if, with their singular origin everywhere some decency of thought and car- 
 and perverted practice, they think they are riage, everywhere the ensign of man's ineffec- 
 to be rewarded in some future life: stranger tual goodness:— ah! if I could show you this! 
 still, if they are persuaded of the contrar>% If I could show you these men and women, all 
 and think this blow, which they sohcit, will 50 the world over, in every stage of history, under 
 strike them senseless for eternity. I shall be every abuse of error, under eveiy circumstance 
 remmded what a tragedy of misconception of failure, without hope, without help, without 
 and misconduct man at large presents; of or- thanks, still obscurely fighting the lost fight 
 ganised injustice, cowardly violence and of virtue, stiU clinging, in the brothel or on the 
 treacherous crime; and of the damning imper- 55 scaffold, to some rag of honour, the poor 
 » To do hatUe for an egg. jewel of their souls!^ They may seek to escape, 
 
 Exposing what is mortal and unsure 
 
 Toall that fortune death, and danger dare. « Good name in man or woman, dear my lord, 
 
 Uvw for an egg-sheU. Is the immediate jewd of their souls. 
 
 Ham., IV. IV. 61. Othello, III. iii. 181. J 
 
FRANCIS THOMPSON 
 
 779 
 
 and yet they cannot; it is not alone their privi- 
 lege and glory, but their doom; they are con- 
 demned to some nobility; all their lives long, 
 the desire of good is at their heels, the impla- 
 cable hunter. 
 
 Of all earth's meteors, here at least is the 
 most strange and consoling: That this en- 
 nobled lemur,^ this hair-crowned bubble of 
 the dust, this inheritor of a few years and sor- 
 
 timid hope of some reward, some sugar with 
 the drug? do they, too, stand aghast at unre- 
 warded virtues, at the sufferings of those 
 whom, in our partiality, we take to be just, 
 5 and the prosperity of such as, in our blindness 
 we call wicked? It may be, and yet God 
 knows what they should look for. Even while 
 they look, even while they repent, the foot of 
 man treads them by thousands in the dust. 
 
 rows, should yet deny himself his rare delights, lo the yelping hounds burst upon their trail, the 
 and add to his frequent pains, and live for an bullet speeds, the knives are heating in the den 
 ideal, however misconceived. Nor can we of the vivisectionist; or the dew falls, and the 
 stop with man. A new doctrine, received generation of a day is blotted out. For these 
 with screams a little while ago by canting are creatures, compared with whom our weak- 
 moralists, and still not properly worked intoisness is strength, our ignorance wisdom, our 
 the body of our thoughts, lights us a step brief span eternity. 
 
 farther into the heart of this rough but noble And as we dwell, we living things, in our 
 universe. For nowadays the pride of man isle of terror and under the imminent hand of 
 denies in vain his kinship with the original death, God forbid it should be man the erected, 
 dust. He stands no longer like a thing apart. 20 the reasoner, the wise in his own eyes — God 
 Close at his heels we see the dog, prince of forbid it should be man that wearies in well- 
 another genus: and in him too, we see dumbly doing, that despairs of unrewarded effort, or 
 testified the same cultus of an unattainable utters the language of complaint. Let it be 
 ideal, the same constancy in failure. Does it enough for faith, that the whole creation 
 stop with the dog? We look at our feet where 25 groans in mortal frailty, strives with uncon- 
 the ground is blackened with the swarming querable constancy: Surely not all in vain, 
 ant: a creature so small, so far from us in the 
 hierarchy of brutes, that we can scarce trace 
 and scarce comprehend his doings; and here 
 also, in his ordered polities and rigorous jus- 30 
 tice, we see confessed the law of duty and the 
 fact of individual sin. Does it stop, then, 
 with the ant? Rather this desire of well- 
 doing and this doom of frailty run through 
 all the grades of life: rather is this earth, from 35 
 the frosty top of Everest* to the next margin 
 
 iFrancfe tCliompsfon 
 
 1859(?)-1907 
 
 THE 
 
 ETERNAL CHILD IN SHELLEY 
 
 (From ShclUy, pub. 1908) 
 
 We have among us at the present day no 
 lineal descendant, in the poetical order; 
 
 of 
 
 of the internal fire, one stage of ineffectual Shelley; and any such offspring of the abound- 
 virtues and one temple of pious tears and per- ingly spontaneous Shelley is hardly possible, 
 severance. The whole creation groaneth and still less likely, on account of the defect by 
 travaileth together .^ It is the common and 40 which (we think) contemporary poetry in 
 the god-Uke law of life. The browsers, the general, as compared with the poetry of the 
 biters, the barkers, the hairy coats of field early nineteenth century, is mildewed. That 
 and forest, the squirrel in the oak, the thou- defect is the predominance of art over in- 
 sand-footed creeper in the dust, as they share spiration, of body over soul. We do not say 
 with us the gift of life, share with us the love 45 the deject of inspiration. The warrior is there; 
 of an ideal: strive like us — like us are tempted but he is hampered by his armour. Writers 
 to grow weary of the struggle — to do well; of high aim in all branches of literature, even 
 like us receive at times unmerited refresh- when they are not — as Mr. Swinburne, for 
 ment, visitings of support, returns of courage; instance, is — lavish in expression, are gener- 
 and are condemned like us to be crucified 50 ally over-deliberate in expression. Mr. Henry 
 between that double law of the members and James, delineating a fictitious writer clearly 
 the will Are they like us, I wonder, in the intended to be the ideal of an artist, makes him 
 
 * Francis Thompson is remembered chiefly as one of a 
 little group of poets who challenged attention toward 
 the close of the Victorian era. Of a mystical and deeply 
 religious temperament, he was obviously influenced by 
 Craabaw, and other religious poets of the early 17th 
 century. His Hound of Henven (which has been greatly 
 over-praised) is probably his best-known poem. His 
 essay on Shelley (Dublin Review, 1908; Scribner, 1912) 
 is a remarkable production in an age not distinguished 
 for the eloquence or poetic enthusiasm of its prose. 
 
 ^ The lemurs belong to the highest order of mammalia, 
 the Primates, including besides themselves, man and 
 monkeys. They are just below the apes in the scale of 
 evolution. In appearance they are fox-like monkeys. 
 The name lemur (Lat. lemures, ghosts) has been given 
 them on account of their nocturnal habits and stealthy 
 steps. 
 
 ^ A mountain in the Himalayas, so far as known the 
 highest peak on the earth (29,002 feet). 
 
 » V. Bom., vii. 23. 
 
780 THE VICTORIAN AGE 
 
 regret that he has sometimes allowed himself Yet, just as in the effete French society be- 
 to take the second-best word instead of search- fore the Revolution the Queen played at Ar- 
 ing for the best. Theoretically, of course, one cadia, the King played at being a mechanic, 
 ought always to try for the best word. But every one played at simplicity and universal 
 practically, the habit of excessive care in word 5 philanthropy, leaving for most durable out- 
 selection frequently results in loss of spon- come of their philanthropy the guillotine, as 
 taneity; and, still worse, the habit of always the most durable outcome of ours may be 
 taking the most ornate word, the word most execution by electricity; — so in our own so- 
 removed from ordinary speech. In conse- ciety the talk of benevolence and the cult of 
 quence of this, poetic diction has become lat- 10 childhood are the very fashion of the hour, 
 terly a kaleidoscope, and one's chief curiosity We, of this self-conscious, incredulous genera- 
 is as to the precise combinations into which tion, sentimentalize our children, analyse our 
 the pieces will be shifted. There is, in fact, children, think we are endowed with a special 
 a certain band of words, the Praetorian cohorts^ capacity to sympathize and identify ourselves 
 of poetry, whose prescriptive aid is invoked 15 with children; we play at being children. And 
 by every aspirant to the poetical purple, and the result is that we are not more child-like, 
 without whose prescriptive aid none dares but our children are less child-like. It is so 
 aspire to the poetical purple; against these tiring to stoop to the child, so much easier to 
 it is time some banner should be raised. Per- lift the child up to you. Know you what it 
 haps it is almost impossible for a contem-20is to be a child? It is to be something very 
 porary writer quite to evade the services of different from the man of to-day. It is to 
 the free-lances whom one encounters under have a spirit yet streaming from the waters 
 so many standards. But it is at any rate of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe 
 curious to note that the literary revolution in loveliness, to beheve in belief, it is to be so 
 against the despotic diction of Pope seems 25 little that the elves can reach to whisper in 
 issuing, like political revolutions, in a des- your ear; it is to turn pumpkins into coaches, 
 potism of its own making. and mice into horses, lowness into loftiness, 
 This, then, we cannot but think, distin- and nothing into everything, for each child 
 guishes the Uterary period of Shelley from our has its fairj' godmother in its own soul; it is 
 own. It distinguishes even the unquestionable 30 to live in a nutshell and to count yourself the 
 treasures and masterpieces of to-day from king of infinite space;' it is 
 similar treasures and masterpieces of the pre- 
 cedent day; even the Lotus-Eaters from Kuhla- "^^.^^ ^ f °^^^ ^- ^ ^^^^ ^1 ^^^^' 
 Khan; even Rossetti's ballads from Christabel. „ ^nd a heaven m a wild flower, 
 
 It is present in the restraint of Matthew Arnold 35 ^^Hi^^wn^-/^ -^1^^^.^^ ^"""^ ^^''^' 
 
 , ' ^, • XI- L <• c • u And eternity m an hour:* 
 
 no less than m the exuberance of Swinburne, *^ ' 
 
 and affects our writers who aim at simpUcity It is to know not as yet that you are undei 
 
 no less than those who seek richness. Indeed, sentence of life, nor petition that it be com- 
 
 nothing is so artificial as our simplicity. It is muted into death. When we become con- 
 
 the simplicity of the French stage ingenue. 40 scious in dreaming that we dream, the dream 
 
 We are self-conscious to the finger-tips; and is on the point of breaking; when we become 
 
 this inherent quality, entailing on our poetry conscious in living that we live, the ill dream 
 
 the inevitable loss of spontaneity, ensures that is but just beginning. Now if Shelley was but 
 
 whatever poets, of whatever excellence, may too conscious of the dream, in other respects 
 
 be bom to us from the Shelleian stock, its 45 Dryden's false and famous line^ might have 
 
 founder's spirit can take among us no rein- been applied to him with very much less than 
 
 carnation. An age that is ceasing to produce its usual untruth. To the last, in a degree 
 
 child-like children cannot produce a Shelley, uncommon even among poets, the idiosyncrasy 
 
 For both as poet and man he was essentially of childhood expanded and matured without 
 
 a child. 50 differentiation. To the last he was the en- 
 
 2 i. e. this chosen band of words stands in the same chanted child, 
 
 relation to the aspirant for poetical distinction, as the » "O God, I could be bounded in a nut-shell, and count 
 
 PrcElorian Cohort, or Guard (the special guard of the myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have 
 
 Roman emperors), stood to those who aspired to the im- bad dreams." Ham., II. ii. 250. 
 
 perial purple. The Prcetorian Cohort, created by the * William Blake. 
 
 Emperor Augustus for his especial use and protection, » The Zme referred to is presumably : 
 
 gained such power m later times that it made and d«- "Great wits are sure to madness near allied." 
 
 posed •mperore at its pUasur*. Absalom and Achitophel, 162. 
 
 ^ 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 I. SELECTIONS ILLUSTRATING THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE 
 
 c. 737-c. 1500 
 
 C^DMON'S HYMN 
 
 (Translated on p. 8) 
 
 nu scylun hergan hefaenricaes uard, 
 
 metudaes maecti end his modgidanc, 
 
 uerc uuldurfadur ; sue he uundra gihuaes, 
 
 eci dryctin, or astelidse. 
 
 he aerist scop aelda barnum 
 
 heben til hrofe, haleg scepen. 
 
 Tha middungeard moncynnses uard, 
 
 eci dryctin, sefter tiadae 
 
 firum foldu frea allmectig. 
 
 BEOWULF 
 
 (Translated on p. 3) 
 
 Ic J?8et_lond-buend, leode mine, 
 sele-rsedende, secgan hyrde, 
 >8Bt hie gesawon swylce twegen 
 micle mearc-stapan moras healdan, 
 ellor-g^stas, 'Seera otSer waes, 
 >3es he hie gewisllcost gewitan meahton, 
 idese onlicnes ; otJer earm-sceapen 
 on weres wsestmum wrsec-lastas treed, 
 nasfne he waes mara Jjonne senig man o'Ser, 
 l>one on gear-dagiim Grendel nemdon 
 fold-biiende ; no hie fa3der cunnon, 
 hw9e)>er him ^nig wses ^r acenned 
 dyrnra gasta. Hie dygel lond 
 warigeaS, wulf-hleo}>u, windige ntessas, 
 frecne fen-gelad, Sser fyrgen-stream 
 under nsessa genipu nijjer gewite'S, 
 flod under foldan. Nis |>a;t feor heonon 
 mil-gemearces, \>2et se mere stande'S, 
 ofer bsem hongia'S hrimge bearwas, 
 ^vudu wyrtura faest, waeter oferhelma^. 
 peer integ nihta gehwSm ni5-wundor seon, 
 fyr on flode. No haes frod leofa^ 
 gumena bearna, ^aet J^one grund wite. 
 Deah |)e h«5-stapa hundum geswenced, 
 heorot hornum trum, holt-wudu sece, 
 feorran geflymed, ^r he feorh sele'S, 
 aldor on ofre, £er he in wille 
 hafelan [hydan], Nis }?9Bt heoru st5w; 
 honon yS-geblond iip astige'5 
 won t5 wolcnum, J^onne wind styrej> 
 laS gewidru, o'S tiajt lyft drysma}?, 
 roderas reota'S. Nti is se rsed gelang 
 eft let i)e anum. Eard git ne const, 
 frecne stowe, ^^r \>u findan miht 
 
 1350 
 
 1355 
 
 1360 
 
 1365 
 
 1370 
 
 1375 
 
 fela-sinnigne secg ; sec gif ^u dyrre. 
 Ic y>e ha f«h^e feo leanige, i380 
 
 eald-gestreonum, swa ic ^r dyde, 
 wundnum golde, gyf \>u on weg cymest. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH 
 
 (Translated on p. 14) 
 
 Her ^t5elstan cyning, eorla drihten, 
 
 beorna beahgifa, and his broSor eac, 
 
 Eadmund seSeling, ealdorlangne tir 
 
 geslogon set ssecce sweorda ^cgum 
 
 ymbe Brunanburh : bordweall clufon, 5 
 
 heowon hea'Solinde hamora kifum, 
 
 eaforan Eadweardes ; swa him geae^ele wses 
 
 fram cneomagum, "Saet hi set campe oft 
 
 wi'S la'Sra gehwsene land ealgodon, 
 
 hord and hamas. H^ttend crungon, 10 
 
 Scotta leode and scipflotan, 
 
 fsege feollon : feld dennode 
 
 s^cga swate, sihban sunne upp 
 
 on morgentid, m^re tungol, 
 
 glad ofer grund as, Godes candel beorht, 15 
 
 eces Drihtnes, o'S sio set^ele gesceaft 
 
 sah to setle. Deer l«g s^cg mgnig 
 
 garum ageted, guma NorSerna 
 
 ofer scyld scoten, swylce Scyttisc eac 
 
 werig wiges ssed. ... 20 
 
 ALFRED'S PREFACE TO HIS TRANS- 
 LATION OF GREGORY'S PASTOBAL 
 CABE 
 
 (Translated on p. 20) 
 
 Alfred kyning hate's gretan Wserfer^ biscep 
 his wordum lufllce Qnd f reondlice ; gnd "Se cy-San 
 hate 'Sset me com swrSe oft on gemynd, hwelce 
 wiotan iu wteron giond Angelcynn, segSer ge 
 godcundra hada ge woruldcundra ; grid hu ge- 
 sseliglica tida "Sa weeron giond Angelcynn ; gnd 
 hu "Sa kyniugas ISe "Sone onwald hsefdon 'Sass 
 folces on ^5am dagum Gode ^nd his serendwrecum 
 hersumedon ; Qiid ha hie ^gSer ge hiora sibbe ge 
 hiora siodo ge hiora onweald innanbordes g( hi- 
 oldon, Qnd eac ut hiora eM gerymdon ; Qud hQ 
 him Sa speow seg'Ser ge mid wige ge mid wis- 
 dSrne^ <jnd_eac ^a godcundan hadas hu giorne 
 hie wseron 8eg'^er ge ymb lare ge ymb liorriuiiga, 
 ge ymb ealle "Sa 'Siowotdomas 'Se hie Gode d5n 
 
 781 
 
782 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 scoldon ; gnd hu man utanbordes wisd5m gnd 
 lare hieder on Ignd sohte, Qnd hu w6 hie nu 
 sceoldon ute begietan, gif w6 hie habban sce- 
 oldon. Sw£e clsene hio waes o'Sfeallenu on An- 
 gelcynne "SsBt swi'Se feawa waron behionan 
 Humbre '5e hiora •86ninga cu'Sen understgndan 
 on j^nglisc o55e fuiiSuin an gerendgewrit of Lae- 
 dene on ^^nglisc ar^ceau ; qad ic w6ne "Saette 
 nOht mQnige begiondan Humbre nseren. Swae 
 feawa hiora wjeron Saet ic fur&um anne anlepne 
 ne m<Tg ge'S^ncean be stitSan T^mese, "Sa '5a ic t5 
 rice f6ng. Gode aslmihtegum sie ISqnc "Saette we 
 na senigne onstal habbaS lareowa. (^nd for "Son 
 ic -Se beblode tJaet tSu d5 sw« ic geliefe ^aet M 
 wille, •Saet 5u 5e 'Sissa woruld^inga to tSaem ge- 
 semetige, swae ^u oftost maege, "Saet 5u "Sone wis- 
 dom -Se "86 God sealde "Saer '5air -Su hiene befaestan 
 raoBge, befaeste. Ge'S^nc hwelc witu iis "Sa be- 
 c5mon for ^isse worulde, Sa ^a we hit uohwae'Ser 
 n6 selfe ne lufodon, n6 6ac o^nim mgnnum ne 
 lefdon : "Sone naman anne we lufodon Saette we 
 Cristne wseron, gnd swi'8e f6awe "Sa 'Seawas. 
 
 THE ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE, 1087 
 
 (Translated on p. 44) 
 
 Gif hwa gewilnige^ t5 gewitane hu ge don 
 mann h6 waes, otSSe hwilene wurSscipe he hsefde, 
 oS'Se hu fela lande he waere hlaford, "Sonne wille 
 w6 be him awritan swa swa we hine ageaton "Se 
 liim l5codan and o^re hwile on his hirede wune- 
 don. Se cyng Willelm J>e we embe speca^ waes 
 swI'Se WIS man and swiSe rice, and wurSfulre 
 and strengere "Sonne ainig his foregenga waere. 
 He waes milde >am godum mannum )>e God 
 lufedon, and ofer eall gemett stearc j^am man- 
 num be wi'Scwaedon his willan. Oft "Sam ilcan 
 steode \>e God him geu^e |>aet he moste Engle- 
 land gegan, he arerde msere mynster and mune- 
 cas l>«r gesaette and wash gegodade. On his 
 dagan waes }>aet mare mynster on Cantwarbyrig 
 getymbrad and eac swISe manig o^er ofer eall 
 Englaland. Eac >is land wass swiSe afylled mid 
 munecan and >a leofodan heora lif aefter scs 
 Benedictus regule, and se Xpendom waes swilc 
 on his daege baet aelc man hwaet his hade to 
 belumpe folgade se >e wolde. . . , 
 
 POEMA MORALE 
 
 (Modernized on p. 27) 
 
 Ich aem elder \>en ich wes a wintre and a Igre ; 
 Ic waelde mgre ^anne ic dude, mi wit ah to ben 
 
 mgre. 
 W6l lange ic habbe child ib6on a weorde and ^ch 
 
 a d^de ; 
 D^h ic beo a wintre 6ald, t5 jyng I eom a r^de. 
 Unnut lyf ic habb Used, and jyet me Mncb ic 
 
 l^de ; 5 
 
 Danne ic m6 bij>enche, wei sgre ic me adr^de. 
 M^st al )>aet ic habbe ydOn ys idelnesse and 
 
 chilche : 
 
 W6l late ic habbe me bi]?oht, bute me God d 
 
 milce. 
 Fele ydele word ic habbe iqueden, sy S'Sen ic spek 
 
 cute, 
 And fale >unge d|de id5 >et me ofHnchet nu]>e. 
 
