FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER
 
 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 TYPES OF LITERARY ART 
 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH LITERATURE 
 WITH PREFACE AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 ANDREW J. GEORGE, A.M. 
 
 DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH, HIGH SCHOOL, NEWTON, MASS. 
 
 EDITOR OF WORDSWORTH'S " PRELUDE," " THE SHORTER 
 
 POEMS OF MILTON," " THE SELECT POEMS 
 
 OF BURNS," ETC. 
 
 " Books, we know, 
 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good: 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood. 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow." 
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 THE MACMTLLAN COMPANY 
 
 LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 
 1899 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1898, 
 Bv THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped August, 1898. Reprinted November, 
 1898; September, 1899. 
 
 XorfoooU 
 J. 8. Cuihing & Co. - Berwick & Smith 
 Norwood Man. U.S.A.
 
 TO THE PUPILS OF THE NEWTON HIGH SCHOOL, 
 WHOSE SYMPATHY AND APPRECIATION HAVE MADE 
 MY WORK A DELIGHT, I INSCRIBE THIS VOLUME. 
 
 A. J. G.
 
 TRUTH is within ourselves : it takes no rise 
 From outward things, whate'er you may believe : 
 There is an inmost centre in us all, 
 Where truth abides in fulness ; and around, 
 Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, 
 This perfect, clear perception which is truth ; 
 A baffling and perverting carnal mesh 
 Blunts it and makes it error : and ' to know ' 
 Rather consists in opening out a way 
 Whence the imprisoned splendor may escape, 
 Than in effecting entry for a light 
 Supposed to be without. 
 
 BROWNING'S Paracelsus.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 " Image the whole, then execute the parts, 
 
 Fancy the fabric 
 Quite, ere you build." 
 
 THE present volume is the result of long experience in a 
 large school which combines the features of a Latin and an 
 English High School. It illustrates the work in preparation 
 for the study of the great authors, in verse and prose, who 
 have made the most distinctive contribution to English 
 literature and life. When the pupil has gained a general 
 view of the field of English literature, a speaking acquaint- 
 ance with the authors, and an idea of the principles of liter- 
 ary evolution which this b.ook reveals, he is ready for 
 extended study of those artists whose work is central and 
 formative in each period, the great classics of our literature. 
 While the book is thus intended to be an introduction 
 through types only a means to the end of forming perma- 
 nent literary friendships it is fairly representative of the 
 best to be found in English literary art from Chaucer to 
 Arnold, and hence it has a value of its own. 
 
 The annotation is confined to the purpose of naturally 
 leading the pupil to look for those principles which are 
 fundamental, such as will guide him into broader fields of 
 literature, history, and criticism happy pastures in which 
 he may range at will. This I believe is the great end for 
 which we should strive in the teaching of English, and it is
 
 viii PREFACE 
 
 quite as important in the college preparatory work as in 
 that of the general course. 
 
 The volume is thus a natural outcome of the method and 
 spirit of our work in the Newton High School. It is pre- 
 pared to meet a need in our own course, and also in 
 response to requests of many teachers of English who 
 have become interested in that course, and desire to have 
 the means of following it in its essential features. It does 
 not offer any royal road to appreciation of literature, only 
 the very simple and natural one of thoughtful and sympa- 
 thetic reading, in an atmosphere of wise passiveness. 
 
 While purposely keeping the matter of the history of lit- 
 erature in the background, I have given in the Introduction 
 and Notes a few principles which it is hoped may prove 
 stimulative. Literary education is of the heart rather than 
 of the head, a process of spiritual apprehension and assimi- 
 lation ; and hence Histories of Literature are of little use 
 until enthusiasm is developed. A genuine enthusiasm will 
 rapidly assimilate the spiritual content of a work of genius, 
 whereby alone there can be any genuine growth. 
 
 " Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 
 Of things forever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 But we must still be seeking? " 
 
 Limited space has necessitated the exclusion of some 
 whose work I would have included. 
 
 A. J. G. 
 BROOKLINE, MASS., June, 1898.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 IN the study of great movements in the history of our 
 literature we should observe certain principles. We should 
 not attempt to place rigid boundaries to these movements ; 
 we should view literature as an organic whole, the revela- 
 tion of the complex life which created it. As the soil, 
 atmosphere and general environment determine in a great 
 degree the growth of the plant and the character of its fruit, 
 so every experience through which a nation passes deter- 
 mines the kind of literature and art it will produce. It is 
 natural that the literature of a new people should have its 
 Formative Period, a period in which soil is being prepared 
 by a great variety of experiences. The student should, 
 therefore, have some knowledge of the forces at work in 
 young England which evolved the matin song of our lan- 
 guage in Chaucer. The contact with the Romans through 
 war ; the Roman influence which came with the introduction 
 of Christianity ; the establishment of the school of Caedmon 
 at Whitby and of Alfred at Winchester; the destruction 
 wrought in the literature of the north by inroads of the 
 Danes ; the refining influence of the Normans, and the 
 splendid energy of the native tongue by which it rose to a 
 position of power and beauty until it broke forth in the full- 
 throated ease of Chaucer, in the poetry of life, love and duty : 
 these are distinctly formative forces. 
 
 In England's contact with the Italian Revival, a contact 
 due to the attraction which the New Learning had for the
 
 X INTRODUCTION 
 
 younger generation, we have the beginning of the Period 
 of Italian Influence introduced by Wyatt and Surrey. It 
 is this element which gives the new direction to art undei 
 Elizabeth. The invention of printing, the expansion in 
 material resources, the spirit of adventure and discovery, 
 and the religious spirit developed by the English Bible, 
 which fostered the desire for independence, all contributed 
 to the formation of the rich and varied literature of the 
 period. 
 
 In the period intervening between Elizabeth and the 
 Restoration we find the great name of Milton, who may be 
 called the last of the Elizabethans ; for while his work reveals 
 the sublime dignity born of Puritanism, it is distinguished for 
 the charm of childhood and grace of youth which charac- 
 terized the Renaissance. It is the happy union of art and 
 faith. The forces against which Puritanism arrayed itself 
 triumphed in the Restoration, and the new ideas in church 
 and state became supreme. French models in literature and 
 life emanated from the court. Under Elizabeth there was a 
 healthy simplicity, and the poet wrote with his eye upon the 
 subject; but now there was constrained and formal etiquette, 
 and the poet wrote with his eye upon style. Subjects, too, 
 changed. We have now such as appeal to the intellect 
 rather than to the whole nature, and poetry becomes didac- 
 tic, satiric, philosophical. What was mere spirit is now mere 
 form. Poetry was seized by the wing and confined within 
 the bounds of the rhymed couplet. If spiritual east winds 
 blew and no great poet spoke out, we must not forget that 
 this period of French Influence gave us splendid specimens 
 of graceful and sinewy prose. The wits who gathered in 
 the coffee houses to discuss politics, literature, and social 
 manners, furnished the material for the essay, and it in turn 
 gave rise to the newspaper and periodical. The essay
 
 INTRODUCTION XI 
 
 expanded into the novel of adventure or society, while the 
 orator reached his constituents through the pamphlet, and 
 the critics levelled their guns from behind the pages of the 
 quarterlies. 
 
 During this efflorescence of prose the great principle of 
 equality for which Milton and Vane had stood began to take 
 root in the soil of France, producing that tremendous up- 
 heaval known as the French Revolution. Life in England 
 had become deeper, and man's nature sought the wholesome 
 atmosphere of faith and action. The result was the rise of 
 Methodism, and the splendid work of Howard and Wilber- 
 force ; Pitt's reign of expansion saw the rise of democracy ; 
 a republic was established in America. It is not surprising, 
 therefore, that such an awakening should be accompanied 
 by an equal vigor in the realm of poetry. Gray goes to the 
 little churchyard ; Goldsmith to the obscure country village ; 
 Cowper muses by the languid Ouse, while song springs full 
 formed from the rugged soil upturned by the rustic Plough- 
 man on the Ayrshire hills, and the Modern Period has begun, 
 the mission of which is to teach how verse may build a 
 princely throne on humble truth. With Coleridge are devel- 
 oped new ideas of criticism ; with Wordsworth the new 
 poetry wins even against the accredited critics of the school 
 of Dryden and Pope. 
 
 " A hundred years ere he to manhood came, 
 
 Song from celestial heights had wandered down, 
 Put off her robe of sunlight, dew and flame, 
 
 And donned a modish dress to charm the town. 
 
 Thenceforth she but festooned the porch of things; 
 
 Apt at life's lore, incurious what life meant. 
 Dextrous of hand, she struck her lute's few strings; 
 
 Ignobly perfect, barrenly content.
 
 xii INTR OD UC TION 
 
 The age grew sated with her sterile wit. 
 
 Herself waxed weary on her loveless throne. 
 Men felt life's tide, the sweep and surge of it, 
 
 And craved a living voice, a natural tone. 
 
 For none the less, though song was but half true, 
 The world lay common, one abounding theme. 
 
 Man joyed and wept, and fate was ever new, 
 And love was sweet, life real, death no dream. 
 
 In sad, stern voice the rugged scholar-sage 
 Bemoaned his toil unvalued, youth uncheered. 
 
 His numbers wore the vesture of the age, 
 
 But, 'neath it beating, the great heart was heard. 
 
 From dewy pastures, uplands sweet with thyme, 
 A virgin breeze freshened the jaded day. 
 
 It wafted Collins' lonely vesper-chime, 
 
 It breathed abroad the frugal note of Gray. 
 
 It fluttered here and there, nor swept in vain 
 The dusty haunts where futile echoes dwell. 
 
 Then, in a cadence soft as summer rain, 
 
 And sad from Auburn voiceless, drooped and fell. 
 
 It drooped and fell, and one 'neath northern skies, 
 With southern heart, who tilled his father's field, 
 
 Found Poesy a-dying, bade her rise 
 
 And touch quick nature's hem and go forth healed. 
 
 On life's broad plain the ploughman's conquering share 
 Upturned the fallow lands of truth anew, 
 
 And o'er the formal garden's trim parterre 
 The peasant's team a ruthless furrow drew. 
 
 Bright was his going forth, but clouds ere long 
 
 Whelmed him; in gloom his radiance set, and those 
 
 Twin morning stars of our new century's song, 
 Those morning stars that sang together, rose.
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 In elvish speech the Dreamer told his tale 
 Of marvellous oceans swept by fateful wings. 
 
 The Seer strayed not from earth's human pole, 
 But the mysterious face of common things 
 
 He mirrored as the moon in Rydal Mere 
 
 Is mirrored, when the breathless night hangs blue : 
 
 Strangely remote she seems and wondrous near, 
 And by some nameless difference born anew." l 
 
 On the splendor of literature and life at the century's mid- 
 day, and the tender beauty of its early gloaming, we need 
 not dwell, as the forces which were potent in creating that 
 splendor and beauty are familiar to all. Through the puis- 
 sant voice of Carlyle, the beautifully simple faith of New- 
 man, and the noble passion of Ruskin ; through the imperial 
 note of Tennyson, the manly vigor of Browning, the strength 
 and grace of Arnold, we have come to know the mighty 
 impulse which has moved life onward in its noblest aim. 
 
 'The other harmony' of English prose was developed 
 side by side with that of verse, and like it has periods of 
 growth. Beginning in the early days of English Christianity 
 in codes of laws, it passes naturally into the Chronicle of 
 Alfred, and the translations of the Bible, which are specimens 
 of vigorous, direct, and often beautiful style in a highly in- 
 flected language. This style reaches its culmination in the 
 tenth century, just before the Conquest, and is properly 
 styled by Professor Earle the Classic Period, or period of 
 full inflection. 
 
 A change was wrought by the Conquest, in that the pat- 
 tern was no longer the classic Latin, but the modern French. 
 While the classic English was cultivated still in the seats of 
 learning, there was being developed a popular dialect which 
 
 William Watson.
 
 XIV INTR OD UC TION 
 
 resulted in the formation of a new style partly French and 
 yet typically English in Sir John Maundevile's Voiage and 
 Travaile, and John Wiclif s tracts. This style culminated 
 in the Paston Letters, Malory's Morte d' Arthur and Sidney's 
 Arcadia. During these five centuries inflections were to a 
 great extent lost ; the vocabulary was increased by the addi- 
 tion of words of Romance origin which came through the 
 colloquial French. In the fifteenth century, for the first time, 
 English became the language of legislative statutes. This 
 may be called the second culmination, or the National Period, 
 when English prose became essentially what it is to-day. 
 
 In the closing years of the reign of Elizabeth, years of 
 splendor at home and triumph abroad, England became the 
 nation of a single book the Bible : this is of the greatest 
 importance in the history of English prose. In the sixteenth 
 century translation and revision of the Scriptures began 
 with William Tyndale, the father of the English Bible, 
 and in 1611 scholarly divines produced the Authorized 
 Version in a language of Latin grace and English vigor. 
 This book, clothed in the language of Shakespeare, and en- 
 throned in the home which Puritanism had created, became 
 the school of every man and woman of English speech. It 
 retained the choice Latinity of Hooker, but this was bal- 
 anced by the healthful vernacular. These two elements 
 have remained in our English prose, the one predominating 
 in Milton, Johnson, Burke, Gibbon and De Quincey ; the 
 other in Bunyan and Defoe. Perhaps the finest illustra- 
 tion of the union of these two elements is in the prose 
 of Ruskin, Newman and Arnold, which is characterized by 
 distinction, lucidity, charm. 
 
 If we are to add to this matchless treasure in verse and 
 prose, we must first of all learn how to put it to usury in those 
 activities which make for individual and national health,
 
 INTRODUCTION XV 
 
 strength and beauty. New problems will arise and new 
 temptations will beset our path, but they will be met most 
 successfully by those who know the temper and spirit of our 
 matchless inheritance in English literary art and faith its 
 power to form, sustain and console. The spirit of noble en- 
 thusiasm in whatever man has to do will result in " art by 
 the people, for the people, a joy to the maker and the user." 
 A spirit of noble enthusiasm is the revelation of great 
 literature. Contact with this spirit will create power in us ; 
 but this contact must be of soul with soul in that myste- 
 rious realm to which the great artist conducts us by his 
 compelling charm. We must lay aside our trappings of 
 scientific method and intellectual analysis if we are to move 
 with ease and delight in this sphere of beauty and truth 
 of impassioned quietude. Professor VVoodrow Wilson, in 
 speaking of the inability of the bungling methods of the 
 schools to reach this soul of art through the " examination 
 of forms, grammatical and metrical, which can be quite 
 accurately determined and quite exhaustively catalogued," 
 says : " We must not all, however, be impatient of this 
 truant child of fancy. When the schools cast her out, she 
 will stand in need of friendly succour, and we must train 
 our spirits for the function. We must be freehearted in 
 order to make her happy, for she will accept entertainment 
 from no sober, prudent fellow who shall counsel her to mend 
 her ways. She has always made light of hardship, and she 
 has never loved or obeyed any, save those who were of her 
 own mind, those who were indulgent to her humors, 
 responsive to her ways of thought, attentive to her whims, 
 content with her ' mere ' charms. She already has her small 
 following of devotees, like all charming, capricious mis- 
 tresses. There are some still who think that to know her 
 is better than a liberal education."
 
 X vi INTR OD UC TION 
 
 In setting forth the idea which recognizes the principle 
 of evolution in the study of English literature rather than 
 that which emphasizes the individual unit, Mr. Edmund 
 Gosse says : " We cling to the individualist manner, to that 
 intense eulogy which concentrates its rays on the particular 
 object of notice and relegates all others to proportional 
 obscurity. There are critics, of considerable acumen and 
 energy, who seem to know no other mode of nourishing a 
 talent or a taste than that which is pursued by the cultivators 
 of gigantic gooseberries. They do their best to nip off all 
 other buds, that the juices of the tree of fame may be 
 concentrated on their favorite fruit. Such a plan may be 
 convenient for the purposes of malevolence, and in earlier 
 times our general ignorance of the principles of growth 
 might well excuse it. But it is surely time that we should 
 recognize only two criteria of literary judgment. The first 
 is primitive, and merely clears the ground of rubbish ; it is, 
 Does the work before us, or the author, perform what he 
 sets out to perform with a distinguished skill in the direc- 
 tion in which his powers are exercised ? If not, he interests 
 the higher criticism not at all ; but if yes, then follows the 
 second test : Where, in the vast and ever-shifting scheme 
 of literary evolution, does he take his place, and in what 
 relation does he stand, not to those who are least like him, 
 but to those who are of his own kith and kin?"
 
 MESSAGES 
 
 " Books do contain a progeny of life in them to be as active 
 as that soul was whose progeny they are ; nay, they do preserve 
 as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intel- 
 lect that bred them. . . . As good almost kill a man as kill a 
 good book : who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's 
 image ; but he who destroys a good book kills reason itself, kills 
 the image of God as it were in the eye. Many a man lives a 
 burden to the earth ; but a good book is the precious life-blood 
 of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a 
 lite beyond life." MILTON. 
 
 " Literature, so far as it is literature, is an ' apocalypse of Nature.' 
 a revealing of the ' open secret.' It may well enough be named, 
 in Fichtie's style, ' a continuous revelation of the Godlike in the 
 Terrestrial and Common.' The Godlike does ever, in very truth, 
 endure there ; is brought out, now in this dialect, now in that, 
 with various degrees of clearness : All true gifted Singers and 
 Speakers are, consciously or unconsciously, doing so. ... All 
 true sfnging is of the nature of worship ; as indeed all true 
 working may be said to be, whereof such singing is but the 
 record, and fit melodious representation to us." CARLYLE. 
 
 " In that great social organ which, collectively, we call Litera- 
 ture, there may be distinguished two separate offices that may 
 blend, and often do so. but capable, severally, of a severe insu- 
 lation, and naturally fitted for reciprocal repulsion. There is, first, 
 the literature of knowledge, and, second, the literature of power. 
 The function of the first is to teach ; the function of the second 
 is to move: the first is a rudder, the second an oar or sail. The 
 first speaks to the mere discursive understanding ; the second 
 speaks ultimately, it may happen, to the higher understanding 01
 
 xviii MESSAGES 
 
 reason, but always through affections of pleasure and sympathy. 
 Remotely it may travel towards an object seated in what Lord 
 Bacon calls dry light ; but, proximately, it does and must oper- 
 ate, else it ceases to be a literature of power, in and through the 
 humid light which clothes itself in the mists and glittering iris of 
 human passions, desires, and genial emotions." DE QUIXCEY. 
 
 " While the many use language as they find it, the man of 
 genius uses it indeed, but subjects it withal to his own purposes, 
 and moulds it according to his own peculiarities. The throng 
 and succession of ideas, thoughts, feelings, imaginations, aspira- 
 tions which pass within him, ... his views of external things, 
 his judgments upon life, manners, and history, the exercises of 
 his wit, of his humor, of his depth, of his sagacity, all these in- 
 numerable and incessant creations, the very pulsation and throb- 
 bing of his intellect does he image forth, to all does he give utter- 
 ance in a corresponding language, ... so that we might as we'l 
 say that one man's shadow is another's as that the style of a 
 really gifted mind can belong to any but himself. It follows him 
 about as his shadow." NEWMAN. 
 
 " Do you know, if you read this, that you cannot read that 
 that what you lose to-day you cannot gain to-morrow? Will you go 
 and gossip with your housemaid, or your stable boy, when you may 
 talk with queens and kings ; or flatter yourselves that it is with 
 any worthy consciousness of your own claims to respect that you 
 jostle with the common crowd for entree here, and audience 
 there, when all the while this eternal court is open to you, with 
 its society wide as the world, multitudinous as its days, the 
 chosen and the mighty, of every place and time? Into that you 
 may enter always ; in that you may take fellowship and rank 
 according to your wish : from that, once entered into it, you can 
 never be outcast but by your own fault ; by your aristocracy 
 of companionship there, your own inherent aristocracy will be 
 assuredly tested." RUSKIN. 
 
 " Culture does not try to teach down to the level of inferior 
 classes ; it does not try to win them for this or that sect of its
 
 MESSAGES XIX 
 
 own, with ready made judgements and watchwords. It seeks to 
 do away with classes : to make the best that has been thought 
 and known in the world current everywhere ; to make all men 
 live in an atmosphere of sweetness and light, where they may 
 use ideas, as it uses them itself, freely, nourished and not 
 bound by them." MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 " What is important, is not that the critic should possess a cor- 
 rect abstract definition of beauty for the intellect, but a certain kind 
 of temperament, the power of being deeply moved by the presence 
 of beautiful objects. He will remember always that beauty exists 
 in many forms. To him all periods, types, schools of taste, are 
 in themselves equal. In all ages there have been some excellent 
 workmen, and some excellent work done. The question he asks 
 is always : In whom did the stir, the genius, the sentiment of the 
 period find itself? where was the receptacle of its refinement, 
 its elevation, its taste " ? WALTER PATER. 
 
 " The only knowledge that can really make us better is not of 
 things and their laws, but of persons and their thoughts ; and I 
 would rather have an hour's sympathy with one noble heart 
 than read the law of gravitation through and through. To teach 
 us what to love and what to hate, whom to honour and whom to 
 despise, is the substance of all human training, and this is not to 
 be learned from the magnet or the microscope, from insects born 
 in galvanism, and light polarised in crystals, but only among the 
 affairs of men ; from the rich records of the past, the strife of 
 heroic and the peace of saintly souls, from great thoughts of 
 great minds, and the sublime acts of indomitable conscience. 
 The soul takes its complexion and its true port from the society 
 in which it dwells." JAMES MARTINEAU. 
 
 " We owe to books those general benefits which come from 
 high intellectual action. Thus, I think, we often owe to them 
 the perception of immortality. They impart sympathetic activity 
 to the moral power. Go with mean people and you will think 
 life is mean. Then read Plutarch, and the world is a proud 
 place, peopled with men of positive quality, with heroes and demi-
 
 XX MESSAGES 
 
 gods standing around us, who will not let us sleep. They ad- 
 dress the imagination: only poetry inspires poetry They be- 
 come the organic culture of the mind. ... Be sure, then, to read 
 no mean books. Shun the spawn of the press on the gossip of 
 the hour. Do not read what you shall learn, without asking, in 
 the street and the train." EMERSON. 
 
 " The world of the imagination is not the world of abstraction 
 and nonentity, as some conceive, but a world formed out of chaos 
 by a sense of the beauty that is in man and the earth on which he 
 dwells. It is the realm of might be, our haven of refuge from the 
 shortcomings and disillusions of life. It is, to quote Spenser, 
 who knew it well 
 
 The world's sweet inn from care and wearisome turmoil. 
 
 Do we believe, then, that God gave us in mockery this splendid 
 faculty of sympathy with things that are a joy forever? For my 
 part, I believe that the love and study of works of the imagina- 
 tion is of practical utility in a country so profoundly material (or, 
 as we like to call it. practical) in its leading tendencies as ours. 
 The hunger after purely intellectual delights, the content with 
 ideal possessions, cannot but be good for us in maintaining a 
 wholesome balance of character and of the faculties." J. R. 
 LOWELL. 
 
 "A true Classic, as I should like to hear it defined, is an author 
 who has enriched the human mind, increased its treasure, and 
 caused it to advance a step ; who has discovered some moral 
 and not equivocal truth, or revealed some eternal passion in that 
 heart where all seemed known and discovered ; who has ex- 
 pressed his thought, observation, or invention, in no matter what 
 form, only provided it be broad and great, refined and acute, 
 sane and beautiful in itself; who has spoken to all in his own 
 peculiar style, a style which is found to be also that of the whole 
 world, a style new and antique, contemporary with all time."- 
 SAINTE-BEUVE. 
 
 " For myself, I am inclined to think the most useful help to 
 reading is to know what we should not read, what we can keep
 
 MESSAGES XXI 
 
 out from that small cleared spot in the overgrown jungle of in- 
 formation, the corner which we can call our ordered patch of 
 fruit-bearing knowledge. . . . The true use of books is of such 
 sacred value to us that to be simply entertained is to cease to be 
 taught, elevated, inspired, by books. . . . Every book that we 
 take up without a purpose is an opportunity lost of taking up a 
 book with a purpose. ... To understand a great national poet, 
 is to know other types of human civilisation in ways which a 
 library of histories does not sufficiently teach. The great mas- 
 terpieces of the world are thus, quite apart from the charm and 
 solace they give us, the master instruments of a solid education." 
 FREDERICK HARRISON. 
 
 " Our prime object should be to get into living relation with a 
 man ; and by his means, with the good forces of nature and human- 
 ity which play in and through him. This aim condemns at once all 
 reading for pride and vain-glory as wholly astray, and all reading 
 for scholarship and specialised knowledge as partial and insuffi- 
 cient. We must read not for these, but for life ; we must read 
 to live. Only let us bear in mind that in order to live our best 
 life we do not chiefly need advice, direction, instruction (though 
 these also we may put to use) : we need above all an access of 
 power rightly directed. Of all our study the last end and aim 
 should be to ascertain how a great writer or artist has served the 
 life of man. ... If our study does not directly or indirectly 
 enrich the life of man, it is but a drawing of vanity with cart- 
 ropes, a weariness to the flesh, or at least a busy idleness." 
 EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
 " The highest end of the highest education is not anything 
 which can be directly taught, but is the consummation of all 
 studies. It is the final result of intellectual culture in the devel- 
 opment of the breadth, serenity, and solidity of mind, and in the 
 attainment of that complete self-possession which finds expres- 
 sion in character. To secure this end one means above all is 
 requisite which has strangely enough been greatly neglected in 
 our schemes of education namely the culture of the faculty of 
 imagination. The studies that nourish the soul, that afford per-
 
 XXli MESSAGES 
 
 manent resources of delight and recreation, that maintain ideals 
 of conduct and develop those sympathies upon which the prog- 
 ress and welfare of society depend are the studies that quicken 
 and nourish the imagination and are vivified by it." CHARLKS 
 ELIOT NORTON. 
 
 " Literature in its essence is mere spirit, and you must experi- 
 ence it rather than analyze it too formally. It is the door to 
 nature and to ourselves. It opens our hearts to receive the ex- 
 periences of great men and the conceptions of great races. . . . 
 If this free people to which we belong is to keep its fine spirit, 
 its perfect temper amidst affairs, its high courage in the face of 
 difficulties, its wise temperateness, and wide-eyed hope, it must 
 continue to drink deep and often from the old wells of English 
 undefiled, quaff the keen tonic of its best ideals, keep its blood 
 warm with all the great utterances of exalted purpose and pure 
 principle of which its matchless literature is full. The great 
 spirits of the past must command us in the tasks of the future. 
 Mere literature will keep us pure and keep us strong." WOOD- 
 ROW WILSON. 
 
 " It is as undesirable as it is impossible to try to feed the minds 
 of children only upon facts of observation or record. The im- 
 mense product of the imagination in art and literature is a con- 
 crete fact with which every educated human being should be 
 made somewhat familiar, such products being a very real part of 
 every individual's actual environment. . . . Do we not all know 
 many people who seem to live in a mental vacuum to whom 
 we have great difficulty in attributing immortality, because they 
 apparently have so little life except that of the body? Fifteen 
 minutes a day of good reading would give any one of this 
 multitude a really human life. The uplifting of the democratic 
 masses depends upon the implanting at schools of the taste for 
 good reading." CHARLES W. ELIOT. 
 
 "Literature rightly sifted and selected and rightly studied is 
 not the mere elegant trifling that it is so often and so erroneously 
 supposed to be, but a proper instrument for a systematic training
 
 MESSAGES xxiil 
 
 of the imagination and sympathies, and a genial and varied 
 moral sensibility. . . . The thing that matters most, both for 
 happiness and for duty, is that we should strive habitually to live 
 with wise thoughts and right feelings. Literature helps us more 
 than other studies to this most blessed companionship of wise 
 thoughts and right feelings." JOHN MORLEY. 
 
 "The quality which makes a reader master of the secret of 
 books is primarily of the soul, and only secondarily of the 
 mind ; and to feel the deepest and sweetest of our literature 
 one must read with the heart. A book read with the mind 
 only is skimmed ; true reading involves the imagination and 
 the feelings. Those inner melodies which the heart of man 
 has been singing to himself these thousands of years are audi- 
 ble above all the tumult of the world if one has a place of silence, 
 an hour of solitude, and a heart that has kept the freshness of 
 its youth." HAMILTON W. MABIE.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 MESSAGES xvii 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1340-1400) 
 
 PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES. Lines 1-528 .... I 
 
 SIR THOMAS MALORY (Fl. 1470) 
 MORTE D'ARTHUR (KING ARTHUR) : 
 
 Of the Birth of King Arthur and how he was chosen king . . 19 
 
 Galahad and the Sword 28 
 
 The Institution of the Quest 35 
 
 JOHN LYLY (1553-1606) 
 
 ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE: Apelles 1 Song 40 
 
 SAPPHO AND PHAO : Sappho's Song 40 
 
 MIDAS: Pan 1 ! Song 41 
 
 EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND : Euphues Glasse for Europe . . 42 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) 
 
 ARCADIA: Dedication 53 
 
 Strephon and Clauis 54 
 
 Pamela and Philodea 58 
 
 AN APOLOGIE FOR POETRIE: The Poet 60 
 
 ASTROPHEL AND STELLA 65 
 
 BALLADS (?) 
 
 SIR PATRICK SPENS 68 
 
 THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY 72 
 
 WALY, WALY 75 
 
 KINMONT WILLIE 76 
 
 ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOW'S THREE SONS 83 
 
 GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR, O 87 
 
 BESSIE BELL AND MARY GRAY 89 
 
 XXV
 
 XXvi CONTENTS 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER (1552-1599) PAGK 
 
 THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER: Januarie 90 
 
 ASTROPHEL 93 
 
 AMORETTI: i, vu, xn, xxv, xxxiv, LXVII, LXXV 101 
 
 RICHARD HOOKER (1554-1600) 
 
 THE LAWS OF ECCLESIASTICAL POLITY : The Law of Nations . 105 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593) 
 
 THE JEW OF MALTA :{ Act In 
 
 \Act II, Sc. I 128 
 
 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 130 
 
 HERO AND LEANDER: Zander's 7'riumph 131 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) 
 SONNETS / XVI1I> XXIX xxx XXXIII > xxxvin, LX, LXVI, LXXXVII, i 
 
 ' ' I XCIII, XC1V, CIII, CIV, CVI, CVII, CXVI, CXLVI, CXLVIII J J 
 
 Under the greenwood tree. As You Like It, Act II, Sc. V . . 141 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I. Tempest, Act V, Sc. I . . 141 
 
 Come unto these yellow sands. Tempest, Act I, Sc. II . . . . 141 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind ! As You Like It, Act II, Sc. VII . 142 
 Hark, hark ! the lark at Heaven's gate sings. Cymbeline, Act II, 
 
 Sc. Ill 142 
 
 THE BIBLE (1611) 
 
 EXODUS 15: Most? Song of Deliverance 143 
 
 2 SAMUEL 1 : 17-27 : David's Lament over Saul and Jonathan . 145 
 
 PSALM 103 146 
 
 PROVERBS 8 : The Invitation of Wisdom 147 
 
 ISAIAH 58: True and False Religion 149 
 
 MATTHEW 7 : The Sermon on the Mount 151 
 
 i CORINTHIANS 13: Love Beyond all Things 153 
 
 REVELATION 6: The Seven Seals 154 
 
 ESSAYES: FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626) 
 
 Of Truth 156 
 
 Of Revenge 158 
 
 Of Studies 160
 
 CONTENTS XXVli 
 
 BEN JONSOX (1573-1637) PAGE 
 
 THE BARRIERS : Truth 162 
 
 To CELIA 163 
 
 SONG: Still to be neat, still to be drest 163 
 
 THE SHEPHERDS' HOLIDAY: Nymphs' Song 164 
 
 AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY 165 
 
 To THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAK- 
 
 SPEARE 166 
 
 To HEAVEN 168 
 
 EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 169 
 
 DISCOVERIES: Law of Use 169 
 
 JOHN MILTON (1608-1674) 
 
 AT A SOLEMN Music 173 
 
 SONG ON MAY MORNING 174 
 
 ON SHAKESPEARE 174 
 
 ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE . . 175 
 
 L'ALLEGRO - 175 
 
 IL PENSEROSO 180 
 
 ON His BLINDNESS 186 
 
 AREOPAGITICA : Truth i86f 
 
 A Nation in its Strength 187 
 
 AN APOLOGY FOR SMECTYMNUUS : Early Impressions .... 189 
 
 SAMUEL BUTLER (1612-1680) 
 
 HUDIBRAS: Accomplishments of Hudibras 193 
 
 Religion of Hudibras 197 
 
 JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1688) 
 
 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS : The Golden City 199 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700) 
 
 AN ESSAY ON DRAMATIC POETRY: Shakespeare and Jonson . 209 
 
 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW 212 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST 219 
 
 LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED PORTRAIT OF MlLTON . 223 
 
 DANIEL DEFOE (1661-1731) 
 
 ROBINSON CRUSOE: The Shipwreck 224 
 
 THE PLAGUE IN LONDON : Superstitions 229
 
 xxviii CONTENTS 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745) PAGB 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS : The Beginning of Hostilities . . 235 
 
 GULLIVER'S TRAVELS : The Academy of Lagado 242 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) 
 THE SPECTATOR: 
 
 No. 112. Sunday in the Country 246 
 
 No. 159. The Vision of Mirzah 249 
 
 No. 565. Contemplation of the Divine Perfections 255 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744) 
 
 ESSAY ON CRITICISM : Standards of Taste 260 
 
 ESSAY ON MAN. {Book /) 264 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF LADY MARY W. MONTAGU 271 
 
 JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) 
 
 THE SEASONS. SPRING : The Coming of the Rain 272 
 
 SUMMER : The Sheep-Washing 273 
 
 AUTUMN : Storm in Harvest 275 
 
 WINTER : A Snow Scene 276 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. (Book /) 278 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) 
 
 PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE: Shakespeare's Greatness .... 283 
 
 LETTER TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD 290 
 
 THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) 
 
 ODE ON THE SPRING 292 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE 294 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 297 
 
 MILTON 302 
 
 JOURNAL IN THE LAKES: From Keswick to Kendal .... 302 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) 
 
 ODE TO LIBERTY 305 
 
 ODE TO EVENING 310 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON 312
 
 CONTENTS XXIX 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) PAG K 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE: Contrasts 314 
 
 RETALIATION: Edmund Burke 318 
 
 David Garrick 319 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds 320 
 
 STANZAS ON WOMAN 320 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD : A Country Parsonage 321 
 
 EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797) 
 
 SPEECH ON AMERICAN TAXATION : Lord Chatham 325 
 
 SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA : Character of the 
 
 Americans 328 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800) 
 
 THE TASK : The Post The Fireside in Winter 336 
 
 Snow 339 
 
 Early Love of the Country 341 
 
 The Poet in the Woods 342 
 
 ON RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 343 
 
 EDWARD GIBBON (1737-1794) 
 
 DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE: The Overthrow 
 
 of Zenobia 347 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) 
 
 To THE EVENING STAR 358 
 
 SONG : My silks and fine array 358 
 
 SONG : How ssveet I roamed from field to field 359 
 
 SONG : Memory, hither come 360 
 
 MAD SONG 360 
 
 To THE MUSES 361 
 
 SONG : Piping down the valleys wild 362 
 
 THE LAMB 362 
 
 NIGHT 363 
 
 AH, SUNFLOWER 365 
 
 THE TIGER 365 
 
 THE ANGEL 366
 
 XXX CONTENTS 
 
 ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) PAGE 
 
 MARY MORISON 367 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 368 
 
 I LOVE MY JEAN 374 
 
 To A MOUNTAIN DAISY 375 
 
 HARK ! THE MAVIS 377 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT 378 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 380 
 
 PRELUDE: Influence of Nature 381 
 
 To A SKYLARK 383 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER 384 
 
 THE DAFFODILS 385 
 
 MILTON 386 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT 387 
 
 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 387 
 
 To THE QUEEN 394 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834) 
 
 TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY 396 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT 396 
 
 MORNING HYMN TO MONT BLANC 399 
 
 SHAKESPEARE: The True Critic 402 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) 
 
 LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL : Song of the Bard 406 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES : Lake Coriskin 407 
 
 THE TALISMAN : The Christian Knight and the Saracen Cava- 
 lier 410 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864) 
 
 A FIESOLAN IDYL 418 
 
 IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 420 
 
 CHILDREN PLAYING IN A CHURCHYARD 422 
 
 To THE SISTER OF ELIA 422 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING , , . . 423
 
 CONTENTS XXxi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 424 
 
 I know not whether I am proud 424 
 
 The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings 424 
 
 Death stands above me, whispering low 424 
 
 CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834) 
 
 THE Two RACES OF MEN 425 
 
 A DISSERTATION ON ROAST PIG 432 
 
 WILLIAM HAZLITT (1778-1830) 
 
 A FAREWELL TO ESSAY- WRITING : A Reminiscence 438 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOUR 442 
 
 LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859) 
 
 To THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET 445 
 
 ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION 445 
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY (1785-1859) 
 
 ON THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE IN MACBETH 454 
 
 THE THREE LADIES OF SORROW 460 
 
 LORD BYRON (1788-1824) 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 465 
 
 STANZAS FOR Music 466 
 
 DON JUAN: The Isles of Greece 467 
 
 CHTLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE: Ocean 470 
 
 ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR .... 472 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON 474 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822) 
 
 THE CLOUD 475 
 
 To A SKYLARK 478 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND 481 
 
 A DEFENSE OF POETRY: What Poetry Is 484 
 
 JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) 
 
 A POET'S ECSTASY: I stood tiptoe upon a little hill .... 488 
 
 SLEEP AND POETRY : Art and Imitation 489
 
 XXxii CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 490 
 
 ENDYMION: Beauty 491 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 492 
 
 ADDRESSED TO HAYDON 494 
 
 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 494 
 
 THE HUMAN SEASONS 495 
 
 To LEIGH HUNT ,. 495 
 
 EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE: The Bard Speaks . . S? 496 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881) 
 
 ESSAY ON BURNS: A True Poet-Soul 498 
 
 SARTOR RESARTUS: The Everlasting Yea 504 
 
 DANTE : Giotto's Portrait 508 
 
 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800-1859) 
 
 BYRON: His Early Fame 510 
 
 WARREN HASTINGS: The Trial 512 
 
 JOHN HENRY CARDINAL NEWMAN (1801-1890) 
 
 IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY: Knowledge in Relation to Culture . . 519 
 
 CALLISTA: A TALE OF THE THIRD CENTURY: Callista's Vision 524 
 
 UNIVERSITY SERMONS: Music a Symbol of the Unseen . . . 526 
 
 ALFRED LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892) 
 
 THE DYING SWAN 528 
 
 THE POET 529 
 
 THE POET'S MIND 531 
 
 THE POET'S SONG 533 
 
 SIR GALAHAD 533 
 
 ULYSSES 536 
 
 SONGS FR.)M "THE PRINCESS" 538 
 
 To THE QUEEN 540 
 
 MILTON 541 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR 542 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811-1863) 
 
 VANITY FAIR: Becky Sharp 543 
 
 DE FINIBUS : Another Finis Written 548
 
 CONTENTS xxxiii 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS (1811-1870) PAGE 
 
 OLIVER TWIST: Sikes and his Dog 554 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL: Christmas at the Cratchits' ...'.. 559 
 
 THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER : The Very Queer Small Boy . 564 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889) 
 
 WANTING is WHAT? 567 
 
 MY STAR * 567 
 
 PIPPA PASSES : Pippa's Song 568 
 
 CONFESSIONS 568 
 
 RESPECTABILITY 570 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD 571 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA 572 
 
 PROSPICE 572 
 
 MEMORABILIA 573 
 
 DEATH IN THE DESERT: " Three Souls, One Man" .... 574 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT (1819-1880) 
 
 ADAM BEDE: A Farm House 575 
 
 RoMOLA: Savonarola's Benediction 580 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861) 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE 586 
 
 THE BOTHIE OF ToBER-NA-VuoLiCH: 'J he Highland Stream . 587 
 
 WHERE LIES THE LAND? 589 
 
 SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 589 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS 590 
 
 ' WITH WHOM is NO VARIABLENESS, NEITHER SHADOW OF 
 
 TURNING' 591 
 
 'O 0tos [itra, <rov ! 591 
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE 593 
 
 A RIVER POOL 593 
 
 COME, POET, COME 594 
 
 IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS 595 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN (1819- ) 
 
 PRAETERITA : The Consecration 597 
 
 MODERN PAINTERS: Real Happiness 599
 
 XXxiv CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LECTURES ON ART: The Function of Art 602 
 
 STONES OF VENICE : Knowledge and Wisdom 605 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888) 
 
 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA: Callides 1 Song 607 
 
 DOVER BEACH 609 
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES 610 
 
 RUGBY CHAPEL: Servants of God 613 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 613 
 
 WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS 614 
 
 EAST LONDON 615 
 
 CALAIS SANDS 615 
 
 THE STUDY OF POETRY: Poetry a Criticism of Life . . . . 617 
 
 NOTES 621 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS AND NOTES 663 
 
 BOOKS OF GENERAL REFERENCE . 664 
 
 CRITICAL AND SUGGESTIVE 665 
 
 GLOSSARY . 668
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 (1340-1400) 
 
 THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES 
 
 The season of the pilgrimage, and the assembling of 
 the pilgrims at the Tabard Inn, described 
 
 WHAN that Aprille with hise shoures soote 
 The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 
 And bathed every veyne in swich Iic6ur 
 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-ronne, 
 And smale foweles maken melodye 
 That slepen al the nyght with open eye, 10 
 
 So priketh hem Nature in hir corages, 
 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 Caunturbury they wende, 
 The hooly blisful martir for to seke, 
 That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 
 
 Bifil that in that seson on a day, 
 
 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 20 
 
 Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
 
 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 To Caunterbury with fill devout corage, 
 
 At nyght were come into that hostelrye 
 
 Wei nyne-and-twenty in a compaignye, 
 
 Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle 25 
 
 In felaweshipe, and pilgrims were they alle, 
 
 That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 
 
 The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 
 
 And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
 
 And, shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 30 
 
 So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 
 
 That I was of hir felaweshipe anon, 
 
 And made forward erly for to ryse, 
 
 To take cure wey, ther as I yow devyse. 
 
 But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, 35 
 
 Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 
 Me thynketh it accordaunt to resoun 
 To telle yow al the condicioun 
 Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, 
 And whiche they weren and of what degree, 40 
 
 And eek in what array that they were inne ; 
 And at a Knyght than wol I first bigynne. 
 
 The Knight 
 
 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 therto hadde he riden, no man ferre, 
 As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse, 
 And evere honoured for his worthynesse. 50 
 
 At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne ;
 
 CHAUCER 3 
 
 Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne 
 
 Aboven alle naci'ons in Pruce. 
 
 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 Crete See 
 
 At many a noble aryve hadde he be. 60 
 
 At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, 
 And foughten for cure feith at Tramyssene 
 In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 
 This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also 
 Somtyme with the lord of Palatye 65 
 
 Agayn another hethen in Turkye; 
 And everemoore 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 nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde, 70 
 
 In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. 
 He was a verray parfit, gentil knyght. 
 
 But for to tellen yow of his array, 
 His hors weren goode, but he ne was nat gay ; 
 Of fustian he wered a gypon 75 
 
 Al bism6tered with his habergeon, 
 For he was late y-come from his viage, 
 And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 
 
 The Squire 
 
 With hym ther was his sone, a yong SQUIR, 
 A lovyere and a lusty bacheler, 80 
 
 With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse.
 
 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
 
 Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, 
 
 And wonderly delyvere and greet of strengthe ; 
 
 And he hadde been somtyme in 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. 
 
 Embrouded was he, as it were a meede 
 
 Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede; 90 
 
 Syngynge he was or floytynge, al the day ; 
 
 He was as fressh as is the monthe of May. 
 
 Short was his gowne, with sieves longe and wyde ; 
 
 Wei koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde ; 
 
 He koude songes make and wel endite, 95 
 
 Juste and eek daunce and weel purtreye and write. 
 
 So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale 
 
 He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. 
 
 Curteis he was, lowely and servysable, 
 
 And carf biforn his fader at the table. 100 
 
 The Yeoman 
 
 A YEMAN hadde he and servantz namo 
 At that tyrae, for hym liste ride soo ; 
 And he was clad in cote and hood of grene. 
 A sheef of pocok arwes bright and kene 
 Under his belt he bar ful thriftily 105 
 
 Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly ; 
 His anves drouped noght with fetheres lowe 
 And in his hand he baar a myghty bovve. 
 A not-heed hadde he with a broun visage. 
 Of woodecraft wel koude he al the usage. no 
 
 Upon his arm he baar a gay bracer,
 
 CHAUCER 5 
 
 And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler, 
 
 And on that oother syde a gay daggere 
 
 Harneised wel and sharpe as point of spere ; 
 
 A Christophere on his brest of silver sheene ; 115 
 
 An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene. 
 
 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 gretteste ooth was but by se'int Loy, 120 
 
 And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. 
 Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne, 
 Entuned in hir nose ful semely, 
 And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly 
 After the scole of Stratford- atte-Bowe, 125 
 
 For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
 At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle, 
 She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 
 Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe. 
 Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe 130 
 
 That 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. 155 
 Ful semely after hir mete she raughte, 
 And sikerly she was of greet desport, 
 And ful plesaunt and amyable of port, 
 And peyned hire to countrefete cheere 
 Of Court, and been estatlich of manere, 140 
 
 And to ben holden digne of reverence.
 
 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 But for to speken of hire conscience, 
 
 She was so charitable and so pitous 
 
 She wolde wepe if that she saugh a mous 
 
 Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. I4 - 
 
 Of smale houndes hadde she that she fedde 
 
 With rested flessh, or milk and wastel breed ; 
 
 But score wepte she if oon of hem were deed, 
 
 Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte, 
 
 And al was conscience and tendre herte. 150 
 
 Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was ; 
 Hire nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas, 
 Hir mouth ful smal and ther-to softe and reed, 
 But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed ; 
 It was almoost a spanrie brood I trowe, 155 
 
 For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 
 Ful fetys was hir cloke as I was war ; 
 Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar 
 A peire of bedes gauded al with grene, 
 And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheene, 160 
 
 On which ther was first write a crowned A, 
 And after Amor vincit omnia. 
 
 Another NONNE with hire hadde she 
 That was hire Chapeleyne, and preestes thre. 
 
 The Monk 
 
 A MONK ther was, a fair for the maistrie, 165 
 
 An outridere that lovede venerie, 
 A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
 Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable, 
 And whan he rood men myghte his brydel heere 
 Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere, 170 
 
 And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel belle.
 
 CHAUCER 7 
 
 Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle, 
 
 The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, 
 
 By-cause that it was old and som-del streit, 
 
 This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace 175 
 
 And heeld after the newe world the space. 
 
 He gaf nat of that text a pulled hen 
 
 That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men, 
 
 Ne that a Monk whan he is recchelees 
 
 Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees ; 180 
 
 This is to seyn, a Monk out of his cloystre. 
 
 But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre ; 
 
 And I seyde his opinioun was good. 
 
 What sholde he studie and make hym-selven wood, 
 
 Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, 185 
 
 Or swynken with his handes and Iab6ure 
 
 As Austyn bit ? how shal the world be served ? 
 
 Lat Austyn have his svvynk to him reserved. 
 
 Therfore he was a prikasour aright ; 
 
 Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight : 190 
 
 Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare 
 
 Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
 
 I seigh his sieves y-purfiled at the hond 
 
 With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond ; 
 
 And for to festne his hood under his chyn 195 
 
 He hadde of gold y-wroght a ful curious pyn, 
 
 A love knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 
 
 His heed was balled that shoon as any glas, 
 
 And eek his face as it hadde been enoynt. 
 
 He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; 200 
 
 Hise even stepe and rollynge in his heed, 
 
 That stemed as a forneys of a leed ; 
 
 His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat. 
 
 Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat.
 
 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 He was nat pale, as a forpyned goost : 205 
 
 A fat swan loved he best of any roost ; 
 His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 
 
 The Friar 
 
 A FRERE ther was, a wantowne and a merye, 
 A lymytour, 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 manage 
 Of yonge wommen at his owene cost : 
 Unto his ordre he was a noble post, 
 Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 215 
 
 With frankeleyns over al in his contree ; 
 And eek with worthy wommen of the toun, 
 For he hadde power of confessioun, 
 As seyde hym-self, moore than a curat, 
 For of his ordre he was licenciat. 220 
 
 Ful swetely herde he confessioun, 
 And plesaunt was his absolucioun. 
 He was an esy man to geve penaunce 
 Ther as he wiste to have a good pitaunce ; 
 For unto a poure ordre for to give 225 
 
 Is signe that a man is wel y-shryve ; 
 For, if he gaf, he dorste make avaunt 
 He wiste that a man was rpentaunt : 
 For many a man so harde is of his herte 
 He may nat wepe al thogh hym soore smerte, 230 
 
 Therfore in stede of wepynge and preyeres 
 Men moote geve silver to the poure freres. 
 His typet was ay farsed full of knyves 
 And pynnes, for to geven yonge wyves ;
 
 CHA UCER 9 
 
 And certeinly he hadde a murye note ; 235 
 
 Wei koude he synge and pleyen on a rote : 
 
 Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris ; 
 
 His nekke whit 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 aqueyntaunce ; 245 
 
 It is nat honeste, it may nat avaunce 
 
 F6r 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 pleasaunt was his In principle, 
 
 Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente : 255 
 
 His purchas 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 there he was nat lyk a cloysterer 
 
 With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoter, 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, 265 
 
 And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe, 
 
 Hise eyen twynkled in his heed aryght
 
 IO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. 
 This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd. 
 
 The Merchant 
 
 A MARCHANT was ther with a forked herd, 270 
 
 In motteleye, and hye on horse he sat ; 
 Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat ; 
 His bootes clasped faire and fetisly ; 
 Hise resons he spak ful solempnely, 
 Sownynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng. 275 
 
 He wolde the see were kept for any thing 
 Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. 
 Wei koude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle. 
 This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette, 
 Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 280 
 
 So estatly was he of his governaunce 
 With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce. 
 For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle 
 But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle. 
 
 The Clerk (or Scholar} of Oxford 
 
 A CLERK ther was of Oxenford also 285 
 
 That unto logyk hadde longe y-go ; 
 As leene was his hors as is a rake, 
 And he nas nat right fat, I undertake, 
 But looked holwe and ther-to sobrely ; 
 Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy ; 290 
 
 For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, 
 Ne was so worldly for to have office ; 
 For hym was levere have at his beddes heed 
 Twenty book6s clad in blak or reed
 
 CHAUCER II 
 
 Of Aristotle and his philosophic, 295 
 
 Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie : 
 
 But al be that he was a philosophre, 
 
 Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; 
 
 But al that he myghte of his freends hente 
 
 On bookes and his lernynge he it spente, 300 
 
 And bisily gan for the soules preye 
 
 Of hem that gaf hym wher-with to scoleye. 
 
 Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede, 
 
 Noght o word spak he moore than was neede, 
 
 And that was seyd in form and reverence 305 
 
 And short and quyk and ful of hy sentence. 
 
 Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche 
 
 And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. 
 
 The Sergeant at Law 
 
 A SERGEANT OF THE LAWE, war and wys, 
 That often hadde been at the Parvys, 310 
 
 Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
 Discreet he was and of greet reverence ; 
 He semed swich, hise wordes weren so wise. 
 Justice he was ful 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. 
 All was fee symple to hym in effect, 
 His purchasyng 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 ;
 
 12 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Ther-to he koude endite and make a thyng, 325 
 
 Ther koude no wight pynchen at his writyng ; 
 
 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 
 
 The Franklin 
 
 A FRANKELEYN was in his compaignye. 
 Whit was his berd as is a dayesye. 
 Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. 
 Wei loved he by the morwe a sope in wyn ; 
 To lyven in delit was evere his wone, 335 
 
 For he was Epicurus owene sone, 
 That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit 
 Was verraily felicitee parfit. 
 An housholdere, and a greet, was he ; 
 Seint Julian was he in his contree ; 340 
 
 His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon ; 
 A bettre envyned man was nowher noon. 
 Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous, 
 Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous, 
 It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke, 345 
 
 Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke. 
 After the sondry sesons of the yeer, 
 So chaunged he his mete and his soper. 
 Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe 
 And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe. 350 
 
 Wo was his cook but if his sauce were 
 Poynaunt and sharpe and redy al his geere. 
 His table dormant in his halle alway, 
 Stood redy covered al the longe day.
 
 CHAUCER 13 
 
 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 
 
 The Haberdasher, Etc. 
 
 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 geldehalle, on a deys. 370 
 
 Everich for the wisdom that he kan 
 Was shaply for to been 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. 
 
 Tlie Cook 
 
 A COOK they hadde with hem for the nones, 
 To boille the chiknes with the marybones 380 
 
 And poudre-marchant tart and galyngale ;
 
 14 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Wel koude he knowe a draughte of Londoun ale ; 
 
 He koude rooste and sethe and boille and frye, 
 
 Maken mortreux and well bake a pye. 
 
 But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 385 
 
 That on his shyne a mormal hadde he 
 
 For blankmanger, that made he with the beste. 
 
 The Shipman 
 
 A SHIPMAN was ther, wonynge fer by weste ; 
 For aught I wool he was of Dertemouthe. 
 He rood upon a rouncy as he kouthe, 390 
 
 In a gowne of faldyng to the knee. 
 A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he 
 Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
 The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun, 
 And certeinly he was a good felawe. 395 
 
 Ful many a draughte of wyn he hadde drawe 
 Fro Burdeuxward whil that the Chapman sleep. 
 Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 
 If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond, 
 By water he sente him hoom to every lond. 400 
 
 But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes, 
 His stremes and his daungers him bisides, 
 His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage, 
 Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage. 
 JHardy he was, and wys to undertake : . 405 
 
 \With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake.) 
 He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were, 
 From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere, 
 And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne. 
 His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410
 
 CHAUCER 15 
 
 The Physician 
 
 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 paci'ent a ful greet deel 415 
 
 In houres by his magyk natureel. 
 Wei koude he fortunen the ascendent 
 Of hise ymages for his paci'ent. 
 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 humour; 
 He was a verray parfit praktisour. 
 The cause y-knowe and of his harm the roote, 
 Anon he gaf the sike man his boote. 
 Ful redy hadde he hise apothecaries 425 
 
 To sende him drogges and his letuaries, 
 For ech of hem made oother for to wynne, 
 Hir frendshipe nas nat newe to bigynne. 
 Wei knew he the olde Esculapius 
 
 And Deyscorides, and'eek Rufus, 430 
 
 Olde Ypocras, Haly and Galyen, 
 Serapion, Razis and Avycen, 
 Averrois, Damascien and Constantyn, 
 Bernard and Gatesden and Gilbertyn. 
 Of his diete mesurable was he, 435 
 
 For it was of no superfluitee, 
 But of greet norissyng and digestible. 
 His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
 In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al, 
 Lyned with taffata and with sendal. 440 
 
 And yet he was but esy of dispence ;
 
 1 6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 
 For gold in phisik is a cordial, 
 Therfore he loved e gold in special. 
 
 T)ie Wife of Bath 
 
 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 
 That to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goon ; 450 
 
 And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she, 
 That she was out of alle 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 hewe. 
 She was a worthy womman al hir lyve, 
 Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve, 460 
 
 Withouten oother compaignye in youthe, 
 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 a targe ;
 
 CHAUCER \J 
 
 A foot mantel aboute hir hipes large, 
 
 And on hire feet a paire of spores sharpe. 
 
 In felaweshipe wel koude she laughe and carpe. 
 
 Of remedies of love she knew per chaunce, 475 
 
 For she koude of that art the olde daunce. 
 
 The Parish Priest 
 
 A good man 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 : 
 Hise parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
 Benygne he was and wonder diligent, 
 And in adversitee ful pacient ; 
 
 And swich he was y-preved ofte sithes. 485 
 
 Ful looth were hym to cursen for hise tithes, 
 But rather wolde he geven, out of doute, 
 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 visile 
 The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lite, 
 Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf. 495 
 
 This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf 
 That firste he wroghte and afterward he taughte. 
 Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte, 
 And this figure he added eek therto, 
 That if gold ruste what shal iren doo ? 500 
 
 For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, 
 c
 
 1 8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; 
 
 And shame it is, if a preest take keepe, 
 
 A [dirty] shepherde and a clene sheepe. 
 
 Wei oghte a preest ensample for to geve 505 
 
 By his clennesse how that his sheep sholde lyve. 
 
 He sette nat his benefice to hyre 
 
 And leet his sheep encombred in the myre, 
 
 And ran to Londoun unto Seint Poules 
 
 To seken hym a chaunterie for soules, 510 
 
 Or with a bretherhed to been withholde ; 
 
 But dwelte at hoom and kepte wel his folde, 
 
 So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie, 
 
 He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenarie ; 
 
 And though he hooly were and vertuous, 5^ 
 
 He was to synful man nat despitous, 
 
 Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, 
 
 But in his techyng discreet 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 maked him a spiced conscience, 
 
 But Cristes loore, and his Apostles twelve, 
 
 He taughte, but first he folwed it hym selve.
 
 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 (Fl. 1470) 
 
 KING ARTHUR 
 
 Of the birth of King Arthur, and how he was 
 chosen king 
 
 IT befell in the days^of Uther Pendragon, when he was 
 king of all England, and so reigned, that there was a 
 mighty duke in Cornwall that held war against him long 
 time. And the duke was named the duke of Tintagil. 
 And so by means king Uther sent for this duke, charging 5 
 him to bring his wife with him, for she was called a fair 
 lady, and a passing wise, and her name was called Igraine. 
 And the messengers had their answers, and that was this, 
 shortly, that neither he nor his wife would not come 
 at him. Then was the king wonderly wroth. And then 10 
 the king sent him plain word again, and bade him be 
 ready and stuff him and garnish him, for within forty 
 days he would fetch him out of the biggest castle that he 
 hath. When the duke had this warning, anon he went 
 and furnished and garnished two strong castles of his, of 15 
 the which the one hight Tintagil and the other castle 
 hight Terrabil. So his wife, dame Igraine, he put in the 
 castle of Tintagil, and himself he put in the castle of 
 Terrabil, the which had many issues and posterns out. 
 Then in all haste came Uther with a great host, and laid 20 
 a siege about the castle of Terrabil. And there he pight 
 
 19
 
 2O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 many pavilions, and there was great war made on both 
 parties, and much people slain. 
 
 But the duke of Tintagil espied how the king rode from 
 the siege of Terrabil, and therefore that night he issued 25 
 out of the castle at a postern, for ^oj have distressed the 
 king's host. And so, through his own issue, the duke 
 himself was slain or eVet me king came at the castle of 
 Tintagil. Then all the barons by one assent prayed the 
 king of accord between the lady Igraine and him. The 3 
 king gave them leave, for fain' would he have been 
 accorded with her. So the king put all the trust in 
 Ulfius to entreat between them ; so, by the entreat, at 
 the last the king and she met together. Now will we do 
 well, said Ulfius : our king is a lusty knight and wifeless, 35 
 and my lady Igraine is a passing fair lady ; it were great 
 joy unto us all and it might please the king to make her 
 his queen. Unto that they were all well accorded, and 
 moved it to the king : and anon, like a lusty knight, he 
 assented thereto with good will, and so in all haste they 40 
 were married in^. morning with great mirth and joy. 
 
 Then the time came that the queen Igraine should bear 
 a child. Then came Merlin unto the king and said, Sir, 
 ye must purvey you for the nourishing of your child. As 
 thou wilt, said the king, be it. Well, said Merlin, I know 45 
 a lord of yours in this land, that is a passing true man 
 and a faithful, and he shall have the nourishing of your 
 child, and his name is Sir Ector, and he is a lord of fair 
 livelihood in many parts in England and Wales. And 
 this lord, Sir Ector, let him be sent for, for to come and 50 
 speak with you ; and desire him yourself, as he loveth 
 you, that he will put his own child to nourishing to 
 another woman, and that his wife nourish yours. And 
 when the child is born let it be delivered unto me at
 
 MALORY 21 
 
 yonder privy postern unchristened. So like as Merlin 55 
 devised it was done. And when Sir Ector was come he 
 made affiance to the king for to nourish the child like 
 as the king desired ; and there the king granted Sir Ector 
 great rewards. Then when the lady was delivered, the 
 king commanded two knights and two ladies to take the 60 
 child bound in a cloth of gold, and that ye deliver him 
 to what poor man ye meet at the postern gate of the 
 castle. So the child was delivered unto Merlin, and so 
 he bare it forth unto Sir Ector, and made an holy man 
 to christen him, and named him Arthur : and so Sir 65 
 Ector's wife nourished him with her own breast. 
 
 Then within two years king Uther fell sick of a great 
 malady. And in the meanwhile his enemies usurped.upon 
 him, and did a great battle upon his men, and slew many 
 of his people. Sir, said Merlin, ye may not lie so as ye 70 
 do, for ye must to the field, though ye ride on an horse- 
 litter ; for ye shall never have the better of your enemies 
 but if your person be there, and then shall ye have the 
 victory. So it was done as Merlin had devised, and they 
 carried the king forth in a horse-litter with a great host 75 
 towards his enemies. And at St. Albans there met with 
 the king a great host of the North. And that day Sir 
 Ulfius and Sir Brastias did great deeds of arms, and king 
 Uther's men overcame the Northern battle, and slew many 
 people, and put the remnant to flight. And then the 80 
 king returned unto London, and made great joy of his 
 victory. And then he fell passing sore sick, so that three 
 days and three nights he was speechless ; wherefore all 
 the barons made great sorrow, and asked Merlin what 
 counsel were best. There is none other remedy, said 85 
 Merlin, but God will have his will. But look ye all barons 
 be before king Uther to-morn, and God and I shall make
 
 22 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 him to speak. So on the morn all the barons with Merlin 
 came tofore the king : then Merlin said aloud unto king 
 Uther, Sir, shall your son Arthur be king after your days, 90 
 of this realm, with all the appurtenance? Then Uther 
 Pendragon turned him and said in hearing of them all, 
 I give him God's blessing and mine, and bid him pray 
 for my soul, and righteously and worshipfully that he 
 claim the crown upon forfeiture of my blessing. And 95 
 therewith he yielded up the ghost. And then was he 
 interred as longed to a king. Wherefore the queen, fair 
 Igraine, made great sorrow and all the barons. Then 
 stood the realm in great jeopardy long while, for every 
 lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and many 100 
 wend to have been king. 
 
 Then Merlin went to the archbishop of Canterbury, and 
 counselled him Jor^o send for all the lords of the realm, 
 and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London 
 come by Christmas upon pain of cursing : and for this 105 
 cause that Jesus, that was born on that night, that He 
 would of his great mercy shew some miracle, as He was 
 come to be king of mankind, for (to shew some miracle 
 who should be rightwise king of this realm. So the 
 archbishop by the advice of Merlin sent for all the no 
 lords and gentlemen of arms, that they should come by 
 Christmas even unto London. And many of them made 
 them clean of their life, that their prayer might be the 
 more acceptable unto God. 
 
 So in the greatest church of London (whether it were 115 
 Paul's or not, the French book maketh no mention) all 
 the estates were long or day in the church for to pray. 
 And when matins and the first mass was done, there 
 was seen in the churchyard against the high altar a great 
 stone four square, like unto a marble stone, and in the i2j 
 

 
 *f & CV&J^ft 
 
 MALORY 23 
 
 midst thereof was like an anvil of steel a foot on high, 
 and therein stack a fair sword naked by the point, and 
 letters there were written in gold about the sword that 
 said thus : Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and 
 anvil is rightwise king born of all England. Then the 125 
 people marvelled, and told it to the archbishop. I com- 
 mand, said the archbishop, that ye keep you within your 
 church, and pray unto God still ; that no man touch 
 the sword till the high mass be all done. So when all 
 masses were done all the lords went to behold the stone 130 
 and the sword. And when they saw the scripture, some 
 assayed such as would have been king. But none 
 might stir the sword nor move it. He is not here, said 
 the archbishop, that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not 
 God will make him known. But this is my counsel, said 135 
 the archbishop, that we let purvey ten knights, men of 
 good fame, and they to keep this sword. So it was 
 ordained, and then there was made a cry, that every man 
 should assay that would, for to win the sword. And upon 
 New Year's Day the barons let make a justs and a tourna- 140 
 ment, that all knights that would just or tourney there 
 might play : and all this was ordained for to keep the 
 lords together and the commons, for the archbishop 
 trusted that God would make him known that should 
 win the sword. 145 
 
 So upon New Year's Day when the service was done 
 the barons rode to the field, some to just, and some to 
 tourney ; and so it happed that Sir Ector, that had great 
 livelihood about London, rode unto the justs, and with 
 him rode Sir Kay his son and young Arthur that was 150 
 his nourished brother, and Sir Kay was made knight at 
 Allhallowmas afore. So as they rode to the justs-ward 
 Sir Kay had lost his sword, for he had left it at his
 
 24 -~- r '-'-' ."-":" -. - ~-f/: 
 
 so he payed joang Artbnr to ride 
 I mflB wd, sud Arthur, and rode 
 
 -. -: r .--.-. :.- .I : - -;7 "; _ .- V : " ; 'V : I"; .-/.. :.~:.\ 
 
 rt to see the fasting. Then ms Aithor wroth, 
 to hBaBett, I uriM ride to the eimrcnyard and 
 take Ike svonl wife MC that stkfccth in the stone, foe 
 
 :,:.:::: f,: XL i.:~.. -:::: -:;-;.:.: r-;:.: :.:..; ::.: 
 
 , 
 
 >: . ~ ; r . : : .-.:. ~; ; : : : " r : r : r: ; :-* ;. ^.: -.~ w - . : .". ;~/.r.*.. 
 
 ". : .". Mj . ~>; : ". " : rl.-r.. :." . ^." v T ; : ~ '. '. - I.".: 
 
 tinane, far l3wy were at the 
 he ajKUMJ bf the Jandlf% and 165 
 pdfcd kcl of thcstoae, and toot his 
 
 H! rode his way til he cue to las brother Sir Kay, 
 
 (lUfouod han Ac sand. And as soon as Sir Kay 
 saw the svonl he vet mel it was the sword of the stone, 
 and so he rode to Ins nfher Sk Ector, awl said: Sir, lo 170 
 
 -. : ; f :.~ : ? v-; -;_;:: r.t ?::.: ~ - r - r : : r . :v f : : -r K...-Z 
 of das land. "When Sir Ector beheld the sword he re- 
 
 *-,.:>:; :: -- r :..: :::. i :o: -;- :.e 
 Sk, said Sk Kay, by ay brother Arthur, far he 
 Hovgatyetmssimni? said Sk Ector 
 toAithar. Sk I vriB td yon : when I caone hone far my 
 
 ::::. r : r fv ::: . : . . " . i i.< :".>: i :. : " ~ e : : i r . . - : ~:. t :. r 
 
 y brother Sk Kay shonid not be tfo 
 i so I caac hither eagedy and puled it out 
 
 Oat tihC SftOnmC m^nVBOaflt flflnV* UnVnVL * m! t QVEBu VC 2D1T^ BUDlSIltS 
 
 tan svond? said Sk Edtor. Nay, said Arthur. 
 said Sk Ector to Arifear, I mViM.imi yeaastbe 
 of tdns bad.* Whexefore I, sod Arthur, and foms 
 :? Sk, said Ector, iar God wiD have k so :
 
 MALORY 25 
 
 for there should never man have drawn out this sword but 
 he that shall be rightwise king of this land. Now let me 
 see whether ye can put the sword there as it was, and 
 pull it out again. That is no mastery, said Arthur : and 190 
 so he put it into the stone. Therewith Sir Ector assayed 
 to pull out the sword and failed. 
 
 Now assay, said Sir Ector to Sir Kay. And anon he 
 pulled at the sword with all his might, but it would not be. 
 Now shall ye assay, said Sir Ector to Arthur. I will well, 195 
 said Arthur, and pulled it out easily. And therewithal 
 Sir Ector kneeled down to the earth, and Sir Kay. Alas, 
 said Arthur, mine own dear father and brother, why kneel 
 ye to me. Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not so : I was 
 never your father nor of your blood, but I wote well ye are 200 
 of an higher blood than I wend ye were. And then Sir 
 Ector told him all, how he was betaken him for to nourish 
 him, and by whose commandment, and by Merlin's deliv- 
 erance. Then Arthur made great dole when he under- 
 stood that Sir Ector was not his father. Sir, said Ector 205 
 unto Arthur, will ye be my good and gracious lord when 
 ye are king ? Else were I to blame, said Arthur, for ye 
 are the man in the world that I am most beholding to, and 
 my good lady and mother your wife, that as well as her 
 own hath fostered me and kept. And if ever it be God's 210 
 will that I be king, as ye say, ye shall desire of me what 
 I may do, and I shall not fail you : God forbid I should 
 fail you. Sir, said Sir Ector, I will ask no more of you 
 but that you will make my son, your foster-brother Sir 
 Kay, seneschal of all your lands. That shall be done, 215 
 said Arthur, and more by the faith of my body, that 
 never man shall have that office but he, while he and I 
 live. Therewithal they went unto the archbishop, and 
 told him how the sword was achieved, and by whom.
 
 $rfltou*0 J- 
 
 FROM CHAtJCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And on Twelfth Day all the barons came thither, and 22 
 to assay to take the sword who that would assay. But 
 there afore them all there might none take it out but 
 Arthur, wherefore there were many lords wroth, and said 
 it was great shame unto them all and the realm, to be 
 over governed with a boy of no high blood born. And 225 
 so they fell out at that time that it was put off till Candle- 
 mas, and then all the barons should meet there again. 
 But always the ten knights were ordained to watch the 
 sword day and night, and so they set a pavilion over the 
 stone and the sword, and five always watched. So at 230 
 Candlemas many more great lords came hither for to 
 have won the sword, but there might none prevail. And 
 right as Arthur did at Christmas he did at Candlemas, 
 and pulled out the sword easily, whereof the barons were 
 sore aggrieved, and put it off in delay till the high feast 235 
 of Easter. And as Arthur sped afore, so did he at 
 Easter : yet there were some of the great lords had 
 indignation that Arthur should be their king, and put it 
 off in a delay till the feast of Pentecost. Then the arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury by Merlin's providence let purvey 240 
 them of the best knights that they might get, and such 
 knights as king Uther Pendragon loved best and most 
 trusted in his days, and such knights were put about 
 Arthur, as Sir Baud win of Britain, Sir Kay, Sir Ulfius, Sir 
 Brastias. All these, with many other, were always about 245 
 Arthur, day and night, till the feast of Pentecost. 
 
 And at the feast of Pentecost all manner of men assayed 
 to pull at the sword that would assay, but none might 
 prevail but Arthur ; and he pulled it out afore all the 
 lords and commons that were there, wherefore all the 250 
 commons cried at once, We will have Arthur unto our 
 king ; we will put him no more in delay, for we all see
 
 MALORY 27 
 
 that it is God's will that he shall be our king, and who that 
 
 holdeth against it we will slay him. And therewithal they 
 
 kneeled down all at once, both rich and poor, and cried 255 
 Arthur mercy, because they had delayed him so long. 
 And Arthur forgave them, and took the sword between 
 both his hands, and offered it upon the altar where the 
 archbishop was, and so was he made knight of the best 
 man that was there. And so "anon was the coronation 260 
 made, and there was he sworn unto his lords and the 
 commons for to be a true king, to stand with true justice 
 from thenceforth the days of this life. Also then he made 
 all lords that held of the crown to come in, and to do 
 service as they ought to do. And many complaints were 265 
 made unto Sir Arthur of great wrongs that were done 
 since the death of king Uther, of many lands that were 
 bereaved lords, knights, ladies, and gentlemen. Where- 
 fore king Arthur made the lands to be given again unto 
 them that owned them. When this was done that the 270 
 king had stablished all the countries about London, then 
 he let make Sir Kay seneschal of England; and Sir 
 Baudwin of Britain was made constable ; and Sir Ulfius 
 was made chamberlain ; and Sir Brastias was made war- 
 den to wait upon the north from Trent forwards, for it 275 
 was that time, for the most part, the king's enemies'. 
 But within a few years after, Arthur won all the north, 
 Scotland, and all that were under their obeisance. Also 
 Wales, a part of it held against Arthur, but he overcame 
 them all as he did the remnant through the noble prow- 280 
 ess of himself and his knights of the Round Table. 
 
 
 vi
 
 28 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Galahad and the Sword 
 
 AT the vigil of Pentecost, when all the fellowship of 
 the Round Table were "comen unto Camelot, and there 
 heard their service, and the tables were set ready to the 
 meat, right so entered into the hall a full fair gentle- 
 woman on horseback, that had ridden full fast, for her 5 
 horse was all besweat. Then she there alight, and came 
 before the king, and saluted him ; and then he said, 
 Damsel, God thee bless ! Sir, said she, I pray, you say 
 me where Sir Launcelot is? Yonder ye may see him, 
 said the king. Then she went unto Launcelot and said, 10 
 Sir Launcelot, I salute you on king Pelles' behalf, and I 
 require you come on with me hereby into a forest. Then 
 Sir Launcelot asked her with whom she dwelled? I dwell, 
 said she, with king Pelles. What will ye with me ? said 
 Sir Launcelot. Ye shall know, said she, when ye come 15 
 thither. Well, said he, I will gladly go with you. So Sir 
 Launcelot bade his squire saddle his horse and bring his 
 arms; and in all haste he did his commandment. Then 
 came the queen unto Launcelot and said, Will ye leave 
 us at this high feast? Madam, said the gentlewoman, wit 20 
 ye well he shall be with you to-morrow by dinner-time. 
 If I wist, said the queen, that he should not be with us 
 here to-morn, he should not go with you by my good 
 will. 
 
 Right so departed Sir Launcelot with the gentlewoman, 25 
 and rode until tEat he came into a forest, and into a 
 great valley, where they saw an abbey of nuns ; and 
 there was a squire ready, and opened the gates ; and so 
 they entered, and descended off their horses, and there 
 came a fair fellowship about Sir Launcelot and welcomed 30
 
 MALORY 29 
 
 him, and were passing glad of his coming. And then they 
 led him into the Abbess's chamber, and unarmed him, 
 
 and right so he^was wari upon^ a "bed lying two of his 
 cousins, Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, and then he waked 
 them, and when they saw him they made great joy. Sir, 35 
 said Sir Bors unto Sir Launcelot, what adventure hath 
 brought thee hither, for we wend to-morrow to have 
 found you at Camelot? Truly, said Sir Launcelot, a 
 gentlewoman brought me hither, but I know not the^ 
 > cause. In the meanwhile, as they thus stood talking 40 
 ** together, there came twelve nuns which brought with 
 ^ them Galahad, the which was passing fair and well made, 
 that unneth in the world men might not find his match ; 
 and all those ladies wept. Sir, said the ladies, we bring 
 you here this child, the which we have nourished, and 45 
 we pray you to make him a knight ; for of a more 
 worthier "man' s hand may he not receive the order of 
 knighthood. Sir Launcelot beheld that young squire, 
 and saw him seemly and "demure a<f~a dove, with all 
 manner of good features, that he wend of his age never 50 
 to have seen so fair a man of form. /Then said Sir 
 Launcelot, Cometh this desire of himself? He and all 
 they said, Yea. Then shall he, said Sir Launcelot, re- 
 ceive the high order of knighthood as to-morrow at the 
 reverence of the high feast^) That night Sir Launcelot 55 
 had passing good cheer, and on the morn at the hour 
 of prime, at Galahad's desire, he made him knight, and 
 said, God make him a good man, for beauty faileth you 
 not as any that liveth. 
 
 Now, fair sir, said Sir Launcelot, will ye come with me 60 
 unto the court of king Arthur? Nay, said he, I will not 
 go with you as~at this time. Then he departed from 
 them and took his two cousins with him, and so they
 
 36 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 came unto Camelot by the hour of underne on Whitsun- 
 day. By that time the king and the queen were gone to 65 
 the minster to hear their service : then the king and the 
 queen were passing glad of Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, and 
 so was all the fellowship. So when the king and all the 
 knights were come from service, the barons espied in 
 the sieges of the Round Table, all about written with 70 
 gold letters (Here ought to sit he, and he ought to sit 
 here.} And thus they went so long until that they came 
 to the siege perilous, where they found letters newly writ- 
 ten of gold, that said : Four hundred winters and fifty- 
 four accomplished after the passion of our Lord Jesu 75 
 Christ ought this siege to be fulfilled. Then all they 
 said, This is a marvellous thing, and an adventurous. In 
 the name of God, said Sir Launcelot ; and then he ac- 
 counted the term of the writing, from the birth of our 
 Lord unto that day. It seemeth me, said Sir Launcelot, 80 
 this siege ought to be fulfilled this same day, for this is 
 the feast of Pentecost after the four hundred and four 
 and fifty year ; and if it would please all parties, I would 
 none of these letters were seen this day, till he be come 
 that ought to achieve this adventure. Then made they 85 
 to ordain a cloth of silk for to cover these letters in the 
 siege perilous. Then the king bad haste unto dinner. 
 Sir, said Sir Kay the steward, if ye go now unto your 
 meat, ye shall break your old custom of your court. For 
 ye have not used on this day to sit at y^ujrmeat or that 90 
 ye have seen some adventure. Ye say sooth, said the 
 king, but I had so great joy of Sir Launcelot and of his 
 cousins, which be come to the court whole and sound, 
 that I bethought me not of my old custornWySo as they 
 stood speaking, in came a squire, and said unto the king, 95 
 Sir, I bring unto you marvellous tidings. What be they?
 