 ORMULUM 
 
 (Modernized on p. 28) 
 
 Nu br5J>err Wallterr, br61>err min 
 
 affterr be flaeshess kinde, 
 annd broberr min i Crisstenndom 
 
 burrh fulluhht and burrh trowwbe, 
 annd broberr min i Godess hiis 
 
 jet o be bridde wise, 
 burrh batt witt hafenn takenn ba 
 
 an rejheilboc to folljhenn, 
 unnderr kanunnkess had annd llf 
 
 swa summ Sannt Awwstin sette ; i 
 ice hafe don swa summ bu badd 
 
 annd for>edd te bin wille, 
 ice hafe wennd inn till Ennglissh 
 
 goddspelless halljhe lare, 
 affterr batt little witt batt me i 
 
 min Drihhtin hafebb lened. 
 Du bohhtesst tatt itt mihhte wel 
 
 till mikell frame turrnenn, 
 >iff Ennglissh folic, forr lufe off Crist, 
 
 itt wollde >erne lernenn 2« 
 
 annd foUjhenn itt and fillenn itt 
 
 wibb bohht, wibb word, wibb dede ; 
 annd forrbi jerrndesst tii batt ice 
 
 biss werrc be shoUde wirrkenn, 
 annd ice itt hafe forbedd te, 2{ 
 
 ace all )>urrh Cristess hellpe. 
 
 DEBATE OF THE BODY AND THE SOUII 
 (Modernized on p. 30) 
 
 Als I lay in a winteris nyjt .; 
 
 In a droupening bif^r be day, ■ 
 
 Forsobe I sau? a selly sy>t, T 
 
 A body on a here lay, 
 Dat havede ben a mody knyjt t 
 
 And litel served God to pay ; 
 Lqren he haved be lives lyjt, 
 
 De gQSt was oute and scholde away. 
 
 Wan be gQSt it scholde gg, 
 
 It biwente and withstod, ic 
 
 Biheld the body bere it cam frg 
 
 Sq serf uUi with dredli mod ; 
 It seide, ' Weile and walawQ ! 
 
 Wq worbe bl fleys, bi f oule blo(f . 
 Wreche bodi wjy list ou sq, li 
 
 Dat jwilene were sq wilde and wod ? 
 
 Don bat were woned to ride 
 
 Heyje on horse in and out, 
 Sq kweynte kni^t iku« sq wide. 
 
 As a lyon fers and proud, 20 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 783 
 
 ^were is al H michele pride, 
 And \>i lede >at was sq loud ? 
 
 gwi list ou >ere sq bare o side 
 Iprlcked in )jat pore schroud ? 
 
 §were ben }>i wur^li wedes, 
 
 Di somers with H riche beddes, 
 Di proude palfreys and \)l stedes ? 
 
 Dat ^on about in dester leddes ? 
 Di faucouns l>at were wont to grede, 
 
 And )>ine houndes bat bou fedde ? 
 Me binkeb God is be to gnede, 
 
 Dat alle bine frend beon frQ be fledde. 
 
 §were beon H castles and bi toures, 
 
 Di chambres and bi riche halles 
 Ipeynted with sq riche floures, 
 
 And bi riche rQbes alle ? 
 Dine cowltes and bi covertoures, 
 
 Di cendels and bi riche palles ? 
 Wreclie, ful derk is nou bi hour ; 
 
 Tomoruwe bou schalt berinne falle.' 
 
 25 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 THE ANCREN RIWLE 
 
 Of Speech 
 
 (Modernized on p. 51) 
 
 Spellunge and smecchunge beo^ ine mii'Se b^^e 
 ase sih'Se is i "Sen eien ; auh we schullen l^ten 
 smecchunge vort tet we spoken of ower m|te, 
 and spoken nu of spellunge and t^refter of her- 
 runge, of bQ inline sume cherre ase gQ5 togederes. 
 
 On aire ^rest hwon }e schulen to oure parltires 
 burle, iwiteS et ower meiden hwQ hit beo bet is 
 icumen, vor swuch hit mei beon bet >e schulen 
 asunien ou ; and hwon }e alles moten vorS, 
 3reoise'S ful jeorne our mufS, ^aren, and eien, 
 and te breoste ^ke, and gQ'S for'S mid Godes dr^de 
 to preoste. On ^rest siggeS '• conflteor,' and 
 b^refter ' benedicite ' ; bet he ouh t5 siggen, 
 •lercne'S his vvordes and sitte'5 al stille bet, hwon 
 lie partes vrom ou, bet he ne cunne ower god 
 ae ower uvel nou^er, ne he ne cunne ou nou'Ser 
 blamen ne preisen. Sum is sq wel il^red QlSer 
 j^ WIS iworded bet heo wolde bet he wuste hit be 
 ;it and sp^ke^ touward him and jelt him word 
 i?8in word, and bicume'5 meister be schulde beon 
 more, l^are'S him bet is icumen to l^ren hire ; 
 wolde bi hire tale sone beon mit te wise icud 
 ind icnowen. Icnowen heo is wel, vor burh bet 
 Ike bet heo wene'5 to beon wis ih^lden he un- 
 lerstont bet heo is sot, vor heo hunte'S efter pris 
 lud kecche'S lastunge. Vor et te laste hwon he 
 s iwend awei, ' Deos ancre,' he wule siggen, 'is 
 )f muchele sp^che.' 
 
 ALYSOUN 
 
 (Modernized on p. 42) 
 
 Bytuene Mersh ant Averil, 
 
 When spray biginneth to springe, 
 The Intel foul hath hire wyl 
 
 On hyre lud to synge. 
 
 Ich libbe in love-longinge 
 
 For semlokest of alle things ; 
 
 He may me blisse bringe ; 
 Icham in hire baundoun. 
 
 An hendy hap ichabbe yhent ; 
 
 Ichot from hevene it is me sent ; 
 
 From alle wymmen mi love is lent 
 Ant lyht on Alysoun. 
 
 On hen hire her is fayr ynoh, 
 
 Hire browe broune, hire eye blake ; 
 
 With lossum chere he on me loh, 
 With middel smal ant wel ymake. 
 Bote he me wolle to hire take. 
 Forte buen hire owen make, 
 Longe to lyven ichulle forsake. 
 
 Ant feye fallen adoun. 
 
 Nihtes when I wende ant wake, 
 Forthi myn wonges waxeth won. 
 
 Levedi, al for thine sake 
 Longinge is ylent me on. 
 In world nis iion so wytermon. 
 That al hire bounte telle con. 
 Hire swyre is whittore then the swon 
 
 Ant feyrest may in toune. 
 
 i 
 
 Icham for wowing al f orwake, 
 
 Wery so water in wore. 
 Lest eny reve me my make, 
 
 Ichabbe y-yerned yore. 
 
 Betere is tholien whyle sore, 
 
 Then mournen evermore. 
 
 Geynest under gore, 
 Herkne to my roun. 
 
 An hendy hap ichabbe yhent ; 
 
 Ichot from hevene it is me sent ; 
 
 From alle wymmen mi love is lent 
 Ant lyht on Alysoun. 
 
 BARBOUR'S BBUGE 
 
 (Modernized on p. 55) 
 
 A ! fredome is a noble thing ! 
 Fredome mayss man to haiff liking ; 
 Fredome all solace to man giffis : 
 He levys at ess that frely levys ! 
 A noble hart may haiff nane ess, 
 Na ellys nocht that may him pless, 
 Gyff fredome fail>he ; for fre liking 
 Is jharnyt our all othir thing. 
 Na he, that ay hass levyt fre, 
 May nocht knaw weill the propyrte. 
 The angyr, na the wrechyt dome. 
 That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. 
 Bot gyff he had assayit it. 
 Than all perquer he suld it wyt ; 
 And suld think fredome mar to pryss 
 Than all the gold in warld that is. 
 Thus contrar thingis euir-mar 
 Discoweryngis off the tothir ar. 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 40 
 
 225 
 
 230 
 
 235 
 
784 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 THE PEARL 
 
 (Modernized on p. 56) 
 
 I 
 
 Perle plesaunte to Prynces paye, 
 
 To clanly clos in golde so clere 1 
 
 Oute of Oryent, I hardyly saye, 
 
 Ne proued I neuer her precios pere, 
 
 So rounde, so reken in vche araye, 6 
 
 So smal, so 8moJ>e her syde> were. 
 
 Queresoeuer I jugged gemmej gaye, 
 
 I sette hyr sengeley in syngulere. 
 
 Alias ! I leste hyr in on erbere ; 
 
 Dur) gresse to grounde hit fro me yot. 10 
 
 I dewyne, fordolked, of luf-daungere, 
 
 Of )>at pryuy perle wythouten spot. 
 
 in 
 
 Dat spot of spyse? mot nede? sprede, 25 
 
 Der such rychej to rot is runne ; 
 
 131ome> blayke & blwe & rede 
 
 Der schynej f ul schyr agayn j?e sunne ; 
 
 Flor & fryte may not be fede 
 
 Der hit doun drof in molde> dunne ; 30 
 
 For vch gresse mot grow of graynej dede, 
 
 No whete were ellej to wone> wonne ; 
 
 Of goud vche goude is ay bygonne ; 
 
 So semly a sede mojt fayly not, 
 
 Dat spryngande spycej vp ne sponne 35 
 
 Of )>at precios perle wythouten spotte. 
 
 vn 
 
 Dubbed wern alle l>o downed syde? 
 Wyth crystal klyffe> so cler of kynde. 
 Holte-wodej bryjt aboute hem bydej 75 
 
 ( )f bollej as blwe as ble of ynde ; 
 As bornyst syluer ^e lef onslyde^, 
 Dat J>ike con trylle on vch a tynde 
 Quen glem of glode? agayn> hem glydej ; 
 Wyth schymeryng schene ful schrylle hay 
 schynde. 80 
 
 De grauayl \>ait on grounde con grynde 
 VVem precious perlej of Oryente ; 
 De sunnebeme5 bot bio & blynde 
 In respecte of bat adubbement. 
 
 vni 
 
 The adubbemente of \>o downej dere 85 
 
 Garten my goste al greffe forjete ; 
 
 So frech flauorej of fryte? were 
 
 As fode hit con me fayre refete. 
 
 Fowle) her flowen in fryth in fere, 
 
 Of tlaumbande hwej, bo>e smale & grete ; 90 
 
 Bot sytole-stryng & gyternere 
 
 Her reken myr^e mo)t not retrete ; 
 
 For, quen hose brydde? her wyngej bete. 
 
 Day songen wyth a swete asent ; 
 
 So gracios gle coube no mon gete 95 
 
 As here & se her adubbement. 
 
 SIR GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 
 
 (Modernized on p. 58) 
 
 For-hi Hs >ol ouer-jede, & he jere after, 500 
 
 & vche sesoun serlepes sued after oher ; 
 After crysten-masse com he crabbed lentoun, 
 Dat frayste> flesch wyth he fysche & fode more 
 
 symple ; 
 Bot henne he weder of he worlde wyth wynter 
 
 hit hrepe>, 
 Colde clenge? adoun, cloudej vp-lyften, 505 
 
 Schyre schedej he rayn in schowrej ful warme, 
 Falle? vpon fayre flat, flowre> here schewen, 
 Bohe grounded & he greuej grene ar her wedej, 
 Bryddej busken to bylde, & bremlych syngen, 
 For solace of he softe somer hat sues her-af ter, 510 
 bi bonk ; 
 
 & blossumej bolne to blowe, 
 
 Bi rawe? rych & ronk, 
 
 pen note? noble in-no?e, 
 
 Ar herde in wod so wlonk. 615 
 
 After he sesoun of somer wyth he soft wynde?, 
 Quen jerferus syfle? hym-self on sede? & erbe>, 
 Wela-wynne is he wort hat woxes her-oute. 
 When he donkande dewe drope? of he leue?, 
 To bide a blysful blusch of he bry?t sunne. 520 
 Bot hen hy?es heruest, & hardenes hym sone, 
 Warne? hym for he wynter to wax ful rype ; 
 He dryues wyth dro>t he dust for to ryse, 
 Fro he face of the folde to fly?e ful hy?e ; 
 Wrohe wynde of he welkyn wrastele? with he 
 sunne, 525 
 
 De leue? lancen fro he lynde, & ly>ten on he 
 
 grounde, 
 & al grayes he gres, hat grene wat? ere ; 
 Denue al rype? & rote? hat ros vpon fyrst, 
 & hus ?irne? he ?ere in ?isterdaye? mony, 
 & wynter wynde? a?ayn, as he worlde aske? 530 
 no sage. 
 
 Til me?el-mas mone, 
 
 Wat? cumen wyth wynter wage ; 
 
 Den henkke? Gawan ful sone. 
 
 Of his anious uyage. 535 
 
 William llanglanD 
 
 PIERS THE PLOUGHMAN 
 
 (Modernized on p. 60) 
 
 In A somer sesun whon softe was he sonne, 
 I schop me in-to a schroud A scheep as I were ; 
 In Habite of an Hermite vn-holy of werkes, 
 Wende I wydene in his world wondres to here. 
 Bote in a Mayes Morwnynge on Maluerne 
 
 hulles 5 
 
 Me bi-fel a ferly A Feyrie me houhte ; 
 I was weori of wandringe and wente me to 
 
 reste 
 Vndur a brod banke bi a Bourne syde, 
 And as I lay and leonede and lokede on he 
 
 watres, 
 I sluinberde in A slepyng hit sownede so muiie. 
 Denne gon I Meeten A Meruelous sweuene, n 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 785 
 
 Dat I was in A Wildernesse wuste I neuer 
 
 where, 
 And as I beo-heold in-to J?e Est an-hei> to be 
 
 Sonne, 
 I sauh a Tour on A Toft tritely I-maket ; 
 A Deop Dale bi-neobe A dungun ber-Inne, 15 
 VV ith deop dich and derk and dredf ul of siht. 
 A Feir feld ful of folk fond I er bi-twene, 
 ()[ alle maner of men be mene and be riche, 
 Worchinge and wondringe as be world askeb- 
 S amine putten hem to be ploii> and pleiden 
 
 hem fnl seldene, 20 
 
 In Eringe and in Sowynge swonken ful harde, 
 Dat monie of beos wasturs In Glotonye dis- 
 
 truen. 
 And Summe putten hem to pruide apparaylden 
 
 hem berafter, 
 In Cuntinaunce of clobinge queinteliche de- 
 
 Gyset ; 
 To preyere and to penaunce putten heom 
 
 monye, 25 
 
 For loue of vr lord liueden ful harde, 
 In Hope for to haue Heuene-riche blisse ; 
 As Ancres and Hermytes bat holdeb hem in 
 
 heore Celles, 
 Coueyte not in Cuntre to carien a-boute 29 
 For non likerous lyflode heore licam to plese. 
 And summe chosen ChafEare to cheeuen be 
 
 bettre, 
 As hit semeb to vre siht bat suche men scholden ; 
 And summe Murbhes to maken as Munstrals 
 
 cunne, 
 And gete gold wib here gle giltles, I trowe. 
 Bote lapers and langelers ludas Children, 35 
 Founden hem Fantasyes and fooles hem 
 
 maaden. 
 And habbeb wit at heor wille to worchen yi 
 
 hem luste. 
 Dat Foul precheb of hem I dar not preouen 
 
 heere ; 
 Qui loquitur turpiloquium Hee is Luciferes 
 
 byne. 
 
 (Modernized on p. 78) 
 
 A schort reule of life for ich man in general, 
 and for prestis and lordis and laboreris in special, 
 how ich man schal be savyd in his degre, if he 
 wile hym silf. 
 
 First, whanne bou risist or fulli wakist, benk 
 on be goodnesse of God ; ffor his owne goodnesse 
 and non ober nede he made al bing of noujt, bobe 
 angels and men, and alle ober creatures good in 
 hiT kynde. pe seconde tyme benk on be gret 
 passion and wilful deb bat Crist suffrid for man- 
 Icynde. Whan no man mijt make satisfaccion 
 for be gilt of Adam and Eve, and ober moo, ne 
 non angel owe no my>t make aseb berfor, ban 
 Crist of his endeles charite sufferid so gret pas- 
 sioun and peynful deb, bat no creature myjt 
 suffre soo myche. And benk be brid tyme, how 
 God hab savyd be fro deeb and ober miscevis, and 
 suffrid many bousyndis to be lost bat ni>t sum 
 in watir, sume in tier, sunie bi sodeyn deeb, and 
 
 sume to be dampnyd wijiouten ende. And for 
 beise goodnessis and mercies banke bi God wib 
 al bin hert, and preye hym to ?ive be grace to 
 spende, in bat day and evermore, all be mi>tis 
 of bi soule, as mynde, reson, witt and wille, and 
 alle be mijtis of \>\ bodi, as strengbe, bewte, and 
 bi five wittis, in his servise and his worschipe; 
 and in no bing forfete a^enis his comaundemen- 
 tis, but redi to performe werkis of merci, and 
 to 5ive good ensample of holi lif, bobe in word 
 and in dede, to alle men aboute be. 
 
 W[ilUam 3ar>unbar 
 
 DANCE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS 
 
 (Modernized on p. 84) 
 
 Off Februar the fyiftene nycht. 
 
 Full lang befoir the dayis lycht, 
 
 I lay in till a trance ; 
 
 And then I saw baith hevin and hell : 
 
 Me thocht, araangis the feyndis fell, 6 
 
 Mahoun gart cry ane dance 
 
 Off schrewis that wer nevir schrevin, 
 
 Aganiss the feist of Fastemis evin. 
 
 To mak thair observance ; 
 
 He bad gallandis ga graith a gyiss, 10 
 
 And kast vp gamountis in the skyiss. 
 
 That last came out of France. ... 12 
 
 "Latse,"quodhe, " Now quha begynnis ; " 19 
 
 With that the fowll Sevin Deidly Synnis 
 
 Begowth to leip at anis. 
 
 And first of all in dance wes Pryd, 
 
 With bair wyld bak and bonet on syd, 
 
 Lyk to mak vaistie wanis ; 
 
 And round abowt him, as a quheill, 25 
 
 Hang all in rumpillis to the heill 
 
 His kethat for the nanis : 
 
 Mony prowd trumpour with him trippit 
 
 Throw skaldand fyre, ay as thay skippit 
 
 Thay gyrnd with hiddouss granis. 30 
 
 Than Yre come in with sturt and stryfe ; 
 
 His hand wes ay vpoun his knyfe. 
 
 He brandeist lyk a beir : 
 
 Bostaris, braggaris, and barganeris, 
 
 Eftir him passit in to pairis, 35 
 
 All bodin in feir of weir ; 
 
 In iakkis, and stryppis and bonnettis of steill, 
 
 Thair leggis wer chen eit to the heill, 
 
 Ffrawart wes thair affeir : 
 
 Sum vpoun vdir with brandis beft, 40 
 
 Sum jaggit vthiris to the heft. 
 
 With knyvis that scherp cowd scheir. 
 
 William Carton 
 
 PREFACE TO MALORY'S LE MOBTE 
 DABTHUB 
 
 (Modernized on p. 110) 
 
 After that I had accomplysshed and fynysshed 
 dyuers hystoryes as wel of contemplacyon as of 
 other hystoryal and worldly actes of grete con- 
 
786 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 querours & prynces, and also certeyn bookes of 
 ensauinples and doctryue, many noble and dy- 
 uers fi;entyimen of thys royame of Englond camen 
 and demamided me many and oftymes, wherfore 
 that I haue not do made & enprynte the noble 
 hystorye of the saynt greal and of the moost 
 renomed crysten kyng Arthur, whyche ought 
 raoost to be remembred emonge vs englysshe 
 men tofore al other crysten kynges; for it is 
 notoyrly knowen thorugh the vnyuersal world 
 that there been ix worthy & the best that euer 
 were. That is to wete thre paynyms, thre lewes 
 and thre crysten men. As for the paynyms they 
 were tofore the Incamacyon of Cryst, whiche 
 were named, the fyrst Hector of Troye, of 
 whome thystorye is comen bothe in balade and 
 in prose. The second Alysaunder the grete, & 
 the thyrd lulyus Cezar Emperour of Rome of 
 whome thystoryes ben wel kno and had. And 
 as for the thre lewes whyche also were tofore 
 thyncamacyon of our lord of whome the fyrst 
 was Due losue whyche brought the chyldren of 
 Israhel in to the londe of byheste ; the second 
 Dauyd king of Iherusalem, & the thyrd ludas 
 Machabeus, of these thre the byble reherceth al 
 theyr noble hystoryes & actes. And sythe the 
 sayd Incarnacyon haue ben thre noble crysten 
 men stalled and admytted thorugh the vnyuer- 
 sal world in to the nombre of the ix beste & 
 worthy, of whome was fyrst the noble Arthur, 
 whos noble actes I purpose to wryte in thys 
 present book here folowyng. The second was 
 Charlemayn or Charles the grete, of whome thys- 
 
 torye is had in many places bothe in frensshe 
 and englysshe ; and the thyrd and last was 
 Godefray of boloyn, of whos actes & lyf I 
 made a book vnto thexcellent prynce and kyng 
 of noble memorye kyng Edward the fourth. 
 The sayd noble lentylmen Instantly requyred 
 me temprynte thystorye of the sayd noble kyng 
 and conquerour kyng Arthur, and of his knyghtes 
 wyth thystorye of the saynt greal, and of the 
 deth and endyng of the sayd Arthur, affermyng 
 that I ou>t rather tenprynte his actes and noble 
 feates, than of godefroye of boloyne, or ony the 
 other eyght, consyderyng that he was a man 
 borne wythin this royame and kyng and Em- 
 perour of the same ; and that there ben in 
 frensshe dyuers and many noble volumes of his 
 actes and also of his knyghtes. 
 
 THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 
 
 (Modernized on p. 90) 
 
 The Perse owt off Northumbarlonde, 
 
 and avowe to God mayd he 
 That he wold hunte in the mowntayns 
 
 off Chyviat within days thre. 
 In the magger of douglite Dogles, 5 
 
 and all that ever with him be. 
 
 The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat 
 
 he sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away : 
 ' Be my feth,' sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn, 
 
 * I will let that hontyng yf that I may.' 10 
 
 (It must be remembered that the English language and orthography did not remain stationary 
 after 1600 ; but that they have been, and, indeed, are still, subject to a continual, if unobtrusive, 
 change. English spelling has changed since the sixteenth century and it is still changing ; old words, 
 old manners of expression, are constantly falling into disuse and being replaced by new. We some- 
 times forget that we commonly read our Shakespeare and Milton in a modernized spelling. But the 
 changes in the language since 1600 have been, comparatively speaking, so trifling that it has not been 
 thought necessary to inplude any examples of the original texts later than that date.) 
 
 n. ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE EARLY DRAMA 
 
 NOAH'S FLOOD 
 
 (A Miracle Play, from the Chester Plays, Early 
 XIV Century) 
 
 God. I, God, that all this world hath wrought. 
 Heaven and earth, and all from naught, 
 I see my people in deed and thought 
 
 Are set foul in sin ; 
 My ghost shall not linger in mon,i 5 
 
 That through flesh-liking is my son. 
 But till six score years be come and gone, 
 
 To look if they will blynne.2 
 Man that I made I will destroy. 
 Beast, wonn, and fowl that fly ; 10 
 
 For on earth they me deny. 
 
 The folk that are thereon ; 
 It harms me so most hurtfully 
 The malice that doth now multiply, 
 
 That sore it grieves me heartily 
 
 That ever I made mon. 
 Therefore, Noah, my servant free, 
 That righteous man art, as I see, 
 A ship soon shalt thou make to thee 
 
 Of trees both dry and light ; 
 Little chambers therein thou make, 
 And binding plaster thou must take, 
 Within and without thou must not slake ^ 
 
 To anoint it with all thy might. 
 Three hundred cubits it shall be long, 
 And fifty broad to make it strong ; 
 Of height fifty the meete thou fonge,* 
 
 Thus measure thou it about. 
 One window work in through thy wit, 
 A cubit of length and breadth make it. 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 1 Man. 
 measure. 
 
 2 Cease. 
 
 « Slack. 
 
 * Take thou 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 787 
 
 Upon the side a door thall sit 
 
 For to come in and out. 
 Eating places make thou also, 
 Three roofed places in a row : 
 For with water I mean to slow i 35 
 
 Man that I can make : 
 Destroyed all the world shall be, 
 Save thou, thy wife, and children three, 
 And their wives also with thee, 
 
 Shall saved be for thy sake. 40 
 
 Noah. O Lord, I thank thee loud and still. 
 That to me art in such good will, 
 And spar'st me and my household to spill,^ 
 
 As I now truly find. 
 Thy bidding Lord I shall fulfil, 45 
 
 And never more thee grieve nor grill,^ 
 That such grace hath sent me till * 
 
 Among all mankind. 
 Have done, you men and women all, 
 Hie you, lest this water fall, 60 
 
 To build this ship, chamber and hall 
 
 As God hath bidden us do. 
 
 Shem. Father, I am already bowne,^ 
 An axe I have, by my crown ! 
 As sharp as any in all this town, 55 
 
 For to go thereto. 
 
 Ham. I have a hatchet, wonder 
 To bite well, as may be seen, 
 A better ground, as I ween, 
 Is not in all this town. 
 
 Japhet. And I can make well a pin. 
 And with this hammer knock it in : 
 Go we to work without more din, 
 And I am ready bowne. 
 
 Noah's Wife. And we shall bring timber too. 
 For we have nothing else to do, 66 
 
 Women be weak to undergo 
 Any great travail. 
 
 Shem's Wipe. Here is a good hacking stock. 
 On this one you may hew and knock, 70 
 
 None shall be idle in this flock ; 
 Nay, now may no man fail. 
 
 Ham's Wife. And I will go and gather slyche,^ 
 The ship for to caulk and pitch. 
 Anointed must be every stiche,'' 75 
 
 Board, and tree, and pin. 
 
 Japhet's Wife. And I will gather chippes^ 
 here 
 To make a fire for you in feare,® 
 For to make ready your dinner, 
 
 Against your coming in. 80 
 
 Then Noah beginneth to build the Ark, and 
 speaketh Noah. 
 
 1 Slay. 2 /.e. from being killed. » Grumble. 
 4 To me. 5 Prepared. « Plaster. ^ Stick. 
 
 8 Chips. 9 I.e. and your companions. 
 
 Noah. Now, in the name of God I will begin 
 To make the ship that we shall in. 
 That we may be ready for to swim 
 
 At the coming of the flood. 
 These boards here I pin i together, 85 
 
 To bear us safely from the weather, 
 That we may row both hither and thither 
 
 And safe be from the flood. 
 Of this tree will I make the mast, 
 Tied with cables that will last, 90 
 
 With a sail yard for each blast. 
 
 And each thing in their kind : 
 With top-castill =2 and bowsprit. 
 With cords and ropes I hold all meete. 
 To sail forth at the next weet,^ 95 
 
 This ship is at an end. 
 Wife, in this vessel we shall be kept : 
 My children and thou, I would in ye leapt. 
 
 Noah's Wife. In faith, Noah, I had as lief 
 thou slept ! 
 For all thy good advice, 100 
 
 I will not do after thy rede.* 
 
 Noah. Good wife, do now as I thee bid. 
 
 Noah's Wife. By Christ ! not ere I see more 
 need, 
 Though thou stand all the day and stare. 
 
 Noah. Lord, that women pe crabbed aye, 
 And none are meek I dare well say. 
 This is well seen by me to-day, 
 
 Bear witness of it each one. 
 Good wife, let be all this beare,^ 
 That thou makest in this place here ; 
 For all well know that thou art master. 
 
 And so thou art, by Saint John ! 
 
 105 
 
 110 
 
 TTien Noah with all his family shall make a 
 sign as though they lorought upon the ship with 
 divers instruments and after that God shall speak 
 to Noah, saying : 
 
 God. Noah, take thou thy company, 
 And in the ship hie that you be, 
 For none so righteous man to me 115 
 
 Is now on earth living ; 
 Of clean beasts with thee thou take, 
 Seven and seven, before thou slake,® 
 He and she, make to make,^ 
 
 Hasten that thou bring in. 120 
 
 Of beasts unclean, two and two, 
 Male and female, but no more ; 
 Of clean fowls seven also. 
 
 The he and she together ; 
 Of fowls unclean, twain, and no more, 125 
 
 As I of the beasts said before ; 
 That man be savM through my lore,^ 
 
 Against I send this weather. 
 Of all meats that may be eaten, 
 Into the ship, look there be gotten ; 130 
 
 For that may be no way forgotten, 
 
 iNail. 2 Topmast. 8 Wet. * Counsel. 
 
 5 Noise. 6 Slack. ' Mate to mate. 8 Knowl- 
 edge. 
 
788 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 And do all this bydene,i 
 To sustain man and beast therein, 
 Till the water cease and blynne.^ 
 This world ye filled full of sin, 135 
 
 And that is now well seen. 
 Seven days be yet coming, 
 You shall have space them in to bring ; 
 After that it is my liking 
 
 Mankind for to annoy. 140 
 
 Forty days and forty nights, 
 Rain shall fall for their unrights, 
 And that I have made through my mights, 
 
 Now think I to destroy. 
 
 Noah. Lord to thy bidding I am beane,* 145 
 Seeing no other grace will gain. 
 It will I fulfil fayne,* 
 
 For gracious I thee find ; 
 A hundred winter and twenty 
 This ship making tarried have I. 160 
 
 If through amendment thy mercy 
 
 Would fall to mankind, 
 Have done, you men and women all. 
 Hie you lest this water fall, 
 Let each beast be installed 155 
 
 And into the ship be brought ; 
 Of clean beasts seven shall be. 
 Of unclean two, this God bade me ; 
 The flood is nigh, you may well see. 
 Therefore tarry you nought. 160 
 
 Then Noah shall go into the Ark with all his 
 family, except his wife; and the Ark must be 
 boarded round about, on the boards all the birds 
 and beasts are painted. 
 
 Shem. Sir, here are lions, leopards, in, 
 Horses, raares, oxen, and swine ; 
 Goat and calf, sheep and kine ; 
 Here sitting you may see. 
 
 Ham, Camels, asses, man may find, i65 
 
 Buck and doe, hart and hinde. 
 And beasts of all sorte and kind, 
 Here be, aa thinketh me. 
 
 Japhet. Here take cats, and dogs also, 
 Otter, and fox, and fulmarts too; 170 
 
 Hares hopping gaily can go. 
 Here have cabbage for to eat. 
 
 Noah's Wife. And here bears and wolves are 
 set. 
 Apes, owls, and marmosette, 
 Weasels, squirrels, and ferret, 176 
 
 Here they eat their meat. 
 
 Shem's Wife. Here are beasts in this house. 
 Here cats do make it crousse,^ 
 Here a rat. here a mouse. 
 That stand nigh together. 180 
 
 Ham's Wife. And here are fowls lesse and 
 more,i 
 Herons, cranes, and bittor,^ 
 Swans, peacocks, and them before 
 Meat for this weather. 
 
 Japhet' s Wife. Here are cocks, kites, crows. 
 Rooks, ravens, many roes, ige 
 
 Cuckoos, curlews, who ever knows 
 
 Each one in his kind. 
 Here are doves, ducks, and drakes. 
 Red-shanks running through the lakes, 190 
 And each bird that music makes, 
 
 In this ship you may find. 
 
 Noah. Wife, come in : why stand'st thou there ? 
 Thou art ever froward, I dare will swear ; 
 Come in, in God's name, half time it were, 195 
 For fear lest that we drown. 
 
 Noah's Wife. Yea, sir, set up your sail 
 And row forth with evil hail ^ 
 For withouten any fail 
 
 I will not out of this town. 200 
 
 But* I have my gossips every one. 
 One foot further I will not gone : 
 They shall not drown, by Saint John ! 
 
 I may save their life 
 They loven me full well, by Christ ! 205 
 
 But thou let them into thy cheiste ^ 
 Else row now when thou list. 
 
 And get thee a new wife. 
 
 Noah. Shem, son, lo ! thy mother is wrawe : « 
 Forsooth, such another I do not know. 210 
 
 Shem. Father, I shall fetch her in, I trowe, 
 Withouten any fail, — 
 Mother, my father doth for thee send. 
 And bids thee into yonder ship wend 
 For we be ready to sail. 215 
 
 Noah's Wife. Shem, go again to him, I say ; 
 I will not go therein to-day. 
 
 Noah. Come in, wife, in twenty devil's way ! 
 Or else stand there without. 
 
 Ham. Shall we fetch her in ? 
 
 220 
 
 Noah. Yea, sons, in Christ's blessing and mine ! 
 I would you hied you betime. 
 For of this flood I am in doubt. 
 
 The Good Gossip's Song 
 
 The flood comes fleeting in full fast. 
 
 On every side, and spreads full far ; 
 For fear of drowning, I am aghast ; 
 
 Good gossips, let us draw near. 
 And let us drink e'er we depart, 
 
 For oft times we have done so ; 
 For at a draught thou drink'st a quart. 
 
 And so will I do ere I go. 
 
 225 
 
 230 
 
 1 Immediately. 2 Decline. 
 
 * Gladly. & Noisy. 
 
 * Obedient^ 
 
 1 Big and little. 
 * Unless. « Ark. 
 
 2 Bittern. 
 •Angry. 
 
 « Bad luck. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 789 
 
 Here is a bottle full of Malmsy,! good and 
 
 strong. 
 It will rejoice both heart and tongue ; 
 Though Noah think us never so long, 
 Here we will drink together. 235 
 
 Japhet. Mother, we pray you all together. 
 For we are here, your own childer,^ 
 Come into the ship for fear of the weather ; 
 For His love that you bought ! 
 
 Noah's Wife. That will I not, for all your call, 
 But I have my gossips all. 241 
 
 Shem. In faith, mother, yet you shall 
 Whether you will or not.* 
 
 Noah. Welcome, wife, into this boat. 
 
 Noah's Wife. Have thou that^ for thy note.* 
 
 Noah. Ha-ha ! marry ! this is hot ! 246 
 
 It is good for to be still. 
 Ha ! children, methinks my boat remeves,^ 
 Our tarrying here highly me grieves, 
 Over the land the water spreads : 250 
 
 God do as he will. 
 Ah ! great God that art so good ; 
 Who worketh not thy will is wood * — 
 Now all this world is in a flood. 
 
 As well I see in sight. 255 
 
 This window I will shut anon, 
 And into my chamber I will gone. 
 Till this water, so great a one. 
 
 Be slackened through thy might. 
 
 Then shall Noah shut the window of the Ark, 
 and for a tittle space be silent, and afterwards, 
 looking round about, shall say : 
 
 Noah. Now forty days are fully gone, 260 
 
 Send a raven I will anon 
 If anywhere earth, tree or stone. 
 
 Be dry in any place. 
 And if this fowl come not again 
 It is a sign, sooth to sayne,'' 266 
 
 That dry it is on hill or plain, 
 
 And God hath done some grace. 
 
 Then dismissing the raven, and holding the 
 dove in his hands he says : 
 
 Noah. Ah, Lord, wherever this raven be 
 Somewhere is dry, well I see ; 
 But yet a dove, by my loyalty ,» 270 
 
 After I will send. 
 Thou wilt turn again to me : 
 For of all fowls that do fly 
 
 Thou art most meek and gentle. 
 
 Then he sends forth the dove, and there shall 
 be in the ship another dove bearing an olive twig 
 
 1 A kind of wine. 2 Children. « It is sup- 
 
 posed that Noah's Wife is brought in by force, 
 and that she strikes Noah. * Head. « It 
 
 moves. 6 Foolish. ^ Say. » By my faith. 
 
 in its bill; and some one shall pull this down 
 from the mast by means of a cord into the hand 
 of Noah ; and afterwards Noah shall say : 
 
 Noah. Ah Lord, blessed be thou aye, 275 
 
 That me hast comforted to-day ; 
 By this sight, I well may say, 
 
 This flood begins to cease. 
 My sweet dove to me brought base i 
 A branch of olive from some place, 280 
 
 This betokeneth God has done us some grace 
 
 And is a sign of peace. 
 Ah Lord, honoured most thou be. 
 All earth is drying now I see, 
 But yet, till thou command me, 285 
 
 Hence will I not hie. 
 All this water is away. 
 Therefore as soon as I may 
 Sacrifice I shall do in f aye 2 
 
 To thee, devoutly. 290 
 
 God. Noah, take thy wife anon. 
 And thy children, every one, 
 Out of the ship thou shalt be gone 
 
 And they all with thee. 
 Beasts, and all that can fly 295 
 
 Out anon they shall hie 
 On earth to grow and multiply ; 
 
 I will that it be so. 
 
 Noah. Lord I thank thee through thy might, 
 Thy bidding shall be done in height, 300 
 
 And as fast as I may dighte * 
 
 I will do thee honour. 
 And to thee offer sacrifice. 
 Therefore comes in all this wise : 
 For of these beasts that been hise* 305 
 
 Offer I will this hour. 
 
 Then departing from the Ark with all his 
 family, he shall receive the birds and beasts, 
 and make offering and sacrifice. 
 
 Noah. Lord, God in majesty. 
 That such grace hath granted me. 
 Where all was lost safe to be ; 
 
 Therefore now I am bound 310 
 
 My wife, my children, and company 
 With sacrifice to honor thee 
 Of beasts, fowls, as thou mayest see, 
 
 And full devotion. 
 
 God. Noah, to me thou art full able. 
 And thy sacrifice acceptable. 
 For I have found thee true and stable 
 
 On thee now must I think. 
 To curse the earth I will no more 
 For men's sins that grieve me sore. 
 For from youth man full yore 
 
 Has been inclined to sin. 
 You shall now grow and multiply. 
 And earth again to edify. 
 Each beast, and fowl that may fly 
 
 Shall be afeard of you ; 
 And fish in sea that may fleete ^ 
 
 315 
 
 320 
 
 iRas. 
 6 Float. 
 