 MALORY 31 
 
 said the king. Sir, there is here beneath at the river 
 a great stone, which I saw fleet above the water, and 
 therein saw I sticking a sword. The king said, I will see 
 that marvel. So all the knights went with him, and when 100 
 they came unto the river, they found there-& Sto^e. fleet- 
 ing, as it were of red marble, and therein staxnTa fair and 
 a rich sword, and in the pommel thereof were precious 
 stones, wrought with subtil letters of gold. Then the 
 barons read the letters, which said in this wise : Never 105 
 shall man take me hence but only he by whose side I 
 ought to hang, and he shall be the best knight of the 
 world. When the king had seen these letters, he said 
 unto Sir Launcelot, Fair sir, this sword ought to be yours, 
 for I am sure ye be the best knight of the world. Then no 
 Sir Launcelot answered full soberly : Certes, sir, it is not 
 my sword : also, sir, wit ye well I have no hardiness to 
 set my hand to, for it longed not to hang by my side. 
 Also who that assayeth to take that sword, and faileth of 
 it, he shall receive a wound by that sword, that he shall 115 
 not be whole long after. And I will that ye wit that this 
 same day will the adventures of the Sancgreal, that is 
 called the holy vessel, begin. 
 
 Now, fair nephew, said the king unto Sir Gawaine, 
 assay ye for my love. Sir, he said, save your good grace, 120 
 I shall not do that. Sir, said the king, assay to take the 
 sword, and at my commandment. Sir, said Gawaine, 
 your commandment I will obey. And therewith he took 
 up the sword by the handles, but he might not stir it. 
 I thank you, said the king to Sir Gawaine. My lord Sir 125 
 Gawaine, said Sir Launcelot, now wit ye well, this sword 
 shall touch you so sore that ye shall will ye had never set 
 your hand thereto, for the best castle of this realm. Sir, 
 he said, I might not withsay mine uncle's will and com-
 
 32 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 mandment. But when the king heard this, he repented 130 
 it much, and said unto Sir Percivale, that he should assay 
 for his love. And he said, Gladly, for to bear Sir Ga- 
 waine fellowship. And therewith he set his hand on the 
 sword, and drew it strongly, but he might not move it. 
 Then were there more that durst be so hardy to set their 
 hands thereto. Now may ye go to your dinner, said Sir 
 Kay unto the king, for a marvellous adventure have ye 
 
 So the king and all went unto the court, and every 
 knight knew his own place, and set him ^herein, and 140 
 young men that were knights served thain. So when 
 they were served, and all sieges fulfilled^ save only the 
 siege perilous, anon there befell a marvellous adventure, 
 that all the doors s and-'the wimk>pof the place shut by 
 themself. Not for"- then the h^l was not greatly dark- 145,' 
 ened, and therewith they abashed both one and otherA/^ 
 
 Then king Arthur spake first, and said> Fair 1 fellow^Smu 
 
 i OuVtx- 
 
 lords, we have seen this day marvels, but or night I sup- 
 pose we shall see greater marvels. In the mean while 
 came in a good old man, and an ancient, clothed all in 150 
 white, and there was no knight knew from whence he 
 came. And with him he brought a young knight, both 
 xlA> on foot, in red arms, without sword or shield, save a 
 
 / 
 
 ^ 
 
 scabbard hanging by his side. And these words he said, 
 Peace be with you, fair lords. Then the old man said 155 
 unto Arthur, Sir, I bring here a young knight the which 
 is of king's lineage, and of the kindred of Joseph of 
 Arimathie, whereby the marvels of this court and of 
 strange realms shall be fully accomplished. 
 
 The king was right glad of his words, and said unto 160 
 the good man, Sir, 'ye be right welcome, and the young 
 knight with you. Then the old man made the young
 
 jv- (*-~*s\S \/ \S+*S~ -j - -- u^ 
 
 MALORY 33 
 
 man to unarm him ; and he was in a coat of red sendel, 
 and bare a mantle upon his shoulder that was furred with 
 ermine, and put that upon him. And the old knight 165 
 said unto the young knight, Sir, follow me. And anon 
 he led him unto the siege perilous, where beside sat Sir 
 Launcelot, and the good man lift up the cloth, and found 
 there defers that said thus : This is the siege of Galahad 
 the hlt^t prince. Sir, said the old knight, wit ye well that 170 
 place is yours. And then he set him down surely in that 
 siege. And then he said to the old man, Sir, ye may 
 now go your way, for well have ye done that ye were 
 commanded to do. And recommend me unto my grand- 
 sire king Pelles, and say to him on my behalf, I shall 175 
 come and see him as soon as ever I may^- So the good 
 man departed, and there met him twenty noble squires, 
 and so took their horses and went their way. Then all 
 the knights of the Table Round marvelled them greatly 
 of Sir Galahad, that he durst sit there in that siege peril- 180 
 ous, and was so tender of age, and wist not from whence 
 he came, but all only by God, and said, This is he by 
 whom the Sancgreal shall be achieved, for there sat never 
 none but he, but he were mischieved. Then Sir Launce- 
 lot beheld his son, and had great joy of him. Then Sir 185 
 Bors told his fellows, Upon pain of my life this young 
 knight shall come unto great worship. 
 
 This noise was great in all the court, so that it came 
 to the queen. Then she had marvel what knight it 
 might be that durst adventure him to sit in the siege 190 
 perilous. Many said unto the queen, he resembled much 
 unto Sir Launcelot. I may well suppose, said the queen, 
 that he is son of Sir Launcelot and king Pelles' daughter, 
 and his name is Galahad. I would fain see him, said the 
 queen, for he must needs be a noble man, for so is his 195 
 D
 
 34 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 father ; I report me unto all the Table Round. So when 
 the meat was done, that the king and all were risen, the 
 king went unto the siege perilous, and lift up the cloth, 
 and found there the name of Galahad, and then he 
 shewed it unto Sir Gawaine, and said, Fair nephew, now 200 
 have we among us Sir Galahad the good knight, that 
 shall worship us all, and upon pain of my life he shall 
 achieve the Sancgreal, right so as Sir Launcelot hath 
 done us to understand. Then came king Arthur unto 
 Galahad, and said, Sir, ye be welcome, for ye shall move 205 
 many good knights to the quest of the Sancgreal, and 
 ye shall achieve that never knights might bring to an 
 end. Then the king took him by the hand, and went 
 down from the palace to shew Galahad the adventures of 
 the stone. 210 
 
 The queen heard thereof, and came after with many 
 ladies, and shewed them the stone where it hoved on the 
 water. Sir, said the king unto Sir Galahad, here is a 
 great marvel as ever I saw, and right good knights have 
 assayed and failed. Sir, said Galahad, that is no marvel, 215 
 for this adventure is not theirs, but mine, and for the 
 surety of this sword I brought none with me ; for here 
 by my side hangeth the scabbard. And anon he laid his 
 hand on the sword, and lightly drew it out of the stone, 
 and put it in the sheath and said unto the king, Now it 220 
 goeth better than it did aforehand. Sir, said the king, a 
 shield God shall send you.
 
 MALORY 35 
 
 The Institution of the Quest 
 
 Now, said the king, I am sure at this quest of the 
 Sancgreal shall all ye of the Table Round depart, and 
 never shall I see you again whole together, therefore I 
 will see you all whole together in the meadow of Game- 
 lot, to just and to tourney, that after your death men 5 
 may speak of it, that such good knights were wholly 
 together such a day. As unto that counsel, and at the 
 king's request, they accorded all, and took on their har- 
 ness that longed unto justing. But all this moving of 
 the king was for this intent, for to see Galahad proved, 10 
 for the king deemed he should not lightly come again 
 unto the court after his departing. So were they assem- 
 bled in the meadow, both more and less. Then Sir 
 Galahad, by the prayer of the king and the queen, did 
 upon him a noble jesserance, and also he did on his 15 
 helm, but shield would he take none for no prayer of the 
 king. And then Sir Gawaine and other knights prayed 
 him to take a spear. Right so he did; and the queen 
 was in a tower with all her ladies for to behold that 
 tournament. Then Sir Galahad dressed him in the midst 20 
 of the meadow, and began to break spears marvellously, 
 that all men had wonder of him, for he there surmounted 
 all other knights, for within a while he had thrown down 
 many good knights of the Table Round save twain, that 
 was Sir Launcelot and Sir Percivale. 25 
 
 And then the king and all estates went home unto 
 Camelot, and so went to evensong to the great minster. 
 And so after upon that to supper, and every knight sat 
 in his own place as they were toforehand. Then anon 
 they heard cracking and crying of thunder, that them 30
 
 36 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 thought the place should all to-drive. In the midst of 
 this blast entered a sun- beam more clearer by seven 
 times than ever they saw day, and all they were alighted 
 of the grace of the Holy Ghost. Then began every 
 knight to behold other, and either saw other by their 35 
 seeming fairer than ever they saw afore. Not for then 
 there was no knight might speak one word a great while, 
 and so they looked every man on other, as they had 
 been dumb. Then there entered into the hall the holy 
 Graile covered with white samite, but there was none 40 
 might see it, nor who bare it. And there was all the hall 
 fulfilled with good odours, and every knight had such 
 meats and drinks as he best loved in this world ; and 
 when the holy Graile had been borne through the hall, 
 then the holy vessel departed suddenly, that they wist 45 
 not where it became. Then had they all breath to 
 speak. And then the king yielded thankings unto God 
 of his good grace that he had sent them. Certes, said 
 the king, we ought to thank our Lord Jesu greatly, for 
 that he hath shewed us this day at the reverence of this 50 
 high feast of Pentecost. Now, said Sir Gawaine, we have 
 been served this day of what meats and drinks we thought 
 on, but one thing beguiled us, we might not see the holy 
 Graile, it was so preciously covered : wherefore I will 
 make here avow, that to-morn, without longer abiding, 55 
 I shall labour in the quest of the Sancgreal, that I shall 
 hold me out a twelvemonth and a day, or more if need 
 be, and never shall I return again unto the court till I 
 have seen it more openly than it hath been seen here : 
 and if I may not speed, I shall return again as he that 60 
 may not be against the will of our Lord Jesu Christ. 
 When they of the Table Round heard Sir Gawaine say 
 so, they rose up the most party, and made such avows as 
 Sir Gawaine had made.
 
 MALORY 37 
 
 Anon as king Arthur heard this he was greatly dis- 65 
 pleased, for he wist well that they might not againsay 
 their avows. Alas ! said king Arthur unto Sir Gawaine, 
 ye have nigh slain me with the avow and promise that ye 
 have made. For through you ye have bereft me of the 
 fairest fellowship and the truest of knighthood that ever 70 
 were seen together in any realm of the world. For when 
 they depart from hence, I am sure they all shall never 
 meet more in this world, for they shall die many in the 
 quest. And so it forethinketh me a little, for I have 
 loved them as well as my life, wherefore it shall grieve 75 
 me right sore the departition of this fellowship. For I 
 have had an old custom to have them in my fellow- 
 ship. 
 
 And therewith the tears rilled in his eyes. And then 
 he said, Gawaine, Gawaine, ye have set me in great sor- 80 
 row. For I have great doubt that my true fellowship 
 shall never meet here more again. Ah, said Sir Launce- 
 lot, comfort yourself, for it shall be unto us as a great 
 honour, and much more than if we died in any other 
 places, for of death we be sure. Ah Launcelot, said the 85 
 king, the great love that I have had unto you all the 
 days of my life maketh me to say such doleful words ; 
 for never Christian king had never so many worthy men 
 at this table as I have had this day at the Round Table, 
 and that is my great sorrow. When the queen, ladies, 90 
 and gentlewomen wist these tidings, they had such sor- 
 row and heaviness that there might no tongue tell it, for 
 those knights had holden them in honour and charity. 
 But among all other queen Guenever made great sorrow. 
 I marvel, said she, my lord would suffer them to depart 95 
 from him. Thus was all the court troubled, for the love 
 of the departition of those knights. And many of those
 
 38 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ladies that loved knights would have gone with their 
 lovers ; and so had they done, had not an old knight 
 come among them in religious clothing, and then he 100 
 spake all on high and said, Fair lords which have sworn 
 in the quest of the Sancgreal, thus sendeth you Nacien 
 the hermit word, that none in this quest lead lady nor 
 gentlewoman with him, for it is not to do in so high a 
 service as they labour in, for I warn you plain, he that is 105 
 not clean of his sins he shall not see the mysteries of 
 our Lord Jesu Christ ; and for this cause they left these 
 ladies and gentlewomen. And then they went to rest 
 them. And in the honour of the highness of Galahad he 
 was led into king Arthur's chamber and there rested in no 
 his own bed. 
 
 And as soon as it was day the king arose, for he had 
 no rest of all that night for sorrow. Then he went unto 
 Gawaine and to Sir Launcelot, that were arisen for to hear 
 mass. And then the king again said, Ah Gawaine, Ga- 115 
 waine, ye have betrayed me. For never shall my court 
 be amended by you, but ye will never be sorry for me as 
 I am for you. And therewith the tears began to run 
 down by his visage. And therewith the king said, Ah, 
 knight, Sir Launcelot, I require thee thou counsel me, for 120 
 I would that this quest were undone, and it might be. 
 Sir, said Sir Launcelot, ye saw yesterday so many worthy 
 knights that then were sworn, that they may not leave it 
 in no manner of wise. That wot I well, said the king, 
 but it shall so heavy me at their departing, that I wot 125 
 well there shall no manner of joy remedy me. And then 
 the king and the queen went unto the minster. So anon 
 Launcelot and Gawaine commanded their men to bring 
 their arms. And when they all were armed, save their 
 shields and their helms, then they came to their fellow- 130
 
 MALORY 
 
 ship, which all were ready in the same wise for to go to 
 the minster to hear their service. 
 
 Then after the service was done, the king would wit 
 how many had taken the quest of the holy Graile, and to 
 account them he prayed them all. Then found they by 135 
 tale an hundred and fifty, and all were knights of the 
 Round Table. And then they put on their helms, and Q/f\^~ 
 departed, and recommended them all wholly unto the 
 the queen, and there was weeping and great sorrow. 
 Then the queen departed into her chamber so that no 140 
 man should perceive her great sorrows. When Sir Laun- 
 celot missed the queen he went into her chamber, and 
 when she saw him she cried aloud, O Sir Launcelot, ye 
 have betrayed me and put me to death, for to leave thus 
 my lord. Ah, madam, said Sir Launcelot, I pray you be 145 
 not displeased, for I shall come again as soon as I may 
 with my worship. Alas, said she, that ever I saw you ! 
 but He that suffered death upon the cross for all man- 
 kind, be to your good conduct and safety, and all the 
 whole fellowship. Right so departed Sir Launcelot, and 150 
 found his fellowship that abode his coming. And so they 
 mounted upon their horses, and rode through the streets 
 of Camelot, and there was weeping of the rich and poor, 
 and the king turned away, and might not speak for weep- 
 ing. So within a while they came to a city and a castle 155 
 that hight Vagon : there they entered into the castle, and 
 the lord of that castle was an old man that hight Vagon, 
 and he was a good man of his living, and set open the 
 gates, and made them all the good cheer that he might. 
 And so on the morrow they were all accorded that they 160 
 should depart every each from other. And then they de- 
 parted on the morrow with weeping and mourning cheer, 
 and every knight took the way that him best liked.
 
 
 
 x>t>0 
 
 I^CM 
 
 JOHN LYLY 
 
 C553-I606) ^ X 
 
 SONG^' 
 
 CUPID and my Campaspe played 
 
 At cards for kisses Cupid paid. 
 
 He stakes his quiver, bows, and arrows, 
 
 Hij^ mother's doves^and team of sparrows : 
 
 Loses them too ; then down he throws 5 
 
 The coral of his lip, the rose 
 
 Growing onjs 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 ? <_^e- 
 
 ^SAPPHO'S SONG 
 
 O CRUEL Love ! on thee I lay 
 My curse, which shall strike blind the day ; 
 Never may sleep with velvet hand 
 Charm thine eyes with sacred wand ; 
 Thy jailors still be hopes and fears ; 
 Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears ; 
 40
 
 LYLY 
 
 Thy play to wear out weary times, 
 Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes ; 
 Thy bread be frowns ; thy drink be gall ; 
 Such as when you Phao call 
 The bed thou liest on by despair ; 
 Thy sleep, fond dreams ; thy dreams, long care 
 Hope (like thy fool) at thy bed's head, 
 yMock thee, till madness strikes thee dead, 
 As Phao, thou dost me, with thy proud eyes. 
 In thee poor Sappho lives, in thee she dies. 
 
 PAN'S SONG 
 
 PAN'S Syrinx was a girl indeed, 
 Though now she's turned into a reed. 
 From that dear reed Pan's pipe doth come, 
 A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb ; 
 Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can 
 So chant it, as the pipe of Pan. 
 Cross-gartered swains, and dairy girls, 
 With faces smug and round as pearls, 
 When Pan's shrill pipe begins to play, 
 With dancing wear out night and day ; 
 The bag-pipe drone his hum lays by 
 When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy. 
 His minstrelsy ! O base ! This quill 
 Which at my mouth with wind I fill 
 Puts me in mind though her I miss 
 That still my Syrinx' lips I kiss. 
 
 M^ 
 \
 
 42 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ^\r~^H J\A JUT /^*JLMjJr\ 
 
 r^AAAf 
 ' 
 
 EUPHUES' AND HIS ENGLAND 
 Euphues Glassc for Europe 
 
 O DIVINE nature, O heavenly nobilitie, what thing can 
 there more be required in a Prince ^hen in greatest 
 power to shewe greatest patience, in chiefest glorye to 
 bring forth chiefest grace, in abundaunce of all earthlye 
 pom[p]e to manifest aboundaunce of all heavenlye pietie: 5 
 
 fortunate England that hath such a Queene, ungrate- 
 full, if thou praye not for hir, wicked, if thou do not love 
 hir, miserable, if thou loose hir. 
 
 Heere, Ladies, is a Glasse for all Princes to behold, 
 that being called to dignitie, they use moderation, not 10 
 might, tempering the severitie of the lawes with the mild- 
 nes of love, not executing al[l] they wil, but shewing what 
 they may. Happy are they, and onely they, that are under 
 this glorious and gracious Sovereigntie ; insomuch that I 
 'accompt all those abjects, that be not hir subjectes. 15 
 
 But why doe I treade still in one path, when I have so 
 large a fielde to walke, or lynger about one flower, when 
 
 1 have manye to gather : where-in I resemble those that, 
 beeinge delighted with the little brooke, neglect the foun- 
 taines head, or that painter that, being curious to coulour 20 
 Cupids Bow, forgot to paint the string. 
 
 As this noble Prince is endued with mercie, pacience, 
 and moderation, so is she adourned with singuler beautie 
 and chastitie, excelling in the one Venus, in the other 
 Vesta. Who knoweth not how rare a thing it is, Ladies, 25 
 to match virginitie with beautie, a chast[e] minde with 
 an amiable face, divine cogitations with a comelye coun- 
 tenaunce? But suche is the grace bestowed uppon this
 
 . 
 
 LYLY 43 
 
 earthlye Goddesse, that, having the beautie that myght 
 allure all Princes, she hath the chastitie also to refuse all, 30 
 accounting [accompting] it no lesse praise to be called 
 a Virgin, then to be esteemed a Venus, thinking it as 
 great honour to bee found chast[e], as thought amiable. 
 Where is now Eletfrn, the chast[e] Daughter of Aga- 
 memnon ? Where is Lafa^that renoumed Virgin ? Wher 35 
 is Aenttfta, that through hir chastitie wrought wonders, in 
 maintayning continuall fire at the Altar of Vesta ? Where 
 is Claudia, that to manifest hir virginitie set the Shippe 
 on float with hir finger, that multitudes could not remove 
 by force ? Where is Tuscia, one of the same order, that 40 
 brought to passe no lesse mervailes by carrying water in a 
 sive, not shedding one drop from Tiber to the Temple of 
 Vesta?.- If Virginitie have such force, then what hath 
 this chast Virgin Elizabeth don[e], who by the space of 
 twenty and odde yeares with continuall peace against all 45 
 policies, with sundry myracles contrary to all hope, hath 
 governed that noble Island? Against whome neyther 
 forre[i]n force, nor civill fraude, neyther discorde at 
 home, nor conspiracies abroad, could prevaile. What 
 greater mervaile hath happened since the beginning of 50 
 the world, then for a young and tender Maiden to govern 
 strong and valiaunt menne, then for a Virgin to make the 
 whole worlde, if not to stand in awe of hir, yet to honour 
 hir, yea and to live in spight of all those that spight hir, 
 with hir sword in the she[a]th, with hir armour in the 55 
 Tower, with hir souldiers in their gownes, insomuch as 
 hir peace may be called more blessed then the quiet 
 raigne of NumcrPbmpilius, in whose government the 
 Bees have made their hives in the soldiers helmettes? 
 Now is the Temple of Janus removed from Rome to 60 
 England, whose dore hath not bene opened this twentie
 
 44 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 yeares, more to be mervayled at then the regiment of 
 faDebora, who ruled twentie yeares with religion, or Seme- 
 riamis \_Semyramis\, that governed long with power, or 
 \Zenobia, that reigned six yeares in prosperitie. 65 
 
 This, is the onelye myracle that virginitie ever wrought, 
 for a little Island environed round about with warres to 
 stande in peace, for the walles of Fraunce to burne, and 
 the houses of England to freese, for all other nations 
 eyther with civile [cruell] sworde to bee devided, or with 70 
 forren foes to be invaded, and that countrey neyther to 
 be molested with broyles in their owne bosomes, nor 
 threatned with blasts of other borderers : But alwayes 
 though not laughing, yet looking through an Emeraud v^ 
 at others jarres. Q 75 
 
 Their fields have beene Sowne with corne, straungers 
 theirs pytched witrf"Camps ; they have their men reaping 
 their harvest, when others are mustring in their harneis ; 
 they use their peeces to fowle for pleasure, others their 
 Calivers for feare of perrill. O blessed peace, oh happy 80 
 Prince, O fortunate people : The lyving God is onely the 
 English God, wher[e] he hath placed peace, which bryng- 
 eth all plentie, annoynted a Virgin Queene, which with a 
 wand ruleth hir owne subjects, and with hir worthinesse 
 winneth the good willes of straungers, so that she is no 85 
 lesse gratious among hir own, then glorious to others, no 
 lesse loved of hir people, then merva[i]led at of other 
 nations. 
 
 C\ cvX/*^c. Ajt r 
 
 (.JThis is the blessing that Christ alwayes gave to his 
 people, peace : This is the curse that hee giveth to the 90 
 wicked, there shall bee no peace to the ungodlye : This 
 was the onely salutation hee used to his Disciples, peace 
 be unto you : And therefore is hee called the G O D of 
 love, and peace in hollye [holy] writte.
 
 
 
 
 LYLY 45 
 
 In peace was the Temple of the Lorde buylt by Sato- 95 
 won, Christ would not be borne untill there were peace 
 through-out the whole worlde, this was the only thing that 
 Esechias prayed for, let there be trueth and peace, O 
 Lorde, in my dayes. All which examples doe manifestly 
 prove, that ther[e] can be nothing given of God to man 100 
 more notable than peace. 
 
 This peace hath the Lorde continued with great and 
 unspeakeable goodnesse amonge his chosen people of Eng- 
 land. How much is that nation bounde to such a Prince, 
 by whome they enjoye all benefits of peace, having their 105 
 barnes full, when others famish, their cof[f]ers stuffed 
 with gold, when others have no silver, their wives without 
 daunger, when others are defamed, their daughters chast, 
 when others are defloured, theyr houses furnished, when 
 others are fired, where they have all thinges for superflu- no 
 itie, others nothing to sustaine their neede. This peace 
 hath God given for hir vertues, pittie, moderation, virgin- 
 itie, which geace, the same God of peace continue for his 
 names sake. \ 
 
 Touching the beautie of this Prince, hir countenaunce, 115 
 hir personage, hir majestic, I can-not thinke that it may 
 be sufficiently commended, when it can-not be too much 
 mervailed at : So that I am constrained to saye as Prax- 
 itiles did, when hee beganne to paynt Vfjius- and hir Sonne, 
 who doubted whether the worlde could affoor^d.e cotilours 120 
 good enough for two such fayre faces, and I' whether our 
 tongue canne yeelde wordes to blase that beautie, the 
 perfection where-of none canne imagine, which seeing it 
 is so, I must doe like those that want a cleere sight, who 
 being not able to|discerne the Synne in the Skie are in- 125 
 forced to beholde it in the water. Zcnxis having before 
 him fiftie faire virgins of Sparta^ where by to draw one
 
 46 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 amiable Venus, said that fiftie more fayrer than those 
 coulde not minister sufficient beautie to shewe the God- 
 esse of beautie ; therefore being in dispaire either by art 130 
 to shadow hir, or by imagination to comprehend hir, he 
 drew in a table a faire temple, the gates open, and Venus 
 going in, so as nothing coulde be perceived but hir backe, 
 wherein he used such cunning that Appelles himselfe see- 
 ing this worke, wished yat Venus woulde turne hir face, 135 
 saying yat if it were in all partes agreeable to the backe, 
 he woulde become apprentice to Zcuxis, and slave to 
 Venus. In the like manner fareth it with me, for having 
 all the Ladyes in Italy more than fiftie hundered, whereby 
 to coulour Elizabeth, I must say with Zeuxis, that as 140 
 many more will not suffise, and therefore in as great an 
 agonie paint hir court with hir back towards you, for yat 
 I cannot by art portraie hir beautie, wherein though I 
 want the skill to doe it as Zeuxis did, yet v[i]ewing it 
 narrowly, and comparing it wisely, you all will say yat if 145 
 hir face be aunswerable to hir backe, you wil[l] like my 
 handi-crafte, and become hir handmaides. In the meane 
 season I leave you gazing untill she turne hir face, imag- 
 ining hir to be such a one as nature framed to yat end, 
 that no art should imitate, wherein shee hath proved hir 150 
 selfe to bee exquisite, and painters to be Apes. 
 
 This Beautifull moulde when I behelde to be endued 
 with chastitie, temperance, mildnesse, and all other good 
 giftes of nature (as hereafter shall appeare) when I saw 
 hir to surpasse all in beautie, and yet a virgin, to excell 155 
 all in pietie, and yet a prince, to be inferiour to none in 
 all the liniaments of the bodie, and yet superiour to every 
 one in all giftes of the minde, I beegan thus to pray, that 
 as she hath lived fortie yeares a virgin in great majestic, 
 so she may lyve fourescore yeares a mother with great 160
 
 LYLY 47 
 
 joye, that as with hir we have long time hadde peace and 
 plentie, so by hir we may ever have quietnesse and aboun- 
 daunce, wishing this even from the bottome of a heart 
 that wisheth well to England, though feareth ill, that 
 either the world may ende before she dye, or she lyve 165 
 to see hir childrens children in the world : otherwise, 
 how tickle their state is yat now triumph, upon what a 
 twist they hang that now are in honour, they yat lyve shal 
 see which I to thinke on sigh. But God for his mercies 
 sake, Christ for his merits sake, ye holy Ghost for his 170 
 names sake, graunt to that realme comfort without anye 
 ill chaunce, and the Prince they have without any other 
 chaunge, that ye longer she liveth the sweeter she may 
 smell, lyke the \)\\^Ibis > that she maye be triumphant in 
 victories lyke the Palme tree, fruitfull in hir age lyke the 175 
 Vyne, in all ages prosperous, to all men gratious, in all 
 places glorious : so that there be no ende of hir praise, 
 untill the ende of all flesh. 
 
 Thus did I often talke with my selfe, and wishe with 
 mine whole soule [heart]. 180 
 
 What should I talke of hir sharpe wit, excellent wis- 
 dome, exquisite learning, and all other qualities of the 
 minde, where-in she seemeth as farre to excell those that 
 have bene accompted singular, as the learned have sur- 
 passed those that have bene thought simple ? 185 
 
 In questioning not inferiour to Nicaulia the Queene of) 
 that did put so many hard doubts to Salomon^ 
 equal! to Nicostrata in the Gtceke- .tongue, who was 
 thought to give percepts for the better perfection : more 
 learned in the Latins than Amalasunfa : passing Aspasia 190 
 in Philosophic, who taught Pericles : exceeding in judge- 
 ment Themistoctea-, who instructed Pithagoras, adde to 
 these qualyties those that .none of these had, the French
 
 48 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 tongue, the Spanish, the Italian, not meane in every one, 
 but excellent in all, readyer to correct escapes in those 195 
 languages, then to be controlled, fitter to teach others, 
 then learne of anye, more able to adde new rules, then 
 to err in ye olde : Insomuch as there is no Embassadour 
 that commeth into hir court, but she is willing and able 
 both to understand his message, and utter hir minde, not 200 
 lyke unto ye Kings of Assiria, who auns\vere[d] Embas- 
 sades by messengers, while they themselves either dally 
 in sinne, or snort in sleepe. Hir godly zeale to learning, 
 with hir great skil, hath bene so manifestly approved, yat 
 I cannot tell whether she deserve more honour for hir 205 
 knowledge, or admiration for hir curtesie, who in great 
 pompe hath twice directed hir Progresse unto the Uni- 
 versities, with no lesse joye to the Students then glory to 
 hir State. Where, after long and solempne disputations 
 in Law, Phisicke, and Divinitie, not as one we[a]ried2io 
 with Scholers arguments, but wedded to their orations, 
 when every one feared to offend in length, she in hir own 
 person, with no lesse praise to hir Majestic, then delight 
 to hir subjects, with a wise and learned conclusion, both 
 gave them thankes, and put selfe to paines. O noble 215 
 patterne of a princelye minde, not like to ye kings of 
 Persia, who in their progresses did nothing els but cut 
 stickes to drive away the time, nor like ye delicate lives 
 of the Sybarites, who would not admit any Art to be exer- 
 cised within their citie, yat might make ye least noyse. 220 
 Hir wit so sharp, that if I should repeat the apt aun- 
 sweres, ye subtil questions, ye fine speaches, ye pithie 
 sentences, which on ye sodain she hath uttered, they 
 wold rather breed admiration then credit. But such are 
 ye gifts yat ye living God hath indued hir with-all, that 225 
 looke in what Arte or Language,. wit or learning, vertue
 
 LYLY 49 
 
 or beautie, any one hath particularly excelled most, she 
 onely hath generally exceeded every one in al, insomuch 
 that there is nothing to bee added, that either man would 
 wish in a woman, or God doth give to a creature. 230 
 
 j I let passe hir skill in Musicke, hir knowledg[e] in 
 al[l] ye other sciences, when as I feare least by my sim- 
 plicity I shoulde make them lesse than they are, in seek- 
 ing to shew howe great they are, unlesse I were praising 
 hir in the gallerie of Olympia, where gyving forth one 235 
 worde, I might heare seven. 
 
 But all these graces although they be to be wondered 
 at, yet hir politique governement, hir prudent counsaile, 
 hir zeale to religion, hir clemencie to those that submit, 
 hir stoutnesse to those that threaten, so farre exceede all 240 
 other vertues that they are more easie to be mervailed at 
 then imitated. 
 
 Two and twentie yeares hath she borne the sword 
 with such justice that neither offenders coulde complaine 
 of rigour, nor the innocent of wrong, yet so tempered 245 
 with mercie, as malefactours have beene sometimes par- 
 doned upon hope of grace, and the injured requited to 
 ease their griefe, insomuch that in ye whole course of hir 
 glorious raigne, it coulde never be saide that either the 
 poore were oppressed without remedie, or the guiltie re- 250 
 pressed without cause, bearing this engraven in hir noble 
 heart, that justice without mercie were extreame injurie, 
 and pittie without equitie plaine partialitie, and that it 
 is as great tyranny not to mitigate Laws as iniquitie to 
 breake them. 255 
 
 Hir care for the flourishing of the Gospell hath wel 
 appeared, whenas neither the curses of the Pope (which 
 are blessings to good people), nor the threatenings of 
 kings (which are perillous to a Prince), nor the perswa-
 
 50 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 sions of Papists (which are honny to the mouth), could 260 
 either feare hir, or allure hir, to violate the holy league 
 contracted with Christ, or to maculate the blood of the 
 aunciente Lambe, whiche is Christ. But alwayes con- 
 staunt in the true fayth, she hath to the exceeding joye 
 of hir subjectes, to the unspeakeable comforte of hir 265 
 soule, to the great glorye of God, establyshed that relig- 
 ion, the mayntenance where-of shee rather seeketh to 
 confirme by fortitude, then leave off for feare, knowing 
 that there is nothing that smelleth sweeter to the Lorde 
 then a sounde spirite, which neyther the hostes of the 270 
 ungodlye, nor the horror of death, can eyther remo[o]ve 
 or move. 
 
 This Gospell with invincible courage, with rare con- 
 stancie, with hotte zeale shee hath maintained in hir 
 owne countries with-out chaunge, and defended against 275 
 all kingdomes that sought chaunge, in-somuch that all 
 nations rounde about hir, threatninge alteration, shaking 
 swordes, throwing fyre, menacing famyne, murther, de- 
 struction, desolation, shee onely hath stoode like a Lampe 
 [Lambe] on the toppe of a hill, not fearing the blastes of 280 
 the sharpe winds, but trusting in his providence that 
 rydeth uppon the winges of the foure windes. Next 
 follovveth the love shee beareth to hir subjectes, who no 
 lesse tendereth them then the apple of hir owne eye, 
 shewing hir selfe a mother to the a[f]flicted, a Phisi-285 
 tion to the sicke, a Sovereigne and mylde Governesse 
 to all. 
 
 Touchinge hir Magnanimitie, hir Majestic, hir Estate 
 royall, there was neyther Alexander, nor Galba the Em- 
 perour, nor any that might be compared with hir. 290 
 
 This is she that, resembling the noble Queene of 
 Navarr\_e~\, useth the Marigolde for hir flower, which
 
 LYLY 51 
 
 at the rising of the Sunne openeth hir leaves, and at the 
 setting shutteth them, referring all hir actions and endev- 
 ours to him that ruleth the Sunne. This is that Casarzgs 
 that first bound the Crocodile to the Palme tree, bridling 
 those that sought to raine [rayne] hir : This is that good 
 Pelican that to feede hir people spareth not to rend hir 
 owne personne : This is that mightie Eagle, that hath 
 throwne dust into the eyes of the Hart, that went about 300 
 to worke destruction to hir subjectes, into whose wings 
 although the blinde Beetle would have crept, and so 
 being carryed into hir nest, destroyed hir young ones, yet 
 hath she with the vertue of hir fethers, consumed that 
 flye in his owne fraud. 305 
 
 She hath exiled the Swallowe that sought to spoyle 
 the Grashopper, and given bytter Almondes to the rav- 
 enous Wolves that ende[a]vored to devoure the silly 
 Lambes, burning even with the breath of hir mouth like 
 ye princ[e]ly Stag, the serpents yat wer[e] engendred3io 
 by the breath of the huge Elephant, so that now all hir 
 enimies are as whist as the bird Attagen, who never sing- 
 eth any tune after she is taken, nor they beeing so over- 
 taken. 
 
 But whether do I wade, Ladyes, as one forgetting him- 315 
 selfe, thinking to sound the dep[t]h of hir vertues with a 
 few fadomes, when there is no bottome : For I knowe not 
 how it commeth to passe that, being in this Laborinth, I 
 may sooner loose my selfe then finde the ende. 
 
 Beholde, Ladyes, in this Glasse a Queene, a woeman, 320 
 a Virgin in all giftes of the bodye, in all graces of the 
 minde, in all perfection of eyther, so farre to excell all 
 men, that I know not whether I may thinke the place 
 too badde for hir to dwell amonge men. 
 
 To talke of other thinges in that Court, wer[e] 10325
 
 52 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 bring Egges after apples, or after the setting out of the 
 Sunne, to tell a tale of a Shaddow. 
 
 But this I saye, that all offyces are looked to with great 
 care, that vertue is embraced of all, vice hated, religion 
 daily encreased, manners reformed, that who so seeth the 330 
 place there, will thinke it rather a Church for divine ser- 
 vice, then a Court for Princes delight. 
 
 This is the Glasse, Ladies, wher-in I woulde have you 
 gase, wher-in I tooke my whole delight ; imitate the 
 Ladyes in England, amende your manners, rubbe out 335 
 the wrinckles of the minde, and be not curious about 
 the weams in the face. As for their Elizabeth, sith you 
 can neyther sufficiently mervaile at hir, nor I prayse hir, 
 let us all pray for hir, which is the onely duetie we can 
 performe, and the greatest that we can proffer. 340 
 
 Yours to commaund 
 
 ElJPHUES.
 
 ^ MKXA/ ou^A. 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 (1554-1586) 
 ARCADIA 
 
 TO MY DEAR LADY AND SISTER, THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 
 
 HERE now have you, most dear, and most worthy to be 
 most dear, Lady, this idle work of mine, which I fear, 
 like the spider's web, will be thought fitter to be swept 
 away than worn to any other purpose. For my part, in 
 very truth, as the cruel fathers among the Greeks were 5 
 wont to do to the babes they would not foster, I could 
 well find in my heart to cast out in some desert of for- 
 getfulness this child, which I am loth to father. But you 
 desired me to do it ; and your desire, to my heart, is an 
 absolute commandment. Now it is done only for you, 10 
 only to you. If you keep it to yourself, or to such friends 
 who will weigh errors in the balance of good will, I hope, 
 for the father's sake, it will be pardoned, perchance 
 made much of, though in itself it have deformities ; for, 
 indeed, for severer eyes it is not, being but a trifle, and 15 
 that triflingly handled. Your dear self can best witness 
 the manner, being done in loose sheets of paper, most of 
 it in your presence, the rest by sheets sent unto you as 
 fast as they were done. In sum, a young head, not so 
 well staged as I would it were, and shall be when God 20 
 will, having many, many fancies begotten in it, if it had 
 not been in some way delivered, would have grown a 
 
 53
 
 54 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 monster, and more sorry might I be that they come in 
 than that they gat out. But Jiia_chief safety shall be the 
 not walking abroad, and his chief protection the bearing 25 
 the livery of your name, which, if much goodwill do not 
 deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for a greater 
 offender. This say I because I know the virtue so ; and 
 this say I because it will be ever so. Read it, then, at 
 your idle times, and the follies your good judgment will 30 
 find in it blame not, but laugh at ; and so, looking for 
 no better stuff than, as in a haberdasher's shop, glasses 
 or feathers, you will continue to love the writer, who 
 doth exceedingly love you, and most, most heartily prays 
 you may long live to a principal ornament to the family 35 
 
 of the Sidneys. 
 
 Your loving Brother 
 
 PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 
 
 WRITTEN BY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 Strephon and Clauis 
 
 IT was in the time that the Earth begins to put on her 
 new apparel against the approach of her lover, and that 
 the sun running a most even course becomes an indiffer- 
 ent arbiter between the night and the day, when the 
 hopeless shepherd Strephon was come to the lands which 
 lie against the island of Cithera, where, viewing the place 
 with a heavy kind of delight, and sometimes casting his 
 eyes to the isleward, he called his friendly rival the pastor 
 Clauis unto him ; and setting first down in his darkened 
 countenance a doleful copy of what he would speak, " O 
 my Clauis," said he, "hither we are now come to pay the
 
 SIDNEY 55 
 
 rent for which we are so called unto by ever-busy re : ~ \ 
 membrance ; Vemembrance, restless remembrance, which 
 claims not only this duty of us but first will have us for- 
 get ourselves. l pray you, when we were amid our flock, 15 
 and that, of other shepherds, some were running after 
 their sheep, strayed beyond their bounds ; some delight- 
 ing their eyes with seeing them nibble upon the short and 
 sweet grass, some medicining their sick ewes, some set- 
 ting a bell for an ensign of a sheepish squadron, some 20 
 with more leisure inventing new -gatpes of exercising their 
 bodies and sporting their wits, -r- du^remembrance grant . - 
 us any holiday, either for pastime or devotions/nay either 
 for necessary food or natural rest, but thatsuH it forced 
 our thoughts to work upon this place, where we last,-^ 25 
 alas, that the word ' last' should so long last, did grace 
 our eyes h^er ever flourishing beauty ; did it not still cry 
 within us : ' Ah, you base-minded wretches ! are your 
 thoughts so deeply be mired in the trade of ordinary world- 
 lings as, for respect of gain some paltry wool may yield 30 
 you, to let so much time pass without knowing perfectly 
 her "estate, 'especially in so troublesome a season ; to 
 leave that shore unsaluted from whence you may see to 
 the island where she dwelleth ; to leave these steps un- 
 kissed wherein Urania, printed the farewell of all beauty ? ' 35 
 Well, then, remembrance commanded, we obeyed, and 
 here we find, that as our remembrance came ever clothed 
 unto us as in the form of this place, so this place gives 
 new heat to the fever of our languishing remembrance. 
 JYonder, my Clauis, Urania lighted ; the very horse me- 40 
 thought bewailed to be so disburdened ; and as for thee, 
 poor Clauis, when thou wentest to help her down, and 
 saw reverence and desire so divide thee that thou didst at 
 one instant both blush and quake, and instead of bearing
 
 56 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 her wert ready to fall down thyself. There she sate, 45 
 vouchsafing my cloak (then most gorgeous) under her ; 
 at yonder rising of the ground she turned herself, looking 
 back toward her wonted abode, and because of her part- 
 ing, bearing much sorrow in her eyes, the lightsomeness 
 whereof had yet so natural a cheerfulness as it made even 50 
 sorrow seem to smile ; at that turning she spake to us all, 
 opening her cherry lips, and, Lord ! how greedily mine 
 ears did feed upon the sweet words she uttered ! And 
 here she laid her hand over thine eyes when she saw the 
 tears springing in them, as if she would conceal them 55 
 from other and yet herself feel some of thy sorrow. But 
 woe is me ! Yonder, yonder, did she put her foot into the 
 boat, at that instant, as it were, dividing her heavenly 
 beauty between the earth and the sea. But when she 
 was embarked did you not mark how the winds whistled, 60 
 and the seas danced for joy ; how the sails did swell with 
 pride, and all because they had Urania. O Urania, blessed 
 be thou, Urania, the sweetest fairness and fairest sweet- 
 ness ! " 
 
 With that word his voice brake so with sobbing that he 65 
 could say no further; and Clauis thus answered, "Alas, my 
 Strephon," said he, " what needs this score to reckon up 
 only our losses ? What doubt is there but that the sight of 
 this place doth clear our thoughts to appear at the Court 
 of Affection, held by that racking steward Remembrance ? 70 
 As well may sheep forget to fear when they spy wolves, as 
 we can miss such fancies, when we see any place made 
 happy by her treading. Who can choose that saw her 
 but think where she stayed, where she walked, where she 
 turned, where she spoke ? But what is all this ? Truly no 75 
 more but, as this place served us to think of those things, 
 so those things serve as places to call to memory more
 
 SIDNEY 57 
 
 excellent matters. No, no, let us think with considera- 
 tion, and consider with acknowledging, and acknowledge 
 with admiration, and admire with love, and love with joy 80 
 in the midst of all woes ; let us in such sort think, I say, 
 that our poor eyes were so enriched as to behold, and 
 our low hearts so exalted as to love, a maid who is 
 such, that as the greatest thing in the world can show is 
 her beauty, so the least thing that may be praised in her 85 
 is her beauty. Certainly as her eyelids are more pleasant 
 to behold than two white kids climbing up a fair tree, and 
 browsing on his tenderest branches, and yet are nothing 
 compared to the day-shining stars contained in them ; 
 and as her breath is more sweet than a gentle south-west 90 
 wind, which comes creeping over flowery fields and 
 shadowed waters in the extreme heat of summer, and 
 yet is nothing compared to the honey-flowing speech that 
 breath doth carry, no more all that our eyes can see of 
 her, though when they have seen her, what else they 95 
 shall ever see is but dry stubble after clover-grass is to 
 be matched with the flock of unspeakable virtues laid up 
 delightfully in that best-builded fold. But, indeed, as we 
 can better consider the sun's beauty by marking how he 
 gilds these waters and mountains than by looking upon his 100 
 own face, too glorious for our weak eyes ; so it may be our 
 conceits not able to bear her sun-staining excellency 
 will better weigh it by her work upon some meaner object 
 employed. And, alas, who can better witness that than 
 we, whose experience is grounded upon feeling ? Hath 105 
 not the only love of her made us, being silly ignorant shep- 
 herds, raise up our thoughts above the ordinary level of 
 the world, so as great clerks do not disdain our confer- 
 ence ? Hath not the desire to seem worthy in her eyes 
 made us, when others were sleeping, to sit viewing the no
 
 58 FROM CHAUCER TO A XX OLD 
 
 course of the heavens ; when others were running at 
 base, to run over learned writings ; when others mark 
 their sheep, we to mark ourselves ? Hath not she thrown 
 reason upon our desires, and, as it were, given eyes unto 
 Cupid? Hath in any, but in her, love-fellowship main- 115 
 tained friendship between rivals and beauty taught the 
 beholders chastity?" 
 
 Pamela and Philoclea 
 
 His wife in grave matron-like attire, with countenance 
 and gesture suitable, and of such fairness, being in the 
 strength of her age, as, if her daughters had not been 
 by, might with just price have purchased admiration ; 
 but they being there, it was enough that the most dainty 5 
 eye would think her a worthy mother of such children. 
 The fair Pamela, whose noble heart, I find, doth greatly 
 disdain that the trust of her virtue is reposed in such a 
 lout's hands as Dameta's, had yet, to show an obedience, 
 taken on shepherdish apparel, which was but of russet 10 
 cloth, cut after their fashion, with a straight body, open- 
 breasted, the nether parts full of plaits, with long and 
 wide sleeves ; but, believe me, she did apparel her ap- 
 parel, and with the preciousness of her body make it 
 most sumptuous. Her hair at the full length, wound 15 
 about with gold lace, only by the comparison to show 
 how far her hair doth excel in color ; betwixt her breasts 
 there hung a very rich diamond set between a black 
 horn ; the word I have since read is this, ' Yet still my- 
 self. 1 And thus particularly have I described them, 20 
 because you may know that mine eyes are not so partial 
 but that I marked them too. 
 
 But when the ornament of the earth, the model of
 
 SIDNEY 59 
 
 heaven, the triumph of nature, the life of beauty, the 
 queen of love, young Philoclea, appeared, in her nymph- 25 
 like apparel, her hair (alas, too poor a word, why should 
 I not rather call them her beams?) drawn up into a net 
 able to have caught Jupiter when he was in the form of 
 an eagle, her body (O sweet body ! ) covered with a light 
 taffeta garment, with the caste of her black eyes, black 30 
 indeed, whither nature so made them that we might be 
 the more able to behold and bear their wonderful shining, 
 or that she, goddess-like, would work this miracle with 
 herself, in giving blackness the price above all beauty, 
 then, I say, indeed methought the lilies grew pale for 35 
 envy, the roses methought blushed to see sweeter roses 
 in her cheeks, and the clouds gave place that the heavens 
 might more freely smile upon her ; at the least the clouds 
 of my thoughts quite vanished, and my sight, then more 
 clear and forcible than ever, was so fixed there that I 40 
 imagine I stood like a well-wrought image, with some life 
 in show, but none in practice. And so had I been like 
 enough, to have stayed long time, but that Gynecia, 
 stepping between my sight and the only Philoclea, the 
 change of object made me recover my senses ; so that I 45 
 could with reasonable good manner receive the salutation 
 of her and the Princess Pamela, doing them yet no 
 further reverence than one princess useth to another. 
 But when I came to the never-enough praised Philoclea, 
 I could not but fall down on my knees, and taking by 50 
 force her hand, and kissing it, I must confess with more 
 than womanly ardency, ' Divine lady,' said I, ' let not 
 the world, nor these great princesses marvel to see me, 
 contrary to my manner, do this special honor unto you, 
 since all, both men and women, do owe this to the per- 55 
 fection of your beauty.' But she, blushing like a fair
 
 6O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 morning in May, at this my singularity, and causing me 
 to rise, ' Noble lady,' said she, ' it is no marvel to see 
 your judgment much mistaken in my beauty, since you 
 begin with so great an error as to do more honor unto 60 
 me than to them to whom I myself owe all service.' 
 ' Rather,' answered I, with a bowed-down countenance, 
 ' that shows the power of your beauty, which forced me 
 to do such an error, if it were an error.' 'You are so 
 well acquainted,' said she, sweetly, most sweetly smiling, 65 
 * with your own beauty, that it makes you easily fall into 
 the discourse of beauty.' ' Beauty in me ? ' said I, truly 
 sighing ; ' alas if there be any, it is in my eyes, which 
 your blessed presence hath imparted into them.' 
 
 AN APOLOGIE FOR POETRIE 
 The Poet 
 
 AMONG the Romans a poet was called vates, which is as 
 much as a diviner, foreseer, or prophet, as by his con- 
 joined words, vaticinium and vaticinari, is manifest ; 
 so heavenly a title did that excellent people bestow upon 
 this heart-ravishing knowledge. And so far were they 5 
 carried into the admiration thereof, that they thought in 
 the chanceable hitting upon any such verses great fore- 
 tokens of their following fortunes were placed ; where- 
 upon grew the word of Sortes Virgiliance, wheo_by. 
 sudden opening Virgil's book they lighted upon some 10 
 verse of his making. Whereof the Histories of the Em- 
 perors' Lives are full : as of Albinus, the governor of our 
 island, who in his childhood met with this verse, 
 
 mcns c" 
 
 7 
 
 Arma anmas capio, uec sat ratiwnis in annis, 
 
 <W 
 
 ,l ratiwnis in annis, 
 
 , A^,.
 
 SIDNEY 6l 
 
 and in his age performed it. Although it were a very 15 
 vain and godless superstition, as also it was to think that 
 spirits were commanded by such verses whereupon 
 this word charms, derived of carmina, cometh so yet 
 serveth it to show the great reverence those wits were 
 held in, and altogether not without ground, since both 20 
 the oracles of Delphos and Sibylla's prophecies were 
 wholly delivered in verses ; for that some exquisite ob- 
 serving of number and measure in words, and that high- 
 flying liberty of conceit proper to the poet, did seem to 
 have some divine force in it. 25 
 
 And may I not presume a little further to show the 
 reasonableness of this word vates, and say that the holy 
 David's Psalms are a divine poem ? If I do, I shall not 
 do it without the testimony of great learned men, both 
 ancient and modern. But even the name of Psalms will 30 
 speak for me, which, being interpreted, is nothing but 
 Songs ; then, that it is fully written in metre, as all 
 learned Hebricians agree, although the rules be not yet 
 fully found ; lastly and principally, his handling his proph- 
 ecy, which is merely poetical. For what else is the awak- 35 
 ing his musical instruments, the often and free changing 
 of persons, his notable prosopopoeias, when he rhaketh 
 you, as it were, see God coming in His majesty, his tell- 
 ing of the beasts' joyfulness and hills' leaping, but a 
 heavenly poesy, wherein almost he showeth himself a 40 
 passionate lover of that unspeakable and everlasting 
 beauty to be seen by the eyes of the mind, only cleared 
 by faith? But truly now having named him, I fear I 
 seem to profane that holy name, applying it to poetry, 
 which is among us thrown down to so ridiculous an esti- 45 
 mation. But they that with quiet judgments will look 
 a little deeper into it, shall find the end and working of
 
 62 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 it such as, being rightly applied, deserveth not to be 
 scourged out of the church of God. 
 
 But now let us see how the Greeks named it and 50 
 how they deemed of it. The Greeks called him ktSAjtifrf^ 
 which name hath, as the most excellent, gone through 
 other languages. It cometh of this word -noulv, which 
 is " to make " ; wherein I know not whether by luck or 
 wisdom we Englishmen have met with the Greeks in 55 
 calling him a maker. Which name how high and incom- 
 parable a title it is, I had rather were known by mark- 
 ing the scope of other sciences than by any partial 
 allegation. There is no art delivered unto mankind that 
 hath not the works of nature for his principal object, 60 
 without which they could not consist, and on which they 
 so depend as they become actors and players, as it were, 
 of what nature will have set forth. So doth the astron- 
 omer look upon the stars, and, by that he seeth, set down 
 what order nature hath taken therein. So do the geome- 65 
 trician and arithmetician in their divers sorts of quantities. 
 So doth the musician in times tell you which by nature 
 agree, which not. The natural philosopher thereon hath 
 his name, and the moral philosopher standeth upon the 
 natural virtues, vices, and passions of man ; and " follow 70 
 nature," saith he, " therein, and thou shalt not err." 
 The lawyer saith what men have determined, the his- 
 torian what men have done. The grammarian speaketh 
 only of the rules of speech, and the rhetorician and logi- 
 cian, considering what in nature will soonest prove and 75 
 persuade, thereon give artificial rules, which still are com- 
 passed within the circle of a question, according to the 
 proposed matter. The physician weigheth the nature of 
 man's body, and the nature of things helpful or hurt- 
 ful unto it. And the metaphysic, though it be in the 80
 
 SIDNEY 63 
 
 second and abstract notions, and therefore be counted 
 supernatural, yet doth he, indeed, build upon the depth 
 of nature. 
 
 Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such sub- 
 jection, lifted up with the vigor of his own invention, 85 
 doth grow, in effect, into another nature, in making 
 things either better than nature bringeth forth, or, quite 
 anew, forms such as never were in nature, as the heroes, 
 demi-gods, cyclops, chimeras, furies, and such like ; so 
 as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not enclosed 90 
 within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely rang- 
 ing within the zodiac of his own wit. Nature never set 
 forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have 
 done ; neither with pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet- 
 smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too- 95 
 much-loved earth more lovely ; her world is brazen, the 
 poets only deliver a golden. 
 
 But let those things alone, and go to man for whom 
 as the other things are, so it seemeth in him her utter- 
 most cunning is employed and know whether she have 100 
 brought forth so true a lover as Theagenes ; so constantly 
 a friend as Pylades ; so valiant a man as Orlando ; so 
 right a prince as Xenophon's Cyrus ; so excellent a 
 man every way as Virgil's ^Eneas ? Neither let this be 
 jestingly conceived, because the works of the one be 105 
 essential, the other in imitation or fiction ; for any under- 
 standing knoweth the skill of each artificer standeth in 
 that idea, or fore-conceit of the work, and not in the 
 work itself. And that the poet hath that idea is mani- 
 fest, by delivering them forth in such excellency as he no 
 hath imagined them. Which delivering forth, also, is 
 not wholly imaginative, as we are wont to say by them 
 that build castles in the air ; but so far substantially it
 
 64 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 worketh, not only to make a Cyrus, which had been but 
 a particular excellency, as nature might have done, but 115 
 to bestow a Cyrus upon the world to make many Cyruses, 
 if they will learn aright why and how that maker made 
 him. Neither let it be deemed too saucy a comparison 
 to balance the highest point of man's wit with the efficacy 
 of nature ; but rather give right honor to the Heavenly 120 
 Maker of that maker, who, having made man to His own 
 likeness, set him beyond and over all the works of that 
 second nature. Which in nothing he showeth so much as 
 in poetry, when with the force of a divine breath he 
 bringeth things forth far surpassing her doings, with no 125 
 small argument to the incredulous of that first accursed 
 fall of Adam, since our erected wit maketh us know 
 what perfection is, and yet our infected will keepeth us 
 from reaching unto it. But these arguments will by few 
 be understood, and by fewer granted ; thus much I hope 130 
 will be given me, that the Greeks with some probability 
 of reason gave him the name above all names of learn- 
 ing. 
 
 Since, then, poetry is of all human learnings the most 
 ancient and of most fatherly antiquity, as from whence 135 
 other learnings have taken their beginnings ; since it is so 
 universal that no learned nation doth despise it, nor bar- 
 barous nation is without it ; since both Roman and Greek 
 gave divine names unto it, the one of "prophesying," the 
 other "making," and that indeed that name of "making" 140 
 is fit for him, considering that whereas other arts retain 
 themselves within their subject, and receive, as it were, 
 their being from it, the poet only bringeth his own stuff, 
 and doth not learn a conceit out of a matter, but maketh 
 matter for a conceit ; since neither his description nor 145 
 his end containeth any evil, the thing described cannot be
 
 ; fjw 5 J^H 
 
 c 
 
 SIDNEY 65 
 
 evil; since his effects be so good as to teach goodness, 
 and delight the learners of it ; since therein namely in 
 moral doctrine, the chief of all knowledges he doth not 
 only far pass the historian, but for instructing is well nigh 150 
 comparable to the philosopher, and for moving leaveth 
 him behind him ; since the Holy Scripture, wherein there 
 is no uncleanness, hath whole parts in it poetical, and 
 that even our Saviour Christ vouchsafed to use the flowers 
 of it ; since all his kinds are not only in their united forms, 155 
 but in their several dissections fully commendable ; I 
 think, and think I think rightly, the laurel crown ap- 
 pointed for triumphant captains doth worthily, of all other 
 learnings, honor the poet's triumph. 
 
 Uu 
 
 ASTROPHIEL AND STELLA^ 
 
 THIS night, while sleep begins with heavy wings 
 To hatch mine eyes, and that unbitted thought 
 Doth fall to stray, and my chief powers are brought 
 To leave the sceptre of all subject things ; ^' ' ' L<A 
 The first that straight my fancy's error brings 5 
 
 Unto my mind is Stella's image, wrought 
 By Love's own self, but with so curious drought 
 That she, methinks, not only shines but sings. 
 I start, look, hark ; but what in closed-up/sense 
 Was held, in opened sense it flies away, 10 
 
 Leaving me nought but wailing eloquence. 
 I, seeing better sights in sight's decay, 
 Call'd it anew, and wooed Sleep again ; 
 But him, her host, that unkind guest had slain. 
 F
 
 66 FROM CHAUCER TO ARXOLD 
 
 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, 
 Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the press 
 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 to noise and blind to light, 
 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, 
 Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 
 
 When I was forced from Stella ever dear 
 Stella, food of my thoughts, heart of my heart 
 Stella, whose eyes make all my tempests clear 
 By Stella's laws of duty to depart ; 
 Alas, I found that she with me did smart ; 
 I saw that tears did in her eyes appear ; 
 I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part, 
 And her sad words my sadded sense did hear. 
 For me, jl wept to see pearls scattered so ; 
 I sighed her sighs, and wailed for her woe ; 
 Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen. 
 Thus, while th' effect most bitter was to me, 
 And nothing then the cause more sweet could be, 
 I had been vexed, if vexed I had not been. 
 
 Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, 
 
 Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee ;
 
 SIDNEY 67 
 
 Thine eyes ray pride, thy lips mine history : 
 
 If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. 
 
 Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame 5 
 
 A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : 
 
 In truth, I swear I wish not there should be 
 
 Graved in my epitaph a Poet's name. 
 
 Nor, if I would, could I just title make, 
 
 That any laud thereof to me should grow, 10 
 
 Without my plumes from others' wings I take : 
 
 For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, 
 
 Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, 
 
 And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. 
 
 Stella, since thou so right a princess art 
 
 Of all the powers which life bestows on me, 
 
 That ere by them ought undertaken be, 
 
 They first resort unto that sovereign part ; 
 
 Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart, 5 
 
 Which pants as though it still should leap to thee : 
 
 And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy 
 
 To this great cause, which needs both use and art. 
 
 And as a queen, who from her presence sends 
 
 Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit, TO 
 
 Till it have wrought what thy own will attends, 
 
 On servants' shame oft masters' blame doth sit: 
 
 O let not fools in me thy works reprove, 
 
 And scorning say, ' See what it is to love ! '
 
 BALLADS 
 
 SIR PATRICK SPENS 
 
 [This ballad is a confused echo of the Scotch expedition which 
 should have brought the Maid of Norway to Scotland, about 1285.] 
 
 THE king sits in Dunfermline town, 
 
 Drinking the blude-red wine ; 
 ' O whare will I get a skeely skipper, 
 
 To sail this new ship of mine ! ' 
 
 O up and spake an eldern knight, 5 
 
 Sat at the king's right knee, 
 
 ' Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, 
 That ever sailed the sea.' 
 
 Our king has written a braid letter, 
 
 And seal'd it with his hand, 10 
 
 And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
 Was walking on the strand. 
 
 'To Noroway, to Noroway, 
 
 To Noroway o'er the faem ; 
 The king's daughter of Noroway 15 
 
 'Tis thou maun bring her hame.' 
 
 The first word that Sir Patrick read, 
 
 Sae loud loud laughed he ; 
 The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 
 
 The tear blinded his e'e. 20 
 
 68
 
 BALLADS 69 
 
 ' O wha is this has done this deed, 
 
 And tauld the king o' me, 
 To send us out, at this time of the year, 
 
 To sail upon the sea? 
 
 * Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 25 
 
 Our ship must sail the faem ; 
 The king's daughter of Noroway, 
 
 'Tis we must fetch her name.' 
 
 They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, 
 Wi' a' the speed they may ; 30 
 
 They hae landed in Noroway, 
 Upon a Wodensday. 
 
 They hadna been a week, a week, 
 
 In Noroway, but twae, 
 When that the lords o' Noroway 35 
 
 Began aloud to say, 
 
 ' Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, 
 
 And a' our queenis fee.' 
 ' Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! 
 
 Fu' loud I hear ye lie. 40 
 
 ' For I brought as much white monie, 
 
 As gane my men and me, 
 And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud, 
 
 Out o'er the sea wi' me. 
 
 ' Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a' ! 45 
 
 Our gude ship sails the morn.' 
 ' Now, ever alake, my master dear, 
 
 I fear a deadly storm !
 
 JO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ' I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 
 
 Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 50 
 
 And, if we gang to sea, master, 
 - I fear we'll come to harm.' 
 
 They hadna sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league but barely three, 
 When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 55 
 
 And gurly grew the sea. 
 
 The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 
 
 It was sic a deadly storm ; 
 And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, 
 
 Till a' her sides were torn. 60 
 
 ' O where will I get a gude sailor, 
 
 To take my helm in hand, 
 Till I get up to the tall top-mast, 
 
 To see if I can spy land ? ' 
 
 ' O here am I, a sailor gude, 65 
 
 To take the helm in hand, 
 Till you go up to the tall top-mast ; 
 
 But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.' 
 
 He hadna gane a step, a step, 
 
 A step but barely ane, 70 
 
 When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, 
 
 And the salt sea it came in. 
 
 ' Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, 
 
 Another o' the twine, 
 And wap them into our ship's side, 75 
 
 And let na the sea come in.'
 
 BALLADS 71 
 
 They fetched a web o" the silken claith, 
 
 Another of the twine, 
 And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, 
 
 But still the sea came in.' 80 
 
 O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords 
 
 To weet their cork-heel'd shoon ! 
 But lang or a' the play was play'd, 
 
 They wat their hats aboon. 
 
 And mony was the feather-bed, 85 
 
 That flattered on the faem ; 
 And mony was the gude lord's son, 
 
 That never mair cam home. 
 
 The ladyes wrang their fingers white, 
 
 The maidens tore their hair, 90 
 
 A' for the sake of their true loves ; 
 
 For them they'll see na mair. 
 
 O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, 
 
 Wi' their fans into their hand, 
 Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 95 
 
 Come sailing to the strand ! 
 
 And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, 
 
 Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, 
 A' waiting for their own dear loves ! 
 
 For them they'll see na mair. ioa 
 
 O forty miles off Aberdeen, 
 
 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, 
 And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, 
 
 \Vi' the Scots lords at his feet.
 
 72 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY 
 
 [This ballad exists in Denmark, and in other European countries. 
 The Scotch have localised it, and point out Blackhouse, on the wild 
 Douglas Burn, a tributary of the Yarrow, as the scene of the tragedy.] 
 
 ' RISE up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas,' she says, 
 
 ' And put on your armour so bright ; 
 Let it never be said that a daughter of thine 
 
 Was married to a lord under night. 
 
 * Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, 5 
 
 And put on your armour so bright, 
 And take better care of your youngest sister, 
 
 For your eldest's awa the last night.' 
 
 He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, 
 And himself on a dapple grey, 10 
 
 With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 
 And lightly they rode away. 
 
 Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, 
 
 To see what he could see. 
 And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, 15 
 
 Come riding over the lee. 
 
 ' Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret,' he said, 
 
 ' And hold my steed in your hand, 
 Until that against your seven brothers bold, 
 
 And your father, I mak a stand." 20 
 
 She held his steed in her milk-white hand, 
 
 And never shed one tear, 
 Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', 
 
 And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.
 
 BALLADS 73 
 
 ' O hold your hand, Lord William ! ' she said, 25 
 
 ' For your strokes they are wond'rous sair ; 
 
 True lovers I can get many a ane, 
 But a father I can never get mair.' 
 
 O she 's ta'en out her handkerchief, 
 
 It was o' the holland sae fine, 30 
 
 And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, 
 
 That were redder than the wine. 
 
 ' O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret,' he said, 
 
 ' O whether will ye gang or bide ? ' 
 ' I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William,' she said, 35 
 
 ' For ye have left me no other guide.' 
 
 He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, 
 
 And himself on a dapple grey, 
 With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 
 
 They slowly baith rade away. 40 
 
 O they rade on, and on they rade, 
 
 And a' by the light of the moon, 
 Until they came to yon wan water, 
 
 And there they lighted down. 
 
 They lighted down to tak a drink 45 
 
 Of the spring that ran sae clear ; 
 And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood 
 
 And sair she gan to fear. 
 
 ' Hold up, hold up, Lord William,' she says, 
 
 ' For I fear that you are slain ! ' 50 
 
 ' 'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, 
 That shines in the water sae plain.'
 
 74 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 O they rade on, and on they rade, 
 
 And a' by the light of the moon, 
 Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door, 55 
 
 And there they lighted down. 
 
 ' Get up, get up, lady mother,' he says, 
 
 * Get up, and let me in ! 
 Get up, get up, lady mother,' he says, 
 
 ' For this night my fair ladye I've win. 60 
 
 ( O mak my bed, lady mother,' he says, 
 
 ' O mak it braid and deep ! 
 And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, 
 
 And the sounder I will sleep. 1 
 
 Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, 65 
 
 Lady Marg'ret lang ere day 
 And all true lovers that go thegither, 
 
 May they have mair luck than they ! 
 
 Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, 
 
 Lady Margaret in Mary's quire : 70 
 
 Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, 
 And out o' the knight's a brier. 
 
 And they twa met, and they twa plat, 
 
 And fain they wad be near ; 
 And a' the warld might ken right weel, 75 
 
 They were twa lovers dear. 
 
 But bye and rade the Black Douglas, 
 
 And wow but he was rough ! 
 For he pull'd up the bonny brier, 
 
 And flang'd in St. Mary's loch. 80
 
 BALLADS 75 
 
 WALY, WALY 
 
 [This fragment is often printed as part of a ballad, concerned with 
 events in the history of Lord James Douglas, of the laird of Black - 
 wood, and of the lady who utters the beautiful lament here printed.] 
 
 WALY, waly, up the bank, 
 
 waly, waly, doun the brae. 
 And waly, waly, yon burn- side, 
 
 Where I and my love were wont to gae ! 
 
 1 lean'd my back unto an aik, 5 
 
 1 thocht it was a trustie tree, 
 
 But first it bow'd and syne it brak', 
 Sae my true love did lichtlie me. 
 
 O waly, waly, but love me bonnie 
 
 A little time while it is new ! 10 
 
 But when it 's auld it waxeth cauld, 
 
 And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. 
 O wherefore should I busk my heid, 
 
 Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
 For my true love has me forsook, 15 
 
 And says he'll never lo'e me mair. 
 
 Noo Arthur's Seat sail be my bed, 
 
 The sheets sail ne'er be press'd by me ; 
 Saint Anton's well sail be my drink ; 
 
 Since my true love's forsaken me. 20 
 
 Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 
 
 And shake the green leaves off the tree ? 
 O gentle death, when wilt thou come ? 
 
 For of my life I am wearie.
 
 76 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 25 
 
 Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, 
 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry ; 
 
 But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 
 When we cam' in by Glasgow toun, 
 
 We were a comely sicet to see ; 30 
 
 My love was clad in the black velvet, 
 
 An' I myself in cramasie. 
 
 But had I wist before I kiss'd 
 
 That love had been so ill to win, 
 I'd lock'd my heart in a case o' goud, 35 
 
 And pinned it wi' a siller pin. 
 Oh, oh ! if my young babe were born, 
 
 And set upon the nurse's knee ; 
 And I mysel' were dead and gane, 
 
 And the green grass growing over me ! 40 
 
 KINMONT WILLIE 
 
 [The events here reported occurred in 1596. The ballad is the best 
 example of those which treat of rescues, and lawless exploits in the de- 
 batable land.] 
 
 O HAVE ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde ? 
 
 O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroop? 
 How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, 
 
 On Hairibee to hang him up? 
 
 Had Willie had but twenty men, 5 
 
 But twenty men as stout as he, 
 Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, 
 
 Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.
 
 BALLADS 77 
 
 They band his legs beneath the steed, 
 
 They tied his hands behind his back ; 10 
 
 They guarded him, fivesome on each side, 
 
 And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. 
 
 They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, 
 
 And also thro' the Carlisle sands 
 They brought him to Carlisle castell, 15 
 
 To be at my Lord Scroop's commands. 
 
 ' My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, 
 
 And whae will dare this deed avow? 
 Or answer by the border law? 
 
 Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch ! ' 20 
 
 ' Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver ! 
 
 There 's never a Scot shall set ye free : 
 Before ye cross my castle yate, 
 
 I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.' 
 
 ' Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie : 25 
 
 ' By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroop,' he said, 
 
 ' I never yet lodged in a hostelrie, 
 But I paid my lawing before I gaed.' 
 
 Now the word is gane to the bauld Keeper, 
 
 In Branksome Ha', where that he lay, 30 
 
 That Lord Scroop has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, 
 Between the hours of night and day. 
 
 He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, 
 He garr'd the red wine spring on hie 
 
 ' Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said, 35 
 
 ' But avenged of Lord Scroop I'll be !
 
 78 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 'O is my basnet a widow's curch? 
 
 Or my lance a wand of the willow tree? 
 Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, 
 
 That an English lord should lightly me ! 40 
 
 'And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, 
 
 Against the truce of border tide ? 
 And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch 
 
 Is Keeper here on the Scottish side? 
 
 'And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, 45 
 
 Withouten either dread or fear? 
 And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch 
 
 Can back a steed, or shake a spear? 
 
 ' O were there war between the lands, 
 
 As well I wot that there is none, 50 
 
 I would slight Carlisle castell high, 
 
 Tho' it were builded of marble stone. 
 
 ' I would set that castell in a low, 
 
 And sloken it with English blood ! 
 There's nevir a man in Cumberland, 55 
 
 Should ken where Carlisle castell stood. 
 
 ' But since nae war's between the lands, 
 And there is peace, and peace should be ; 
 
 I'll neither harm English lad nor lass, 
 
 And yet the Kinmont freed shall be ! ' 60 
 
 He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, 
 
 I trow they were of his ain name, 
 Except Sir Gilbert Elliot call'd, 
 
 The laird of Stobs, I mean the same.
 
 BALLADS 79 
 
 He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, 65 
 
 Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch ; 
 
 With spur on heel, and splent on spaueld, 
 And gleuves of green, and feathers blue. 
 
 There were five and five before them a', 
 
 Wi' hunting horns and bugles bright ; 70 
 
 And five and five came wi' Buccleuch, 
 Like warden's men, arrayed for fight : 
 
 And five and five, like a mason gang, 
 
 That carrid the ladders lang and hie ; 
 And five and five, like broken men ; 75 
 
 And so they reached the Woodhouselee. 
 
 And as we cross'd the Bateable Land, 
 
 When to the English side we held, 
 The first o' men that we met wi', 
 
 Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde? 80 
 
 ' Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen ? ' 
 Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell to me ! ' 
 
 ' We go to hunt an English stag, 
 
 Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.' 
 
 ' Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men ? ' 85 
 
 Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell me true ! ' 
 
 ' We go to catch a rank reiver, 
 
 Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch.' 
 
 ' Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, 
 
 Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie ? ' 90 
 
 ' We gang to herry a corbie's nest, 
 
 That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.'
 
 8O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ' Where be ye gaun, ye broken men ? ' 
 Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell to me ! ' 
 
 Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, 95 
 
 And the never a word o' lear had he. 
 
 ' Why trespass ye on the English side ? 
 
 Row-footed outlaws, stand ! ' quo' he ; 
 The never a word had Dickie to say, 
 
 Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. 100 
 
 Then on we held for Carlisle toun, 
 
 And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd ; 
 
 The water was great and meikle of spait, 
 But the nevir a horse nor man we lost. 
 
 And when we reached the Staneshaw-bank, 105 
 
 The wind was rising loud and hie ; 
 And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds, 
 
 For fear that they should stamp and nie. 
 
 And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, 
 
 The wind began full loud to blaw, no 
 
 But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, 
 
 When we came beneath the castle wa'. 
 
 We crept on knees, and held our breath, 
 Till we placed the ladders against the wa' ; 
 
 And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell 115 
 
 To mount the first, before us a'. 
 
 He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, 
 
 He flung him down upon the lead 
 ' Had there not been peace between our land, 
 
 ' Upon the other side thou hadst gaed ! 120
 
 BALLADS 8 1 
 
 ' Now sound out, trumpets ! ' quo' Buccleuch ; 
 
 ' Let's waken Lord Scroop, right merrilie ! ' 
 Then loud the warden's trumpet blew 
 
 ' O wha dare meddle wf me ? ' 
 
 Then speedilie to work we gaed, 125 
 
 And raised the slogan ane and a', 
 And cut a hole thro' a sheet of lead, 
 
 And so we wan to the castle ha'. 
 
 They thought King James and a' his men 
 
 Had won the house wi' bow and spear ; 130 
 
 It was but twenty Scots and ten, 
 That put a thousand in sic a stear ! 
 
 Wi' coulters, and wi' fore-hammers, 
 
 We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, 
 Until we came to the inner prison, 135 
 
 Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. 
 
 And when we cam to the lower prison, 
 Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie 
 
 ' O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, 
 
 Upon the morn that thou's to die ? ' 140 
 
 ' O I sleep saft, and I wake aft ; 
 
 It's lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me ! 
 Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, 
 
 And a' gude fellows thet spier for me.' 
 
 Then Red Rowan has hente him up, 145 
 
 The starkest man in Teviotdale 
 ' Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, 
 
 Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.
 
 82 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 1 Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroop ! 
 
 My gude Lord Scroop, farewell ! ' he cried 150 
 * I'll pay you for my lodging maill, 
 
 When first we meet on the border side.' 
 
 Then shoulder high, wi' shout and cry, 
 We bore him down the ladder lang ; 
 
 At every stride Red Rowan made, 155 
 
 I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang ! 
 
 ' O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 
 ' I have ridden horse baith wild and wood ; 
 
 But a rougher beast than Red Rowan, 
 
 I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. 160 
 
 ' O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 
 ' I've pricked a horse out oure the furs ; 
 
 But since the day I backed a steed, 
 I never wore sic cumbrous spurs ! ' 
 
 We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, 165 
 
 When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, 
 
 And a thousand men, in horse and foot, 
 Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. 
 
 Buccleuch he turned to Eden water, 
 
 Even where it flowed frae bank to brim, 170 
 
 And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, 
 
 And safely swam them thro' the stream. 
 
 He turned him on the other side, 
 
 And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he 
 
 ' If ye like na my visit in merry England, 175 
 
 In fair Scotland come visit me ! '
 
 BALLADS 83 
 
 All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, 
 
 He stood as still as rock of stane ; 
 He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, 
 
 When thro' the water they had gane. 180 
 
 ' He is either himself a devil frae hell, 
 Or else his mother a witch maun be ; 
 
 I wad na ha ridden that wan water, 
 For a' the gowd in Christentie.' 
 
 ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOW'S THREE 
 SONS 
 
 THERE are twelve months in all the year, 
 
 As I hear many say, 
 But the merriest month in all the year 
 
 Is the merry month of May. 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 5 
 
 With a link a down, and a day, 
 And there he met a silly old woman, 
 
 Was weeping on the way. 
 
 ' What news ? what news ? thou silly old woman, 
 
 What news hast thou for me?' 10 
 
 Said she, 'There's my three sons in Nottingham town, 
 To-day condemned to die.' 
 
 ' O, have they parishes burnt ? ' he said, 
 
 ' Or have they ministers slain? 
 Or have they robbed any virgin ? 15 
 
 Or other men's wives have ta'en? '
 
 84 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ' They have no parishes burnt, good sir, 
 
 Nor yet have ministers slain, 
 Nor have they robbed any virgin, 
 
 Nor other men's wives have ta'en.' 20 
 
 ' O, what have they done ? ' said Robin Hood, 
 
 ' I pray thee tell to me.' 
 ' It's for slaying of the king's fallow deer, 
 
 Bearing their long bows with thee.' 
 