 2 Faith. 
 
 8 Make ready. * His. 
 
790 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 Shall sustain you, I thee behetti 
 To eat of them ye ne lette^ 
 
 Which clean are, you may know ; 330 
 
 Whereas you have eaten before 
 Trees and roots, since you were bore * 
 Of clean beasts, now less and more, 
 
 I give you leave to eat. 
 Save blood and flesh, both in fear, 835 
 
 Of rouge dead carrion that is here, 
 Eat not of that, in no manere. 
 
 For that aye you shall leave. 
 Man slaughter also you shall flee. 
 For that is not pleasant unto me ; 340 
 
 He that sheddeth blood, he or she, 
 
 Anywhere among mankind. 
 That blood foul shed shall be 
 And vengeance have, that men shall see ; 
 Therefore beware now all ye, 345 
 
 You fall not into that sin. 
 A covenant, Noah, with thee I make, 
 And all thy seed, for thy sake, 
 . Of such vengeance for to slake, 
 
 For now I have my will ; 350 
 
 Here I promise thee a heiste,* 
 That man, woman, fowl, nor beast 
 With water, while this world shall last, 
 
 I will no more spill. ^ 
 My bow between you and me 355 
 
 In the firmament shall be, 
 By true token that you shall see. 
 
 That such vengeance shall cease. 
 That man nor woman shall never more 
 Be wasted with water as hath before ; 360 
 
 But for sin that grieveth me sore 
 
 Therefore this vengeance was. 
 Where clouds in the welkin been. 
 That same bow shall be seen. 
 In token that luy wrath and teem * 365 
 
 Shall never thus wreakM be. 
 The string is turned towards you 
 And toward me is bent the bow. 
 That such weather shall never show, 
 
 And this I promise thee. 310 
 
 My blessing Noah, I give thee here. 
 To thee, Noah, my servant dear ; 
 For vengeance shall no more appear. 
 
 And now farewell, my darling dear. 
 
 The End. By the grace of God, by me 
 George Bellin 1692. Come, Lord Jesus, come 
 quickly. 
 
 EVERYMAN 
 (Morality Play, late 15th Century ?) 
 
 DRA3fATIS PERSONS 
 
 Messenger Cousin Strength 
 
 God Goods Discretion 
 
 Death Good Deeds Five-Wits 
 
 Everyman Knowledge Angel 
 
 Fellowship Confession Dootor 
 
 KiNi/SED Beauty 
 
 1 Promise. 2 do not hesitate. a Born. 
 
 * Promise. « Destroy. « Sorrow. 
 
 HERE BEGINNETH A TREATISE HOW THE HIGH 
 FATHER OF HEAVEN SENDETH DEATH TO 
 SUMMON EVERY CREATURE TO COME AND 
 GIVE ACCOUNT OF THEIR LIVES IN THIS 
 WORLD, AND IS IN MANNER OF A MORAL 
 PLAY. 
 
 Messenger 
 
 I pray you all give your audience, 
 
 And hear this matter with reverence, 
 
 By figure a moral play ; 
 
 The Summoning of Everyman called it is, 
 
 That of our lives and ending shows, 
 
 How transitory we be all day : 
 
 This matter is wonders precious. 
 
 But the intent of it is more gracious. 
 
 And sweet to bear away. 
 
 The story saith : man, in the beginning 
 
 Look well, and take good heed to the ending, 
 
 Be you never so gay : 
 
 Ye think sin in the beginning full sweet. 
 
 Which in the end causeth thy soul to weep, 
 
 When the body lieth in clay. 
 
 Here shall you see how Fellowship and Jollity, 
 
 Both Strength, Pleasure, and Beauty 
 
 Will fade from thee as flower in May ; 
 
 For ye shall hear, how our Heaven King 
 
 Calleth Everyman to a general reckoning : 
 
 Give audience, and hear what he doth say. 
 
 GoD speaketh 
 
 I perceive here in my Majesty 
 
 How that all creatures be to me unkind. 
 
 Living without dread in worldly prosperity : 
 
 Of ghostly sight the people be so blind. 
 
 Drowned in sin, they knew me not for their God ; 
 
 In worldly riches is all their mind. . . . 
 
 I see the more that I them forbear 
 
 The worse they be from year to year ; 
 
 All that liveth appaireth ^ fast, 
 
 Therefore I will in all the haste 
 
 Have a reckoning of every man's person. . . . 
 
 They be so cumbered with worldly riches. 
 
 That needs on them 1 must do justice. 
 
 On every man living without fear. 
 
 Where art thou. Death, thou mighty messenger ? 
 
 Death 
 
 Almighty God, I am here at your will. 
 Your commadment to fulfil. 
 
 God 
 
 Go thou to Everyman, 
 
 And show him in my name 
 
 A pilgrimage he must on him take, 
 
 Which he in no wise may escape ; 
 
 And that he bring with him a sure reckoning 
 
 Without delay or any tarrying. 
 
 Death 
 
 Lord, I will in the world go run over all. 
 And cruelly out-search both great and small ; 
 
 1 Grows worse. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 791 
 
 Every man will I beset that liveth beastly, 
 
 Out of God's laws, and dreadeth not folly : 
 
 He that loveth liches I will strike with my dart, 
 
 His sight to blind, and fro heaven to depart, 
 
 Except that alms be his good friend, 
 
 In hell for to dwell, world without end. 
 
 Lo, yonder I see Everyman walking : 
 
 Full little he thinketh on my coming : 
 
 His mind is on fleshly lusts and his treasure ; 
 
 And great pain it shall cause him to endure 
 
 Before the Lord, heaven's King. 
 
 Everyman, stand still ; whither art thou going 
 
 Thus gaily ? Hast thou thy Maker forgot ? 
 
 Everyman 
 Why askest thou ? Wouldest thou wit ? 
 
 Death 
 
 Yea, sir, I will show you; in great haste I am 
 
 sent to thee 
 Fro God out of his Majesty. 
 
 EVBKYMAN 
 
 What 1 sent to me ? 
 
 Death 
 
 Yea, certainly : 
 
 Though you have forgot him here. 
 
 He thinketh on thee in the heavenly sphere ; 
 
 As, ere we depart, thou shalt know. 
 
 Everyman 
 What desireth God of me ? 
 
 Death 
 
 That shall I show thee ; 
 
 A reckoning he will needs have 
 
 Without any lenger respite. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 To give a reckoning longer leisure I crave ; 
 This blind matter troubleth my wit. 
 
 Death 
 
 On thee thou must take a long journey, 
 Therefore thy book of count with thee thou 
 
 bring, 
 For turn again thou cannot by no way : 
 And look thou be sure of thy reckoning ; 
 For before God thou shalt answer and show 
 Thy many bad deeds, and good but a few. 
 How thou hast spent thy life, and in what 
 
 wise, 
 Before the chief lord of paradise. 
 Have ado that we were in that way. 
 For, wit thou well, thou shalt make none 
 
 attorney. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Full unready I am such reckoning to give : 
 I know thee not ; what messenger art thou ? 
 
 Death 
 
 I am Death, that no man dreadeth ; 
 
 For every man I 'rrest, and no man spareth, 
 
 For it is God's commandment 
 
 That all to me should be obedient. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Death, thou comest when I had thee least in 
 
 mind; 
 In thy power it lieth me to save ; 
 Yet of my good will I give thee, if thou will be 
 
 kind. 
 Yea, a thousand pounds shalt thou have. 
 And [thou] defer this matter till another day. 
 
 Death 
 
 Everyman, it may not be by no way ; 
 
 1 set not by gold, silver, nor riches, 
 
 Ne by pope, ^mperor, king, duke, ne princes ; 
 
 For, and I would receive gifts great, 
 
 All the world I might get ; 
 
 But my custom is clean contrary ; 
 
 I give thee no respite, come hence, and not tarry. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Alas ! shall I have no lenger respite ? 
 
 I may say Death giveth no warning : 
 
 To think on thee it maketh my heart sick ; 
 
 For all unready is my book of reckoning : 
 
 But [for] twelve year and I might have abiding. 
 
 My counting-book I would make so clear, 
 
 That my reckoning I should not need to fear. 
 
 Wherefore, Death, I pray thee for God's mercy. 
 
 Spare me, till I be provided of remedy. 
 
 Death 
 
 Thee availeth not to cry, weep, and pray : 
 
 But haste thee lightly, that thou wert gone this 
 
 journey ; 
 And prove thy friends, if thou can ; 
 For, wit thou well, the tide abideth no man. 
 And in the world each living creature 
 For Adam's sin must die of nature. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Death, if I should this pilgrimage take, 
 And my reckoning surely make, 
 Show me, for Saint Charity, 
 Should I not -come again shortly ? 
 
 Death 
 
 No, Everyman, and thou be once there. 
 Thou mayest never more come here. 
 Trust me verily. 
 
792 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 Eysrtman 
 
 gracious God, in the high seat celestial, 
 Have mercy on me in this most need. 
 
 Shall I have no company from this vale terrestrial 
 Of mine acquaince, that way me to lead ? 
 
 Death 
 
 Yea, if any be so hardy, 
 
 That would go with thee, and bear thee 
 company : 
 
 Hie thee that thou were gone to God's mag- 
 nificence, 
 
 Thy reckoning to give before his presence. 
 
 What, weenest thou thy life is given thee, 
 
 And thy worldly goods also ? 
 
 Everyman 
 
 1 had ween*d so verily. 
 
 Death 
 
 Nay, nay ; it was but lent thee ; 
 
 For, as soon as thou art gone. 
 
 Another awhile shall have it, and then go 
 
 therefro, 
 Even as thou hast done. 
 Everyman, thou art mad, thou hast thy wits 
 
 five, 
 And here on earth will not amend thy life ; 
 For suddenly I do come. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 wretched caitiff, whither shall I flee ? 
 That I might escape this endless sorrow ! 
 Now, gentle Death, spare me till to-morrow. 
 That I may amend me 
 
 With good advisement. 
 
 Death 
 
 Nay, thereto I will not consent. 
 
 Nor no man will I respite ; 
 
 But to the heart suddenly I shall smite 
 
 Without any advisement. 
 
 And now out of thy sight I will me hie ; 
 
 See thou make thee ready shortly. 
 
 For thou may est say, this is the day 
 
 That no man living may 'scape away. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Alas 1 I may well weep vnth sighs deep : 
 Now have I no manner of company 
 To help me in my journey, and me to keep ; 
 And also my writing is full unready. 
 How shall I do now for to excuse me I 
 
 1 would to God I had never be got ; 
 
 To my soul a full great profit it had be ; 
 
 For now I fear pains huge and great. 
 
 The time passeth : Lord, help, that all wrought 1 
 
 For though I mourn, it availeth nought : 
 
 The day passeth, and is almost ago ; 
 
 I wot not well what for to do. 
 
 To whom were I best my complaint to make ? 
 
 What, and I to Fellowship thereof spake, 
 
 And showed him of this sudden chance ! 
 
 For in him is all mine affiance ; 
 
 We have in the world so many a day 
 
 Be good friends in sport and play. 
 
 I see him yonder certainly ; 
 
 I trust that he will bear me company. 
 
 Therefore to him will I speak to ease my sorrow. 
 
 Well met, good Fellowship, and good mor- 
 
 [_Here Everyman (as he relates in the follow- 
 ing speech) appeals in vain to Fellowship^ to his 
 Kinsmen, and to Goods, or Worldly Biches, who 
 in turn refuse to accompany him on his journey. '] 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Oh, to whom shall I make my moan. 
 
 For to go with me in that heavy journey ? 
 
 First Fellowship he said he would with me gone ; 
 
 His words were very pleasant and gay. 
 
 But afterward he left me alone. 
 
 Then spake I to my kinsmen all in despair. 
 
 And also they gave me words fair. 
 
 They lacked no fair speaking ; 
 
 But all forsake me in the ending. 
 
 Then went I to my Goods that I loved best, 
 
 In hope to have found comfort ; but there had I 
 
 least: 
 For my Goods sharply did me tell. 
 That he bringeth many in hell. 
 Then of myself I wras ashamed, 
 And so I am worthy to be blamed, 
 Thus may I well myself hate. 
 Of whom shall I now counsel take ? 
 I think that I shall never speed, 
 Till that I go to my Good Deed ; 
 But, alas, she is so weak, 
 That she can nother go nor speak : 
 Yet will I venter on her now. 
 My Good Deeds, where be you ? 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Here I lie cold in the ground ; 
 Thy sins have me so sore bound, 
 That I cannot stir. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Good Deeds, I stand in great fear ; 
 
 1 must you pray of counsel, 
 
 For help now should come right well 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Everyman, I have understanding, 
 That thou art summoned account to make 
 Before Messias of Jerusalem King ; 
 And you do by me, that journey with you will I 
 take. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 793 
 
 EVEBTMAN 
 
 Therefore I come to you my moan to 
 I pray you, that ye will go with me. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 I would full fain, but I cannot stand verily. 
 
 Everyman 
 Why, is there anything on you fall ? 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Yea, sir, I may thank you of all ; 
 
 If ye had perfectly cheered me, 
 
 Your book of account full ready now had be. 
 
 Look, the books of your works and deeds eke 1 
 
 Behold how they lie under the feet, 
 
 To your soul's heaviness. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Our Lord Jesus help me. 
 
 For one letter herein can I not see. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Here is a blind reckoning in time of distress ! 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Good Deeds, I pray you,' help me in this need. 
 Or else I am for ever damned indeed ; 
 Therefore help me to make my reckoning 
 Before the Redeemer of all thing. 
 That king is, and was, and ever shall. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Everyman, I am sorry of your fall, 
 
 And fain would I help you, and I were able. 
 
 Everyman 
 Good Deeds, your counsel, I pray you, give me. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 That shall I do verily : 
 
 Though that on my feet I may not go, 
 
 I have a sister that shall with you also, 
 
 Called Knowledge, which shall with you abide. 
 
 To help you to make that dreadful reckoning. 
 
 [Enter Knowledge.] 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide, 
 In thy most need to go by thy side. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 In good condition I am now in every thing. 
 And am wholly content with this good thing. 
 Thanked be God my Creature. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 And when he hath brought thee there, 
 
 Where thou shalt heal thee of thy smart, 
 
 Then go thou with thy reckoning and thy good 
 
 deeds together, 
 For to make thee joyful at the heart 
 Before the Blessed Trinity. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 My Good Deeds, I thank thee heartfully : 
 I am well content certainly 
 With your words sweet. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Now go we together lovingly 
 
 To Confession, that cleansing river. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 For joy I weep : I would we there were ; 
 But I pray you to instruct me by intellection. 
 Where dwelleth that holy virtue Confession ? 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 In the house of salvation ; 
 
 We shall find him in that place. 
 
 That shall us comfort by God's grace. 
 
 Lo, this is Confession: kneel down, and ask 
 
 mercy ; 
 For he is in good conceit with God Almighty. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 glorious fountain that all uncleanness doth 
 
 .clarify. 
 Wash from me the spots of vices unclean. 
 That on me no sin may be seen ; 
 
 1 come with Knowledge for my redemption, 
 Redempt with heart and full contrition. 
 For I am commanded a pilgrimage to take. 
 And great accounts before God to make. 
 Now I pray you. Shrift, mother of salvation, 
 Help hither my good deeds for my piteous ex- 
 clamation. 
 
 Confession 
 
 I know your sorrow well, Everyman : 
 Because with Knowledge ye come to me, 
 I will you comfort as well as I can ; 
 And a precious jewel I will give thee. 
 Called penance, voider of adversity : 
 Therewith shall your body chastised be 
 With abstinence and perseverance in God's ser- 
 vice ; 
 Here shall you receive that scourge of me. 
 Which is penance strong that ye must endure. 
 Remember thy Jjaviour was scourged for thee 
 With sharp scourges, and suffered it patiently : 
 So must thou, ere thou pass thy pilgrimage. 
 Knowledge, keep him in this voyage. 
 And by that time Good Deeds will be with thee ; 
 But in anywise be sure of mercy. 
 
7U 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 For your time draweth faat ; and ye will saved be, 
 Ask God mercy, and he will grant truly : 
 When with the scourge of penance man doth 
 
 him bind. 
 The oil of forgiveness then shall he find. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Thanked be God for his gracious work ; 
 For now I wUl my penance begin : 
 This hath rejoiced and lighted my heart, 
 Though the knots be painful and hard within. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Everyman, look your penance that ye fulfil, 
 What pain that ever it to you be ; 
 And I shall give you counsel at will, 
 How your account ye shall make clearly. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 I thank God, now I can walk and go, 
 And am delivered of my sickness and woe ; 
 Therefore with Everyman I will go, and not 
 
 spare. 
 His good works I will help him to declare. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Now, Everyman, be merry and glad ; 
 
 Your Good Deeds cometh now, ye may not be 
 
 sad : 
 Now is your Good Deeds whole and sound, 
 Going upright upon the ground. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 My heart is light, and shall be evermore; 
 Now will I smite faster than I did before. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 O eternal God, heavenly figure, 
 
 O way of rightwiseness, goodly vision. 
 
 Which descended down in a virgin pure. 
 
 Because he would Everyman redeem, 
 
 Which Adam forfeited by his disobedience, 
 
 O blessed Godhead, elect and high Divine, 
 
 P'orgive me my grievous offence ; 
 
 Here I cry thee mercy in this presence : 
 
 O ghostly treasure, O ransomer and redeemer ! 
 
 Of all the world hope and conduyter, 
 
 Mirror of joy, foundation of mercy, 
 
 Which enlumineth heaven and earth thereby. 
 
 Hear my clamorous complaint, though it late be. 
 
 Receive my prayers of thy benignity. 
 
 Though I be a sinner most abominable. 
 
 Yet let my name be wi-itten in Moses' table. 
 
 Mary, pray to the Maker of all thing 
 Me for to help at my ending, 
 
 And save me from the power of my enemy ; 
 
 For death assaileth me strongly : 
 
 And, Lady, that I may by mean of thy prayer 
 
 Of your son's glory to be partiner. 
 
 By the mean of his passion I it crave; 
 
 1 beseek you help me my soul to save. 
 Knowledge, give me the scourge of penance, 
 My flesh therewith shall give acquittance ; 
 
 I will now begin, if God give me grace. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Everyman, God give you time and space ! 
 Thus I bequeath you in the hands of our Saviour ; 
 Now may you make your reckoning sure. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 In the name of all the Holy Trinity, 
 My body punished sore shall be. 
 Take this body for the sin of the flesh ; 
 Also thou delightest to go gay and fresh ; 
 And m the way of damnation thou did me bring 
 Therefore suffer now strokes and punishing : 
 ^ow of penance I will wade the water clear 
 To save me from purgatory, that sharp fire.' 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Everyman pilgrim, my special friend, 
 
 Blessed be thou without end ; 
 
 For thee is prepared the eternal glory : 
 
 Ye have me made whole and sound. 
 
 Therefore I will bide by thee in every stound. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Welcome, my Good Deeds, now I hear thy voice, 
 I weep for very sweetness of love. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Be no more sad, but evermore rejoice, 
 God seeth thy living in His throne above; 
 Put on this garment to thy behove. 
 Which with your tears is now all wet. 
 Lest before God it be unsweet. 
 When ye to your journey's end come shall. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Gentle Knowledge, what do ye it call ? 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 It is the garment of sorrow. 
 From pain it will you borrow ; 
 Contrition it is. 
 That getteth forgiveness. 
 It pleaseth God passing well. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Everyman, will you wear it for your hele ? 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Now blessed be Jesu, Mary's son ; 
 For now have I on true contrition : 
 And let us go now without tarrying. 
 Good Deeds, have we clear our reckoning ? 
 