 ' Dost thou not mind, old woman,' he said, 25 
 
 ' How thou madest me sup and dine ? 
 By the truth of my body,' quoth bold Robin Hood, 
 
 'You could not tell it in better time.' 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 
 
 With a link a down, and a day, 30 
 
 And there he met with a silly old palmer, 
 Was walking on the highway. 
 
 ' What news ? what news ? thou silly old man, 
 
 What news, I do thee pray ? ' 
 Said he, ' Three squires in Nottingham town 35 
 
 Are condemn'd to die this day.' 
 
 ' Come change thy apparel with me, old man, 
 
 Come change thy apparel for mine ; 
 Here is ten shillings in good silver, 
 
 Go drink it in beer or wine." 40 
 
 ' O, thine apparel is good,' he said, 
 
 ' And mine is ragged and torn ; 
 Wherever you go, wherever you ride, 
 
 Laugh not an old man to scorn.'
 
 BALLADS 85 
 
 ' Come change thy apparel with me, old churl, 45 
 
 Come change thy apparel with mine ; 
 Here is a piece of good broad gold, 
 
 Go feast thy brethren with wine.' 
 
 Then he put on the old man's hat ; 
 
 It stood full high on the crown : 50 
 
 ' The first bold bargain that I come at, 
 
 It shall make thee corne down.' 
 
 Then he put on the old man's cloak, 
 
 Was patch'd black, blue, and red ; 
 He thought it no shame, all the day long, 55 
 
 To wear the bags of bread. 
 
 Then he put on the old man's breeks, 
 Was patch'd from leg to side : 
 
 * By the truth of my body,' bold Robin can say, 
 
 ' This man loved little pride.' 60 
 
 Then he put on the old man's hose, 
 Were patch'd from knee to wrist : 
 
 * By the truth of my body,' said bold Robin Hood, 
 
 ' I'd laugh if I had any list.' 
 
 Then he put on the old man's shoes, 65 
 
 Were patch'd both beneath and aboon ; 
 
 Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath, 
 ' It's good habit that makes a man.' 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 
 
 With a link a down and a down, 70 
 
 And there he met with the proud sheriff, 
 Was walking along the town.
 
 86 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ' Save you, save you, sheriff ! ' he said ; 
 
 ' Now heaven you save and see ! 
 And what will you give to a silly old man 75 
 
 To-day will your hangman be ? ' 
 
 ' Some suits, some suits,' the sheriff he said. 
 
 ' Some suits I'll give to thee ; 
 Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen, 
 
 To-day's a hangman's fee.' 80 
 
 Then Robin he turns him round about, 
 
 And jumps from stock to stone : 
 ' By the truth of my body,' the sheriff he said, 
 
 ' That's well jumpt, thou nimble old man.' 
 
 ' I was ne'er a hangman in all my life, 85 
 
 Nor yet intends to trade ; 
 But curst be he,' said bold Robin, 
 
 ' That first a hangman was made ! 
 
 * I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt, 
 
 And a bag for barley and corn ; 90 
 
 A bag for bread, and a bag for beef, 
 And a bag for my little small horn. 
 
 ' I have a horn in my pocket, 
 
 I got it from Robin Hood, 
 And still when I set it to my mouth, 95 
 
 For thee it blows little good.' 
 
 ' O, wind thy horn, thou proud fellow ! 
 
 Of thee I have no doubt. 
 I wish that thou give such a blast, 
 
 Till both thy eyes fall out.' 100
 
 BALLADS 87 
 
 The first loud blast that he did blow, 
 
 He blew both loud and shrill; 
 A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's men 
 
 Came riding over the hill. 
 
 The next loud blast that he did give, 105 
 
 He blew both loud and amain, 
 And quickly sixty of Robin Hood's men 
 
 Came shining over the plain. 
 
 ' O, who are these,' the sheriff he said, 
 
 ' Come tripping over the lee?' no 
 
 'They're my attendants,' brave Robin did say; 
 ' They'll pay a visit to thee.' 
 
 They took the gallows from the slack, 
 
 They set it in the glen, 
 They hanged the proud sheriff on that, 115 
 
 Released their own three men. 
 
 GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR, O 
 
 IT fell about the Martinmas time, 
 
 And a gay time it was than, O, 
 That our gudewife had puddins to mak" 
 And she boil'd them in the pan, O. 
 
 And the barrin' o' our door, weil, weil, weil, 
 
 And the barrin' o' our door weil. 
 
 The wind blew cauld frae north to south, 
 
 And blew intil the floor, O ; 
 Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, 
 
 ' Get up and bar the door, O.'
 
 88 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ' My hand is in my hussyfskip, 
 
 Gudeman, as you may see, O ; 
 An it shou'dna be barr'd this hunner year, 
 It's no be barr'd by me, O.' 
 
 They made a paction 'tween them twa, 15 
 
 They made it firm and sure, O, 
 The first that spak the foremost word 
 
 Should rise and bar the door, O. 
 
 Then by there came twa gentlemen, 
 
 At twelve o'clock at nicht, O, 20 
 
 And they could neither see house nor ha', 
 Nor coal nor candle licht, O. 
 
 ' Now whether is this a rich man's house, 
 
 Or whether is it a puir, O ? ' 
 
 But ne'er a word wad ane o' them speak, 25 
 
 For barring of the door, O. 
 
 And first they ate the white puddins, 
 
 And syne they ate the black, O ; 
 And muckle thought the gudewife to hersel', 
 
 Yet ne'er a word she spak, O. 30 
 
 Then ane unto the ither said, 
 
 ' Hae, man, tak ye my knife, O ; 
 Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard, 
 
 And I'll kiss the gudewife, O.' 
 
 ' But there's nae water in the house, 35 
 
 And what shall we do then, O ? ' 
 ' What ails ye at the puddins bree 
 
 That boils into the pan, O ? '
 
 BALLADS 89 
 
 O up then startit our gudeman, 
 
 An angry man was he, O ; 40 
 
 ' Wad ye kiss my wife before my een, 
 
 And scaud me wi' puddin bree, O ? ' 
 
 O up then startit our gudewife, 
 
 Gied three skips on the floor, O ; 
 ' Gudeman, ye've spak the foremost word ; 45 
 
 Get up and bar the door, O.' 
 
 BESSIE BELL AND MARY GRAY 
 
 O BESSIE BELL and Mary Gray, 
 
 They war twa bonnie lasses ! 
 They bigget a bower on yon burn-brae, 
 
 And theekit o'er wi' rashes. 
 
 They theekit o'er wi' rashes green, 
 They theekit o'er wi' heather ; 
 
 But the pest cam frae the burrows-toun, 
 And slew them baith thegither. 
 
 They thought to lie in Methven kirk- yard 
 
 Amang their noble kin ; 
 But they maun lye in stronach haugh, 
 
 To biek forenent the sin : 
 
 And Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 
 They war twa bonnie lasses ; 
 
 They bigget a bower on yon burn-brae, 
 And theekit o'er wi' rashes.
 
 EDMUND SPENSER 
 
 (1553 1599) 
 
 THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER 
 JANUARIE 
 
 JEGLOGA PRIMA ARGUMENT 
 
 [In this fyrst ^Eglogue Colin Cloute, a shepheardes boy, complaineth 
 him of his unfortunate love, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured 
 of a country lasse called Rosalinde : with which strong affection being 
 very sore traveled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season 
 of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne 
 winter-beaten flocke. And, lastlye, fynding himselfe robbed of all 
 former pleasaunce and delights, he breaketh his Pipe in peeces, and 
 casteth him selfe to the ground.] 
 
 Colin Cloute 
 
 A SHEPEHEARDS boye, (no better doe him call,) 
 When Winters wastful spight was almost spent, 
 All in a sunneshine day, as did befall, 
 Led forth his flock, that had bene long ypent : 
 
 So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde, 5 
 
 That now unnethes their feete could them uphold. 
 
 All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke, 
 For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while !) 
 May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke ; 
 Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his stile : 10 
 
 Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde, 
 And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde, 
 90
 
 SPENSER 91 
 
 ' Ye Gods of love, that pitie lovers payne, 
 
 (If any gods the paine of lovers pitie) 
 
 Looke from above, where you in joyes remaine, 15 
 
 And bowe your eares unto my dolefull dittie : 
 
 And, Pan, thou shepheards God that once didst love, 
 Pitie the paines that thou thy selfe didst prove. 
 
 ' Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted, 
 Art made a myrrhour to behold my plight : 20 
 
 Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted 
 Thy sommer prowde, with Daffadillies dight; 
 And now is come thy wynters stormy state, 
 Thy mantel mard, wherein thou maskedst late. 
 
 ' Such rage as winters reigneth in my heart, 25 
 
 My life-bloud friesing with unkindly cold ; 
 
 Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smart, 
 
 As if my yeare were wast and woxen old ; 
 And yet, alas ! but now my spring begonne, 
 And yet, alas ! yt is already donne. 30 
 
 ' You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost, 
 Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre, 
 And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost, 
 Instede of blossmes, wherewith your buds did flowre ; 
 
 I see your teares that from your boughes doe raine, 35 
 
 Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine. 
 
 ' All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere, 
 
 My timely buds with wayling all are wasted ; 
 
 The blossome which my braunch of youth did beare 
 
 With breathed sighes is blowne away and blasted ; 40 
 
 And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend, 
 
 As on your boughes the ysicles depend.
 
 92 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ' Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent, 
 Whose knees are weake through fast and evill fare, 
 Mayst witnesse well, by thy ill government, 45 
 
 Thy maysters mind is overcome with care : 
 
 Thou weake, I wanne ; thou leane, I quite forlorne : 
 With mourning pyne I ; you with pyning mourne. 
 
 ' A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower 
 Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see, 50 
 
 And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure 
 Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight as shee : 
 
 Yet all for naught : such sight hath bred my bane. 
 
 Ah, God ! that love should breede both joy and payne ! 
 
 ' It is not Hobbinol wherefore I plaine, 55 
 
 Albee my love he seeke with dayly suit; 
 His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine, 
 His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit. 
 
 Ah, foolish Hobbinol ! thy gyfts bene vayne ; 
 
 Colin them gives to Rosalind againe. 60 
 
 ' I love thilke lasse, (alas ! why doe I love ?) 
 
 And am forlorne, (alas ! why am I lorne ?) 
 
 Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprove, 
 
 And of my rurall musicke holdeth scorne. 
 
 Shepheards devise she hateth as the snake, 65 
 
 And laughes the songs that Colin Clout doth make. 
 
 ' Wherefore, my pype, albee rude Pan thou please, 
 Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would : 
 And thou, unlucky Muse, that wontst to ease 
 My musing mynd, yet canst not when thou should ; 70 
 Both pype and Muse shall sore the while abye." 
 So broke his oaten pipe, and downe dyd lye.
 
 SPENSER 93 
 
 By that, the walked Phoebus gan availe 
 
 His weary waine ; and nowe the frosty Night 
 
 Her mantle black through heaven gan overhaile : 75 
 
 Which scene, the pensife boy, halfe in despight, 
 Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe, 
 Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe. 
 
 ASTROPHEL 
 
 A PASTORAL ELEGIE 
 
 UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST NOBLE AND VALOROUS KNIGHT, 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE MOST BEAUTIFUL AND VERTUOUS LADIE, 
 THE COUNTESS OF ESSEX 
 
 SHEPHEARDS, that wont, on pipes of oaten reed, 
 Oft times to plaine your loves concealed smart ; 
 And with your piteous layes have learnd to breed 
 Compassion in a countrey lasses hart 
 Hearken, ye gentle shepheards, to my song, 
 And place my dolefull plaint your plaints emong. 
 
 To you alone I sing this mournfull verse, 
 
 The mournfulst verse that ever man heard tell : 
 
 To you whose softened hearts it may impierse 
 
 With dolors dart for death of Astrophel. i 
 
 To you I sing and to none other wight, 
 
 For well I wot my rymes bene rudely dight. 
 
 Yet as they been, if any nycer wit 
 
 Shall hap to heare, or covet them to read :
 
 94 PROM ctiAucER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Thinke he, that such are for such ones most fit, 15 
 
 Made not to please the living but the dead. 
 And if in him found pity ever place, 
 Let him be moov'd to pity such a case. 
 
 ASTROPHEL 
 
 A GENTLE shepheard borne in Arcady, 
 
 Of gentlest race that ever shepheard bore, 
 
 About the grassy bancks of Haemony 
 
 Did keepe his sheep, his litle stock and store : 
 
 Full carefully he kept them day and night, 5 
 
 In fairest fields ; and Astrophel he hight. 
 
 Young Astrophel, the pride of shepheards praise, 
 
 Young Astrophel, the rusticke lasses love : 
 
 Far passing all the pastors of his daies, 
 
 In all that seemly shepheard might behove. 10 
 
 In one thing onely fayling of the best, 
 
 That he was not so happie as the rest. 
 
 For from the time that first the Nymph his mother 
 Him forth did bring, and taught her lambs to feed ; 
 A sclender swaine excelling far each other, 15 
 
 In comely shape, like her that did him breed, 
 He grew up fast in goodnesse and in grace, 
 And doubly faire wox both in mynd and face. 
 
 Which daily more and more he did augment, 
 
 With gentle usuage and demeanure myld : 20 
 
 That all mens hearts with secret ravishment 
 
 He stole away, and weetingly beguyld. 
 
 Ne spight it selfe, that all good things doth spill, 
 
 Found ought in him, that she could say was ill.
 
 SPENSER 95 
 
 His sports were faire, his joyance innocent, 25 
 
 Sweet without sowre, and honey without gall : 
 
 And he himselfe seemed made for merriment, 
 
 Merily masking both in bowre and hall. 
 
 There was no pleasurs nor delightfull play, 
 
 When Astrophel so ever was away. 30 
 
 For he could pipe, and daunce, and caroll sweet, 
 
 Emongst the shepheards in their shearing feast ; 
 
 As Somers larke that with her song doth greet 
 
 The dawning day forth comming from the East. 
 
 And layes of love he also could compose : 35 
 
 Thrise happie she, whom he to praise did chose. 
 
 Full many Maydens often did him woo, 
 
 Them to vouchsafe emongst his rimes to name, 
 
 Or make for them as he was wont to doo 
 
 For her that did his heart with love inflame. 40 
 
 For which they promised to dight for him 
 
 Gay chaplets of flowers and gyrlonds trim. 
 
 And many a Nymph both of the wood and brooke, 
 
 Soone as his oaten pipe began to shrill, 
 
 Both christall wells and shadie groves forsooke, 45 
 
 To heare the charmes of his enchanting skill ; 
 
 And brought him presents, flowers if it were prime, 
 
 Or mellow fruit if it were harvest time. 
 
 But he for none of them did care a whit, 
 
 Yet woodgods for them often sighed sore : 50 
 
 Ne for their gifts unworthie of his wit, 
 
 Yet not unworthie of the countries store. 
 
 For one alone he cared, for one he sigh't, 
 
 His lifes desire and his deare loves delight.
 
 96 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Stella the faire, the fairest star in skie, 55 
 
 As faire as Venus or the fairest faire, 
 
 (A fairer star saw never living eie,) 
 
 Shot her sharp pointed beames through purest aire. 
 
 Her he did love, her he alone did honor. 
 
 His thoughts, his rimes, his songs were all upon her. 60 
 
 To her he vowed the service of his daies, 
 
 On her he spent the riches of his wit : 
 
 For her he made hymnes of immortall praise, 
 
 Of onely her he sung, he thought, he writ. 
 
 Her, and but her, of love he worthy deemed ; 65 
 
 For all the rest but litle he esteemed. 
 
 Ne her with ydle words alone he wowed, 
 
 And verses vaine, (yet verses are not vaine,) 
 
 But with brave deeds to her sole service vowed, 
 
 And bold atchievements her did entertaine. 70 
 
 For both in deeds and words he nourtred was, 
 
 Both wise and hardie, (too hardie, alas !) - 
 
 In wrestling nimble, and in renning swift, 
 
 In shooting steddie, and in swimming strong : 
 
 Well made to strike, to throw, to leape, to lift, 75 
 
 And all the sports that shepheards are emong. 
 
 In every one he vanquish! every one, 
 
 He vanquisht all, and vanquisht was of none. 
 
 Besides, in hunting such felicitie, 
 
 Or rather infelicitie, he found, 80 
 
 That every field and forest far away 
 
 He sought where salvage beasts do most abound. 
 
 No beast so salvage but he could it kill ; 
 
 No chace so hard, but he therein had skill.
 
 SPENSER 97 
 
 Such skill, matcht with such courage as he had, 85 
 
 Did prick him foorth with proud desire of praise 
 
 To seek abroad, of daunger nought ydrad, 
 
 His mistresse name, and his owne fame to raise. 
 
 What needeth peril to be sought abroad, 
 
 Since round about us it doth make aboad ! 90 
 
 It fortuned as he that perilous game 
 
 In forreine soyle pursued far away, 
 
 Into a forest wide and waste he came, 
 
 Where store he heard to be of salvage pray. 
 
 So wide a forest and so waste as this, 95 
 
 Nor famous Ardeyn, nor fowle Arlo, is. 
 
 There his wellwoven toyles, and subtil traines, 
 
 He laid the brutish nation to enwrap : 
 
 So well he wrought with practise and with paines, 
 
 That he of them great troops did soon entrap. 100 
 
 Full happie man (misweening much) was hee, 
 
 So rich a spoile within his power to see. 
 
 Eftsoones, all heedlesse of his dearest hale, 
 
 Full greedily into the heard he thrust, 
 
 To slaughter them and worke their finall bale ; 105 
 
 Least that his toyle should of their troups be brust. 
 
 Wide wounds emongst them many one he made, 
 
 Now with his sharp bore-spear, now with his blade. 
 
 His care was all how he them all might kill, 
 
 That none might scape, (so partiall unto none :) no 
 
 111 mynd so much to mynd anothers ill, 
 
 As to become unmyndfull of his owne. 
 
 But pardon that unto the cruel skies, 
 
 That from himselfe to them withdrew his eies.
 
 9 8 
 
 So as he rag'd emongst that beastly rout, 115 
 
 A cruell beast of most accursed brood 
 
 Upon him turned, (despeyre makes cowards stout,) 
 
 And, with fell tooth accustomed to blood, 
 
 Launched his thigh with so mischievous might, 
 
 That it both bone and muscles ryved quight. 120 
 
 So deadly was the dint and deep the wound, 
 
 And so huge streames of blood thereout did flow, 
 
 That he endured not the direfull stound, 
 
 But on the cold deare earth himselfe did throw ; 
 
 The whiles the captive, heard his nets did rend, 125 
 
 And, having none to let, to wood did wend. 
 
 Ah ! where were ye this while his shepheard peares, 
 
 To whom alive was nought so deare as hee : 
 
 And ye fayre Mayds, the matches of his yeares, 
 
 Which in his grace did boast you most to bee ! 130 
 
 Ah ! where were ye, when he of you had need, 
 
 To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed ! 
 
 Ah ! wretched boy, the shape of dreryhead, 
 
 And sad ensample of mans suddein end : 
 
 Full litle faileth but thou shalt be dead, 135 
 
 Unpitied, unplaynd, of foe or frend : 
 
 Whitest none is nigh, thine eylids up to close, 
 
 And kisse thy lips like faded leaves of rose. 
 
 A sort of shepherds, sewing of the chace, 
 
 As they the forest raunged on a day. 140 
 
 By fate or fortune came unto the place, 
 
 Where as the lucklesse boy yet bleeding lay ; 
 
 Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled, 
 
 Had not good hap those shepheards thether led.
 
 SPENSER 99 
 
 They stopt his wound, (too late to stop it was !) 145 
 
 And in their armes then softly did him reare : 
 
 Tho (as he wild) unto his loved lasse, 
 
 His dearest love, him dolefully did beare. 
 
 The dolefulst beare that ever man did see, 
 
 Was Astrophel, but dearest unto mee ! 150 
 
 She, when she saw her love in such a plight, 
 
 With crudled blood and filthie gore deformed, 
 
 That wont to be with flowers and gyrlonds dight, 
 
 And her deare favours dearly well adorned ; 
 
 Her face, the fairest face that eye mote see, 155 
 
 She likewise did deforme, like him to bee. 
 
 Her yellow locks that shone so bright and long, 
 
 As Sunny beames in fairest somers day, 
 
 She fiersly tore, and with outragious wrong 
 
 From her red cheeks the roses rent away ; 160 
 
 And her faire brest, the threasury of joy, 
 
 She spoyld thereof, and filled with annoy. 
 
 His palled face, impictured with death, 
 
 She bathed oft with teares, and dried oft : 
 
 And with sweet kisses suckt the wasting breath 165 
 
 Out of his lips like lilies pale and soft : 
 
 And oft she cald to him, who answerd nought, 
 
 But onely by his lookes did tell his thought. 
 
 The rest of her impatient regret, 
 
 And piteous mone the which she for him made, 170 
 
 No toong can tell, nor any forth can set, 
 
 But he whose heart like sorrow did invade. 
 
 At last, when paine his vitall powres had spent, 
 
 His wasted life her wearie lodge forwent.
 
 100 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Which when she saw, she staied not a whit, 175 
 
 But after him did make untimely haste : 
 
 Forth-with her ghost out of her corps did flit, 
 
 And followed her make like turtle chaste, 
 
 To prove that death their hearts cannot divide 
 
 Which living were in love so firmly tide. 180 
 
 The gods, which all things see, this same beheld, 
 
 And, pittying this paire of lovers trew, 
 
 Transformed them, there lying on the field, 
 
 Into one flowre that is both red and blew ; 
 
 It first growes red, and then to blew doth fade, 185 
 
 Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made. 
 
 And in the midst thereof a star appeares, 
 
 As fairly formd as any star in skyes ; 
 
 Resembling Stella in her freshest yeares, 
 
 Forth darting beames of beautie from her eyes : 190 
 
 And all the day it standeth full of deow, 
 
 Which is the teares, that from her eyes did flow. 
 
 That hearbe of some Starlight is cald by name, 
 
 Of others Penthia, though not so well : 
 
 But thou, where ever thou dost finde the same, 195 
 
 From this day forth do call it Astrophel : 
 
 And, when so ever thou it up doest take, 
 
 Do pluck it softly for that shepheards sake. 
 
 Hereof when tydings far abroad did passe, 
 
 The shepheards all which loved him full deare, 200 
 
 And sure full deare of all he loved was, 
 
 Did thether flock to see what they did heare 
 
 And when that pitteous spectacle they vewed, 
 
 The same with bitter teares they all bedewed.
 
 SPENSER 101 
 
 And every one did make exceeding mone, 205 
 
 With inward anguish and great griefe opprest : 
 And every one did weep and vvaile, and mone, 
 And meanes deviz'd to show his sorrow best. 
 That from that houre, since first on grassie greene 
 Shepheards kept sheep, was not like mourning seen. 210 
 
 But first his sister that Clorinda hight, 
 
 The gentlest shepheardesse that lives this day, 
 
 And most resembling both in shape and spright 
 
 Her brother deare, began this dolefull lay. 
 
 Which, least I marre the sweetnesse of the vearse, 215 
 
 In sort as she it sung I will rehearse. 
 
 AMORETTI 
 
 HAPPY, ye leaves ! when as those lilly hands, 
 Which hold my life in their dead-doing might, 
 Shall handle you, and hold in loves soft bands, 
 Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight. 
 And happy lines ! on which, with starry light, 
 Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look 
 And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright, 
 Written with teares in harts close-bleeding book. 
 And happy ryrnes ! bath'd in the sacred brooke 
 Of Helicon, whence she derived is ; i 
 
 When ye behold that Angels blessed looke, 
 My soules long-lacked foode, my heavens blis ; 
 
 Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone, 
 Whom if ye please, I care for other none !
 
 IO2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 VII 
 
 Fayre eyes ! the myrrour of my mazed hart, 
 What wondrous vertue is contaynd in you, 
 The which both lyfe and death forth from you dart, 
 Into the object of your mighty view? 
 For, when ye mildly looke with lovely hew, 
 Then is my soule with life and love inspired : 
 But when ye lowre, or looke on me askew, 
 Then doe I die, as one with lightning fyred. 
 But, since that lyfe is more than death desyred, 
 Looke ever lovely, as becomes you best ; 
 That your bright beams, of my weak eies admyred, 
 May kindle living fire within my breast. 
 Such life should be the honor of your light, 
 Such death the sad ensample of your might. 
 
 XII 
 
 One day I sought with her hart-thrilling eies 
 To make a truce, and termes to entertaine : 
 All fearlesse then of so false enimies, 
 Which sought me to entrap in treasons traine. 
 So, as I then disarmed did remaine, 
 A wicked ambush which lay hidden long 
 In the close covert of her guilefull eyen, 
 Thence breaking forth, did thick about me throng. 
 Too feeble I t'abide the brunt so strong, 
 Was forst to yeeld my selfe into their hands ; 
 Who, me captiving streight with rigorous wrong, 
 Have ever since me kept in cruell bands. 
 So, Ladie, now to you I doo complaine, 
 Against your eies, that justice I may gaine.
 
 SPENSER IO3 
 
 XXV 
 
 How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure, 
 
 And know no end of her owne mysery, 
 
 But wast and weare away in termes unsure, 
 
 Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully ! 
 
 Yet better were attonce to let me die, 5 
 
 And shew the last ensample of your pride ; 
 
 Then to torment me thus with cruelty, 
 
 To prove your powre, which I too well have tride. 
 
 But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide 
 
 A close intent at last to shew me grace ; 10 
 
 Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide, 
 
 As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace ; 
 
 And wish that more and greater they might be, 
 That greater meede at last may turne to mee. 
 
 xxxrv 
 
 Lyke as a ship, that through the Ocean wyde, 
 
 By conduct of some star, doth make her way ; 
 
 Whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde, 
 
 Out of her course doth wander far astray ! 
 
 So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray 5 
 
 Me to direct, with cloudes is over-cast, 
 
 Doe wander now, in darknesse and dismay, 
 
 Through hidden perils round about me plast ; 
 
 Yet hope I well that, when this storme is past, 
 
 My Helice, the loadstar of my lyfe, 10 
 
 Will shine again, and looke on me at last, 
 
 With lovely light to cleare my cloudy grief, 
 
 Till then I wander carefu]!, comfortlesse, 
 
 In secret sorow, and sad pensivenesse.
 
 IO4 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 LXVH 
 
 Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace, 
 Seeing the game from him escapt away, 
 Sits downe to rest him in some shady place, 
 With panting hounds beguiled of their prey : 
 So, after long pursuit and vaine assay, 
 When I all weary had the chace forsooke, 
 The gentle dear returned the selfe-same way, 
 Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke : 
 There she, beholding me with mylder looke, 
 Sought not to fly, but fearlessee still did bide ; 
 Till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke, 
 And with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde. 
 Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wyld, 
 So goodly wonne, with her owne will beguyld. 
 
 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 ; 
 But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray. 
 Vayne man, sayd she, that doest in vaine assay 
 A mortall thing so to immortalize ; 
 For I my selve 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 : 
 My verse your vertues rare shall Eternize, 
 And in the hevens wryte your glorious name. 
 Where, whenas death shall all the world subdew, 
 Our love shall live, and later life renew.
 
 RICHARD HOOKER 
 
 
 
 (1554-1600) 
 
 THE LAWS OF ECCLESIASTICAL POLITY 
 The Law of Nations 
 
 Now besides that law which simply concerneth men as 
 men, and that which belongeth unto them as they are 
 men linked with others in some form of politic society, 
 there is a third kind of law which toucheth all such sev- 
 eral bodies politic, so far forth as one of them hath pub- 5 
 lie commerce with another. And this third is the law of 
 nations. Between men and beasts there is no possibility 
 of sociable communion ; because the well-spring of that 
 communion is a natural delight which man hath to trans- 
 fuse from himself unto others, and to receive from others 10 
 into himself, especially those things wherein the excel- 
 lency of his kind doth most consist. The chiefest instru- 
 ment of human communion therefore is speech, because 
 thereby we impart mutually one to another the conceits 
 of our reasonable understanding. And for that cause 15 
 seeing beasts are not hereof capable, forasmuch as with 
 them we can use no such conference, they being in 
 degree, although above other creatures on earth to whom 
 nature hath denied sense, yet lower than to be socia- 
 ble companions of man to whom nature hath given rea- 20 
 son; it is of Adam said that amongst the beasts He found 
 not for himself any meet companion. Civil society doth 
 more content the nature of man than any private kind of 
 
 105
 
 106 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 solitary living, because in society this good of mutual par- 
 ticipation is so much larger than otherwise. Herewith 25 
 notwithstanding we are satisfied, but we covert (if it 
 might be) to have a kind of society and fellowship even 
 with all mankind. Which thing Socrates intending to 
 signify professed himself a citizen, not of this or that 
 commonwealth, but of the world. And an effect of that 30 
 very natural desire in us, (a manifest token that we wish 
 after a sort an universal fellowship with all men,) appear- 
 eth by the wonderful delight men have, some to visit 
 foreign countries, some to discover nations not heard of 
 in former ages, we all to know the affairs and dealings of 35 
 other people, yea to be in league of amity with them : 
 and this not only for traffic's sake, or to the end that 
 when many are confederated each may make the other 
 the more strong, but for such cause also as moved the 
 Queen of Saba to visit Salomon ; and in a word, because 40 
 nature doth presume that how many men there are in the 
 world, so many Gods as it were there are, or at leastwise 
 such they should be towards men. 
 
 Touching laws which are to serve men in this behalf; 
 even as those laws of reason, which (man retaining his 45 
 original integrity) had been sufficient to direct each par- 
 ticular person in all his affairs and duties, are not suf- 
 ficient but require the access of other laws, now that 
 man and his offspring are grown thus corrupt and sinful ; 
 again, as those laws of polity and regiment, which would 50 
 have served men living in public society together with 
 that harmless disposition which then they should have 
 had, are not able now to serve, when men's iniquity is so 
 hardly restrained within any tolerable bounds : in like 
 manner, the national laws of mutual commerce between 55 
 societies of that former and better quality might have
 
 HOOKER 
 
 been other than now, when nations are so prone to offer 
 violence, injury, and wrong. Hereupon hath grown in 
 every of these three kinds that distinction between Pri- 
 mary and Secondary laws ; the one grounded upon sin- 60 
 cere, the other built upon depraved nature. Primary 
 laws of nations are such as concern embassage, such as 
 belong to the courteous entertainment of foreigners and 
 strangers, such as serve for commodious traffic, and the 
 like. Secondary laws in the same kind are such as this 65 
 present unquiet world is most familiarly acquainted with ; 
 I mean laws of arms, which yet are much better known 
 than kept. But what matter the law of nations doth con- 
 tain I omit to search. 
 
 The strength and virtue of that law is such that no par- 70 
 ticular nation can lawfully prejudice the same by any 
 their several laws and ordinances, more than a man by 
 his private resolutions the law of the whole common- 
 wealth or state wherein he liveth. For as civil law, being 
 the act of the whole body politic, doth therefore overrule 75 
 each several part of the same body ; so there is no rea- 
 son that any one commonwealth of itself should to the 
 prejudice of another annihilate that whereupon the world 
 hath agreed. For which cause, the Lacedemonians for- 
 bidding all access of strangers into their coasts are in 80 
 that respect both by Josephus and Theodoret deservedly 
 blamed, as being enemies to that hospitality which for 
 common humanity's sake all the nations on earth should 
 embrace. 
 
 Now as there is great cause of communion, and conse- 85 
 quently of laws for the maintainence of communion, 
 amongst nations ; so amongst nations Christian the like 
 in regard even of Christianity hath been always judged 
 needful.
 
 108 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And in this kind of correspondence amongst nations 90 
 the force of general councils doth stand. For as one 
 and the same law divine, whereof in the next place we 
 are to speak, is unto all Christian churches a rule for the 
 chiefest things, by means whereof they all in that respect 
 make one Church, as having all but One Lord, one faith, 95 
 and one baptism : so the urgent necessity of mutual com- 
 munion for preservation of our unity in these things, as 
 also for order in some other things convenient to be 
 everywhere uniformly kept, maketh it requisite that the 
 Church of God here on earth have her laws of spiritual 100 
 commerce between Christian nations ; laws by virtue 
 whereof all churches may enjoy freely the use of those 
 reverend, religious, and sacred consultations, which are 
 termed councils general. A thing whereof God's own 
 blessed Spirit was the author ; a thing practiced by the 105 
 holy Apostles themselves ; a thing always afterwards kept 
 and observed throughout the world ; a thing never other- 
 wise than most highly esteemed of, till pride, ambition, 
 and tyranny began by factious and vile endeavours to 
 abuse that divine invention unto the furtherance of no 
 wicked purposes. But as the just authority of civil 
 courts and parliaments is not therefore to be abolished, 
 because sometime there is cunning used to frame them 
 according to the private intents of men overpotent in the 
 commonwealth; so the grievous abuse which hath been 115 
 of councils should rather cause men to study how so gra- 
 cious a thing may again be reduced to that first perfec- 
 tion, than in regard of stains and blemishes sithence 
 growing to be held for ever in extreme disgrace. 
 
 To speak of this matter as the cause requireth would 120 
 require very long discourse. All I will presently say is 
 this. Whether it be for the finding out of any thing
 
 HOOKER 109 
 
 whereunto divine law bindeth us, but yet in such sort that 
 men are not thereof on all sides resolved ; or for the set- 
 ting down of some uniform judgment to stand touching 125 
 such things, as being neither way matters of necessity, are 
 notwithstanding offensive and scandalous when there is 
 open opposition about them ; be it for the ending of 
 strifes touching matters of Christian belief, wherein the 
 one part may seem to have probable cause of dissenting 130 
 from the other; or be it concerning matters of polity, 
 order and regiment in the church ; I nothing doubt but 
 that Christian men should much better frame themselves 
 to those heavenly precepts, which our Lord and Saviour 
 with so great instancy gave as concerning peace and 135 
 unity, if we did all concur in desire to have the use of 
 ancient councils again renewed, rather than these pro- 
 ceedings continued, which either make all contentions 
 endless, or bring them to one only determination, and 
 that of all other the worst, which is by sword. 140 
 
 Concerning faith, the principal object whereof is that 
 eternal verity which hath discovered the treasures of 
 hidden wisdom in Christ ; concerning hope, the highest 
 object whereof is that everlasting goodness which in 
 Christ doth quicken the dead ; concerning charity, the 145 
 final object whereof is that incomprehensible beauty which 
 shineth in the countenance of Christ the Son of the living 
 God : concerning these virtues, the first of which begin- 
 ning here with a weak apprehension of things not seen, 
 endeth with the intuitive vision of God in the world to 150 
 come ; the second beginning here with a trembling ex- 
 pectation of things far removed and as yet but only heard 
 of, endeth with real and actual fruition of that which no
 
 110 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 tongue can express ; the third beginning here with a weak 
 inclination of heart towards him unto whom we are not 155 
 able to approach, endeth with endless union, the mystery 
 whereof is higher than the reach of the thoughts of men ; 
 concerning that faith, hope, and charity, without which 
 there can be no salvation, was there ever any mention 
 made saving only in that law which God himself hath 160 
 from heaven revealed? There is not in the world a 
 syllable muttered with certain truth concerning any of 
 these three, more than hath been supernaturally received 
 from the mouth of the eternal God. 
 
 Laws therefore concerning these things are supernal- 165 
 ural, both in respect of the manner of delivering them, 
 which is divine ; and also in regard of the things deliv- 
 ered, which are such as have not in nature any cause from 
 which they flow, but were by the voluntary appointment 
 of God ordained besides the course of nature, to rectify 170 
 natures obliquity withal. 
 
 Wherefore that here we may briefly end : of Law there 
 can be no less acknowledged than that her seat is the 
 bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world ; all 
 things in heaven and earth do her homage, the very least 175 
 as feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from 
 her power ; both Angels and men and creatures of what 
 condition soever, though each in different sort and man- 
 ner, yet all with uniform consent, admiring her as the 
 mother of their peace and joy. 180
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
 
 (15641593) 
 
 THE JEW OF MALTA 
 ACT I 
 
 SCENE I. BARABAS discovered in his Counting-house, with 
 Heaps of Gold before him 
 
 Bar. So that of thus much that return was made 
 And of the third part of the Persian ships, 
 There was the venture summed and satisfied. 
 As for those Sabans, and the men of Uz, 
 That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece, 5 
 
 Here have I purst their paltry silverlings. 
 Fie ; what a trouble 'tis to count this trash. 
 Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay 
 The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, 
 Whereof a man may easily in a day 10 
 
 Tell that which may maintain him all his life. 
 The needy groom that never fingered groat, 
 Would make a miracle of thus much coin : 
 But he whose steel-barred coffers are crammed full, 
 And all his lifetime hath been tired, 15 
 
 Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it, 
 Would in his age be loth t6 labour so, 
 And for a pound to sweat himself to death. 
 Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, 
 That trade in metal of the purest mould; 20 
 
 in
 
 112 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks 
 
 Without control can pick his riches up, 
 
 And in his house heap pearls like pebble-stones, 
 
 Receive them free, and sell them by the weight ; 
 
 Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, and amethysts, 25 
 
 Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, 
 
 Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, 
 
 And seld-seen costly stones of so great price, 
 
 As one of them indifferently rated, 
 
 And of a carat of this quantity, 30 
 
 May serve in peril of calamity 
 
 To ransom great kings from captivity. 
 
 This is the ware wherein consists my wealth ; 
 
 And thus methinks should men of judgment frame 
 
 Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, 35 
 
 And as their wealth increaseth, so inclose 
 
 Infinite riches in a little room. 
 
 But now how stands the wind? 
 
 Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill ? 
 
 Ha ! to the east ? yes : see, how stand the vanes ? 40 
 
 East and by south : why then I hope my ships 
 
 I sent for Egypt and the bordering isles 
 
 Are gotten up by Nilus' winding banks : 
 
 Mine argosies from Alexandria, 
 
 Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, 45 
 
 Are smoothly gliding down by Candy shore 
 
 To Malta, through our Mediterranean sea. 
 
 But who. comes here ? 
 
 Enter a Merchant 
 
 How now? 
 
 Merch. Barabas, thy ships are safe, 
 Riding in Malta-road : and all the merchants 50
 
 MARLOWE 113 
 
 With other merchants are safe arrived, 
 And have sent me to know whether yourself 
 Will come and custom them. 
 
 Bar. The ships are safe thou say'st, and richly fraught. 
 
 Merch. They are. $$ 
 
 Bar. Why then go bid them come ashore, 
 And bring with them their bills of entry : 
 I hope our credit in the custom-house 
 Will serve as well as I were present there. 
 Go send 'em threescore camels, thirty mules, 
 And twenty waggons to bring up the ware. 60 
 
 But art thou master in a ship of mine, 
 And is thy credit not enough for that ? 
 
 Merch. The very custom barely comes to more 
 Than many merchants of the town are worth, 
 And therefore far exceeds my credit, sir. 65 
 
 Bar. Go tell 'em the Jew of Malta sent thee, man : 
 Tush ! who amongst 'em knows not Barabas? 
 
 Merch. I go. 
 
 Bar. So then, there's somewhat come. 
 Sirrah, which of my ships art thou master of? 
 
 Merch. Of the Speranza, sir. 
 
 Bar. And saw'st thou not 70 
 
 Mine argosy at Alexandria? 
 
 Thou could'st not come from Egypt, or by Caire, 
 But at the entry there into the sea, 
 Where Nilus pays his tribute to the main, 
 Thou needs must sail by Alexandria. 75 
 
 Merch. I neither saw them, nor inquired of them : 
 But this we heard some of our seamen say, 
 They wondered how you durst with so much wealth 
 Trust such a crazed vessel, and so far. 
 
 Bar. Tush, they are wise ! I know her and her strength. 80
 
 114 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 But go, go thou thy ways, discharge thy ship, 
 
 And bid my factor bring his loading in. \_Exit Merch. 
 
 And yet I wonder at this argosy. 
 
 Enter a second Merchant 
 
 2 d Merch. Thine argosy from Alexandria, 
 Know, Barabas, doth ride in Malta-road, 85 
 
 Laden with riches, and exceeding store 
 Of Persian silks, of gold, and orient pearl. 
 
 Bar. How chance you came not with those other ships 
 That sailed by Egypt? 
 
 2d Merch. Sir, we saw 'em not. 90 
 
 Bar. Belike they coasted round by Candy shore 
 About their oils, or other businesses. 
 But 'twas ill done of you to come so far 
 Without the aid or conduct of their ships. 
 
 2d Merch. Sir, we were wafted by a Spanish fleet, 95 
 That never left us till within a league, 
 That had the galleys of the Turk in chase. 
 
 Bar. O ! they were going up to Sicily : 
 Well, go, 
 
 And bid the merchants and my men despatch 100 
 
 And come ashore, and see the fraught discharged. 
 
 2d Merch. I go. [Exit. 
 
 Bar. Thus trowls our fortune in by land and sea, 
 And thus are we on every side enriched : 
 These are the blessings promised to the Jews, 105 
 
 And herein was old Abram's happiness : 
 What more may heaven do for earthly man 
 Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps, 
 Ripping the bowels of the earth for them, 
 Making the seas their servants, and the winds no 
 
 To drive their substance with successful blasts ?
 
 MARLOWE 115 
 
 Who hateth me but for my happiness? 
 
 Or who is honoured now but for his wealth? 
 
 Rather had I a Jew be hated thus, 
 
 Than pitied in a Christian poverty : 115 
 
 For I can see no fruits in all their faith, 
 
 But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride, 
 
 Which methinks fits not their profession. 
 
 Haply some hapless man hath conscience, 
 
 And for his conscience lives in beggary. 120 
 
 They say we are a scattered nation : 
 
 I cannot tell, but we have scambled up 
 
 More wealth by far than those that brag of faith. 
 
 There's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece, 
 
 Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal, 125 
 
 Myself in Malta, some in Italy, 
 
 Many in France, and wealthy every one ; 
 
 Ay, wealthier far than any Christian. 
 
 I must confess we come not to be kings ; 
 
 That's not our fault : alas, our number's few, 130 
 
 And crowns come either by succession, 
 
 Or urged by force ; and nothing violent 
 
 Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent. 
 
 Give us a peaceful rule, make Christians kings, 
 
 That thirst so much for principality. 135 
 
 I have no charge, nor many children, 
 
 But one sole daughter, whom I hold as dear 
 
 As Agammennon did his Iphigen : 
 
 And all I have is hers. But who comes here? 
 
 Enter three Jews 
 
 1st Jew. Tush, tell not me ; 'twas done of policy. 140 
 2d Jew. Come, therefore, let us go to Barabas, 
 For he can counsel best in these affairs ;
 
 Il6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And here he comes. 
 
 Bar. Why, how now, countrymen ? 
 
 Why flock you thus to me in multitudes? 145 
 
 What accident's betided to the Jews ? 
 
 ist Jew. A fleet of warlike galleys, Barabas, 
 Are come from Turkey, and lie in our road : 
 And they this day sit in the council-house 
 To entertain them and their embassy. 150 
 
 Bar. Why, let 'em come, so they come not to war ; 
 Or let 'em war, so we be conquerors 
 Nay, let 'em combat, conquer, and kill all ! 
 (Aside) So they spare me, my daughter, and my wealth. 
 
 ist Jew. Were it for confirmation of a league, 155 
 
 They would not come in warlike manner thus. 
 
 2(i Jew. I fear their coming will afflict us all. 
 
 Bar. Fond men ! what dream you of their multitudes? 
 What need they treat of peace that are in league ? 
 The Turks and those of Malta are in league. 160 
 
 Tut, tut, there is some other matter in't. 
 
 ist Jew. Why, Barabas, they come for peace or war. 
 
 Bar. Haply for neither, but to pass along 
 Towards Venice by the Adriatic sea ; 
 
 With whom they have attempted many times, 165 
 
 But never could effect their stratagem. 
 
 jd Jew. And very wisely said. It may be so. 
 
 2d Jew. But there's a meeting in the senate-house, 
 And all the Jews in Malta must be there. 
 
 Bar. Hum ; all the Jews in Malta must be there? 170 
 Ay, like enough, why then let every man 
 Provide him, and be there for fashion-sake. 
 If anything shall there concern our state, 
 Assure yourselves I'll look (aside) unto myself. 
 
 ist Jew. I know you will. Well, brethren, let us go. 175
 
 MARLOWE 117 
 
 2d Jew. Let's take our leaves. Farewell, good Barabas. 
 
 Bar. Farewell, Zaareth ; farewell, Temainte. 
 
 [Exeunt Jews. 
 
 And, Barabas, now search this secret out ; 
 Summon thy senses, call thy wits together : 
 These silly men mistake the matter clean. 180 
 
 Long to the Turk did Malta contribute ; 
 Which tribute, all in policy I fear, 
 The Turks have let increase to such a sum 
 As all the wealth of Malta cannot pay; 
 
 And now by that advantage thinks belike 185 
 
 To seize upon the town : ay, that he seeks. 
 Howe'er the world go, I'll make sure for one, 
 And seek in time to intercept the worst, 
 Warily guarding that which I ha' got. 
 Ego mihimet sum semper proximus. 
 Why, let 'em enter, let 'em take the town. \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. Inside the Council-house 
 
 Enter FERNEZE, Governor of Malta, Knights, and Officers ; 
 met by CALYMATH and Bassoes of the Turk 
 
 Fern. Now, Bassoes, what demand you at our hands? 
 
 ist Bas. Know, Knights of Malta, that we came from 
 
 Rhodes, 
 
 From Cyprus, Candy, and those other Isles 
 That lie betwixt the Mediterranean seas. 
 
 Fern. What's Cyprus, Candy, and those other Isles 5 
 To us, or Malta? What at our hands demand ye? 
 
 Cal. The ten years' tribute that remains unpaid. 
 
 Fern. Alas ! my lord, the sum is over-great, 
 I hope your highness will consider us. 
 
 Cal. I wish, grave governor, 'twere in my power 10
 
 Il8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 To favour you, but 'tis my father's cause, 
 Wherein I may not, nay, I dare not dally. 
 
 Fern. Then give us leave, great Selim Calymath. 
 
 [Consults apart with the Knights. 
 
 Cal. Stand all aside, and let the knights determine, 
 And send to keep our galleys under sail, 15 
 
 For happily we shall not tarry here ; 
 Now, governor, say, how are you resolved ? 
 
 Fern. Thus : since your hard conditions are such 
 That you will needs have ten years' tribute past, 
 We may have time to make collection 20 
 
 Amongst the inhabitants of Malta for't. 
 
 ist Bass. That's more than is in our commission. 
 
 Cal. What, Callipine ! a little courtesy. 
 Let's know their time, perhaps it is not long ; 
 And 'tis more kingly to obtain by peace 25 
 
 Than to enforce conditions by constraint. 
 What respite ask you, governor? 
 
 Fern. But a month. 
 
 Cal. We grant a month, but see you keep your promise. 
 Now launch our galleys back again to sea, 30 
 
 Where we'll attend the respite you have ta'en, 
 And for the money send our messenger. 
 Farewell, great governor and brave Knights of Malta. 
 
 Fern. And all good fortune wait on Calymath ! 
 
 \_Exeunt CALYMATH and Bassoes. 
 
 Go one and call those Jews of Malta hither : 35 
 
 Were they not summoned to appear to-day? 
 
 Off. They were, my lord, and here they come. 
 
 Enter BARABAS and three Jews 
 
 ist Knight. Have you determined what to say to them ? 
 Fern. Yes; give me leave: and, Hebrews, now come 
 near.
 
 MARLOWE IIQ 
 
 From the Emperor of Turkey is arrived 40 
 
 Great Selim Calymath, his highness' son, 
 
 To levy of us ten years' tribute past ; 
 
 Now then, here know that it concerneth us 
 
 Bar. Then, good my lord, to keep your quiet still, 
 Your lordship shall do well to let them have it. 45 
 
 Fern. Soft, Barabas, there's more 'longs to't than so. 
 To what this ten years' tribute will amount, 
 That we have cast, but cannot compass it 
 By reason of the wars that robbed our store ; 
 And therefore are we to request your aid. 50 
 
 Bar. Alas, my lord, we are no soldiers : 
 And what's our aid against so great a prince ? 
 
 ist Knight. Tut, Jew, we know thou art no soldier ; 
 Thou art a merchant and a moneyed man. 
 And 'tis thy money, Barabas, we seek. 55 
 
 Bar. How, my lord ! my money? 
 
 Fern. Thine and the rest. 
 For, to be short, amongst you't must be had. 
 
 istjew. Alas, my lord, the most of us are poor. 
 
 Fern. Then let the rich increase your portions. 60 
 
 Bar. Are strangers with your tribute to be taxed ? 
 
 2d Knight. Have strangers leave with us to get their 
 
 wealth ? 
 Then let them with us contribute. 
 
 Bar. How ! equally ? 
 
 Fern. No, Jew, like infidels. 65 
 
 For through our sufferance of your hateful lives, 
 Who stand accursed in the sight of Heaven, 
 These taxes and afflictions are befallen, 
 And therefore thus we are determined 
 Read there the articles of our decrees. 70 
 
 Officer (reads). "First, the tribute-money of the Turks
 
 I2O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 shall all be levied amongst the Jews, and each of them to 
 pay one half of his estate." 
 
 Bar. How, half his estate? (Aside) I hope you mean 
 not mine. 
 
 Fern. Read on. 75 
 
 Off. (reading). "Secondly, he that denies to pay shall 
 straight become a Christian." 
 
 Bar. How ! a Christian ? (Aside) Hum, what's here to 
 do? 
 
 Off. (reading). " Lastly, he that denies this shall abso- 
 lutely lose all he has." 80 
 
 The three Jews. O, my lord, we will give half. 
 
 Bar. O earth-mettled villains, and no Hebrews born ! 
 And will you basely thus submit yourselves 
 To leave your goods to their arbitrament? 
 
 Fern. Why, Barabas, wilt thou be christened ? 85 
 
 Bar. No, governor, I will be convertite. 
 
 Fern. Then pay thy half. 
 
 Bar. Why, know you what you did by this device ? 
 Half of my substance is a city's wealth. 
 Governor, it was not got so easily. 90 
 
 Nor will I part so slightly therewithal. 
 
 Fern. Sir, half is the penalty of our decree, 
 Either pay that or we will seize on all. 
 
 Bar. Corpo di Dio! stay ! you shall have the half ; 
 Let me be used but as my brethren are. 95 
 
 Fern. No, Jew, thou hast denied the articles, 
 And now it cannot be recalled. 
 
 \_Exeunt Officers on a sign from FERNEZE. 
 
 Bar. Will you then steal my goods? 
 Is theft the ground of your religion? 
 
 Fern. No, Jew, we take particularly thine 100 
 
 To save the ruin of a multitude :
 
 MARLOWE 121 
 
 And better one want for the common good 
 
 Than many perish for a private man : 
 
 Yet, Barabas, we will not banish thee, 
 
 But here in Malta, where thou gott'st thy wealth, 105 
 
 Live still ; and, if thou canst, get more. 
 
 Bar. Christians, what or how can I multiply? 
 Of naught is nothing made. 
 
 ist Knight. From naught at first thou cam'st to little 
 
 wealth. 
 
 From little unto more, from more to most : no 
 
 If your first curse fall heavy on thy head, 
 And make thee poor and scorned of all the world, 
 Tis not our fault, but thy inherent sin. 
 
 Bar. What, bring you Scripture to confirm your wrongs? 
 Preach me not out of my possessions. 115 
 
 Some Jews are wicked, as all Christians are : 
 But say the tribe that I descended of 
 Were all in general cast away from sin, 
 Shall I be tried by their transgression? 
 
 The man that dealeth righteously shall live : 120 
 
 And which of you can charge me otherwise? 
 
 Fern. Out, wretched Barabas. 
 Sham'st thou not thus to justify thyself, 
 As if we knew not thy profession ? 
 
 If thou rely upon thy righteousness, 125 
 
 Be patient and thy riches will increase. 
 Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness : 
 And covetousness, O, 'tis a monstrous sin. 
 
 Bar. Ay, but theft is worse : tush ! take not from me 
 
 then, 
 
 For that is theft ! and if you rob me thus, 130 
 
 I must be forced to steal and compass more. 
 
 ist Knight. Grave governor, listen not to his exclaims.
 
 122 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Convert his mansion to a nunnery ; 
 His house will harbour many holy nuns. 
 
 Fern. It shall be so. 135 
 
 Reenter Officers 
 
 Now, officers, have you done ? 
 
 Off. Ay, my lord, we have seized upon the goods 
 And wares of Barabas, which being valued, 
 Amount to more than all the wealth of Malta. 
 And of the other we have seized half. 140 
 
 Fern. Then we'll take order for the residue. 
 
 Bar. Well then, my lord, say, are you satisfied? 
 You have my goods, my money, and my wealth, 
 My ships, my store, and all that I enjoyed ; 
 And, having all, you can request no more ; 145 
 
 Unless your unrelenting flinty hearts 
 Suppress all pity in your stony breasts, 
 And now shall move you to bereave my life. 
 
 Fern. No, Barabas, to stain our hands with blood 
 Is far from us and our profession. 150 
 
 Bar. Why, I esteem the injury far less 
 To take the lives of miserable men 
 Than be the causers of their misery. 
 You have my wealth, the labor of my life, 
 The comfort of mine age, my children's hope, 155 
 
 And therefore ne'er distinguish of the wrong. 
 
 Fern. Content thee, Barabas, thou hast naught but 
 right, 
 
 Bar. Your extreme right does me exceeding wrong : 
 But take it to you, i' the devil's name. 
 
 Fern. Come, let us in, and gather of these goods 160 
 The money for this tribute of the Turk. 
 
 ist Knight. 'Tis necessary that be looked unto :
 
 MARLOWE 123 
 
 For if we break our day, we break the league, 
 And that will prove but simple policy. 
 
 [Exeunt all except BARABAS and the Jews. 
 
 Bar. Ay, policy ! that's their profession, 165 
 
 And not simplicity, as they suggest. 
 The plagues of Egypt, and the curse of Heaven, 
 Earth's barrenness, and all men's hatred 
 Inflict upon them, thou great Primus Motor! 
 And here upon my knees, striking the earth, 170 
 
 I ban their souls to everlasting pains 
 And extreme tortures of the fiery deep, 
 That thus have dealt with me in my distress. 
 
 ist Jew. O yet be patient, gentle Barabas. 
 
 Bar. O silly brethren, born to see this day ; 175 
 
 Why stand you thus unmoved with my laments ? 
 Why weep you not to think upon my wrongs ? 
 Why pine not I, and die in this distress ? 
 
 1st Jew. Why, Barabas, as hardly can we brook 
 The cruel handling of ourselves in this ; 180 
 
 Thou seest they have taken half our goods. 
 
 Bar. Why did you yield to their extortion? 
 You were a multitude, and I but one : 
 And of me only have they taken all. 
 
 1st Jew. Yet, brother Barabas, remember Job. 185 
 
 Bar. What tell you me of Job? I wot his wealth 
 Was written thus : he had seven thousand sheep, 
 Three thousand camels, and two hundred yoke 
 Of labouring oxen, and five hundred 
 
 She-asses : but for every one of those, 190 
 
 Had they been valued at indifferent rate, 
 I had at home, and in mine argosy, 
 And other ships that came from Egypt last, 
 As much as would have bought his beasts and him,
 
 124 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And yet have kept enough to live upon : 195 
 
 So that not he, but I may curse the day, 
 
 Thy fatal birth-day, forlorn Barabas ; 
 
 And henceforth wish for an eternal night, 
 
 That clouds of darkness may inclose my flesh, 
 
 And hide these extreme sorrows from mine eyes : 200 
 
 For only I have toiled to inherit here 
 
 The months of vanity, and loss of time, 
 
 And painful nights, have been appointed me. 
 
 2d Jew. Good Barabas, be patient. 
 
 Bar. Ay, I pray, leave me in my patience. You, 205 
 Were ne'er possessed of wealth, are pleased with want ; 
 But give him liberty at least to mourn, 
 That in a field amidst his enemies 
 Doth see his soldiers slain, himself disarmed, 
 And knows no means of his recovery : 210 
 
 Ay, let me sorrow for this sudden chance ; 
 'Tis in the trouble of my spirit I speak ; 
 Great injuries are not so soon forgot. 
 
 ist Jew. Come, let us leave him ; in his ireful mood 
 Our words will but increase his ecstasy. 215 
 
 2d Jew. On, then ; but trust me, 'tis a misery 
 To see a man in such affliction. 
 Farewell, Barabas ! [Exeunt the three Jews ; 
 
 Bar. Ay, fare you well. 
 
 See the simplicity of these base slaves, 220 
 
 Who, for the villains have no wit themselves, 
 Think me to be a senseless lump of clay 
 That will with every water wash to dirt : 
 No, Barabas is born to better chance, 
 
 And framed of finer mould than common men, 225 
 
 That measure naught but by the present time. 
 A reaching thought will search his deepest wits,
 
 MARLOWE 12$ 
 
 And cast with cunning for the time to come : 
 For evils are apt to happen every day. 
 
 Enter ABIGAIL 
 
 But whither wends my beauteous Abigail ? 230 
 
 ! what has made my lovely daughter sad ? 
 What, woman ! moan not for a little loss : 
 Thy father hath enough in store for thee. 
 
 Abig. Not for myself, but aged Barabas : 
 Father, for thee lamenteth Abigail : 235 
 
 But I will learn to leave these fruitless tears, 
 And, urged thereto with my afflictions, 
 With fierce exclaims run to the senate-house, 
 And in the senate reprehend them all, 
 
 And rend their hearts with tearing of my hair, 240 
 
 Till they reduce the wrongs done to my father. 
 
 Bar. No, Abigail, things past recovery 
 Are hardly cured with exclamations. 
 Be silent, daughter, sufferance breeds ease, 
 And time may yield us an occasion 245 
 
 Which on the sudden can not serve the turn. 
 Besides, my girl, think me not all so fond 
 As negligently to forego so much 
 Without provision for thyself and me : 
 
 Ten thousand portagues, besides great pearls, 250 
 
 Rich costly jewels, and stones infinite, 
 Fearing the worst of this before it fell, 
 
 1 closely hid. 
 
 Abig. Where, father? 
 
 Bar. In my house, my girl. 255 
 
 Abig. Then shall they ne'er be seen of Barabas : 
 For they have seized upon thy house and wares.
 
 126 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Bar. But they will give me leave once more, I trow, 
 To go into my house. 
 
 Abig. That they may not : 260 
 
 For there I left the governor placing nuns, 
 Displacing me ; and of thy house they mean 
 To make a nunnery, where none but their own sect 
 Must enter in ; men generally barred. 
 
 Bar. My gold ! my gold ! and all my wealth is gone ! 265 
 You partial heavens, have I deserved this plague ! 
 What, will you thus oppose me, luckless stars, 
 To make me desperate in my poverty ? 
 And knowing me impatient in distress, 
 Think me so mad as I will hang myself, 270 
 
 That I may vanish o'er the earth in air, 
 And leave no memory that e'er I was ? 
 No, I will live ; nor loathe I this my life : 
 And, since you leave me in the ocean thus 
 To sink or swim, and put me to my shifts, 275 
 
 I'll rouse my senses and awake myself. 
 Daughter ! I have it : thou perceiv'st the plight 
 Wherein these Christians have oppressed me : 
 Be ruled by me, for in extremity 
 We ought to make bar of no policy. 280 
 
 Abig. Father, whate'er it be to injure them 
 That have so manifestly wronged us, 
 What will not Abigail attempt ? 
 
 Bar. Why, so ; 
 
 Then thus, thou told'st me they have turned my house 285 
 Into a nunnery, and some nuns are there? 
 
 Abig. I did. 
 
 Bar. Then, Abigail, there must my girl 
 Entreat the abbess to be entertained. 
 
 Abig. How, as a nun ? 290
 
 MARLOWE 127 
 
 Bar. Ay, daughter, for religion 
 Hides many mischiefs from suspicion. 
 
 Abig. Ay, but, father, they will suspect me there. 
 
 Bar. Let 'em suspect; but be thou so precise 
 As they may think it done of holiness. 295 
 
 Entreat 'em fair, and give them friendly speech, 
 And seem to them as if thy sins were great, 
 Till thou hast gotten to be entertained. 
 
 Abig. Thus, father, shall I much dissemble. 
 
 Bar. Tush ! 300 
 
 As good dissemble that thou never mean'st, 
 As first mean truth and then dissemble it, 
 A counterfeit profession is better 
 Than unseen hypocrisy. 
 
 Abig. Well, father, say that I be entertained, 305 
 
 What then shall follow? 
 
 Bar. This shall follow then ; 
 There have I hid, close underneath the plank 
 That runs along the upper-chamber floor, 
 The gold and jewels which I kept for thee. 310 
 
 But here they come ; be cunning, Abigail. 
 
 Abig. Then, father, go with me. 
 
 Bar. No, Abigail, in this 
 It is not necessary I be seen : 
 
 For I will seem offended with thee for't : 31; 
 
 Be close, my girl, for this must fetch my gold. [They retire
 
 128 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ACT II 
 
 SCENE I. Before BARABAS'S House, now a Nunnery 
 Enter BARABAS with a light 
 
 Bar. Thus, like the sad presaging raven that tolls 
 The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, 
 And in the shadow of the silent night 
 Doth shake contagion from her sable wings ; 
 Vexed and tormented runs poor Barabas 5 
 
 With fatal curses towards these Christians. 
 The uncertain pleasures of swift-footed time 
 Have ta'en their flight, and left me in despair ; 
 And of my former riches rests no more 
 But bare remembrance, like a soldier's scar, 10 
 
 That has no further comfort for his maim. 
 O thou, that with a fiery pillar led'st 
 The sons of Israel through the dismal shades, 
 Light Abraham's offspring ; and direct the hand 
 Of Abigail this night ; or let the day 15 
 
 Turn to eternal darkness after this ! 
 No sleep can fasten on my watchful eyes, 
 Nor quiet enter my distempered thoughts, 
 Till I have answer of my Abigail. 
 
 Enter ABIGAIL above 
 
 Abig. Now have I happily espied a time 20 
 
 To search the plank my father did appoint ; 
 And here behold, unseen, where I have found 
 The gold, the pearls, and jewels, which he hid. 
 
 Bar. Now I remember those old women's words, 
 Who in my wealth would tell me winter's tales, 25
 
 MARLOWE 129 
 
 And speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night 
 
 About the place where treasure hath been hid : 
 
 And now methinks that I am one of those : 
 
 For whilst I live, here lives my soul's sole hope, 
 
 And, when I die, here shall my spirit walk. 30 
 
 Abig. Now that my father's fortune were so good 
 As but to be about this happy place ; 
 Tis not so happy : yet when we parted last, 
 He said he would attend me in the morn. 
 Then, gentle sleep, where'er his body rests, 35 
 
 Give charge to Morpheus that he may dream 
 A golden dream, and of the sudden wake, 
 Come and receive the treasure I have found. 
 
 Bar. Bueno para todos mi ganado no era : 
 As good go on as sit so sadly thus. 40 
 
 But stay, what star shines yonder in the east? 
 The loadstar of my life, if Abigail. 
 Who's there? 
 
 Abig. Who's that ? 
 
 Bar. Peace, Abigail, 'tis I. 45 
 
 Abig. Then, father, here receive thy happiness. 
 
 Bar. Hastthou't? 
 
 Abig. Here, {throws down the bags} hast thou't? 
 There's more, and more, and more. 
 
 Bar. O my girl, 50 
 
 My gold, my fortune, my felicity ! 
 Strength to my soul, death to mine enemy ! 
 Welcome the first beginner of my bliss ! 
 O Abigail, Abigail, that I had thee here too ! 
 Then my desires were fully satisfied : 55 
 
 But I will practise thy enlargement thence : 
 O girl ! O gold ! O beauty ! O my bliss ! \_Hugs the bags. 
 
 Abig. Father, it draweth towards midnight now,
 
 130 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And 'bout this time the nuns begin to wake ; 
 
 To shun suspicion, therefore, let us part. 60 
 
 Bar. Farewell, my joy, and by my fingers take 
 A kiss from him that sends it from his soul. 
 
 \Exit ABIGAIL above. 
 Now Phoebus ope the eyelids of the day, 
 And for the raven wake the morning lark, 
 That I may hover with her in the air ; 65 
 
 Singing o'er these, as she does o'er her young, 
 Hermoso placer de los dineros. \_Exit. 
 
 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 
 
 COME live with me, and be my love ; 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That hills and valleys, dales and fields, 
 Woods or steepy mountain 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 ; 10 
 
 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
 
 Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
 Fair-lined slippers for the cold, 15 
 
 With buckles of the purest gold ;
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
 With coral clasp and amber studs : 
 An if these pleasures may thee move, 
 Come live with me, and be my love. 
 
 The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing 
 For thy delight each May morning : 
 If these delights thy mind may move, 
 Then live with me, and be my love. 
 
 HERO AND LEANDER 
 
 ' WHO taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid ? 
 
 Ay me ! such words as these should I abhor, 
 
 And yet I like them for the orator.' 
 
 With that Leander stoop'd to have embrac'd her, 
 
 But from his spreading arms away she cast her, 5 
 
 And thus bespake him : ' Gentle youth, forbear 
 
 To touch the sacred garments which I wear. 
 
 Upon a rock, and underneath a hill, 
 
 Far from the town, (where all is whist and still, 
 
 Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand, 10 
 
 Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land, 
 
 Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus 
 
 In silence of the night to visit us,) 
 
 My turret stands ; and there, God knows, I play 
 
 With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day. 15 
 
 A dwarfish beldam bears me company, 
 
 That hops about the chamber where I lie, 
 
 And spends the night, that might be better spent, 
 
 In vain discourse and apish merriment : 
 
 Come thither.' 20
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 (15641616) 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 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 : 
 Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
 And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ; 
 And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
 By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd ; 
 But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
 Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
 Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, 
 When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st : 
 
 So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
 So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 
 
 132
 
 SHAKESPEARE 133 
 
 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 possess'd, 
 Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 
 With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
 Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
 Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 10 
 
 Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 
 For thy sweet love rememb'd such wealth brings 
 That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 
 
 XXX 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 
 I summon up remembrance of things past, 
 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 
 
 And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ; 
 
 Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
 
 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 
 
 The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
 
 Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
 
 But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
 All losses are restored and sorrows end.
 
 134 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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. 
 
 xxxvm 
 
 How can my Muse want subject to invent, 
 
 While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse 
 
 Thine own sweet argument, too excellent 
 
 For every vulgar paper to rehearse ? 
 
 O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me 
 
 Worthy perusal stand against thy sight ; 
 
 For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, 
 
 When thou thyself dost give invention light? 
 
 Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth 
 
 Than those old nine which rhymers invocate ; 
 
 And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth 
 
 Eternal numbers to outlive long date. 
 
 If my slight Muse do please these curious days, 
 The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
 
 SHAKESPEARE 135 
 
 LX 
 
 Like as the waves made toward the pebbled shore, 
 So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 
 Each changing place with that which goes before, 
 In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 
 Nativity, once in the main of light, 5 
 
 Crawls to maturity, wherewith being 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. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, 
 As, to behold desert a beggar born, 
 And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, 
 And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 
 And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, 
 And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 
 And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, 
 And strength by limping sway disabled, 
 And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
 And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 
 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.
 
 FROM CHAUCER 70 AXWOLD 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing, 
 And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : 
 The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; 
 My bonds in thee are all determinate. 
 For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? 
 And for that riches where is my deserving? 
 The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, 
 And so my patent back again is swerving. 
 Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing, 
 Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking ; i< 
 
 So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, 
 Comes home again, on better judgement making. 
 Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, 
 In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 
 
 xcni 
 
 So shall I live, supposing thou art true, 
 Like a deceived husband ; so love's face 
 May still seem love to me, though alter'd new ; 
 Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place : 
 For there can live no hatred in thine eye, 
 Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. 
 In many's look the false heart's history 
 Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange, 
 But heaven in thy creation did decree 
 That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell ; 
 Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, 
 Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. 
 How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, 
 If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.
 
 SHAKESPEARE \ 3 7 
 
 XCIV 
 
 They that have power to hurt and will do none, 
 
 That do not do the thing they most do show, 
 
 Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, 
 
 Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ; 
 
 They rightly do inherit heaven's graces 
 
 And husband nature's riches from expense ; 
 
 They are the lords and owners of their faces, 
 
 Others but stewards of their excellence. 
 
 The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, 
 
 Though to itself it only live and die, 10 
 
 But if that flower with base infection meet, 
 
 The basest weed outbraves his dignity : 
 
 For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ; 
 
 Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 
 
 cm 
 
 Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, 
 That having such a scope to show her pride, 
 The argument, all bare, is of more worth 
 Than when it hath my added praise beside ! 
 O, blame me not, if I no more can write ! 
 Look in your glass, and there appears a face 
 That over-goes my blunt invention quite, 
 Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. 
 Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, 
 To mar the subject that before was well? 
 For to no other pass my verses tend 
 Than of your graces and your gifts to tell ; 
 
 And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, 
 Your own glass shows you when you look in it.
 
 138 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 CIV 
 
 To me, fair friend, you never can be old, 
 
 For as you were when first your eye I eyed, 
 
 Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold 
 
 Have from the forest shook three summers' pride, 
 
 Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd 
 
 In process of the seasons have I seen, 
 
 Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, 
 
 Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. 
 
 Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, 
 
 Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived ; 
 
 So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, 
 
 Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived : 
 
 For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred ; 
 
 Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. 
 
 cvi 
 
 When in the chronicle of wasted time 
 I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
 And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
 In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, 
 Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, 
 Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
 I see their antique pen would have express'd 
 Even such a beauty as you master now. 
 So all their praises are but prophecies 
 Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
 And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, 
 They had not skill enough your worth to sing : 
 For we, which now behold these present days, 
 Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
 
 SHAKESPEARE 139 
 
 CVII 
 
 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
 Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, 
 Can yet the lease of my true love control, 
 Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. 
 The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, 5 
 
 And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; 
 Incertainties now crown themselves assured, 
 And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 
 Now with the drops of this most balmy time 
 My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, 10 
 Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, 
 While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : 
 And thou in this shalt find thy monument, 
 When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 
 
 cxvi 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
 
 Admit impediments. Love is not love 
 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 
 Or bends with the remover to remove : 
 
 O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, 
 
 That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; 
 
 It is the star to every wandering bark, 
 
 Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 
 
 Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
 
 Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
 
 But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
 
 If this be error and upon me proved, 
 
 I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
 
 140 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 CXLVI 
 
 Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
 (Fool'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, 
 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 ; 
 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. 
 
 cxLvm 
 
 O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head, 
 Which have no correspondence with true sight ? 
 Or, if they have, where is my judgement fled, 
 That censures falsely what they see aright? 
 If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, 
 What means the world to say it is not so ? 
 If it be not, then love doth well denote 
 Love's eye is not so true as all men's : no, 
 How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true, 
 That is so vex'd with watching and with tears ? 
 No marvel then, though I mistake my view ; 
 The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. 
 
 O cunning Love ! with tears thou keep'st me blind, 
 Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.
 
 SHAKESPEARE 1 4 1 
 
 UNDER the greenwood tree, 
 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 
 And tune his merry note 
 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither : 
 
 Here shall he see no enemy 
 But Winter and rough weather. 
 
 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. 
 
 Merrily, merrily shall I live now, 
 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough ! 
 
 COME unto these yellow sands, 
 
 And then take hands : 
 Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd 
 
 The wild waves whist, 
 Foot it featly, here and there ; 
 And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. 
 Hark, hark ! 
 Bow-wow. 
 The watch-dogs bark : 
 
 Bow-wow. 
 Hark, hark ! I hear 
 The strain of strutting chanticleer 
 Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
 
 142 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 BLOW, blow, thou winter wind ! 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art foreseen, 5 
 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly ; 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 
 Then heigh-ho, the holly ! 
 This life is mere folly. 10 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ! 
 That dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 Though thou the waters warp, 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 15 
 
 As friend remember'd not. 
 Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! etc. 
 
 HARK, hark ! the lark at Heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
 And winding Mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes : 
 With everything that pretty is, 
 
 My lady sweet, arise ; 
 Arise, arise !
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 
 
 (1611) 
 
 EXODUS 15 
 Moses' Song of Deliverance 
 
 THEN sang Moses and the children of Israel this song 
 unto the LORD, and spake, saying, I will sing unto the 
 LORD, for he hath triumphed gloriously ; the horse and 
 his rider hath he thrown into the sea. The LORD is my 
 strength and song, and he is become my salvation ; he 5 
 is my God, and I will prepare him an habitation ; my 
 father's God, and I will exalt him. The LORD is a man 
 of war; the LORD is his name. Pharaoh's chariots and 
 his host hath he cast into the sea ; his chosen captains 
 also are drowned in the Red sea. The depths have cov- 10 
 ered them ; they sank into the bottom as a stone. Thy 
 right hand, O LORD, is become glorious in power; thy 
 right hand, O LORD, hath dashed in pieces the enemy. 
 And in the greatness of thine excellency thou hast over- 
 thrown them that rose up against thee ; thou sentest forth 15 
 thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble. And with 
 the blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered together, 
 the floods stood upright as an heap, and the depths were 
 congealed in the heart of the sea. The enemy said, I 
 will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil ; my 20 
 lust shall be satisfied upon them ; I will draw my sword, 
 my hand shall destroy them. Thou didst blow with thy
 
 144 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 wind, the sea covered them ; they sank as lead in the 
 mighty waters. 
 
 Who is like unto thee, O LORD, among the gods? 25 
 who is like thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, 
 doing wonders? Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, 
 the earth swallowed them. Thou in thy mercy hast 
 led forth the people which thou hast redeemed; thou 
 hast guided them in thy strength unto thy holy habi- 30 
 tation. The people shall hear, and be afraid ; sorrow 
 shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestina. Then 
 the dukes of Edom shall be amazed ; the mighty men 
 of Moab, trembling shall take hold upon them ; all the 
 inhabitants of Canaan shall melt away. Fear and dread 35 
 shall fall upon them ; by the greatness of thine arm they 
 shall be as still as a stone ; till thy people pass over, 
 O LORD, till the people pass over which thou hast pur- 
 chased. Thou shalt bring them in, and plant them in 
 the mountain of thine inheritance, in the place, O LORD, 40 
 which thou hast made for thee to dwell in, in the sanc- 
 tuary, O LORD, which thy hands have established. The 
 LORD shall reign for ever and ever. For the horse of 
 Pharaoh went in with his chariots and with his horsemen 
 into the sea, and the LORD brought again the waters of 45 
 the sea upon them ; but the children of Israel went on 
 dry land in the midst of the sea. And Miriam the 
 prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her 
 hand ; and all the women went out after her with tim- 
 brels and with dances. And Miriam answered them, 50 
 Sing ye to the LORD, for he hath triumphed gloriously ; 
 the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea. 
 
 So Moses brought Israel from the Red sea, and they 
 went out in the wilderness of Shur ; and they went three 
 days in the wilderness, and found no water. And when 55
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 145 
 
 they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters 
 of Marah, for they were bitter ; therefore the name of it 
 was called Marah. And the people murmured against 
 Moses, saying, What shall we drink? And he cried unto 
 the LORD ; and the LORD showed him a tree, -which when 60 
 he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet. 
 There he made for them a statute and an ordinance, and 
 there he proved them, and said, If thou wilt diligently 
 hearken to the voice of the LORD thy God, and wilt do 
 that which is right in his sight, and wilt give ear to his 65 
 commandments, and keep all his statutes, I will put none 
 of these diseases upon thee, which I have brought upon 
 the Egyptians ; for I am the LORD that healeth thee. 
 And they came to Elim, where were twelve wells of 
 water, and threescore and ten palm trees ; and they 70 
 encamped there by the waters. 
 
 2 SAMUEL I : 17-27 
 David's Lament over Saul and Jonathan 
 
 AND David lamented with this lamentation over Saul 
 and over Jonathan his son : (also he bade them teach 
 the children of Judah the use of the bow ; behold, it is 
 written in the book of Jasher.) The beauty of Israel is 
 slain upon thy high places ; how are the mighty fallen ! 5 
 Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Aske- 
 lon ; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the 
 daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. Ye mountains 
 of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain, 
 upon you, nor fields of offerings ; for there the shield of 10 
 the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though
 
 146 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 he had not been anointed with oil. From the blood of 
 the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan 
 turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not 
 empty. Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in 15 
 their lives, and ' in their death they were not divided ; 
 they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than 
 lions. Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who 
 clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, who put on 
 ornaments of gold upon your apparel. How are the 20 
 mighty fallen in the midst of the battle ! O Jonathan, 
 thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for 
 thee, my brother Jonathan ; very pleasant hast thou been 
 unto me ; thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love 
 of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons 25 
 of war perished ! 
 
 PSALM 103 
 
 BLESS the LORD, O my soul ; and all that is within 
 me, bless his holy name. Bless the LORD, O my soul, and 
 forget not all his benefits. Who forgiveth all thine in- 
 iquities ; who healeth all thy diseases. Who redeemeth 
 thy life from destruction ; who crowneth thee with loving- 5 
 kindness and tender mercies. Who satisfieth thy mouth 
 with good things ; so that thy youth is renewed like the 
 eagle's. The LORD executeth righteousness and judgment 
 for all that are oppressed. He made known his ways 
 unto Moses, his acts unto the children of Israel. The 10 
 LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plen- 
 teous in mercy. He will not always chide ; neither will 
 he keep his anger for ever. He hath not dealt with us 
 after our sins ; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities. 
 For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is his 15
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 147 
 
 mercy toward them that fear him. As far as the east is 
 from the west; so far hath he removed our transgressions 
 from us. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the 
 LORD pitieth them that fear him. For he knoweth our 
 frame ; he remembereth that we are dust. As for man, 20 
 his days are as grass ; as a flower of the field, so he flour- 
 isheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone ; and 
 the place thereof shall know it no more. But the mercy 
 of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting upon them 
 that fear him, and his righteousness unto children's chil- 25 
 dren, To such as keep his covenant, and to those that 
 remember his commandments to do them. The LORD 
 hath prepared his throne in the heavens ; and his king- 
 dom ruleth over all. Bless the LORD, ye his angels, that 
 excel in strength, that do his commandments, hearkening 30 
 unto the voice of his word. Bless ye the LORD, all ye his 
 hosts ; ye ministers of his, that do his pleasure. Bless 
 the LORD, all his works in all places of his dominion; 
 bless the LORD, O my soul. 
 
 PROVERBS 8 
 The Invitation of Wisdom 
 
 DOTH not wisdom cry? and understanding put forth 
 her voice? She standeth in the top of high places, by 
 the way in the places of the paths. She crieth at the 
 gates, at the entry of the city, at the coming in at 
 the doors : Unto you, O men, I call, and my voice is to 
 the sons of man. O, ye simple, understand wisdom ; and, 
 ye fools, be ye of an understanding heart. Hear ; for I 
 will speak of excellent things ; and the opening of my
 
 148 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 lips shall be right things. For my mouth shall speak 
 truth ; and wickedness is an abomination to my lips. 10 
 All the words of my mouth are in righteousness ; there 
 is nothing froward or perverse in them. They are all 
 plain to him that understandeth, and right to them 
 that find knowledge. Receive my instruction, and not 
 silver; and knowledge rather than choice gold. For 15 
 wisdom is better than rubies ; and all the things that may 
 be desired are not to be compared to it. 
 
 I wisdom dwell with prudence, and find out knowledge 
 of witty inventions. The fear of the LORD is to hate evil ; 
 pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward 20 
 mouth, do I hate. Counsel is mine, and sound wisdom ; 
 I am understanding; I have strength. By me kings 
 reign, and princes decree justice. By me princes rule, 
 and nobles, even all the judges of the earth. I love them 
 that love me ; and those that seek me early shall find me. 25 
 Riches and honor are with me ; yea, durable riches and 
 righteousness. My fruit is better than gold, yea, than 
 fine gold ; and my revenue than choice silver. I lead in 
 the way of righteousness, in the midst of the paths of 
 judgment ; That I may cause those that love me to inherit 30 
 substance; and I will fill their treasures. The LORD 
 possessed me in the beginning of his way, before his 
 works of old. I was set up from everlasting, from the 
 beginning, or ever the earth was. When there were no 
 depths, I was brought forth ; when there were no foun- 35 
 tains abounding with water. Before the mountains were 
 settled, before the hills was I brought forth ; While as yet 
 he had not made the earth, nor the fields, nor the highest 
 part of the dust of the world. When he prepared the 
 heavens, I was there ; when he set a compass upon the 40 
 face of the depth ; When he established the clouds
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 149 
 
 above ; when he strengthened the fountains of the deep. 
 When he gave to the sea his decree, that the waters should 
 not pass his commandment ; when he appointed the 
 foundations of the earth. Then I was by him, as one 45 
 brought up with him ; and I was daily his delight, rejoic- 
 ing always before him. Rejoicing in the habitable part 
 of his earth ; and my delights were with the sons of 
 men. 
 
 Now therefore hearken unto me, O ye children; for 50 
 blessed are they that keep my ways. Hear instruction, 
 and be wise, and refuse it not. Blessed is the man that 
 heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the 
 posts of my doors. For whoso findeth me findeth life, 
 and shall obtain favor of the LORD. But he that sinneth 55 
 against me wrongeth his own soul ; all they that hate me 
 love death. 
 
 ISAIAH 58 
 True and False Religion 
 
 CRY aloud, spare not, lift up thy voice like a trumpet, 
 and show my people their transgression, and the house of 
 Jacob their sins. Yet they seek me daily, and delight to 
 know my ways, as a nation that did righteousness, and 
 forsook not the ordinance of their God ; they ask of me 
 the ordinances of justice ; they take delight in approach- 
 ing to God. Wherefore have we fasted, say they, and 
 thou seest not? wherefore have we afflicted our soul, and 
 thou takest no knowledge? Behold, in the day of your 
 fast ye find pleasure, and exact all your labors. Behold, 
 ye fast for strife and debate, and to smite with the fist of 
 wickedness ; ye shall not fast as ye do this day, to make
 
 I5O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 your voice to be heard on high. Is it such a fast that I 
 have chosen? a day for a man to afflict his soul? is it to 
 bow down his head as a bulrush, and to spread sackcloth 15 
 and ashes under him? wilt thou call this a fast, and an 
 acceptable day to the LORD? Is not this the fast that I 
 have chosen ? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo 
 the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and 
 that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to 20 
 the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out 
 to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover 
 him ? and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh ? 
 Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine 
 health shall spring forth speedily, and thy righteousness 25 
 shall go before thee ; the glory of the LORD shall be thy 
 rearward. Then shall thou call, and the LORD shall 
 answer ; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am. If 
 thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the 
 putting forth of the finger, and speaking vanity ; And if 30 
 thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the 
 afflicted soul ; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and 
 thy darkness be as the noon day ; And the LORD shall 
 guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, 
 and make fat thy bones ; and thou shalt be like a watered 35 
 garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not. 
 And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste 
 places; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many 
 generations ; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of 
 the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in. If thou 40 
 turn away thy foot from the sabbath, from doing thy 
 pleasure on my holy day ; and call the sabbath a delight, 
 the holy of the LORD, honorable ; and shalt honor him, 
 not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, 
 nor speaking thine own words; Then shalt thou delight 45
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 151 
 
 thyself in the LORD, and I will cause thee to ride upon 
 the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the 
 heritage of Jacob thy father ; for the mouth of the LORD 
 hath spoken it. 
 
 MATTHEW 7 
 The Sermon on the Mount 
 
 JUDGE not, that ye be not judged. For with what judg- 
 ment ye judge, ye shall be judged ; and with what 
 measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. 
 And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's 
 eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own 5 
 eye ? Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull 
 out the mote out of thine eye ; and behold, a beam is in 
 thine own eye ? Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam 
 out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to 
 cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye. Give not that 10 
 which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls 
 before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and 
 turn again and rend you. Ask, and it shall be given you ; 
 seek, and ye shall find ; knock, and it shall be opened 
 unto you ; For every one that asketh receiveth ; and he 15 
 that seeketh findeth ; and to him that knocketh it shall be 
 opened. Or what man is there of you, whom if his son 
 ask bread, will he give him a stone ? Or if he ask a fish, 
 will he give him a serpent ? If ye then, being evil, know 
 how to give good gifts unto your children, how much 20 
 more shall your Father which is in heaven give good 
 things to them that ask him ? Therefore all things what- 
 soever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even
 
 152 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 so to them ; for this is the law and the prophets. Enter 
 ye in at the strait gate ; for wide is the gate, and broad is 25 
 the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be 
 which go in thereat; Because strait is the gate, and 
 narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there 
 be that find it. Beware of false prophets, which come to 
 you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening 30 
 wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men 
 gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so 
 every good tree bringeth forth good fruit ; but a corrupt 
 tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring 
 forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good 35 
 fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is 
 hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their 
 fruits ye shall know them. Not every one that saith unto 
 me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven ; 
 but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in 40 
 heaven. Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, 
 have we not prophesied in thy name, and in thy name 
 have cast out devils, and in thy name done many 
 wonderful works? And then I will profess unto them, I 
 never knew you ; depart from me, ye that work iniquity. 45 
 Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and 
 doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built 
 his house upon a rock ; And the rain descended, and the 
 floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that 
 house ; and it fell not ; for it was founded upon a rock. 50 
 And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and 
 doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, 
 which built his house upon the sand ; And the rain 
 descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and 
 beat upon that house ; and it fell ; and great was the fall 55 
 of it. And it came to pass, when Jesus had ended these
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 153 
 
 sayings, the people were astonished at his doctrine ; For 
 he taught them as one having authority, and not as the 
 scribes. 
 
 I CORINTHIANS 13 
 
 Love Beyond all Things 
 
 THOUGH I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, 
 and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or 
 a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of proph- 
 ecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge ; 
 and though I have all faith, so that I could remove moun- 5 
 tains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I 
 bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give 
 my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth 
 me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind ; charity 
 envieth not ; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up ; 10 
 doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is 
 not easily provoked, thinketh no evil ; Rejoiceth not in 
 iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth ; Beareth all things, 
 believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. 
 Charity never faileth ; but whether there be prophecies, 15 
 they shall fail ; whether there be tongues, they shall 
 cease ; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 
 For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But 
 when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in 
 part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as 20 
 a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child ; 
 but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 
 For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to 
 face ; now I know in part, but then shall I know even as 
 also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, 25 
 these three ; but the greatest of these is charity.
 
 154 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 REVELATION 6 
 
 The Seven Seals 
 
 AND I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, 
 and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the 
 four beasts saying, Come and see. And I saw, and 
 behold a white horse ; and he that sat on him had a 
 bow ; and a crown was given unto him ; and he went 5 
 forth conquering, and to conquer. And when he had 
 opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, 
 Come and see. And there went out another horse that 
 was red ; and power was given to him that sat thereon to 
 take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one 10 
 another; and there was given unto him a great sword. 
 And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the 
 third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a 
 black horse ; and he that sat on him had a pair of bal- 
 ances in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst of 15 
 the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and 
 three measures of barley for a penny ; and see thou hurt 
 not the oil and the wine. And when he had opened the 
 fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, 
 Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse ; 20 
 and his name that sat on him was death, and Hell fol- 
 lowed with him. And power was given unto them over 
 the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword and with 
 hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. 
 And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the 25 
 altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of 
 God, and for the testimony which they held. And they 
 cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O LORD, holy 
 and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 155 
 
 them that dwell on earth? And white robes were given 30 
 unto every one of them ; and it was said unto them, that 
 they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow- 
 servants also and their brethren, that should be killed as 
 they were, should be fulfilled. And I beheld when he 
 had opened the sixth seal, and lo, there was a great earth- 35 
 quake ; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, 
 and the moon became as blood. And the stars of heaven 
 fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely 
 figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. And the 
 heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together ; 40 
 and every mountain and island were moved out of their 
 places. And then the kings of the earth, and the great 
 men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the 
 mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, 
 hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the 45 
 mountains ; and said to the mountains and rocks, Fall 
 on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on 
 the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb ; For the 
 great day of his wrath is come, and who shall be able to 
 stand ? 50
 
 FRANCIS BACON 
 
 (1561-1626) 
 
 ESSAYES 
 Of Truth 
 
 WHAT is Truth; said jesting Pilate ; And would not 
 stay for an Answer. Certainly there be, that delight in 
 Giddinesse ; And count it a Bondage, to fix a Beleefe ; 
 Affecting Freewill in Thinking, as well as in Acting. And 
 though the Sects of Philosophers of that Kinde be gone, 5 
 yet there remaine certaine discoursing Wits, which are of 
 the same veines, though there be not so much Bloud in 
 them, as was in those of the Ancients. But it is not onely 
 the Difficultie, and Labour, which Men take in rinding 
 out of Tntth ; Nor againe, that when it is found, it im- 10 
 poseth upon mens Thoughts ; that doth bring Lies in 
 favour : But a naturall, though corrupt Love, of the Lie it 
 selfe. One of the later Schoole of the Grecians, exam- 
 ineth the matter, and is at a stand, to thinke what should 
 be in it, that men should love Lies ; Where neither they 15 
 make for Pleasure, as with Poet? ; Nor for Advantage, as 
 with the Merchant ; but for the Lies sake. But I cannot 
 tell : This same Truth, is a Naked, and Open day light, 
 that doth not shew, the Masques, and Mummeries, and 
 Triumphs of the world, halfe so Stately, and daintily, as 20 
 Candlelights. Truth may perhaps come to the price of a 
 Pearle, that sheweth best by day : But it will not rise, to 
 the price of a Diamond, or Carbuncle, that sheweth best 
 
 156
 
 BACON 157 
 
 in varied lights. A mixture of a Lie doth ever adde 
 Pleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken 25 
 out of Mens Mindes, Vaine Opinions, Flattering Hopes, 
 False valuations, Imaginations as one would, and the like ; 
 but it would leave the Mindes, of a Number of Men, 
 poore shrunken Things ; full of Melancholy, and Indis- 
 position, and unpleasing to themselves? One of the 30 
 Fathers, in great Severity, called Poesie, Vinum Da- 
 monum ; because it filleth the Imagination, and yet it is, 
 but with the shadow of a Lie. But it is not the Lie, that 
 passeth through the Minde, but the Lie that sinketh in, 
 and setleth in it, that doth the hurt, such as we spake of 35 
 before. But howsoever these things are thus, in men's 
 depraved Judgements, and Affections, yet Trtith, which 
 onely doth judge it selfe, teacheth, that the Inquirie of 
 Truth, which is the Love-making, or Wooing of it ; The 
 knowledge of Truth, which is the presence of it ; and 40 
 the Beleefe of Truth, which is the Enjoying of it ; is the 
 Soveraigne Good of humane Nature. The first Creature 
 of God, in the workes of the Dayes, was the Light of the 
 Sense ; The last, was the Light of Reason ; And his Sab- 
 bath Worke, ever since, is the Illumination of his Spirit. 45 
 First he breathed Light, upon the Face, or the Matter or 
 Chaos ; Then he breathed Light, into the Face of Man ; 
 and still he breatheth and inspireth Light, into the Face 
 of his Chosen. The Poet, that beautified the Sect, that 
 was otherwise inferiour to the rest, saith yet excellently 50 
 well : // is a pleasure to stand upon the shore, and to see 
 ships tost upon the Sea : A pleasure to stand in the win- 
 dow of a Castle, and to see a Battaile, and the Advent- 
 ures thereof, below : But no pleasure is comparable, to 
 the standing, upon the vantage ground of Truth : (A hill 55 
 not to be commanded, and where the Ayre is alwaies
 
 158 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 cleare and serene ;) And to see the Errours, and Wan- 
 drings, and Mists, and Tempests, in the vale below : So 
 alwaies, that this prospect, be with Pitty, and not with 
 Swelling, or Pride. Certainly, it is Heaven upon Earth, 60 
 to have a Mans Minde Move in Charitie, Rest in Prov- 
 idence, and turne upon the Poles of Truth. 
 
 To passe from Theologicall, and Philosophicall Truth, 
 to the Truth of civill Businesse ; It will be acknowledged, 
 even by those, that practize it not, that cleare and Round 65 
 dealing, is the honour of Mans Nature ; And that Mixture 
 of Falshood, is like Allay in Coyne of Gold and Silver ; 
 which may make the Metall worke the better, but it em- 
 baseth it. For these winding, and crooked courses, are 
 the Goings of the Serpent ; which goeth basely upon the 70 
 belly, and not upon the Feet. There is no Vice, that 
 doth so cover a Man with Shame, as to be found false, 
 and perfidious. And therefore Moitntaigny saith prettily, 
 when he enquired the reason, why the word of the Lie, 
 should be such a Disgrace, and such an Odious Charge ? 75 
 Saith he, If it be well weighed, To say that a man lieth, 
 is as much to say, as that he is brave towards God, 
 and a Coward towards Men. For a Lie faces God, and 
 shrinkes from Man. Surely the Wickednesse of Falshood, 
 and Breach of Faith, cannot possibly be so highly ex- 80 
 pressed, as in that it shall be the last Peale, to call the 
 Judgements of God, upon the Generations of Men, it 
 being foretold, that when Christ commeth, He shall not 
 finde Faith iipon the Earth. 
 
 Of Revenge 
 
 REVENGE is a kinde of Wilde Justice ; which the more 
 Mans Nature runs to, the more ought Law to weed it out. 
 For as for the first Wrong, it doth but offend the Law ;
 
 BACON 159 
 
 but the Revenge of that wrong, putteth the Law out of 
 Office. Certainly, in taking Revenge, A Man is but even 5 
 with his Enemy ; But in passing it over, he is Superior : 
 For it is a Princes part to Pardon. And Salomon, I am 
 sure, saith, // is the glory of a Man to passe by an offence. 
 That which is past, is gone, and Irrevocable ; And wise 
 Men have Enough to doe, with things present, and to 10 
 come : Therefore, they doe but trifle with themselves, 
 that labor in past matters. There is no man, doth a 
 wrong, for the wrongs sake ; But therby to purchase him- 
 selfe, Profit, or Pleasure, or Honour, or the like. Ther- 
 fore, why should I be angry with a Man, for loving 15 
 himselfe better than mee ? And if any Man should doe 
 wrong, meerely out of ill nature, why ? yet it is but like 
 the Thorn, or Bryar, which prick, and scratch, because 
 they can doe no other. The most Tolerable Sort of Re- 
 venge, is for those wrongs which there is no Law to rem- 20 
 edy : But then, let a man take heed, the Revenge be such, 
 as there is no law to punish : Else, a Mans Enemy is still 
 before hand, And it is two for one. Some, when they 
 take Revenge, are Desirous the party should know, 
 whence it commeth : This is the more Generous. For 25 
 the Delight seemeth to be, not so much in doing the 
 Hurt, as in Making the Party repent : But Base and 
 Crafty Cowards, are like the Arrow, that flyeth in the 
 Darke. Cosmus Duke of Florence, had a Desperate 
 Saying, against Perfidious or Neglecting Friends, as if 30 
 those wrongs were unpardonable : You shall reade (saith 
 he) that we are commanded to forgive our Enemies ; But 
 you never read, that wee are commanded, to forgive our 
 Friends. But yet the Spirit of Job, was in a better tune ; 
 Shall wee (saith he) take good at Gods Hands, and not 35 
 be content to take evill also ? And so of Friends in a
 
 160 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 proportion. This is certaine ; That a Man that studieth 
 Revenge, keepes his owne Wounds greene, which otherwise 
 would heale, and doe well. Publique Revenges, are, for 
 the most part, Fortunate ; As that for the Death of 40 
 Casar; For the Death of Pertinax ; for 'the Death of 
 Henry the Third of France ; And many more. But in 
 private Revenges it is not so. Nay rather, Vindicative 
 Persons live the Life of Witches ; who as they are Mis- 
 chievous, So end they Infortunate. 45 
 
 Of Studies 
 
 Studies serve for Delight, for Ornament, and for 
 Ability. Their Chiefe Use for Delight, is in Privatenesse 
 and Retiring ; For Ornament, is in Discourse ; And for 
 Ability, is in the Judgement and Disposition of Businesse. 
 For Expert Men can Execute, and perhaps Judge of 5 
 particulars, one by one ; But the generall Counsels, and 
 the Plots, and Marshalling of Affaires, come best from 
 those that are Learned. To spend too much Time in 
 Studies, is Sloth ; To use them too much for Ornament, 
 is Affectation ; To make Judgement wholly by their 10 
 Rules is the Humour of a Scholler. They perfect Nature, 
 and are perfected by Experience : For Naturall Abili- 
 ties, are like Naturall Plants, that need Proyning by 
 Study : And Stttdies themselves, doe give forth Directions 
 too much at Large, except they be bounded in by ex- 15 
 perience. Crafty Men Contemne Studies; Simple Men 
 Admire them ; And Wise Men Use them ; For they teach 
 not their owne Use ; But that is a Wisdome without them, 
 and above them, won by Observation. Reade not to 
 Contradict, and Confute ; Nor to beleeve and Take for 20 
 granted ; Nor to Fiude Talke and Discourse ; But to
 
 BACON l6l 
 
 weigh and Consider. Some Bookes are to be Tasted, 
 Others to be Swallowed, and Some Few to be Chewed and 
 Digested : That is, some Bookes are to be read onely in 
 Parts ; Others to be read but not Curiously ; And some 25 
 Few to be read wholly, and with Diligence and Attention. 
 Some Bookes also may be read by Deputy, and Extracts 
 made of tfiem by Others : But that would be, onely in the 
 lesse important Arguments, and the Meaner Sort of 
 Bookes : else distilled Bookes, are like Common distilled 30 
 Waters, Flashy Things. Reading maketh a Full Man ; 
 Conference a Ready Man ; And Writing an Exact Man. 
 And therefore, If a Man Write little, he had need have a 
 Great Memory ; If he Conferre little, he had need have 
 a Present Wit ; And if he Reade litle, he had need have 35 
 much Cunning, to seeme to know that, he doth not. 
 Histories make Men Wise ; Poets Witty ; The Mathe- 
 maticks Subtill ; Naturall Philosophy deepe ; Moratt 
 Grave ; Logick and Rhetorick Able to Contend. Abeunt 
 studio, in Mores. Nay there is no stond or Impediment 40 
 in the Wit, but may be wrought out by Fit Studies: 
 Like as Diseases of the Body, may have Appropriate 
 Exercises. Bowling is good for the Stone and Reines ; 
 Shooting for the Lungs and Breast ; Gentle Walking for 
 the Stomacke ; Riding for the Head ; And the like. So 45 
 if a Mans Wit be Wandring, let him Study the Mathe- 
 maticks ; For in Demonstrations, if his Wit be called 
 away never so little, he must begin again : If his Wit be 
 not Apt to distinguish or find differences, let him Study 
 the Schoole-men ; For they are Cymini sectores. If he be 50 
 not Apt to beat over Matters, and to call up one Thing, 
 to Prove and Illustrate another, let him Study the 
 Lawyers Cases : So every Defect of the Minde, may have 
 a Speciall Receit.
 
 BEN JONSON 
 
 (1573-1637) 
 
 THE BARRIERS 
 Truth 
 
 UPON her head she wears a crown of stars, 
 Through which her orient hair waves to her waist, 
 By which believing mortals hold her fast, 
 And in those golden cords are carried even, 
 Till with her breath she blows them up to heaven. 
 She wears a robe enchased with eagles' eyes, 
 To signify her sight in mysteries : 
 Upon each shoulder sits a milk-white dove, 
 And at her feet do witty serpents move : 
 Her spacious arms do reach from east to west, 
 And you may see her heart shine through her breast. 
 Her right hand holds a sun with burning rays, 
 Her left a curious bunch of golden keys, 
 With which heaven's gates she locketh and displays. 
 A crystal mirror hangeth at her breast, 
 By which men's consciences are searched and drest : 
 On her coach-wheels Hypocrisy lies racked ; 
 And squint-eyed Slander with Vainglory backed 
 Her bright eyes burn to dust, in which shines Fate : 
 An angel ushers her triumphant gait, 
 Whilst with her fingers fans of stars she twists, 
 And with them beats back Error, clad in mists. 
 162
 
 yo.vso.v 163 
 
 Eternal Unity behind her shines, 
 
 That fire and water, earth and air combines. 
 
 Her voice is like a trumpet loud and shrill, 25 
 
 Which bids all sounds in earth and heaven be still. 
 
 TO CELIA 
 
 DRINK to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine : 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much 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 swear, 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
 SONG 
 
 STILL to be neat, still to be drest, 
 
 As you are going to a feast ; 
 
 Still to be powdered, still perfumed : 
 
 Lady, it is to be presumed, 
 
 Though art's hid causes are not found, 
 
 All is not sweet, all is not sound.
 
 1 64 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 
 Than all the adulteries of art : 
 They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 
 
 THE SHEPHERDS' HOLIDAY 
 
 First Nymph 
 
 THUS, thus begin, the yearly rites 
 Are due to Pan on these bright nights ; 
 His morn now riseth and invites 
 To sports, to dances, and delights : 
 
 All envious and profane, away ! 5 
 
 This is the shepherds' holiday. 
 
 Second Nymph 
 
 Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground 
 
 With every flower, yet not confound ; 
 
 The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse, 
 
 Bright day's-eyes, and the lips of cows, 10 
 
 The garden-star, the queen of May, 
 
 The rose, to crown the holiday. 
 
 Third Nymph 
 
 Drop, drop your violets, change your hues 
 Now red, now pale, as lovers use, 
 And in your death go out as well, 15 
 
 As when you lived unto the smell : 
 
 That from your odour all may say, 
 
 This is the shepherds' holiday.
 
 JONSON 165 
 
 AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL 
 
 WEEP with me, all you that read 
 
 This little story ; 
 And know, for whom a tear you shed 
 
 Death's self is sorry. 
 'Twas a child that so did thrive 5 
 
 In grace and feature, 
 As heaven and nature seemed to strive 
 
 Which owned the creature. 
 Years he numbered scarce thirteen 
 
 When Fates turned cruel, ao 
 
 Yet three filled zodiacs had he been 
 
 The stage's jewel ; 
 And did act, what now we moan, 
 
 Old men so duly, 
 As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one, 15 
 
 He played so truly. 
 So, by error to his fate 
 
 They all consented ; 
 But viewing him since, alas, too late 
 
 They have repented ; 20 
 
 And have sought to give new birth 
 
 In baths to steep him ; 
 But being so much too good for earth, 
 
 Heaven vows to keep him.
 
 1 66 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE AND WHAT HE HATH 
 LEFT US 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakspeare, 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 seeliest 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 ; 10 
 
 Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 
 
 And think to ruin where it seemed to raise. 
 
 These are, as some infamous bawd . . . 
 
 Should praise a matron ; what could hurt her more ? 
 
 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 SHAKSPEARE, rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
 
 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 
 
 A little further to make thee a room : 
 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb, 
 
 And art alive still while thy book doth live, 
 
 And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 
 That I not mix thee so my brain excuses, 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,
 
 JONSON 167 
 
 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 /Eschylus, 
 
 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 alone for a comparison 
 
 Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 
 
 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 40 
 
 Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 
 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
 
 He was not of an age, but for all time ! 
 
 And all the Muses still were in their prime, 
 
 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 45 
 
 Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! 
 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs, 
 
 And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines, 
 
 Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
 
 As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 50 
 
 The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
 
 Neat Terence, witty Flatus, 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 Shakspeare, must enjoy a part. 
 
 For though the poet's matter nature be, 
 
 His art doth give the fashion ; and that he 
 
 Who casts to write a living line, must sweat 
 
 (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 60 
 
 Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same,
 
 1 68 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; 
 
 Or for the laurel he may gain to scorn ; 
 
 For a good poet's made, as well as born. 
 
 And such wert thou ! Look, how the father's face 65 
 
 Lives in his issue, even so the race 
 
 Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines 
 
 In his well turned and true filed lines, 
 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
 
 As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70 
 
 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
 
 To see thee in our waters yet appear, 
 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, 
 
 That so did take Eliza and our James ! 
 
 But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 75 
 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there ! 
 
 Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage 
 
 Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage, 
 
 Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night, 
 
 And despairs day but for thy volume's light. 80 
 
 TO HEAVEN 
 
 GOOD and great God ! can I not think of Thee, 
 
 But it must straight my melancholy be ? 
 
 Is it interpreted in me disease, 
 
 That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease? 
 
 O be Thou witness, that the reins dost know 
 
 And hearts of all, if I be sad for show ; 
 
 And judge me after, if I dare pretend 
 
 To aught but grace, or aim at other end. 
 
 As Thou art all, so be Thou all to me, 
 
 First, midst, and last, converted One and Three !
 
 JON SON 169 
 
 My faith, my hope, my love ; and, in this state, 
 
 My judge, my witness, and my advocate ! 
 
 Where have I been this while exiled from Thee, 
 
 And whither rapt, now Thou but stoop'st to me ? 
 
 Dwell, dwell here still ! O, being everywhere, 15 
 
 How can I doubt to find Thee ever here? 
 
 I know my state, both full of shame and scorn, 
 
 Conceived in sin, and unto labour born, 
 
 Standing with fear, and must with horror fall, 
 
 And destined unto judgment, after all. 20 
 
 I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground 
 
 Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound ; 
 
 Yet dare I not complain or wish for death, 
 
 With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath 
 
 Of discontent ; or that these prayers be 25 
 
 For weariness of life, not love of Thee. 
 
 EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 
 
 UNDERNEATH this sable hearse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 SIDNEY'S sister, PEMBROKE'S mother; 
 Death ! ere thou hast slain another, 
 Learn'd and fair, and good as she, 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee. 
 
 DISCOVERIES 
 Law of Use 
 
 IT is not the passing through these learnings that hurts 
 us, but the dwelling and sticking about them. To descend
 
 I/O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 to those extreme anxieties and foolish cavils of gramma- 
 rians, is able to break a wit in pieces, being a work of 
 manifold misery and vainness, to be elementarii senes. 5 
 Yet even letters are as it were the bank of words, and re- 
 store themselves to an author, as the pawns of language : 
 but talking and eloquence are not the same : to speak, 
 and to speak well, are two things. A fool may talk, but 
 a wise man speaks, and out of the observation, knowl- 10 
 edge, and the use of things, many writers perplex their 
 readers and hearers with mere nonsense. Their writings 
 need sunshine. Pure and neat language I love, yet plain 
 and customary. A barbarous phrase has often made me 
 out of love with a good sense, and doubtful writing hath 15 
 wracked me beyond my patience. The reason why a 
 poet is said that he ought to have all knowledges is, 
 that he should not be ignorant of the most, especially of 
 those he will handle. And indeed, when the attaining of 
 them is possible, it were a sluggish and base thing to de- 20 
 spair. For frequent imitation of anything becomes a 
 habit quickly. If a man should prosecute as much as 
 could be said of every thing, his work would find no end. 
 Speech is the only benefit man hath to express his 
 excellency of mind above other creatures. It is the 25 
 instrument of society ; therefore Mercury, who is the 
 president of language, is called Deorum hominumque 
 interpres. In all speech, words and sense are as the 
 body and the soul. The sense is, as the life and soul 
 of language, without which all words are dead. Sense is 30 
 wrought out of experience, the knowledge of human life 
 and actions, or of the liberal arts, which the Greeks called 
 'EvKVKXoiratSeiav. Words are the people's, yet there is 
 a choice of them to be made. For Verborum delectus 
 origo est eloqucntice. They are to be chose according to 35
 
 JON SON I/I 
 
 the persons we make speak, or the things we speak of. 
 Some are of the camp, some of the council-board, some 
 of the shop, some of the sheep-cote, some of the pulpit, 
 some of the bar, &c. And herein is seen their elegance 
 and propriety, when we use them fitly, and draw them 40 
 forth to their just strength and nature, by way of transla- 
 tion or metaphor. But in this translation we must only 
 serve necessity {Nam temere nihil transferatur a pru- 
 denti) , or commodity, which is a kind of necessity : that 
 is, when we either absolutely want a word to express by, 45 
 and tha't is necessity ; or when we have not so fit a word, 
 and that is commodity ; as when we avoid loss by it, and 
 escape obsceneness, and gain in the grace and property 
 which helps significance. Metaphors far-fet, hinder to 
 be understood ; and affected, lose their grace. Or when 50 
 the person fetcheth his translations from a wrong place. 
 As if a privy-counsellor should at the table take his meta- 
 phor from a dicing-house, or ordinary, or a vintner's 
 vault ; or a justice of peace draw his similitudes from the 
 mathematics, or a divine from a bawdy-house, or taverns ; 55 
 or a gentleman of Northamptonshire, Warwickshire, or 
 the Midland, should fetch all the illustrations to his 
 country neighbours from shipping, and tell them of the 
 mainsheet and the boulin. Metaphors are thus many 
 times deformed. ... All attempts that are new in this 60 
 kind, are dangerous, and somewhat hard, before they be 
 softened with use. A man coins not a new word without 
 some peril, and less fruit; for if it happen to be re- 
 ceived, the praise is but moderate ; if refused, the scorn 
 is assured. Yet we must adventure ; for things, at first 65 
 hard and rough, are by use made tender and gentle. 
 It is an honest error that is committed, following great 
 chiefs.
 
 1/2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the 
 public stamp makes the current money. But we must 70 
 not be too frequent with the mint, every day coining, nor 
 fetch words from the extreme and utmost ages ; since the 
 chief virtue of a style is perspicuity, and nothing so vicious 
 in it as to need an interpreter. Words borrowed of an- 
 tiquity do lend a kind of majesty to style, and are not 75 
 without their delight sometimes. For they have the 
 authority of years, and out of their intermission do win 
 themselves a kind of grace-like newness. But the eldest 
 of the present, and newness of the past language, is the 
 best. For what was the ancient language, which some 80 
 men so dote upon, but the ancient custom? yet when 
 I name custom, I understand not the vulgar custom ; 
 for that were a precept no less dangerous to language 
 than life, if we should speak or live after the manners 
 of the vulgar : but that I call custom of speech, which 85 
 is the consent of the learned ; as custom of life, which is 
 the consent of the good.
 
 JOHN MILTON 
 
 (1608-1674) 
 
 AT A SOLEMN MUSIC 
 
 BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, 
 Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, 
 Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ. 
 Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce ; 
 And to our high-raised phantasy present 5 
 
 That undisturbed song of pure concent, 
 Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne 
 To Him that sits thereon, 
 With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
 Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 10 
 
 Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow, 
 And the Cherubic host in thousand quires 
 Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, 
 With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms, 
 Hymns devout and holy psalms 15 
 
 Singing everlastingly : 
 
 That we on Earth, with undiscording voice, 
 May rightly answer that melodious noise ; 
 As once we did, till disproportioned sin 
 Jarred against nature's chime, and with harsh din 20 
 
 Broke the fair music that all creatures made 
 To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed 
 In perfect diapason, whilst they stood 
 In first obedience, and their state of good. 
 '73
 
 1/4 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 O, may we soon again renew that song, 25 
 
 And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long 
 To his celestial consort us unite, 
 To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light ! 
 
 SONG ON MAY MORNING 
 
 Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger, 
 Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
 The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
 The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
 
 Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
 
 Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! 
 
 Woods and groves are of thy dressing ; 
 
 Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
 Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
 And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 
 
 ON SHAKESPEARE 
 
 WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones 
 
 The labour of an age in piled stones ? 
 
 Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
 
 Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? 
 
 Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 
 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? 
 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 
 Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 
 
 For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, 
 
 Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
 
 MILTON 1/5 
 
 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
 
 Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, 
 
 Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
 
 Dost make us marble with too much conceiving, 
 
 And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie 15 
 
 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 
 
 * 
 
 ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF 
 TWENTY-THREE 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
 
 Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! 
 
 My hasting days fly on with full career, 
 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 
 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 
 That I to manhood am arrived so near; 
 And inward ripeness doth much less appear, 
 That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 
 
 Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, 
 
 It shall be still, in strictest measure even 
 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. 
 
 L'ALLEGRO 
 
 HENCE, loathed Melancholy, 
 
 Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born 
 In Stygian cave forlorn 
 
 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy !
 
 176 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Find out some uncouth cell, 5 
 
 Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, 
 
 And the night-raven sings ; 
 
 There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks, 
 
 As ragged as thy locks, 
 
 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 
 
 But come, thou Goddess fair and free, 
 
 In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, 
 
 And by men heart-easing Mirth; 
 
 Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 
 
 With two sister Graces more, 15 
 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 
 
 Or whether (as some sager sing) 
 
 The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
 
 Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 
 
 As he met her once a-Maying, 20 
 
 There, on beds of violets blue, 
 
 And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
 
 Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 
 
 So buxom, blythe, 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,
 
 MILTON 177 
 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
 
 To live with her, and live with thee, 
 
 In unreproved pleasures free ; 40 
 
 To hear the lark begin his flight, 
 
 And, singing, startle the dull night, 
 
 From his watch-tower in the skies, 
 
 Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
 
 Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 45 
 
 And at my window bid good-morrow, 
 
 Through the sweet-briar or the vine, 
 
 Or the twisted eglantine ; 
 
 While the cock, with lively din 
 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin ; 50 
 
 And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
 
 Stoutly struts his dames before : 
 
 Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
 
 Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
 
 From the side of some hoar hill, 55 
 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
 
 Sometime walking, not unseen, 
 
 By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, 
 
 Right against the eastern gate 
 
 Where the great Sun begins his state, 60 
 
 Robed in flames and amber light, 
 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
 
 While the ploughman, near at hand, 
 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 
 
 And the mower whets his scythe, 
 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 
 Whilst the landskip round it measures : 70 
 
 N
 
 178 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Russet lawns, and fallows grey, 
 
 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. So 
 
 Hard by a cottage chimney smokes 
 
 From betwixt two aged oaks, 
 
 Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 
 
 Are at their savoury dinner set 
 
 Of herbs and other country messes, 85 
 
 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
 
 And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
 
 With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
 
 Or, if the earlier season lead, 
 
 To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 
 
 Sometimes, with secure delight, 
 
 The upland hamlets will invite, 
 
 When the merry bells ring round, 
 
 And jocund rebecks sound 
 
 To many a youth and many a maid 95 
 
 Dancing in the chequered shade, 
 
 And young and old come forth to play 
 
 On a sunshine holiday, 
 
 Till the livelong daylight fail : 
 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 
 
 With stories told of many a feat, 
 
 How Faery Mab the junkets eat. 
 
 She was pinched and pulled, she said ;
 
 MILTON 179 
 
 And he, by Friar's lantern led, 
 
 Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 
 
 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 
 
 When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
 
 His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
 
 That ten day-labourers could not end ; 
 
 Then lies him down, the lubber fiend, no 
 
 And, stretched out all the chimney's length, 
 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
 
 And crop-full out of doors he flings, 
 
 Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
 
 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 
 
 By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 
 
 Towered cities please us then, 
 
 And the busy hum of men, 
 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
 
 In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 120 
 
 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 125 
 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
 
 With mask and antique pageantry ; 
 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 
 On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 
 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
 
 Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 
 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild, 
 
 And ever, against eating cares, 135 
 
 Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
 
 180 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Married to immortal verse, 
 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
 
 In notes with many a winding bout 
 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out 140 
 
 With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
 
 The melting voice through mazes running, 
 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 
 The hidden soul of harmony ; 
 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his head 145 
 
 From golden slumber on a bed 
 
 Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
 
 Such strains as would have won the ear 
 
 Of Pluto to have quite set free 
 
 His half- regained Eurydice. 150 
 
 These delights if thou canst give, 
 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 
 
 IL PENSEROSO 
 
 HENCE, vain deluding Joys, 
 
 The brood of Folly without father bred ! 
 How little you bested, 
 
 Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
 Dwell in some idle brain, 
 
 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. 
 But, hail ! thou Goddess sage and holy ! 
 Hail, divinest Melancholy !
 
 MILTON l8l 
 
 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 
 
 The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended 
 
 Yet thou art higher far descended : 
 
 Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 
 
 To solitary Saturn bore ; 
 
 His daughter she; in Saturn's reign 25 
 
 Such mixture was not held a stain. 
 
 Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
 
 He met her, and in secret shades 
 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 
 Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 
 
 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 
 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
 
 All in a robe of darkest grain, 
 
 Flowing with majestic train, 
 
 And sable stole of cypress lawn 35 
 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 
 Come ; but keep thy 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
 
 1 82 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 melancholy ! 
 
 Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 
 
 I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
 
 And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 
 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
 
 To behold the wandering moon, 
 
 Riding near her highest noon, 
 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 
 Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70 
 
 And oft, as if her head she bowed, 
 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
 
 I hear the far-off curfew sound. 
 
 Over some wide-watered shore, 75 
 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 
 
 Or, if the air will not permit, 
 
 Some still removed place will fit,
 
 MILTON 183 
 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth, 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth, 
 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
 
 Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 85 
 
 Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
 
 Where I may oft 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 fleshy 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, no 
 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
 
 1 84 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 turneys, and of trophies hung, 
 
 Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 
 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
 
 Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
 
 Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont 
 
 With the Attic boy to hunt, 
 
 But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 125 
 
 While rocking winds are piping loud, 
 
 Or ushered with a shower still, 
 
 When the gust hath blown his fill, 
 
 Ending on the rustling leaves, 
 
 With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130 
 
 And, when the sun begins to fling 
 
 His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 
 
 To arched walks of twilight groves, 
 
 And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, 
 
 Of pine, or monumental oak, 135 
 
 Where the rude axe with heaved stroke 
 
 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 honeyed thigh, 
 
 That at her flowery work doth sing, 
 
 And the waters murmuring,
 
 MILTON 185 
 
 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 embowed roof, 
 
 With antique pillars massy-proof, 
 
 And storied windows richly dight, 
 
 Casting a dim religious light. 160 
 
 There let the pealing organ blow, 
 
 To the full-voiced quire below, 
 
 In service high and anthems clear, 
 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
 
 Dissolve me into ecstacies, 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.
 
 1 86 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS 
 
 WHEN I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 
 And that one talent which is death to hide 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my maker, and present 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." 
 
 AREOPAGITICA 
 Truth 
 
 TRUTH indeed came once into the world with her 
 Divine Master, and was a perfect shape most glorious 
 to look on : but when he ascended, and his apostles after 
 him were laid asleep, then straight arose a wicked race of 
 deceivers, who, as that story goes of the Egyptian Typhon 
 with his conspirators, how they dealt with the good Osiris, 
 took the virgin Truth, hewed her lovely form into a thou- 
 sand pieces, and scattered them to the four winds. From 
 that time ever since, the sad friends of Truth, such as 
 durst appear, imitating the careful search that Isis made 
 for the mangled body of Osiris, went up and down gath-
 
 MILTON IS/ 
 
 ering up limb by limb still as they could find them. We 
 have not yet found them all, lords and commons, nor ever 
 shall do, till her Master's second coming ; he shall bring 
 together every joint and member, and shall mould them 15 
 into an immortal feature of loveliness and perfection. 
 Suffer not these licensing prohibitions to stand at every 
 place of opportunity, forbidding and disturbing them that 
 continue seeking, that continue to do our obsequies to 
 the torn body of our martyred saint. 20 
 
 A Nation in its Strength 
 
 Lords and Commons of England ! consider what a 
 nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof ye are the gov- 
 ernors a nation not slow and dull, but of quick, ingen- 
 ious, and piercing spirit ; acute to invent, subtile and 
 sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point 5 
 the highest that human capacity can soar to. Therefore 
 the studies of learning in her deepest sciences have been 
 so ancient and so eminent among us that writers of good 
 antiquity and able judgment have been persuaded that 
 even the school of Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom 10 
 took beginning from the old philosophy of this island. 
 And that wise and civil Roman, Julius Agricola, who 
 governed once here for Caesar, preferred the natural wits 
 of Britain before the labored studies of the French. 
 
 Behold now this vast city a city of refuge, the man- 15 
 sion-house of Liberty encompassed and surrounded 
 with his protection; the shop of war hath not there 
 more anvils and hammers working, to fashion out the 
 plates and instruments of armed Justice in defence of 
 beleaguered Truth, than there be pens and heads there, 20 
 sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolv-
 
 1*8 
 
 ing new notions and ideas wherewith to present, as with 
 their homage and their fealty, the approaching reforma- 
 tion: others as fast reading, trying all things, assenting to 
 the force of reason and convincement. 25 
 
 What could a man require more from a nation so 
 pliant and so prone to seek after knowledge? What 
 wants there to such a towardly and pregnant soil but 
 wise and faithful laborers to make a knowing people, 
 a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies? We 30 
 reckon more than five months yet to harvest ; there 
 need not be five weeks, had we but eyes to lift up : 
 the fields are white already. Where there is much 
 desire to learn, there of necessity will be much argu- 
 ing, much writing, many opinions ; for opinion in good 35 
 men is but knowledge in the making. Under these fan- 
 tastic terrors of sect and schism, we wrong the earnest 
 and zealous thirst after knowledge and understanding 
 which God hath stirred up in this city. What some 
 lament of, we rather should rejoice at, should rather 40 
 praise this pious forwardness among men to re-assume 
 the ill-deputed care of their religion into their own hands 
 again. This is a lively and cheerful presage of our happy 
 success and victory. For as in a body when the blood is 
 fresh, the spirits pure and vigorous, not only to vital, but to 45 
 rational faculties, and those in the acutest and the pert- 
 est operations of wit and subtlety, it argues in what good 
 plight and constitution the body is ; so when the cheer- 
 fulness of the people is so sprightly up as that it has not 
 only wherewith to guard well its own freedom and safety, 50 
 but to spare, and to bestow upon the solidest and sublim- 
 est points of controversy and new invention, it betokens 
 us not degenerated, nor drooping to a fatal decay, by 
 casting off the old and wrinkled skin of corruption to out-
 
 MILTON 189 
 
 live these pangs, and wax young again, entering the glo- 55 
 rious ways of truth and prosperous virtue, destined to 
 become great and honorable in these latter ages. 
 
 Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation 
 rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shak- 
 ing her invincible locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle 60 
 mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled 
 eyes at the full midday beam, purging and unsealing her 
 long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radi- 
 ance ; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking 
 birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, 65 
 amazed at what she means, and in their envious gabble 
 would prognosticate a year of sects and schisms. 
 
 AN APOLOGY FOR SMECTYMNUUS 
 Early Impressions 
 
 IF my name and outward demeanor be not evident 
 enough to defend me, I must make trial if the discovery 
 of my inmost thoughts can : wherein of two purposes, 
 both honest and both sincere, the one perhaps I shall not 
 miss ; although I fail to gain belief with others, of being 5 
 such as my perpetual thoughts shall here disclose me, 
 I may yet fail of success in persuading some to be such 
 really themselves, as they cannot believe me to be more 
 than what I feign. 
 
 I had my time, readers, as others have, who have good 10 
 learning bestowed upon them, to be sent to those places 
 where, the opinion was, it might be soonest attained ; 
 and as the manner is, was not unstudied in those authors 
 which are most commended, whereof some were great
 
 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 orators and historians, whose matter methought I loved 15 
 indeed, but as my age then was, so I understood them ; 
 others were the smooth elegiac poets, whereof the schools 
 are not scarce, whom both for the pleasing sound of their 
 numerous writing, which in imitation I found most easy 
 and most agreeable to nature's part in me, and for their 20 
 matter, which what it is there be few who know not, I 
 was so allured to read that no recreation came to me 
 better welcome. For that it was then those years with 
 me which are excused, though they be least severe, I may 
 be saved the labour to remember ye. Whence having ob- 25 
 served them to account it the chief glory of their wit, in 
 that they were ablest to judge, to praise, and by that 
 could esteem themselves worthiest to love those high 
 perfections which under one or other name they took to 
 celebrate ; I thought with myself by every instinct and 30 
 presage of nature, which is not wont to be false, that what 
 emboldened them to this task might with such diligence 
 as they used embolden me ; and that what judgment, wit, 
 or elegance was my share, would herein best appear, and 
 best value itself, by how much more wisely and with more 35 
 love of virtue I should choose (let rude ears be absent) 
 the object of not unlike praises. For albeit these thoughts 
 to some will seem virtuous and commendable, to others 
 only pardonable, to a third soul perhaps idle ; yet the 
 mentioning of them now will end in serious. 40 
 
 Nor blame it, readers, in those years to propose to 
 themselves such a reward as the noblest dispositions 
 above other things in this life have sometimes preferred ; 
 whereof not to be sensible when good and fair in one 
 person meet, argues both a gross and shallow judgment 45 
 and withal an ungentle and swainish breast. For by the 
 firm settling of these persuasions I became, to my best
 
 MILTON 191 
 
 memory, so much a proficient that if I found those 
 authors anywhere speaking unworthy things of themselves, 
 or unchaste of those names which before they had ex- 50 
 tolled, this effect it wrought with me ; from that time 
 forward their art I still applauded, but the men I de- 
 plored ; and above them all preferred the two famous 
 renowners of Beatrice and Laura, who never write but 
 honour of them to whom they devote their verse, display- 55 
 ing sublime and pure thoughts, without transgression. 
 And long it was not after, when I was confirmed in this 
 opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope 
 to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to 
 be a true poem ; that is, a composition and pattern of 60 
 the best and honourablest things ; not presuming to sing 
 high praises of heroic men, or famous cities, unless he 
 have in himself the experience and the practice of all that 
 which is praiseworthy. These reasonings, together with 
 a certain niceness of nature, and honest haughtiness, and 65 
 self-esteem either of what I was, or what I might be 
 (which let envy call pride), and lastly that modesty, 
 whereof, though not in the title page, yet here I may be 
 excused to make some beseeming profession; all these 
 uniting the supply of their natural aid together, kept me 70 
 still above those low descents of mind beneath which he 
 must deject and plunge himself that can agree to saleable 
 and unlawful prostitutions. 
 
 Next (for hear me out now, readers), that I may tell 
 ye whither my younger feet wandered ; I betook me 75 
 among those lofty fables and romances which recount 
 in solemn cantos the deeds of knighthood founded by 
 our victorious kings and from hence had in renown over 
 all Christendom. There I read it in the oath of every 
 knight, that he should defend to the expense of his best So
 
 IQ2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 blood, or of his life, if it so befell him, the honour and 
 chastity of virgin or matron ; from whence even then I 
 learned what a noble virtue chastity sure must be, to the 
 defence of which so many worthies, by such a dear ad- 
 venture of themselves, had sworn. And if I found in 85 
 the story afterward any of them, by word or deed, break- 
 ing that oath, I judged it the same fault of the poet as ' 
 that which is attributed to Homer, to have written inde- 
 cent things of the gods. Only this my mind gave me, 
 that every free and gentle spirit, without that oath, ought 90 
 to be born a knight, nor needed to expect the gilt spur 
 or the laying of a sword upon his shoulder to stir him 
 up, by his counsel and his arms to secure and protect 
 the weakness of any attempted chastity.
 
 SAMUEL BUTLER 
 
 (1612-1680) 
 
 HUDIBRAS 
 Accomplishments of Hudibras 
 
 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 ; . . . 
 When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 5 
 
 With long-eared rout, to battle sounded ; 
 And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 
 Was beat with fist instead of a stick ; 
 Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, 
 And out he rode a-colonelling. i 
 
 A wight he was, whose very sight would 
 Entitle him mirror of knighthood, 
 That never bowed his stubborn knee 
 To anything but chivalry, 
 
 Nor put up blow but that which laid 15 
 
 Right worshipful on shoulder-blade. 
 
 We grant, although he had much wit, 
 
 H' was very shy of using it, 
 
 As being loath to wear it out, 
 
 And therefore bore it not about, 2 o 
 
 o 193
 
 194 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Unless on holidays or so, 
 
 As men their best apparel do. 
 
 Besides, 'tis known he could s;jeak Greek 
 
 As naturally as pigs squeak ; 
 
 That Latin was no more difficile 25 
 
 Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle 
 
 Being rich in both, he never scanted 
 
 His bounty unto such as wanted ; 
 
 But much of either would afford 
 
 To many that had not one word. 30 
 
 He was in logic a great critic, 
 
 Profoundly skilled in analytic. 
 
 He could distinguish and divide 
 
 A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
 
 On either which he would dispute, 35 
 
 Confute, change hands, and still confute. 
 
 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 ; 40 
 
 A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 
 
 And rooks committee-men and trustees. 
 
 He'd run in debt by disputation, 
 
 And pay with ratiocination. 
 
 All this by syllogism, true 45 
 
 In mood and figure, he would do. 
 
 For rhetoric, he could not ope 
 
 His mouth but out there flew a trope ; 
 
 And when he happened to brake off 
 
 I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 50 
 
 H' had hard words ready to show why,
 
 BUTLER 
 
 195 
 
 And tell what rules he did it by ; 
 
 Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
 
 You'd think he talked like other folk ; 
 
 For all a rhetorician's rules 55 
 
 Teach nothing but to name his tools. 
 
 But when he pleased to show 't, his speech 
 
 In loftiness of sound was rich 
 
 A Babylonish dialect 
 
 Which learned pedants much affect : 60 
 
 It was a parti-colored dress 
 
 Of patched and piebald languages : 
 
 Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
 
 Like fustian heretofore on satin. 
 
 It had an odd promiscuous tone, 65 
 
 As if h' had talked three parts in one ; 
 
 Which made some think when he did gabble 
 
 H' had heard three laborers of Babel, 
 
 Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
 
 A leash of languages at once. ; 
 
 This he as volubly would vent 
 
 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 75 
 
 New words, with little or no wit 
 
 Words so debased 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, 80 
 
 That had the orator who once 
 
 Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones 
 
 When he harangued but known his phrase, 
 
 He would have used no other ways.
 
 196 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 In mathematics he was greater 85 
 
 Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater ; 
 
 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 ; 90 
 
 And wisely tell what hour o' th' day 
 
 The clock does strike, by algebra. 
 
 Besides he was a shrewd philosopher 
 
 And had read every text and gloss over 
 
 Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath 95 
 
 He understood b' implicit faith ; 
 
 Whatever sceptic could inquire for, 
 
 For every why he had a wherefore ; 
 
 Knew more than forty of them do, 
 
 As far as words and terms could go ; 100 
 
 All which he understood by rote, 
 
 And as occasion served would quote : 
 
 No matter whether right or wrong, 
 
 They might be either said or sung. 
 
 His notions fitted things so well 105 
 
 That which was which he could not tell, 
 
 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 ; no 
 
 Where entity and quiddity, 
 
 The ghosts of defunct bodies fly ; 
 
 Where truth in person does appear, 
 
 Like words congealed in northern air. 
 
 He knew what's what, and that's as high 115 
 
 As metaphysic wit can fly. 
 
 In school divinity as able
 
 BUTLER 197 
 
 As he that hight irrefragable ; 
 
 A second Thomas, or, at once 
 
 To name them all, another Dunce ; iao 
 
 Profound in all the nominal 
 
 And real ways beyond them all ; 
 
 For he a rope of sand could twist 
 
 As tough as learned Sorbonist, 
 
 And weave fine cobwebs fit for skull 125 
 
 That's empty when the moon is full 
 
 Such as take lodgings in a head 
 
 That's to be let unfurnished. 
 
 Religion of Hudibras 
 
 For his religion, it was fit 
 
 To match his learning and his wit : 
 
 'Twas Presbyterian true blue ; 
 
 For he was of that stubborn crew 
 
 Of errant saints, whom all men grant 5 
 
 To be the true church militant 
 
 Such as do build their faith upon 
 
 The holy text of pike and gun ; 
 
 Decide all controversies by 
 
 Infallible artillery ; 10 
 
 And prove their doctrine orthodox 
 
 By apostolic blows and knocks ; 
 
 Call fire and sword and desolation 
 
 A godly thorough reformation, 
 
 Which always must be carried on, 15 
 
 And still be doing, never done ; 
 
 As if religion were intended 
 
 For nothing else but to be mended 
 
 A sect whose chief devotion lies
 
 198 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 In odd perverse antipathies ; 20 
 
 In falling out with that or this, 
 
 And finding somewhat still amiss ; 
 
 More peevish, cross, and splenetic 
 
 Than dog distract or monkey sick ; 
 
 That with more care keep holiday 25 
 
 The wrong, than others the right, way ; 
 
 Compound for sins they are inclined to 
 
 By damning those they have no mind to. 
 
 Still so perverse and opposite, 
 
 As if they worshipped God for spite ; 30 
 
 The self-same thing they will abhor 
 
 One way, and long another for : 
 
 Free-will they one way disavow, 
 
 Another nothing else allow ; 
 
 All piety consists therein 35 
 
 In them, in other men all sin ; 
 
 Rather than fail, they will defy 
 
 That which they love most tenderly ; 
 
 Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage 
 
 Their best and dearest friend plum porridge; 40 
 
 Fat pig and goose itself oppose, 
 
 And blaspheme custard through the nose. 
 
 Th' apostles of this fierce religion, 
 
 Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon, 
 
 To whom our knight, by fast instinct 45 
 
 Of wit and temper, was so linked, 
 
 As if hypocrisy and nonsense 
 
 Had got th' advowson of his conscience.
 
 JOHN BUNYAN 
 (1628-1688) 
 
 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
 The Golden City 
 
 Now I saw in my dream that by this time the pilgrims 
 were got over the Enchanted Ground; and, entering 
 into the country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet 
 and pleasant, the way lying directly through it, they 
 solaced themselves there for a season. Yea, here they 5 
 heard continually the singing of birds, and saw every 
 day the flowers appear in the earth, and heard the voice 
 of the turtle in the land. In this country the sun shin- 
 eth night and day : wherefore it was beyond the Valley 
 of the Shadow of Death, and also out of the reach of the 10 
 Giant Despair; neither could they from this place so 
 much as see Doubting Castle. 
 
 Here they were within sight of the city they were going 
 to; also, here met them some of the inhabitants thereof; 
 for in this land the shining ones commonly walked, be- 15 
 cause it was upon the borders of Heaven. In this land, 
 also, the contract between the bride and bridegroom was 
 renewed. Yea, here as the bridegroom rejoiceth over 
 the bride, so did their God rejoice over them. Here 
 they had no want of corn and wine; for in this place they 20 
 met abundance of what they had sought for in all their 
 pilgrimage. Here they heard voices from out of the 
 
 199
 
 200 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 city, loud voices, saying, "Say ye to the daughter of 
 Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh! Behold, his re- 
 ward is with him ! " Here all the inhabitants of the 25 
 country called them " the holy people, the redeemed of 
 the Lord, sought out," etc. 
 
 Now, as they walked in this land, they had more re- 
 joicing than in parts more remote from the kingdom to 
 which they were bound. And drawing nearer to the city 30 
 yet, they had a more perfect view thereof. It was built 
 of pearls and precious stones; also the streets thereof 
 were paved with gold; so that by reason of the natural 
 glory of the city, and the reflection of the sunbeams 
 upon it, Christian with desire fell sick. Hopeful, also, 35 
 had a fit or two of the same disease; wherefore here 
 they lay by it awhile, crying out because of their pangs, 
 " If you see my Beloved, tell him that I am sick of love." 
 
 But being a little strengthened, and better able to bear 
 their sickness, they walked on their way, and came yet 40 
 nearer and nearer, where were orchards, vineyards, and 
 gardens, and their gates opened into the highway. Now, 
 as they came up to these places, behold the" gardener 
 stood in the way, to whom the pigrims said, "Whose 
 goodly vineyards and gardens are these?" He an- 45 
 swered, "They are the King's, and are planted here for 
 his own delight, and also for the solace of pilgrims." 
 So the gardener had them into the vineyards, and had 
 them refresh themselves with the dainties. He also 
 showed them there the King's walks and arbors, where 50 
 he delighted to be. And here they tarried and slept. 
 
 Now I beheld in my dream that they talked more in 
 their sleep at this time than they ever did in all their 
 journey; and being in a muse thereabout, the gardener 
 said even to me, "Wherefore musest thou at the matter? 55
 
 BUN VAN 201 
 
 It is the nature of the fruit of the grapes of these vine- 
 yards to go down so sweetly as to cause the lips of them 
 that are asleep to speak." 
 
 So I saw that when they awoke they addressed them- 
 selves to go up to the city. But, as I said, the reflection 60 
 of the sun upon the city for the city was pure gold 
 was so extremely glorious that they could not as yet with 
 open face behold it, but through an instrument made for 
 that purpose. So I saw that, as they went on, there met 
 them two men in raiment that shone like gold; also 65 
 their faces shone as the light. 
 
 These men asked the pilgrims whence they came? and 
 they told them. They also asked them where they had 
 lodged, what dangers and difficulties, what comforts and 
 pleasures, they had met with in the way ? and they told 70 
 them. Then said the men that had met them, "You 
 have but two difficulties more to meet with, and then 
 you are in the city." 
 
 Christian, then, and his companion asked the men to 
 go along with them; so they told them that they would. 75 
 "But," said -they, "you must obtain it by your own 
 faith." So I saw in my dream that they went on together 
 till they came in sight of the gate. 
 
 Now I further saw that betwixt them and the gate was 
 a river, but there was no bridge to go over, and the river 80 
 was very deep. At the sight, therefore, of this river the 
 pilgrims were much stunned; but the men that went with 
 them said, "You must go through, or you cannot come 
 at the gate." 
 
 The pilgrims then began to inquire if there was no 85 
 other way to the gate? To which they answered, "Yes; 
 but there hath not any, save two, to wit, Enoch and Eli- 
 jah, been permitted to tread that path since the founda-
 
 202 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 tion of the world, nor shall, until the last trumpet shall 
 sound. Then the pilgrims especially Christian 94 
 began to despond in their minds, and looked this way 
 and that; but no way could be found by them by which 
 they could escape the river. Then they asked the men 
 if the waters were all of a depth? They said, "No"; 
 yet they could not help them in that case: "for," said 93 
 they, "you shall find it deeper or shallower, as you be- 
 lieve in the King of the place." 
 
 They then addressed themselves to the water, and en- 
 tering, Christian began to sink, and, crying out to his 
 good friend Hopeful, he said, " I sink in deep waters, too 
 the billows go over my head, all the waters go over me; 
 Selah." Then said the other, "Be of good cheer, my 
 brother; I feel the bottom, and it is good." Then said 
 Christian, " Ah ! my friend, the sorrows of death have 
 compassed me about. I shall not see the land that flows 105 
 with milk and honey." And with that a great darkness 
 and horror fell upon Christian, so that he could not see 
 before him. Also he, in a great measure, lost his 
 senses, so that he could neither remember nor orderly 
 talk of any of those sweet refreshments that he had met no 
 with in the way of his pilgrimage. But all the words 
 that he spake still tended to discover that he had horror 
 of mind and heart-fears that he should die in that river 
 and never obtain entrance in at the gate. Here, also, 
 as they that stood by perceived, he was much in the 115 
 troublesome thoughts of the sins that he had committed, 
 both since and before he began as a pilgrim. It was also 
 perceived that he was troubled with apparitions of hob- 
 goblins and evil spirits; for ever and anon he would in- 
 timate so much by words. Hopeful, therefore, had 120 
 much ado to keep his brother's head above water. Yea,
 
 BUN VAN 2O3 
 
 he would sometimes be quite gone down, and then, ere 
 a while, he would rise up again half dead. Hopeful did 
 also endeavor to comfort him, saying, "Brother, I see 
 the gate, and men standing by to receive us." But Chris- 125 
 tian would answer, " It is you, it is you that they wait 
 for. You have been hopeful ever since I knew you." 
 "And so have you," he said to Christian. "Ah, 
 brother," said he, "surely, if I was right, He would now 
 rise to help me; but for my sins He hath brought me 130 
 into the snare and left me." Then said Hopeful, "My 
 brother, you have quite forgot the text, where it is said 
 of the wicked, 'There are no bands in their death, but 
 their strength is firm; they are not troubled as other 
 men, neither are they plagued like other men.' These 135 
 troubles and distresses that you go through in these 
 waters are no sign that God hath forsaken you, but are 
 sent to try you whether you will call to mind that which 
 heretofore you have received of his goodness and live 
 upon him in your distresses." 140 
 
 Then I saw in my dream that Christian was in a muse 
 a while. To whom, also, Hopeful added these words : 
 "Be of good cheer; Jesus Christ maketh thee whole." 
 And with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, 
 "Oh! I see him again, and he tells me, 'When thou 145 
 passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and 
 through the rivers they shall not overflow thee.' ' Then 
 they both took courage, and the enemy was after that as 
 still as a stone, until they were gone over. Christian, 
 therefore, presently found ground to stand upon, and so 150 
 it followed that the rest of the river was but shallow. 
 Thus they got over. 
 
 Now, upon the bank of the river, on the other side, 
 they saw the two Shining Men again, who there waited
 
 2O4 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 for them. Wherefore, being come out of the river, they 155 
 saluted them, saying, "We are ministering spirits, sent 
 forth to minister to those that shall be heirs of salva- 
 tion." Thus they went along towards the gate. 
 
 Now you must note that the city stood upon a mighty 
 hill; but the pilgrims went up that hill with ease, be- 160 
 cause they had these two men to lead them up by the 
 arms. They had likewise left their mortal garments 
 behind them in the river; for though they went in with 
 them, they came out without them. They therefore 
 went up here with much agility and speed, though the 165 
 foundation upon which the city was framed was higher 
 than the clouds. They therefore went up through the 
 region of the air, sweetly talking as they went, being 
 comforted because they safely got over the river and 
 had such glorious companions to attend them. 170 
 
 The talk that they had with the Shining Ones was 
 about the glory of the place, who told them that the 
 beauty and glory of it was inexpressible. "There," said 
 they, " is Mount Sion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the innu- 
 merable company of angels, and the spirits of just men 175 
 made perfect. You are going now," said they, "to the 
 paradise of God, wherein you shall see the tree of life, 
 and eat of the never-fading fruits thereof; and when 
 you come there, you shall have white robes given you, 
 and your walk and talk shall be every day with the King, 180 
 even all the days of eternity. There you shall not see 
 again such things as you saw when you were in the lower 
 region upon the earth to wit, sorrow, sickness, afflic- 
 tion, and death; for the former things are passed away. 
 You are now going to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, 185 
 and to the prophets, men that God hath taken away 
 from the evil to come, and that are now 'resting upon
 
 BUNYAN 2O5 
 
 their beds, each one walking in his uprightness.' ' The 
 men then asked, "What must we do in the holy place?" 
 To whom it was answered, " You must there receive the 190 
 comforts of all your toil, and have joy for all your sor- 
 row; you must reap what you have sown, even the fruit 
 of all your prayers, and tears, and sufferings for the King 
 by the way. In that place you must wear crowns of gold, 
 and enjoy the perpetual sight and vision of the Holy 195 
 One; for there you shall see him as he is. There also 
 you shall serve him continually with praise, with shout- 
 ing and thanksgiving, whom you desired to serve in the 
 world, though with much difficulty, because oi the in- 
 firmity of your flesh. There your eyes shall be delighted 200 
 with seeing, and your ears with hearing the pleasant 
 voice of the Mighty One. There you shall enjoy your 
 friends again that are gone thither before you; and there 
 you shall with joy receive even every one that followeth 
 into the holy place after you. There also you shall be 205 
 clothed with glory and majesty, and put into an equipage 
 fit to ride out with the King of Glory. When he shall 
 come with sound of trumpet in the clouds, as upon the 
 wings of the wind, you shall come with him; and when 
 he shall sit upon the throne of judgment, you shall sit 210 
 by him; yea, and when he shall pass sentence upon all 
 the workers of iniquity, let them be angels or men, you 
 also shall have a voice in that judgment, because they 
 were his and your enemies. Also, when he shall again 
 return to the city, you shall go, too, with sound of trum- 215 
 pet, and be ever with him." 
 
 Now, while they were thus drawing towards the gate, 
 behold, a company of the heavenly host came out to 
 meet them; to whom it was said by the other two Shin- 
 ing Ones, " These are the men that have loved our Lord 220
 
 206 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 when they were in the world, and that have left all for 
 his holy name; and he hath sent us to fetch them, and 
 we have brought them thus far on their desired journey 
 that they may go in, and look their Redeemer in the 
 face with joy." Then the heavenly host gave a great 225 
 shout, saying, " Blessed are they that are called to the 
 marriage supper of the Lamb." There came out also, 
 at this time, to meet them several of the King's trum- 
 peters, clothed in white and shining raiment, who, with 
 melodious noises and loud, made even the heavens 10230 
 echo with their sound. These trumpeters saluted Chris- 
 tian and his fellow with ten thousand welcomes from the 
 world ; and this they did with shouting and sound of 
 trumpet. 
 
 This done, they compassed them round on every side. 235 
 Some went before, some behind, and some on the right 
 hand, some on the left (as it were, to guard them 
 through the upper regions), continually sounding as they 
 went, with melodious noise, in notes on high : so that 
 the very sight was to them that could behold it as if 240 
 heaven itself was come down to meet them. Thus, 
 therefore, they walked on together; and, as they walked, 
 ever and anon these trumpeters, even with joyful sound, 
 would, by mixing their music with looks and gestures, 
 still signify to Christian and his brother how welcome 245 
 they were into their company, and with what gladness 
 they came to meet them. And now were these two men, 
 as it were, in heaven before they came at it, being swal- 
 lowed up with the sight of angels, and with hearing of 
 their melodious notes. Here, also, they had the city 250 
 itself in view, and thought they heard all the bells therein 
 to ring to welcome them thereto. But, above all, the 
 warm and joyful thoughts that they had about their own
 
 BUNYAN 2O7 
 
 dwelling there with such company, and that for ever and 
 ever oh, by what tongue or pen can their glorious joy 255 
 be expressed ! Thus they came up to the gate. 
 
 Now, when they were come up to the gate, there was 
 written over it in letters of gold, '' Blessed are they that 
 do His commandments, that they may have right to the 
 tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the 260 
 city." 
 
 Then I saw in my dream that the two Shining Men 
 bade them call at the gate. The which when they did, 
 some from above looked over the gate to wit, Enoch, 
 Moses, and Elijah, etc. to whom it was said, "These 265 
 pilgrims are come from the City of Destruction for the 
 love that they bear to the King of this place " : and then 
 the pilgrims gave in unto them each man his certificate 
 which they had received in the beginning. Those, there- 
 fore, were carried in to the King, who, when he had 270 
 read them, said, "Where are the men?" To whom it 
 was answered, "They are standing without the gate." 
 The King then commanded to open the gate, " that the 
 righteous nation," said he, "that keepeth truth may 
 enter in." 275 
 
 Now I saw in my dream that these two men went in 
 at the gate ; and, lo ! as they entered they were transfig- 
 ured, and they had raiment put on that shone like gold. 
 There were also that met them with harps and crowns, 
 and gave them to them the harps to praise withal, and 280 
 the crowns in token of honor. Then I heard in my 
 dream that all the bells in the city rang again for joy, 
 and that it was said unto them, " Enter ye into the joy 
 of your Lord." I also heard the men themselves that 
 they sang with a loud voice, saying, " Blessing, and 285 
 honor, and glory, and power be unto him that sitteth
 
 2O8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 upon the throne, and unto the Lamb, for ever and 
 ever." 
 
 Now, just as the gates were opened to let in the men, 
 I looked in after them, and behold, the city shone like 299 
 the sun; the streets also were paved with gold, and in 
 them walked many men with crowns on their heads, 
 palms in their hands, and golden harps, to sing praises 
 withal. 
 
 There were also of them that had wings, and they an- 295 
 swered one another without intermission, saying, " Holy, 
 holy, holy is the Lord ! " And after that, they shut up 
 the gates; which, when I had seen, I wished myself 
 among them. . . . 
 
 So I awoke; and behold, it was a dream. 300
 
 JOHN DRYDEN 
 
 (1631-1700) 
 
 AN ESSAY ON DRAMATIC POETRY 
 Shakespeare and Jonson 
 
 SHAKESPEARE was the man who of all modern, and 
 perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most com- 
 prehensive soul. All the images of nature were still 
 present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but 
 luckily : when he describes anything, you more than see 5 
 it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have 
 wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: 
 he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles 
 of books to read nature; he looked inwards, and found 
 her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike; were 10 
 he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the 
 greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid; 
 his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious 
 swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when 
 some great occasion is presented to him : no man can 15 
 say, he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not 
 then raise himself as high above the rest of poets, 
 
 Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi. 
 
 The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of Eton say, 
 that there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, 20 
 but he would produce it much better done in Shake- 
 p 209
 
 2IO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 speare; and however others are now generally preferred 
 before him, yet the age wherein he lived, which had 
 contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, never 
 equalled them to him in their esteem : and in the last 25 
 king's court, when Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir 
 John Suckling, and with him the greater part of the 
 courtiers, set our Shakespeare far above him. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, 
 had, with the advantages of Shakespeare's wit, which 30 
 was their precedent, great natural gifts improved by 
 study; Beaumont especially being so accurate a judge of 
 plays that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted all his 
 writings to his censure, and 'tis thought, used his judg- 
 ment in correcting, if not contriving, all his plots. 35 
 What value he had for him, appears by the verses he \vrit 
 to him; and therefore I need speak no farther of it. 
 The first play that brought Fletcher and him in esteem, 
 was their " Philaster; " for before that, they had written 
 two or three very unsuccessfully : as the like is reported 40 
 of Ben Jonson before he writ " Every Man in his Hu- 
 mour." Their plots were generally more regular than 
 Shakespeare's, especially those which were made before 
 Beaumont's death; and they understood and imitated 
 the conversation of gentlemen much better; whose wild 45 
 debaucheries, and quickness of wit in repartees, no poet 
 before them could paint as they have done. Humour, 
 which Ben Jonson derived from particular persons, they 
 made it not their business to describe : they represented 
 all the passions very lively, but above all, love. I am 50 
 apt to believe the English language in them arrived to its 
 highest perfection; what words have since been taken 
 in, are rather superfluous than ornamental. Their plays 
 are now the most pleasant and frequent entertainments
 
 DRYDEN 211 
 
 of the stage; two of theirs being acted through the year 55 
 for one of Shakespeare's or Jonson's: the reason is, 
 because there is a certain gaiety in their comedies, and 
 pathos in their more serious plays, which suits generally 
 with all men's humours. Shakespeare's language is like- 
 wise a little obsolete, and Ben Jonson's wit conies short 60 
 of theirs. 
 
 As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arrived, 
 if we look upon him while he was himself (for his last 
 plays were but his dotages), I think him the most learned 
 and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He 65 
 was a most severe judge of himself, as well as others. 
 One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was 
 frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or 
 alter. Wit and language, and humour also in some 
 measure, we had before him; but something of art was 70 
 wanting to the drama till he came. He managed his 
 strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. 
 You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, 
 or endeavouring to move the passions; his genius was 
 too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially 75 
 when he knew he came after those who had performed 
 both to such an height. Humour was his proper sphere; 
 and in that he delighted most to represent mechanic 
 people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, 
 both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from 80 
 them : there is scarce a poet or historian among the 
 Roman authors of those times, whom he has not trans- 
 lated in "Sej anus" and "Catiline." But he has done 
 his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to 
 be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a mon- 85 
 arch; and what would be theft in other poets, is only 
 victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so
 
 212 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 represents old Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and 
 customs, that if one of their poets had written either of 
 his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If 90 
 there was any fault in his language, it was that he weaved 
 it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies espe- 
 cially: perhaps too, he did a little too much Romanize 
 our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost 
 as much Latin as he found them : wherein, though he 95 
 learnedly followed their language, he did not enough 
 comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him 
 with Shakespeare, I must acknowledge him the more 
 correct poet, but Shakespeare the greater wit. Shake- 
 speare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets; 100 
 Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing : 
 I admire him, but I love Shakespeare. To conclude of 
 him; as he has given us the most correct plays, so in the 
 precepts which he has laid down in his "Discoveries," 
 we have as many and profitable rules for perfecting the 105 
 stage, as any wherewith the French can furnish us. 
 
 TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED 
 YOUNG LADY, MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW, EXCEL- 
 LENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND 
 
 PAINTING 
 
 An Ode, 1686 
 
 THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies 
 Made in the last promotion of the blest; 
 
 Whose palms, new plucked from Paradise, 
 
 In spreading branches more sublimely rise, 
 
 Rich with immortal green above the rest : 5 
 
 Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
 
 DRYDEN 213 
 
 Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race, 
 
 Or in procession fixed and regular 
 Moved with the heavens' majestic pace, 
 
 Or called to more superior bliss, 10 
 
 Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss : 
 Whatever happy region be thy place, 
 Cease thy celestial song a little space ; 
 Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, 
 Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. 15 
 
 Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, 
 
 In no ignoble verse, 
 
 But such as thy own voice did practise here, 
 When thy first fruits of poesy were given, 
 To make thyself a welcome inmate there ; 20 
 
 While yet a young probationer, 
 
 And candidate of Heaven. 
 
 If by traduction came thy mind, 
 
 Our wonder is the less to find 
 
 A soul so charming from a stock so good ; 25 
 
 Thy father was transfused into thy blood : 
 So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, 
 (An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.) 
 
 But if thy pre-existing soul 
 Was formed at first with myriads more, 30 
 
 It did through all the mighty poets roll 
 Who Greek or Latin laurels wore. 
 And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. 
 If so, then cease thy fight, O heaven-born mind ! 
 Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore : 35 
 
 Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find 
 
 Than was the beauteous frame she left behind : 
 Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.
 
 214 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 May we presume to say that, at thy birth, 
 New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth? 40 
 For sure the milder planets did combine 
 On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, 
 And even the most malicious were in trine. 
 Thy brother-angels at thy birth 
 
 Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high, 45 
 
 That all the people of the sky 
 Might know a poetess was born on earth ; 
 And then, if ever, mortal ears 
 Had heard the music of the spheres. 
 And if no clustering swarm of bees 50 
 
 On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, 
 'Twas that such vulgar miracles 
 Heaven had not leisure to renew : 
 For all the blest fraternity of love 54 
 
 Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. 
 
 O gracious God ! how far have we 
 Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy ! 
 Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, 
 Debased to each obscene and impious use, 
 Whose harmony was first ordained above, 60 
 
 For tongues of angels and for hymns of love ! 
 Oh wretched we ! why were we hurried down 
 This lubric and adulterate age, 
 
 (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,) 
 To increase the steaming ordures of the stage ? 65 
 
 What can we say to excuse our second fall ? 
 
 Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all : 
 
 Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled, 
 
 Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled; 
 Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. 70
 
 DRY DEN 215 
 
 Art she had none, yet wanted none, 
 For Nature did that want supply : 
 So rich in treasures of her own, 
 
 She might our boasted stores defy : 
 
 Such noble vigour did her verse adorn - 75 
 
 That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born. 
 Her morals too were in her bosom bred, 
 
 By great examples daily fed, 
 
 What in the best of books, her father's life, she read 
 And to be read herself she need not fear ; 80 
 
 Each test and every light her Muse will bear, 
 Though Epictetus with his lamp were there. 
 Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest), 
 Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast ; 
 
 Light as the vapours of a morning dream, 85 
 
 So cold herself, while she such warmth exprest, 
 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream. 
 
 Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, 
 One would have thought she should have been content 
 To manage well that mighty government ; 90 
 
 But what can young ambitious souls confine? 
 
 To the next realm she stretched her sway, 
 
 For Painture near adjoining lay, 
 A plenteous province and alluring prey. 
 A chamber of Dependences was framed, 95 
 
 (As conquerors will never want pretence, 
 
 When armed, to justify the offence), 
 And the whole fief in right of Poetry she claimed. 
 
 The country open lay without defence. 
 For poets frequent inroads there had made, 100 
 
 And perfectly could represent 
 
 The shape, the face, with every lineament,
 
 2l6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And all the large domains which the dumb Sister swayed ; 
 
 All bowed beneath her government, 
 
 Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went. 105 
 
 Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed, 
 And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind. 
 
 The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks 
 
 And fruitful plains and barren rocks ; 
 
 Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear, no 
 
 The bottom did the top appear ; 
 
 Of deeper too and ampler floods 
 
 Which, as in mirrors, showed the woods ; 
 
 Of lofty trees, with sacred shades 
 
 And perspectives of pleasant glades, 115 
 
 Where nymphs of brightest form appear, 
 
 And shaggy satyrs standing near, 
 
 Which them at once admire and fear. 
 
 The -ruins too of some majestic piece, 
 
 Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece, 120 
 
 Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie, 
 
 And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye ; 
 
 What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame, 
 
 Her forming hand gave feature to the name. 
 
 So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, 125 
 
 But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore. 
 
 The scene then changed ; with bold erected look 
 Our martial King the sight with reverence strook : 
 For, not content to express his outward part, 
 Her hand called out the image of his heart : 130 
 
 His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, 
 His high-designing thoughts were figured there, 
 As when by magic ghosts are made appear. 
 
 Our phoenix queen was portrayed too so bright,
 
 DRY DEN 217 
 
 Beauty alone could beauty take so right : 135 
 
 Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, 
 
 Were all observed, as well as heavenly face. 
 
 With such a peerless majesty she stands, 
 
 As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands 
 
 Before a train of heroines was seen, 140 
 
 In beauty foremost, as in rank the queen. 
 
 Thus nothing to her genius was denied, 
 But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown, 
 Still with a greater blaze she shone, 
 
 And her bright soul broke out on every side. 145 
 What next she had designed, Heaven only knows : 
 To such immoderate growth her conquest rose 
 That Fate alone its progress could oppose. 
 
 Now all those charms, that blooming grace, 
 
 The well-proportioned shape and beauteous face, 150 
 
 Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes ; 
 
 In earth the much-lamented virgin lies. 
 
 Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent ; 
 
 Nor was the cruel Destiny content 
 
 To finish all the murder at a blow, 155 
 
 To sweep at once her life and beauty too ; 
 But, like a hardened felon, took a pride 
 
 To work more mischievously slow, 
 And plundered first, and then destroyed. 
 O double sacrilege on things divine, 160 
 
 To rob the relic, and deface the shrine ! 
 
 But thus Orinda died : 
 
 Heaven by the same disease did both translate ; 
 As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate. 
 Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas 165 
 
 His waving streamers to the wind displays,
 
 2l8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And vows for his return with vain devotion pays. 
 Ah, generous youth ! that wish forbear, 
 The winds too soon will waft thee here ! 
 Slack all thy sails, and fear to come ; 170 
 
 Alas ! thou knowst not, thou art wrecked at home. 
 No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, 
 Thou hast already had her last embrace. 
 But look aloft, and if thou kenst from far, 
 Among the Pleiads, a new-kindled star, 175 
 
 If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 
 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light. 
 
 When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, 
 
 To raise the nations under ground ; 
 
 When in the Valley of Jehosophat 180 
 
 The judging God shall close the book of Fate, 
 
 And there the last assizes keep 
 
 For those who wake and those who sleep ; 
 
 When rattling bones together fly 
 
 From the four corners of the sky ; 185 
 
 When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, 
 Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead ; 
 The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, 
 And foremost from the tomb shall bound, 
 For they are covered with the lightest ground ; 190 
 
 And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, 
 Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. 
 There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go, 
 As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show, 
 The way which thou so well hast learned below. 195
 
 DRY DEN 219 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST ; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC 
 A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day, 1697 
 
 '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 ; 5 
 
 His valiant peers were placed around ; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound : 
 
 (So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
 The lovely Thais, by his side, 
 
 Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, 10 
 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 15 
 
 Timotheus, placed on high 
 
 Amid the tuneful quire, 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 20 
 
 The song began from Jove, 
 Who left his blissful seats above, 
 (Such is the power of mighty love.) 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the God : 
 Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 25 
 
 When he to fair Olympia pressed ; 
 And while he sought her snowy breast,
 
 220 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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, 30 
 
 A present deity, they shout around ; 
 A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound : 
 
 With ravished ears 
 
 The monarch hears, 
 
 Assumes the God, 35 
 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 
 Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. 
 
 The jolly God in triumph comes ; 40 
 
 Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; 
 Flushed with a purple grace 
 He shows his honest face : 
 Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. 
 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young, 45 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
 Rich the treasure, 
 
 Sweet the pleasure, 50 
 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 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, 55 
 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
 And while he heaven and earth defied, 
 Changed his hand, and checked his pride.
 
 DRYDEN 221 
 
 He chose a mournful Muse, 
 Soft pity to infuse ; 60 
 
 He sung Darius great and good, 
 
 By too severe a fate, 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
 
 Fallen from his high estate, 
 
 And weltering in his blood ; 65 
 
 Deserted at his utmost need 
 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 joyous victor sate, 70 
 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various turns of chance below : 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smiled to see 75 
 
 That love was in the next degree ; 
 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 80 
 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble : 
 Honour but an empty bubble ; 
 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying : 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning, 85 
 
 Think, O think it worth enjoying : 
 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
 So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 90
 
 222 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 ; 95 
 
 At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 100 
 
 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. 105 
 
 ' 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 ! no 
 
 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 : 115 
 
 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.' 120 
 
 The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ;
 
 DRYDEN 223 
 
 Thais led the way, 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 125 
 
 Thus long ago, 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
 While organs yet were mute, 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
 
 And sounding lyre, 130 
 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store, 
 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 135 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 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 ; 140 
 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED POR- 
 TRAIT OF MILTON 
 
 (/;/ Ton son's Folio Edition of the 'Paradise Los/,' 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 farther go ; 
 To make a third she joined the former two.
 
 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 (1661-1731) 
 
 ROBINSON CRUSOE 
 The Shipwreck 
 
 BEING in the latitude of twelve degrees eighteen min- 
 utes, a second storm came upon us, which carried us 
 away with the same impetuosity westward, and drove us 
 so out of the very way of all human commerce, that had 
 all our lives been saved, as to the sea, we were rather in 5 
 danger of being devoured by savages than ever returning 
 to our own country. 
 
 In this distress, the wind still blowing very hard, one 
 of our men early in the morning cried out, "Land!" 
 We had no sooner run out of the cabin to look out, in 10 
 hopes of seeing whereabouts in the world we were, but 
 the ship struck upon sand, and, in a moment, her motion 
 being so stopped, the sea broke over her in such a man- 
 ner, that we expected we should all have perished imme- 
 diately. We were immediately driven into our close 15 
 quarters, to shelter us from the very foam and spray of 
 the sea. 
 
 It is not easy for any one, who has not been in the 
 like condition, to describe or conceive the consternation 
 of men in such circumstances. We knew nothing where 20 
 we were, or upon what land it was we were driven, 
 whether an island or the main, whether inhabited or not 
 
 224
 
 DEFOE 225 
 
 inhabited. As the rage of the wind was still great, 
 though rather less than at first, we could not so much as 
 hope to have the ship hold many minutes without break- 25 
 ing in pieces, unless the winds, by a kind of miracle, 
 should turn immediately about. In a word, we sat look- 
 ing one upon another, expecting death every moment, 
 and every man acting as if preparing for another world, 
 for there was little or nothing more for us to do in this. 30 
 That which was our present comfort, and all the comfort 
 we had, was, that contrary to our expectation the ship 
 did not break yet, and that the master said the wind 
 began to abate. 
 
 Now, though we found that the wind did a little abate, 35 
 yet the ship having thus struck upon the sand, and stick- 
 ing too fast for us to expect her getting off, we were in 
 a dreadful condition indeed, and had nothing to do but 
 to think of saving our lives as well as we could. We 
 had a boat at our stern just before the storm, but she 40 
 was first stove by dashing against the ship's rudder, and 
 in the next place she broke away, and either sunk or was 
 driven off to sea, so there was no hope from her. We 
 had another boat on board, but how to get her off into 
 the sea was a doubtful thing. However, there was no 45 
 room to debate, for we fancied the ship would break in 
 pieces every minute, and some told us she was actually 
 broken already. 
 
 In this distress, the mate of our vessel lays hold of the 
 boat, and with the help of the rest of the men, got her 50 
 over the ship's side, and getting all into her, we let go, 
 and committed ourselves, being eleven in number, to 
 God's mercy and the wild sea. 
 
 And now our case was very dismal indeed; for we all 
 saw plainly, that the sea went so high, that the boat could 55 
 Q
 
 226 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 not live, and that we should be inevitably drowned. As 
 to making sail, we had none, nor, if we had, could we 
 have done anything with it. So we worked at the oar 
 towards the land, though with heavy hearts, like men 
 going to execution; for we all knew, that when the boat 60 
 came nearer the shore she would be dashed in a thousand 
 pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we committed 
 our souls to God in the most earnest manner, and the 
 wind driving us towards the shore, we hastened our de- 
 struction with our own hands, pulling as well as we could 65 
 towards land. 
 
 What the shore was, whether rock or sand, whether 
 steep or shoal, we knew not. The only hope that could 
 rationally give us the least shadow of expectation was, 
 if we might happen into some bay or gulf, or the mouth 70 
 of some river, where by great chance we might run our 
 boat in, or get under the lee of the land, and perhaps 
 make smooth water. 
 
 After we had rowed, or rather driven, about a league 
 and a half, as we reckoned it, a raging wave, moun- 75 
 tainlike, came rolling a-stern of us, and plainly bade us 
 expect the coup-de-grace. In a word, it took us with 
 such a fury, that it overset the boat at once; and we 
 were all swallowed up in a moment. 
 
 Nothing can describe the confusion of thought which 80 
 I felt when I sunk into the water. Though I swam very 
 well, yet I could not deliver myself from the waves so as 
 to draw breath, till that wave having driven me, or rather 
 carried me, a vast way on towards the shore, and having 
 spent itself, went back, and left me upon the land almost 85 
 dry, but half dead with the water I took in. I had so 
 much presence of mind, as well as breath left, that seeing 
 myself nearer the mainland than I expected, I got upon
 
 DEFOE 227 
 
 my feet, and endeavored to make on towards the land as 
 fast as I could, before another wave should return and 90 
 take me up again. But I soon found it was impossible 
 to avoid it; for I saw the sea come after me as high as 
 a great hill, and as furious as an enemy which I had no 
 means or strength to contend with. My business was to 
 hold my breath, and raise myself upon the water, if I 95 
 could; and so by swimming to preserve my breathing, 
 and pilot myself towards the shore if possible. My 
 greatest concern now being that the sea, as it would carry 
 me a great way towards the shore when it came on, 
 might not carry me back again with it when it gave back 100 
 towards the sea. 
 
 The wave that came upon me again buried me at once 
 twenty or thirty feet deep in its own body, and I could 
 feel myself carried with a mighty force and swiftness 
 towards the shore a very great way; but I held my 105 
 breath, and assisted myself to swim still fonvard with all 
 my might. I was ready to burst with holding my 
 breath, when, as I felt myself rising up, to my immedi- 
 ate relief, I found my head and hands shoot out above 
 the surface of the water. Though it was not two sec- no 
 onds of time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved 
 me greatly, gave me breath and new courage. I was cov- 
 ered again with water a good while, but not so long but 
 I held it out. Finding the water had spent itself, and 
 began to return, I struck fonvard against the return of 115 
 the waves, and felt ground again with my feet. I stood 
 still a few moments to recover breath, and till the water 
 went from me, and then took to my heels and ran with 
 what strength I had farther towards the shore. But 
 neither would this deliver me from the fury of the sea, 120 
 which came pouring in after me again, and twice more
 
 228 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 I was lifted up by the waves and carried forwards as 
 before, the shore being very flat. 
 
 The last time of these two had well near been fatal to 
 me. The sea having hurried me along as before, landed 125 
 me, or rather dashed me, against a piece of a rock, and 
 that with such force, that it left me senseless, and indeed 
 helpless, as to my own deliverance; for, the blow taking 
 my side and breast, beat the breath, as it were, quite out 
 of my body. Had it not returned again immediately, 1 130 
 must have been strangled in the water; but I recovered 
 a little before the return of the waves, and seeing I 
 should be covered again with the water, I resolved to 
 hold fast by a piece of the rock, and so hold my breath, 
 if possible, till the wave went back. Now, as the waves 135 
 were not so high as at first, being near land, I held my 
 hold till the wave abated, and then fetched another run, 
 which brought me so near the shore that the next wave, 
 though it went over me, yet did not so swallow me up as 
 to carry me away. The next run I took I got to the 140 
 mainland, where, to my great comfort, I clambered up 
 the clefts of the shore, and sat me down upon the grass, 
 free from danger, and quite out of the reach of the 
 water. 
 
 I was now landed and safe on shore, and began to look 145 
 up and thank God that my life was saved in a case 
 wherein there was, some minutes before, scarce any 
 room to hope. I believe it is impossible to express to 
 the life what the ecstasies and transports of the soul are, 
 when it is so saved, as I may say, out of the very grave. 150 
 I walked about on the shore, lifting up my hands, and 
 my whole being, as I may say, wrapt up in the contem- 
 plation of my deliverance, making a thousand gestures 
 and motions which I cannot describe, reflecting upon
 
 DEFOE 229 
 
 all my comrades that were drowned, and that there 155 
 should not be one soul saved but myself. As for them, 
 I never saw them afterwards, or any sign of them, except 
 three of their hats, one cap, and two shoes that were not 
 fellows. 
 
 THE PLAGUE IN LONDON 
 Superstitions 
 
 IT must not be forgot here, that the city and suburbs 
 were prodigiously full of people at the time of this visi- 
 tation, I mean at the time that it began; for though I 
 have lived to see a farther increase, and mighty throngs 
 of people settling in London, more than ever; yet we 5 
 had always a notion that numbers of people, which, the 
 wars being over, the armies disbanded, and the royal 
 family and the monarchy being restored, had flocked to 
 London to settle in business, or to depend upon, and 
 attend the court for rewards of services, preferments, and 10 
 the like, was such, that the town was computed to have 
 in it above a hundred thousand people more than ever 
 it held before; nay, some took upon them to say, it had 
 twice as many, because all the ruined families of the 
 royal party flocked hither; all the soldiers set up trades 15 
 here, and abundance of families settled here; again, the 
 court brought with it a great flux of pride and new 
 fashions; all people were gay and luxurious, and the joy 
 of the restoration had brought a vast many families to 
 London. 20 
 
 But I must go back again to the beginning of this sur- 
 prising time; while the fears of the people were young, 
 they were increased strangely by several odd accidents,
 
 230 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 which put together, it was really a wonder the whole 
 body of the people did not rise as one man and abandon 25 
 their dwellings, leaving the place as a space of ground 
 designed by heaven for an Akeldama, doomed to be 
 destroyed from the face of the earth, and that all that 
 would be found in it would perish with it. I shall name 
 but a few of these things ; but sure they were so many, 30 
 and so many wizards and cunning people propagating 
 them, that I have often wondered there was any (women 
 especially) left behind. 
 
 In the first place, a blazing star or comet appeared for 
 several months before the plague, as there did the year 35 
 after, another, a little before the fire; the old women, 
 and the phlegmatic hypochondriac part of the other sex, 
 whom I could almost call old women too, remarked, es- 
 pecially afterward, though not till both those judgments 
 were over, that those two comets passed directly over the 40 
 city, and that so very near the houses that it was plain 
 they imported something peculiar to the city alone. 
 That the comet before the pestilence was of a faint, dull, 
 languid colour, and its motion very heavy, solemn, and 
 slow; but that the comet before the fire, was bright and 45 
 sparkling, or, as others said, flaming, and its motion 
 swift and furious, and that, accordingly, one foretold a 
 heavy judgment, slow but severe, terrible, and frightful, 
 as was the plague. But the other foretold a stroke, 
 sudden, swift, and fiery, as was the conflagration; nay, 50 
 so particular some people were, that as they looked upon 
 that comet preceding the fire, they fancied that they not 
 only saw it pass swiftly and fiercely, and could perceive 
 the motion with their eye, but even they heard it, that it 
 made a rushing mighty noise, fierce and terrible, though 55 
 at a distance, and but just perceivable.
 
 DEFOE 231 
 
 I saw both these stars, and I must confess, had had so 
 much of the common notion of such things in my head, 
 that I was apt to look upon them as the forerunners and 
 warnings of God's judgments, and especially when the 60 
 plague had followed the first, I yet saw another of the 
 like kind, I could not but say God had not yet sufficiently 
 scourged the city. 
 
 The apprehensions of the people were likewise strangely 
 increased by the error of the times, in which, I think, 65 
 the people, from what principle I cannot imagine, were 
 more addicted to prophecies, and astrological conjura- 
 tions, dreams, and old wives' tales, than ever they were 
 before or since: whether this unhappy temper was origi- 
 nally raised by the follies of some people who got money 70 
 by it, that is to say, by printing predictions and prognos- 
 tications, I know not, but certain it is, books frighted 
 them terribly; such as Lily's Almanack, Gadbury's 
 Astrological Predictions, Poor Robin's Almanack, and 
 the like; also several pretended religious books, one en- 75 
 titled, Come out of Her my People, lest ye be partaker 
 of her Plagues; another called, Fair Warning; another 
 Britain's Remembrancer, and many such; all, or most 
 part of which, foretold directly or covertly, the ruin of 
 the city; nay, some were so enthusiastically bold, as to 80 
 run about the streets with their oral predictions, pre- 
 tending they were sent to preach to the city; and one in 
 particular, who, like Jonah to Nineveh, cried in the 
 streets, Yet forty days and London shall be destroyed. I 
 will not be positive whether he said yet forty days, or yet 85 
 a few days. Another ran about naked, except a pair of 
 drawers about his waist, crying day and night, like a 
 man that Josephus mentions, who cried, Woe to Jerusa- 
 lem! a little before the destruction of that city; so this
 
 232 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 poor naked creature cried, O ! the great and the dread- 90 
 ful God ! and said no more, but repeated those words 
 continually, with a voice and countenance full of horror, 
 a swift pace, and nobody could ever find him to stop, or 
 rest, or take any sustenance, at least that ever I could 
 hear of. I met this poor creature several times in the 95 
 streets, and would have spoke to him, but he would not 
 enter into speech with me, or any one else; but kept on 
 his dismal cries continually. 
 
 These things terrified the people to the last degree; 
 and especially when two or three times, as I have men- 100 
 tioned already, they found one or two in the bills, dead 
 of the plague at St. Giles's. Next to these public 
 things, were the dreams of old women; or, I should say, 
 the interpretation of old women upon other peoples' 
 dreams; and these put abundance of people even out of 105 
 their wits. Some heard voices warning them to be gone, 
 for that there would be such a plague in London, so that 
 the living would not be able to bury the dead; others 
 saw apparitions in the air, and I must be allowed to say 
 of both, I hope without breach of charity, that they heard no 
 voices that never spake, and saw sights that never ap- 
 peared; but the imagination of the people was really 
 turned wayward and possessed; and no wonder if they 
 who were poring continually at the clouds, saw shapes 
 and figures, representations and appearances, which had 115 
 nothing in them but air and vapour. Here they told us 
 they saw a flaming sword held in a hand, coming out of 
 a cloud, with a point hanging directly over the city. 
 There they saw hearses and coffins in the air carrying to 
 be buried. And there again, heaps of dead bodies lying 120 
 unburied and the like; just as the imagination of the poor 
 terrified people furnished them with matter to work upon.
 
 DEFOE 233 
 
 So hypochondriac fancies represent 
 
 Ships, armies, battles in the firmament; 
 
 Till steady eyes the exhalations solve, 125 
 
 And all to its first matter, cloud, resolve. 
 
 I could fill this account with the strange relations such 
 people give every day of what they have seen; and every 
 one was so positive of their having seen what they pre- 
 tended to see, that there was no contradicting them with- 130 
 out breach of friendship, or being accounted rude and 
 unmannerly on the one hand, and profane and impene- 
 trable on the other. One time before the plague was 
 begun, otherwise than as I have said in St. Giles's, I 
 think it was in March, seeing a crowd of people in the 135 
 street, I joined with them to satisfy my curiosity, and 
 found them all staring up into the air to see what a 
 woman told them appeared plain to her, which was an 
 angel clothed in white, with a fiery sword in his hand, 
 waving it or brandishing it over his head. She described 140 
 every part of the figure to the life, showed them the 
 motion and the form, and the poor people came into it 
 so eagerly and with so much readiness: Yes! I see it all 
 plainly, says one, there's the sword as plain as can be; 
 another saw the angel; one saw his very face, and cried 145 
 out, What a glorious creature he was ! One saw one 
 thing, and one another. I looked as earnestly as the 
 rest, but, perhaps, not with so much willingness to be 
 imposed upon; and I said, indeed, that I could see 
 nothing but a white cloud, bright on one side, by the 150 
 shining of the sun upon the other part. The woman 
 endeavoured to show it to me, but could not make me 
 confess that I saw it, which, indeed, if I had, I must 
 have lied : but the woman turning to me looked me in 
 the face and fancied I laughed, in which her imagina- 155
 
 234 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 tion deceived her too, for I really did not laugh, but was 
 seriously reflecting how the poor people were terrified by 
 the force of their own imagination. However, she 
 turned to me, called me profane fellow, and a scoffer, 
 told me that it was a time of God's anger, and dreadful 160 
 judgments were approaching, and that despisers, such as 
 I, should wander \sic\ and perish. 
 
 The people about her seemed disgusted as well as she, 
 and I found there was no persuading them that I did not 
 laugh at them, and that I should be rather mobbed by 165 
 them than be able to undeceive them. So I left them, 
 and this appearance passed for as real as the blazing star 
 itself.
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT 
 
 (1667-1745) 
 
 THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE ANCIENT AND THE 
 iMODERN BOOKS IN SAINT JAMES' LIBRARY 
 
 The Beginning of Hostilities 
 
 THIS quarrel first began, as I have heard it affirmed by 
 an old dweller in the neighbourhood, about a small spot 
 of ground, lying and being upon one of the two tops of 
 the hill Parnassus; the highest and largest of which had, 
 it seems, been time out of mind in quiet possession of 5 
 certain tenants, called the Ancients; and the other was 
 held by the Moderns. But these, disliking their present 
 station, sent certain ambassadors to the Ancients, com- 
 plaining of a great nuisance; how the height of that part 
 of Parnassus quite spoiled the prospect of theirs, es- 10 
 pecially towards the East; and therefore, to avoid a war, 
 offered them the choice of this alternative, either that 
 the Ancients would please to remove themselves and their 
 effects down to the lower summit, which the Moderns 
 would gracefully surrender to them, and advance into 15 
 their place; or else the said Ancients will give leave to 
 the Moderns to come with shovels and mattocks, and 
 level the said hill as low as they shall think it convenient. 
 To which the Ancients made answer, how little they ex- 
 pected such a message as this from a colony whom they 20 
 had admitted, out of their own free grace, to so near a 
 
 235
 
 236 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 neighbourhood. That, as to their own seat, they were 
 aborigines of it, and therefore to talk with them of a re- 
 moval or surrender was a language they did not under- 
 stand. That, if the height of the hill on their side 25 
 shortened the prospect of the Moderns, it was a disad- 
 vantage they could not help; but desired them to con- 
 sider whether that injury (if it be any) were not largely 
 recompensed by the shade and shelter it afforded them. 
 That, as to the levelling or digging down, it was either 30 
 folly or ignorance to propose it, if they did or did not 
 know how that side of the hill was an entire rock, which 
 would break their tools and hearts, without any damage 
 to itself. That they would therefore advise the Moderns 
 rather to raise their own side of the hill than dream of 35 
 pulling down that of the Ancients; to the former of 
 which they would not only give license, but also largely 
 contribute. All this was rejected by the Moderns with 
 much indignation, who still insisted upon one of the two 
 expedients; and so this difference broke out into a long 40 
 and obstinate war, maintained on the one part by reso- 
 lution, and by the courage of certain leaders and allies; 
 but, on the other, by the greatness of their number, 
 upon all defeats affording continual recruits. In this 
 quarrel whole rivulets of ink have been exhausted, and 45 
 the virulence of both parties enormously augmented. 
 Now, it must be here understood, that ink is the great 
 missive weapon in all battles of the learned, which, 
 conveyed through a sort of engine called a quill, infinite 
 numbers of these are darted at the enemy by the valiant 50 
 on each side, with equal skill and violence, as if it were 
 an engagement of porcupines. This malignant liquor 
 was compounded, by the engineer who invented it, of 
 two ingredients which are gall and copperas; by its bit-
 
 SWIFT 237 
 
 terness and venom to suit, in some degree, as well as to 55 
 foment, the genius of the combatants. And as the Gre- 
 cians, after an engagement, when they could not agree 
 about the victory, were wont to set up trophies on both 
 sides, the beaten party being content to be at the same 
 expense, to keep itself in countenance (a laudable and 60 
 ancient custom, happily revived of late in the art of 
 war), so the learned, after a sharp and bloody dispute, 
 do, on both sides, hang out their trophies too, which 
 ever comes by the worst. These trophies have largely 
 inscribed on them the merits of the cause; a full impar- 65 
 tial account of such a Battle, and how the victory fell 
 clearly to the party that set them up. They are known 
 to the world under several names; as disputes, argu- 
 ments, rejoinders, brief considerations, answers, replies, 
 remarks, reflections, objections, confutations. For a 70 
 very few days they are fixed up in all public places, either 
 by themselves or their representatives, for passengers to 
 gaze at; whence the chief est and largest are removed to 
 certain magazines they call libraries, there to remain in 
 a quarter purposely assigned them, and thenceforth 75 
 begin to be called books of controversy. 
 
 In these books is wonderfully instilled and preserved 
 the spirit of each warrior while he is alive; and after 
 his death his soul transmigrates thither to inform them. 
 This, at least, is the more common opinion; but I be- 80 
 lieve it is with libraries as with other cemeteries, where 
 some philosophers affirm that a certain spirit, which 
 they call brutum hominis, hovers over the monument, 
 till the body is corrupted and turns to dust or to worms, 
 but then vanishes or dissolves; so we may say a restless 85 
 spirit haunts over every book, till dust or worms have 
 seized upon it which to some may happen in a few
 
 238 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 days, but to others later and therefore, books of con- 
 troversy being, of all others, haunted by the most dis- 
 orderly spirits, have always been confined in a separate 90 
 lodge from the rest, and for fear of a mutual violence 
 against each other, it was thought prudent by our ances- 
 tors to bind them to the peace with strong iron chains. 
 Of which invention the original occasion was this: 
 When the works of Skotus first came out, they were car- 95 
 ried to a certain library, and had lodgings appointed 
 them; but this author was no sooner settled than he 
 went to visit his master Aristotle, and there both con- 
 certed together to seize Plato by main force, and turn 
 him out from his ancient station among the divines, 100 
 where he had peaceably dwelt near eight hundred years. 
 The attempt succeeded, and the two usurpers have 
 reigned ever since in his stead; but, to maintain quiet 
 for the future, it was decreed that all polemics of the 
 larger size should be held fast with a chain. 105 
 
 By this expedient, the public peace of libraries might 
 certainly have been preserved if a new species of contro- 
 versial books had not arose of late years, instinct with a 
 more malignant spirit, from the war above mentioned 
 between the learned about the higher summit of no 
 Parnassus. 
 
 When these books were first admitted into the public 
 libraries, I remember to have said, upon occasion, to 
 several persons concerned, how I was sure they would 
 create broils wherever they came, unless a world of care 115 
 were taken; and therefore I advised that the champions 
 of each side should be coupled together, or otherwise 
 mixed, that, like the blending of contrary poisons, their 
 malignity might be employed among themselves. And 
 it seems I was neither an ill prophet nor an ill counsel- 120
 
 SWIFT 239 
 
 lor; for it was nothing else but the neglect of this caution 
 which gave occasion to the terrible fight that happened 
 on Friday last between the Ancient and Modern Books 
 in the King's Library. Now, because the talk of this 
 battle is so fresh in everybody's mouth, and the expecta- 125 
 tion of the town so great to be informed in the particu- 
 lars, I, being possessed of all qualifications requisite in 
 an historian, and retained by neither party, have re- 
 solved to comply with the urgent importunity of my 
 friends, by writing down a full impartial account thereof. 130 
 
 The guardian of the Regal Library, a person of great 
 valour, but chiefly renowned for his humanity, had been 
 a fierce champion for the Moderns, and, in an engage- 
 ment upon Parnassus, had vowed with his own hands to 
 knock down two of the ancient chiefs who guarded a 135 
 small pass on the superior rock, but, endeavouring to 
 climb up, was cruelly obstructed by his own unhappy 
 weight and tendency towards his centre, a quality to 
 which those of the Modern party are extremely subject; 
 for, being lightheaded, they have, in speculation, a 140 
 wonderful agility, and conceive nothing too high for 
 them to mount, but, in reducing to practice, discover 
 a mighty pressure about their posteriors and their heels. 
 Having thus failed in his design, the disappointed 
 champion bore a cruel rancour to the Ancients, which 145 
 he resolved to gratify by showing all marks of his favour 
 to the books of their adversaries, and lodging them in 
 the fairest apartments; when, at the same time, what- 
 ever book had the boldness to own itself for an advo- 
 cate of the Ancients was buried alive in some obscure 150 
 corner, and threatened, upon the least displeasure, to 
 be turned out of doors. Besides, it so happened that 
 about this time there was a strange confusion of place
 
 240 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 among all the books in the library, for which several 
 reasons were assigned. Some imputed it to a great heap 155 
 of learned dust, which a perverse wind blew off from a 
 shelf of Moderns into the keeper's eyes. Others main- 
 tained that, by walking much in the dark about the li- 
 brary, he had quite lost the situation of it out of his 
 head; and therefore, in replacing his books, he was apt 1 60 
 to mistake and clap Descartes next to Aristotle, poor 
 Plato had got between Hobbes and the Seven Wise Mas- 
 ters, and Virgil was hemmed in with Dryden on one 
 side and Wither on the other. 
 
 Meanwhile, those books that were advocates for the 165 
 Moderns, chose out one from among them to make a 
 progress through the whole library, examine the number 
 and strength of their party, and concert their affairs. 
 This messenger performed all things very industriously, 
 and brought back with him a list of their forces, in all 170 
 fifty thousand, consisting chiefly of light-horse, heavy- 
 armed foot, and mercenaries; whereof the foot were in 
 general but sorrily armed and worse clad; their horses 
 large, but extremely out of case and heart; however, 
 some few, by trading among the Ancients, had furnished 175 
 themselves tolerable enough. 
 
 While things were in this ferment, discord grew ex- 
 tremely high; hot words passed on both sides, and ill 
 blood was plentifully bred. Here a solitary Ancient, 
 squeezed up among a whole shelf of Moderns, offered 180 
 fairly to dispute the case, and to prove by manifest 
 reason that the priority was due to them from long pos- 
 session, and in regard of their prudence, antiquity, and, 
 above all, their great merits toward the Moderns. But 
 these denied the premises, and seemed very much to 185 
 wonder how the Ancients could pretend to insist upon
 
 SWIFT 241 
 
 their antiquity, when it was so plain (if they went to 
 that) that the Moderns were much the more ancient of 
 the two. As for any obligations they owed to the 
 Ancients, they renounced them all. "It is true," said 190 
 they, " we are informed some few of our party have been 
 so mean as to borrow their subsistence from you, but 
 the rest, infinitely the greater number (and especially 
 we French and English), were so far from stooping to 
 so base an example, that there never passed, till this 195 
 very hour, six words between us. For our horses were 
 of our own breeding, our arms of our own forging, and 
 our clothes of our own cutting out and sewing." Plato 
 was by chance upon the next shelf, and observing those 
 that spoke to be in the ragged plight mentioned a while 200 
 ago, their jades lean and foundered, their weapons of 
 rotten wood, their armour rusty, and nothing but rags 
 underneath, he laughed loud, and in his pleasant way 
 swore he believed them. 
 
 Now, the Moderns had not proceeded in their late 205 
 negociation with secrecy enough to escape the notice of 
 the enemy. For those advocates who had begun the 
 quarrel, by setting first on foot the dispute of prece- 
 dency, talked so loud of coming to a battle, that Sir 
 William Temple happened to overhear them, and gave 210 
 immediate intelligence to the Ancients, who thereupon 
 drew up their scattered troops together, resolving to act 
 upon the defensive; upon which, several of the Mod- 
 erns fled over to their party, and among the rest Temple 
 himself. This Temple, having been educated and long 215 
 conversed among the Ancients, was, of all the Moderns, 
 their greatest favourite, and became their greatest 
 champion.
 
 242 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 GULLIVER'S TRAVELS 
 The Academy of Lagado 
 
 I WAS received very kindly by the warden, and went 
 for many days to the academy. Every room has in it 
 one or more projectors, and I believe I could not be in 
 fewer than five hundred rooms. The first man I saw was 
 of a meagre aspect, with sooty hands and face, his hair 5 
 and beard long, ragged, and singed in several places. 
 His clothes, shirt, and skin were all of the same color. 
 He had been eight years upon a project for extracting 
 sunbeams out of cucumbers, which were to be put in 
 vials hermetically sealed, and let out to warm the air in 10 
 raw, inclement summers. He told me he did not doubt 
 in eight years more that he should be able to supply the 
 governor's gardens with sunshine at a reasonable rate; 
 but he complained that his stock was low, and entreated 
 me to give him something as an encouragement to inge- 15 
 nuity, especially since this had been a very dear season 
 for cucumbers. I made him a small present, for my 
 lord had furnished me with money on purpose, because 
 he knew their practice of begging from all who go to 
 see them. 20 
 
 I saw another at work to calcine ice into gunpowder, 
 who likewise showed me a treatise he had written con- 
 cerning the malleability of fire, which he intended to 
 publish. 
 
 There was a most ingenious architect, who had con- 25 
 trived a new method of building houses, by beginning 
 at the roof and working downward to the foundation; 
 which he justified to me by the like practice of those 
 two prudent insects, the bee and the spider.
 
 SWIFT 243 
 
 In another department, I was highly pleased with a 30 
 projector who had found a device of ploughing the 
 ground with hogs, to save the charges of ploughs, cattle, 
 and labor. The method is this : In an acre of ground 
 you bury, at six inches distance, and eight deep, a quan- 
 tity of acorns, dates, chestnuts, and other mast or vege- 35 
 tables, whereof these animals are fondest. Then you 
 drive six hundred or more of them into the field, where 
 in a few days they will root up the whole ground in 
 search of their food, and make it fit for sowing. It is 
 true, upon experiment, they found the charge and 40 
 trouble very great, and they had little or no crop. 
 However, it is not doubted that this invention may be 
 capable of great improvement. 
 
 There was an astronomer who had undertaken to place 
 a sundial upon the great weathercock in the town-house 45 
 by adjusting the annual and diurnal motions of the earth 
 and sun so as to answer and coincide with all accidental 
 turnings of the wind. I visited many other apartments, 
 but shall not trouble my readers with all the curiosities 
 I observed, being studious of brevity. 50 
 
 We crossed a walk to the other part of the academy, 
 where, as I have already said, the projectors in specula- 
 tive learning resided. The first professor I saw was in 
 a very large room, with forty pupils about him. After 
 salutation, observing me to look earnestly upon a frame 55 
 .which took up the greatest part of both the length and 
 breadth of the room, he said perhaps I might wonder to 
 see him employed in a project for improving specula- 
 tive knowledge by practical mechanical operations; but 
 the world would soon be sensible of its usefulness, and 60 
 he flattered himself that a more noble, exalted thought 
 never sprang in any other man's head. Every one
 
 244 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 knows how laborious the usual method is of attaining to 
 arts and sciences; whereas, by his contrivance, the most 
 ignorant person, at a reasonable charge, and with a little .65 
 bodily labor, may write books in philosophy, poetry, 
 politics, laws, mathematics, and theology, without the 
 least assistance from genius or study. He then led me 
 to the frame, about the sides whereof all his pupils stood 
 in ranks. It was twenty feet square, placed in the 70 
 middle of the room. The superficies was composed of 
 several bits of wood, about the bigness of a die, but 
 some larger than others. They were all linked together 
 by slender wires. These bits of wood were covered, on 
 every square, with papers pasted on them; and on these -5 
 papers were written all the words of their language, in 
 their several moods, tenses, and declensions, but without 
 any order. The professor then desired me to observe, 
 for he was going to set his engine at work. The pupils, 
 at his command, took each of them hold of an iron So 
 handle, whereof there were forty fixed around the edges 
 of the frame; and giving them a sudden turn, the whole 
 disposition of the words was entirely changed. He 
 then commanded six-and-thirty of the lads to read the 
 several lines softly, as they appeared upon the frame; 85 
 and where they found three or four words together that 
 might make part of a sentence, they dictated to the four 
 remaining boys, who were scribes. This work was re- 
 peated three or four times, and at every turn the engine 
 was so contrived that the words shifted into new places 90 
 as the square bits of wood moved upside down. 
 
 Six hours a day the young students were employed in 
 this labor; and the professor showed me several volumes 
 in large folio, already collected, of broken sentences, 
 which he intended to piece together, and out of those 95
 
 SWIFT 245 
 
 rich materials to give the world a complete body of all 
 arts and sciences; which, however, might be still im- 
 proved, and much expedited, if the public would raise 
 a fund for making and employing five hundred such 
 frames in Lagado, and oblige the managers to contribute 100 
 in common their several collections. He assured me 
 that this invention had employed all his thoughts from 
 his youth; that he had emptied the whole vocabulary 
 into his frame, and made the strictest computation of 
 the general proportion there is in books between the 105 
 number of particles, nouns, and verbs, and other parts 
 of speech. . . . 
 
 In the school of political projectors, I was but ill en- 
 tertained; the professors appearing, in my judgment, 
 wholly out of their senses, which is a scene that never no 
 fails to make me melancholy. These unhappy people 
 were proposing schemes for persuading monarchs to 
 choose favorites upon the score of their wisdom, ca- 
 pacity, and virtue; of teaching ministers to consult the 
 public good; of rewarding merit, great abilities, and 115 
 eminent services; of instructing princes to know their 
 true interest, by placing it on the same foundation with 
 that of their people; of choosing for employments per- 
 sons qualified to exercise them; with many other wild, 
 impossible chimeras that never entered before into the 120 
 heart of man to conceive, and confirmed in me the old 
 observation, " that there is nothing so extravagant and 
 irrational which some philosophers have not maintained 
 for truth."
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 (1672-1719) 
 
 THE SPECTATOR 
 No. H2. Sunday in the Country : Sir Roger at Church 
 
 I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, 
 and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a 
 human institution, it would be the best method that could 
 have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of 
 mankind. It is certain the country people would soon 5 
 degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were 
 there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which 
 the whole village meet together with their best faces, 
 and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one 
 another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties 10 
 explained to them, and join together in adoration of 
 the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the 
 whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the 
 notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon 
 appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting 15 
 all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the 
 eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes him- 
 self as much in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon 
 the "Change, the whole parish politics being generally 
 discussed in that place either after sermon or before the 20 
 bell rings. 
 
 246
 
 ADDISON 247 
 
 My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has 
 beautified the inside of his church with several texts of 
 his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome 
 pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his 25 
 own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming 
 to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular; 
 and that in order to make them kneel and join in the 
 responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a 
 common-prayer-book; and at the same time employed 30 
 an itinerant singing master, who goes about the country 
 for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of 
 the Psalms; upon which they now very much value them- 
 selves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches 
 that I have ever heard. 35 
 
 As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, 
 he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody 
 to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has 
 been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recov- 
 ering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if 40 
 he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them him- 
 self, or sends his servant to them. Several other of the 
 old knight's particularities break out upon these occa- 
 sions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in 
 the singing Psalms half a minute after the rest of the 45 
 congregation have done with it; sometimes, when he is 
 pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces 
 amen three or four times to the same prayer; and some- 
 times stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, 
 to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants 50 
 are missing. 
 
 I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old 
 friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one 
 John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not to
 
 248 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 disturb the congregation. This John Matthews it seems 55 
 is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time 
 was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority 
 of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which 
 accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very 
 good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough 60 
 to see any thing ridiculous in his behaviour; besides 
 that the general good sense and worthiness of his char- 
 acter make his friends observe these little singularities as 
 foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. 
 
 As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes 65 
 to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The 
 knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between 
 a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on 
 each side; and every now and then inquires how such a 
 one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he 70 
 does not see at church; which is understood as a secret 
 reprimand to the person that is absent. 
 
 The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechis- 
 ing day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy 
 that answers well, he has ordered a bible to be given him 75 
 next day for his encouragement; and sometimes accom- 
 panies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger 
 has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's 
 place; and that he may encourage the young fellows to 
 make themselves perfect in the church service, has prom- 80 
 ised, upon the death of the present incumbent, who is 
 very old, to bestow it according to merit. 
 
 The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his 
 chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, 
 is the more remarkable, because the very next village is 85 
 famous for the differences and contentions that rise be- 
 tween the parson and the 'squire, who live in a per-
 
 ADDISON 249 
 
 petual state of war. The parson is always preaching at 
 the 'squire; and the 'squire, to be revenged on the 
 parson, never comes to church. 90 
 
 The 'squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe- 
 stealers; while the parson instructs them every Sunday 
 in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them, in 
 almost every sermon, that he is a better man than his 
 patron. In short, matters are come to such an extremity, 95 
 that the 'squire has not said his prayers either in public 
 or private this half year; and that the parson threatens 
 him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him 
 in the face of the whole congregation. 
 
 Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the coun- 100 
 try, are very fatal to the ordinary people; who are so 
 used to be dazzled with riches, that they pay as much 
 deference to the understanding of a man of an estate, 
 as of a man of learning; and are very hardly brought to 
 regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that 105 
 is preached to them, when they know there are several 
 men of five hundred a year who do not believe it. 
 
 No. 159. The Vision of Mirzah 
 
 When I was at Grand Cairo I picked up several ori- 
 ental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among 
 others I met with one entitled, the Visions of Mirzah, 
 which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend 
 to give it to the public when I have no other entertain- 5 
 ment for them; and shall begin with the first vision, 
 which I have translated word for word as follows: 
 
 " On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the 
 custom of my forefathers I always kept holy, after hav- 
 ing washed myself, and offered up my morning devo- 10
 
 25O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 tions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to 
 pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As 
 I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I 
 fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of 
 human life; and passing from one thought to another, 15 
 'surely,' said I, 'man is but a shadow and life a dream.' 
 Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the 
 summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I dis- 
 covered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical 
 instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he ap- 20 
 plied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The 
 sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a 
 variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and 
 altogether different from anything I had ever heard. 
 They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are 25 
 played to the departed souls of good men upon their first 
 arrival in paradise, to wear out the impressions of their 
 last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that 
 happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. 
 
 " I had been often told that the rock before me was 30 
 the haunt of a genius; and that several had been enter- 
 tained with music who had passed by it, but never heard 
 that the musician had before made himself visible. When 
 he had raised my thoughts, by those transporting airs 
 which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversa- 35 
 tion, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beck- 
 oned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me 
 to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with 
 that reverence which is due to a superior nature; and 
 as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating 40 
 strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. 
 The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion 
 and affability that familiarized him to my imagination,
 
 ADDISON 251 
 
 and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions 
 with which I approached him. He lifted me from the 45 
 ground, and taking me by the hand, 'Mirzah, ' said he, 
 'I have heard thee in thy soliloquies, follow me.' 
 
 "He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, 
 and placed me on the top of it. 'Cast thy eyes east- 
 ward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou seest. ' 'I see,' 50 
 said I, 'a huge valley and a prodigious tide of water roll- 
 ing through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 
 'is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou 
 seest is part of the great tide of eternity.' ' What is the 
 reason,' said I, 'that the tide I see rises out of a thick 55 
 mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at 
 the other? ' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion 
 of eternity which is called time, measured out by the 
 sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its 
 consummation. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that 60 
 is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me 
 what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see abridge,' said I, 
 'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou 
 seest,' said he, 'is human life; consider it' attentively.' 
 Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it con- 65 
 sisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several 
 broken arches, which added to those that were entire, 
 made up the number about an hundred. As I was count- 
 ing the arches the genius told me that this bridge con- 
 sisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood 70 
 swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous 
 condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me, further,' said 
 he, 'what thou discoverest on it.' 'I see multitudes of 
 people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hang- 
 ing on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I 75 
 saw several of the passengers dropping through the
 
 252 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 bridge, into the great tide that flowed underneath it; 
 and upon further examination, perceived there were 
 innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, 
 which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell 80 
 through them into the tide and immediately disappeared. 
 These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance 
 of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke 
 through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. 
 They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied 85 
 and lay closer together towards the end of the arches 
 that were entire. 
 
 "There were indeed some persons, but their number 
 was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march 
 on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, 90 
 being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. 
 
 " I passed some time in the contemplation of this won- 
 derful structure, and the great variety of objects which it 
 presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy 
 to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of 95 
 mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood 
 by them to save themselves. Some were looking up 
 towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the 
 midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. 
 Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of baubles that 100 
 glittered in their eyes and danced before them, but often 
 when they thought themselves within the reach of them, 
 their footing failed and down they sunk. In this confu- 
 sion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their 
 hands, and others with lancets, who ran to and fro upon 105 
 the bridge, thrusting several persons upon trap-doors 
 which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they 
 might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon 
 them.
 
 ADDISON 253 
 
 "The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melan- no 
 choly prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon 
 it: 'take thine eyes off the bridge,' said he, 'and tell me 
 if thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend.' 
 Upon looking up, 'what mean,' said I, 'those great 
 flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the 115 
 bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see 
 vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many 
 other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, 
 that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.' 
 'These,' said the genius, 'are envy, avarice, supersti- 120 
 tion, despair, love, with the like cares and passions, that 
 infest human life.' 
 
 "I here fetched a deep sigh; 'alas,' said I, 'man was 
 made in vain ! How is he given away to misery and 
 mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death! ' 125 
 The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, 
 bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no 
 more, ' said he, 'on man in the first stage of his existence, 
 in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that 
 thick mist into which the tide bears the several genera- 130 
 tions of mortals that fall into it.' I directed my sight 
 as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good genius 
 strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissi- 
 pated part of the mist that was before too thick for the 
 eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther 135 
 end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that 
 had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst 
 of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds 
 still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could dis- 
 cover nothing in it : but the other appeared to me a vast 140 
 ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were cov- 
 ered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thou-
 
 254 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 sand little shining seas that ran among them. I could 
 see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon 
 their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the 145 
 sides of the fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and 
 could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling 
 waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Glad- 
 ness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a 
 scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might 150 
 fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me 
 there was no passage to them, except through the gates 
 of death that I saw opening every moment upon the 
 bridge. 'The islands,' said he, 'that lie so fresh and 
 green before thee, and with which the whole face of the 155 
 ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more 
 in number than the sands on the sea-shore; there are 
 myriads of islands behind those which thou here dis- 
 coverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even thine 
 imagination, can extend itself. These are the mansions 160 
 of good men after death, who, according to the degree 
 and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed 
 among these several islands, which abound with pleas- 
 ures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the rel- 
 ishes and perfections of those who are settled in them : 165 
 every island is a paradise, accommodated to its respective 
 inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirzah, habitations worth 
 contending for? Does life appear miserable, that gives 
 thee opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death 
 to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an exist- 170 
 ence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such 
 an eternity reserved for him.' I gazed with inexpres- 
 sible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said 
 I, 'show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid 
 under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the 175
 
 ADDIS ON 255 
 
 other side of the rock of adamant. ' The genius making 
 me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him 
 a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then 
 turned again to the vision which I had been so long con- 
 templating, but, instead of the rolling tide, the arched 180 
 bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long 
 hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels 
 grazing upon the sides of it." 
 
 No. 565. Contemplation of the Divine Perfections sug- 
 gested by the Sky at Night 
 
 I was yesterday about sun-set walking in the open 
 fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first 
 amused myself with all the richness and variety of colors, 
 which appeared in the western parts of heaven : in pro- 
 portion as they faded away and went out, several stars 5 
 and planets appeared one after another, till the whole 
 firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was 
 exceedingly heightened and enlivened by the season of 
 the year, and by the rays of all those luminaries that 
 passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its most 10 
 beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full moon 
 rose at length in that clouded majesty which Milton 
 takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture 
 of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed 
 among softer lights, than that which the sun had before 15 
 discovered to us. 
 
 As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright- 
 ness, and taking her progress among the constellations, 
 a thought rose in me which I believe very often per- 
 plexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative 20 
 natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection,
 
 256 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 " When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers, 
 the moon and the stars which thou has ordained; what 
 is man, that thou art mindful of him, and the son of 
 man that thou regardest him? " In the same manner, 25 
 when I considered that infinite host of stars, or, to speak 
 more philosophically, of suns, which were then shining 
 upon me, with those innumerable sets of planets or 
 worlds, which were moving round their respective suns; 
 when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another 30 
 heaven of suns and worlds rising still above this which 
 we discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior 
 firmament of luminaries, which are planted at so great a 
 distance that they may appear to the inhabitants of the 
 former as the stars to us; in short, whilst I pursued this 35, 
 thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignifi- 
 cant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of 
 God's works. 
 
 Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the crea- 
 tion, with all the host of planetary worlds that move 40 
 about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they 
 would not be missed, more than a grain of sand upon the 
 sea-shore. The space they possess is so exceedingly 
 little in comparison of the whole, that it would scarce 
 make a blank in the creation. The chasm would be 45 
 imperceptible to an eye, that could take in the whole 
 compass of nature, and pass from one end of the crea- 
 tion to the other; as it is possible there may be such a 
 sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at 
 present more exalted than ourselves. We see many 50 
 stars by the help of glasses, which we do not discover 
 with our naked eyes; and the finer our telescopes are, 
 the more still are our discoveries. Huvgenius carries 
 this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible
 
 ADD I SON 257 
 
 there may be stars whose light is not yet travelled down 55 
 to us, since their first creation. There is no question 
 but the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when 
 we consider that it is the work of infinite power, 
 prompted by infinite goodness, with an infinite space to 
 exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds 60 
 to it? 
 
 To return therefore to my first thought, I could not 
 but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that 
 was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so 
 great a work under his care and superintendency. I was 65 
 afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of 
 nature, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures, 
 which in all probability swarm through all these immeas- 
 urable regions of matter. 
 
 In order to recover myself from this mortifying 70 
 thought, I considered that it took its rise from those 
 narrow conceptions, which we are apt to entertain of 
 the divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many 
 different objects at the same time. If we are careful to 
 inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. 75 
 This imperfection which we observe in ourselves, is an 
 imperfection that cleaves in some degree to creatures of 
 the highest capacities, as they are creatures, that is, 
 beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of 
 every created being is confined to a certain measure of 80 
 space, and consequently his observation is stinted to a 
 certain number of objects. The sphere in which we 
 move and act and understand, is of a wider circumfer- 
 ence to one creature than another, according as we rise 
 one above another in the scale of existence. But the 85 
 widest of these our spheres has its circumference. When 
 therefore we reflect on the divine nature, we are so used
 
 258 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 and accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that 
 we cannot forbear in some measure ascribing it to him 
 in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason 90 
 indeed assures us that his attributes are infinite, but the 
 poorness of our conceptions is such that it cannot for- 
 bear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till 
 our reason comes again to our succor, and throws down 
 all those little prejudices which rise in us unawares, and 95 
 are natural to the mind of man. 
 
 If we consider Him in his omnipresence: His being 
 passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame 
 of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full of 
 him. There is nothing he has made, that is either so 100 
 distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does 
 not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the 
 substance of every being, whether material or immate- 
 rial, and as intimately present to it, as that being is to 
 itself. It would be an imperfection in him, were he 105 
 able to remove out of one place into another, or to with- 
 draw himself from anything he has created, or from any 
 part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad 
 to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language 
 of the old philosopher, he is a being whose centre is no 
 every where, and his circumference no where. 
 
 In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omni- 
 present. His omniscience indeed necessarily and natu- 
 rally flows from his omnipresence. He cannot but be 
 conscious of every motion that arises in the whole mate- 115 
 rial world, which he thus essentially pervades; and of 
 every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to 
 every part of which he is thus intimately united. Several 
 moralists have considered the creation as the temple of 
 God, which he has built with his own hands, and which 120
 
 ADDIS ON 259 
 
 is filled with his presence. Others have considered in- 
 finite space as the receptacle or rather the habitation of 
 the Almighty : but the noblest and most exalted way of 
 considering this infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, 
 who calls it the sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes and 125 
 men have their sensoriola, or little sensoriums, by which 
 they apprehend the presence, and perceive the actions, 
 of a few objects that lie contiguous to them. Their 
 knowledge and observation turn within a very narrow 
 circle. But as God Almighty cannot but perceive and 130 
 know every thing in which he resides, infinite space gives 
 room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ 
 to omniscience. 
 
 Were the soul separate from the body, and with one 
 glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the 135 
 creation, should it for millions of years continue its 
 progress through infinite space with the same activity, it 
 would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, 
 and encompassed round with the immensity of the God- 
 head. Whilst we are in the body he is not less present 140 
 with us because he is concealed from us. " O that I 
 knew where I might find him ! " says Job. " Behold, 
 I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I 
 cannot perceive him: on the left hand where he does 
 work, but I cannot behold him : he hideth himself on 145 
 the right hand, that I cannot see him." In short, 
 reason as well as revelation assures us, that he cannot 
 be absent from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered 
 by us. ...
 
 ALEXANDER POPE 
 
 (1688-1744) 
 
 ESSAY ON CRITICISM 
 Standards of Taste 
 
 SOME to Conceit alone their taste confine, 
 
 And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line ; 
 
 Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit ; 
 
 One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit. 
 
 Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace 
 
 The naked nature and the living grace, 
 
 With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, 
 
 And hide with ornaments their want of art. 
 
 True wit is nature to advantage dress'd ; 
 
 What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd ; 
 
 Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find, 
 
 That gives us back the image of our mind. 
 
 As shades more sweetly recommend the light, 
 
 So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. 
 
 For works may have more wit than does 'em good, 
 
 As bodies perish through excess of blood. 
 
 Others for language all their care express, 
 And value books, as women men, for dress : 
 Their praise is still, the style is excellent ; 
 The sense, they humbly take upon content. 
 Words are like leaves ; and where they most abound, 
 Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found : 
 260
 
 POPE 261 
 
 False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, 
 
 Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place ; 
 
 The face of nature we no more survey, 25 
 
 All glares alike, without distinction gay : 
 
 But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, 
 
 Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon ; 
 
 It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 
 
 Expression is the dress of thought, and still 30 
 
 Appears more decent, as more suitable ; 
 
 A vile conceit in pompous words expressed 
 
 Is like a clown in regal purple dressed : 
 
 For diff 'rent styles with diff 'rent subjects sort, 
 
 As sev'ral garbs with country, town, and court. 35 
 
 Some by old words to fame have made pretence, 
 
 Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense ; 
 
 Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, 
 
 Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learn'd smile, 
 
 Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, 40 
 
 These sparks with awkward vanity display 
 
 What the fine gentleman wore yesterday ; 
 
 And but so mimic ancient wits at best, 
 
 As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest. 
 
 In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold ; 45 
 
 Alike fantastic, if too new or old : 
 
 Be not the first by whom the new are try'd, 
 
 Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 
 
 But most by numbers judge a poet's song, 
 And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong : 50 
 In the bright muse, tho' thousand charms conspire, 
 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; 
 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, 
 Not mend their minds ; as some to church repair, 
 Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 55
 
 262 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 These equal syllables alone require, 
 
 Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 
 
 While expletives their feeble aid do join ; 
 
 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : 
 
 While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 60 
 
 With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 
 
 Where'er you find ' the cooling western breeze,' 
 
 In the next line, it ' whispers through the trees ' : 
 
 If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,' 
 
 The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with 'sleep' : 65 
 
 Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
 
 With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
 
 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know 70 
 
 W T hat's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow; 
 
 And praise the easy vigour of a line, 
 
 Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join. 
 
 True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, 
 
 As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 75 
 
 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, 
 
 The sound must seem an echo to the sense : 
 
 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 
 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 80 
 
 The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : 
 
 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 
 The line too labours, and the words move slow : 
 
 Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, 84 
 
 Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main : 
 
 Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprise, 
 
 And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! 
 
 'While at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
 
 POPE 263 
 
 Now burns with glory, and then melts with love ; 
 
 Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, 90 
 
 Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow : 
 
 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 
 
 And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound ! 
 
 The power of music all our hearts allow, 
 
 And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. 95 
 
 Avoid extremes ; and shun the fault of such, 
 
 Who still are pleas'd too little or too much. 
 
 At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence, 
 
 That always shows great pride, or little sense : 
 
 Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best 100 
 
 Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 
 
 Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move ; 
 
 For fools admire, but men of sense approve : 
 
 As things seem large which we through mists decry, 
 
 Dulness is ever apt to magnify. 105 
 
 Some foreign writers, some our own despise ; 
 The ancients only, or the moderns prize. 
 Thus wit, like faith, by each man is apply'd 
 To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside. 
 Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, no 
 
 And force that sun but on a part to shine, 
 Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 
 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes ; 
 Which from the first has shone in ages past, 
 Enlights the present, and shall warm the last ; 115 
 
 Tho' each may feel increases and decays, 
 And see now clearer and now darker days. 
 Regard not, then, if wit be old or new, 
 But blame the false, and value still the true. 
 
 Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, 120 
 
 But catch the spreading notion of the Town ;
 
 264 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 They reason and conclude by precedent, 
 
 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. 
 
 Some judge of author's names, not works, and then 
 
 Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. 125 
 
 Of all this servile herd, the worst is he 
 
 That in proud dulness joins with Quality. 
 
 A constant critic at the great man's board, 
 
 To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord. 
 
 What woful stuff this madrigal would be, 130 
 
 In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me ? 
 
 But let a Lord once own the happy lines, 
 
 How the wit brightens ! how the stile refines ! 
 
 Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault, 
 
 And each exalted stanza teems with thought ! 135 
 
 THE ESSAY ON MAN 
 Book I 
 
 HEAVEN from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
 All but the page prescrib'd, their present state : 
 From brutes what men, from men what spirits know, 
 Or who could suffer being here below? 
 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
 Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
 Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, 
 And licks the hand just ras'd to shed his blood. 
 Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n, 
 That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n : 
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
 A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.
 
 POPE 265 
 
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 
 
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
 
 Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar ; 15 
 Wait the great teacher death, and God adore. 
 What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, 
 But gives that hope, to be thy blessing now. 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
 Man never is, but always to be blest. 20 
 
 The soul (uneasy and confin'd) from home, 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
 Lo the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
 His soul, proud science never taught to stray 25 
 
 Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n, 
 Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n ; 
 Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 
 Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, 30 
 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 To be, contents his natural desire, 
 He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 35 
 
 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, 
 Say, Here he gives too little, there too much : 40 
 
 Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 
 Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust ; 
 If man alone ingross not Heav'n's high care, 
 Alone made perfect here, immortal there : 
 Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, 45
 
 266 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Rejudge his justice, be the God of God. 
 
 In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies ; 
 
 All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
 
 Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 
 
 Men would be angels, angels would be Gods. 50 
 
 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 th' Eternal Cause. 
 
 Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, 55 
 
 Earth for whose use ? Pride answers ' 'Tis for mine : 
 For me kind Nature wakes her genial pow'r, 
 Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r ; 
 Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew, 
 The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew ; 60 
 
 For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings ; 
 For me, health gushes from a thousand springs ; 
 Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise ; 
 My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies.' 
 
 But errs not Nature from this gracious end, 65 
 
 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) the first Almighty Cause 
 Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws ; 70 
 
 Th' 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? 
 As much that end a constant course requires 75 
 
 Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of man's desires ; 
 As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, 
 As men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise.
 
 POPE 267 
 
 If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's design, 
 
 Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline ? 80 
 
 Who knows but He, whose hand the light'ning 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 mankind? 
 
 From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs ; 85 
 
 Account for moral, as for nat'ral things : 
 
 Why charge we heav'n in those, in these acquit? 
 
 In both, to reason right is to submit. 
 
 Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, 
 Were there all harmony, all virtue here ; 90 
 
 That never air or ocean felt the wind ; 
 That never passion discompos'd the mind. 
 But all subsists by elemental strife ; 
 And passions are the elements of life. 
 The gen'ral order, since the whole began, 95 
 
 Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. 
 
 What would this man? Now upward will he soar, 
 And little less than angels, would be more ; 
 Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears 
 To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. 100 
 
 Made for his use all creatures if he call, 
 Say, what their use, had he the pow'rs of all ; 
 Nature to these, without profusion, kind, 
 The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd ; 
 Each seeming want compensated of course, 105 
 
 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 o\vn : 
 Is heav'n unkind to man, and man alone? no 
 
 Shall he alone, whom rational we call,
 
 268 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Be pleas'd with nothing, if not blessed with all ? 
 
 The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) 
 Is not to act or think beyond mankind ; 
 No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, 115 
 
 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 giv'n, 
 T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n ? 120 
 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? 
 
 If nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, 125 
 
 And stunned him with the music of the spheres, 
 How would he wish that heav'n had left him still 
 The whisp'ring Zephyr, and the purling rill? 
 Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 
 Alike in what it gives, and what denies? 130 
 
 Far as Creation's ample range extends, 
 The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs 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, 135 
 The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam : 
 Of smell, the headlong lioness between, 
 And hound sagacious on the tainted green : 
 Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, 
 To that which warbles through the vernal wood? 140 
 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 pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
 
 POPE 269 
 
 How instinct varies in the grov'ling swine, 145 
 
 Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine ! 
 
 'Twixt that, and reason, what a nice barrier? 
 
 For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near ! 
 
 Remembrance and reflection, how allied ; 
 
 What thin partitions sense from thought divide ? 150 
 
 And middle natures, how they long to join, 
 
 Yet never pass th' insuperable line ! 
 
 Without this just gradation, could they be 
 
 Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 
 
 The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone, 155 
 
 Is not thy reason all these pow'rs in one ? 
 
 See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
 All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
 Above, how high, progressive life may go ! 
 Around, how wide, how deep extend below ! 160 
 
 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, 
 From thee to Nothing. On superior pow'rs 165 
 
 Were we to press, inferior might on ours : 
 Or in the full creation leave a void, 
 Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd : 
 From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
 Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 170 
 
 And, if each system in gradation roll 
 Alike essential to th' amazing whole, 
 The least confusion but in one, not all 
 That system only, but the whole must fall. 
 Let earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, 175 
 
 Planets and stars run lawless through the sky ; 
 Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd,
 
 2/0 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Being on being wreck'd, and world on world ; 
 Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, 
 And nature trembles to the throne of God. 180 
 
 All this dread order break for whom? for thee? 
 Vile worm ! oh madness ! pride ! impiety ! 
 
 What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
 Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head ? 
 What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 185 
 
 To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? 
 Just as absurd for any part to claim 
 To be another, in this gen'ral frame : 
 Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, 
 The great directing mind of all ordains. 190 
 
 All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
 Whose body nature is, and God the soul ; 
 That, chang'd through all, and yet in all the same ; 
 Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame ; 
 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 195 
 
 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 ; 200 
 
 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, one equals all. 
 
 Cease then, nor order imperfection name : 205 
 
 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, 
 Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 210
 
 POPE 271 
 
 Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r, 
 
 Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
 
 All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; 
 
 All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 
 
 All discord harmony not understood ; 215 
 
 All partial evil, universal good : 
 
 And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 
 
 One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF LADY MARY W. MONTAGU 
 
 THE playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, 
 That happy air of majesty and truth ; 
 So would I draw (but oh ! 'tis vain to try, 
 My narrow genius does the power deny ;) 
 The equal lustre of the heavenly mind, 
 Where ev'ry grace with every virtue's join'd ; 
 Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe, 
 With greatness easy, and with wit sincere ; 
 With just description show the work divine, 
 And the whole princess in my work should shine.
 
 JAMES THOMSON 
 
 (1700-1748) 
 
 THE SEASONS 
 
 SPRING 
 The Coming of the Rain 
 
 AT first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, 
 Scarce staining ether ; but by fast degrees, 
 In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails 
 Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, 
 Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom : 5 
 
 Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, 
 Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind, 
 And full of every hope and every joy, 
 The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze 
 Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath 10 
 
 Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, 
 Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves 
 Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused 
 In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse 
 Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, 15 
 
 And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks 
 Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye 
 The fallen verdure. Hushed in short suspense, 
 The plumy people streak their wings with oil, 
 To throw the lucid moisture trickling off; 20 
 
 And wait the approaching sign to strike, at once, 
 272
 
 THOMSON 2/3 
 
 Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales, 
 
 And forests seem, impatient, to demand 
 
 The promised sweetness. Man superior walks 
 
 Amid the glad creation, musing praise, 25 
 
 And looking lively gratitude. At last, 
 
 The clouds consign their treasures to the fields ; 
 
 And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool 
 
 Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow, 
 
 In large effusion, o'er the freshened world. 30 
 
 SUMMER 
 
 The Sheep-Washing 
 
 Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band, 
 They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog 
 Compelled, to where the mazy-running brook 
 Forms a deep pool ; this bank abrupt and high, 
 And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. 
 Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil, 
 The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs, 
 Ere the soft fearful people to the flood 
 Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain, 
 On some impatient seizing, hurls them in : 
 Emboldened then, nor hesitating more, 
 Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave, 
 And panting labour to the farthest shore. 
 Repeated this, till deep the well-washed fleece 
 Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt 
 The trout is banished by the sordid stream, 
 Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow 
 Slow move the harmless race ; where, as they sprea 1 
 Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray,
 
 2/4 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Inly disturbed, and wondering what this wild 20 
 
 Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints 
 
 The country fill and, tossed from rock to rock, 
 
 Incessant bleatings run around the hills. 
 
 At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks 
 
 Are in the wattled pen, innumerous pressed, 25 
 
 Head above head ; and ranged 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 enthroned, 30 
 
 Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays 
 
 Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king ; 
 
 While the glad circle round them yield their souls 
 
 To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. 
 
 Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace : 35 
 
 Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some, 
 
 Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side, 
 
 To stamp his master's cypher ready stand ; 
 
 Others the unwilling wether drag along ; 
 
 And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy 40 
 
 Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram. 
 
 Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft, 
 
 By needy man, that all-depending lord, 
 
 How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies ! 
 
 What softness in its melancholy face, 45 
 
 What dumb complaining innocence appears ! 
 
 Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife 
 
 Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved ; 
 
 No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears, 
 
 Who having now, to pay his annual care, 50 
 
 Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, 
 
 Will send you bounding to your hills again,
 
 THOMSON 275 
 
 AUTUMN 
 Storm in Harvest 
 
 Defeating oft the labours of the year, 
 The sultry south collects a potent blast. 
 At first, the groves are scarcely seen to stir 
 Their trembling tops, and a still murmur runs 
 Along the soft-inclining fields of corn; 5 
 
 But as the aerial tempest fuller swells, 
 And in one mighty stream, invisible, 
 Immense, the whole excited atmosphere 
 Impetuous rushes o'er the sounding world, 
 Strained to the root, the stooping forest pours 10 
 
 A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. 
 High-beat, the circling mountains eddy in, 
 From the bare wild, the dissipated storm, 
 And send it in a torrent down the vale. 
 Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage, 15 
 
 Through all the sea of harvest rolling round, 
 The billowy plain floats wide ; nor can evade, 
 Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force 
 Or whirled in air, or into vacant chaff 
 Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of rain, 20 
 Swept from the black horizon, broad, descends 
 In one continuous flood. Still over head 
 The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and still 
 The deluge deepens ; till the fields around 
 Lie sunk, and flatted, in the sordid wave. 25 
 
 Sudden, the ditches swell ; the meadows swim. 
 Red, from the hills, innumerable streams 
 Tumultuous roar ; and high above its bank 
 The river lift ; before whose rushing tide, 
 Herds, flocks, and harvests, cottages, and swains, 30
 
 2/6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Roll mingled down : all that the winds had spared, 
 
 In one wild moment ruined ; the big hopes, 
 
 And well-earned treasures, of the painful year. 
 
 Fled to some eminence, the husbandman, 
 
 Helpless, beholds the miserable wreck 35 
 
 Driving along ; his drowning ox at once 
 
 Descending, with his labours scattered round, 
 
 He sees ; and instant o'er his shivering thought 
 
 Comes Winter unprovided, and a train 
 
 Of clamant children dear. Ye masters, then, 40 
 
 Be mindful of the rough laborious hand 
 
 That sinks you soft in elegance and ease ; 
 
 Be mindful of those limbs, in russet clad, 
 
 Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful pride ; 
 
 And, oh, be mindful of that sparing board 45 
 
 Which covers yours with luxury profuse, 
 
 Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense rejoice ! 
 
 Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains 
 
 And all-involving winds have swept away. 
 
 WINTER 
 
 A Snow Scene 
 
 The keener tempests come : and fuming dun 
 From all the livid east, or piercing north, 
 Thick clouds ascend in whose capacious womb 
 A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed. 
 Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ; 5 
 
 And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. 
 Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, 
 At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
 Fall broad, and white, and fast, dimming the day
 
 THOMSON 277 
 
 With a continual flow. The cherished fields 10 
 
 Put on their winter-robe of purest white. 
 
 Tis brightness all ; save where the new snow melts 
 
 Along the mazy current. Low, the woods 
 
 Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun 
 
 Faint from the west emits his evening ray, 15 
 
 Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill, 
 
 Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 
 
 The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox 
 
 Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands 
 
 The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 20 
 
 Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
 
 The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
 
 Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 
 
 The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, 
 
 Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 25 
 
 In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
 
 His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
 
 His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 
 
 Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights 
 
 On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the floor, 30 
 
 Eyes all the smiling family askance, 
 
 And pecks, and starts and wonders where he is 
 
 Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 
 
 Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
 
 Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, 35 
 
 Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
 
 By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs, 
 
 And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 
 
 Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind 
 
 Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth 40 
 
 With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed, 
 
 Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow.
 
 278 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 
 Book I 
 
 IN lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 
 With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, 
 A most enchanting wizard did abide, 
 Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 5 
 
 And there a season atween June and May, 
 Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, 
 A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
 No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. 
 
 Was nought around but images of rest : 10 
 
 Sleep- soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; 
 And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, 
 From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green, 
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
 Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played, 15 
 And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
 That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, 
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 
 
 Joined to the prattle of the purling rills 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 20 
 
 And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 
 And vacant shepherds piping in the dale ; 
 And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail, 
 Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep, 
 That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 25 
 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
 Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.
 
 THOMSON 279 
 
 Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
 A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, 
 
 Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, 30 
 As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood ; 
 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, 35 
 
 The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 For ever flushing round a summer-sky : 40 
 
 There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
 Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast; 
 And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh ; 
 But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest, 
 Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. 45 
 
 Straight of these endless numbers, swarming round, 
 As thick as idle motes in sunny ray, 
 Not one eftsoons in view was to be found, 
 But every man strolled off his own glad way ; 
 Wide o'er this ample court's blank area, 50 
 
 With all the lodges that thereto pertained, 
 No living creature could be seen to stray ; 
 While solitude, and perfect silence reigned ; 
 So that to think you dreamt you almost was constrained.
 
 280 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles, 55 
 
 Placed far amid the melancholy main, 
 (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, 60 
 
 The whilst in Ocean Phoebus dips his wain 
 A vast assembly moving to and fro, 
 Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. 
 
 Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran 
 Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, 65 
 
 And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft began 
 (So worked the wizard) wintry storms to swell, 
 As heaven and earth they would together mell ; 
 At doors and windows threatening seemed to call 
 The demons of the tempest, growling fell, 70 
 
 Yet the least entrance found they none at all : 
 Whence sweeter grew our sleep secure in massy hall. 
 
 And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, 
 Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace ; 
 O'er which were shadowy cast elysian gleams, 75 
 
 That played, in waving lights, from place to place ; 
 And shed a roseate smile on nature's face. 
 Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, 
 So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space ; 
 Ne could it e'er such melting forms display, 80 
 
 As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay.
 
 THOMSON 28l 
 
 No, fair illusions ! artful phantoms, no ! 
 My muse will not attempt your fairy land : 
 She has no colours that like you can glow : 
 To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand. 85 
 
 But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler band 
 Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprights, 
 Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, 
 Poured all the Arabian heaven upon our nights, 
 And blest them oft besides with .more refined delights. 90 
 
 To number up the thousands dwelling here, 
 An useless were, and eke an endless task ; 
 From kings, and those who at the helm appear, 
 To gipsies brown in summer-glades who bask. 
 Yea many a man, perdie, I could unmask, 95 
 
 Whose desk and table make a solemn show, 
 With tape-ty'd trash, and suits of fools that ask 
 For place or pension laid in decent row ; 
 But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. 
 
 Of all the gentle tenants of the place, 100 
 
 There was a man of special grave remark ; 
 A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, 
 Pensive, not sad ; in thought involv'd, not dark ; 
 As soot this man could sing as morning lark, 
 And teach the noblest morals of the heart ; 105 
 
 But these his talents were yburied stark : 
 Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, 
 Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art.
 
 282 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 To noontide shades incontinent he ran, 
 Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound, no 
 
 Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, 
 Amid the broom he bask'd them on the ground, 
 Where the wild thyme and camomile are found ; 
 There would he linger, till the latest ray 
 Of light fate trembling on the welkin's bound, 115 
 
 Then homeward thro' the twilight shadows stray, 
 Sauntering and slow : so had he passed many a day. 
 
 Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past ; 
 For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd 
 Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, 120 
 
 And all its native light anew revealed ; 
 Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field, 
 And marked the clouds that drove before the wind, 
 Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, 
 Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind : 125 
 
 But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. 
 
 With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk, 
 (Profoundly silent, for they never spoke) 
 One shyer still, who quite detested talk ; 
 Oft stung by spleen, at once away he broke, 130 
 
 To groves of pine and broad o'ershadowing oak ; 
 There inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone, 
 And on himself his pensive fury wroke, 
 Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone 
 The glittering star of eve, ' Thank Heaven ! the day is 135 
 done.'
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON 
 
 (1709-1784) 
 
 PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE 
 
 THE work of a correct and regular writer is a garden 
 accurately formed and diligently planted, varied with 
 shades, and scented with flowers; the composition of 
 Shakespeare is a forest, in which oaks extend their 
 branches, and pines tower in the air, interspersed some- 5 
 times with weeds and brambles, and sometimes giving 
 shelter to myrtles and to roses; filling the eye with awful 
 pomp, and gratifying the mind with endless diversity. 
 Other poets display cabinets of precious rarities, 
 minutely finished, wrought into shape, and polished into 10 
 brightness. Shakespeare opens a mine which contains 
 gold and diamonds in unexhaustible plenty, though 
 clouded by incrustations, debased by impurities, and 
 mingled with a mass of meaner materials. . . . 
 
 That much knowledge is scattered over his works is 15 
 very justly observed by Pope; but it is often such knowl- 
 edge as books did not supply. He that will understand 
 Shakespeare, must not be content to study him in the 
 closet; he must look for his meaning sometimes among 
 the sports of the field, and sometimes among the manu- 20 
 factures of the shop. 
 
 There is, however, proof enough that he was a very 
 diligent reader, nor was our language then so indigent 
 
 283
 
 284 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 of books, but that he might very liberally indulge his 
 curiosity without excursion into foreign literature. 25 
 Many of the Roman authors were translated, and some 
 of the Greek; the Reformation had filled the kingdom 
 with theological learning; most of the topicks of human 
 disquisition had found English writers; and poetry had 
 been cultivated, not only with diligence, but success. 30 
 This was a stock of knowledge sufficient for a mind so 
 capable of appropriating and improving it. 
 