 Good Deeds 
 Yea, indeed, I have here. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 795 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Then I trust we need not to fear ; 
 Now, friends, let us not depart in twain. 
 
 Knowledge 
 Nay, Everyman, that will we not certain. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Yet must thou lead with thee 
 Three persons of great might. 
 
 Everyman 
 Who should they be ? 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Discretion and Strength they hyght, 
 And thy Beauty may not abide behind. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Also ye must call to mind 
 
 Your Five Wits as for your councillors. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 You must have them ready at all hours. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Almighty God, loved may Thou be ; 
 
 I give thee laud that I have hither brought 
 
 Strength, Discretion, Beauty, Five Wits : lack I 
 
 nought : 
 And my Good Deeds, with Knowledge clear, 
 All be in my company at my will here ; 
 I desire no more to my business. 
 
 Strength 
 
 And I Strength will by you stand in distress, 
 Though thou wouldest in battle fight on the 
 ground. 
 
 Five Wits 
 
 And though it were thorow the world round, 
 We will not depart for sweet ne for sour. 
 
 Beauty 
 
 No more will I unto Death's hour. 
 Whatsoever thereof befall. 
 
 Discretion 
 
 Everyman, advise you first of all. 
 
 Go with a good advisement and deliberation ; 
 
 We all give you virtuous monition 
 
 That all shall be well. 
 
 Everyman 
 How shall I get them hither ? 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 You must call them all together, 
 And they will hear you incontinent. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 My friends, come hither, and be present. 
 Discretion, Strength, my Five Wits and Beauty. 
 
 Beauty 
 
 Here at your will we be all ready ; 
 What will ye that we should do ? 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 That ye would with Everyman go. 
 And help him in his pilgrimage : 
 Advise you, will ye go with him or not in that 
 voyage ? 
 
 Strength 
 
 We will bring him all thither 
 
 To help and comfort him, ye may believe me. 
 
 Discretion 
 So will we go with him altogether. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 My friends, hark what I will you tell ; 
 
 I pray God reward you in His heavenly sphere : 
 
 Now hearken all that be here ; 
 
 For I will make my testament 
 
 Here before you all present : 
 
 In alms half my good I will give with my hands 
 
 twain 
 In the way of charity with good intent, 
 And the other half still shall remain : 
 I it bequeath to be returned there it ought to be. 
 This I do in despite of the fiend of hell, 
 To go quit out of his peril 
 Ever after this day. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Everyman, hearken what I will say ; 
 
 Go to priesthood, I you advise, 
 
 And receive of him in any wise 
 
 The holy sacrament and ointment together, 
 
 Then shortly see ye turn again hither. 
 
 We will all abide you here. 
 
 Five Wits 
 
 Yea, Everyman, hie you that ye ready were : 
 There is no emperor, king, duke, ne baron. 
 That of God hath commission, 
 As hath the least priest in the world being; 
 For of the blessed sacraments pure and benign 
 He beareth the keys, and thereof hath cure 
 For man's redemption, it is ever sure, 
 
796 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 Which God for our soul's medicine 
 Gave us out of his heart with great pain, 
 Here in this transitory life for thee and me : 
 The blessed sacraments seven there be, 
 Baptism, confirmation, with priesthood good, 
 And the sacrament of God's precious flesh and 
 
 blood, 
 Marriage, the holy extreme unction, and pen- 
 ance ; 
 These seven be good to have in remembrance, 
 Gracious sacraments of high divinity. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Fain would I receive that holy body, 
 And meekly to my ghostly father I will go. 
 
 Five Wits 
 
 Everyman, that is the best that ye can do ; 
 
 God will you to salvation bring. 
 
 For good priesthood exceedeth all other thing ; 
 
 To us holy scripture they do teach. 
 
 And converteth man fro sin heaven to reach ; 
 
 God hath to them more power given 
 
 Than to any angel that is in heaven : 
 
 With five words he may consecrate 
 
 God's body in flesh and blood to take, 
 
 And handleth his Maker between his hands. 
 
 The priest bindeth and unbindeth all bands 
 
 Both in earth and in heaven; 
 
 He ministers all the sacraments seven ; 
 
 Though we kiss thy feet, thou wert worthy : 
 
 Thou art the surgeon that cureth sin deadly, 
 
 No remedy may we find under God, 
 
 But all only priesthood. 
 
 Everyman, God gave priest [s] that dignity, 
 
 And setteth them in His stead among us to be ; 
 
 Thus be they above angels in degree. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 If priests be good, it is so surely, 
 
 But when Jesu heng on the cross with great 
 
 smart. 
 There he gave us out of his blessed heart 
 The same sacrament in great torment. 
 
 Five Wits 
 
 I trust to God, no such may we find : 
 
 Therefore let us priesthood honour, 
 
 And follow their doctrine for our soul's succour ; 
 
 We be their sheep, and they [our] shepherds be, 
 
 By whom we all be kept in surety. 
 
 Peace 1 for yonder I see Everyman come, 
 
 Which hath made true satisfaction. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 Methink it is he indeed. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Now Jesu Christ be your alder speed ! 
 I have received the sacrament for my redemp- 
 Uon, •" ^ 
 
 And then mine extreme unction ; 
 
 Blessed be all they that counselled me to take 
 it: 
 
 And now, friends, let us go without longer res- 
 pite ; 
 
 I thank God that ye have tarried so long. 
 
 Now set each of you on this rod your hand, 
 
 And shortly follow me ; 
 
 I go before, there I would be : 
 
 God be our guide. 
 
 Strength 
 
 Everyman, we will not fro you go, 
 Till ye have gone this voyage long. 
 
 Discretion 
 
 I, Discretion, will bide by you also. 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 And though this pilgrimage be never so strong, 
 I will never part you fro : 
 Everyman, I will be as sure by thee. 
 As ever I was by Judas Maccabee. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Alas ! I am so faint I may not stand. 
 
 My limbs under me do fold : 
 
 Friends, let us not turn again to this land, 
 
 Not for all the world's gold ; 
 
 For into this cave must I creep. 
 
 And turn to the earth, and there to sleep. 
 
 Beauty 
 
 What, into this grave ? Alas ! 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Yea, there shall ye consume more and less. 
 
 Beauty 
 
 And what, should I smother here ? 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Yea, by my faith, and never more appear ; 
 
 In this world live no more we shall, 
 
 But in heaven before the highest Lord of all. 
 
 Beauty 
 
 I cross out all this : adieu, by Saint John ; 
 I take my cap in my lap, and am gone. 
 
 Everyman 
 What, Beauty ? whither will ye ? 
 
 Beauty 
 
 Peace ! I am deaf, I look not behind me. 
 Not, and thou wouldst give me all the gold in 
 thy chest. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 797 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Alas 1 whereto may I now trust ? 
 
 Beauty doth fast away hie : 
 
 She promised with me to live and die. 
 
 Strength 
 
 Everyman, I will thee also forsake and deny, 
 The game liketh me not at all. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Why then ye will forsake me all : 
 Strength, tarry, I pray you, a little space. 
 
 Strength 
 
 Nay, sir, by the rood of grace, 
 
 I will hie me from thee fast, 
 
 Though thou weep till thy heart brast. 
 
 Everyman 
 Ye would ever bide by me, ye said. 
 
 Strength 
 
 Yea, 1 have you far enough conveyed : 
 Ye be old enough, I understand, 
 Your pilgrimage to take on hand ; 
 I repent me, that I hither came. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Strength, you to displease I am to blame ; 
 Yet promise is debt ; this ye well wot. 
 
 Strength 
 
 In faith, as for that I care not : 
 i Thou art but a fool to complain ; 
 
 Thou spendest thy speech and wasteth thy 
 
 brain : 
 Go, thrist thee into the ground. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 I had ween'd surer I should you have found : 
 But I see well, he that trusteth in his Strength, 
 Is greatly deceived at the length ; 
 Both Strength and Beauty hath forsaken me. 
 Yet they promised me steadfast to be. 
 
 Discretion 
 
 Everyman, I will after Strength be gone ; 
 As for me, I will leave you alone. 
 
 Everyman 
 Why, Discretion, will ye forsake me ? 
 
 Discretion 
 
 Yea, in faith, I will go fro thee ; 
 For when Strength is gone before, 
 Then I follow after evermore. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Yet, I pray thee, for love of the Trinity, 
 Look in my grave once piteously. 
 
 Discretion 
 
 Nay, so nigh will I not come. 
 Now farewell, fellows everichone. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Oh, all thing faileth, save God alone. 
 Beauty, Strength, and Discretion ; 
 For, when Death bloweth his blast, 
 They all run fro me full fast. 
 
 Five Wits 
 
 Everyman, of thee now my leave I take ; 
 
 I will follow the other, for here I thee forsake. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Alas ! then may I both wail and weep ; 
 For I took you for my best friend. 
 
 Five Wits 
 
 I will no lenger thee keep : 
 Now farewell, and here an end. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Now, Jesu, help ! all hath forsaken me. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Nay, Everyman, I will abide with thee, 
 
 I will not forsake thee indeed ; 
 
 Thou shalt find me a good friend at need. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Gramercy, Good Deeds, now may I true friends 
 
 see. 
 They have forsaken me everychone ; 
 I loved them better than my good deeds alone : 
 Knowledge, will ye forsake me also ? 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Yea, Everyman, when ye to death shall go ; 
 But not yet for no manner of danger. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Gramercy, Knowledge, with all ray heart. 
 Knowledge 
 
 Nay, yet I will not from hence depart, 
 Till I see where ye shall be come. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Methinketh, alas ! that I must be gone 
 To make my reckoning, and my debts pay; 
 
798 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 For I see my time is nigh spent away. 
 Take ensample, all ye that this do hear or see, 
 How they that I loved best now forsake me ; 
 Except my Good Deeds, that bideth truly. 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 All earthly things is but vanity, 
 
 Beauty, Strength, and Discretion do man 
 
 forsake, 
 Foolish friends and kinsmen, that fair spake ; 
 All fleeth save Good Deeds, and that am I. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Have mercy on ine, God most mighty. 
 
 And stand by me, thou mother and maid Mary. 
 
 GrOOD Deeds 
 Fear not, I will speak for thee. 
 
 Everyman 
 Here I cry, Grod mercy ! 
 
 Good Deeds 
 
 Short our end and minish our pain : 
 Let us go, and never come again. 
 
 Everyman 
 
 Into thy hands. Lord, my soul I commend, 
 Receive it. Lord, that it be not lost ; 
 As thou me bough test, so me defend. 
 And save me fro the fiend's boast. 
 That I may appear with that blessed host 
 
 That shall be saved at the day of doom : 
 In manus tuas^ of might most, 
 For ever commendo spiritum meum. 
 
 (Everyman dies.) 
 
 Knowledge 
 
 Now hath he suffered that we all shall endure : 
 
 The Good Deeds shall make all sure ; 
 
 Now hath he made ending, 
 
 Methinketh that I hear angels sing. 
 
 And make great joy and melody, 
 
 Where Everyman's soul shall received be. . . . 
 
 Doctor 
 
 This memory all men may have in mind ; 
 Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and young, 
 And forsake pride, for he deceiveth you in the 
 
 end. 
 And remember Beauty, Five Wits, Strength, and 
 
 Discretion, 
 They all at last do Everyman forsake, 
 Save his Good Deeds ; [them he] there doth 
 
 take : 
 But beware, for, and they be small. 
 Before God he hath no help at all ; 
 None excuse may be there for Everyman : 
 Alas ! how shall he do then ? 
 For after death amends may no man make. 
 For then mercy and pity doth him forsake ; 
 If his reckoning be not clear, when he doth come, 
 God will say, Ite, maledicti, in ignem ceternum, 
 And he that hath his account whole and sound. 
 High in heaven he shall be crowned ; 
 Unto which place God bring us all thither, 
 That we may live body and soul together ; 
 Thereto help the Trinity : 
 Amen, say ye, for Saint Charity. 
 
I 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 Poetical selections are indicated by an asterisk 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Addison, Joseph 295*, 332 
 
 iELFRIC 23 
 
 Alfred , . . , 20 
 
 Armstrong, John ♦370 
 
 Arnold, Matthew 636*, 743 
 
 AscHAM, Roger 133 
 
 Aytoun, William E 660* 
 
 Bacon, Francis 193 
 
 Barbour, John 55* 
 
 Barnard, Lady Anne 458* 
 
 Beattie, James 441* 
 
 Beaumont, Francis 173* 
 
 Bede 8*, 16 
 
 Berkeley, George 355* 
 
 Berners, see Bourchier. 
 
 Blake, William 455* 
 
 Bolingbroke, Henry St. John, Lord. . 348 
 
 BoswELL, James 424 
 
 Bourchier, John, Lord Berners 121 
 
 Browne, Sir Thomas 240 
 
 Browne, William 201* 
 
 Browning, Robert 609* 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 634* 
 
 Brunne, see Manning. 
 
 BuNYAN, John 257 
 
 Burke, Edmund 403 
 
 Burns, Robert 460* 
 
 Burton, Robert 229 
 
 Butler, Samuel 273* 
 
 Byron, George Gordon 508* 
 
 C^DMON 8* 
 
 Campbell, Thomas 504* 
 
 Campion, Thomas 171* 
 
 Carew, Thomas 226* 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas 670 
 
 Caxton, William 110 
 
 Chapman, George 152* 
 
 Chatterton, Thomas 446* 
 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey 62* 
 
 Chesterfield, Philip Dormer Stan- 
 hope, Lord 379 
 
 Clanvowe, Sir Thomas 80* 
 
 Clarendon, Edward Hyde, Earl of. . 249 
 
 Clough, Arthur Hugh 663* 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley 655* 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 484*, 541 
 
 Collins, William 431* 
 
 Cornish, William 100* 
 
 Cornwall, Barry, see Procter. 
 
 Cowley, Abraham 223*, 271 
 
 CowpER, William 415, 435* 
 
 Crabbe, George. . , 
 Crashaw, Richard. 
 
 cuthbert 
 
 Cynbwulp 
 
 Daniel, Samuel 
 
 Defoe, Daniel 
 
 Dekker, Thomas ' 
 
 De Quincey, Thomas 
 
 Dickens, Charles . . .t 
 
 DoBsoN, Henry Austin 
 
 Donne, John 
 
 Douglas, Gawain 
 
 Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings Charles 
 
 Drayton, Michael 
 
 Drummond, William 
 
 Dryden, John 275*, 
 
 Dunbar, William 
 
 Dyer, John 
 
 Earle, John 
 
 Eliot, George (Mary Ann Evans) 663*, 
 
 Elliot, Jane 
 
 Elliott, Ebenezer 
 
 Ely, see Thomas of.*' 
 
 Evans, Mary Ann, see Eliot. 
 
 Evelyn, John 
 
 PAGE 
 
 452* 
 205* 
 19 
 9* 
 
 155* 
 
 312 
 
 167* 
 
 572 
 
 715 
 
 665* 
 
 167* 
 
 86* 
 659* 
 157* 
 174* 
 285 
 
 84* 
 357* 
 
 240 
 718 
 457* 
 507* 
 
 Fergusson, Robert. . . . 
 
 Fielding, Henry 
 
 Fitzgerald, Edward ... 
 
 Fletcher, Giles 
 
 Fletcher, John 
 
 Fletcher, Phineas 
 
 FoRTEScuE, Sir John ... 
 
 FoxE, John 
 
 Froude, James Anthony 
 Fuller, Thomas 
 
 Gascoignb, George 
 
 Gay, John 
 
 Geoffrey of Monmouth 
 
 Gibbon, Edward 
 
 Gloucester, see Robert of. 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver 374*, 
 
 GowER, John 
 
 Gray, Thomas 
 
 Green, John Richard 
 
 Greene, Robert 155*, 
 
 Guilford, see Nicholas. 
 
 Habington, William 
 
 Hakluyt, Richard 
 
 Hales, see Thomas of. 
 
 280 
 
 460* 
 
 382 
 
 658* 
 
 200* 
 
 172* 
 
 199* 
 
 102 
 
 135 
 
 721 
 
 246 
 
 114* 
 309* 
 
 48 
 417 
 
 397 
 59* 
 427* 
 764 
 192 
 
 204* 
 178 
 
 799 
 
800 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 Hampole, see RoUe. page 
 
 Harrison, Frederick 760 
 
 Hawker, Robert Stephen 658* 
 
 Hazlitt, William 567 
 
 Henryson, Robert 82* 
 
 Herbert, George 202* 
 
 Herrick, Robert 226* 
 
 He YwooD, Thomas 172* 
 
 Hobbes, Thomas 233 
 
 HoccLEYE, Thomas 80* 
 
 Holinshed, Raphael 177 
 
 Hood, Thomas 655* 
 
 Hooker, Richard 184 
 
 Hunt, James Henry Leigh 507* 
 
 Huxley, Thomas Henry 753 
 
 Hyde, Edward, see Clarendon. 
 
 James I op Scotland 82* 
 
 Johnson, Samuel 366*, 384 
 
 JoNSON, Ben 169*, 197 
 
 Keats, John 629* 
 
 Kingsley, Charles 662*, 741 
 
 Lamb, Charles 502*, 554 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage 503*, 564 
 
 Langland, William 60* 
 
 Latimer, Hugh 130 
 
 Layamon 27* 
 
 Lodge, Thomas 151*, 190 
 
 Lovelace, Richard 229* 
 
 Lydgate, John 80* 
 
 Lyly, John 150*, 185 
 
 Lyndsay, Sir David 87* 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington. . .656*, 687 
 
 M ACPHERSON, James 444* 
 
 Malmsbury, see William of. 
 
 Malory, Sir Thomas 103 
 
 Mandeville, Sir John 75 
 
 Manning, Robert, of Brunne 33* 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher 158* 
 
 Marvell, Andrew 224* 
 
 Matthew, Paris 53 
 
 Meredith, George 664* 
 
 MicKLE, William Julius 441* 
 
 Milton, John 208, 260* 
 
 MiNOT, Lawrence 36* 
 
 Monmouth, see Geoffrey of. 
 
 Moore, Thomas 506* 
 
 More, Sir Thomas 125 
 
 Morris, William 645* 
 
 Motherwell, William 539* 
 
 Myers, Frederick W. H 771* 
 
 Nairn, Lady, see Oliphant. 
 
 Nash, Thomas 166* 
 
 Newman, John Henry 657*, 704 
 
 Nicholas of Guildford (?) 29* 
 
 North, Sir Thomas 176 
 
 Occleve, see Hoccleve. page 
 
 Oliphant, Caroline (Lady Nairn) 459* 
 
 Orm 28* 
 
 Overbury, Sir Thomas 232 
 
 Pagan, Isabel 458* 
 
 Paris, see Matthew. 
 