 But the greater part of his excellence was the product 
 of his own genius. He found the English stage in a state 
 of the utmost rudeness; no essays either in tragedy or 35 
 comedy had appeared from which it could be discovered 
 to what degree of delight either one or other might be 
 carried. Neither character nor dialogue were yet under- 
 stood. Shakespeare may be truly said to have intro- 
 duced them both amongst us, and in some of his happier 40 
 scenes to have carried them both to the utmost height. 
 
 By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is 
 not easily known; for the chronology of his works is yet 
 unsettled. Rowe is of opinion that " perhaps we are not 
 to look for his beginning, like those of other writers, in 45 
 his least perfect works; art had so little, and nature so 
 large a share in what he did that for aught I know," says 
 he, " the performances of his youth, as they were the 
 most vigorous, were the best." 
 
 But the power of nature is only the power of using to 50 
 any certain purpose the materials which diligence pro- 
 cures, or opportunity supplies. Nature gives no man 
 knowledge, and, when images are collected by study and 
 experience, can only assist in combining or applying 
 them. Shakespeare, however favoured by nature, could 55 
 impart only what he had learned; and as he must in-
 
 JOHNSON 285 
 
 crease his ideas, like other mortals, by gradual acquisi- 
 tion, he, like them, grew wiser as he grew older, could 
 display life better, as he knew it more, and instruct with 
 more efficacy, as he was himself more amply instructed. 6c 
 
 There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy of 
 distinction which books and precepts cannot confer; 
 from this almost all original and native excellence pro- 
 ceeds. Shakespeare must have looked upon mankind 
 with perspicacity, in the highest degree curious and at- 65 
 tentive. Other writers borrow their characters from 
 preceding writers, and diversify them only by the acci- 
 dental appendages of present manners; the dress is a 
 little varied, but the body is the same. Our author had 
 both matter and form to provide; for, except the char- 70 
 acters of Chaucer, to whom I think, he is not much in- 
 debted, there were no writers in English, and perhaps 
 not many in other modern languages, which showed life 
 in its native colours. 
 
 The contest about the original benevolence or malig- 75 
 nity of man had not yet commenced. Speculation had 
 not yet attempted to analyse the mind, to trace the pas- 
 sions to their sources, to unfold the seminal principles of 
 vice and virtue, or sound the depths of the heart for the 
 motives of action. All those enquiries, which from that 80 
 time that human nature became the fashionable study, 
 have been made sometimes with nice discernment, but 
 often with idle subtility, were yet unattempted. The 
 tales with which the infancy of learning was satisfied, 
 exhibited only the superficial appearances of action, re- 85 
 lated the events, but omitted the causes, and were formed 
 for such as delighted in wonders rather than in truth. 
 Mankind was not then to be studied in the closet; he 
 that would know the world, was under the necessity of
 
 286 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD . 
 
 gleaning his own remarks by mingling as he could in its 90 
 business and amusements. 
 
 Boyle congratulated himself upon his high birth, be- 
 cause it favoured his curiosity by facilitating his access. 
 Shakespeare had no such advantage; he came to London 
 a needy adventurer, and lived for a time by very mean 95 
 employments. Many works of genius and learning have 
 been performed in states of life that appear very little 
 favourable to thought or to enquiry; so many, that he 
 who considers them is inclined to think that he sees en- 
 terprise and perseverance predominating over all external 100 
 agency, and bidding help and hindrance vanish before 
 them. The genius of Shakespeare was not to be de- 
 pressed by the weight of poverty, nor limited by the 
 narrow conversation to which men in want are inevitably 
 condemned; the incumbrances of his fortune were shaken 105 
 from his mind, "as dew drops from a lion's mane." 
 
 Though he had so many difficulties to encounter, and 
 so little assistance to surmount them, he has been able 
 to obtain an exact knowledge of many modes of life, and 
 many casts of native dispositions; to vary them with no 
 great multiplicity; to mark them by nice distinctions; 
 and to show them in full view by proper combinations. 
 In this part of his performances he had none to imitate, 
 but has been himself imitated by all succeeding writers; 
 and it may be doubted whether from all his successours 115 
 more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules of 
 practical prudence, can be collected, than he alone has 
 given to his country. 
 
 Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men; 
 he was an exact surveyor of the inanimate world; his 120 
 descriptions have always some peculiarities, gathered 
 by contemplating things as they really exist. It may be
 
 JOHNSON 287 
 
 observed that the oldest poets of many nations preserve 
 their reputation, and that the following generations of 
 wit, after a short celebrity, sink into oblivion. The 125 
 first, whoever they be, must take their sentiments and 
 descriptions immediately from knowledge; the resem- 
 blance is therefore just, their descriptions are verified 
 by every eye, and their sentiments acknowledged by 
 every breast. Those whom their fame invites to the 130 
 same studies copy partly them, and partly nature, till 
 the books of one age gain such authority as to stand in 
 the place of nature to another, and imitation, always 
 deviating a little, becomes at last capricious and casual. 
 Shakespeare, whether life or nature be his subject, shows 135 
 plainly that he has seen with his own eyes; he gives the 
 image which he receives, not weakened or distorted by 
 the intervention of any other mind; the ignorant feel 
 his representations to be just, and the learned see that 
 they are complete. 140 
 
 Perhaps it would not be easy to find any author, ex- 
 cept Homer, who invented so much as Shakespeare, who 
 so much advanced the studies which he cultivated, or 
 effused so much novelty upon his age or country. The 
 form, the characters, the language, and the shows of the 145 
 English drama are his. "He seems," says Dennis, "to 
 have been the very original of our English tragical har- 
 mony, that is, the harmony of blank verse, diversified 
 often by dissyllable and trissyllable terminations. For 
 the diversity distinguishes it from heroick harmony, and 150 
 by bringing it nearer to common use makes it more proper 
 to gain attention, and more fit for action and dialogue. 
 Such verse we make when we are writing prose; we make 
 such verse in common conversation." 
 
 I know not whether this praise is rigorously just. The 155
 
 288 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 dissyllable termination, which the critick rightly appro- 
 priates to the drama, is to be found, though, I think, not 
 in Gorboduc, which is confessedly before our author; 
 yet in Hieronymo, of which the date is not certain, but 
 which there is reason to believe at least as old as his 160 
 earliest plays. This however is certain, that he is the 
 first who taught either tragedy or comedy to please, 
 there being no theatrical piece of any older writer, of 
 which the name is known except to antiquaries and col- 
 lectors of books, which are sought because they are 165 
 scarce, and would not have been scarce had they been 
 much esteemed. 
 
 To him we must ascribe the praise, unless Spenser 
 may divide it with him, of having first discovered to 
 how much smoothness and harmony the English Ian- 170 
 guage could be softened. He has speeches, perhaps 
 sometimes scenes, which have all the delicacy of Rowe, 
 without his effeminacy. He endeavours indeed com- 
 monly to strike by the force and vigour of his dialogue, 
 but he never executes his purpose better than when he 175 
 tries to soothe by softness. 
 
 Yet it must be at last confessed that, as we owe every- 
 thing to him, he owes something to us; that, if much of 
 his praise is paid by perception and judgment, much is 
 likewise given by custom and veneration. We fix our 180 
 eyes upon his graces, and turn them from his deformi- 
 ties, and endure in him what we should in another loathe 
 or despise. If we endured without praising, respect for 
 the father of our drama might excuse us; but I have seen, 
 in the book of some modern critick, a collection of 185 
 anomalies, which show that he has corrupted language by 
 every mode of depravation, but which his admirer has 
 accumulated as a monument of honour.
 
 JOHNSON 289 
 
 He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence ; 
 but perhaps not one play, which, if it were now exhibited 190 
 as the work of a contemporary writer, would be heard to 
 the conclusion. I am, indeed, far from thinking that 
 his works were wrought to his own ideas of perfection; 
 when they were such as would satisfy the audience, they 
 satisfied the writer. It is seldom that authors, though 195 
 more studious of fame than Shakespeare, rise much 
 above the standard of their own age; to add a little to 
 what is best will always be sufficient for present praise, 
 and those who find themselves exalted into fame, are will- 
 ing to credit their encomiasts, and to spare the labour of 200 
 contending with themselves. 
 
 It does not appear that Shakespeare thought his works 
 worthy of posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon 
 future times, or had any further prospect than of present 
 popularity and present profit. When his plays had been 205 
 acted, his hope was at an end; he solicited no addition 
 of honour from the reader. He therefore made no 
 scruple to repeat the same jests in many dialogues, or to 
 entangle different plots by the same knot of perplexity; 
 which may be at least forgiven him by those who recol- 210 
 lect, that of Congreve's four comedies, two are concluded 
 by a marriage in a mask, by a deception, which perhaps 
 never happened, and which, whether likely or not, he 
 did not invent. 
 
 So careless was this great poet of future fame that, 215 
 though he retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet 
 little "declined into the vale of years," before he could 
 be disgusted with fatigue, or disabled by infirmity, he 
 made no collection of his works, nor desired to rescue 
 those that had been already published from the deprava-22o 
 tions that obscured them, or secure to the rest a better 
 u
 
 290 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 destiny, by giving them to the world in their genuine 
 state. 
 
 Of the plays which bear the name of Shakespeare in 
 the late editions, the greater part were not published 225 
 till about seven years after his death; and the few 
 which appeared in his life are apparently thrust into 
 the worl'd without the care of the author, and there- 
 fore probably without his knowledge. 
 
 LETTER TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD 
 
 MY LORD : I have lately been informed by the proprie- 
 tor of The World that two papers in which my Dic- 
 tionary is recommended to the public were written by 
 your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honor which, 
 being very little accustomed to favors from the great, I 5 
 know not well how to receive, or in what terms to 
 acknowledge. 
 
 When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited 
 your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of man- 
 kind, by the enchantment of your address, and could 10 
 not forbear to wish that I might boast myself le vain- 
 queur du vainqueur de la terre that I might obtain that 
 regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found 
 my attendance so little encouraged that neither pride nor 
 modesty would suffer me to continue it. When once I 15 
 had addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted 
 all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly 
 scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no 
 man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever 
 so little. 20
 
 JOHNSON 291 
 
 Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited 
 in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; 
 during which time I have been pushing on my work 
 through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, 
 and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, 25 
 without one act of assistance, one word of encourage- 
 ment, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not 
 expect, for I never had a patron before. 
 
 The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with 
 Love, and found him a native of the rocks. 30 
 
 Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with uncon- 
 cern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when 
 he has reached the ground, encumbers him with help? 
 The notice which you have been pleased to take of my 
 labors, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been 35 
 delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I 
 am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and 
 do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity, not 
 to confess obligations when no benefit has been received, 
 or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as 40 
 owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled 
 me to do for myself. 
 
 Having carried on my work thus far with so little ob- 
 ligation to any favorer of learning, I shall not be disap- 
 pointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, 45 
 with less; for I have long been wakened from that dream 
 of hope in which I once boasted myself with so much 
 exultation, my lord, 
 
 Your lordship's most humble, most obedient servant, 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 50
 
 THOMAS GRAY 
 
 (1716-1771) 
 
 ODE ON THE SPRING 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 
 
 Fair Venus' train, appear, 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers, 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 
 The Attic warbler pours her throat, 5 
 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
 
 The untaught harmony of spring : 
 While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
 Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky 
 
 Their gathered fragrance fling. 10 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader browner shade, 
 Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 
 
 O'er-canopies the glade, 
 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 15 
 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardour of the crowd, 
 How low, how little are the proud, 
 
 How indigent the great ! 20 
 
 292
 
 GRAY 293 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of Care ; 
 
 The panting herds repose: 
 Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows ! 
 
 The insect-youth are on the wing, 25 
 
 Eager to taste the honied spring, 
 
 And float amid the liquid noon : 
 Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
 Some shew their gayly-gilded trim 
 
 Quick-glancing to the sun. 30 
 
 To Contemplation's sober eye 
 
 Such is the race of Man : 
 And they that creep, and they that fly, 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 
 Alike the Busy and the Gay 35 
 
 But flutter thro' life's little day, 
 
 In Fortune's varying colours drest : 
 Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance, 
 Or chilled by Age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave, in dust to rest. 40 
 
 Methinks I hear, in accents low, 
 
 The sportive kind reply : 
 Poor moralist ! and what art thou? 
 
 A solitary fly ! 
 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets, 45 
 
 No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, 
 
 No painted plumage to display : 
 On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
 Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone 
 
 We frolic while 'tis May. 50
 
 294 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE 
 
 YE distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 That crown the watery glade, 
 Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; 
 
 And ye, that from the stately brow 5 
 
 Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver-winding way : 10 
 
 Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
 Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain ! 
 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 15 
 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 And, redolent of joy and youth, 
 
 To breathe a second spring. ao 
 
 Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race 
 Disporting on thy margent green, 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace ; 
 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave, 25 
 
 With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthral ! 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
 
 Or urge the flying ball ? 30
 
 GRA Y 295 
 
 While some on earnest business bent 
 
 Their murmuring labours ply 
 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty : 
 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 35 
 
 The limits of their little reign, 
 
 And unknown regions dare descry : 
 Still as they run they look behind, 
 They hear a voice in every wind, 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 40 
 
 Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 
 
 Less pleasing when possest ; 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
 
 The sunshine of the breast : 
 
 Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, 45- 
 
 Wild wit, invention ever new, 
 
 And lively cheer, of vigour born ; 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 
 
 That fly th' approach of morn. 50 
 
 Alas ! regardless of their doom 
 
 The little victims play ; 
 No sense have they of ills to come, 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day : 
 
 Yet see, how all around them wait 55 
 
 The ministers of human fate, 
 
 And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
 Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
 To seize their prey, the murderous band ! 
 
 Ah, tell them, they are men ! 60
 
 296 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 These shall the fury Passions tear, 
 
 The vultures of the mind, 
 Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
 
 And Shame that skulks behind ; 
 Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 65 
 
 Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 
 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
 And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
 Grim-visaged 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' altered eye, 
 
 That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
 And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
 And moody Madness laughing wild 
 
 Amid severest woe. 80 
 
 Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 
 
 A griesly 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
 
 GRA Y 297 
 
 To each his sufferings : all are men, 
 
 Condemn'd alike to groan ; 
 The tender for another's pain, 
 
 The 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. 100 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 
 
 THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
 
 The ploughman 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 10 
 
 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 for ever laid, 15 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
 
 298 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 .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. 20 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; . 30 
 
 Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike the inevitable hour. 35 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
 If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 \Yhere 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 flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
 
 GRA Y 299 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed 
 Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre. 
 
 But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 
 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 50 
 
 Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 The dark unfathomed 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 
 
 The applause of listening senates to command, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 65 
 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
 
 Forbade to wade thro' 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, 70 
 
 Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
 
 300 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 
 Along the cool sequestered vale of life 75 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 
 
 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. So 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 85 
 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 
 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' unhonoured dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 95 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100
 
 GRAY 301 
 
 '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 
 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, 
 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
 
 'One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 
 
 Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 
 
 Graved 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 frowned not on his humble birth, 
 And melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
 
 He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 
 
 He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
 
 3O2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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. 
 
 MILTON 
 
 NOR second he that rode sublime 
 Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, 
 The secret of th' abyss to spy. 
 He passed the flaming bounds of place and time 
 The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, 
 Where angels tremble, while they gaze, 
 He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light, 
 Closed his eyes in endless night. 
 
 JOURNAL IN THE LAKES 
 From Keswick to Kendal 
 
 OCTOBER 8th. Bid farewell to Keswick and took the 
 Ambleside road in a gloomy morning ; wind east and 
 afterwards north east ; about two miles from the town 
 mounted an eminence called Castle ftigg, and the sun 
 breaking out discovered the most beautiful view I have 
 yet seen of the whole valley behind me, the two lakes, 
 the river, the mountain, all in their glory ! had almost a 
 mind to have gone back again. The road in some little 
 patches is not completed, but good country road through
 
 GRAY 303 
 
 sound, but narrow and stony lanes, very safe in broad 10 
 daylight. This is the case about Causeway-foot, and 
 among Naddle-fells to Lanthwaite. The vale you go 
 in has little breadth, the mountains are vast and rocky, 
 the fields little and poor, and the inhabitants are now 
 making hay, and see not the sun by two hours in a day 15 
 so long as at Keswick. Came to the foot of Helvellyn, 
 along which runs an excellent road, looking down from a 
 little height on Lee's-water, (called also Thirlmeer, or 
 Wiborn-water) and soon descending on its margin. The 
 lake from its depth looks black, (though really as clear 20 
 as glass) and from the gloom of the vast crags, that scowl 
 over it : it is narrow and about three miles long, resem- 
 bling a river in its course ; little shining torrents hurry 
 down the rocks to join it, with not a bush to overshadow 
 them, or cover their march : all is rock and loose stones 25 
 up to the very brow, which lies so near your way, that not 
 above half the height of Helvellyn can be seen. (To be 
 continued, but now we have not franks.) 
 
 Past by the little chapel of Wiborn, out of which the 
 Sunday congregation were then issuing. Past a beck near 30 
 Dunmail-raisc and entered Westmoreland a second time, 
 now begin to see Helm-crag distinguished from its rugged 
 neighbours not so much by its height, as by the strange 
 broken outline of its top, like some gigantic building 
 demolished, and the stones that composed it flung across 35 
 each other in wild confusion. Just beyond it opens one 
 of the sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted to imi- 
 tate. The bosom of the mountains spreading here into a 
 broad bason discovers in the midst Grasmere-water ; its 
 margin is hollowed into small bays with bold eminences : 40 
 some of them rocks, some of soft turf that half conceal 
 and vary the figure of the little lake they command.
 
 304 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 From the shore a low promontory pushes itself far into 
 the water, and on it stands a white village with the parish- 
 church rising in the midst of it, hanging enclosures, corn- 45 
 fields, and meadows green as an emerald, with their trees 
 and hedges, and cattle fill up the whole space from the 
 edge of the water. Just opposite to you is a large farm- 
 house at the bottom of a steep smooth lawn embosomed 
 in old woods, which climb half way up the mountain's 50 
 side, and discover above them a broken line of crags, 
 that crown the scene. Not a single red tile, no flaming 
 gentleman's house, or garden walks break in upon the 
 repose of this little unsuspected paradise, but all is peace, 
 rusticity, and happy poverty in its neatest, most becoming 55 
 attire. 
 
 The road winds here over Grasmere-hill, whose rocks 
 soon conceal the water from your sight, yet it is con- 
 tinued along behind them, and contracting itself to a 
 river communicates with Ridale-water, another small 60 
 lake, but of inferior size and beauty ; it seems shallow 
 too, for large patches of reeds appear pretty far within 
 it. Into this vale the road descends : on the opposite 
 banks large and ancient woods mount up the hills, and 
 just to the left of our way stands Ridale-hall, the family 65 
 seat of Sir Mic. Fleming, but now a farm-house, a large 
 old fashioned fabric surrounded with wood, and not much 
 too good for its present destination. Sir Michael is now 
 on his travels, and all this timber far and wide belongs to 
 him. I tremble for it when he returns. Near the house 70 
 rises a huge crag called Ridale-head, which is said to 
 command a full view of Wynander-mere, and I doubt it 
 not, for within a mile that great lake is visible even from 
 the road. As to going up the crag, one might as well 
 go up Skiddaw. 75
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS 
 
 (1721-1759) 
 
 ODE TO LIBERTY 
 Strophe 
 
 WHO shall awake the Spartan fife, 
 
 And call in solemn sounds to life, 
 The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, 
 
 Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue, 
 At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, 5 
 
 Applauding freedom loved of old to view? 
 What new Alcaeus, fancy-blest, 
 Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest, 
 
 At wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing, 
 (What place so fit to seal a deed renowned?) 10 
 
 Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, 
 It leaped in glory forth and dealt her prompted wound ! 
 
 O goddess, in that feeling hour, 
 When most its sounds would court thy ears, 
 
 Let not my shell's misguided power 15 
 
 E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. 
 No, freedom, no, I will not tell 
 How Rome, before thy weeping face, 
 With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell, 
 Pushed by a wild and artless race 20 
 
 From off its wide ambitious base, 
 x 35
 
 306 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 When time his northern sons of spoil awoke, 
 
 And all the blended work of strength and grace, 
 With many a rude repeated stroke, 
 
 And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke. 25 
 
 Epode 
 
 Yet, even where'er the least appeared, 
 
 The admiring world thy hand revered; 
 
 Still 'midst the scattered states around, 
 
 Some remnants of her strength were found; 
 
 They saw, by what escaped the storm, 30 
 
 How wondrous rose her perfect form; 
 
 How in the great, the laboured whole, 
 
 Each mighty master poured his soul ! 
 
 For sunny Florence, seat of art, 
 
 Beneath her vines preserved a part, 3, 
 
 Till they, whom science loved to name, 
 
 (O who could fear it?) quenched her flame. 
 
 And lo, an humbler relic laid 
 
 In jealous Pisa's olive shade! 
 
 See small Marino joins the theme, 40 
 
 Though least, not last in thy esteem : 
 
 Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings 
 
 To those, whose merchant sons were kings; 
 
 To him, who, decked with pearly pride, 
 
 In Adria weds his green-haired bride; 45 
 
 Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure, 
 
 Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure : 
 
 Nor e'er her former pride relate, 
 
 To sad Liguria's bleeding state. 
 
 Ah no ! more pleased thy haunts I seek 50 
 
 On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak:
 
 COLLINS 307 
 
 (Where, when the favoured of thy choice, 
 
 The daring archer heard thy voice; 
 
 Forth from his eyrie roused in dread 
 
 The ravening eagle northward fled;) 55 
 
 Or dwell in willowed meads more near 
 
 With those to whom the stork is dear: 
 
 Those whom the rod of Alva bruised, 
 
 Whose crown a British queen refused! 
 
 The magic works, thou feel'st the strains, 60 
 
 One holier name alone remains; 
 
 The perfect spell shall then avail, 
 
 Hail, nymph, adored by Britain, hail ! 
 
 Antistrophe 
 
 Beyond the measure vast of thought, 
 The works the wizard time has wrought ! 65 
 
 The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story, 
 Saw Britain linked to his now adverse strand, 
 
 No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary, 
 He passed with unwet feet through all our land. 
 
 To the blown Baltic then, they say, 70 
 
 The wild waves found another way, 
 Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; 
 
 Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, 
 A wide wild storm even nature's self confounding, 
 
 Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise, 75 
 This pillared earth so firm and wide, 
 By winds and inward labours torn, 
 In thunders dread was pushed aside, 
 
 And down the shouldering billows borne. 
 And see, like gems, her laughing train, 80 
 
 The little isles on every side,
 
 308 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Mona, once hid from those who search the main, 
 
 Where thousand elfin shapes abide, 
 And Wight who checks the westering tide, 
 
 For thee consenting heaven has each bestowed, 85 
 
 A fair attendant on her sovereign pride : 
 
 To thee this blest divorce she owed, 
 For thou hast made her vales thy loved, thy last abode. 
 
 Second Epode 
 
 Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile, 
 
 'Midst the green navel of our isle, 90 
 
 Thy shrine in some religious wood, 
 
 O soul-enforcing goddess, stood ! 
 
 There oft the painted native's feet 
 
 Were wont thy form celestial meet: 
 
 Though now with hopeless toil we trace 95 
 
 Time's backward rolls, to find its place; 
 
 Whether the fiery-tressed Dane, 
 
 Or Roman's self, o'erturned the fane, 
 
 Or in what heaven-left age it fell, 
 
 'Twere hard for modern song to tell. 100 
 
 Yet still, if truth those beams infuse, 
 
 Which guide at once, and charm the muse, 
 
 Beyond yon braided clouds that lie, 
 
 Paving the light-embroidered sky, 
 
 Amidst the bright pavilioned plains, 105 
 
 The beauteous model still remains. 
 
 There, happier than in islands blest, 
 
 Or bowers by spring or Hebe drest, 
 
 The chiefs who fill our Albion's story, 
 
 In warlike weeds, retired in glory, no 
 
 Hear their consorted Druids sing
 
 COLLINS 309 
 
 Their triumphs to the immortal string. 
 
 How may the poet now unfold 
 What never tongue or numbers told ? 
 How learn, delighted and amazed, 115 
 
 What hands unknown that fabric raised? 
 Even now before his favoured eyes, 
 In Gothic pride, it seems to rise ! 
 Yet Graecia's graceful orders join, 
 Majestic through the mixed design: 120 
 
 The secret builder new to choose 
 Each sphere-found gem of richest hues; 
 Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains, 
 When nearer suns emblaze its veins; 
 There on the walls the patriot's sight 125 
 
 May ever hang with fresh delight, 
 And, graved with some prophetic rage, 
 Read Albion's fame through every age. 
 
 Ye forms divine, ye laureat band, 
 That near her inmost altar stand ! 130 
 
 Now soothe her to her blissful train 
 Blithe concord's social form to gain; 
 Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep 
 Even anger's bloodshot eyes in sleep; 
 Before whose breathing bosom's balm 135 
 
 Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm; 
 Her let our sires and matrons hoar 
 Welcome to Britain's ravaged shore; 
 Our youths, enamoured of the fair, 
 Play with the tangles of her hair, 140 
 
 Till, in one loud applauding sound, 
 The nations shout to her around, 
 O how supremely art thou blest, 
 Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the west !
 
 3IO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ODE TO EVENING 
 
 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 breathe some softened strain, 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, 
 May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit, 
 
 As, musing slow, I hail 
 
 Thy genial loved return ! 20 
 
 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,
 
 COLLINS 3 1 1 
 
 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 leap, calm votaress, where some sheety lake 
 
 Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile, 30 
 
 Or upland 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 flood, 
 
 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; 45 
 
 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-lipped health, 50 
 
 Thy gentlest influence own, 
 
 And hymn thy favourite name !
 
 312 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON 
 
 IN yonder grave a druid lies, 
 
 Where slowly winds the stealing wave; 
 
 The year's best sweets shall duteous rise 
 To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 
 
 In yon deep bed of whispering reeds $ 
 
 His airy harp shall now be laid, 
 That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, 
 
 May love through life the soothing shade. 
 
 Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
 
 And, while its sounds at distance swell, 10 
 
 Shall sadly seem in pity's ear 
 
 To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 
 
 Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is drest. 
 
 And oft suspend the dashing oar, 15 
 
 To bid his gentle spirit rest! 
 
 And oft, as ease and health retire 
 
 To breezy lawn, or forest deep, 
 The friend shall view yon whitening spire, 
 
 And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 20 
 
 But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, 
 
 Ah! what will every dirge avail; 
 Or tears, which love and pity shed, 
 
 That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
 
 COLLINS 313 
 
 Yet lives there one whose heedless eye 25 
 
 Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? 
 
 With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, 
 And joy desert the blooming year. 
 
 But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide 
 
 No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, 30 
 
 Now waft me from the green hill's side, 
 Whose cold turf hides the buried friend! 
 
 And see the fairy valleys fade; 
 
 Dun night has veiled the solemn view! 
 Yet once again, dear parted shade, 35 
 
 Meek nature's child, again adieu! 
 
 The genial meads, assigned to bless 
 Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; 
 
 Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress, 
 
 With simple hands, thy rural tomb. 40 
 
 Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 
 
 Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: 
 O vales and wild woods ! shall he say, 
 
 In yonder grave your druid lies!
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 (1728-1774) 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 
 Contrasts 
 
 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 mingling notes came softened from below; 
 The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 5 
 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 The playful children just let loose from school, 
 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, 10 
 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 15 
 
 For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
 All but yon widowed, solitary thing 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 20 
 
 To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
 
 GOLDSMITH 3 1 5 
 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 25 
 And still where many a garden-flower grows wild; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 30 
 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; 
 Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 35 
 
 More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train; 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain: 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 40 
 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, 
 Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, 45 
 
 Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 50 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 55
 
 316 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, 60 
 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 65 
 
 His looks adorned the venerable place : 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
 And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 70 
 
 Even children followed with endearing wile, 
 And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed : 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 75 
 
 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, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 80 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
 There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 
 The village master taught his Httle school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view; S; 
 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face;
 
 GOLDSMITH 317 
 
 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 90 
 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round 
 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 
 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault; 
 
 The village all declared how much he knew; 95 
 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; 
 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge: 
 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill; 
 
 For e'en though vanquished he could argue still; 100 
 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; 
 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 105 
 
 Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
 Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, no 
 
 Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlor splendor of that festive place : 
 The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 115 
 
 The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; 120 
 
 The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
 
 318 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay: 
 While broken teacups, wisely kept for sho\v, 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 
 
 Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 125 
 
 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 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care; ip 
 
 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; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 135 
 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
 Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be pressed, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 RETALIATION 
 Edmund Burke 
 
 HERE lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much; 
 Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, 5 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote: 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; 10
 
 GOLDSMITH 319 
 
 For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; 
 And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
 In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir, 
 To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
 
 David Garrick 
 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; 
 As an actor, confessed without rival to shine : 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line: 
 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 5 
 
 The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
 Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
 And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 
 'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. 10 
 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 He turned and he varied full ten times a day: 
 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
 He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 15 
 
 For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
 Who peppered the highest, was surest to please. 20 
 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! 
 How did Grub-street re-echo the shout that you raised, 25 
 While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised!
 
 320 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
 
 To act as an angel and mix with the skies: 
 
 Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 
 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, 30 
 
 Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, 
 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind; 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; 
 Still born to improve us in every part, 5 
 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 
 
 hearing, 
 
 When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff. 10 
 
 STANZAS ON WOMAN 
 
 WHEN lovely Woman stoops to folly, 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
 What art can wash her guilt away? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 And wring his bosom, is to die.
 
 GOLDSMITH 321 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 A Country Parsonage 
 
 A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, which 
 depends not on circumstances, but constitution 
 
 THE place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, 
 consisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, 
 and were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. 
 As they had almost all the conveniences of life within 
 themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities, in search 5 
 of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still re- 
 tained the primeval simplicity of manners; and frugal 
 by habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was a 
 virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of 
 labour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness 10 
 and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent 
 true-love-knots on Valentine morning, eat pancakes on 
 Shrove-tide, shewed their wit on the first of April, and 
 religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being ap- 
 prized of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came 15 
 out to meet their minister, drest in their finest cloaths, 
 and preceded by a pipe and tabor : A feast also was 
 provided for our reception, at which we sate cheerfully 
 down; and what the conversation wanted in wit, was 
 made up in laughter. 20 
 
 Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a slop- 
 ing hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, 
 and a prattling river before : on one side a meadow, on 
 the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty 
 acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pound 25 
 for my predecessor's goodwill. Nothing could exceed 
 the neatness of my little enclosures; the elms and hedge-
 
 322 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house 
 consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, 
 which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the 30 
 inside were nicely white-washed, and my daughters un- 
 dertook to adorn them with pictures of their own design- 
 ing. Though the same room served us for parlour and 
 kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it 
 was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, 35 
 and coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in 
 bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, 
 and did not want richer furniture. There were three 
 other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for 
 our two daughters, within our own, and the third, with 40 
 two beds, for the rest of the children. 
 
 The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated 
 in the following manner; by sun-rise we all assembled 
 in our common apartment; the fire being previously kin- 
 dled by the servant. After we had saluted each other 45 
 with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep 
 up some mechanical forms of good breeding, without 
 which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in 
 gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This 
 duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our 50 
 usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters em- 
 ployed themselves in providing breakfast, which was 
 always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour 
 for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was 
 taken up in innocent mirth between my wife and 55 
 daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my 
 son and me. 
 
 As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our 
 labours after it was gone down, but returned home to 
 the expecting family; where smiling looks, a neat 60
 
 GOLDSMITH 323 
 
 hearth, and pleasant fire were prepared for our recep- 
 tion. Nor were we without guests: sometimes farmer 
 Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often the 
 blind piper would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- 
 berry wine; for the making of which we had lost neither 65 
 the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people 
 had several ways of being good company; while one 
 played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, 
 Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or the cruelty of 
 Barbary Allen. The night was concluded in the manner 70 
 we began the morning, my youngest boys being ap- 
 pointed to read the lessons of the day, and he that read 
 loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have an halfpenny 
 on Sunday to put in the poor's box. 
 
 When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, 75 
 which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How 
 well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had con- 
 quered the vanity of my daughters; yet I still found them 
 secretly attached to all their former finery: they still 
 loved laces, ribbands, bugles, and catgut; my wife her- 80 
 self retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, 
 because I formerly happened to say it became her. 
 
 The first Sunday in particular their behaviour served 
 to mortify me: I had desired my girls the preceding 
 night to be drest early the next day; for I always loved 85 
 to be at church a good while before the rest of" the con- 
 gregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but 
 when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, 
 down came my wife and daughters, drest out all in their 
 former splendour; their hair plastered up with poma- 90 
 turn, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled 
 up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I 
 could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that
 
 324 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. 
 In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to 95 
 order my son, with an important air, to call our coach. 
 The girls were amazed at the command; but I repeated 
 
 it with more solemnity than before. " Surely, my 
 
 "dear, you jest," cried my wife, "we can walk it per- 
 fectly well: we want no coach to carry us now." 100 
 "You mistake, child," returned I, "we do want a 
 "coach; for if we walk to church in this trim, the very 
 "children in the parish will hoot after us." "Indeed," 
 replied my wife, "I always imagined that my Charles 
 "was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome 105 
 "about him." "You may be as neat as you please," 
 interrupted I, "and I shall love you the better for it; 
 "but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These ruf- 
 " flings, and pinkings, and patchings will only make us 
 "hated by all the wives of all our neighbours. No, my no 
 " children," continued I more gravely, " those gowns may 
 "be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery 
 " is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of 
 "decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and 
 " shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, 115 
 " upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the 
 " indigent world may be cloathed from the trimmings of 
 "the vain." 
 
 This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went 
 with great composure, that very instant, to change their iao 
 dress; and the next day I had the satisfaction of find- 
 ing my daughters, at their own request, employed in 
 cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick 
 and Bill, the two little ones, and what was still more 
 satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this cur- 125 
 tailing.
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 (1729-1797) 
 
 SPEECH ON AMERICAN TAXATION 
 Lord Chatham 
 
 I HAVE done with the third period of your policy 
 that of your repeal and the return of your ancient 
 system and your ancient tranquillity and concord. Sir, 
 this period was not as long as it was happy. Another 
 scene was opened, and other actors appeared on the stage. 5 
 The state, in the condition I have described it, was deliv- 
 ered into the hands of Lord Chatham a great and cele- 
 brated name; a name that keeps the name of this country 
 respectable in every other on the globe. It may be truly 
 called, 
 
 " Clarum et venerabile nomen 10 
 
 Gentibus, multum et nostrse quod proderat urbi." 
 
 Sir, the venerable age of this great man, his merited 
 rank, his superior eloquence, his splendid qualities, his 
 eminent services, the vast space he fills in the eye of 
 mankind; and, more than all the rest, his fall from 15 
 power which, like death, canonizes and sanctifies a 
 great character will not suffer me to censure any part 
 of his conduct. I am afraid to flatter him; I am sure 
 I am not disposed to blame him. Let those who have 
 betrayed him by their adulation insult him with their 20 
 malevolence. But what I do not presume to censure I 
 
 325
 
 326 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 may have leave to lament. For a wise man he seemed 
 to me at that time to be governed too much by general 
 maxims. I speak with the freedom of history, and, I 
 hope, without offence. One or two of these maxims, 25 
 flowing from an opinion not the most indulgent to our 
 unhappy species, and surely a little too general, led him 
 into measures that were greatly mischievous to himself, 
 and for that reason, among others, perhaps fatal to his 
 country measures the effects of which, I am afraid, 30 
 are forever incurable. 
 
 He made an administration so checkered and speckled, 
 he put together a piece of joinery so crossly indented 
 and whimsically dovetailed, a cabinet so variously in- 
 laid, such a piece of diversified mosaic, such a tessel- 35 
 lated pavement without cement here a bit of black 
 stone and there a bit of white, patriots and courtiers, 
 king's friends and republicans, Whigs and Tories, 
 treacherous friends and open enemies that it was, 
 indeed, a very curious show, but utterly unsafe to touch 40 
 and unsure to stand on. The colleagues whom he had 
 assorted at the same boards stared at each other, and 
 were obliged to ask, "Sir, your name?" "Sir, you 
 have the advantage of me." "Mr. Such-a-one." "I 
 beg a thousand pardons." I venture to say, it did so 45 
 happen that persons had a single office divided between 
 them who had never spoken to each other in their lives 
 until they found themselves, they knew not how, pigging 
 together, heads and points, in the same truckle-bed. 
 
 Sir, in consequence of this arrangement, having put 50 
 so much the larger part of his enemies and opposers 
 into power, the confusion was such that his own princi- 
 ples could not possibly have any effect or influence in 
 the conduct of affairs. If ever he fell into a fit of the
 
 BURKE 327 
 
 gout, or if any other cause withdrew him from public 55 
 cares, principles directly the contrary were sure to pre- 
 dominate. When he had executed his plan, he had not 
 an inch of ground to stand upon. When he had accom- 
 plished his scheme of administration, he was no longer 
 minister. 60 
 
 When his face was hid but for a moment, his whole 
 system was on a wide sea without chart or compass. 
 The gentlemen, his particular friends, who, with the 
 names of various departments of ministry, were admitted 
 to seem as if they acted a part under him, with a mod- 65 
 esty that becomes all men, and with a confidence in 
 him which was justified even in its extravagance by his 
 superior abilities, had never in any instance presumed 
 upon any opinion of their own. Deprived of his guid- 
 ing influence, they were whirled about, the sport of every 70 
 gust, and easily driven into any port; and as those who 
 joined with them in manning the vessel were the most 
 directly opposite to his opinions, measures, and charac- 
 ter, and far the most artful and most powerful of the set, 
 they easily prevailed, so as to seize upon the vacant, 75 
 unoccupied, and derelict minds of his friends; and in- 
 stantly they turned the vessel wholly out of the course of 
 his policy. As if it were to insult as well as to betray 
 him, even long before the close of the first session of 
 his administration, when everything was publicly trans- 80 
 acted, and with great parade, in his name, they made 
 an act declaring it highly just and expedient to raise a 
 revenue in America. For even then, sir, even before 
 this splendid orb was entirely set, and while the western 
 horizon was in a blaze with his descending glory, on the 85 
 opposite quarter of the heavens arose another luminary, 
 and, for his hour, became lord of the ascendant.
 
 328 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA 
 Character of the Americans 
 
 THESE, Sir, are my reasons for not entertaining that 
 high opinion of untried force, by which many gentlemen, 
 for whose sentiments in other particulars I have great 
 respect, seem to be so greatly captivated. But there 
 is* still behind a third consideration concerning this ob- 5 
 ject, which serves to determine my opinion on the sort 
 of policy which ought to be pursued in the management 
 of America, even more than its population and its com- 
 merce, I mean its temper and character. 
 
 In this character of the Americans, a love of freedom 10 
 is the predominating feature which marks and distin- 
 guishes the whole; and as an ardent is always a jealous 
 affection, your Colonies become suspicious, restive, and 
 untractable, whenever they see the least attempt to wrest 
 from them by force or shuffle from them by chicane, what 15 
 they think the only advantage worth living for. This 
 fierce spirit of liberty is stronger in the English Colo- 
 nies probably than in any other people of the earth; and 
 this from a great variety of powerful causes; which, to 
 understand the true temper of their minds, and the direc- 20 
 tion which this spirit takes, it will not be amiss to lay 
 open somewhat more largely. 
 
 First, the people of the Colonies are descendants of 
 Englishmen. England, Sir, is a nation which still* I 
 hope respects, and formerly adored, her freedom. The 25 
 Colonists emigrated from you when this part of your 
 character was most predominant; and they took this bias 
 and direction the moment they parted from your hands. 
 They are therefore not only devoted to liberty, but to
 
 BURKE 329 
 
 liberty according to English ideas, and on English prin- 30 
 ciples. Abstract liberty, like other mere abstractions, 
 is not to be found. Liberty inheres in some sensible 
 object; and every nation has formed to itself some 
 favourite point, which by way of eminence becomes the 
 criterion of their happiness. It happened, you know, 35 
 Sir, that the great contests for freedom in this country 
 were from the earliest times chiefly upon the question of 
 taxing. Most of the contests in the ancient common- 
 wealths turned primarily on the right of election of mag- 
 istrates; or on the balance among the several orders of 40 
 the State. The question of money was not with them 
 so immediate. But in England it was otherwise. On 
 this point of taxes the ablest pens and most eloquent 
 tongues have been exercised; the greatest spirits have 
 acted and suffered. In order to give the fullest satisfac- 45 
 tion concerning the importance of this point, it was not 
 only necessary for those who in argument defended the 
 excellence of the English Constitution to insist on this 
 privilege of granting money as a dry point of fact, and 
 to prove that the right had been acknowledged in ancient 50 
 parchments and blind usage to reside in a certain body 
 called a House of Commons. They went much farther; 
 they attempted to prove, and they succeeded, that in 
 theory it ought to be so, from the particular nature of a 
 House of Commons as an immediate representative of 55 
 the people, whether the old records had delivered this 
 oracle or not. They took infinite pains to inculcate, as 
 a fundamental principle, that in all monarchies the 
 people must in effect themselves, mediately or imme- 
 diately, possess the power of granting their own money, 60 
 or no shadow of liberty could subsist. The Colonies 
 draw from you, as with their life-blood, these ideas and
 
 33O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 principles. Their love of liberty, as with you, fixed 
 and attached on this specific point of taxing. Liberty 
 might be safe, or might be endangered, in twenty other 65 
 particulars, without their being much pleased or alarmed. 
 Here they felt its pulse; and as they found that beat, 
 they thought themselves sick or sound. I do not say 
 whether they were right or wrong in applying your gen- 
 eral arguments to their own cause. It is not easy indeed 70 
 to make a monopoly of theorems and corollaries. The 
 fact is, that they did thus apply those general arguments; 
 and your mode of governing them, whether through 
 lenity or indolence, through wisdom or mistake, con- 
 firmed them in the imagination, that they, as well as 75 
 you, had an interest in these common principles. 
 
 They were further confirmed in this pleasing error by 
 the form of their provincial legislative assemblies. Their 
 governments are popular in a high degree; some are 
 merely popular; in all, the popular representative is the 80 
 most weighty; and this share of the people in their or- 
 dinary government never fails to inspire them with lofty 
 sentiments, and with a strong aversion from whatever 
 tends to deprive them of their chief importance. 
 
 If anything were wanting to this necessary operation 85 
 of the form of government, religion would have given it 
 a complete effect. Religion, always a principle of 
 energy, in this new people is no way worn out or im- 
 paired; and their mode of professing it is also one main 
 cause of this free spirit. The people are Protestants; 90 
 and of that kind which is the most adverse to all im- 
 plicit submission of mind and opinion. This is a per- 
 suasion not only favourable to liberty, but built upon it. 
 I do not think, Sir, that the reason of this averseness in 
 the dissenting churches, from all that looks like absolute 95
 
 BURKE 331 
 
 government, is so much to be sought in their religious 
 tenets as in their history. Every one knows that the 
 Roman Catholic religion is at least coeval with most of 
 the governments where it prevails; that it has generally 
 gone hand in hand with them, and received great favour 100 
 and every kind of support from authority. The Church 
 of England too was formed from her cradle under the 
 nursing care of regular government. But the dissenting 
 interests have sprung up in direct opposition to all the 
 ordinary powers of the world; and could justify that op- 105 
 position only on a strong claim to natural liberty. Their 
 very existence depended on the powerful and unremitted 
 assertion of that claim. All Protestantism, even the 
 most cold and passive, is a sort of dissent. But the 
 religion most prevalent in our Northern Colonies is a no 
 refinement on the principle of resistance; it is the dissi- 
 dence of dissent, and the Protestantism of the Protes- 
 tant religion. This religion, under a variety of denomi- 
 nations agreeing in nothing but in the communion of 
 the spirit of liberty, is predominant in most of the 115 
 Northern provinces, where the Church of England, not- 
 withstanding its legal rights, is in reality no more than 
 a sort of private sect, not composing most probably the 
 tenth of the people. The Colonists left England when 
 this spirit was high, and in the emigrants was the high- 120 
 est of all, and even that stream of foreigners, which 
 has been constantly flowing into these Colonies, has, 
 for the greatest part, been composed of dissenters from 
 the establishments of their several countries, and have 
 brought with them a temper and character far from alien 12;. 
 to that of the people with whom they mixed. 
 
 Sir, I can perceive by their manner, that some gen- 
 tlemen object to the latitude of this description, because
 
 332 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 in the Southern Colonies the Church of England forms 
 a large body, and has a regular establishment. It is 130 
 certainly true. There is, however, a circumstance at- 
 tending these Colonies, which, in my opinion, fully 
 counterbalances this difference, and makes the spirit of 
 liberty still more high and haughty than in those to the 
 Northward. It is, that in Virginia and the Carolinas 135 
 they have a vast multitude of slaves. Where this is the 
 case in any part of the world, those who are free are by 
 far the most proud and jealous of their freedom. Freedom 
 is to them not only an enjoyment, but a kind of rank 
 and privilege. Not seeing there, that freedom, as in 140 
 countries where it is a common blessing, and as broad 
 and general as the air, may be united with much abject 
 toil, with great misery, with all the exterior of servitude, 
 liberty looks, amongst them, like something that is more 
 noble and liberal. I do not mean, Sir, to commend 145 
 the superior morality of this sentiment, which has at 
 least as much pride as virtue in it; but I cannot alter 
 the nature of man. The fact is so; and these people 
 of the Southern Colonies are much more strongly, and 
 with a higher and more stubborn spirit, attached to 150 
 liberty, than those to the Northward. Such were all the 
 ancient commonwealths; such were our Gothic ances- 
 tors; such in our days were the Poles; and such will be 
 all masters of slaves who are not slaves themselves. In 
 such a people, the haughtiness of domination combines 155 
 with the spirit of freedom, fortifies it, and renders it 
 invincible. 
 
 Permit me, Sir, to add another circumstance in our 
 Colonies, which contributes no mean part towards the 
 growth and effect of this untractable spirit. I mean 160 
 their education. In no country perhaps in the world is
 
 BURKE 333 
 
 the law so general a study. The profession itself is nu- 
 merous and powerful; and in most provinces it takes the 
 lead. The greater number of the deputies sent to the 
 Congress were lawyers. But all who read (and most do 165 
 read), endeavour to obtain some smattering in that 
 science. I have been told by an eminent bookseller, 
 that in no branch of his business, after tracts of popu- 
 lar devotion, were so many books as those on the law 
 exported to the plantations. The Colonists have now 170 
 fallen into the way of printing them for their own use. 
 I hear that they have sold nearly as many of Blackstone's 
 Commentaries in America as in England. General Gage 
 marks out this disposition very particularly in a letter 
 on your table. He states that all the people in hisGov- 175 
 eminent are lawyers, or smatterers in law: and that in 
 Boston they have been enabled, by successful chicane, 
 wholly to evade many parts of one of your capital penal 
 constitutions. The smartness of debate will say that 
 this knowledge ought to teach them more clearly the 180 
 rights of legislature, their obligations to obedience, and 
 the penalties of rebellion. All this is mighty well. But 
 my honourable and learned friend on the floor, who con- 
 descends to mark what I say for animadversion, will 
 disdain that ground. He has heard, as well as I, that 185 
 when great honours and great emoluments do not win 
 over this knowledge to the service of the State, it is a 
 formidable adversary to Government. If the spirit be 
 not tamed and broken by these happy methods, it is 
 stubborn and litigious. Abeunt studio, in mores. This 190 
 study renders men acute, inquisitive, dexterous, prompt 
 in attack, ready in defence, full of resources. In other 
 countries, the people, more simple, and of a less mercu- 
 rial cast, judge of an ill principle in government only by
 
 334 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 an actual grievance; here they anticipate the evil, and 195 
 judge of the pressure of the grievance by the badness of 
 the principle. They augur misgovernment at a distance ; 
 and snuff the approach of tyranny in every tainted breeze. 
 The last cause of this disobedient spirit in the Colo- 
 nies is hardly less powerful than the rest, as it is not 200 
 merely moral, but laid deep in the natural constitution 
 of things. Three thousand miles of ocean lie between 
 you and them. No contrivance can prevent the effect 
 of this distance in weakening government. Seas roll, 
 and months pass, between the order and the execution; 205 
 and the want of a speedy explanation of a single point is 
 enough to defeat a whole system. You have, indeed, 
 "winged ministers of vengeance," who carry your bolts 
 in their pounces to the remotest verge of the sea. But 
 there a power steps in, that limits the arrogance of raging 210 
 passions and furious elements, and says, "So far shall 
 thou go, and no farther." Who are you, that you should 
 fret and rage, and bite the chains of Nature? nothing 
 worse happens to you than does to all nations who have 
 extensive empire; and it happens in all the forms into 215 
 which empire can be thrown. In large bodies, the cir- 
 culation of power must be less vigorous at the extremi- 
 ties. Nature has said it. The Turk cannot govern 
 Egypt, and Arabia, and Kurdistan, as he governs Thrace; 
 nor has he the same dominion in Crimea and Algiers 220 
 which he has at Brusa and Smyrna. Despotism itself is 
 obliged to truck and huckster. The Sultan gets such 
 obedience as he can. He governs with a loose rein, 
 that he may govern at all; and the whole of the force 
 and vigour of his authority in his centre is derived from 225 
 a prudent relaxation in all his borders. Spain, in her 
 provinces, is perhaps not so well obeyed as you are in
 
 BURKE 335 
 
 yours. She complies too; she submits; she watches 
 times. This is the immutable condition, the eternal law, 
 of extensive and detached empire. 230 
 
 Then, Sir, from these six capital sources; of descent; 
 of form of government; of religion in the northern 
 provinces; of manners in the southern; of education; 
 of the remoteness of situation from the first mover of 
 government; from all these causes a fierce spirit of lib- 235 
 erty has grown up. It has grown with the growth of the 
 people in your Colonies, and increased with the in- 
 crease of their wealth; a spirit, that unhappily meeting 
 with an exercise of power in England, which, however 
 lawful, is not reconcileable to any ideas of liberty, much 240 
 less with theirs, has kindled this flame that is ready to 
 consume us.
 
 WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 (1731-1800) 
 
 THE TASK 
 The Post The Fireside in Winter 
 
 HARK! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge, 
 That with its wearisome but needful length 
 Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 
 Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright, 
 He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 5 
 
 With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, 
 News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
 True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, 
 Yet careless what he brings, his one 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 
 336
 
 co \v PER 337 
 
 With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
 
 What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? 25 
 
 Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, 
 
 Snore to the 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. 35 
 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
 And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
 Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
 That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 40 
 
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
 
 O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, 
 Thy scattered air with sleet like ashes filled, 
 Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 45 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
 But urged by storms along its slippery way; 
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, 50 
 
 And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun 
 A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
 Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
 And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
 Down to the rosy west; but kindly still 55
 
 338 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Compensating his loss with added hours 
 
 Of social converse and instructive ease, 
 
 And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
 
 The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
 
 Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 60 
 
 I crown thee King of intimate delights, 
 
 Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 
 Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
 
 Of long uninterrupted evening know. 65 
 
 No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; 
 
 No powdered pert, proficient in the art 
 
 Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 
 
 Till the street rings; no stationary steeds 
 
 Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, 70 
 
 The silent circle fan themselves, and quake : 
 
 But here the needle plies its busy task, 
 
 The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, 
 
 Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, 
 
 Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, 75 
 
 And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, 
 
 Follow the nimble finger of the fair; 
 
 A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow 
 
 With most success when all besides decay. 
 
 The poet's or historian's page, by one So 
 
 Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; 
 
 The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 
 
 The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; 
 
 And the clear voice of symphonious, yet distinct, 
 
 And in the charming strife triumphant still; 85 
 
 Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 
 
 On female industry : the threaded steel 
 
 Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
 
 cow PER 339 
 
 Snow 
 
 I saw the woods and fields at close of day 
 A variegated show; the meadows green, 
 Though faded ; and the lands, where lately waved 
 The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 
 Upturned so lately by the forceful share: 5 
 
 I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 
 With verdure not unprofitable, grazed 
 By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 
 His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves 
 That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue, 10 
 
 Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. 
 To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 
 Which even now, though silently performed 
 And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 
 Of universal nature undergoes. 15 
 
 Fast falls a fleecy shower : the downy flakes 
 Descending, and, with never-ceasing lapse, 
 Softly alighting upon all below, 
 Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
 Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green 20 
 
 And tender blade that feared the chilling blast 
 Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. 
 
 In such a world, so thorny, and where none 
 Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found, 
 Without some thistly sorrow at its side, 25 
 
 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 sympathise with others, suffering more. 30 
 
 111 fares the traveller now, and he that stalks
 
 340 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 35 
 
 Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. 
 
 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 40 
 
 The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, 
 
 With half-shut eyes and puckered cheeks, and teeth 
 
 Presented bare against the storm, plods on. 
 
 One hand secures his hat, save when with both 
 
 He brandishes his pliant length of whip, 45 
 
 Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. 
 
 O happy ! and in my account, denied 
 
 That sensibility of pain with which 
 
 Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou. 
 
 Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed 50 
 
 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. 55 
 
 Thy days roll on exempt from household care, 
 
 The 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, 60 
 
 Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great, 
 
 With needless hurry whirled from place to place, 
 
 Humane as they would seem, not always show.
 
 CO IV PER 341 
 
 Early Love of the Country and of Poetry 
 
 But slighted as it is, and by the great 
 Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, 
 Infected with the manners and the modes 
 It knew not once, the country wins me still. 
 I never framed a wish, or formed a plan, 5 
 
 That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, 
 But there 1 laid the scene. There early strayed 
 My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
 Had found me, or the hope of being free. 
 My very dreams were rural, rural too 10 
 
 The firstborn efforts of my youthful muse, 
 Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells 
 Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. 
 No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned 
 To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 15 
 
 Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe 
 Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, 
 The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. 
 Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: 
 New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed 20 
 
 The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue 
 To speak its excellence; I danced for joy. 
 I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age 
 As twice seven years, his beauties had then first 
 Engaged my wonder, and admiring still, 25 
 
 And still admiring, with regret supposed 
 The joy half lost because not sooner found. 
 Thee too, enamoured of the life I loved, 
 Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 
 Determined, and possessing it at last 30 
 
 With transports such as favoured lovers feel,
 
 342 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, 
 
 Ingenious Cowley ! and though now reclaimed 
 
 By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 
 
 I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 35 
 
 Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools; 
 
 I still revere thee, courtly though retired, 
 
 Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers. 
 
 Not unemployed, and finding rich amends 
 
 For a lost world in solitude and verse. 40 
 
 The Poet in the Woods 
 
 Here unmolested, through whatever sign 
 The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist, 
 Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, 
 Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. 
 Even in the spring and playtime of the year, 5 
 
 That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
 With all her little ones, a sportive train, 
 To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, 
 And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick 
 A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, 10 
 
 These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, 
 Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, 
 Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarmed 
 Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends 
 His long love-ditty for my near approach. 15 
 
 Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm 
 That age or injury has hollowed deep, 
 Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves 
 He has outslept the winter, ventures forth 
 To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, 20 
 
 The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.
 
 COWPER 343 
 
 He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, 
 
 Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, 
 
 And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, 
 
 With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, 25 
 
 And anger insignificantly fierce. 
 
 ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 
 
 OH that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 5 
 
 ' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away! ' 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blessed be the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 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 filial grief, 
 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 
 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
 
 A momentary dream that thou art she. 20 
 
 My mother ! when I learnt that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
 
 344 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Wretch even then life's journey just begun? 
 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss : 25 
 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss 
 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! It answers Yes. 
 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 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 concern, 
 
 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 learned 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 50 
 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 
 '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, 55 
 
 Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
 
 cow PER 345 
 
 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 cheek bestowed 
 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; 
 
 All this, and more endearing still than all, 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 65 
 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes 
 
 That 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 70 
 
 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 flowers, 75 
 
 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), 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 80 
 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 
 I would not trust my heart the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
 But no what here we call our life is such 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much, 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)
 
 346 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 90 
 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
 
 There sits quiescent on the floods that show 
 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; 95 
 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, 
 
 ' Where tempests never beat nor billows roar. ' 
 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 
 Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100 
 
 Always from port withheld, always distressed 
 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost, 
 
 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. 105 
 
 Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 
 My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
 
 From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; 
 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise no 
 
 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; 115 
 
 To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 
 
 Without the sin of violating thine: 
 
 And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft 120 
 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
 
 EDWARD GIBBON 
 
 (1737-1794) 
 
 THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE 
 The Overthrow of Zenobia 
 
 AURELIAN had no sooner secured the person and prov- 
 inces of Tetricus than he turned his arms against Zeno- 
 bia, the celebrated Queen of Palmyra and the East. 
 Modern Europe has produced several illustrious women 
 who have sustained with glory the weight of empire, nor 5 
 is our own age destitute of such distinguished charac- 
 ters. But if we except the doubtful achievements of 
 Semiramis, Zenobia is, perhaps, the only female whose 
 superior genius broke through the servile indolence im- 
 posed on her sex by the climate and manners of Asia. 10 
 She claimed her descent from the Macedonian kings of 
 Egypt, equalled in beauty her ancestor Cleopatra, and 
 far surpassed that princess in chastity and valor. Zeno- 
 bia was esteemed the most lovely as well as the most 
 heroic of her sex. She was of a dark complexion (for 15 
 in speaking of a lady these trifles become important). 
 Her teeth were of a pearly whiteness, and her large 
 black eyes sparkled with uncommon fire, tempered by 
 the most attractive sweetness. Her voice was strong and 
 harmonious. Her manly understanding was strength- 20 
 ened and adorned by study. She was not ignorant of 
 the Latin tongue, but possessed in equal perfection the 
 
 347
 
 348 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Greek, the Syriac, and the Egyptian languages. She 
 had drawn up for her own use an epitome of Oriental 
 history, and familiarly compared the beauties of Homer 25 
 and Plato under the tuition of the sublime Longinus. 
 
 This accomplished woman gave her hand to Odena- 
 thus, who, from a private station, raised himself to the 
 dominion of the East. She soon became the friend 
 and companion of a hero. In the intervals of war, 30 
 Odenathus passionately delighted in the exercise of 
 hunting; he pursued with ardor the wild beasts of the 
 desert, lions, panthers, and bears; and the ardor of 
 Zenobia in that dangerous amusement was not inferior 
 to his own. She had inured her constitution to fatigue, 35 
 disdained the use of a covered carriage, generally ap- 
 peared on horseback in a military habit, and sometimes 
 marched several miles on foot at the head of the troops. 
 The success of Odenathus was, in a great measure, as- 
 cribed to her incomparable prudence and fortitude. 40 
 Their splendid victories over the great king, whom they 
 twice pursued as far as the gates of Ctesiphon, laid the 
 foundations of their united fame and power. The 
 armies which they commanded, and the provinces which 
 they had saved, acknowledged not any other sovereigns 45 
 than their invincible chiefs. The senate and people 
 of Rome revered a stranger who had avenged their cap- 
 tive emperor, and even the insensible son of Valerian 
 accepted Odenathus for his legitimate colleague. 
 
 After a successful expedition against the Gothic plun- 50 
 derers of Asia, the Palmyrenian prince returned to the 
 city of Emesa, in Syria. Invincible in war, he was there 
 cut off by domestic treason, and his favorite amusement 
 of hunting was the cause, or at least the occasion, of his 
 death. His nephew Maeonius presumed to dart his 55
 
 GIBBON 349 
 
 javelin before that of his uncle, and, though admonished 
 of his error, repeated the same insolence. As a mon- 
 arch and as a sportsman, Odenathus was provoked, took 
 away his horse a mark of ignominy among the barba- 
 rians and chastised the rash youth by a short confine- 60 
 ment. The offence was soon forgot, but the punishment 
 was remembered, and Maeonius, with a few daring asso- 
 ciates, assassinated his uncle in the midst of a great en- 
 tertainment. Herod, the son of Odenathus, though not 
 of Zenobia, a young man of a soft and effeminate temper, 65 
 was killed with his father. But Mseonius obtained only 
 the pleasure of revenge by this bloody deed. He had 
 scarcely time to assume the title of Augustus before he 
 was sacrificed by Zenobia to the memory of her husband. 
 
 With the assistance of his most faithful friends, she 70 
 immediately filled the vacant throne, and governed with 
 manly councils Palmyra, Syria, and the East above five 
 years. By the death of Odenathus, that authority was at 
 an end which the senate had granted him only as a per- 
 sonal distinction; but his martial widow, disdaining 75 
 both the senate and Gallienus, obliged one of the Roman 
 generals, who was sent against her, to retreat into Europe, 
 with the loss of his army and his reputation. Instead of 
 the little passions which so frequently perplex a female 
 reign, the steady administration of Zenobia was guided 80 
 by the most judicious maxims of policy. If it was ex- 
 pedient to pardon, she could calm her resentment; if 
 it was necessary to punish, she could impose silence on 
 the voice of pity. Her strict economy was accused of 
 avarice; yet on every proper occasion she appeared 85 
 magnificent and liberal. The neighboring states of 
 Arabia, Armenia, and Persia dreaded her enmity and 
 solicited her alliance. To the dominions of Odenathus
 
 350 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 vhich extended from the Euphrates to the frontiers of 
 Bithynia his widow added the inheritance of her ances- 90 
 tors, the populous and fertile kingdom of Egypt. The 
 Emperor Claudius acknowledged her merit, and was con- 
 tent that, while he pursued the Gothic war, she should 
 assert the dignity of the empire in the East. The con- 
 duct, however, of Zenobia was attended with some am- 95 
 biguity; nor is it unlikely that she had conceived the 
 design of erecting an independent and hostile monarchy. 
 She blended with the popular manners of Roman princes 
 the stately pomp of the courts of Asia, and exacted from 
 her subjects the same adoration that was paid to the sue- 100 
 cessors of Cyrus. She bestowed on her three sons a 
 Latin education, and often showed them to the troops 
 adorned with the imperial purple. For herself she re- 
 served the diadem, with the splendid but doubtful title 
 of Queen of the East. 105 
 
 When Aurelian passed over into Asia, against an adver- 
 sary whose sex alone could render her an object of con- 
 tempt, his presence restored obedience to the province 
 of Bithynia, already shaken by the arms and intrigues of 
 Zenobia. Advancing at the head of his legions, he ac- no 
 cepted the submission of Ancyra, and was admitted into 
 Tyana, after an obstinate siege, by the help of a perfidi- 
 ous citizen. The generous though fierce temper of Aure- 
 lian abandoned the traitor to the rage of the soldiers; a 
 superstitious reverence induced him to treat with lenity 115 
 the countrymen of Apollonius, the philosopher. Antioch 
 was deserted on his approach, till the emperor, by his 
 salutary edicts, recalled the fugitives, and granted a gen- 
 eral pardon to all who, from necessity rather than choice, 
 had been engaged in the service of the Palmyrenian 120 
 queen. The unexpected mildness of such a conduct
 
 GIBBON 351 
 
 reconciled the minds of the Syrians, and, as far as the 
 gates of Emesa, the wishes of the people seconded the 
 terror of his arms. 
 
 Zenobia would have ill deserved her reputation had 125 
 she indolently permitted the Emperor of the West to 
 approach within a hundred miles of her capital. The 
 fate of the East was decided in two great battles, so simi- 
 lar, in almost every circumstance, that we can scarcely 
 distinguish them from each 'other, except by observing 130 
 that the first was fought near Antioch, and the second 
 near Emesa. In both the Queen of Palmyra animated 
 the armies by her presence, and devolved the execution 
 of her orders on Zabdas, who had already signalized his 
 military talents by the conquest of Egypt. The numer- 135 
 ous forces of Zenobia consisted for the most part of light 
 archers, and of heavy cavalry clothed in complete steel. 
 The Moorish and Illyrian horse of Aurelian were unable 
 to sustain the ponderous charge of their antagonists. 
 They fled in real or affected disorder, engaged the Pal- 140 
 myrenians in a laborious pursuit, harassed them by a 
 desultory combat, and at length discomfited this impene- 
 trable but unwieldy body of cavalry. The light infantry, 
 in the meantime, when they had exhausted their quivers, 
 remaining without protection against a closer onset, ex- 145 
 posed their naked sides to the swords of the legions. 
 Aurelian had chosen these veteran troops, who were usu- 
 ally stationed on the Upper Danube, and whose valor 
 had been severely tried in the Alemannic war. After the 
 defeat of Emesa, Zenobia found it impossible to collect 150 
 a third army. As far as the frontier of Egypt, the 
 nations subject to her empire had joined the standard 
 of the conqueror, who detached Probus, the bravest of 
 his generals, to possess himself of the Egyptian prov-
 
 352 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 inces. Palmyra was the last resource of the widow of 155 
 Odenathus. She retired within the walls of her capital, 
 made every preparation for a vigorous resistance, and 
 declared, with the intrepidity of a heroine, that the last 
 moment of her reign and of her life should be the same. 
 
 Amid the barren deserts of Arabia, a few cultivated 160 
 spots rise like islands out of the sandy ocean. Even the 
 name of Tadmor, or Palmyra, by its signification in the 
 Syriac as well as in the Latin language, denoted the mul- 
 titude of palm-trees which afforded shade and verdure 
 to that temperate region. The air was pure, and the 165 
 soil, watered by some invaluable springs, was capable of 
 producing fruits as well as corn. A place possessed of 
 such singular advantages, and situated at a convenient 
 distance between the Gulf of Persia and the Mediterra- 
 nean, was soon frequented by the caravans which con- 170 
 veyed to the nations of Europe a considerable part of 
 the rich commodities of India. Palmyra insensibly in- 
 creased into an opulent and independent city, and, con- 
 necting the Roman and the Parthian monarchies by the 
 mutual benefits of commerce, was suffered to observe a 175 
 humble neutrality, till at length, after the victories of 
 Trajan, the little republic sank into the bosom of Rome, 
 and flourished more than one hundred and fifty years in 
 the subordinate though honorable rank of a colony. It 
 was during that peaceful period, if we may judge from a 180 
 few remaining inscriptions, that the wealthy Palmyre- 
 nians constructed those temples, palaces, and porticos 
 of Grecian architecture whose ruins, scattered over an 
 extent of several miles, have deserved the curiosity of 
 our travellers. The elevation of Odenathus and Zenobia 185 
 appeared to reflect new splendor on their country, and 
 Palmyra, for a while, stood forth the rival of Rome; but
 
 GIBBON 353 
 
 the competition was fatal, and ages of prosperity were 
 sacrificed to a moment of glory. 
 
 In his march over the sandy desert between Emesa 190 
 and Palmyra, the Emperor Aurelian was perpetually 
 harassed by the Arabs; nor could he always defend his 
 army, and especially his baggage, from those flying 
 troops of active and daring robbers, who watched the 
 moment of surprise, and eluded the slow pursuit of the 195 
 legions. The siege of Palmyra was an object far more 
 difficult and important, and the emperor, who, with in- 
 cessant vigor, pressed the attacks in person, was himself 
 wounded with a dart. "The Roman people," says Au- 
 relian, in an original letter, " speak with contempt of 200 
 the war which I am waging against a woman. They are 
 ignorant both of the character and of the power of Zeno- 
 bia. It is impossible to enumerate her warlike prepara- 
 tions of stones, of arrows, and of every species of missile 
 weapons. Every part of the walls is provided with two 205 
 or three batistes, and artificial fires are thrown from her 
 military engines. The fear of punishment has armed 
 her with a desperate courage. Yet still I trust in the 
 protecting deities of Rome, who have hitherto been 
 favorable to all my undertakings." Doubtful, however, 210 
 of the protection of the gods, and of the event of the 
 siege, Aurelian judged it more prudent to offer terms of 
 an advantageous capitulation : to the queen, a splendid 
 retreat; to the citizens, their ancient privileges. His 
 proposals were obstinately rejected, and the refusal was 215 
 accompanied with insult. 
 
 The firmness of Zenobia was supported by the hope 
 that in a very short time famine would compel the Roman 
 army to repass the desert, and by the reasonable expecta- 
 tion that the kings of the East, and particularly the Per- 220
 
 354 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 sian monarch, would arm in the defence of their most 
 natural ally. But fortune, and the perseverance of Aure- 
 lian, overcame every obstacle. The death of Sapor, 
 which happened about this time, distracted the councils 
 of Persia, and the inconsiderable succors that attempted 225 
 to relieve Palmyra were easily intercepted either by the 
 arms or the liberality of the emperor. From every part 
 of Syria a regular succession of convoys safely arrived in 
 the camp, which was increased by the return of Probus 
 with his victorious troops from the conquest of Egypt. 230 
 It was then that Zenobia resolved to fly. She mounted 
 the fleetest of her dromedaries, and had already reached 
 the banks of the Euphrates, about sixty miles from Pal- 
 myra, when she was overtaken by the pursuit of Aure- 
 lian's light horse, seized, and brought back a captive to 235 
 the feet of the emperor. Her capital soon afterwards 
 surrendered, and was treated with unexpected lenity. 
 The arms, horses, and camels, with an immense treasure 
 of gold, silver, silk, and precious stones, were all de- 
 livered to the conqueror, who, leaving only a garrison 240 
 of six hundred archers, returned to Emesa, and em- 
 ployed some time in the distribution of rewards and 
 punishments at the end of so memorable a war, which 
 restored to the obedience of Rome those provinces that 
 had renounced their allegiance since the captivity of 245 
 Valerian. 
 
 When the Syrian queen was brought into the presence 
 of Aurelian, he sternly asked her how she had presumed 
 to rise in arms against the emperors of Rome! The 
 answer of Zenobia was a prudent mixture of respect and 250 
 firmness: "Because I disdained to consider as Roman 
 emperors an Aureolus or a Gallienus. You alone I ac- 
 knowledge as my conqueror and my sovereign." But as
 
 GIBBON 355 
 
 female fortitude is commonly artificial, so it is seldom 
 steady or consistent. The courage of Zenobia deserted 255 
 her in the hour of trial. She trembled at the angry 
 clamors of the soldiers, who called aloud for her imme- 
 diate execution, forgot the generous despair of Cleopatra, 
 which she had proposed as her model, and ignomini- 
 ously purchased life by the sacrifice of her fame and her 260 
 friends. It was to their counsels, which governed the 
 weakness of her sex, that she imputed the guilt of her 
 obstinate resistance; it was on their heads that she di- 
 rected the vengeance of the cruel Aurelian. The fame 
 of Longinus, who was included among the numerous and 265 
 perhaps innocent victims of her fear, will survive that 
 of the queen who betrayed, or the tyrant who condemned 
 him. Genius and learning were incapable of moving 
 a fierce, unlettered soldier, but they had served to ele- 
 vate and harmonize the soul of Longinus. Without 270 
 uttering a complaint, he calmly followed the execu- 
 tioner, pitying his unhappy mistress, and bestowing 
 comfort on his afflicted friends. 
 
 Since the foundation of Rome, no general had more 
 nobly deserved a triumph than Aurelian; nor was a tri- 275 
 umph ever celebrated with superior pride and magnifi- 
 cence. The pomp was opened by twenty elephants, 
 four royal tigers, and above two hundred of the most 
 curious animals from every climate of the north, the 
 east, and the south. They were followed by sixteen 280 
 hundred gladiators, devoted to the cruel amusement of 
 the amphitheatre. The wealth of Asia, the arms and 
 ensigns of so many conquered nations, and the magnifi- 
 cent plate and wardrobe of the Syrian queen, were 
 disposed in exact symmetry or artful disorder. The 285
 
 356 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ambassadors of the most remote parts of the earth, of 
 ^Ethiopia, Arabia, Persia, Bactriana, India, and China, 
 all remarkable by their rich or singular dresses, dis- 
 played the fame and power of the Roman emperor, 
 who exposed likewise to the public view the presents 290 
 that he had received, and particularly a great number 
 of crowns of gold, the offerings of grateful cities. The 
 victories of Aurelian were attested by the long train of 
 captives who reluctantly attended his triumph Goths, 
 Vandals, Sarmatians, Alemanni, Franks, Gauls, Syrians, 295 
 and Egyptians. Each people was distinguished by its 
 peculiar inscription, and the title of Amazons was be- 
 stowed on ten martial heroines of the Gothic nation who 
 had been taken in arms. But every eye, disregarding 
 the crowd of captives, was fixed on the Emperor Tetri- 300 
 cus and the Queen of the East. The former, as well as 
 his son, whom he had created Augustus, was dressed in 
 Gallic trousers, a saffron tunic, and a robe of purple. 
 The beauteous figure of Zenobia was confined by fetters 
 of gold; a slave supported the gold chain which encircled 305 
 her neck, and she almost fainted under the intolerable 
 weight of jewels. She preceded on foot the magnificent 
 chariot, in which she once hoped to enter the gates of 
 Rome. It was followed by two other chariots, still more 
 sumptuous, of Odenathus and of the Persian monarch. 310 
 The triumphal car of Aurelian (it had formerly been 
 used by a Gothic king) was drawn, on this memorable 
 occasion, either by four stags or by four elephants. The 
 most illustrious of the senate, the people, and the army 
 closed the solemn procession. Unfeigned joy, wonder, 315 
 and gratitude swelled the acclamations of the multitude; 
 but the satisfaction of the senate was clouded by the ap- 
 pearance of Tetricus; nor could they suppress a rising
 
 GIBBON' 357 
 
 murmur, that the haughty emperor should thus expose to 
 public ignominy the person of a Roman and a magistrate. 320 
 
 But, however in the treatment of his unfortunate rivals 
 Aurelian might indulge his pride, he behaved towards 
 them with a generous clemency, which was seldom exer- 
 cised by the ancient conquerors. Princes who, without 
 success, had defended their throne or freedom, were fre- 325 
 quently strangled in prison, as soon as the triumphal 
 pomp ascended the Capitol. These usurpers, whom 
 their defeat had convicted of the crime of treason, were 
 permitted to spend their lives in affluence and honorable 
 repose. The emperor presented Zenobia with an elegant 330 
 villa at Tibur, or Tivoli, about twenty miles from the 
 capital; the Syrian queen insensibly sunk into a Roman 
 matron, her daughters married into noble families, and 
 her race was not yet extinct in the fifth century.
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 (1757-1827) 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 THOU fair-haired Angel of the Evening, 
 
 Now whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light 
 
 Thy bright torch of love thy radiant crown 
 
 Put on, and smile upon our evening bed ! 
 
 Smile on our loves; and while thou drawest the 
 
 Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew 
 
 On every flower that shuts 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, 
 
 Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, 
 
 And the lion glares through the dun forest, 
 
 The fleeces of our flocks are covered with 
 
 Thy sacred dew; protect them with thine influence! 
 
 SONG 
 
 MY silks and fine array, 
 
 My smiles and languished air, 
 By love are driven away; 
 
 And mournful lean Despair 
 Brings me yew to deck my grave; 
 Such end true lovers have. 
 358
 
 BLAKE 359 
 
 His face is fair as heaven 
 
 When springing buds unfold; 
 Oh, why to him was't given 
 
 Whose heart is wintry cold? 10 
 
 His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb 
 Where all love's pilgrims come. 
 
 Bring me an axe and spade, 
 
 Bring me a winding sheet; 
 When I my grave have made, 15 
 
 Let winds and tempest beat; 
 Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. 
 True love doth pass away ! 
 
 SONG 
 
 How sweet I roamed from field to field, 
 
 And tasted all the summer's pride; 
 Till I the Prince of love beheld, 
 
 Who in the sunny beams did glide. 
 
 He showed me lilies for my hair, 5 
 
 And blushing roses for my brow; 
 And led me through his gardens fair, 
 
 Where all his golden pleasures grow. 
 
 With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, 
 
 And Phoebus fired my vocal rage; 10 
 
 He caught me in his silken net, 
 And shut me in his golden cage. 
 
 He loves to sit and hear me sing, 
 
 Then laughing sports and plays with me, 
 
 Then stretches out my golden wing, 15 
 
 And mocks my loss of liberty.
 
 360 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 SONG 
 
 MEMORY, hither come 
 
 And tune your merry notes; 
 And while upon the wind 
 
 Your music floats, 
 
 I'll pore upon the stream 5 
 
 Where sighing lovers dream, 
 And fish for fancies as they pass 
 Within the watery glass. 
 
 I'll drink of the clear stream, 
 
 And hear the linnet's song, 10 
 
 And there I'll lie and dream 
 
 The day along; 
 
 And when night comes I'll go 
 To places fit for woe, 
 
 Walking along the darkened valley, 15 
 
 With silent Melancholy. 
 
 MAD SONG 
 
 THE wild winds weep, 
 
 And the night is a-cold, 
 Come hither, Sleep, 
 
 And my griefs enfold: 
 But lo ! the morning peeps 
 Over the eastern steeps, 
 And the rustling beds of dawn 
 The earth do scorn. 
 
 Lo ! to the vault 
 
 Of paved heaven 
 With sorrow fraught 
 
 My notes are driven;
 
 BLAKE 361 
 
 They strike the ear of night, 
 
 Make weak the eyes of day; 
 
 They make mad the roaring winds 15 
 
 And with tempests play. 
 