 Parnell, Thomas , 352* 
 
 Pater, Walter 767 
 
 Peele, George 151* 
 
 Pepys, Samuel 291 
 
 Percy, Thomas 433* 
 
 PooRE, Richard (?) 51 
 
 Pope, Alexander 296* 
 
 Prior, Matthew 294* 
 
 Procter, Bryan Waller 507* 
 
 Quarles, Francis 202* 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter 149*, 182 
 
 Ramsay, Allan 355* 
 
 Robert of Gloucester 33* 
 
 Rochester, John Wilmot, Earl of. . . 280* 
 
 RoLLE, Richard, of Hampole 35* 
 
 Roper, William 129 
 
 Rossetti, Christina Georgina 644* 
 
 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 641* 
 
 Ruskin, John 726 
 
 Sackville, Thomas, Lord Buckhurst. . 115* 
 St. John, Henry, see Bolinghroke. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter 496*, 539 
 
 Shakespeare, William 161* 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 518* 
 
 Shenstone, William 371* 
 
 Shirley, James 204* 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip 150*, 188 
 
 Skelton, John 100* 
 
 Skinner, John 457* 
 
 somerville, william 356* 
 
 Southey, Robert 495*, 548 
 
 Spenser, Edmund . 136* 
 
 Stanhope, Philip Dormer, see Chester- i 
 
 fieU. \ 
 
 Steele, Sir Richard 340 
 
 Stephen, Sir Leslie 762 
 
 Sterne, Laurence 394 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis 669*, 772 
 
 Stowe, John 175 
 
 Suckling, Sir John 228* 
 
 Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of 113* 
 
 Swift, Jonathan 294, 320* 
 
 Swinburne, Algernon Charles 650* 
 
 Taylor, Jeremy 253 
 
 Temple, Sir William 282 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred 583* 
 
 Thackeray, William Makepeace . 659,* 710 
 Thomas of Ely 48 J 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 801 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thomas op Hales 28* 
 
 Thompson, Francis 779 
 
 Thomson, James 360* 
 
 Traherne, Thomas 206* 
 
 Trench, Richard Chevenix 658* 
 
 Vaughan, Henry 205* 
 
 Waller, Edmund 207* 
 
 Walton, Izaak 234 
 
 Webster, John 173* 
 
 Wedderburn, James 87* 
 
 PAGE 
 
 White, Joseph Blanco 603* 
 
 William of Malmsbdrt 45 
 
 WiLMOT, John, see Rochester. 
 
 Wither, George 200* 
 
 WoLPE, Charles 538* 
 
 Wordsworth, William 471* 
 
 wulfstan 23 
 
 Wyatt, Sir Thomas 113* 
 
 Wyclip, John 78 
 
 Young, EIdwabd 354* 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 505 
 
 Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss 166 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 466 
 
 After that Harvest gathered had his 
 
 sheaves 80 
 
 A good sword and a trusty hand! 658 
 
 "Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh" 502 
 
 Ah fading joy! how quickly art thou past! 280 
 
 Ah! Freedom is a nolDle thing 55 
 
 Ah! gentle Shepherd! thine the lot to tend 359 
 
 Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn 371 
 
 Ah! my Lord, leave me not 87 
 
 Ah! Sun flower! weary of time 457 
 
 Ah, what avails the sceptered race 503 
 
 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight. . . 535 
 Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb. . 441 
 
 Alas! for Peter, not a helping hand 454 
 
 Allan-a-Dale has no faggots for burning. . 500 
 All human things are subject to decay. . . 275 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moored 310 
 
 All joys are there in that countrie 35 
 
 All Nature seems at work, slugs leave their 
 
 lair 494 
 
 All the flowers of the spring 174 
 
 All ye woods, and trees, and bowers 173 
 
 Although I enter not 659 
 
 A maid of Christ entreateth me 28 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true 441 
 
 And if ye stand in doubt 101 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 113 
 
 Art thou consum'd with soul-afHicting 
 
 crosses? 202 
 
 Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum- 
 bers? 167 
 
 As I was walking all alane 93 
 
 As once I lay in winter's night 30 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 663 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 506 
 
 As virtuous men pass mildly away 168 
 
 As you came from the holy land 150 
 
 At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve . . 594 
 
 Athlestan King 14 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy forever 529 
 
 A thousand tymes I have heard men telle 62 
 At midnight in the silence of the sleep-time 634 
 At the close of the day, when the hamlet is 
 
 still 444 
 
 Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful 
 
 treasure 167 
 
 Ave Maris Stella 44 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints. . 214 
 Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner 
 
 things 306 
 
 "A weary lot is thine, fair maid" 499 
 
 803 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Well there is in the west country 495 
 
 Ay, but to die, and go we know not where 166 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 612 
 
 Behold her, single in the field 478 
 
 Be it right or wrong, these men among. . . 95 
 Be merry, man! and tak not sair in mind . . 84 
 
 Beowulf said to them, etc 6 
 
 Blessed be simple life, withouten dreid ... 84 
 
 Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 609 
 
 Break, break, break 597 
 
 Bright star, would I were steadfast as 
 
 thou art 530 
 
 Brittle beauty, that nature made so frail. . 113 
 
 But do not let us quarrel any more 616 
 
 But though true worth and virtue, etc 435 
 
 But welaway! so is my heart6 woe 81 
 
 By the blue taper's trembling light 352 
 
 Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren 173 
 Calm was the day, and through the trem- 
 bling air 147 
 
 Can he be fair that withers at a blast? .... 202 
 
 Can I not sing but hoy 99 
 
 Can I see another's woe 456 
 
 Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night 155 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes 458 
 
 Clear and cool, clear and cool 662 
 
 Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain 167 
 
 Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring 658 
 Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, 
 
 come 360 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love 158 
 
 Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of 
 
 peace 161 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, etc 589 
 
 Consider the sea's listless chime 643 
 
 Contented wi' little and cartlie wi' nmir . 470 
 "Courage!" he said, and pomtcHl toward 
 
 the land 586 
 
 Crabbed age and youth 162 
 
 Creator Spirit, by whose aid 280 
 
 Croesus, King of Lydia, dreamed that he 
 
 saw 645 
 
 Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten 
 
 sheaf 361 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe played 150 
 
 Cyriack, this three years' day, etc 214 
 
 Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench 214 
 
 Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only 
 
 leave 611 
 
 Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty 
 face 294 
 
804 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dear native brook I wild streamlet of the 
 
 West 493 
 
 Death, be not proud, though some have 
 
 called thee 169 
 
 "Death have we hated, etc" 650 
 
 Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that 
 
 name 223 
 
 Do not lift him from the bracken 660 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes 170 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair 483 
 
 England is a right good land, etc 33 
 
 Erce, Erce, Erce, Mother of Earth 3 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind 510 
 
 Even in a palace life may be led well 640 
 
 Even such is time, that takes on trust .... 150 
 
 Fair and fair, and twice so fair 151 
 
 Fair daffodils, we weep to see 227 
 
 Father of all! in ev'ry age 304 
 
 Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat 628 
 
 Fear no more the heat of the sun 162 
 
 First shall the heavens want starry light. . 151 
 Five years have passed; five summers, etc. 471 
 Flee fro the presse, and dwelle, with 
 
 sothefastnesse 75 
 
 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea 597 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 
 
 green braes 469 
 
 Forget six counties overhung with smoke 645 
 
 For thee was a house built 15 
 
 For the few hours of life allotted me 224 
 
 For the Yule-tide had yielded, etc 58 
 
 For this ye know well, though I would lie . . 79 
 For what is life, if measured by the space . . 171 
 Four years! — and didst thou stay above. . 640 
 From brightening fields of ether fair dis- 
 
 clos'd 361 
 
 From depth of dole wherein my soul doth 
 
 dweU 115 
 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony . . 277 
 
 Full fathom fiTfiR^hy father lies 162 
 
 Full many a glwious' morning have I seen 163 
 
 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may 227 
 
 Gentle reddr, have at me na despite 87 
 
 Get up, get up for shame, the blooming 
 
 mom 226 
 
 God that shaped both sea and sand 37 
 
 Go, fetch to me a pint o' wine 466 
 
 Go from me, yet I feel that I shall stand . . 635 
 
 Go, lovely Rose 208 
 
 Green httle vaulter in the sunny grass. . . . 507 
 
 Grow old along with me! 628 
 
 Had we but world enough, and time 225 
 
 Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven 
 first-born! 222 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! 519 
 
 Half a league, half a, league 601 
 
 Happy Insect, what can be 224 
 
 Happy those eari>' dayes, when 1 205 
 
 Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 162 
 
 Hark, now everything is still 174 
 
 Have my friends in the town, etc 358 
 
 He answer'd: "Helen, do not seek," etc. . 152 
 
 He lived in that past Georgian day 665 
 
 Hence all you vain delights 173 
 
 Hence, loathdd Melancholy 208 
 
 Hence, vain deluding Joys 209 
 
 Here lies our sovereign lord the King .... 280 
 
 Here, where the world is quiet 652 
 
 He's sentenc'd, 'tis too late 166 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek 226 
 
 He that of such a height, etc 155 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead 508 
 
 He who hath never war'd with misery. . . . 156 
 
 Hie upon Hielands 95 
 
 Him that was, if I shall not feign 80 
 
 His golden locks Time hath to silver turned 152 
 
 Holla, ye pampered jades of Asia! 159 
 
 How changed is here each spot, etc 636 
 
 How do I love thee? Let me count the ways 635 
 
 How Uke an Angel came I down! 207 
 
 How many thousands of my poorest sub- 
 jects 165 
 
 "How seldom, friend! A good great man 
 
 inherits 493 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 
 
 youth 214 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze 224 
 
 How well I know what I mean to do. ... . 613 
 
 I am now older than I was 27 
 
 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting 
 
 flowers 520 
 
 I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house. . . 583 
 
 If all the world and love were young 149 
 
 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song. . . 431 
 
 If childhood were not in the world 654 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 473 
 
 If I have faltered more or less 669 
 
 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange . . 635 
 I have had playmates, I have had com- 
 panions 502 
 
 I have heard my people, the peasant-folk . . 3 
 I have led her home, my love, my only 
 
 friend 601 
 
 I know a maid in bower bright 42 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays . . 174 
 
 Illustrious England, ancient seat of Kings 152 
 
 "I may sing of myself now" 12 
 
 I met a traveller from an antique land . . . 521 
 
 I'm wearin' awa', John 459 
 
 In a coign of the cliff between lowland 
 
 and highland 653 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 805 \ 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In days of March and Averil 42 
 
 Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art 466 
 In my youth's summer I did sing of one. . . 510 
 In the land lived a priest, who was Laya- 
 
 mon callM 27 
 
 In the season of summer, when soft was 
 
 the sunnd 60 
 
 In this fair stranger's eyes of grey 639 
 
 In this lone open glade I lie 641 
 
 In vain, in vain, the all-composing Hour. . 806 
 In vain to me the smihng mornings shine. . 428 
 
 In Virgin^ the sultry Sun 'gan sheene 446 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 493 
 
 I saw Eternity the other night 206 
 
 I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and 
 
 bowers 226 
 
 I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he. . 610 
 
 Is there a whim-inspired fool 465 
 
 Is there for honest Poverty 470 
 
 I struck the board, and cry'd, etc 203 
 
 It fortifies my soul to know 663 
 
 I that in health was and gladness 85 
 
 I think we are too ready with complaint . . 634 
 I thought once how Theocritus had sung, . 635 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free . . 483 
 
 It is an ancient Mariner 484 
 
 It keeps eternal whisperings round 530 
 
 It little profits that an idle king 593 
 
 It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well! 295 
 
 It was a friar of orders gray 433 
 
 It was a summer evening 495 
 
 I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking 457 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west. . 539 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud 480 
 
 I watched a rosebud very long 644 
 
 I weep for Adonais — he is dead! 521 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies 98 
 
 Jack and Joan, they think no ill 172 
 
 Karshish, the picker-up of learning's 
 
 crumbs 619 
 
 King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 609 
 
 Last night, among his fellow roughs 659 
 
 " Late, late, so late! and dark the night 
 
 and chill!" 602 
 
 Late, my grandson! haK the morning, etc. 603 
 Lead kindly Light, amid the encircling 
 
 gloom 657 
 
 Leave me, O Love! which reaehest but to 
 
 dust 151 
 
 Lest men suspect your tale untrue 309 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true minds 164 
 "Let not Ambition mock their useful 
 
 toil" ^ 460 
 
 Let others trust the seas, dare death and 
 
 Hell 199 
 
 PAQK 
 
 Like as the waves make towards the 
 
 pebbled shore I63 
 
 Like to the falling of a star 173 
 
 Like unto these unmeasurable mountains . . 113 
 
 Listen, Lordings, if you will 36 
 
 Little lamb, who made thee? 455 
 
 Lol I, the man whose Muse whylome 
 
 did maske 135 
 
 Look in my face; my name is Might-have- 
 been 644 
 
 Look up to Pentland's tow'ring top 355 
 
 Lo! on a sudden, and all unlooked for 9 
 
 Lords, knights, and 'squires the numerous 
 
 band 294 
 
 Lord, thou hast given me a cell 228 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace of mind 352 
 
 Lo, when we wade the tangled wood 650 
 
 Lullay, lullay, little child! 44 
 
 Maidens of Engelande sore may ye mourn 43 
 
 Make we merry in hall and hour 99 
 
 Man is the world, and death the ocean . . . 167 
 
 Man yearneth rim^s for to hear 34 
 
 "March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale" 501 
 
 Mark when she smiles with amiable cheare 149 
 
 Merry it is in the good greenwood 498 
 
 Methinks we do as fretful children do ... . 635 
 
 Midst of a cloister, painted on a wall 80 
 
 Mild is the parting year and sweet 503 
 
 Milton! thou shouldst be hving at this 
 
 hour 483 
 
 Most miserable man, whom wicked fate. . . 147 
 Much have 1 travell'd in the reahns of 
 
 gold 529 
 
 Music, when soft voices die 528 
 
 My bonny man, the warld, it's true 669 
 
 My days among the Dead are past 496 
 
 My dear companion, and my faithful 
 
 friend! 357 
 
 My good blade carves the casques of men 593 
 My grandfather says he remembers he saw, 
 
 etc 631 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 
 
 pains •''36 
 
 My heart is high above, etc 100 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behoKl ITS 
 
 My Peggy is a young thing 356 
 
 My Phillis hath the morning sun 151 
 
 My spirit is too weak— mortality 629 
 
 Mysterious Night! when our first parent 
 
 knew 5^ 
 
 My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love ... 171 
 
 Nature that framed us four elements 159 
 
 Nobly, nobly, Cape Saint Vincent, etc. . . 611 
 No man becomes, before death calls him . . 8 
 
 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 538 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 538 
 
806 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Nothing is to man so dear 33 
 
 No! those days are gone away 535 
 
 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments. . . 163 
 
 Now, brother Walter, brother mine 28 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, etc 656 
 
 Now haud your tongue, baith wife and 
 
 carle 501 
 
 Now mirk December's dowie face 460 
 
 Now shall we hymn high heaven's Ward . 8 
 
 Now the days are all gone over 653 
 
 Now the hungry lion roars 161 
 
 Now wends he his way through the wild 
 
 tracts of Logres 58 
 
 O, Brignall banks are wild and fair 499 
 
 Obscurest night involved the sky 440 
 
 O Death, rock me to sleep 100 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 466 
 
 Of Februar the fifteenth nicht 84 
 
 Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing 645 
 Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit 215 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 504 
 
 Of old sat Freedom on the heights 588 
 
 O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide 164 
 O Friend! I know not which way I must 
 
 look 483 
 
 Of such is the kingdom of heaven 654 
 
 Of these the false Achitophel was first .... 277 
 Of this fair volume which we world do 
 
 name 174 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 607 
 
 O, Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to 
 
 find 622 
 
 Oh, Faustus! 159 
 
 Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 509 
 
 Oh! that we two were Maying 662 
 
 Oh, to be in England now that April's 
 
 there 611 
 
 O Usten, listen, ladies gay! 496 
 
 O lyric Love, half angel and half bird 633 
 
 "O Mary, go and call the cattle home". . 662 
 
 O may I join the choir invisible 663 
 
 O mistress mine, where are you roaming? . . 162 
 
 O mortal man, who livest here by toil 364 
 
 O my Luve's like a red, red Rose 470 
 
 On a starred nighk Prince Lucifer uprose. . 665 
 Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . 165 
 
 Once within a summer's dale 29 
 
 One day I wrote her name upon the strand 149 
 
 One more Unfortunate 655 
 
 One word is too often profaned 528 
 
 On Linden when the sun was low 504 
 
 O noble worthy king, Henry the ferth^. . . 59 
 
 O sing unto my roundelay 446 
 
 O that those lips had language! 439 
 
 Others abide our question. Thou art free. 640 
 
 O Thou Great Being! what thou art 465 
 
 Our life is likest a long sea-voyage 9 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Our revels now are ended, etc 166 
 
 Over hill, over dale 161 
 
 O wert thou in the cauld blast 470 
 
 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Au- 
 tumn's being 518 
 
 O world! Olife! O time! 528 
 
 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west 497 
 
 Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day 172 
 
 Pearl, princes prize, and men essay 55 
 
 Piping down the valleys wild 455 
 
 Pitch here the tent, while the old horse 
 
 grazes 664 
 
 Placebo 100 
 
 Pleasure it is 100 
 
 Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth . . . 164 
 Power above powers! O heavenly Elo- 
 quence! 155 
 
 "Proud Maisie is in the wood" 501 
 
 Queen and huntress, chaste and fair 170 
 
 Row us out from Desenzano, etc 603 
 
 "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!" 430 
 
 Sabrina fair 211 
 
 Said Abner, "At last thou art come," etc. 623 
 
 Say not the struggle nought availeth 663 
 
 Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled 469 
 
 Season of mists and mellow f ruitf ulness . . . 537 
 
 See the chariot at hand here of Love 170 
 
 See, the flowery spring is blown 360 
 
 See, the star that leads the day 353 
 
 See, Winter comes to rule the varied year 362 
 
 Seventeen hundred and thirty-nine 666 
 
 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? . . 163 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despaire 200 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways .... 473 
 She is far from the land where her young 
 
 Hero sleeps 507 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 655 
 
 Shepherds all and maidens fair 172 
 
 She wakes in beauty, like the night 510 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 480 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot 465 
 
 Shut, shut the door, good John! etc 304 
 
 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor 
 
 boundless sea 164 
 
 Since there's no help, come let us kiss and 
 
 part 157 
 
 Since through virtfie increases dignity. ... 82 
 
 Sing his praises that doth keep 172 
 
 Sing lullaby, as women do 114 
 
 Sing me a song of a lad that is gone 670 
 
 Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft 
 
 rest 174 
 
 So all day long the noise of battle roU'd . . . 594 
 Some murmur when their sky is clear 658 
 
I 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 So now is come our joyful feast 200 
 
 Spring is come to town with love 42 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was!. . . 530 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee * 505 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 481 
 
 "Still the lone one and desolate," etc 11 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest 170 
 
 Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies 507 
 
 "Summer is coming, summer is coming" 608 
 
 Summer is icumen in 41 
 
 Sunset and evening star 609 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of con- 
 tent 155 
 
 Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain 374 
 
 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 202 
 
 Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that Uv'st 
 
 unseen 211 
 
 Sweetest Love, I do not go 168 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave 528 
 
 Take feverfew, and plantain, and the red 
 
 nettle 3 
 
 Take, oh, take those lips away 162 
 
 Teach me, my God and King 203 
 
 "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 
 
 mean" 598 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 229 
 
 Tell, said the mighty Fingal 444 
 
 That childish thoughts such joy inspire . . 206 
 That's my last Duchess painted on the wall 609 
 That time of year thou may'st in me be- 
 hold 164 
 
 That which her slender waist confin'd 207 
 
 The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the 
 
 fold 509 
 
 The blessed damozel leaned out 641 
 
 The changing guests, each in a different 
 
 mood 644 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. . 428 
 The days grow old, the low-pitch'd camp 
 
 hath made 202 
 
 The feathered songster Chanticleer 448 
 
 The ganger walked with willing foot 669 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 204 
 
 The god of love, ah, benedicite 80 
 
 The hag is astride 227 
 
 The harp that once through Tara's halls. . 506 
 The host was harrowed, with horror of 
 
 drowning 8 
 
 The hunt is up, the hunt is up 99 
 
 The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!. . . 516 
 
 The king sits in Dumferling town 93 
 
 The man of life upright 171 
 
 The men of wealthy Sestos every year. . . 160 
 The Muse, disgusted at an age and clinie. . 355 
 Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious 
 
 more ^•^^ 
 
 The Percy out of Northumberland 90 
 
 8o; 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The play is done; the curtain drops. 
 
 The poetry of earth is never dead 529 
 
 There is an awful quiet in the air 665 
 
 There is delight in singing, tho' none hear 503 
 There is sweet music here that softer falls 587 
 
 There's a maid in a bower, etc 43 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give, etc. . 509 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night. . 481 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, 
 
 and stream 478 
 
 There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r 94 
 
 The sea is calm to-night 639 
 
 The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! 508 
 
 The soots season that bud and bloom forth 
 
 brings 113 
 
 The spacious firmament on high 295 
 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 515 
 
 The sun descending in the west 455 
 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, etc 602 
 
 The Village Life, and every care that reigns 452 
 
 The world is too much with us, etc 483 
 
 The wrathful winter, 'proaching on apace 115 
 They are all gone into the world of light! . . 205 
 
 The year's at the spring 609 
 
 This ae nicht, this ae nicht 98 
 
 This battle fares like to the morning's war 164 
 
 Thise riotoures thre, of whiche I telle 72 
 
 This life, which seems so fair 174 
 
 This only grant me, that my means may 
 
 he 271 
 
 This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd 
 
 isle 165 
 
 Thou fair-haired angel of the evening 455 
 
 Thou clock 228 
 
 Though grief and fondness in my breast 
 
 rebel 366 
 
 Thou still unravished bride of quietness. . 537 
 
 Thou Who didst make, etc 644 
 
 Three fishers went sailing away to the 
 
 West 662 
 
 Three poets, in three distant ages bom . . . 280 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower . 473 
 Through winter streets to steer your course 
 
 aright 310 
 
 Thus came, lo Engftland into Normandy's 
 
 hand 33 
 
 Thus charged he: nor Argicides denied 154 
 
 Tiger, tiger, burning bright 456 
 
 Tir'd Nature's sweet restorer, balmy slet'p! 354 
 Tired with all these, for restful death I cry 164 
 'Tis instinct that directs the jealous hare . . 356 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved . 518 
 
 Tis true— then why should I repine 294 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy 
 
 name. 
 
 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 433 
 
 To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, come 
 down ^^ 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ToU for the brave! 440 
 
 To mercy, pity, peace, and love 456 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent 529 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom! I retire 374 
 
 To these whom death again did wed 204 
 
 Touch us gently, Time! 507 
 
 To you, my piu-se, and to noon other wyght 74 
 
 "Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale" 378 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won . . . 278 
 
 'Twas on a Monday morning 459 
 
 Two souls diverse out of our human sight 654 
 
 Under the arch of Life, where love and 
 
 death 643 
 
 Under the greenwood tree 161 
 
 Under the wide and starry sky 670 
 
 Under yonder beech-tree on the green- 
 sward 665 
 
 Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years 528 
 
 Upon a time, as ^Esop could report 82 
 
 Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books. . 472 
 Us caitiffs then a far more dreadful chance 114 
 
 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying. . . . 494 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay 497 
 
 Was this the face that launched a thousand 
 
 ships 159 
 
 Weary of myself, and sick of asking 639 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tippdd flow'r, 464 
 
 Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan 172 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie. . . . 464 
 We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair, 
 
 etc 651 
 
 Welcome, the lord of licht, and lamp of day 86 
 Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, etc. . 492 
 
 Well then! I now do plainly see 223 
 
 We read full oft and find y-writ 37 
 
 We watched her breathing thro' the night 655 
 Whan that Aprille with hise shour^s soote 65 
 What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil 635 
 What beck'ning ghost, along the moon- 
 
 hght shade 303 
 
 What dire offence from am'rous causes 
 
 springs 296 
 
 What hath man done, that man shall not 
 
 undo 200 
 
 Wha the deil hae we got for a king 459 
 
 When Britain first at Heaven's command 363 
 
 When cats run home and Hght is come 583 
 
 When chapman biUies leave the street 467 
 
 When civil dudgeon first grew high 273 
 
 When God at first made man 203 
 
 When I consider everything that grows. . 163 
 When I consider how my light is spent. . . 214 
 
 PAGE 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has 
 
 tamed 483 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 530 
 When, in disgrace with fortune and men's 
 
 eyes 163 
 
 When I survey the bright 204 
 
 When Learning's triumph, o'er her bar- 
 
 b'rous foe 369 
 
 When Love with unconfined wings 229 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 502 
 
 When man was born to this world's light . . 35 
 When music, heavenly maid, was young. . 432 
 When shaws be sheen, and shradds full fair 88 
 
 When the hounds of spring, etc 650 
 
 When the Nightingale sings, etc 43 
 
 When the Sheep are in the f auld 458 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent 
 
 thought 163 
 
 When we for age could neither read nor 
 
 write 208 
 
 Where are they that lived before 41 
 
 Where the bee sucks there suck 1 162 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride 225 
 
 Whether on Ida's shady brow 455 
 
 While briars and woodbines budding green 463 
 While the dawn on the mountain was 
 
 misty, etc 500 
 
 Whoe'er she be ... 204 
 
 Who is Silvia? What is she 161 
 
 Why did I laugh to-night? etc 530 
 
 Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears . 227 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 228 
 
 "Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?" 500 
 
 "Why, William, on that old gray stone" . . 472 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun 169 
 
 With a whirl of thought oppress'd 295 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, etc 150 
 
 Wondrous is its wall of stone 10 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around . . 469 
 Ye clouds! that far above me float and 
 
 pause 490 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 427 
 
 Ye mariners of England 504 
 
 Yes! in the sea of hfe enisled 639 
 
 Yes; I write verses now and then 503 
 
 Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 211 
 Ye, who amid this feverish world would 
 
 wear 370 
 
 You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease 588 
 
 You brave heroic minds, 158 
 
 Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly 79 
 
 Your ghost wiU walk, you lover of trees. . 616 
 Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass 643 
 You spotted snakes with double tongue. . . 161 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Absence 639 
 
 Accomplishment of the First of Mr. 
 
 Bickerstaff's Predictions 324 
 
 Achitophel 277 
 
 Address to the Author's Elbow Chair New- 
 
 Clothed 357 
 
 Adonais 521 
 
 Ms Triplex (Virginibus Puerisqite) 772 
 
 Af ton Water 469 
 
 Agincourt 157 
 
 Ah! Sunflower 457 
 
 Ah What Avails the Sceptered Race 503 
 
 Aim of a University Course, The 709 
 
 A Lad that is Gone 670 
 
 Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music 278 
 
 Alysoun 42 
 
 Ambition 159 
 
 An Apology for Writing in the Vulgar and 
 
 Maternal Language 87 
 
 Ancren Riwle (Selections) 51 
 
 Andrea Del Sarto 616 
 
 And Wilt thou Leave Me Thus? 113 
 
 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 23 
 
 An Ode to Ph— 355 
 
 Apelles' Song 150 
 
 Apology, An 645 
 
 Approach, The 206 
 
 Areopagitica 266 
 
 Argument to Hesperides 226 
 
 Ariel's Song 162 
 
 Armour of Innocence, The 171 
 
 Art and Character (Qibeen of the Air) 733 
 
 Art of Preserving Health, The 370 
 
 As Slow our Ship 506 
 
 At the Church Gate 659 
 
 Auld Lang Syne 465 
 
 Auld Robin Gray 458 
 
 Author's Resolution in a Sonnet, The 200 
 
 Autumn 361 
 
 Ave Maria . 44 
 
 Balade of Charitie ■ 446 
 
 Ballad, Ahce Brand 498 
 
 Ballad of Beau Brocade 666 
 
 Ballad of Good Counsel, A 82 
 
 Ballad of Good Counsel or Truth, The . . . 75 
 
 Bard's Epitaph, A 465 
 
 Bard, The 430 
 
 Bastille, The (The Task) 438 
 
 Battle of Blenheim, The 495 
 
 Battle of Brunanburh 14 
 
 Battle of HaUdon Hill 36 
 
 Battle of Hastings and the Effect of the 
 
 Conquest, The 46 
 
 PAQB 
 
 Battle of Ivry, The 656 
 
 Battle of The Baltic 504 
 
 Battle of Trafalgar, The 548 
 
 Bede's Account of Himself 18 
 
 Bede's Death Song g 
 
 Beowulf (Selections) 3 
 
 Bermudas 225 
 
 Better Answer, A 294 
 
 Black Eyed Susan 310 
 
 Blessed Damozel, The 641 
 
 Blow, Northern Wind 42 
 
 Boethius 418 
 
 Bonnie George Campbell 95 
 
 Border Ballad 501 
 
 Boswell (Review of Croker^s BosweWs 
 
 Johnson) 687 
 
 Boswell's First Meeting with Dr. Johnson 424 
 
 Boswell the Hero- Worshipper 676 
 
 Bread and Liberty 224 
 
 Break, Break, Break 597 
 
 Bridge of Sighs, The 655 
 
 Bristowe Tragedy; or the Death of Sir 
 
 Charles Bawdin 448 
 
 Britannia's Pastorals 201 
 
 Bruce's Address to his Army at Bannock- 
 burn 460 
 
 Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna, The 538 
 
 Burns 683 
 
 Burton tells why he Writes Under the 
 
 Name of Democritus Jufiior 229 
 
 By the Fireside 613 
 
 Caedmon's Hymn 
 
 Canterbury Tales, The (Selection^/ 
 
 Canute and the Monks of Ely 
 
 Carol 
 
 Carthon: A Poem 
 
 Cast- A way, The 
 
 Castle of Indolence, The (Selections) ... 
 
 Ca' the Yowes 
 
 Cato's Soliloquy 
 
 Causes of the Ruin of Rome, The 
 
 Cavalier Tunes (Give a Rouse, Boot and 
 Saddle) 
 
 Celestial Surgeon, The 
 
 Celtic Spirit, The 
 
 Characteristics of Shakespeare's Dramaa 
 
 Character of Pope, The 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade 
 
 Charles I Sets up his Staudurd at "Not- 
 tingham 
 
 Charlie is My Darling 
 
 Charm for Bewitched Land. 
 
 Charm for a Sudden Stitch 
 
 8 
 
 64 
 4S 
 W 
 141 
 140 
 
 :^t)4 
 
 4.-.^ 
 _">") 
 }_'() 
 
 609 
 r)69 
 745 
 544 
 388 
 601 
 
 3 
 
 809 
 
810 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 510 
 
 Choric Song 587 
 
 Chorus (Atalanta in Calydon) 650 
 
 Chorus (Atalanta in Calydon) 651 
 
 Christmas Carol, A 200 
 
 Christ's Victory and Triumph 200 
 
 Chronicles of Sir John Froissai*t (Selec- 
 tions) 121 
 
 Claius Describes Urania 189 
 
 Clear and Cool 662 
 
 Cloud, The 520 
 
 Coffee House, The {History of England) . . 702 
 
 Colin Clout 101 
 
 Coliseum at Night, The 515 
 
 Collar, The 203 
 
 Collins 386 
 
 Coming of Winter, The 167 
 
 Corapleynt of Chaucer to his Purse, The 74 
 Consideration of the Vanity and Shortness 
 
 of Man's Life 254 
 
 Consolation of Beothius, The (Selections) 21 
 
 Content 84 
 
 Content 155 
 
 Corinna's Going A-Maying 226 
 
 Cotter's Saturday Night, The 460 
 
 Counterblast, The 669 
 
 County Guy 502 
 
 Courtier, The 147 
 
 Coy Mistress, To His 225 
 
 Crabbed Age and Youth 162 
 
 Crist, The (The Voyage of Life, Doomsday) 9 
 
 Critic, A 240 
 
 Crossing the Bar 609 
 
 Cuckoo and the Nightingale, The 80 
 
 Cuckoo Song 41 
 
 Culture (Culture and Anarchy) 748 
 
 Cursor Mundi 34 
 
 Cuthbert's Letter on the Death of Bede. . 19 
 
 Cyriack Skinner, To 214 
 
 Cyriack Skinner, XXI, To 214 
 
 Daft Days, The 460 
 
 Daily Miracle, The 23 
 
 Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins, The 84 
 
 Day of Judgment, The 295 
 
 Death 100 
 
 Death and Hereafter 166 
 
 Death and Immortality 240 
 
 Death-Bed, The 655 
 
 Death of CaBsar, The 176 
 
 Death of LaocoOn, The (/Eneid) 114 
 
 Death of Queen Elizabeth (History of the 
 
 English People) 764 
 
 Death's Summons 166 
 
 Debate of the Body and Soul, The 30 
 
 Dedication to Sir Francis Walsingham ... 178 
 Dedicatory Epistle (Monmouth's History 
 
 of Britain) 48 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " De Gustibus" 616 
 
 Dejection: An Ode 492 
 
 Departed Friends 205 
 
 De Profundis 115 
 
 Description of His Father (Latimer) 133 
 
 Description of Spring 113 
 
 Description of Urania, A 189 
 
 Description of William the Conqueror, A 44 
 
 Deserted Village, The 374 
 
 Destruction of Sennacherib, The 509 
 
 Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading 556 
 
 Dirge 162 
 
 Dirge, A 173 
 
 Dirge, A 204 
 
 Dirge Before Death 174 
 
 Dirge for Philip Sparrow, A 100 
 
 Dirge in Cymbeline 433 
 
 Disdain Returned 226 
 
 Divine Image, To the 456 
 
 Divine Source of Law, The 185 
 
 Divinity in Man, The 245 
 
 Don Juan 516 
 
 Dover Beach 639 
 
 Drawing near the Light 650 
 
 Dream Children ; a Reverie 554 
 
 Drowning of the Egyptians, The 8 
 
 Edmund's Song (Rokehy) 499 
 
 Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate 
 
 Lady 303 
 
 Elegy upon the Death of Lady Markham, 
 
 An 167 
 
 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 428 
 
 Elixir, The 203 
 
 End of the Play, The 660 
 
 Endymion 529 
 
 England 165 
 
 English Mail Coach, The 576 
 
 Epic, The (Morte D' Arthur) 594 
 
 Epigramme 3 202 
 
 Epilogue 634 
 
 Epistle, An 358 
 
 Epistle of Karshish, An 619 
 
 Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 304 
 
 Epistle to John Lapraik 463 
 
 Epitaph on Charies II 280 
 
 Epitaph upon Husband and Wife, An. . . . 204 
 
 Essay on Man, An 306 
 
 Essex and Spenser 564 
 
 Eternal Child in Shelley, The 77S 
 
 Euphues Glass for Europe 187 
 
 Evelyn Hope 612 
 
 Evening Star, To the 455 
 
 Eve of St. Agnes, The. 530 
 
 Execution of Lady Jane Grey, The 135 
 
 Execution of Mary Queen of Scots 721 
 
 Execution of Sir Thomas More, The 129 
 
 Expostulation and Reply 472 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 811 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Faerie Queene 136 
 
 Fair and Happy Milkmaid, A 232 
 
 Fairies Song 161 
 
 Fairy Song 161 
 
 Faith 244 
 
 Fame and Death 183 
 
 Farewell, A 151 
 
 Farewell, A 597 
 
 Farmer Moss's Daughter 454 
 
 Faustus Fulfils his Compact with the Devil 159 
 Faustus' Vision of Helen (Dr. Faustus) . . . 159 
 
 Field-Sports 356 
 
 Fight with Apollyon, The 257 
 
 Fine Lady's Journal, The 337 
 
 Fleece, The (Selections) 359 
 
 Flowers of the Forest, The 457 
 
 Forsaken Garden, A 653 
 
 Fortunati Nimium 172 
 
 Frailty of Beauty, The 113 
 
 France: An Ode 490 
 
 "Frater Ave Atque Vale" 603 
 
 Freedom 55 
 
 French and English Tragic Writers 285 
 
 Friar of Orders Gray, The 433 
 
 Garden, The 224 
 
 Garden of Proserpine, The 652 
 
 Geist's Grave 640 
 
 Gentleman of the Old School, A 665 
 
 Gibbon is Inspired to Write his History. . 417 
 
 God's Care for Man 100 
 
 God's Wisdom and Eternity 245 
 
 Good Great Man, The 493 
 
 Good Morrow 172 
 
 Good Schoolmaster, A 185 
 
 Good Schoolmaster, The 246 
 
 Gospel of Work, The 686 
 
 Grasshopper, The 224 
 
 Grave, The 15 
 
 Great Fire, The 280 
 
 Great Fire of London, The 292 
 
 Greene's Farewell to his Fellow Play- 
 wrights 192 
 
 Guardian Angel, The 611 
 
 Gulliver Among the Lilliputians 325 
 
 Hag, The 227 
 
 Hamlet (HazUtt) 567 
 
 Hark, Hark the Lark 162 
 
 Harlaw (Antiquary) 501 
 
 Harold's Song to Rosabella 496 
 
 Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls, The 506 
 Hawking, Hunting, and Fishing (Walton's 
 
 Angler) 234 
 
 Hector and Andromache {Iliad) 152 
 
 Helen of Kirconnell ^^ 
 
 Henry Vth's Address to his Soldiers at 
 
 Harfleurs • • • ^^^ 
 
 PAQM 
 
 Henry Vlth's Soliloquy at the Battle of 
 
 Towton 154 
 
 Henry Wriothesly, Earl of Southampton, 
 
 To 156 
 
 Hermit, The 378 
 
 Hermit, The 444 
 
 Hero, The 680 
 
 He Who Hath Bent Him O'er the Dead. . 508 
 
 Higher Pantheism, The 602 
 
 Highland Mary 469 
 
 Hills of Gold and the Terrestrial Paradise, 
 
 The 77 
 
 His Golden Locks Time Hath to Silver 
 
 Turned 162 
 
 His Grange, or Private Wealth 228 
 
 Hohenlinden 504 
 
 Home Thoughts from Abroad 611 
 
 Home Thoughts from the Sea 611 
 
 How Gulliver Conquered the Fleet of the 
 
 Blefuscudians 326 
 
 How Layamon Wrote his Book 27 
 
 How they Brought the Good News from 
 
 Ghent to Aix 610 
 
 Hunting Song 497 
 
 Hunt is Up, The 99 
 
 Hunting of the Cheviot, The 90 
 
 Hymn for Morning, A 353 
 
 Hymn to Contentment, A 352 
 
 Hymn to God the Father, A 169 
 
 Illustrious England, Ancient Seat of 
 
 Kings 152 
 
 II Penseroso 209 
 
 Impressions of a Chinese Traveller 397 
 
 Induction to a Mirror for Magistrates. . . 115 
 
 Infant, The 35 
 
 In Memoriam (Selections) 598 
 
 In Praise of Chaucer 80 
 
 In Praise of England 33 
 
 In Sickness 294 
 
 Intimations of ImmortaUty 478 
 
 Introduction to the Last Fruit Ofif an Old 
 
 Tree «» 
 
 Introduction (Songs of Innocence) 455 
 
 " In Vain, in Vain " (Dunciad) ... '^06 
 
 Invidiosa Senectus -*^ 
 
 Irruption of the Tartars, An 53 
 
 Isabella's Plea for Mercy Iw 
 
 Is There, For Honest Poverty 470 
 
 "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" 480 
 
 Jeanie Morrison 5^ 
 
 Joan t? 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean '^^ 
 
 John Davis (.Short Studies on Great Sub^ 
 
 jects) 725 
 
 Jolly Shepherd, The. . 
 