 Like a fiend in a cloud 
 
 With howling woe 
 After night I do crowd 
 
 And with night will go; 20 
 
 I turn my back to the east 
 From whence comforts have increased; 
 For light doth seize my brain 
 With frantic pain. 
 
 TO THE MUSES 
 
 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, 
 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, 
 
 Wandering in many a coral grove; 
 Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry: 
 
 How have you left your ancient love 
 That bards of old enjoyed in you ! 
 
 The languid strings do scarcely move, 
 The sound is forced, the notes are few.
 
 362 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 SONG 
 
 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: ' 5 
 
 So I piped with merry cheer. 
 'Piper, pipe that song again: ' 
 So I piped; he wept to hear. 
 
 'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 
 
 Sing thy songs of happy cheer : ' 10 
 
 So I sung the same again, 
 
 While he wept with joy to hear. 
 
 'Piper, sit thee down and write 
 
 In a book that all may read ' 
 
 So he vanished from my sight; 15 
 
 And I plucked a hollow reed, 
 
 And I made a rural pen, 
 
 And I stained the water clear, 
 
 And I wrote my happy songs, 
 
 Every child may joy to hear. 20 
 
 THE LAMB 
 
 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;
 
 BLAKE 363 
 
 Gave thee clothing of delight, 5 
 
 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 ? 10 
 
 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, 15 
 
 He became a little child. 
 
 I a child and thou a lamb, 
 
 We are called by His name. 
 
 Little lamb, God bless thee ! 
 
 Little lamb, God bless thee ! 20 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 THE sun descending in the west, 
 The evening star does shine; 
 The birds are silent in their nest, 
 And I must seek for mine. 
 The moon, like a flower 
 In heaven's high bower, 
 With silent delight 
 Sits and smiles on the night. 
 
 Farewell, green fields and happy grove, 
 Where flocks have ta'en delight; 
 Where lambs have nibbled, silent move 
 The feet of angels bright:
 
 364 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Unseen they pour blessing, 
 
 And joy without ceasing, 
 
 On each bud and blossom, 15 
 
 On each sleeping bosom. 
 
 They look in every thoughtless nest, 
 
 Where birds are covered warm ; 
 
 They visit caves of every beast, 
 
 To keep them all from harm. 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.
 
 BLAKE 365 
 
 For, washed in life's river, 45 
 
 My bright mane for ever 
 Shall shine like the gold 
 As I guard o'er the fold.' 
 
 AH, SUNFLOWER 
 
 AH, Sunflower, weary of time, 
 Who countest the steps of the sun, 
 Seeking after that sweet golden clime 
 Where the traveller's journey is done 
 
 Where the youth pined away with desire, 
 And the pale virgin, shrouded in snow, 
 Arise from their graves, and aspire 
 Where my sunflower wishes to go ! 
 
 THE TIGER 
 
 TIGER, tiger, burning bright 
 In the forests of the night, 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 
 
 In what distant deeps or skies 
 Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
 On what wings dare he aspire? 
 What the hand dare seize the fire? 
 
 And what shoulder, and what art, 
 Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
 And when thy heart began to beat, 
 What dread hand? and what dread feet?
 
 366 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 What the hammer? what the chain? 
 
 In what furnace was thy brain? 
 
 What the anvil? What dread grasp 15 
 
 Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 
 
 When the stars threw down their spears, 
 
 And watered heaven with their tears, 
 
 Did He smile His work to see ? 
 
 Did He who made the lamb, make thee? 20 
 
 Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
 In the forests of the night, 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 
 
 THE ANGEL 
 
 I DREAMT a dream ! What can it mean? 
 And that I was a maiden queen, 
 Guarded by an angel mild; 
 Witless woe was ne'er beguiled. 
 
 And I wept both night and day, 5 
 
 And he wiped my tears away; 
 And I wept both day and night, 
 And hid from him my heart's delight. 
 
 So he took his wings and fled; 
 
 Then the morn blushed rosy red; 10 
 
 I dried my tears and armed my fears 
 
 With ten thousand shields and spears. 
 
 Soon my angel came again : 
 
 I was armed, he came in vain; 
 
 For the time of youth was fled, 15 
 
 And grey hairs were on my head.
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 (1759-1796) 
 
 MARY MORISON 
 TUNE : " Bide ye yet " 
 
 MARY, at thy window be, 
 
 It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see, 
 
 That makes the miser's treasure poor: 
 How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun; 
 Could I the rich reward secure, 
 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
 
 The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, 
 I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
 
 Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 
 1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
 
 "Ye are nae Mary Morison." 
 
 O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 
 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee? 
 
 367
 
 368 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
 At least be pity to me shown; 
 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 The thought o' Mary Morison. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 
 
 INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 
 The short but simple annals of the Poor. GRAY. 
 
 MY loved, my honoured, jnuch respected friend ! 
 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays; 
 
 With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, 
 
 My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: 
 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 5 
 
 The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; 
 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; 
 
 What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 
 
 Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 
 
 November chill blaws loud \vi' angry sugh; 10 
 
 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 morn in ease and rest to spend, 
 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
 
 BURNS 369 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 20 
 
 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro', 
 
 To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. 
 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 
 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
 
 An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 
 
 Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 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 name, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 
 
 Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 35 
 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, 
 
 An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers: 
 
 The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet, 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 40 
 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years, 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; 
 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's 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:
 
 3/O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 'And, oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 50 
 
 And mind your duty, duly morn 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, inquires his name, 
 While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; 
 Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless 
 rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; 
 A strappan 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. 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows \vi" joy, 
 But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 70 
 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; 
 Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the 
 lave. 
 
 O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
 
 O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
 
 I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 75 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare 
 
 'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
 
 BURNS 371 
 
 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? 85 
 
 Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! 
 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 
 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
 
 Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild. 90 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
 
 The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: 
 
 The sowpe their only hawkie does afford, 
 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; 
 
 The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 95 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell, 
 
 An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; 
 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 100 
 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
 
 The big ha' -Bible, ance his father's pride: 
 
 His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 
 
 His lyart haffets wearing thin an' 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.
 
 372 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: nc 
 
 Perhaps 'Dundee's ' wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the name; 
 
 Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heavenward flame, 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: 
 
 Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; u 5 
 
 The tickled 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 wailing cry; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 125 
 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 How He, who bore in 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 Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 135 
 command. 
 
 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays: 
 Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days:
 
 BURNS 373 
 
 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. 
 
 Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 145 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 
 Devotion's every grace, except the heart! 
 
 The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 150 
 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
 
 May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; 
 
 And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their several way; 
 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 155 
 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
 
 That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flowery 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 loved at home, revered abroad : 
 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; 165 
 
 '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, 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 170 
 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined !
 
 374 FROM CHAUCER 7'O ARNOLD 
 
 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, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. 180 
 
 O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 
 
 That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; 
 
 Who dared 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 !) 
 
 O never, never Scotia's realm desert; 
 
 But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 
 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 
 
 I LOVE MY JEAN 
 
 TUNE: "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey" 
 
 OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west, 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best: 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
 
 And monie a hill between; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean.
 
 BURNS 375 
 
 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 bonnie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green; 
 There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 15 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786 
 
 WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem. 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 5 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
 The bonnie Lark, companion meet! 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! 
 
 Wi' spreckl'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.
 
 3/6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
 
 High sheltering 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 uptears 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 giv'n, 
 
 Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
 
 By human pride or cunning driv'n 45 
 
 To mis'ry's brink, 
 Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink!
 
 BURNS 377 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
 
 That fate is thine no distant date; 50 
 
 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 HARK! THE MAVIS 
 TUNE : " Ca' the Yowes to (he Knowes " 
 
 Chorus : Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 
 Ca' them where the heather grows, 
 Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
 My bonnie Dearie. 
 
 HARK! the mavis' e'ening sang 5 
 
 Sounding Clouden's woods amang, 
 Then a-faulding let us gang, 
 My bonnie Dearie. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 We'll gae down by Clouden side, 10 
 
 Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
 O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
 To the moon sae clearly. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 15 
 
 Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
 O'er the dewy-bending flowers, 
 Fairies dance sae cheery. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c.
 
 378 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Ghaist nor bogle shall thou fear; 20 
 
 Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, 
 Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
 My bonnie Dearie. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 Fair and lovely as thou art, 25 
 
 Thou hast stown my very heart; 
 I can die but canna part, 
 My bonnie Dearie. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty, 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that? 
 The coward-slave, we pass him by, 
 We dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Our toils obscure, an' a* that; 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp; 
 The man's the govvd for a' that. 
 
 What tho' on namely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hodden-grey, an' a' that; 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 A man's a man for a' that. 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, an' a' that : 
 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 
 Is King o' men for a* that.
 
 BURNS 379 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, an' a' that; 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 He's but a coof for a' that: 20 
 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 His riband, star, an' a' that, 
 The man of independent mind, 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 25 
 
 A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Their dignities, an' a' that, 30 
 
 The pith o' sense, and 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, and 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
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 (1770-1850) 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes, 
 While in a grove I sat reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played, 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : 
 But the least motion which they made, 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 To catch the breezy air; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 380
 
 WORDS WOR Tff 381 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man? 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 Influence of Nature upon the Imagination in Early Youth 
 
 WISDOM and Spirit of the universe ! 
 
 Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought, 
 
 And givest to forms and images a breath 
 
 And everlasting motion, not in vain 
 
 By day or star-light thus from my first dawn 5 
 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 
 The passions that build up our human soul; 
 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, 
 
 But with high objects, with enduring things 
 
 With life and nature purifying thus 10 
 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 
 And sanctifying, by such discipline, 
 
 Both pain and fear, until we recognise 
 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 15 
 
 With stinted kindness. In November days, 
 
 When vapours rolling down the valley made 
 
 A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods, 
 
 At noon, and 'mid the calm of summer nights, 
 
 When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 20 
 
 Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went 
 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
 
 Mine was it in the fields both day and night, 
 
 And by the waters, all the summer long.
 
 382 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 25 
 
 Was set, and visible for many a mile 
 The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, 
 I heeded not their summons: happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us for me 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 30 
 
 The village clock tolled six, I wheeled about, 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, 
 We hissed along the polished ice in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 35 
 
 And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn, 
 The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 And not a voice was idle; with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 40 
 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
 Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 45 
 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
 To cut across the reflex of a star 50 
 
 That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed 
 Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes, 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 55 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels
 
 WORDS WORTH 383 
 
 Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me even as if the earth had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round! 60 
 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 
 
 UP with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song, Lark, is strong; 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds! 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 5 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery, 10 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 There is madness about thee, and joy divine 
 
 In that song of thine; 
 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 15 
 
 Joyous as morning 
 Thou art laughing and scorning; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 And, though little troubled with sloth, 
 Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loath 20 
 
 To be such a traveller as I.
 
 384 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Happy, happy Liver, 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
 
 Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 25 
 
 Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; 
 
 But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
 
 I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 30 
 
 And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER 
 
 BEHOLD her, single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
 And sings a melancholy strain; 
 O listen ! for the Vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chaunt 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 In spring-time from a Cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides.
 
 WORDSWORTH 385 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings? 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago : 20 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 That has been, and may be again? 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 25 
 
 As if her song could have no ending; 
 
 I saw her singing at her work, 
 
 And o'er the sickle bending; 
 
 I listened, motionless and still; 
 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 30 
 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 THE DAFFODILS 
 
 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 2C
 
 386 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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. 
 
 MILTON 
 
 MILTON! thou should'st be living at this hour: 
 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 
 
 Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 
 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
 
 In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
 
 WORDS WOR TH 387 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES 
 
 A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 
 
 Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
 
 Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: 
 
 Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
 
 For kindred Power departing from their sight; 5 
 
 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 
 
 Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
 
 Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 
 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; 
 
 Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 10 
 
 Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, 
 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
 
 Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 
 
 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 
 
 The Child is father of the Man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 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
 
 388 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 10 
 
 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 past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 in 
 
 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;
 
 WORDSWORTH 389 
 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 35 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
 
 My heart is at your festival, 40 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all. 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 45 
 
 And the Children are culling 
 
 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 : 50 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
 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 55 
 
 Doth the same tale repeat: 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 60 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And cometh from afar:
 
 390 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 65 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows 70 
 
 He sees it in his joy; 
 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; 75 
 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 VI 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 
 And even with something of a Mother's mind, 80 
 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 85 
 
 VII 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
 
 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes! 90
 
 WORDSWORTH 391 
 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 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; 95 
 
 And this hath now his heart, 
 
 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 100 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part; 
 Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage" 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 105 
 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy Soul's immensity; no 
 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest! 115 
 
 On whom those truths do rest, 
 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, 120 
 
 A Presence which is not to be put by;
 
 3Q2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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, 125 
 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 rx 
 
 O joy! that in our embers 130 
 
 Is something that doth live, 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not in deed 135 
 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
 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 140 
 
 The song of thanks and praise; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 145 
 
 Moving about in worlds not realised, 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 
 But for those first affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections, 150 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
 
 WORDS WOR TH 393 
 
 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 155 
 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 160 
 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather 
 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 
 Which brought us hither, 165 
 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 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 170 
 
 As to the tabor's sound! 
 
 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 ! 175 
 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 
 Be now for ever 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 180 
 
 Strength in what remains behind; 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which having been must ever be;
 
 394 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering; 185 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 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; 190 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live 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-born Day 195 
 
 Is lovely yet; 
 
 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. 200 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 TO THE QUEEN 
 
 DEIGN, Sovereign Mistress ! to accept a lay, 
 No laureate offering of elaborate art; 
 
 But salutation, taking its glad way 
 From deep recesses of a loyal heart.
 
 WORDSWORTH 395 
 
 Queen, wife, and mother ! may all-judging Heaven 5 
 Shower with a bounteous hand on thee and thine 
 
 Felicity, that only can be given 
 
 On earth to goodness blessed by grace divine. 
 
 Lady ! devoutly honored and beloved 
 
 Through every realm confided to thy sway; 10 
 
 May'st thou pursue thy course by God approved, 
 
 And he will teach thy people to obey. 
 
 As thou art wont thy sovereignty adorn 
 
 With woman's gentleness, yet firm and staid; 
 
 So shall that earthly crown thy brows have worn 15 
 
 Be changed to one whose glory cannot fade. 
 
 And now, by duty urged, I lay this book 
 
 Before thy Majesty in humble trust, 
 That on its simplest pages thou wilt look 
 
 With a benign indulgence, more than just. 20 
 
 Nor wilt thou blame an aged poet's prayer, 
 That, issuing hence, may steal into thy mind, 
 
 Some solace under weight of royal care, 
 Or grief, the inheritance of human kind. 
 
 For know we not that from celestial spheres 25 
 
 When time was young an inspiration came, 
 
 (O were it mine !) to hallow saddest tears 
 And help life onward in its noblest aim? 
 
 W. W. 
 
 RYDAL MOUNT, gth January, 1846.
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 (1772-1834) 
 
 TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY 
 An Allegory 
 
 ON the wide level of a mountain's head, 
 (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) 
 Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, 
 Two lovely children run an endless race, 
 
 A sister and a brother ! 
 
 That far outstripped the other; 
 Yet ever runs she with reverted face, 
 And looks and listens for the boy behind : 
 
 For he, alas ! is blind ! 
 
 O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed, 
 And knows not whether he be first or last. 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT 
 
 THE Frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud and hark, again ! loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
 Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
 Abstruser musings: save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 396
 
 COLERIDGE 397 
 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 
 'And vexes meditation with its strange 
 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10 
 
 This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, 
 
 With all the numberless goings on of life, 
 
 Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame 
 
 Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not; 
 
 Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 15 
 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 
 Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
 
 Making it a companionable form, 
 
 Whose puny flaps and freaks, the idling spirit 20 
 
 By its own mood interprets, every where 
 
 Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
 
 And makes a toy of thought. 
 
 But O ! how oft, 
 
 How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 25 
 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 
 To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
 Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 30 
 
 From morn to evening, all the hot fair-day, 
 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
 With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
 Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
 So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt, 35 
 
 Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! 
 And so I brooded all the following morn, 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: 
 Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 40
 
 393 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 
 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, 
 My playmate when we both were clothed alike! 
 
 Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 45 
 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 50 
 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 
 And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 55 
 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 60 
 
 Of that eternal language, which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in Himself. 
 Great universal Teacher ! He shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 65 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
 Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 70 
 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall,
 
 COLERIDGE 399 
 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
 
 Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 75 
 
 HAST thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
 
 On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
 
 The Arve" and the Arveiron at thy base 
 
 Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! 5 
 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
 
 How silently ! Around thee and above 
 
 Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, 
 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 10 
 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 15 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
 
 Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy; 20 
 
 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
 
 Into the mighty vision passing there, 
 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven. 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise
 
 40O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 25 
 
 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole Sovran of the Vale ! 
 
 Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 30 
 
 And visited all night by troops of stars, 
 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
 
 Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn. 
 
 Co-herald ! wake, oh wake, and utter praise ! 35 
 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 
 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 
 Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40 
 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 
 Forever shattered and the same forever? 
 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45 
 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 
 And who commanded and the silence came 
 
 "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?" 
 
 Ye ice-falls! ye that form the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain 50 
 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
 
 COLERIDGE 401 
 
 Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55 
 
 Clothe you with rainbows? Who with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue spread garlands at your feet? 
 " GOD ! " let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer; and let the ice-plains echo, "Goo!" 
 "Goo! " sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 60 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! 
 And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "Goo!" 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 
 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 65 
 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! 
 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 
 
 Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
 
 Utter forth "Goo! " and fill the hills with praise! 
 
 Once more, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 70 
 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 
 
 Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast 
 
 Thou too, again, stupendous mountain, thou 
 
 That, as I raise my head, a while bowed low 75 
 
 In adoration, upward from thy base, 
 
 Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
 
 To rise before me rise, O, ever rise; 
 
 Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth. 80 
 
 Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
 
 Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
 
 Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky, 
 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God ! 85
 
 402 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 The True Critic 
 
 ASSUREDLY that criticism of Shakespeare will alone be 
 genial which is reverential. The Englishman who with- 
 out reverence a proud and affectionate reverence 
 can utter the name of William Shakespeare, stands dis- 
 qualified for the office of critic. He wants one at least 5 
 of the very senses, the language of which he is to em- 
 ploy, and will discourse at best but as a blind man, while 
 the whole harmonious creation of light and shade, with 
 all its subtle interchange of deepening and dissolving 
 colors, rises in silence to the silent fiat of the uprising 10 
 Apollo. However inferior in ability I may be to some 
 who have followed me, I own I am proud that I was the 
 first in time who publicly demonstrated to the full extent 
 of the position, that the supposed irregularity and ex- 
 travagances of Shakespeare were the mere dreams of a 15 
 pedantry that arraigned the eagle because it had not the 
 dimensions of the swan. In all the successive courses 
 of lectures delivered by me, since my first attempt at the 
 Royal Institution, it has been, and it still remains, my 
 object to prove that in all points, from the most impor- 20 
 tant to the most minute, the judgment of Shakespeare is 
 commensurate with his genius nay, that his genius 
 reveals itself in his judgment, as in its most exalted 
 form. And the more gladly do I recur to this subject 
 from the clear conviction, that to judge aright, and with 25 
 distinct consciousness of the grounds of our judgment, 
 concerning the works of Shakespeare, implies the power 
 and the means of judging rightly of all other works of 
 intellect, those of abstract science alone excepted.
 
 COLERIDGE 403 
 
 It is a painful truth that not only individuals, but 30 
 even whole nations, are ofttimes so enslaved to the habits 
 of their education and immediate circumstances, as not 
 to judge disinterestedly, even on those subjects, the very 
 pleasure arising from which consists in its disinterested- 
 ness, namely, on subjects of taste and polite literature. 35 
 Instead of deciding concerning their own modes and cus- 
 toms by any rule of reason, nothing appears rational, be- 
 coming, or beautiful to them, but what coincides with 
 the peculiarities of their education. In this narrow 
 circle, individuals may attain to exquisite discrimina- 40 
 tion, as the French critics have done in their own litera- 
 ture; but a true critic can no more be such without 
 placing himself on some central point, from which he 
 may command the whole, that is, some general rule, 
 which, founded in reason, or the faculties common to 45 
 all men, must therefore apply to each, than an astrono- 
 mer can explain the movements of the solar system 
 without taking his stand in the sun. 
 
 And let me remark that this will not tend to produce 
 despotism, but, on the contrary, true tolerance in the 50 
 critic. He will, indeed, require, as the spirit and sub- 
 stance of a work, something true in human nature itself, 
 and independent of all circumstances; but in the mode 
 of applying it, he will estimate genius and judgment 
 according to the felicity with which the imperishable soul 55 
 of intellect shall have adapted itself to the age, the 
 place, and the existing manners. The error he will ex- 
 pose, lies in reversing this, and holding up the mere 
 circumstances as perpetual, to the utter neglect of the 
 power which can alone animate them. For art cannot 60 
 exist without, or apart from nature; and what has man 
 of his own to give to his fellow-man but his own thoughts
 
 404 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 and feelings, and his observations, so far as they are 
 modified by his own thoughts or feelings? 
 
 Let me, then, once more submit this question to 65 
 minds emancipated alike from national, or party, or 
 sectarian prejudices: Are the plays of Shakespeare 
 works of rude uncultivated genius, in which the splen- 
 dour of the parts compensates, if aught can compensate, 
 for the barbarous shapelessness and irregularity of the 70 
 whole? Or is the form equally admirable with the mat- 
 ter, and the judgment of the great poet not less deserv- 
 ing our wonder than his genius? Or, again, to repeat 
 the question in other words: Is Shakespeare a great 
 dramatic poet on account only of those beauties and 75 
 excellencies which he possesses in common with the 
 ancients, but with diminished claims to our love and 
 honour to the full extent of his differences from them ? 
 Or are these very differences additional proofs of poetic 
 wisdom, at once results and symbols of living power as 80 
 contrasted with lifeless mechanism of free and rival 
 originality as contra-distinguished from servile imi- 
 tation, or, more accurately, a blind copying of effects, 
 instead of a true imitation of the essential principles? 
 Imagine not that I am about to oppose genius to rules. 85 
 No! the comparative value of these rules is the very 
 cause to be tried. 
 
 The spirit of poetry, like all other living powers, must 
 of necessity circumscribe itself by rules, were it only to 
 unite power with beauty. It must embody in order to 90 
 reveal itself; but a living body is of necessity an organ- 
 ized one; and what is organization but the connection 
 of parts in and for a whole, so that each part is at once 
 end and means? This is no discovery of criticism; it 
 is a necessity of the human mind; and all nations have 95
 
 COLERIDGE 405 
 
 felt and obeyed it, in the invention of metre, and meas- 
 ured sounds, as a vehicle and involucrum of poetry 
 itself a fellow-growth from the same life even as the 
 bark is to the tree ! 
 
 No work of true genius dares want its appropriate 100 
 form, neither indeed is there any danger of this. As it 
 must not, so genius cannot, be lawless; for it is even 
 this that constitutes it genius the power of acting 
 creatively under laws of its own origination. How then 
 comes it that not only single Zoili, but whole nations 105 
 have combined in unhesitating condemnation of our 
 great dramatist, as a sort of African nature, rich in beau- 
 tiful monsters as a wild heath where islands of fertility 
 look the greener from the surrounding waste, where the 
 loveliest plants now shine out among unsightly weeds, no 
 and now are choked by their parasitic growth, so inter- 
 twined that we cannot disentangle the weed without 
 snapping the flower? In this statement I have had no 
 reference to the vulgar abuse of Voltaire, save as far as 
 his charges are coincident with the decisions of Shake- 115 
 speare's own commentators and (so they would tell you) 
 almost idolatrous admirers. The true ground of the 
 mistake lies in confounding mechanical regularity with 
 organic form. . . . Nature, the primegenial artist, 
 inexhaustible in diverse powers, is equally inexhausti- 120 
 ble in forms; each exterior is the physiognomy of 
 the being within, its true image reflected and thrown 
 out from the concave mirror ; and even such is 
 the appropriate excellence of her chosen poet, of our 
 own Shakespeare, himself a nature humanized, a 125 
 genial understanding devoting self-consciously a power 
 and an implicit wisdom deeper even than our con- 
 sciousness.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 (1771-1832) 
 
 LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 
 Song of the Bard 
 
 BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned, 5 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 
 For him no Minstrel raptures swell; 
 High though his titles, proud his name, 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; 10 
 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 15 
 
 Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
 
 O Caledonia! stern and wild, 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child! 
 406
 
 SCOTT 407 
 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 
 Land of the mountain and the flood, 20 
 
 Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
 
 Can e'er untie the filial band, 
 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
 
 Still as I view each well-known scene, 
 
 Think what is now, and what hath been, 25 
 
 Seems as, to me, of all bereft, 
 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; 
 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 
 By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 30 
 
 Though none should guide my feeble way; 
 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
 
 Although it chill my withered cheek; 
 
 Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, 
 
 Though there, forgotten and alone, 35 
 
 The Bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES 
 Lake Coriskin 
 
 A WHILE their route they silent made, 
 As men who stalk for mountain-deer, 
 
 Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, 
 'Saint Mary ! what a scene is here ! 
 
 I've traversed many a mountain-strand, 
 
 Abroad and in my native land, 
 
 And it has been my lot to tread 
 
 Where safety more than pleasure led; 
 
 Thus, many a waste I've wandered o'er,
 
 408 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Clombe many a crag, cross' d many a moor, 10 
 
 But, by my halidome, 
 A scene so rude, so wild as this, 
 Yet so sublime in barrenness, 
 Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press, 
 
 Where'er I happ'd to roam.' 15 
 
 No marvel thus the Monarch spake; 
 
 For rarely human eye has known 
 A scene so stern as that dread lake, 
 
 With its dark ledge of barren stone. 
 Seems that primeval earthquake's sway 20 
 
 Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way 
 
 Through the rude bosom of the hill, 
 And that each naked precipice, 
 Sable ravine, and dark abyss, 
 
 Tells of the outrage still. 25 
 
 The wildest glen, but this, can show 
 Some touch of Nature's genial glow; 
 On high Benmore green mosses grow, 
 And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 
 
 And copse or Cruchan-Ben; 30 
 
 But here, above, around, below, 
 
 On mountain or in glen, 
 Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, 
 Nor aught of vegetative power, 
 
 The weary eye may ken. 35 
 
 For all is rocks at random thrown, 
 Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, 
 
 As if were here denied 
 The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, 
 That clothe with many a varied hue 40 
 
 The bleakest mountain-side.
 
 SCOTT 409 
 
 And wilder, forward as they wound, 
 
 Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. 
 
 Huge terraces of granite black 
 
 Afforded rude and cumber'd track; 45 
 
 For from the mountain hoar, 
 Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear, 
 When yell'd the wolf, and fled the deer, 
 
 Loose crags had toppled o'er; 
 And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay 50 
 
 So that a stripling arm might sway 
 
 A mass no host could raise, 
 In Nature's rage at random thrown, 
 Yet trembling like the Druid's stone 
 
 On its precarious base. 55 
 
 The evening mists, with ceaseless change, 
 Now clothed the mountains' lofty range, 
 
 Now left their foreheads bare, 
 And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, 
 Or on the sable waters curl'd, 60 
 
 Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd, 
 
 Dispersed in middle air. 
 And oft, condensed, at once they lower, 
 When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower 
 
 Pours like a torrent down, 65 
 
 And when return the sun's glad beams, 
 Whiten' d with foam a thousand streams 
 Leap from the mountain's crown. 
 
 ' This lake, ' said Bruce, ' whose barriers drear 
 
 Are precipices sharp and sheer, 70 
 
 Yielding no track for goat or deer, 
 
 Save the black shelves we tread, 
 How term you its dark waves? and how
 
 4IO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Yon northern mountain's pathless brow, 
 
 And yonder peak of dread, 75 
 
 That to the evening sun uplifts 
 
 The griesly gulfs and slaty rifts, 
 
 Which seam its shiver'd head? ' 
 'Coriskin call the dark lake's name, 
 Cool in the ridge, as bards proclaim, 80 
 
 From old Cuchullin, chief of fame. 
 But bards, familiar in our isles 
 Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles, 
 Full oft their careless humours please 
 By sportive names from scenes like these. 85 
 
 I would old Torquil were to show 
 His maidens with their breasts of snow, 
 Or that my noble Liege were nigh 
 To hear his Nurse sing lullaby ! 
 (The Maids tall cliffs with breakers white, 90 
 The Nurse a torrent's roaring might,) 
 Or that your eye could see the mood 
 Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude, 
 When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood 
 'Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames, 95 
 
 For scenes so stern, fantastic names. ' 
 
 THE TALISMAN 
 The Christian Knight and the Saracen Cavalier 
 
 THE burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its high- 
 est point in the horizon, when a knight of the Red Cross, 
 who had left his distant northern home, and joined the 
 host of the crusaders in Palestine, was pacing slowly
 
 SCOTT 411 
 
 along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity of the 5 
 Dead Sea, where the waves of the Jordan pour themselves 
 into an inland sea, from which there is no discharge of 
 waters. 
 
 Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with 
 almost intolerable splendor, and all living nature seemed 10 
 to have hidden itself from the rays, excepting the soli- 
 tary figure which moved through the flitting sand at a 
 foot's pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the 
 wide surface of the plain. 
 
 The dress of the rider and the accoutrements of his 15 
 horse were peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a 
 country. A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated 
 gauntlets, and a steel breastplate had not been esteemed 
 a sufficient weight of armor; there was, also, his triangular 
 shield suspended round his neck, and his barred helmet 20 
 of steel, over which he had a hood and collar of mail, 
 which was drawn around the warrior's shoulders and 
 throat, and filled up the vacancy between the hauberk 
 and the head-piece. His lower limbs were sheathed, 
 like his body, in flexible mail, securing the legs and 25 
 thighs, while the feet rested in plated shoes, which cor- 
 responded with the gauntlets. 
 
 A long, broad, straight-shaped, double-edged falchion, 
 with a handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a 
 stout poniard on the other side. The knight also bore, 30 
 secured to his saddle, with one end resting on his stirrup, 
 the long steel-headed lance, his own proper weapon, 
 which, as he rode, projected backwards, and displayed 
 its little pennoncel, to dally with the faint breeze, or 
 drop in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment 35 
 must be added a surcoat of embroidered cloth, much 
 frayed and worn, which was thus far useful, that it ex-
 
 412 FROM CHAUCER TO AKA'OLD 
 
 eluded the burning rays of the sun from the armor, which 
 they would otherwise have rendered intolerable to the 
 wearer. 40 
 
 The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms of the 
 owner, although much defaced. These seemed to be a 
 couchant leopard, with the motto, " I sleep wake me 
 not." An outline of the same device might be traced 
 on his shield, though many a blow had almost effaced 45 
 the painting. The flat top of his cumbrous cylindrical 
 helmet was unadorned with any crest. In retaining their 
 own unwieldy defensive armor, the northern crusaders 
 seemed to set at defiance the nature of the climate and 
 country to which they were come to war. 50 
 
 The accoutrements of the horse were scarcely less 
 massive and unwieldy than those of the rider. The 
 animal had a heavy saddle plated with steel, uniting in 
 front with a species of breastplate, and behind with 
 defensive armor made to cover the loins. Then there 55 
 was a steel axe, or hammer, called a mace-of-arms, and 
 which hung to the saddle-bow; the reins were secured 
 by chain work, and the front stall of the bridle was a 
 steel plate, with apertures for the eyes and nostrils, 
 having in the midst a short, sharp pike, projecting from 60 
 the forehead of the horse like the horn of the fabulous - 
 unicorn. 
 
 But habit had made the endurance of this load of 
 panoply a second nature, both to the knight and his 
 gallant charger. Numbers, indeed, of the western war- 65 
 riors who hurried to Palestine died ere they became 
 inured to the burning climate; but there were others to 
 whom that climate became innocent, and even friendly, 
 and among this fortunate number was the solitary horse- 
 man who now traversed the border of the Dead Sea. 70
 
 SCOTT 413 
 
 Nature, which cast his limbs in a mould of uncommon 
 strength, fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much 
 ease as if the meshes had been formed of cobwebs, had 
 endowed him with a constitution as strong as his limbs, 
 and which bade defiance to almost all changes of cli- 75 
 mate, as well as to fatigue and privations of every kind. 
 His disposition seemed, in some degree, to partake of 
 the qualities of his bodily frame; and as the one pos- 
 sessed great strength and endurance, united with the 
 power of violent exertion, the other, under a calm and 80 
 undisturbed semblance, had much of the fiery and en- 
 thusiastic love of glory which constituted the principal 
 attribute of the renowned Norman line, and had ren- 
 dered them sovereigns in every corner of Europe where 
 they had drawn their adventurous swords. 85 
 
 Nature had, however, her demands for refreshment 
 and repose even on the iron frame and patient disposi- 
 tion of the Knight of the Sleeping Leopard; and at 
 noon, when the Dead Sea lay at some distance on his 
 right, he joyfully hailed the sight of two or three palm- 90 
 trees, which arose beside the well which was assigned 
 for his mid-day station. His good horse, too, which 
 had plodded forward with the steady endurance of his 
 master, now lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and 
 quickened his pace, as if he snuffed afar off the living 95 
 waters, which marked the place of repose and refresh- 
 ment. But labor and danger were doomed to intervene 
 ere the horse or horseman reached the desired spot. 
 
 As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to 
 fix his eyes attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm- 100 
 trees, it seemed to him as if some object was moving 
 among them. The distant form separated itself from 
 the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced
 
 414 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 towards the knight with a speed which soon showed a 
 mounted horseman, whom his turban, long spear, and 105 
 green caftan floating in the wind, on his nearer ap- 
 proach, proved to be a Saracen cavalier. "In the 
 desert," saith an Eastern proverb, "no man meets a 
 friend." The crusader was totally indifferent whether 
 the infidel, who now approached on his gallant barb as no 
 if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as friend or 
 foe perhaps, as a vowed champion of the cross, he 
 might rather have preferred the latter. He disengaged 
 his lance from his saddle, seized it with the right hand, 
 placed it in rest with its point half elevated, gathered 115 
 up the reins in the left, waked his horse's mettle with 
 the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with 
 the calm self-confidence belonging to the victor in many 
 contests. 
 
 The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab 120 
 horseman, managing his steed more by his limbs and 
 the inflection of his body than by any use of the reins 
 which hung loose in his left hand; so that he was en- 
 abled to wield the light round buckler of the skin of the 
 rhinoceros, ornamented with silver loops, which he wore 125 
 on his arm, swinging it as if he meant to oppose its 
 slender circle to the formidable thrust of the Western 
 lance. His own long spear was not couched or levelled 
 like that of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle 
 with his right hand, and brandished at arm's length 130 
 above his head. As the cavalier approached his enemy 
 at full career, he seemed to expect that the Knight of the 
 Leopard would put his horse to the gallop to encounter 
 him. 
 
 But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the cus- 135 
 toms of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his
 
 SCOTT 415 
 
 good horse by any unnecessary exertion; and, on the 
 contrary, made a dead halt, confident that if the enemy 
 advanced to the actual shock, his own weight, and that 
 of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient ad- 140 
 vantage, without the additional momentum of rapid 
 motion. Equally sensible and apprehensive of such a 
 probable result, the Saracen cavalier, when he had ap- 
 proached towards the Christian within twice the length 
 of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable 145 
 dexterity, and rode twice around his antagonist, who, 
 turning without quitting his ground, and presenting his 
 front constantly to his enemy, frustrated his attempts to 
 attack him on an unguarded point; so that the Saracen, 
 wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of 150 
 a hundred yards. 
 
 A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the 
 heathen renewed the charge, and a second time was 
 fain to retreat without coming to a close struggle. A 
 third time he approached in the same manner, when the 155 
 Christian knight, desirous to terminate this illusory war- 
 fare, in which he might at length have been worn out by 
 the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace 
 which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a strong hand 
 and unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the 160 
 emir; for such, and not less, his enemy appeared. 
 
 The Saracen was just aware of the formidable missile 
 in time to interpose his light buckler betwixt the mace 
 and his head; but the violence of the blow forced the 
 buckler down on his turban, and though that defence 165 
 also contributed to deaden its violence, the Saracen was 
 beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail 
 himself of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprang from 
 the ground, and, calling on his steed, which instantly re-
 
 416 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 turned to his side, he leaped into his seat without touch- 170 
 ing the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of which 
 the Knight of the Leopard had hoped to deprive him. 
 
 But the latter had in the meanwhile recovered his 
 mace, and the Eastern cavalier, who remembered the 
 strength and dexterity with which his antagonist had 175 
 aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of reach of that 
 weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force; while 
 he showed his purpose of waging a distant warfare with 
 missile weapons of his own. Planting his long spear in 
 the sand at a distance from the scene of combat, he 180 
 strung with great address a short bow, which he carried 
 at his back, and, putting his horse to the gallop, once 
 more described two or three circles of a wider extent 
 than formerly, in the course of which he discharged six 
 arrows at the Christian with such unerring skill that the 185 
 goodness of his harness alone saved him from being 
 wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft appar- 
 ently found a less perfect part of the armor, and the 
 Christian dropped heavily from his horse. 
 
 But what was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dis- 190 
 mounting to examine the condition of his prostrate 
 enemy, he found himself suddenly within the grasp of 
 the European, who had had recourse to this artifice to 
 bring his enemy within his reach. Even in this deadly 
 grapple, the Saracen was saved by his agility and pres- 195 
 ence of mind. He unloosed the sword-belt, in which 
 the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold, and thus 
 eluding his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, which seemed 
 to watch his motions with the intelligence of a human 
 being, and again rode off. But in the last encounter 200 
 the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver of arrows, 
 both of which were attached to the girdle, which he was
 
 SCOTT 417 
 
 obliged to abandon. He had also lost his turban in the 
 struggle. These disadvantages seemed to incline the 
 Moslem to a truce : he approached the Christian with 205 
 his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing 
 attitude. 
 
 "There is truce betwixt our nations," he said, in the 
 lingua franca commonly used for the purpose of com- 
 munication with the crusaders; "wherefore should there 210 
 be war betwixt thee and me? Let there be peace be- 
 twixt us." 
 
 "I am well contented," answered he of the Couchant 
 Leopard; "but what security dost thou offer that thou 
 wilt observe the truce?" 215 
 
 "The word of a follower of the Prophet was never 
 broken," answered the emir. "It is thou, brave Naza- 
 rene, from whom I should demand security, did 1 not 
 know that treason seldom dwells with courage." 
 
 The crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem 220 
 made him ashamed of his own doubts. 
 
 "By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand 
 on the weapon as he spoke, " I will be true companion 
 to thee, Saracen, while our fortune wills that we remain 
 in company together." 225 
 
 " By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God 
 of the Prophet," replied his late foeman, "there is not 
 treachery in my heart towards thee. And now wend we 
 to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and 
 the stream had hardly touched my lip when I was called 230 
 to battle by thy approach." 
 
 The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready 
 and courteous assent; and the late foes, without an angry 
 look or gesture of doubt, rode side by side to the little 
 cluster of palm-trees. 235 
 
 2E
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 
 
 (1775-186^) 
 
 A FIESOLAN IDYL 
 
 HERE, when precipitate Spring with one light bound 
 Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires; 
 And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, 
 Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them, 
 And softer sighs, that know not what they want ; 
 Under a wall, beneath an orange tree 
 Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones 
 Of sights in Fiesole right up above, 
 While I was gazing a few paces off 
 At what they seemed to show me with their nods, ic 
 
 Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, 
 A gentle maid came down the garden steps 
 And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. 
 I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth 
 To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, 15 
 
 (Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents 
 Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, 
 And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
 That would let drop without them her best stores. 
 They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, 20 
 
 And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 
 To let all flowers live freely, and all die, 
 Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart, 
 418
 
 LAN DOR 419 
 
 Among their kindred in their native place. 
 
 I never pluck the rose; the violet's head 25 
 
 Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 
 
 And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup 
 
 Of the pure lily hath between my hands 
 
 Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold. 
 
 I saw the light that made the glossy leaves 30 
 
 More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 
 
 Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; 
 
 I saw the foot, that although half-erect 
 
 From its grey slippers, could not lift her up 
 
 To what she wanted; I held down a branch, 35 
 
 And gathered her some blossoms, since their hour 
 
 Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies 
 
 Of harder wing were working their way through 
 
 And scattering them in fragments under foot. 
 
 So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, 40 
 
 Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, 
 
 For such appear the petals when detacht, 
 
 Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, 
 
 And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun; 
 
 Yet every one her gown received from me 45 
 
 Was fairer than the first; I thought not so, 
 
 But so she praised them to reward my care, 
 
 I said : ' You find the largest. ' 
 
 'This indeed,' 
 Cried she, 'is large and sweet.' 50 
 
 She held one forth, 
 Whether for me to look at or to take 
 She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
 Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt. 
 I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part 55 
 
 Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
 
 420 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch 
 To fall, and yet unfallen. 
 
 She drew back 
 
 The boon she tendered, and then, finding not 60 
 The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, 
 Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 
 
 IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 
 
 IPHIGENEIA, when she heard her doom 
 At Aulis, and when all beside the King 
 Had gone away, took his right hand, and said, 
 *O father! I am young and very happy. 
 I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
 Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age 
 Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
 My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood 
 While I was resting on her knee both arms 
 And hitting it to make her mind my words, 
 And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
 Might he not also hear one word amiss, 
 Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus ? ' 
 The father placed his cheek upon her head, 
 And tears dropt down it, but the king of men 
 Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. 
 'O father! sayst thou nothing? Hear'st thou not 
 Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, 
 Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
 To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, 
 When it was inarticulate as theirs, 
 And the down deadened it within the nest? '
 
 LANDOR 42 1 
 
 He moved her gently from him, silent still, 
 
 And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, 
 
 Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs, 25 
 
 'I thought to have laid down my hair before 
 
 Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed 
 
 Her polisht altar with my virgin blood; 
 
 I thought to have selected the white flowers 
 
 To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each 30 
 
 By name, and with no sorrowful regret, 
 
 Whether, since both my parents will the change, 
 
 I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow; 
 
 And (after those who mind us girls the most) 
 
 Adore our own Athena, that she would 35 
 
 Regard me mildly with her azure eyes. 
 
 But, father ! to see you no more, and see 
 
 Your love, O father ! go ere I am gone. "... 
 
 Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, 
 
 Bending his lofty head far over hers, 40 
 
 And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. 
 
 He turned away; not far, but silent still. 
 
 She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh, 
 
 So long a silence seemed the approach of death, 
 
 And like it. Once again she raised her voice. 45 
 
 'O father! if the ships are now detained, 
 
 And all your vows move not the Gods above, 
 
 When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer 
 
 The less to them : and purer can there be 
 
 Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer 50 
 
 For her dear father's safety and success? ' 
 
 A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 
 
 An aged man now entered, and without 
 
 One word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist 
 
 Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw 55
 
 422 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 
 Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried 
 'O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail.' 
 
 CHILDREN PLAYING IN A CHURCHYARD 
 
 CHILDREN, keep up that harmless play, 
 Your kindred angels plainly say 
 By God's authority ye may. 
 
 Be prompt his Holy word to hear, 
 It teaches you to banish fear. 
 The lesson lies on all sides near. 
 
 Ten summers hence the sprightliest lad 
 In Nature's face will look more sad, 
 And ask where are those smiles she had? 
 
 Ere many days the last will close. 
 
 Play on, play on, for then (who knows ?) 
 
 Ye who play here may here repose. 
 
 TO THE SISTER OF ELIA 
 
 COMFORT thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile ! 
 
 Again shall Elia's smile 
 Refresh thy heart, when heart can ache no more; 
 
 What is it we deplore? 
 
 He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years, 
 
 Far worthier things than tears. 
 The love of friends without a single foe; 
 
 Unequalled lot below !
 
 LAND OR 423 
 
 His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine; 
 
 For these dost thou repine? 10 
 
 He may have left the lowly walks of men; 
 
 Left them he has, what then? 
 
 Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes 
 
 Of all the good and wise? 
 Though the warm day is over, yet they seek 15 
 
 Upon the holy peak 
 
 Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows 
 
 O'er death's perennial snows. 
 Behold him ! from the region of the blest 
 
 He speaks : he bids thee rest. 20 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 THERE is delight in singing, though no one hear 
 
 Beside the singer; and there is delight 
 
 In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
 
 And see the prais'd far off him, far above. 
 
 Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, 
 
 Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, 
 
 Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, 
 
 No man hath walk'd along our roads with steps 
 
 So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
 
 So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 
 
 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze 
 
 Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 
 
 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
 
 The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
 
 424 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 
 
 I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife, 
 Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; 
 
 I warmed both hands before the fire of life, 
 It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 
 
 I know not whether I am proud, 
 But this I know, I hate a crowd; 
 Therefore pray let me disengage 
 My verses from the motley page, 
 Where others, far more sure to please, 
 Pour out their choral song with ease. 
 And yet perhaps, if some should tire 
 With too much froth or too much fire, 
 There is an ear that may incline 
 Even to words as dull as mine. 
 
 The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings 
 
 To crown the pearls where swells the broad-vein'd brow, 
 Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings, 
 
 They who have coveted may covet now. 
 
 Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape uncrush'd, 
 The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature, 
 
 Where every voice (but bird's or child's) is hush'd, 
 And every thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure. 
 
 Death stands above me, whispering low 
 I know not what into my ear: 
 
 Of his strange language all I know 
 Is, there is not a word of fear.
 
 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 (1775-1834) 
 
 THE TWO RACES OF MEN 
 
 THE human species, according to the best theory I 
 can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the 
 men who borrow, and the men who lend. To these two 
 original diversities may be reduced all those impertinent 
 classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, white men, 5 
 black men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth, 
 "Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites," flock hither, 
 and do naturally fall in with one or other of these pri- 
 mary distinctions. The infinite superiority of the 
 former, which I chose to designate as the great race, is 10 
 discernible in their figure, port, and a certain instinctive 
 sovereignty. The latter are born degraded. " He shall 
 serve his brethren." There is something in the air of 
 one of this cast, lean and suspicious; contrasting with 
 the open, trusting, generous manners of the other. 15 
 
 Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all 
 ages Alcibiades Falstaff Sir Richard Steele our 
 late incomparable Brinsley what a family likeness in 
 all four ! 
 
 What a careless, even deportment hath your bor- 20 
 rower! what rosy gills! what a beautiful reliance on 
 Providence doth he manifest, taking no more thought 
 than lilies ! What contempt for money, accounting it 
 (yours and mine especially) no better than dross ! What 
 
 425
 
 426 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions of 25 
 meum and tuum ! or rather, what a noble simplification 
 of language (beyond Tooke), resolving these supposed 
 opposites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjective! 
 What near approaches doth he make to the primitive 
 community to the extent of one half of the principle 30 
 at least. 
 
 He is the true taxer who " calleth all the world up to 
 be taxed "; and the distance is as vast between him and 
 one of us, as subsisted between the Augustan Majesty and 
 the poorest obolary Jew that paid it tribute-pittance at 35 
 Jerusalem ! His exactions, too, have such a cheerful, 
 voluntary air! So far removed from your sour paro- 
 chial or state-gatherers, those ink-horn varlets, who 
 carry their want of welcome in their faces ! He cometh 
 to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no receipt; 40 
 confining himself to no set season. Every day is his 
 Candlemas, or his feast of Holy Michael. He applieth 
 the lene tormentum of a pleasant look to your purse, 
 which to that gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, 
 as naturally as the cloak of the traveller, for which sun 45 
 and wind contended ! He is the true Propontic which 
 never ebbeth ! The sea which taketh handsomely at each 
 man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he delighteth 
 to honour, struggles with destiny; he is in the net. 
 Lend therefore cheerfully, O man ordained to lend 50 
 that thou lose not in the end, with thy worldly penny, 
 the reversion promised. Combine not preposterously 
 in thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and of 
 Dives! but, when thou seest the proper authority com- 
 ing, meet it smilingly, as it were half-way. Come, a 55 
 handsome sacrifice! See how light he makes of it! 
 Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy.
 
 LAMB 427 
 
 Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my 
 mind by the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq., 
 who parted this life on Wednesday evening; dying, as 60 
 he had lived, without much trouble. He boasted him- 
 self a descendant from mighty ancestors of that name, 
 who heretofore held ducal dignities in this realm. In 
 his actions and sentiments he belied not the stock to 
 which he pretended. Early in life he found himself in- 65 
 vested with ample revenues; which, with that noble dis- 
 interestedness which I have noticed as inherent in men 
 of the great race, he took almost immediate measures 
 entirely to dissipate and bring to nothing: for there is 
 something revolting in the idea of a king holding a pri- 70 
 vate purse; and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. 
 Thus furnished, by the very act of disfurnishment; get- 
 ting rid of the cumbersome luggage of riches, more apt 
 (as one sings) 
 
 To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, 75 
 
 Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, 
 
 he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great enter- 
 prise, "borrowing and to borrow! " 
 
 In his periegesis, or triumphant progress throughout 
 this island, it has been calculated that he laid a tythe So 
 part of the inhabitants under contribution. I reject 
 this estimate as greatly exaggerated: but having had 
 the honour of accompanying my friend, divers times, in 
 his perambulations about this vast city, I own I was 
 greatly struck at first with the prodigious number of 85 
 faces we met, who claimed a sort of respectful acquaint- 
 ance with us. He was one day so obliging as to explain 
 the phenomenon. It seems these were his tributaries; 
 feeders of his exchequer; gentlemen, his good friends
 
 428 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 (as he was pleased to express himself), to whom he 90 
 had occasionally been beholden for a loan. Their mul- 
 titudes did no way disconcert him. He rather took a 
 pride in numbering them; and, with Comus, seemed 
 pleased to be " stocked with so fair a herd." 
 
 With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived 95 
 to keep his treasury always empty. He did it by force 
 of an aphorism, which He had often in his mouth, that 
 "money kept longer than three days stinks." So he 
 made use of it while it was fresh. A good part he drank 
 away (for he was an excellent toss-pot,) some he gave 100 
 away, the rest he threw away, literally tossing and hurl- 
 ing it violently from him as boys do burrs, or as if it 
 had been infectious, into ponds, or ditches, or deep 
 holes, inscrutable cavities of the earth; or he would 
 bury it (where he would never seek it again) by a river's 105 
 side under some bank, which (he would facetiously ob- 
 serve) paid no interest but out away from him it must 
 go peremptorily, as Hagar's off spring into the wilderness, 
 while it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams 
 were perennial which fed his fisc. When new supplies no 
 became necessary, the first person that had the felicity to 
 fall in with him, friend or stranger, was sure to contrib- 
 ute to the deficiency. For Bigod had an undeniable way 
 with him. He had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick 
 jovial eye, a bald forehead, just touched with grey 115 
 (cana fides). He anticipated no excuse, and found 
 none. And, waiving for a while my theory as to the 
 great race, I would put it to the most untheorising 
 reader, who may at times have disposable coin in his 
 pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the kindli- 120 
 ness of his nature to refuse such a one as I am describ- 
 ing, than to say no to a poor petitionary rogue (your
 
 LAMB 429 
 
 bastard borrower), who, by his mumping visnomy, tells 
 you that he expects nothing better; and, therefore, whose 
 preconceived notions and expectations you do in reality 125 
 so much less shock in the refusal. 
 
 When I think of this man; his fiery glow of heart; his 
 swell of feeling; how magnificent, how ideal he was; 
 how great at the midnight hour; and when I compare 
 with him the companions with whom I have associated 130 
 since, I grudge the saving of a few idle ducats, and 
 think that I am fallen into the society of lenders, and 
 little men. 
 
 To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather cased in 
 leather covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a class 135 
 of alienators more formidable than that which I have 
 touched upon ; I mean your borrowers of books those 
 mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of 
 shelves, and creators of odd volumes. There is Com- 
 berbatch, matchless in his depredations ! 140 
 
 That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a 
 great eye-tooth knocked out (you are now with me in 
 my little back study in Bloomsbury, Reader !) with 
 the huge Switzer-like tomes on each side (like the 
 Guildhall giants, in their reformed posture, guardant of 145 
 nothing) once held the tallest of my folios, Opera Bona- 
 venturcz, choice and massy divinity, to which its two 
 supporters (school divinity also, but of a lesser calibre, 
 
 Bellarmine, and Holy Thomas), showed but as dwarfs, 
 
 itself an Ascapart! that Comberbatch abstracted 150 
 upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, 
 
 I confess, for me to suffer by than to refute, namely, 
 that " the title to property in a book (my Bonaventure, 
 for instance) is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers 
 of understanding and appreciating the same." Should 155
 
 430 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 he go on acting upon this theory, which of our shelves 
 is safe? 
 
 The slight vacuum in the left-hand case two shelves 
 from the ceiling scarcely distinguishable but by the 
 quick eye of a loser was whilom the commodious rest- 160 
 ing-place of Browne on Urn Burial. C. will hardly 
 allege that he knows more about that treatise than I do, 
 who introduced it to him, and was indeed the first (of 
 the moderns) to discover its beauties but so have I 
 known a foolish lover to praise his mistress in the pres- 165 
 ence of a rival more qualified to carry her off than him- 
 self. Just below, Dodsley's dramas want their fourth 
 volume, where Vittoria Corombona is ! The remainder 
 nine are as distasteful as Priam's refuse sons, when the 
 Fates borrowed Hector. Here stood the Anatomy of 170 
 Melancholy, in sober state. There loitered the Com- 
 plete Angler; quiet as in life, by some stream side. In 
 yonder nook, John Buncle, a widower-volume, with 
 "eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate. 
 
 One justice I must do my friend, that if he some- 175 
 times, like the sea, sweeps away a treasure, at another 
 time, sea-like, he throws up as rich an equivalent to 
 match it. I have a small under-collection of this 
 nature (my friend's gatherings in his various calls), 
 picked up, he has forgotten at what odd places, and de- 180 
 posited with as little memory at mine. I take in these 
 orphans, the twice-deserted. These proselytes of the 
 gate are welcome as the true Hebrews. There they 
 stand in conjunction; natives, and naturalised. The 
 latter seem as little disposed to inquire out their true 185 
 lineage as I am. I charge no warehouse-room for these 
 deodands, nor shall ever put myself to the ungentlemanly 
 trouble of advertising a sale of them to pay expenses.
 
 LAMB 43 1 
 
 To lose a volume to C. carries some sense and mean- 
 ing in it. You are sure that he will make one hearty 190 
 meal on your viands, if he can give no account of the 
 platter after it. But what moved thee, wayward, spite- 
 ful K., to be so importune to carry off with thee, in 
 spite of tears and adjurations to thee to forbear, the 
 Letters of that princely woman, the thrice noble Mar- 195 
 garet Newcastle knowing at the time, and knowing 
 that I knew also, thou most assuredly wouldst never 
 turn over one leaf of the illustrious folio : what but 
 the mere spirit of contradiction, and childish love of 
 getting the better of thy friend? Then, worst cut of 200 
 all ! to transport it with thee to the Gallican land 
 
 Unworthy land to harbour such a sweetness, 
 
 A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt, 
 
 Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's wonder ! 
 
 hadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests and 205 
 fancies, about thee, to keep thee merry, even as thou 
 keepest all companies with thy quips and mirthful tales? 
 Child of the Green-room, it was unkindly done of thee. 
 Thy wife, too, that part-French, better-part-English- 
 woman ! that she could fix upon no other treatise to 210 
 bear away, in kindly token of remembering us, than the 
 works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook of which no 
 Frenchman, nor woman of France, Italy, or England, 
 was ever by nature constituted to comprehend a tittle ! 
 Was there not Zimmerman on Solitude? 213 
 
 Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate 
 collection, be shy of showing it; or if thy heart over- 
 floweth to lend them, lend thy books; but let it be to 
 such a one as S. T. C. he will return them (generally 
 anticipating the time appointed^ with usury; enriched 220
 
 432 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 with annotations, tripling their value. I have had ex- 
 perience. Many are these precious MSS. of his (in 
 matter oftentimes, and almost in quantity not unfre- 
 quently, vying with the originals) in no very clerkly 
 hand legible in my Daniel; in old Burton; in Sir 225 
 Thomas Browne; and those abstruser cogitations of the 
 Greville, now, alas ! wandering in Pagan lands. I 
 counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library, against 
 S. T. C. 
 
 A DISSERTATION ON ROAST PIG 
 
 MANKIND, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend 
 M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for 
 the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, claw- 
 ing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do 
 in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely 5 
 hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter 
 of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind 
 of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the cooks' 
 holiday. The manuscript goes on to say that the art of 
 roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder 10 
 brother), was accidentally discovered in the manner 
 following. 
 
 The swine-herd Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods 
 one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his 
 hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son, Bo-bo, 15 
 a great lubberly boy, who, being fond of playing with 
 fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some 
 sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which kindling 
 quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their 
 poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together 20 
 with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian makeshift of a
 
 LAMB 433 
 
 building, you may think it), what was of much more 
 importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, not less 
 than nine in number, perished. China pigs have been 
 esteemed a luxury all over the East from the remotest 25 
 periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost con- 
 sternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of 
 the tenement, which his father and he could easily build 
 up again with a few dry branches and the labor of an hour 
 or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. 30 
 
 While he was thinking what he should say to his 
 father, and wringing his hands over the smoking rem- 
 nants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed 
 his nostrils unlike any scent which he had before ex- 
 perienced. What could it proceed from? Not from 35 
 the burned cottage he had smelled that smell before; 
 indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the 
 kind which had occurred through the negligence of this 
 unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble 
 that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premoni- 40 
 tory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether 
 lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down 
 to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He 
 burned his fingers, and to cool them he applied them, 
 in his booby fashion, to his mouth. Some of the crumbs 45 
 of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, 
 and for the first time in his life (in the world's life in- 
 deed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted 
 crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It 
 did not burn him so much now; still he licked his fingers 50 
 from a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his 
 slow understanding that it was the pig that smelled so, 
 and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, surrendering 
 himself up to the new-born pleasure, he fell to tearing 
 
 2F
 
 434 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh 55 
 next it, and was cramming it down his throat in his 
 beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking 
 rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and, rinding how 
 affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's 
 shoulders as thick as hailstones, which Bo-bo heeded 60 
 not any more than if they had been flies. The tickling 
 pleasure which he experienced in his lower regions had 
 rendered him quite callous to any inconveniences he 
 might feel in those remote quarters. His father might 
 lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig till he 65 
 had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little 
 more sensible of his situation, something like the fol- 
 lowing dialogue ensued: 
 
 " You graceless whelp, what have you got there devour- 
 ing? Is it not enough that you have burned me down -o 
 three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to 
 you ! but you must be eating fire, and I know not what ? 
 What have you got there, I say?" 
 
 "O father, the pig, the pig! Do come and taste how 
 nice the burnt pig eats ! " 75 
 
 The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his 
 son, and he cursed himself that ever he should beget a 
 son that should eat burnt pig. Bo-bo, whose scent was 
 wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out 
 another pig, and, fairly rending it asunder, thrust the So 
 lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still 
 shouting out, " Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father ! only 
 taste! O Lord!" with such-like barbarous ejacula- 
 tions, cramming all the while as if he would choke. 
 
 Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the 85 
 abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put 
 his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when
 
 LAMB 43 5 
 
 the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his 
 son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his 
 turn tasted some of its flavor, which, make what sour 90 
 mouths he would for a pretence, proved not altogether 
 displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript 
 here is a little tedious), both father and son fairly sat 
 down to the mess, and never left off till they had de- 
 spatched all that remained of the litter. 95 
 
 Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, 
 for the neighbors would certainly have stoned them for 
 a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of im- 
 proving upon the good meat which God had sent them. 
 Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was observed 100 
 that Ho-ti's cottage was burned down now more fre- 
 quently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time 
 forward. Some would break out in broad day, others 
 in the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so 
 sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze; and Ho-ti 105 
 himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of 
 chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to 
 him than ever. At length they were watched, the terrible 
 mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to 
 take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize no 
 town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself 
 produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, 
 when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the 
 burned pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might 
 be handed into the box. He handled it, and they all 115 
 handled it, and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and 
 his father had done before them, and nature prompting 
 to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all 
 the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever 
 given to the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, 120
 
 436 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 strangers, reporters, and all present without leaving 
 the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they 
 brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty. 
 
 The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the 
 manifest iniquity of the decision; and when the court 125 
 was dismissed went privily and bought up all the pigs 
 that could be had for love or money. In a few days 
 his lordship's town-house was observed to be on fire. 
 The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be 
 seen but fire in every direction; fuel and pigs grew 130 
 enormously dear all over the district. The insurance 
 offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter 
 and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very 
 science of architecture would in no long time be lost to 
 the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, 135 
 till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, 
 like our Locke, who made a discovery that the flesh of 
 swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked 
 (burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of con- 
 suming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the 140 
 rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or spit 
 came in a century or two later I forget in whose dy- 
 nasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, 
 do the most useful, and seemingly the most obvious, 
 arts make their way among mankind. 145 
 
 Without placing too implicit faith in the account 
 above given, it must be agreed that if a worthy pretext 
 for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire 
 (especially in these days) could be assigned in favor of 
 any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be 150 
 found in ROAST PIG. 
 
 Of all the delicacies in the whole mundiis edibilis, I 
 will maintain it to be the most delicate princeps ob-
 
 LAMB 437 
 
 soniorum. I speak not of your grown porkers things 
 beween pig and pork, those hobbydehoys but a young 155 
 and tender suckling, under a moon old, guiltless as yet 
 of the sty; with no original speck of the amor immun- 
 dititf, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet 
 manifest; his voice as yet not broken, but something 
 between a childish treble and a grumble, the mild fore- 160 
 runner, o\ prceludium, of a grunt. 
 
 He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ances- 
 tors ate them seethed, or boiled, but what a sacrifice of 
 the exterior tegument ! 
 
 There is no flavor comparable, I will contend, to that 165 
 of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, 
 crackling, as it is well called : the very teeth are invited 
 to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in over- 
 coming the coy, brittle resistance, with the adhesive 
 oleaginous O, call it not fat ! but an indefinable sweet- 170 
 ness growing up to it, the tender blossoming of fat, fat 
 cropped in the bud, taken in the shoot, in the first in- 
 nocence, the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's 
 yet pure food the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal 
 manna or, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so 175 
 blended and running into each other, that both together 
 make but one ambrosian result, or common substance. 
 
 Behold him while he is "doing" it seemeth rather 
 a refreshing warmth than a scorching heat, that he is so 
 passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string ! 180 
 Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibility of 
 that tender age! he hath wept out his pretty eyes 
 radiant jellies shooting stars. See him in the dish, his 
 second cradle, how meek he lieth ! wouldst thou have 
 had this innocence grow up to the grossness and indocil- 185 
 ity which too often accompany maturer swinehood ? . . .
 
 WILLIAM HAZLITT 
 
 (1778-1830) 
 
 A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-WRITING 
 
 A Reminiscence 
 " This life is best, if quiet life is best. 
 
 FOOD, warmth, sleep, and a book; these are all I at 
 present ask the ultima Thule of my wandering desires. 
 Do you not then wish for 
 
 " A friend in your retreat, 
 Whom you may whisper, solitude is sweet ? 3 
 
 Expected, well enough : gone, still better. Such at- 
 tractions are strengthened by distance. Nor a mistress? 
 " Beautiful mask ! I know thee ! " When I can judge 
 of the heart from the face, of the thoughts from the lips, 
 I may again trust myself. Instead of these give me the 10 
 robin red-breast, pecking the crumbs at the door, or 
 warbling on the leafless spray, the same glancing form 
 that has followed me wherever I have been, and " done 
 its spiriting gently; " or the rich notes of the thrush that 
 startle the ear of winter, and seem to have drunk up 15 
 the fulj draught of joy from the very sense of contrast. 
 To these I adhere, and am faithful, for they are true to 
 me; and, dear in themselves, are dearer for the sake of 
 what is departed, leading me back (by the hand) to that 
 dreaming world, in the innocence of which they sat and 20 
 
 438
 
 HAZLITT 439 
 
 made sweet music, waking the promise of future years, 
 and answered by the eager throbbings of my own breast. 
 But now "the credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er," 
 and I turn back from the world that has deceived me, 
 to nature that lent it a false beauty, and that keeps up 25 
 the illusion of the past. As I quaff my libations of tea 
 in a morning, I love to watch the clouds sailing from 
 the west, and fancy that " the spring comes slowly up this 
 way." In this hope, while "fields are dank and ways 
 are mire," I follow the same direction to a neighbouring 30 
 wood, where, having gained the dry, level greensward, I 
 can see my way for a mile before me, closed in on each 
 side by copse-wood, and ending in a point of light more 
 or less brilliant, as the day is bright or cloudy. What 
 a walk is this to me ! I have no need of book or com- 35 
 panion the days, the hours, the thoughts of my youth 
 are at my side, and blend with the air that fans my 
 cheek. Here I can saunter for hours, bending my eye 
 forward, stopping and turning to look back, thinking to 
 strike off into some less trodden path, yet hesitating to 40 
 quit the one I am in, afraid to snap the brittle threads 
 of memory. I remark the shining trunks and slender 
 branches of the birch trees, waving in the idle breeze; 
 or a pheasant springs up on whirring wing; or I recall 
 the spot where I once found a wood-pigeon at the foot of 45 
 a tree, weltering in its gore, and think how many seasons 
 have flown since "it left its little life in air." Dates, 
 names, faces come back to what purpose ? Or why 
 think of them now? Or rather why not think of them 
 oftener? We walk through life, as through a narrow 50 
 path, with a thin curtain drawn around it; behind are 
 ranged rich portraits, airy harps are strung yet we will 
 not stretch forth our hands and lift aside the veil, to
 
 44O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 catch glimpses of the one, or sweep the chords of the 
 other. As in a theatre, when the old-fashioned green 55 
 curtain drew up, groups of figures, fantastic dresses, 
 laughing faces, rich banquets, stately columns, gleaming 
 vistas appeared beyond; so we have only at any time to 
 "peep through the blanket of the past," to possess our- 
 selves at once of all that has regaled our senses, that is 60 
 stored up in our memory, that has struck our fancy, 
 that has pierced our hearts : yet to all this we are in- 
 different, insensible, and seem intent only on the pres- 
 ent vexation, the future disappointment. If there is a 
 Titian hanging up in the room with me, I scarcely re- 65 
 gard it: how then should I be expected to strain the 
 mental eye so far, or to throw down, by the magic spells 
 of the will, the stone-walls that enclose it in the Louvre ? 
 There is one head there of which I have often thought, 
 when looking at it, that nothing should ever disturb me 70 
 again, and I would become the character it represents 
 such perfect calmness and self-possession reigns in it ! 
 Why do I not hang an image of this in some dusky cor- 
 ner of my brain, and turn an eye upon it ever and anon, 
 as I have need of some such talisman to calm my troubled 75 
 thoughts? The attempt is fruitless, if not natural; or, 
 like that of the French, to hang garlands on the grave 
 and to conjure back the dead by miniature pictures of 
 them while living! It is only some actual coincidence 
 or local association that tends, without violence, to 80 
 "open all the cells where memory slept." I can easily, 
 by stooping over the long-sprent grass and clay cold 
 clod, recall the tufts of primroses, or purple hyacinths, 
 that formerly grew on the same spot, and cover the bushes 
 with leaves and singing-birds, as they were eighteen 85 
 summers ago; or prolonging my walk and hearing the
 
 HAZLITT 441 
 
 sighing gale rustle through a tall, straight wood at the 
 end of it, can fancy that I distinguish the cry of hounds, 
 and the fatal group issuing from it, as in the tale of 
 Theodore and Honoria. A moaning gust of wind aids 90 
 the belief; I look once more to see whether the trees 
 before me answer to the idea of the horror-stricken 
 grove, and an air-built city towers over their grey tops. 
 
 " Of all the cities in Romanian lands, 
 The chief and most renown'd Ravenna stands." 95 
 
 I return home resolved to read the entire poem through, 
 and, after dinner, drawing my chair to the fire, and hold- 
 ing a small print close to my eyes, launch into the full 
 tide of Dryden's couplets (a stream of sound), compar- 
 ing his didactic and descriptive pomp with the simple 100 
 pathos and picturesque truth of Boccaccio's story, and 
 tasting with a pleasure, which none but an habitual 
 reader can feel, some quaint examples of pronunciation 
 in this accomplished versifier. 
 
 " Which when Honoria vievv'd, 105 
 
 The fresh impulse her former fright renew'd." 
 
 " And made th' insult, which in his grief appears, 
 The means to mourn thee with my pious tears." 
 
 These trifling instances of the wavering and unsettled 
 state of the language give double effect to the firm and no 
 stately march of the verse, and make me dwell with a 
 sort of tender interest on the difficulties and doubts of 
 an earlier period of literature. They pronounced words 
 then in a manner which we should laugh at now; and 
 they wrote verse in a manner which we can do anything 115 
 but laugh at. The pride of a new acquisition seems to 
 give fresh confidence to it; to impel the rolling syllables
 
 442 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 through the moulds provided for them, and to overflow 
 the envious bounds of rhyme into time-honoured triplets. 
 
 What sometimes surprises me in looking back to the 120 
 past, is, with the exception already stated, to find myself 
 so little changed in the time. The same images and 
 trains of thoughts stick by me : I have the same tastes, 
 likings, sentiments, and wishes that I had then. One 
 great ground of confidence and support has, indeed, 125 
 been struck from under my feet; but I have made it up 
 to myself by proportionable pertinacity of opinion. 
 The success of the great cause, to which I had vowed 
 myself, was to me more than all the world : I had a 
 strength in its strength, a resource which I knew not of, 130 
 till it failed me for the second time. 
 
 " Fall'n was Glenartny's stately tree ! 
 Oh ! ne'er to see Lord Ronald more ! " 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOUR 
 
 Now it appears to me that the English are (or were) 
 just at that mean point between intelligence and obtuse- 
 ness which must produce the most abundant and happiest 
 crop of humour. Absurdity and singularity glide over 
 the French mind without jarring or jostling with it; or 5 
 they evaporate in levity; with the Italians they are lost 
 in indolence or pleasure. The ludicrous takes hold of 
 the English imagination, and clings to it with all its 
 ramifications. We resent any difference or peculiarity 
 of appearance at first, and yet, having not much malice 10 
 at our hearts, we are glad to turn it into a jest we are 
 liable to be offended, and as willing to be pleased
 
 HAZLITT 443 
 
 struck with oddity from not knowing what to make of it, 
 we wonder and burst out a laughing at the eccentricity 
 of others, while we follow our own bent from wilfulness 15 
 or simplicity, and thus afford them, in our turn, matter 
 for the indulgence of the comic vein. It is possible 
 that a greater refinement of manners may give birth to 
 finer distinctions of satire and a nicer tact for the ridicu- 
 lous; but our insular situation and character are, I should 20 
 say, most likely to foster, as they have in fact fostered, 
 the great quantity of natural and striking humour, in 
 spite of our plodding tenaciousness, and want both of 
 gaiety and quickness of perception. A set of raw re- 
 cruits with their awkward movements and unbending 25 
 joints are laughable enough; but they cease to be so 
 when they have once been drilled into discipline and 
 uniformity. So it is with nations that lose their angular 
 points and grotesque qualities with education and inter- 
 course; but it is in a mixed state of manners that comic 30 
 humour chiefly flourishes, for, in order that the drollery 
 may not be lost, we must have spectators of the pass- 
 ing scene who are able to appreciate and embody its 
 most remarkable features wits as well as butts for 
 ridicule. I shall mention two names in this depart- 35 
 ment which may serve to redeem the national character 
 from absolute dulness and solemn pretence Fielding 
 and Hogarth. . . . Lord Byron was in the habit of 
 railing at the spirit of our good old comedy, and of 
 abusing Shakespeare's Clowns and Fools, which he said 40 
 the refinement of the French and Italian stage would not 
 endure, and which only our grossness and puerile taste 
 could tolerate. In this I agree with him; and it is pat 
 to my purpose. I flatter myself that we are almost the 
 only people who understand and relish nonsense. We 45
 
 FROM CHAUCER TO AR.VOLD 
 
 are not "merry and wise," but indulge our mirth to 
 excess and folly. \Vhen we trifle, we trifle in good 
 earnest; and having once relaxed our hold of the helm, 
 drift idly down the stream, and, delighted with the 
 change, are tossed about "by every little breath" of 50 
 whim or caprice, 
 
 " That under heaven is blown." 
 
 All we then want is to proclaim a truce with reason, 
 and to be pleased with as little expense of thought or 
 pretension to wisdom as possible. This licensed fooling 55 
 is carried to its very utmost length in Shakespeare, and 
 in some other of our elder dramatists, without perhaps 
 sufficient warrant or the same excuse. Nothing can 
 justify this extreme relaxation but extreme tension. 
 Shakespeare's trifling does indeed tread upon the very 60 
 borders of vacancy; his meaning often hangs by the 
 very slenderest threads. For this he might be blamed 
 if it did not take away our breath to follow his eagle 
 flights, or if he did not at other times make the cordage 
 of our hearts crack. After our heads ache with think- 65 
 ing, it is fair to play the fool. The clowns were as 
 proper an appendage to the gravity of our antique lit- 
 erature as fools and dwarfs were to the stately dignity 
 of courts and noble houses in former days. Of all 
 people, they have the best right to claim a total exemp- 70 
 tion from rules and rigid formality, who, when they 
 have anything of importance to do, set about it with 
 the greatest earnestness and perseverance, and are gen- 
 erally grave and sober to a proverb. Swift, who wrote 
 more idle or nonsense verses than any man, was the 75 
 severest of moralists; and his feelings and observations 
 morbidly acute.
 
 LEIGH HUNT 
 
 (1784-1859) 
 
 TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET 
 
 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 summoning brass; 
 
 And you, warm little housekeeper, who class ; 
 
 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; 
 
 O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, 
 
 One to the fields, the other to the hearth, n 
 
 Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong 
 
 At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth 
 
 To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song 
 
 In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth. 
 
 ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION 
 
 THERE is not a more unthinking way of talking than 
 to say such and such pains and pleasures are only imag- 
 inary, and therefore to be got rid of or undervalued ac- 
 cordingly. There is nothing imaginary in the common 
 acceptation of the word. The logic of Moses in the 
 
 445
 
 446 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Vicar of Wakefield is good argument here : " Whatever 
 is, is." Whatever touches us, whatever moves us, does 
 touch and does move us. We recognise the reality of it, 
 as we do that of a hand in the dark. We might as well 
 say that a sight which makes us laugh, or a blow which 10 
 brings tears into our eyes, is imaginary, as that anything 
 else is imaginary which makes us laugh or weep. We 
 can only judge of things by their effects. Our percep- 
 tion constantly deceives us, in things with which we sup- 
 pose ourselves perfectly conversant; but our reception 15 
 of their effect is a different matter. Whether we are 
 materialists or immaterialists, whether things be about 
 us or within us, whether we think the sun is a substance, 
 or only the image of a divine thought, an idea, a thing 
 imaginary, we are equally agreed as to the notion of its 20 
 warmth. But on the other hand, as this warmth is felt 
 differently by different temperaments, so what we call 
 imaginary things affect different minds. What we have 
 to do is not to deny their effect, because we do not feel 
 in the same proportion, or whether we even feel it at 25 
 all; but to see whether our neighbours may not be moved. 
 If they are, there is, to all intents and purposes, a mov- 
 ing cause. But we do not see it? No; neither per- 
 haps do they. They only feel it; they are only sentient, 
 a word which implies the sight given to the imagina- 30 
 tion by the feelings. But what do you mean, we may 
 ask in return, by seeing? Some rays of light come in 
 contact with the eye; they bring a sensation to it; in a 
 word, they touch it; and the impression left by this 
 touch we call sight. How far does this differ in effect 35 
 from the impression left by any other touch, however 
 mysterious? An ox knocked down by a butcher, and a 
 man knocked down by a fit of apoplexy, equally feel
 
 HUNT 447 
 
 themselves compelled to drop. The tickling of a straw 
 and of a comedy equally move the muscles about the 40 
 mouth. The look of a beloved eye will so thrill the 
 frame, that old philosophers have had recourse to a 
 doctrine of beams and radiant particles flying from one 
 sight to another. In fine, what is contact itself, and 
 why does it affect us? There is no one cause more 45 
 mysterious than another, if we look into it. 
 
 Nor does the question concern us like moral causes. 
 We may be content to know the earth by its fruits; but 
 how to increase and improve them is a more attractive 
 study. If, instead of saying that the causes which moved 50 
 in us this or that pain or pleasure were imaginary, people 
 were to say that the causes themselves were removable, 
 they would be nearer the truth. When a stone trips us 
 up, we do not fall to disputing its existence : we put it 
 out of the way. In like manner, when we suffer from 55 
 what is called an imaginary pain, our business is not to 
 canvass the reality of it. Whether there is any cause or 
 not in that or any other perception, or whether every- 
 thing consists not in what is called effect, it is sufficient 
 for us that the effect is real. Our sole business is to re- 60 
 move those second causes, which always accompany the 
 original idea. As in deliriums, for instance, it would 
 be idle to go about persuading the patient that he did 
 not behold the figures he says he does. He might 
 reasonably ask us, if he could, how we know anything 65 
 about the matter; or how we can be sure that in the 
 infinite wonders of the universe certain realities may 
 not become apparent to certain eyes, whether diseased 
 or not. Our business would be to put him into that 
 state of health in which human beings are not diverted 70 
 from their offices and comforts by a liability to such
 
 448 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 imaginations. The best reply to his question would be, 
 that such a morbidity is clearly no more a fit state for a 
 human being than a disarranged or incomplete state of 
 works is for a watch; and that seeing the general ten- 75 
 dency of nature to this completeness or state of comfort, 
 we naturally conclude that the imaginations in question, 
 whether substantial or not, are at least not of the same 
 lasting or prevailing description. 
 