 Juggling Jerry . 
 
 (•.64 
 
812 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 King Alexander and the Isle of Bragaman 76 
 
 King Arthur 110 
 
 King Edwin Considers Adopting Chris- 
 tianity 16 
 
 King Lear 563 
 
 Knowledge and Character 704 
 
 Kubla Khan: Or a Vision in a Dream 493 
 
 La Belle Dame Sans Merci 535 
 
 Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, 
 
 To the 155 
 
 Lady's Misery in a Summer Retirement. . 384 
 
 L'AUegro 208 
 
 Lamb, The 455 
 
 Lament, A 528 
 
 Lament for Chaucer, A 81 
 
 Lament for the Makers, The 85 
 
 Lamp of Memory, The 727 
 
 Land of the Leal, The 459 
 
 Last Entry in Pepys' Diary, The 293 
 
 Lead, Kindly Light 657 
 
 Leander Sees Hero at the Feast of Sestos . . 160 
 
 Leave Me Not 87 
 
 Legend of Good Women, From the (Selec- 
 tion) 62 
 
 L'Envoi (Earthly Paradise) 650 
 
 Letters from Olney 415 
 
 Letter to a Noble Lord 408 
 
 Letter to Lord Chesterfield 385 
 
 Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow 572 
 
 Liberty and Restraint {Queen of the Air) . . 735 
 
 Life of Hooker 239 
 
 Life's True Measure 171 
 
 Lines Written in Kensington Gardens 641 
 
 Lines Written the Night Before his 
 
 Death 150 
 
 Lochinvar 497 
 
 Locksley Hall 589 
 
 Locksley Hall Sixty Years After 603 
 
 London: A Poem 366 
 
 Lord Falkland 251 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter 505 
 
 Loss of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, The 179 
 
 Lotus Eaters, The 586 
 
 Love in the Valley 665 
 
 Lover's Life Compared to the Alps, The. . 113 
 
 Love Rune, A 28 
 
 Lucifer in Starhght 665 
 
 Lullaby 44 
 
 Lullaby of a Lover, The 114 
 
 Lycidas 211 
 
 Lyke-Wake Dirge, A 98 
 
 Macbeth's Meeting with the Weird Sisters 177 
 
 Mao^Flecknoe 275 
 
 Madge Wildfire's Song 501 
 
 Madrigal I74 
 
 Mahnsbury's Account of Himself 45 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Manners Makyth Man 379 
 
 Martin Relph 631 
 
 Maud 601 
 
 Meditation Upon a Broomstick 320 
 
 Melancholy 173 
 
 Merciles Beaute 79 
 
 Merits of Sir Hudibras, The 273 
 
 Michael 473 
 
 Mild is the Parting Year and Sweet 503 
 
 Minstrel, The 441 
 
 Minstrel's Roundelay 446 
 
 Modern Pastoral, The 452 
 
 Money {Crown of Wild Olive) 730 
 
 Mors Tua 202 
 
 Morte D' Arthur (Tennyson) 594 
 
 Morte D' Arthur (Selections from Malory) 103 
 
 Mr. Shandy on His Son's Death 394 
 
 Musical Instrument, A 634 
 
 My Bonie Mary 466 
 
 My Days Among the Dead are Past 496 
 
 My Heart is High Above 100 
 
 My Heart Leaps up 478 
 
 My Last Duchess 609 
 
 Natural Supematuralism 672 
 
 Ned Softly, The Poet 332 
 
 New Invention of Printing, The 110 
 
 Night {^neid) 114 
 
 Night 455 
 
 Night-Piece on Death, A 352 
 
 Nil Nisi Bonum {Roundabout Papers). ... 711 
 
 Norman and English 33 
 
 No Treasure without Gladness 84 
 
 Nox Nocti Indicat Scientam 204 
 
 Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shep 
 
 herd. The 149 
 
 Object of the Spectator, The 334 
 
 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 427 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn 537 
 
 Ode on Melancholy 638 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale 536 
 
 Ode to Duty 481 
 
 Ode to Evening , 431 
 
 Ode to the West Wind 518 
 
 Of Adversity 194 
 
 Of an Unusual Swelling and Commotion 
 
 of the Sea 64 
 
 Of Books 248 
 
 Of Contentedness in all Estates and Acci' 
 
 dents 253 
 
 Of Death 193 
 
 Of Health and Long Life 282 
 
 Of Myself 271 
 
 Of old Sat Freedom on the Heights 588 
 
 Of Riches 195 
 
 Of Self-Praising 247 
 
 Of Studies 196 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 813 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Oft in the Stilly night 507 
 
 Of Wisdom for a Man's Self 194 
 
 Oh! Snatch'd Away in Beauty's Bloom. . . 509 
 Old Coach Roads of England, The (Felix 
 
 Holt) 718 
 
 Old Famihar Faces, The 502 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith 426 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith 693 
 
 O Lyric Love {Ring and the Book) 633 
 
 "O May I Join the Choir Invisible" 663 
 
 O Mistress Mine, where are you Roaming . 162 
 
 On a Girdle 207 
 
 On Another's Sorrow 456 
 
 On his Blindness 214 
 
 On His having arrived at the Age of 
 
 Twenty-three 214 
 
 On Life, Death, and Immortality 354 
 
 On Reading (Choice of Books) 761 
 
 On Seeing the Elgin Marbles for the First 
 
 Time 529 
 
 On Sleep 174 
 
 On Sleep XXXIX. (Astrophel and Stella) 151 
 
 On Testimonials 346 
 
 On the Advisableness of Improving Nat- 
 ural Knowledge 753 
 
 On the Death of Coleridge 562 
 
 On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and 
 
 George Eliot 654 
 
 On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth . . 569 
 
 On the Foregoing Divine Poems 208 
 
 On the Funeral of Betterton 341 
 
 On the Grasshopper and Cricket 529 
 
 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 214 
 
 On the Life of Man 173 
 
 On the Loss of the Royal George 440 
 
 On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture 
 
 out of Norfolk 439 
 
 On the Sea 530 
 
 On this Day I complete my Thirty-Sixth 
 
 Year 518 
 
 On True Distinction 340 
 
 Origin of the Lyrical Ballads 543 
 
 Ormulum 28 
 
 Orsames' Song 228 
 
 O Sweet Content 167 
 
 Our School 715 
 
 O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 470 
 
 Owl and the Nightingale, The 29 
 
 Oxford (Essays in Criticism, 1st Series) ... 745 
 Ozymandias ^21 
 
 Painter who pleased Nobody and Every- 
 
 ' body, The 309 
 
 Palace of Art, The ^^ 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book 1 215 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book III 222 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book VII 223 
 
 Pardoner's Tale '2 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Partridge at the Play 382 
 
 Passionate Shepherd to his Love 158 
 
 Passions, The 432 
 
 Pastiche 653 
 
 Pearl, The 55 
 
 People are urged to choose Richard for 
 
 their King, The 125 
 
 Perception of Beauty, The (The Renais- 
 sance) 767 
 
 Peter Grimes 454 
 
 Petition to Time, A 507 
 
 Phillis 151 
 
 Philosophy of Clothes, The 670 
 
 Piers the Ploughman 60 
 
 Pilgrim to Pilgrim 160 
 
 Plague in London, The 316 
 
 Plea for Charity in Controversies and for 
 
 Sincerity, A 184 
 
 Plowers, The 130 
 
 Poema Morale - 27 
 
 Poetry (Essays Classical and Modem) 771 
 
 Poet's Epitaph, A 507 
 
 Postscript to the Reader 289 
 
 Praise of Peace, The 59 
 
 Praise of Woman, In 33 
 
 Praise of Women, From a 79 
 
 Praises of Pan, The 172 
 
 Prayer for King Edward 37 
 
 Prayer under the Pressure of Violent 
 
 Anguish, A 465 
 
 Predictions for the Year 1708 321 
 
 Preeminence of Poetry, The 188 
 
 Primroses filled with Morning Dew, To. . 227 
 
 Private of the Buffs, The 659 
 
 Prologue, at the Opening of the Drury 
 
 Lane Theatre 369 
 
 Prologue (Earthly Paradise) 645 
 
 Prophecy of Literature in America 155 
 
 Prospero's Sohloquy 166 
 
 Prospice ^28 
 
 Protestation, A 151 
 
 Prothalamion 147 
 
 Pulley, The 203 
 
 Pulvis et Umbra 776 
 
 Qua Cursum Ventus • 663 
 
 Rabbi Ben Ezra. ^ 
 
 Raleigh's Account of his Book 182 
 
 Rape of the Lock, The 'So 
 
 Recollections 342 
 
 Red, Red Rose, A ^ 470 
 
 Reflections on the Revolution m France. . 400 
 
 Reflections upon Exile, From • 348 
 
 Religion and the Bible in 16th and 17th 
 
 Century England 765 
 
 Remedies for Discontent, Tlu ... 231 
 
 Requiem *'70 
 
Bl4 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Resolution and Independence 481 
 
 Restoration Drama, The 710 
 
 Retreate, The 205 
 
 Return of Charles II, The 291 
 
 Rime of the Ancient Mariner 484 
 
 River Otter, To the 493 
 
 Robert Browning, To 503 
 
 Robin Hood 535 
 
 Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 88 
 
 Royal Power in France and England, The 102 
 
 Rubaiyat, The (Selections) 658 
 
 Ruin, The 10 
 
 Rule Britannia 363 
 
 Saint Hugh 167 
 
 Saladin and Rosader 190 
 
 Salt of the Earth, The 654 
 
 Sands of Dee, The 662 
 
 Saul 623 
 
 Say Not, The Struggle Nought Availeth. . 663 
 
 Schoolmaster, The (Selections) 133 
 
 Schoolmistress, The 371 
 
 Science and Life (Fors Clavigera) 737 
 
 Science and Modem Progress (Modem 
 
 Painters) 728 
 
 Scott's Journal 539 
 
 Sea, The 508 
 
 Sea Du-ge, A 162 
 
 Seafarer, The 12 
 
 Sea-Limits, The 643 
 
 Seasons, The 58 
 
 Self-Dependence 639 
 
 Seventeenth Century Squire, The (History 
 
 of England) 701 
 
 Shakespeare 287 
 
 Shakespeare 640 
 
 She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways. . 473 
 
 She is far from the Land 507 
 
 Shepherd's Life, The .199 
 
 She walks in Beauty 510 
 
 "She was a Phantom of Dehght" 480 
 
 Short Rule of Life, A 78 
 
 SUvia 161 
 
 Simplex Munditiis 170 
 
 Sir Gawayne's Journey 58 
 
 Sir Orpheo 37 
 
 Sir Patrick Spens 93 
 
 Sir Roger at Church 339 
 
 Site of a University 707 
 
 ''leep 165 
 
 Solitary Reaper 478 
 
 Some Murmur When their Sky is Clear. . 658 
 Some Sea Pictures of Turner {Modern 
 
 Painters) 726 
 
 Song 168 
 
 Song, AUan-A-Dale 500 
 
 Song, "All the Flowers of the Spring". . . 174 
 Song, {Arraignment of Paris) 151 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Song, A Weary Lot is Thine 499 
 
 Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 22nd Novem- 
 ber, A 277 
 
 Song, Go Lovely Rose 208 
 
 Song, in "The Indian Emperor" 280 
 
 Song — " Late, Late, So Late " 602 
 
 Song, "My Peggy is a Young Thing". ... 356 
 
 Song of the Priest of Pan 172 
 
 Song of the Road, A 669 
 
 Song of the Scottish Maidens after the 
 
 Battle of Bannockburn 43 
 
 Song of the Western Men, The 658 
 
 Song {Pippa Passes) 609 
 
 Song, Sabrina Fair 211 
 
 Song {Saints' Tragedy) 662 
 
 Song, She is not Fair, etc 655 
 
 Song, Sweet Echo 211 
 
 Song, The Cavalier 500 
 
 Song, The Owl 583 
 
 Song to Celia 170 
 
 Song— To Cynthia 170 
 
 Song to Pan 173 
 
 Song to the Evening Star 505 
 
 Sonnet (Drummond) 174 
 
 Sonnet (Drummond) 174 
 
 Sonnets XV., XVIII., XXIX., XXX., 
 XXXIIL, LV., LX., LXV., LXVL, 
 LXXIIL, CXI, CXVI., CXLVL, 
 
 (Shakespeare) 163 
 
 Sonnets XL., LXXV., {Amaretti) 149 
 
 Sonnet XXXI. {Astrophel and Stella) 150 
 
 Sonnet LI. {Delia) 155 
 
 Sonnet, Cheerfulness taught by Reason. . 634 
 Sonnet Composed upon the Beach near 
 
 Calais 483 
 
 Sonnet Composed upon Westminster 
 
 Bridge 483 
 
 Sonnet LXI. {Idea's Mirror) 157 
 
 Sonnet, Inclusiveness 644 
 
 Sonnet, June, 1816 529 
 
 Sonnet (Last Sonnet) 530 
 
 Sonnet, London, 1802 483 
 
 Sonnet on Chillon 510 
 
 Sonnet X. On death 169 
 
 Sonnet, on First Looking into Chapman's 
 
 Homer 529 
 
 Sonnet on Prayer 655 
 
 Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Richard West 428 
 Sonnets I., VI., XXXV., XLIII. {From 
 
 the Portugicese) 635 
 
 Sonnet, Prospect, The 635 
 
 Sonnet, Sibylla Palmifera 643 
 
 Sonnet, Silent Noon 643 
 
 Sonnet, Superscription, A 644 
 
 Sonnet, "Thou who didst make," etc. . . . 644 
 
 Sonnet, To Night '. 503 
 
 Sonnet, "When I have Borne in Memory" 483 
 Sonnet, "When I have fears," etc 530 \ 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 815 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sonnet, "Why did I laugh," etc 530 
 
 Sonnet, Work 635 
 
 Sonnet, Written in London, September 
 
 1802 483 
 
 Son of Croesus, The 645 
 
 Spacious Firmament, The 295 
 
 Spectator Club, The 344 
 
 Sports and Pastimes of Old London 175 
 
 Spring 360 
 
 Spring Song 42 
 
 Stanzas for Music 509 
 
 Starling, The 396 
 
 State of England in 1685, The 699 
 
 State of Learning in England, The 20 
 
 St. Guthlac 741 
 
 Story of King Leir, The 49 
 
 Style 380 
 
 Summer 361 
 
 Superannuated Man, The 559 
 
 Swift and the Spirit of His Time 762 
 
 Symbols 644 
 
 Tables Turned, The 472 
 
 Take, Oh, Take those Lips Away 162 
 
 Tale of the Paddock and the Mouse, The 82 
 
 Tamburlaine to the Subject Kings 159 
 
 Tam O'Shanter 467 
 
 Task, The (Selections) 435 
 
 Taste {Crown of Wild Olive) 731 
 
 Tears, Idle Tears 598 
 
 Testament of John Lydgate, The 80 
 
 Thanksgiving to God, for his House, A . . , 228 
 
 The English and their Literature 569 
 
 The Grand Style 743 
 
 "The World is too Much With 483 
 
 "There's nae luck about the house." 441 
 
 Thomas Hoccleve's Complaint 80 
 
 Thoughts in Westminster Abbey 336 
 
 Three Fishers, The 662 
 
 Three Years She Grew 473 
 
 Throstle, The 608 
 
 Thyrsis 636 
 
 Tiger, The 456 
 
 Timber, or Discoveries, From 197 
 
 Time 528 
 
 Tintern Abbey, Lines Composed on 471 
 
 To —(Shelley) 528 
 
 To —(Shelley) 528 
 
 To a Child of Quality Five Years Old. . . . 294 
 
 To Althea, from Prison 229 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy 464 
 
 To a Mouse 464 
 
 To a Skylark 519 
 
 To Aurelia 360 
 
 To Autumn 537 
 
 Toccata of Galuppi's, A 622 
 
 To Daffodils 227 
 
 To Hester 502 
 
 To Lesbia 
 
 To Lucasta, on going to the War 
 
 To Marguerite 
 
 Tombs in Westminster Abbey, On tho 
 
 To Night, (Shelley) ;;; 
 
 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket. . ... 
 To the Memory of My Beloved Masterj 
 
 William Shakespeare 
 
 To the Muses '" 
 
 To the Virgins, to make much of Time. . . 
 Tractate on Education, Letter to Hartlib 
 
 Triumph of Charis, The 
 
 Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Stroets 
 
 of London 
 
 True Relation of the Apparition of Mre. 
 
 Veal 
 
 Twa Corbies, The 
 
 Twa Sisters o' Binnorie, The 
 
 AGE 
 
 171 
 -'29 
 <.:«> 
 173 
 528 
 507 
 
 1C9 
 455 
 227 
 2<iO 
 170 
 
 310 
 
 312 
 93 
 94 
 
 Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fucrunt 41 
 
 Ulysses 593 
 
 Under Mr. Milton's Picture 280 
 
 Under the Greenwood Tree 161 
 
 Universal Prayer 304 
 
 Upon a Child 654 
 
 Utopia and Europe Contrasted 126 
 
 Valediction forbidding Mourning, A 168 
 
 Veni Creator Spiritus 280 
 
 Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arte 
 
 and Learning in America 355 
 
 Vertue 202 
 
 Virginian Voyage, From the 158 
 
 Vision of Csedmon, The 17 
 
 Visit to Westminster Abbey, A 400 
 
 Voices of Youth, The (Discourses in 
 
 Amerira) 749 
 
 Voyages and Travels of Sir John Mandcv 
 
 ville. The 75 
 
 Voyage to Brobdignag -7 
 
 Walter Scott (Choice of Books) . 
 
 Wanderer, The 
 
 Wanderings of Cain, The 
 
 War 
 
 Warren Hastings 
 
 Warren Hastings, The Trial of 
 
 Weep no More 
 
 Wee, Wee German Lairdie, The. 
 Welcome to the Summer Sun 
 
 Well of St. Keyne, The 
 
 When the Nightingale Sings 
 Widow of Glencoe, The 
 
 Winter 
 
 Wish, The 
 
 Wishes to His Supposed Mistress 
 
 "With Wliom is no Variableness, Neither 
 Shadow of Turning" 
 
 11 
 >n 
 
 233 
 403 
 390 
 172 
 t.-i9 
 S6 
 
 m 
 
 13 
 
 362 
 223 
 204 
 
 663 
 
816 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE PAc; 
 
 Wonder 207 
 
 Wonders of the Isles about Java 76 
 
 Wordsworth (Appreciations) 769 
 
 Wordsworth (Essays in Criticism, 2nd 
 
 Series) 750 
 
 Work Without Hope 494 
 
 World, The 206 
 
 Worldly Place 640 
 
 Wounded Hare, The 466 
 
 Wulf Stan's Sermon to the English 23 Zeus sends Hermes to Calypso (Odyssey) . . 154 
 
 Written at an Inn at Henley 3; 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 504 
 
 Yes; I write Verses 503 
 
 You ask me why though ill at Ease 588 
 
 "You Spotted Snakes with Double 
 
 Tongue " 161 
 
 Youth and Age 494 
 
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