 We do not profess metaphysics. We are indeed so 80 
 little conversant with the masters of that art, that we 
 are never sure whether we are using even its proper 
 terms. All that we may know on the subject comes to 
 us from some reflection and some experience; and this 
 all may be so little as to make a metaphysician smile; 85 
 which, if he be a true one, he will do good-naturedly. 
 The pretender will take occasion, from our very confes- 
 sion, to say that we know nothing. Our faculty, such as 
 it is, is rather instinctive than reasoning; rather physical 
 than metaphysical; rather sentient because it loves 90 
 much, than because it knows much; rather calculated 
 by a certain retention of boyhood, and by its wanderings 
 in the green places of thought, to light upon a piece of 
 the old golden world, than to tire ourselves, and con- 
 clude it unattainable, by too wide and scientific a 95 
 search. We pretend to see farther than none but the 
 worldly and the malignant. And yet those who see 
 farther may not see so well. We do not blind our eyes 
 with looking u'pon the sun in the heavens. We believe 
 it to be there, but we find its light upon earth also; 100 
 and we would lead humanity, if we could, out of misery 
 and coldness into the shine of it. Pain might still be 
 there; must be so, as long as we are mortal; 
 
 " For oft we still must weep, since we are human : "
 
 HUNT 449 
 
 but it should be pain for the sake of others, which is 105 
 noble; not unnecessary pain inflicted by or upon them, 
 which it is absurd not to remove. The very pains of 
 mankind struggle towards pleasures; and such pains as 
 are proper for them have this inevitable accompaniment 
 of true humanity, that they cannot but realise a certain no 
 gentleness of enjoyment. Thus the true bearer of pain 
 would come round to us; and he would not grudge us a 
 share of his burden, though in taking from his trouble 
 it might diminish his pride. Pride is but a bad pleas- 
 ure at the expense of others. The great object of hu- 115 
 manity is to enrich everybody. If it is a task destined 
 not to succeed, it is a good one from its very nature; 
 and fulfils at least a glad destiny of its own. To look 
 upon it austerely is in reality the reverse of austerity. 
 It is only such an impatience of the want of pleasure as 120 
 leads us to grudge it in others; and this impatience 
 itself, if the sufferer knew how to use it, is but another 
 impulse, in the general yearning, towards an equal wealth 
 of enjoyment. 
 
 But we shall be getting into other discussions. The 125 
 ground-work of all happiness is health. Take care of 
 this ground; and the doleful imaginations that come to 
 warn us against its abuse will avoid it. Take care of 
 this ground, and let as many glad imaginations throng to 
 it as possible. Read the magical works of the poets, 130 
 and they will come. If you doubt their existence, ask 
 yourself whether you feel pleasure at the idea of them; 
 whether you are moved into delicious smiles, or tears as 
 delicious. If you are, the result is the same to you, 
 whether they exist or not. It is not mere words to say 135 
 that he who goes through a rich man's park, and sees 
 things in it which never bless the mental eyesight of the 
 
 2G
 
 45O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 possessor, is richer than he. He is richer. More re- 
 sults of pleasure come home to him. The ground is 
 actually more fertile to him : the place haunted with 140 
 finer shapes. He has more servants to come at his call, 
 and administer to him with full hands. Knowledge, 
 sympathy, imagination, are all divining-rods, with which 
 he discovers treasure. Let a painter go through the 
 grounds, and he will see not only the general colours of 145 
 green and brown, but their combinations and contrasts, 
 and the modes in which they might again be combined 
 and contrasted. He will also put figures in the land- 
 scape if there are none there, flocks and herds, or a 
 solitary spectator, or Venus lying with her white body 150 
 among the violets and primroses. Let a musician go 
 through, and he will hear "differences discreet" in the 
 notes of the birds and the lapsing of the water-fall. He 
 will fancy a serenade of wind instruments in the open 
 air at a lady's window, with a voice rising through it; 155 
 or the horn of the hunter; or the musical cry of the 
 
 hounds, 
 
 " Matched in mouth like bells, 
 Each under each ; " 
 
 or a solitary voice in a bower, singing for an expected 160 
 lover; or the chapel organ, waking up like the fountain 
 of the winds. Let a poet go through the grounds and he 
 will heighten and increase all these sounds and images. 
 He will bring the colours from heaven, and put an 
 unearthly meaning into the voice. He will have 165 
 stories of the sylvan inhabitants; will shift the popu- 
 lation through infinite varieties; will put a sentiment 
 upon every sight and sound ; will be human, romantic, 
 supernatural; will make all nature send tribute into that 
 spot. 170
 
 HUNT 45 1 
 
 We may say of the love of nature what Shakespeare 
 says of another love, that it 
 
 " Adds a precious seeing to the eye." 
 
 And we may say also, upon the like principle, that it 
 adds a precious hearing to the ear. This and imagina- 175 
 tion, which ever follows upon it, are the two purifiers of 
 our sense, which rescue us from the deafening babble of 
 common cares, and enable us to hear all the affectionate 
 voices of earth and heaven. The starry orbs, lapsing 
 about in their smooth and sparkling dance, sing to us. 180 
 The brooks talk to us of solitude. The birds are the 
 animal spirits of nature, carolling in the air, like a care- 
 less lass. 
 
 " The gentle gales, 
 
 Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 185 
 
 Native perfumes; and whisper whence they stole 
 Those balmy spoils." Paradise Lost, book iv. 
 
 The poets are called creators, because with their magical 
 words they bring forth to our eyesight the abundant 
 images and beauties of creation. They put them there, 190 
 if the reader pleases; and so are literally creators. But 
 whether put there or discovered, whether created or in- 
 vented (for invention means nothing but finding out), 
 there they are. If they touch us, they exist to as much 
 purpose as anything else which touches us. If a passage 195 
 in King Lear brings the tears into our eyes, it is real 
 as the touch of a sorrowful hand. If the flow of a song 
 of Anacreon's intoxicates us, it is as true to a pulse 
 within us as the wine he drank. We hear not their 
 sounds with ears, nor see their sights with eyes; but we 200 
 hear and see both so truly, that we are moved with pleas- 
 ure; and the advantage, nay even the test, of seeing and 
 hearing, at any time, is not in the seeing and hearing,
 
 452 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 but in the ideas we realise, and the pleasure we derive. 
 Intellectual objects, therefore, inasmuch as they come 205 
 home to us, are as true a part of the stock of nature as 
 visible ones; and they are infinitely more abundant. 
 Between the tree of a country clown and the tree of a 
 Milton or Spenser, what a difference in point of produc- 
 tiveness ! Between the plodding of a sexton through a 210 
 church-yard and the walk of a Gray, what a difference ! 
 What a difference between the Bermudas of a ship- 
 builder and the Bermoothes of Shakespeare ! the isle 
 
 " Full of noises, 
 Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not;" 215 
 
 the isle of elves and fairies, that chased the tide to and 
 fro on the sea-shore; of coral-bones and the knell of 
 sea-nymphs; of spirits dancing on the sands, and sing- 
 ing amidst the hushes of the wind; of Caliban, whose 
 brute nature enchantment had made poetical; of Ariel, 220 
 who lay in cowslip bells, and rode upon the bat; of 
 Miranda, who wept when she saw Ferdinand work so 
 hard, and begged him to let her help; telling him, 
 
 " I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow 225 
 
 You may deny me; but I'll be your servant, 
 Whether you will or no." 
 
 Such are the discoveries which the poets make for us; 
 worlds to which that of Columbus was but a handful of 
 brute matter. America began to be richer for us the 230 
 other day, when Humboldt came back and told us of its 
 luxuriant and gigantic vegetation; of the myriads of 
 shooting lights, which revel at evening in the southern 
 sky; and of that grand constellation, at which Dante 
 seems to have made so remarkable a guess (Purgatorio, 235 
 cant, i., v. 22). The natural warmth of the Mexican
 
 HUNT 453 
 
 and Peruvian genius, set free from depotism, will soon 
 do all the rest for it; awaken the sleeping riches of its 
 eyesight, and call forth the glad music of its affections. 
 
 Imagination enriches everything. A great library 240 
 contains not only books, but 
 
 " The assembled souls of all that men held wise." 
 
 DAVENANT. 
 
 The moon is Homer's and Shakespeare's moon, as well 
 as the one we look at. The sun comes out of his cham- 245 
 ber in the east, with a sparkling eye, "rejoicing like a 
 bridegroom." The commonest thing becomes like 
 Aaron's rod, that budded. Pope called up the spirits 
 of the Cabala to wait upon a lock of hair, and justly 
 gave it the honours of a constellation ; for he has hung 250 
 it, sparkling for ever in the eyes of posterity. A com- 
 mon meadow is a sorry thing to a ditcher or a coxcomb; 
 but by the help of its dues from imagination and the love 
 of nature, the grass brightens for us, the air soothes us, 
 we feel as we did in the daisied hours of childhood. Its 255 
 verdures, its sheep, its hedge-row elms, all these, and 
 all else which sight, and sound, and associations can 
 give it, are made to furnish a treasure of pleasant thoughts. 
 Even brick and mortar are vivified, as of old, at the harp 
 of Orpheus. A metropolis becomes no longer a mere 260 
 collection of houses or of trades. It puts on all the 
 grandeur of its history, and its literature; its towers, and 
 rivers; its art, and jewellery, and foreign wealth; its 
 multitude of human beings all intent upon excitement, 
 wise or yet to learn; the huge and sullen dignity of its 265 
 canopy of smoke by day; the wide gleam upwards of its 
 lighted lustre at night-time; and the noise of its many 
 chariots, heard at the same hour, when the wind sets 
 gently towards some quiet suburb.
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY 
 
 (1785-1859) 
 
 ON THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE IN MACBETH 
 
 FROM my boyish days I had always felt a great per- 
 plexity on one point in Macbeth. It was this: the 
 knocking at the gate which succeeds to the murder of 
 Duncan produced to my feelings an effect for which I 
 never could account. The effect was that it reflected 5 
 back upon the murder a peculiar awfulness and a depth 
 of solemnity; yet, however I endeavored with my under- 
 standing to comprehend this, for many years I could 
 never see why it should produce such an effect. 
 
 Here I pause for one moment to exhort the reader 10 
 never to pay any attention to his understanding when it 
 stands in opposition to any other faculty of his mind. 
 The mere understanding, however useful, is the meanest 
 faculty in the human mind, and the most to be distrusted; 
 and yet the great majority of people trust nothing else; 15 
 which may do for ordinary life, but not for philosophical 
 purposes. Of this, out of ten thousand instances that 
 I might produce, I will cite one. Ask any person what- 
 soever, who is not previously prepared for the demand 
 by a knowledge of perspective, to draw in the rudest way 20 
 the commonest appearance which depends upon the law 
 of that science; as, for instance, to represent the effect 
 of two walls standing at right angles to each other, or 
 the appearance of the houses on each side of a street, 
 
 454
 
 DE QUINCE Y 455 
 
 as seen by a person looking down the street from one 25 
 extremity. Now, in all cases, unless the person has hap- 
 pened to observe in pictures how it is that artists pro- 
 duce these effects, he will be utterly incapable to make 
 the smallest approximation to it. Yet why? For he 
 has actually seen the effect every day of his life. The 30 
 reason is that he allows his understanding to overrule 
 his eyes. His understanding, which includes no intui- 
 tive knowledge of the laws of vision, can furnish him 
 with no reason why a line, which is known and can be 
 proved to be a horizontal line, should not appear a hori- 35 
 zontal line. A line that made any angle with the per- 
 pendicular less than a right angle would seem to him to 
 indicate that his houses were all tumbling down together. 
 Accordingly, he makes the line of his houses a horizon- 
 tal line, and fails, of course, to produce the effect de- 40 
 manded. Here, then, is one instance out of many, in 
 which not only the understanding is allowed to overrule 
 the eyes, but where the understanding is positively al- 
 lowed to obliterate the eyes, as it were; for not only 
 does the man believe the evidence of his understanding 45 
 in opposition to that of his eyes, but (what is monstrous !) 
 the idiot is not aware that his eyes ever gave such evi- 
 dence. He does not know that he has seen (and, there- 
 fore, quoad 'his consciousness has #/seen) that which he 
 has seen every day of his life. 50 
 
 But to return from this digression. My understand- 
 ing could furnish no reason why the knocking at the 
 gate in Macbeth should produce any effect, direct or re- 
 flected. In fact, my understanding said positively that 
 it could not produce any effect. But I knew better. I 55 
 felt that it did; and I waited and clung to the problem 
 until further knowledge should enable me to solve it.
 
 456 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 At length, in 1812, Mr. Williams made his debut on the 
 stage of Ratcliffe Highway, and executed those unparal- 
 leled murders which have procured for him such a bril- 60 
 liant and undying reputation. On which murders, by 
 the way, I must observe that in one respect they have 
 had an ill effect by making the connoisseur in murder 
 very fastidious in his taste, and dissatisfied by anything 
 that has been since done in that line. All other murders 65 
 look pale by the deep crimson of his; and, as an ama- 
 teur once said to me, in a querulous tone, "There has 
 been absolutely nothing doing since his time, or noth- 
 ing that's worth speaking of." But this is wrong; for it is 
 unreasonable to expect all men to be great artists, and 70 
 born with the genius of Mr. Williams. Now it will be 
 remembered that in the first of these murders (that of 
 the Marrs) the same incident (of knocking at the door 
 soon after the work of extermination was complete) did 
 actually occur, which the genius of, Shakespeare has in- 75 
 vented; and all good judges, and the most eminent 
 dilettanti, acknowledged the felicity of Shakespeare's 
 suggestion as soon as it was actually realized. Here, 
 then, was a fresh proof that I was right in relying on my 
 own feelings in opposition to my understanding; and I 80 
 again set myself to study the problem. At length I solved 
 it to my own satisfaction; and the solution is this: Mur- 
 der, in ordinary cases, where the sympathy is wholly 
 directed to the case of the murdered person, is an inci- 
 dent of coarse and vulgar horror; and for this reason, 85 
 that it flings the interest exclusively upon the natural 
 but ignoble instinct by which we cleave to life; an in- 
 stinct, which, as being indispensable to the primal law 
 of self-preservation, is the same in kind (though differ- 
 ent in degree) amongst all living creatures. This in- 90
 
 DE QUfNCEY 4$? 
 
 stinct, therefore, because it annihilates all distinctions, 
 and degrades the greatest of men to the level of " the 
 poor beetle that we tread on," exhibits human nature in 
 its most abject and humiliating attitude. Such an atti- 
 tude would little suit the purposes of the poet. What, 95 
 then, must he do? He must throw the interest on the 
 murderer. Our sympathy must be with him (of course 
 I mean a sympathy of comprehension, a sympathy by 
 which we enter into his feelings, and are made to under- 
 stand them not a sympathy of pity or approbation. 100 
 In the murdered person all strife of thought, all flux and 
 reflux of passion and of purpose, are crushed by an 
 overwhelming panic; the fear of instant death strikes 
 him "with its petrific mace." But in the murderer, such 
 a murderer as a poet will condescend to, there must be 105 
 raging some great storm of passion jealousy, ambi- 
 tion, vengeance, hatred which will create a hell within 
 him ; and into this hell we are to look. 
 
 In Macbeth, for the sake of gratifying his own enor- 
 mous and teeming faculty of creation, Shakespeare has no 
 introduced two murderers; and, as usual in his hands, 
 they are remarkably discriminated; but, though in Mac- 
 beth the strife of mind is greater than in his wife, the 
 tiger spirit not so awake, and his feeling caught chiefly 
 by contagion from her yet, as both are finally involved 115 
 in the guilt of murder, the murderous mind of necessity 
 is finally to be presumed in both. This was to be ex- 
 pressed; and on its own account, as well as to make it 
 a more proportionable antagonist to the unoffending 
 nature of their victim, "the gracious Duncan," and ade- 120 
 quately to expound " the deep damnation of his taking 
 off," this was to be expressed with peculiar energy. We 
 were to be made to feel that the human nature i.e.,
 
 45 S FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 the divine nature of love and mercy, spread through the 
 hearts of all creatures, and seldom utterly withdrawn from 125 
 man was gone, vanished, extinct; and that the fiend- 
 ish nature had taken its place. And, as this effect is 
 marvellously accomplished in the dialogues and soliloquies 
 themselves, so it is finally consummated by the expedi- 
 ent under consideration; and it is to this that I now 130 
 solicit the reader's attention. 
 
 If the reader has ever witnessed a wife, a daughter, 
 or sister in a fainting fit, he may chance to have observed 
 that the most affecting moment in such a spectacle is 
 that in which a sigh and a stirring announce the recom- 135 
 mencement of suspended life. Or if the reader has ever 
 been present in a vast metropolis on the day when some 
 great national idol was carried in funeral pomp to his 
 grave, and chancing to walk near the course through 
 which it passed, has felt powerfully, in the desertion and 140 
 silence of the streets, and in the stagnation of ordinary 
 business, the deep interest which at that moment was 
 possessing the heart of man if all at once he should 
 hear the deathlike stillness broken up by the sounds of 
 wheels rattling away from the scene, and making known 145 
 that the transitory vision was dissolved, he will be aware 
 that at no moment was his sense of the complete suspen- 
 sion and pause in ordinary human concerns so full and 
 affecting as at that moment when the suspension ceases, 
 and the goings-on of human life are suddenly resumed. 150 
 All action in any direction is best expounded, measured, 
 and made apprehensible by reaction. 
 
 Now apply this to the case in Macbeth. Here, as I 
 have said, the retiring of the human heart and the en- 
 trance of the fiendish heart was to be expressed and 155 
 made sensible. Another world has stepped in; and the
 
 DE QUINCEY 459 
 
 murderers are taken out of the region of human things, 
 human purposes, human desires. They are transfigured : 
 Lady Macbeth is"unsexed;" Macbeth has forgot that 
 he was born of woman ; both are conformed to the image 160 
 of devils; and the world of devils is suddenly revealed. 
 But how shall this be conveyed and made palpable? In 
 order that a new world may step in, this world must for 
 a time disappear. The murderers, and the murder, must 
 be insulated cut off by an immeasurable gulf from the 165 
 ordinary tide and succession of human affairs locked 
 up and sequestered in some deep recess; we must be 
 made sensible that the world of ordinary life is suddenly 
 arrested laid asleep tranced racked into a dread 
 armistice; time must be annihilated; relation to things 170 
 without abolished; and all must pass self-withdrawn 
 into a deep syncope and suspension of earthly passion. 
 Hence it is that, when the deed is done, when the work 
 of darkness is perfect, then the world of darkness passes 
 away like a pageantry in the clouds : the knocking at the 175 
 gate is heard; and it makes known audibly that the 
 reaction has commenced : the human has made its reflux 
 upon the fiendish; the pulses of life are beginning to 
 beat again; and the re -establishment of the goings-on 
 of the world in which we live first makes us profoundly 180 
 sensible of the awful parenthesis that had suspended 
 them. 
 
 O, mighty poet ! Thy works are not as those of other 
 men, simply and merely great works of art; but are also 
 like the phenomena of nature, like the sun and the sea, 185 
 the stars and the flowers like frost and snow, rain and 
 dew, hail-storm and thunder, which are to be studied 
 with entire submission of our own faculties, and in the 
 perfect faith that in them there can be no too much or
 
 460 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 too little, nothing useless or inert but that, the farther 190 
 we progress in our discoveries, the more we shall see 
 proofs of design and self-supporting arrangement where 
 the careless eye had seen nothing but accident! 
 
 THE THREE LADIES OF SORROW 
 
 " I KNOW them thoroughly, and have walked in all their 
 kingdoms. Three sisters they are, of one mysterious 
 household; and their paths are wide apart; but of their 
 dominion there is no end. Them I saw often convers- 
 ing with Levana, and sometimes about myself. Do 5 
 they talk, then? Oh, no! Mighty phantoms like these 
 disdain the infirmities of language. They may utter 
 voices through the organs of man when they dwell in 
 human hearts, but amongst themselves there is no voice 
 nor sound; eternal silence reigns in their kingdoms. 10 
 They spoke not, as they talked with Levana; they whis- 
 pered not; they sang not; though oftentimes methought 
 they might have sung: for I upon earth had heard their 
 mysteries oftentimes deciphered by harp and timbrel, 
 by dulcimer and organ. Like God, whose servants they 15 
 are, they utter their pleasure, not by sounds that perish, 
 or by words that go astray, but by signs in heaven, by 
 changes on earth, by pulses in secret rivers, heraldries 
 painted in darkness, and hieroglyphics written on the 
 tablets of the brain. They wheeled in mazes; /spelled 20 
 the steps. They telegraphed from afar; /read the sig- 
 nals. They conspired together; and on the mirrors of 
 darkness my eye traced the plots. Theirs were the sym- 
 bols; mine are the words.
 
 DE QUINCE Y 461 
 
 "What is it the sisters are? What is it that they do? 25 
 Let me describe their form and their presence: if form 
 it were that still fluctuated in its outline, or presence it 
 were that for ever advanced to the front or for ever re- 
 ceded amongst shades. 
 
 "The eldest of the three is named Mater Lachryma- 30 
 rum, Our Lady of Tears. She it is that night and day 
 raves and moans, calling for vanished faces. She stood 
 in Rama, where a voice was heard of lamentation 
 Rachel weeping for her children, and refusing to be 
 comforted. She it was that stood in Bethlehem on the 35 
 night when Herod's sword swept its nurseries of inno- 
 cents, and the little feet were stiffened for ever, which, 
 heard at times as they tottered along floors overhead, 
 woke pulses of love in household hearts that were not 
 unmarked in heaven. Her eyes are sweet and subtle, 40 
 wild and sleepy, by turns; oftentimes rising to the 
 clouds, oftentimes challenging the heavens. She wears 
 a diadem round her head. And I knew by childish 
 memories that she could go abroad upon the winds, when 
 she heard the sobbing of litanies or the thundering of 45 
 organs, and when she beheld the mustering of summer 
 clouds. This sister, the eldest, it is that carries keys 
 more than papal at her girdle, which open every cottage 
 and every palace. She, to my knowledge, sat all last 
 summer by the bedside of the blind beggar, him that so 50 
 often and so gladly I talked with, whose pious daughter, 
 eight years old, with the sunny countenance, resisted the 
 temptations of play and village mirth to travel all day 
 long on dusty roads with her afflicted father. For this 
 did God send her a great reward. In the spring time oi 55 
 the year, and whilst her own spring was budding, he re- 
 called her to himself. But her blind father mourns for
 
 462 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ever over her ; still he dreams at midnight that the little 
 guiding hand is locked within his own; and still he 
 awakens to a darkness that is now within a second and a 60 
 deeper darkness. This Mater Lachrymarum also has 
 been sitting all this winter of 1844-5 within the bed- 
 chamber of the Czar, bringing before his eyes a daughter, 
 not less pious, that vanished to God not less suddenly, 
 and left behind her a darkness not less profound. By 65 
 the power of the keys it is that Our Lady of Tears glides, 
 a ghostly intruder, into the chambers of sleepless men, 
 sleepless women, sleepless children, from Ganges to the 
 Nile, from Nile to Mississippi. And her, because she 
 is the first-born of her house and has the widest empire, 70 
 let us honour with the title of Madonna. 
 
 "The second sister is called Mater Suspiriorum, Our 
 Lady of Sighs. She never scales the clouds, nor walks 
 abroad upon the winds. She wears no diadem. And 
 her eyes, if they were ever seen, would be neither sweet 75 
 nor subtle; no man could read their story; they would 
 be found filled with perishing dreams, and with wrecks 
 of forgotten delirium. But she raises not her eyes; her 
 head, on which sits a dilapidated turban, droops for 
 ever, for ever fastens on the dust. She weeps not. She So 
 groans not. But she sighs inaudibly at intervals. Her 
 sister, Madonna, is oftentimes stormy and frantic, rag- 
 ing in the highest against heaven, and demanding back 
 her darlings. But Our Lady of Sighs never clamours, 
 never defies, dreams not of rebellious aspirations. She 85 
 is humble to abjectness. Hers is the meekness that 
 belongs to the hopeless. Murmur she may, but it is in 
 her 'sleep. Whisper she may, but it is to herself in the 
 twilight. Mutter she does at times, but it is in solitary 
 places that are desolate as she is desolate, in ruined 90
 
 DE QUINCEY 463 
 
 cities, and when the sun has gone down to his rest. 
 This sister is the visitor of the Pariah, of the Jew, of the 
 bondsman to the oar in the Mediterranean galleys; of 
 the English criminal in Norfolk Island, blotted out from 
 the books of remembrance in sweet far-off England; of 95 
 the baffled penitent reverting his eyes for ever upon a 
 solitary grave, which to him seems the altar overthrown 
 of some past and bloody sacrifice, on which altar no 
 oblations can now be availing, whether towards pardon 
 that he might implore, or towards reparation that he 100 
 might attempt. Every slave that at noonday looks up to 
 the tropical sun with timid reproach, as he points with 
 one hand to the earth, our general mother, but for him 
 a step-mother as he points with the other hand to the 
 Bible, our general teacher, but against him sealed and 105 
 sequestered; every woman sitting in darkness, without 
 love to shelter her head, or hope to illumine her soli- 
 tude, because the heaven-born instincts kindling in her 
 nature germs of holy affections, which God implanted in 
 her womanly bosom, having been stifled by social neces- no 
 sities, now burn sullenly to waste, like sepulchral lamps 
 amongst the ancients; every nun defrauded of her unre- 
 turning May-time by wicked kinsmen, whom God will 
 judge; all that are betrayed, and all that are rejected; 
 outcasts by traditionary law, and children of hereditary 115 
 disgrace all these walk with Our Lady of Sighs. She 
 also carries a key, but she needs it little. For her king- 
 dom is chiefly amongst the tents of Shem, and the 
 houseless vagrant of every clime. Yet in the very high- 
 est walks of man she finds chapels of her own; and even 120 
 in glorious England there are some that, to the world, 
 carry their heads as proudly as the reindeer, who yet 
 secretly have received her mark upon their foreheads.
 
 464 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 "But the third sister, who is also the youngest ! 
 Hush! whisper whilst we talk of her I Her kingdom is 125 
 not large, or else no flesh should live; but within that 
 kingdom all power is hers. Her head, turreted like that 
 of Cybele, rises almost beyond the reach of sight. She 
 droops not; and her eyes, rising so high, might be hidden 
 by distance. But, being what they are, they cannot be 130 
 hidden; through the treble veil of crape which she wears, 
 the fierce light of a blazing misery, that rests not for 
 matins or for vespers, for noon of day or noon of night, 
 for ebbing or for flowing tide, may be read from the 
 very ground. She is the defier of God. She is also the 135 
 mother of lunacies and the suggestress of suicides. Deep 
 lie the roots of her power, but narrow is the nation that 
 she rules. For she can approach only those in whom 
 a profound nature has been upheaved by central convul- 
 sions, in whom the heart trembles and the brain rocks 140 
 under conspiracies of tempest from without and tempest 
 from within. Madonna moves with uncertain steps, 
 fast or slow, but still with tragic grace. Our Lady of 
 Sighs creeps timidly and stealthily. But this youngest 
 sister moves with incalculable motions, bounding, and 145 
 with tiger's leaps. She carries no key; for, though com- 
 ing rarely amongst men, she storms all doors at which 
 she is permitted to enter at all. And her name is Mater 
 Tenebrarum, Our Lady of Darkness."
 
 LORD BYRON 
 
 (1788-1824) 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 
 
 SHE walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 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; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent ! 
 
 2H 465
 
 466 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 
 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, ere youth itself 
 
 be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 5 
 
 happiness, 
 
 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 other's woes, it dare not dream its 10 
 
 own; 
 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 
 
 appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
 tract 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 grey 
 beneath.
 
 BYRON 467 
 
 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 20 
 
 flow to me. 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE 
 
 THE isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, 
 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse, 
 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 Blest.' 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon 
 And Marathon looks on the sea; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 
 
 For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave.
 
 468 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 20 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 
 And men in nations; all were his! 
 He counted them at break of day 
 And when the sun set, where were they? 
 
 And where are they? and where art thou, 25 
 
 My country? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? 30 
 
 '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? 35 
 
 For Greeks a blush for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 
 
 Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 40 
 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopylae ! 
 
 What, silent still? and silent all? 
 
 Ah! no; the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 45 
 
 And answer, 'Let one living head, 
 But one arise, we come, we come ! ' 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb.
 
 BYRON 469 
 
 In vain in vain: strike other chords; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 50 
 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; 55 
 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 60 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these ! 
 It made Anacreon's song divine: 
 
 He served but served Polycrates 
 A tyrant; but our masters then 65 
 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
 That tyrant was Miltiades! 
 
 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 70 
 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 75 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
 The Heracleidan blood might own.
 
 4/O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks 
 
 They have a king who buys and sells; 80 
 
 In native swords, and native ranks, 
 The only hope of courage dwells : 
 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 85 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade 
 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine; 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 90 
 
 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 95 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 OCEAN 
 
 THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
 
 BYRON 4/1 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean roll ! 10 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin his control 
 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, i< 
 
 When, in a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him, thou dost arise 20 
 
 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 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 25 
 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth : there let him lay. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 30 
 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 35 
 
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
 Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free, 
 And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 40
 
 4/2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou; 
 Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play, 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow : 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 45 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 
 Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving boundless, endless, and sublime. 50 
 The image of eternity, the throne 
 Of the invisible; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 55 
 
 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 
 Made them a terror 'twas a pleasing fear, 60 
 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane as I do here. 
 
 ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH 
 YEAR 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 Since others it hath ceased to move : 
 Yet though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love !
 
 BYRON 473 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 5 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle; 10 
 
 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. 15 
 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not thus and 'tis not here 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
 
 Or binds his brow. 20 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field, 
 Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
 Was not more free. 
 
 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 those reviving passions down, 
 
 Unworthy manhood ! unto thee 30 
 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be.
 
 474 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 If them regrett'st thy youth, why live? 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 Is here: up to the field, and give 35 
 
 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 
 
 MlSSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824. 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON 
 
 ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind! 
 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
 
 For there thy habitation is the heart 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign' d 
 
 To fetters, and the damp, vault's dayless gloom, 
 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar for 'twas trod, 
 Until his 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.
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 (1792-1822) 
 
 THE CLOUD 
 
 I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 
 
 From the seas and the streams; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their 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 skiey bowers 
 
 Lightning my pilot sits; 
 In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder, 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits. 20 
 
 Over earth and ocean with gentle motion 
 
 This pilot is guiding me, 
 Lured by the love of the Genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea; 
 475
 
 476 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 smile, 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 
 
 The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread, 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
 
 When the morning star shines dead : 
 As on the jag of a mountain-crag 35 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 
 
 Its ardour of rest and of love, 40 
 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden with white fire laden 45 
 
 Whom mortals call the Moon 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 
 
 Which only the angels hear, 50 
 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof 
 
 The Stars peep behind her and peer. 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees,
 
 SHELLEY 477 
 
 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 convex gleams 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air, So 
 
 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.
 
 4/8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 
 
 HAIL to thee, blithe spirit 
 
 Bird thou never wert 
 That from heaven or near it 
 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 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. 15 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight; 
 Like a star of heaven, 
 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight 20 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white dawn clear, 
 Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. 25
 
 SHELLS Y 479 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare, 
 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 30 
 
 What thou art we know not; 
 
 What is most like thee? 
 From rainbow-clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to see 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody : 35 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the 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 these heavy-winged 55 
 thieves.
 
 480 FROM CHAUCER 7^0 ARNOLD 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Rain-awakened flowers, 
 
 All that ever was, 
 Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 60 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird, 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine : 
 
 I have never heard 
 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 65 
 
 Chorus hymeneal 
 
 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 shapes of sky or plain? 
 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 75 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 80 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85
 
 SHELLEY 481 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not: 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90 
 
 Yet, if we could scorn 
 
 Hate and pride and fear, 
 If we were things born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner 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 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND 
 I 
 
 O WTLD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
 Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
 Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
 Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! O thou 
 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
 
 482 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
 
 Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
 Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
 With living hues and odours plain and hill; 
 
 Wild Spirit which art moving everywhere; 
 "Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! 
 
 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, 
 
 Angels of rain and lightning ! there are spread 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 
 
 Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 
 
 Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
 The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 
 
 Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 
 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 
 Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
 
 Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : Oh hear ! 
 
 in 
 
 Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
 
 The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 
 
 Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
 
 SHELLEY 483 
 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
 And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
 Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
 
 All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35 
 
 So sweet the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 
 For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
 The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
 
 The sapless foliage of the ocean know 40 
 
 Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, 
 And tremble and despoil themselves : Oh hear ! 
 
 rv 
 
 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 skiey speed 50 
 
 Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven 
 
 As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
 
 Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
 I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 
 
 A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 55 
 
 One too like thee tameless, and swift, and proud.
 
 484 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 
 
 A DEFENSE OF POETRY 
 What Poetry Is 
 
 THE functions of the poetical faculty are twofold: 
 by one it creates new materials of knowledge and power 
 and pleasure; by the other it engenders in the mind a 
 desire to reproduce and arrange them according to a 
 certain rhythm and order which may be called the beau- 
 tiful and the good. The cultivation of poetry is never 
 more to be desired than at periods when, from an ex- 
 cess of the selfish and calculating principle, the accu-
 
 SHELLEY 485 
 
 mulation of the materials of external life exceed the 
 quantity of the power of assimilating them to the inter- 10 
 nal laws of human nature. The body has then become 
 too unwieldy for that which animates it. 
 
 Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the 
 centre and circumference of knowledge; it is that which 
 comprehends all science, and that to which all science 15 
 must be referred. It is at the same time the root and 
 blossom of all other systems of thought; it is that from 
 which all spring, and that which adorns all; and that 
 which, if blighted, denies the fruit and the seed, and 
 withholds from the barren world the nourishment and 20 
 the succession of the scions of the tree of life. It is 
 the perfect and consummate surface and bloom of all 
 things; it is as the odor and the color of the rose to the 
 texture of the elements which compose it, as the form 
 and splendor of unfaded beauty to the secrets of anatomy 25 
 and corruption. What were virtue, love, patriotism, 
 friendship; what were the scenery of this beautiful uni- 
 verse which we inhabit; what were our consolations on 
 this side of the grave, and what were our aspirations 
 beyond it, if poetry did not ascend to bring light and 30 
 fire from those eternal regions where the owl-winged 
 faculty of calculation dare not ever soar? Poetry is 
 not, like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to 
 the determination of the will. A man cannot say, " I 
 will compose poetry. The greatest poet even cannot 35 
 say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, 
 which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, 
 awakens to transitory brightness. This power arises 
 from within, like the color of a flower, which fades and 
 changes as it is developed, and the conscious portions 40 
 of our natures are unprophetic either of its approach or
 
 486 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 its departure. Could this influence be durable in its 
 original purity and force, it is impossible to predict the 
 greatness of the results; but when composition begins, 
 inspiration is already on the decline, and the most glo- 45 
 rious poetry that has ever been communicated to the 
 world is probably a feeble shadow of the original con- 
 ceptions of the poet. I appeal to the greatest poets of 
 the present day, whether it is not an error to assert that 
 the finest passages of poetry are produced by labor and 50 
 study. The toil and the delay recommended by critics 
 can be justly interpreted to mean no more than a careful 
 observation of the inspired moments, and an artificial 
 connection of the spaces between their suggestions by 
 the intermixture of conventional expressions a neces- 55 
 sity only imposed by the limitedness of the poetical fac- 
 ulty itself; for Milton conceived the Paradise Lost as a 
 whole before he executed it in portions. We have his 
 own authority also for the Muse having "dictated" to 
 him the "unpremeditated song." And let this be an 60 
 answer to those who would allege the fifty-six various 
 readings of the first line of the Orlando Furioso. Com- 
 positions so produced are to poetry what mosaic is to 
 painting. This instinct and intuition of the poetical 
 faculty is still more observable in the plastic and picto- 65 
 rial arts. A great statue or picture grows under the power 
 of the artist as a child in the mother's womb; and the 
 very mind which directs the hands in formation is in- 
 capable of accounting to itself for the origin, the gra- 
 dations, or the media of the process. 70 
 
 Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments 
 of the happiest and best minds. We are aware of eva- 
 nescent visitations of thought and feeling sometimes as- 
 sociated with place or person, sometimes regarding our
 
 SHELLEY 487 
 
 own mind alone, and always arising unforeseen and de- 75 
 parting unbidden, but elevating and delightful beyond 
 all expression; so that even in the desire and the regret 
 they leave there cannot but be pleasure, participating as 
 it does in the nature of its object. It is, as it were, the 
 interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own; 80 
 but its footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, 
 which the coming calm erases, and whose traces remain 
 only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These 
 and corresponding conditions of being are experienced 
 principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and 85 
 the most enlarged imagination; and the state of mind 
 produced by them is at war with every base desire. The 
 enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship is 
 essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst they 
 last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. 90 
 Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits 
 of the most refined organization, but they can color all 
 that they combine with the evanescent hues of this ethe- 
 real world. A word, a trait, in the representation of a 
 scene or a passion will touch the enchanted chord, and 95 
 reanimate, in those who have ever experienced these 
 emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the buried image of 
 the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best 
 and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing 
 apparitions which haunt the interlunations of life, and, 100 
 veiling them, or in language or in form, sends them 
 forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred 
 joy to those with whom their sisters abide abide, 
 because there is no portal of expression from the cav- 
 erns of the spirit which they inhabit into the universe 105 
 of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of 
 the divinity in man.
 
 JOHN KEATS 
 
 (1795-1821) 
 
 A POET'S ECSTASY 
 
 "Places of nestling green for poets made." 
 
 Story of Rimini. 
 
 I STOOD tip-toe upon a little hill, 
 
 The air was cooling, and so very still, 
 
 That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
 
 Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, 
 
 Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, 5 
 
 Had not yet lost those starry diadems 
 
 Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
 
 The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, 
 
 And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept 
 
 On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 10 
 
 A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 
 
 Born of the very sigh that silence heaves : 
 
 For, not the faintest motion could be seen 
 
 Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 
 
 There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye, 15 
 
 To peer about upon variety; 
 
 Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 
 
 And trace the dwindled edges of its brim; 
 
 To picture out the quaint, and curious bending 
 
 Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending; 20 
 
 Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, 
 
 Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
 
 KEATS 489 
 
 I gazed awhile and felt as light, and free 
 
 As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
 
 Had played upon my heels : I was light-hearted, 25 
 
 And many pleasures to my vision started; 
 
 So I straightway began to pluck a posey 
 
 Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosey. 
 
 A bush of Mayflowers with the bees around them; 
 
 Ah, sure, no tasteful nook would be without them : 30 
 
 And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 
 
 And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them 
 
 Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, 
 
 That they may bind the mass in leafy nets. 
 
 SLEEP AND POETRY 
 Art and Imitation 
 
 Is there so small a range 
 
 In the present strength of Manhood, that the high 
 Imagination cannot freely fly 
 As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds, 
 Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 5 
 
 Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all? 
 From the clear space of ether, to the small 
 Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning 
 Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening 
 Of April meadows? Here her altar shone, 10 
 
 E'en in this isle; and who could paragon 
 The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
 Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
 Its mighty self of convoluting sound, 
 Huge as a planet and like that roll round, 15
 
 4QO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Eternally around a dizzy void? 
 Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd 
 With honors; nor had any other care 
 Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair. 
 
 Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a sc[h]ism 20 
 
 Nurtured in foppery and barbarism, 
 
 Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 
 
 Men were thought wise who could not understand 
 
 His glories: with a puling infant's force 
 
 They sway'd about upon a rocking horse, 25 
 
 And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal soul'd ! 
 
 The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd 
 
 Its gathering waves ye felt it not. The blue 
 
 Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 
 
 Of summer nights collected still to make 30 
 
 The morning precious : beauty was awake ! 
 
 Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead 
 
 To things ye knew not of, were closely wed 
 
 To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
 
 And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 35 
 
 Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, 
 
 Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit 
 
 Their verses tallied. Easy was the task: 
 
 A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
 
 Of Poesy. 40 
 
 * 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 
 
 MUCH have I travelled in the realms of gold, 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
 
 KEATS 491 
 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 
 
 That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne : 
 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 
 When a new planet swims into his ken; 10 
 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
 
 He stared at the Pacific and all his men 
 
 Looked at each other with a wild surmise 
 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Beauty 
 
 A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : 
 
 Its loveliness increases; it will never 
 
 Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing 5 
 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we 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'er-darkened 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 15 
 
 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,
 
 4Q2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms; 
 And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
 We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
 All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 
 An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
 Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 
 
 THOU still unravished bride of quietness ! 
 
 Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
 
 What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? 
 What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
 
 What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? i 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, 
 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
 
 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 !
 
 KEATS 493 
 
 m 
 
 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 enjoyed, 
 For ever panting and for ever young; 
 All breathing human passion far above, 
 
 That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, 
 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30 
 
 IV 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 
 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
 What little town by river or sea-shore, 35 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 
 Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
 And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
 
 W T ill 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,
 
 494 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 
 
 ADDRESSED TO HAYDON 
 
 GREAT spirits now on earth are sojourning: 
 He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, 
 Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, 
 Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: 
 He of the rose, the violet, the spring, 
 The social smile the chain for Freedom's sake 
 And lo ! whose steadfastness would never take 
 A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 
 And other spirits there are, standing apart 
 Upon the forehead of the age to come; 
 These, these will give the world another heart, 
 And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
 Of mighty workings? 
 Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb. 
 
 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 
 
 THE poetry of earth is never dead : 
 When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
 And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
 From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead 
 That is the grasshopper's he takes the lead 
 In summer luxury, he has never done 
 With his delights, for, when tired out with fun, 
 He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
 
 KEATS 495 
 
 The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 
 
 On a lone winter evening, when the frost 10 
 
 Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 
 
 The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 
 
 And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, 
 
 The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 
 
 THE HUMAN SEASONS 
 
 FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the year; 
 
 There are four seasons in the mind of man: 
 
 He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
 
 Takes in all beauty with an easy span: 
 
 He has his summer, when luxuriously 5 
 
 Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves 
 
 To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
 
 Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
 
 His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 
 
 He furleth close; contented so to look 10 
 
 On mists in idleness to let fair things 
 
 Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
 
 He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
 
 Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 
 
 TO LEIGH HUNT 
 
 GLORY and loveliness have passed away; 
 
 For if we wander out in early morn, 
 
 No wreathed incense do we see upborne 
 
 Into the east, to meet the smiling day: 
 
 No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay, 5
 
 496 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 In woven basket bringing ears of corn, 
 
 Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 
 
 The shrine of Flora in her early May. 
 
 But there are left delights as high as these 
 
 And I shall ever bless my destiny, 10 
 
 That in a time, when under pleasant trees 
 
 Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free 
 
 And leafy luxury, seeing I could please 
 
 With these poor offerings, a man like thee? 
 
 EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 
 The Bard Speaks 
 
 WHAT though I leave this dull and earthly mould, 
 
 Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold 
 
 With after times. The patriot shall feel 
 
 My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel; 
 
 Or in the senate thunder out my numbers, 
 
 To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 
 
 The sage will mingle with each moral theme 
 
 My happy thoughts sententious: he will teem 
 
 With lofty periods when my verses fire him, 
 
 And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him. 
 
 Lays have I left of such a dear delight 
 
 That maids will sing them on their bridal-night. 
 
 Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 
 
 When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, 
 
 And formed a snowy circle on the grass, 
 
 And placed in midst of all that lovely lass 
 
 Who chosen is their queen, with her fine head 
 
 Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red :
 
 KEATS 497 
 
 For there the lily and the musk-rose sighing, 
 
 Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying : 20 
 
 Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, 
 
 A bunch of violets full blown, and double, 
 
 Serenely sleep : she from a casket takes 
 
 A little book, and then a joy awakes 
 
 About each youthful heart, with stifled cries, 25 
 
 And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes: 
 
 For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears; 
 
 One that I fostered in my youthful years : 
 
 The pearls, that on each glistening circlet sleep, 
 
 Gush ever and anon with silent creep, 30 
 
 Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest 
 
 Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, 
 
 Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu! 
 
 Thy dales and hills are fading from my view: 
 
 Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions, 35 
 
 Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. 
 
 Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, 
 
 That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, 
 
 And warm thy sons ! 
 
 2K
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE 
 
 (1795-1881) 
 
 ESSAY ON BURNS 
 A True Poet-Soul 
 
 BURNS first came upon the world as a prodigy; and 
 was, in that character, entertained by it, in the usual 
 fashion, with loud, vague, tumultuous wonder, speedily 
 subsiding into censure and neglect; till his early and 
 most mournful death again awakened an enthusiasm for . 
 him, which, especially as there was now nothing to be 
 done, and much to be spoken, has prolonged itself even 
 to our own time. It is true, the 'nine days ' have long 
 since elapsed; and the very continuance of this clamor 
 proves that Burns was no vulgar wonder. Accordingly, 10 
 even in sober judgments, where as years passed by, he 
 has come to rest more and more exclusively on his own 
 intrinsic merits, and may now be well-nigh shorn of that 
 casual radiance, he appears not only as a true British 
 poet, but as one of the most considerable British men 15 
 of the eighteenth century. Let it not be objected that 
 he did little. He did much, if we consider where and 
 how. If the work performed was small, we must remem- 
 ber that he had his very materials to discover; for the 
 metal he worked in lay hid under the desert moor, where 20 
 no eye but his had guessed its existence; and we may 
 almost say, that with his own hand he had to construct 
 
 498
 
 CARL YLE 499 
 
 the tools for fashioning it. For he found himself in 
 deepest obscurity, without help, without instruction, 
 without model; or with models only of the meanest sort. 25 
 An educated man stands, as it were, in the midst of a 
 boundless arsenal and magazine, filled with all the 
 weapons and engines which man's skill has been able to 
 devise from the earliest time; and he works, accord- 
 ingly, with a strength borrowed from all past ages. How 30 
 different is his state who stands on the outside of that 
 storehouse, and feels that its gates must be stormed, or 
 remain forever shut against him ! His means are the 
 commonest and rudest; the mere work done is no meas- 
 ure of his strength. A dwarf behind his steam-engine 35 
 may remove mountains; but no dwarf will hew them 
 down with a pickaxe; and he must be a Titan that 
 hurls them abroad with his arms. 
 
 It is in this last shape that Burns presents himself. 
 Born in an age the most prosaic Britain had yet seen, 40 
 and in a condition the most disadvantageous, where his 
 mind, if it accomplished aught, must accomplish it 
 under the pressure of continual bodily toil, nay, of 
 penury and desponding apprehension of the worst evils, 
 and with no furtherance but such knowledge as dwells 45 
 in a poor man's hut, and the rhymes of a Ferguson or 
 Ramsay for his standard of beauty, he sinks not under 
 all these impediments: through the fogs and darkness 
 of that obscure region, his lynx eye discerns the true 
 relations of the world and human life; he grows into in- 50 
 tellectual strength, and trains himself into intellectual 
 expertness. Impelled by the expansive movement of 
 his own irrepressible soul, he struggles forward into the 
 general view; and with haughty modesty lays down 
 before us, as the fruit of his labor, a gift which Time 55
 
 500 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 has now pronounced imperishable. Add to all this that 
 his darksome drudging childhood and youth was by far 
 the kindliest era of his whole life, and that he died in 
 his thirty-seventh year, and then ask if it be strange 
 that his poems are imperfect, and of small extent, or 60 
 that his genius attained no mastery in its art. Alas! 
 his sun shone as through a tropical tornado; and the pale 
 shadow of death eclipsed it at noon ! Shrouded in such 
 baleful vapors, the genius of Burns was never seen in 
 clear azure splendor, enlightening the world : but some 65 
 beams from it did, by fits, pierce through; and it tinted 
 those clouds with rainbow and orient colors, into a glory 
 and stern grandeur, which men silently gazed on with 
 wonder and tears! 
 
 We are anxious not to exaggerate; for it is exposition 70 
 rather than admiration that our readers require of us 
 here; and yet to avoid some tendency to that side is no 
 easy matter. We love Burns, and we pity him; and 
 love and pity are prone to magnify. Criticism, it is 
 sometimes thought, should be a cold business: we are 75 
 not so sure of this; but, at all events, our concern with 
 Burns is not exclusively that of critics. True and genial 
 as his poetry must appear, it is not chiefly as a poet, but 
 as a man, that he interests and affects us. He was often 
 advised to write a tragedy : time and means were not 80 
 lent him for this; but through life he enacted a tragedy, 
 and one of the deepest. We question whether the world 
 has since witnessed so utterly sad a scene; whether Na- 
 poleon himself, left to brawl with Sir Hudson Lowe, and 
 perish on his rock, 'amid the melancholy main,' pre- 85 
 sented to the reflecting mind such a 'spectacle of pity 
 and fear ' as did this intrinsically nobler, gentler, and 
 perhaps greater soul, wasting itself away in a hopeless
 
 CARLYLE 501 
 
 struggle with base entanglements, which coiled closer 
 and closer round him, till only death opened him an 90 
 outlet. Conquerors are a class of men with whom, for 
 most part, the world could well dispense; nor can the 
 hard intellect, the unsympathizing loftiness, and high 
 but selfish enthusiasm of such persons inspire us in gen- 
 eral with any affection; at best it may excite amazement; 95 
 and their fall, like that of a pyramid, will be beheld with 
 a certain sadness and awe. But a true poet, a man in 
 whose heart resides some effluence of wisdom, some tone 
 of the 'Eternal Melodies,' is the most precious gift that 
 can be bestowed on a generation : we see in him a freer, 100 
 purer development of whatever is noblest in ourselves; 
 his life is a rich lesson to us; and we mourn his death 
 as that of a benefactor who loved and taught us. 
 
 Such a gift had Nature, in her bounty, bestowed on 
 us in Robert Burns; but with queenlike indifference she 105 
 cast it from her hand, like a thing of no moment; and 
 it was defaced and torn asunder, as an idle bauble, 
 before we recognized it. To the ill-starred Burns was 
 given the power of making man's life more venerable, 
 but that of wisely guiding his own life was not given, no 
 Destiny, for so in our ignorance we must speak, 
 his faults, the faults of others, proved too hard for him; 
 and that spirit, which might have soared could it but 
 have walked, soon sank to the dust, its glorious faculties 
 trodden under foot in the blossom; and died, we may 115 
 almost say, without ever having lived. And so kind 
 and warm a soul; so full of inborn riches, of love to all 
 living and lifeless things ! How his heart flows out in 
 sympathy over universal Nature, and in her bleakest 
 provinces discerns a beauty and a meaning ! The 120 
 'Daisy' falls not unheeded under his ploughshare; nor
 
 502 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 the ruined nest of that 'wee, cowering, timorous beastie,' 
 cast forth, after all its provident pains, to 'thole the 
 sleety dribble and cranreuch cauld.' The 'hoar visage ' 
 of Winter delights him; he dwells with a sad and oft- 125 
 returning fondness in these scenes of solemn desolation; 
 but the voice of the tempest becomes an anthem to his 
 ears; he loves to walk in the sounding woods, for 'it 
 raises his thoughts to Him that walketh on the wings 
 of the wind. 1 A true poet-soul, for it needs but to be 130 
 struck, and the sound it yields will be music ! But ob- 
 serve him chiefly as he mingles with his brother men. 
 What warm, all-comprehending fellow-feeling; what 
 trustful, boundless love; what generous exaggeration of 
 the object loved ! His rustic friend, his nut-brown 135 
 maiden, are no longer mean and homely, but a hero and 
 a queen, whom he prizes as the paragons of earth. The 
 rough scenes of Scottish life, not seen by him in any 
 Arcadian illusion, but in the rude contradiction, in the 
 smoke and soil of a too harsh reality, are still lovely to 140 
 him. Poverty is indeed his companion, but Love also, 
 and Courage; the simple feelings, the worth, the noble- 
 ness, that dwell under the straw roof, are dear and ven- 
 erable to his heart, and thus over the lowest provinces of 
 man's existence he pours the glory of his own soul; and 145 
 they rise, in shadow and sunshine, softened and bright- 
 ened into a beauty which other eyes discern not in the 
 highest. He has a just self-consciousness which too 
 often degenerates into pride; yet it is a noble pride, for 
 defence, not for offence; no cold suspicious feeling, but 150 
 a frank and social one. The peasant poet bears him- 
 self, we might say, like a king in exile : he is cast among 
 the low, and feels himself equal to the highest; yet he 
 claims no rank, that none may be disputed to him. The
 
 CAKLYLE 503 
 
 forward he can repel, the- supercilious he can subdue; 155 
 pretensions of wealth or ancestry are of no avail with 
 him; there is a fire in that dark eye, under which the 
 'insolence of condescension' cannot thrive. In his 
 abasement, in his extreme need, he forgets not for a 
 moment the majesty of poetry and manhood. And yet, 160 
 far as he feels himself above common men, he wan- 
 ders not apart from them, but mixes warmly in their in- 
 terests; nay, throws himself into their arms, and, as it 
 were, entreats them to love him. It is moving to see 
 how, in his darkest despondency, this proud being still 165 
 seeks relief from friendship; unbosoms himself, often to 
 the unworthy; and, amid tears, strains to his glowing 
 heart a heart that knows only the name of friendship. 
 And yet he was 'quick to learn; ' a man of keen vision, 
 before whom common disguises afforded no conceal- 170 
 ment. His understanding saw through the hollowness 
 even of accomplished deceivers; but there was a gener- 
 ous credulity in his heart. And so did our peasant show 
 himself among us; 'a soul like an yfiolian harp, in 
 whose strings the vulgar wind, as it passed through them, 175 
 changed itself into articulate melody. ' And this was he 
 for whom the world found no fitter business than quar- 
 relling with smugglers and vintners, computing excise- 
 dues upon tallow, and gauging ale-barrels ! In such 
 toils was that mighty spirit sorrowfully wasted; and a 180 
 hundred years may pass on, before another such is given 
 us to waste.
 
 504 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 SARTOR RESARTUS 
 The Everlasting Yea 
 
 'TEMPTATIONS in the Wilderness ! ' exclaims Teufels- 
 drockh : 'Have we not all to be tried with such? Not so 
 'easily can the old Adam, lodged in us by birth, be dis- 
 ' possessed. Our Life is compassed round with Neces- 
 'sity; yet is the meaning of Life itself no other than 5 
 'Freedom, than Voluntary Force: thus have we a war- 
 'fare; in the beginning, especially, a hard-fought battle. 
 'For the God-given mandate, Work thou in Welldoing, 
 'lies mysteriously written, in Promethean Prophetic 
 'Characters, in our hearts; and leaves us no rest, night 10 
 'or day, till it be deciphered and obeyed; till it burn 
 'forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted Gospel of Free- 
 'dom. And as the clay-given mandate, Eat thou and be 
 ' filled, at the same time persuasively proclaims itself 
 'through every nerve, must not there be a confusion, 15 
 'a contest, before the better Influence can become the 
 'upper? 
 
 'To roe nothing seems more natural than that the Son 
 'of Man, when such God-given mandate first propheti- 
 'cally stirs within him, and the Clay must now be van- 20 
 'quished or vanquish, should be carried of the spirit 
 'into grim Solitudes, and there fronting the Tempter do 
 'grimmest battle with him; defiantly setting him at 
 'naught, till he yield and fly. Name it as we choose: 
 'with or without visible Devil, whether in the natural 25 
 'Desert of rocks and sands, or in the populous moral 
 'Desert of selfishness and baseness, to such Tempta- 
 'tion are we all called. Unhappy if we are not! Un- 
 'happy if we are but Half-men, in whom that divine
 
 CARLYLE 505 
 
 'handwriting has never blazed forth, all-subduing, in 30 
 'true sun-splendour; but quivers dubiously amid meaner 
 'lights: or smoulders, in dull pain, in darkness, under 
 'earthly vapours! Our Wilderness is the wide World 
 'in an Atheistic Century; our Forty Days are long years 
 'of suffering and fasting: nevertheless, to these also 35 
 'comes an end. Yes, to me also was given, if not Vic- 
 'tory, yet the consciousness of Battle, and the resolve to 
 'persevere therein while life or faculty is left. To me 
 'also, entangled in the enchanted forests, demon-peo- 
 'pled, doleful of sight and of sound, it was given, after 40 
 'weariest wanderings, to work out my way into the 
 'higher sunlit slopes of that Mountain which has no 
 'summit, or whose summit is in Heaven only! ' . . . 
 
 'The hot Harmattan wind had raged itself out; its 
 'howl went silent within me; and the long-deafened soul 45 
 'could now hear. I paused in my wild wanderings; and 
 'sat me down to wait, and consider; for it was as if the 
 'hour of change drew nigh. I seemed to surrender, to 
 'renounce utterly, and say: Fly, then, false shadows of 
 'Hope; I will chase you no more, I will believe you no 50 
 'more. And ye too, haggard spectres of Fear, I care 
 'not for you; ye too are all shadows and a lie. Let me 
 'rest here: for I am way-weary and life-weary; I will 
 'rest here, were it but to die : to die or to live is alike 
 'tome; alike insignificant. ' And again: 'Here, then, 55 
 'as I lay in that CENTRE OF INDIFFERENCE; cast, doubt- 
 'less by benignant upper Influence, into a healing sleep, 
 ' the heavy dreams rolled gradually away, and I awoke to 
 'a new Heaven and a new earth. The first preliminary 
 'moral Act, Annihilation of Self (Selbst-todtung), had 60 
 'been happily accomplished; and my mind's eyes were 
 'now unsealed, and its hands ungyved.' . . .
 
 506 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 'Beautiful it was to sit there, as in my skyey Tent 
 'musing and meditating; on the high table-land, in front 
 'of the Mountains; over me, as roof, the azure Dome, 65 
 'and around me, for walls, four azure-flowing curtains, 
 ' namely, of the Four azure Winds, on whose bottom- 
 ' fringes also I have seen gilding. And then to fancy 
 'the fair Castles that stood sheltered in these Mountain 
 'hollows; with their green flower-lawns, and white dames 70 
 'and damosels, lovely enough: or better still, the straw - 
 ' roofed Cottages, wherein stood many a Mother baking 
 'bread, with her children round her: all hidden and 
 'protectingly folded-up in the valley-folds; yet there 
 'and alive, as sure as if I beheld them. Or to see, as 75 
 'well as fancy, the nine Towns and Villages, that lay 
 'round my mountain-seat, which, in still weather, were 
 'wont to speak to me (by their steeple-bells) with metal 
 'tongue; and, in almost all weather, proclaimed their 
 'vitality by repeated Smoke-clouds; whereon, as on a So 
 'culinary horologe, I might read the hour of the day. 
 'For it was the smoke of cookery, as kind housewives 
 'at morning, midday, eventide, were boiling their hus- 
 ' bands' kettles; and ever a blue pillar rose up into the 
 'air, successively or simultaneously, from each of the 85 
 'nine, saying, as plainly as smoke could say: Such and 
 'such a meal is getting ready here. Not uninteresting! 
 'For you have the whole Borough, with all its love- 
 ' makings and scandal-mongeries, contentions and con- 
 'tentments, as in miniature, and could cover it all 90 
 'with your hat. If in my wide Wayfarings, I had 
 'learned to look into the business of the World in its 
 'details, here perhaps was the place for combining 
 'it into general propositions, and deducing inferences 
 'therefrom. 95
 
 CARL YLE 507 
 
 'Often also could I see the black Tempest marching 
 'in anger through the Distance: round some Schreck- 
 'horn, as yet grim-blue, would the eddying vapour 
 'gather, and there tumultuously eddy, and flow down 
 'like a mad witch's hair; till, after a space, it vanished 100 
 'and, in the clear sunbeam, your Schreckhorn stood 
 'smiling grim- white, for the vapour had held snow. 
 'How thou fermentest and elaboratest, in thy great fer- 
 'menting-vat and laboratory of an Atmosphere, of a 
 'World, O Nature! Or what is Nature? Ha! why do 105 
 'I not name thee GOD? Art not thou the "Living Gar- 
 'ment of God"? O Heavens, is it, in very deed, HE, 
 'then, that ever speaks through thee; that lives and loves 
 'in thee, that lives and loves in me? 
 
 'Fore-shadows, call them rather fore-splendours, of no 
 'that Truth, and Beginning of Truths, fell mysteriously 
 'over my soul. Sweeter than Dayspring to the Ship- 
 ' wrecked in Nova Zembla; ah, like the mother's voice 
 'to her little child that strays bewildered, weeping, in 
 'unknown tumults; like soft streamings of celestial music 115 
 'to my too-exasperated heart, came that Evangel. The 
 'Universe is not dead and demoniacal, a charnel-house 
 'with spectres; but godlike, and my Father's! 
 
 'With other eyes, too, could I now look upon my fel- 
 'low man : with an infinite Love, an infinite Pity. Poor, 120 
 'wandering, wayward man! Art thou not tried, and 
 'beaten with stripes, even as I am? Ever, whether 
 'thou bear the royal mantle or the beggar's gabardine, 
 'art thou not so weary, so heavy-laden; and thy Bed of 
 'Rest is but a Grave. O my Brother, my Brother, why 125 
 'cannot I shelter thee in my bosom, and wipe away all 
 'tears from thy eyes! Truly, the din of many-voiced 
 'Life, which, in this solitude, with the mind's organ, I
 
 508 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 'could hear, was no longer a maddening discord, but a 
 'melting one; like inarticulate cries, and sobbings of a 130 
 'dumb creature, which in the ear of Heaven are prayers. 
 'The poor Earth, with her poor joys, was now my needy 
 'Mother, not my cruel Stepdame; Man, with his so mad 
 ' Wants and so mean Endeavours, had become the dearer 
 'to me; and even for his sufferings and his sins, I now 135 
 'first named him Brother. Thus was I standing in the 
 'porch of that "Sanctuary of Sorrow;" by strange, 
 'steep ways had I too been guided thither; and ere long 
 'its sacred gates would open, and the "Divine Depth of 
 1 Sorrow" lie disclosed to me.' 140 
 
 DANTE 
 Giotto's Portrait 
 
 MANY volumes have been written by way of commen- 
 tary on Dante and his Book: yet, on the whole, with no 
 great result. His Biography is, as it were, irrecoverably 
 lost for us. An unimportant, wandering, sorrowstricken 
 man, not much note was taken of him while he lived; 5 
 and the most of that has vanished, in the long space that 
 now intervenes. It is five centuries since he ceased writ- 
 ing and living here. After all commentaries, the Book 
 itself is mainly what we know of him. The Book; 
 and one might add that Portrait commonly attributed to 10 
 Giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot help inclining 
 to think genuine, whoever did it. To me it is a most 
 touching face; perhaps of all faces that I know, the 
 most so. Lonely there, painted as on vacancy, with the 
 simple laurel wound round it; the deathless sorrow and 15
 
 CARLYLE 509 
 
 pain, the known victory which is also deathless; sig- 
 nificant of the whole history of Dante ! I think it is the 
 mournfulest face that ever was painted from reality; an 
 altogether tragic, heart-affecting face. There is in it, as 
 foundation of it, the softness, tenderness, gentle affec- 20 
 tion as of a child; but all this is as if congealed into 
 sharp contradiction, into abnegation, isolation, proud 
 hopeless pain. A soft ethereal soul looking-out so 
 stern, implacable, grim-trenchant, as from imprison- 
 ment of thick-ribbed ice! Withal it is a silent pain 25 
 too, a silent scornful one: the lip is curled in a kind 
 of godlike disdain of the thing that is eating-out his 
 heart, as if it were withal a mean insignificant thing, 
 as if he whom it had power to torture and strangle 
 were greater than it. The face of one wholly in protest, 30 
 and life-long unsurrendering battle, against the world. 
 Affection all converted into indignation : an implacable 
 indignation; slow, equable,- silent, like that of a god! 
 The eye too, it looks-out as in a kind of surprise, a 
 kind of inquiry, Why the world was of such a sort? 35 
 This is Dante : so he looks, this ' voice of ten silent 
 centuries,' and sings us ' his mystic unfathomable song.'
 
 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 
 
 (1800-1859) 
 
 BYRON 
 
 His Early Fame 
 
 THERE can be no doubt that this remarkable man 
 owed the vast influence which he exercised over his 
 contemporaries at least as much to his gloomy egotism 
 as to the real power of his poetry. We never could 
 very clearly understand how it is that egotism, so unpop- 5 
 ular in conversation, should be so popular in writing; 
 or how it is that men who affect in their compositions 
 qualities and feelings they have not, impose so much 
 more easily on their contemporaries than on posterity. 
 The interest which the loves of Petrarch excited in his 10 
 own time, and the pitying fondness with which half 
 Europe looked upon Rousseau are well known. To 
 readers of our age, the love of Petrarch seems to have 
 been love of that kind which breaks no hearts, and the 
 sufferings of Rousseau to have deserved laughter rather 15 
 than pity, to have been partly counterfeited, and partly 
 the consequences of his own perverseness and vanity. 
 
 What our grandchildren may think of the character of 
 Lord Byron, as exhibited in his poetry, we will not pre- 
 tend to guess. It is certain that the interest which he 20 
 excited during his life is without a parallel in literary 
 history. The feeling with which young readers of poetry
 
 MACAULAY 511 
 
 regarded him can be conceived only by those who have 
 experienced it. To people who are unacquainted with 
 real calamity, " nothing is so dainty sweet as lovely mel- 25 
 ancholy." This faint image .of sorrow has in all ages 
 been considered by young gentlemen as an agreeable 
 excitement. Old gentlemen and middle-aged gentlemen 
 have so many real causes of sadness that they are rarely 
 inclined "to be as sad as night only for wantonness." 30 
 Indeed they want the power almost as much as the incli- 
 nation. We know very few persons engaged in active 
 life who, even if they were to procure stools to be mel- 
 ancholy upon, and were to sit down with all the pre- 
 meditation of Master Stephen, would be able to enjoy 35 
 much of what somebody calls "the ecstasy of woe." 
 
 Among that large class of young persons whose read- 
 ing is almost entirely confined to works of imagination, 
 the popularity of Byron was unbounded. They bought 
 pictures of him; they treasured up the smallest relics of 40 
 him; they learned his poems by heart, and did their 
 best to write like him, and to look like him. Many of 
 them practised at the glass in the hope of catching the 
 curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the brow, which 
 appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded their 45 
 neck-cloths in imitation of their great leader. For 
 some years the Minerva press sent forth no novel with- 
 out a mysterious, unhappy, Lara-like peer. The num- 
 ber of hopeful undergraduates and medical students 
 who became things of dark imaginings, on whom the 50 
 freshness of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose 
 passions had consumed themselves to dust, and to whom 
 the relief of tears was denied, passes all calculation. 
 This was not the worst. There was created in the 
 minds of many of these enthusiasts a pernicious and 55
 
 512 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 absurd association between intellectual power and moral 
 depravity. From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a 
 system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and vo- 
 luptuousness, a system in which the two great command- 
 ments were, to hate your neighbour, and to love your 60 
 neighbour's wife. 
 
 This affectation has passed away; and a few more 
 years will destroy whatever remains of that magical 
 potency which once belonged to the name of Byron. 
 To us he is still a man, young, noble, and unhappy. 65 
 To our children he will be merely a writer; and their 
 impartial judgment will appoint his place among writ- 
 ers; without regard to his rank or to his private history. 
 That his poetry will undergo a severe sifting, that much 
 of what has been admired by his contemporaries will be 70 
 rejected as worthless, we have little doubt. But we have 
 as little doubt that, after the closest scrutiny, there will 
 still remain much that can only perish with the English 
 language. 
 
 WARREN HASTINGS 
 The Trial 
 
 THE place was worthy of such a trial. It was the great 
 hall of William Rufus, the hall which had resounded 
 with acclamations at the inauguration of thirty kings, 
 the hall which had witnessed the just sentence of Bacon, 
 and the just absolution of Somers, the hall where the 
 eloquence of Strafford had for a moment awed and 
 melted a victorious party inflamed with just resentment, 
 the hall where Charles had confronted the High Court 
 of Justice with the placid courage which has half re-
 
 MACAULAY 513 
 
 deemed his fame. Neither military nor civil pomp was 10 
 wanting. The avenues were lined with grenadiers. The 
 streets were kept clear by cavalry. The peers, robed in 
 gold and ermine, were marshalled by the heralds under 
 Garter-King-at-arms. The judges in their vestments of 
 state attended to give advice on points of law. Near a 15 
 hundred and seventy lords, three-fourths of the Upper 
 House as the Upper House then was, walked in solemn 
 order from their usual place of assembling to the tri- 
 bunal. The junior baron present led the way, George 
 Eliott, Lord Heathfield, recently ennobled for his mem- 20 
 orable defence of Gibraltar against the fleets and armies 
 of France and Spain. The long procession was closed 
 by the Duke of Norfolk, Earl-Marshal of the realm, by 
 the great dignitaries, and by the brothers and sons of 
 the King. Last of all came the Prince of Wales, con- 25 
 spicuous by his fine person and noble bearing. The 
 gray old walls were hung with scarlet. The long gal- 
 leries were crowded by an audience such as has rarely 
 excited the fears or the emulation of an orator. There 
 were gathered together, from all parts of a great, free, 30 
 enlightened, and prosperous empire, grace and female 
 loveliness, wit and learning, the representatives of every 
 science and of every art. There were seated round the 
 Queen the fair-haired young daughters of the house of 
 Brunswick. There the Ambassadors of great Kings and 35 
 Commonwealths gazed with admiration on a spectacle 
 which no other country in the world could present. 
 There Siddons, in the prime of her majestic beauty, 
 looked with emotion on a scene surpassing all the imi- 
 tations of the stage. There the historian of the Roman 40 
 Empire thought of the days when Cicero pleaded the 
 cause of Sicily against Verres, and when, before a sen- 
 
 2L
 
 514 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 ate which still retained some show of freedom, Tacitus 
 thundered against the oppressor of Africa. There were 
 seen, side by side, the greatest painter and the greatest 45 
 scholar of the age. The spectacle had allured Reynolds 
 from that easel which has preserved to us the thoughtful 
 foreheads of so many writers and statesmen, and the 
 sweet smiles of so many noble matrons. It had induced 
 Parr to suspend his labours in that dark and profound 50 
 mine from which he had extracted a vast treasure of 
 erudition, a treasure too often buried in the earth, too 
 often paraded with injudicious and inelegant ostenta- 
 tion, but still precious, massive, and splendid. There 
 appeared the voluptuous charms of her to whom the 55 
 heir of the throne had in secret plighted his faith. 
 There too was she, the beautiful mother of a beautiful 
 race, the Saint Cecilia, whose delicate features, lighted 
 up by love and music, art has rescued from the com- 
 mon decay. There were the members of that brilliant 60 
 society which quoted, criticised, and exchanged repar- 
 tees under the rich peacock hangings of Mrs. Mon- 
 tague. And there the ladies whose lips, more persuasive 
 than those of Fox himself, had carried the Westminster 
 election against palace and treasury, shone round Georgi- 65 
 ana, Duchess of Devonshire. 
 
 The Serjeants made proclamation. Hastings advanced 
 to the bar, and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed 
 not unworthy of that great presence. He had ruled an 
 extensive and populous country, had made laws and trea- 70 
 ties, had sent forth armies, had set up and pulled down 
 princes. And in his high place he had so borne him- 
 self, that all had feared him, that most had loved him, 
 and that hatred itself could deny him no title to glory 
 except virtue. He looked like a great man, and not 75
 
 MACAULAY 515 
 
 like a bad man. A person small and emaciated, yet 
 deriving dignity from a carriage which, while it indi- 
 cated deference to the court, indicated also habitual 
 self-possession and self-respect, a high and intellectual 
 forehead, a brow pensive, but not gloomy, a mouth of 80 
 inflexible decision, a face pale and worn, but serene, on 
 which was written, as legibly as under the picture in the 
 council chamber at Calcutta, Mens aqua in arduis ; such 
 was the aspect with which the great Proconsul presented 
 himself to his judges. 85 
 
 His counsel accompanied him, men all of whom were 
 afterwards raised, by their talents and learning, to the 
 highest posts in their profession, the bold and strong- 
 minded Law, afterwards Chief Justice of the King's 
 Bench ; the more humane and eloquent Dallas, after- 90 
 wards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas; and Plomer 
 who, near twenty years later, successfully conducted in 
 the same high court the defence of Lord Melville, and 
 subsequently became Vice-Chancellor and Master of the 
 Rolls. 95 
 
 But neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted so 
 much notice as the accusers. In the midst of the blaze 
 of red drapery, a space had been fitted up with green 
 benches and tables for the Commons. The managers, 
 with Burke at their head, appeared in full dress. The 100 
 collectors of gossip did not fail to remark that even 
 Fox, generally so regardless of his appearance, had paid 
 to the illustrious tribunal the compliment of wearing a 
 bag and sword. Pitt had refused to be one of the con- 
 ductors of the impeachment; and his commanding, 105 
 copious, and sonorous eloquence was wanting to that 
 great muster of various talents. Age and blindness had 
 unfitted Lord North for the duties of a public prose-
 
 516 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 cutor; and his friends were left without the help of his 
 excellent sense, his tact and his urbanity. But in spite no 
 of the absence of these two distinguished members of 
 the Lower House, the box in which the managers stood 
 contained an array of speakers such as perhaps had not 
 appeared together since the great age of Athenian elo- 
 quence. There were Fox and Sheridan, the English 115 
 Demosthenes and the English Hyperides. There was 
 Burke, ignorant, indeed, or negligent, of the art of 
 adapting his reasonings and his style to the capacity 
 and taste of his hearers, but in amplitude of compre- 
 hension and richness of imagination superior to every 120 
 orator, ancient or modern. There, with eyes reveren- 
 tially fixed on Burke, appeared the finest gentleman of 
 the age, his form developed by every manly exercise, 
 his face beaming with intelligence and spirit, the ingen- 
 ious, the chivalrous, the high-souled Windham. Nor, 125 
 though surrounded by such men, did the youngest man- 
 ager pass unnoticed. At an age when most of those who 
 distinguish themselves in life are still contending for 
 prizes and fellowships at college, he had won for him- 
 self a conspicuous place in parliament. No advantage 130 
 of fortune or connexion was wanting that could set off 
 to the height his splendid talents and his unblemished 
 honour. At twenty-three he had been thought worthy to 
 be ranked with the veteran statesmen who appeared as 
 the delegates of the British Commons, at the bar of the 135 
 British Nobility. All who stood at that bar, save him 
 alone, are gone, culprit, advocates, accusers. To the 
 generation which is now in the vigour of life, he is now 
 the sole representative of a great age which has passed 
 away. But those, who within the last ten years, have 140 
 listened with delight, till the morning sun shone on the
 
 MACAULAY 5 1/ 
 
 tapestries of the House of Lords, to the lofty and ani- 
 mated eloquence of Charles Earl Grey, are able to form 
 some estimate of the powers of a race of men among 
 whom he was not the foremost. 145 
 
 The charges and the answers of Hastings were first 
 read. The ceremony occupied two whole days, and was 
 rendered less tedious than it would otherwise have been 
 by the silver voice and just emphasis of Cowper, the 
 clerk of the court, a near relation of the amiable poet. 150 
 On the third day Burke rose. Four sittings were occu- 
 pied by his opening speech, which was intended to be 
 a general introduction to all the charges. With an exu- 
 berance of thought and a splendour of diction which 
 more than satisfied the highly raised expectation of the 155 
 audience, he described the character and institutions of 
 the natives of India, recounted the circumstances in 
 which the Asiatic empire of Britain had originated, and 
 set forth the constitution of the Company and of the 
 English Presidencies. Having thus attempted to com- 160 
 municate to his hearers an idea of Eastern society, as 
 vivid as that which existed in his own mind, he pro- 
 ceeded to arraign the administration of Hastings as sys- 
 tematically conducted in defiance of morality and public 
 law. The energy and pathos of the great orator extorted 165 
 expressions of unwonted admiration from the stern and 
 hostile Chancellor, and, for a moment, seemed to pierce 
 even the resolute heart of the defendant. The ladies in 
 the galleries, unaccustomed to such displays of elo- 
 quence, excited by the solemnity of the occasion, and 170 
 perhaps not unwilling to display their taste and sensi- 
 bility, were in a state of uncontrollable emotion. Hand- 
 kerchiefs were pulled out: smelling bottles were handed 
 round ; hysterical sobs and screams were heard, and Mrs.
 
 518 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Sheridan was carried out in a fit. At length the orator 175 
 concluded. Raising his voice till the old arches of 
 Irish oak resounded, "Therefore," said he, "hath it 
 with all confidence been ordered, by the Commons of 
 Great Britain, that I impeach Warren Hastings of high 
 crimes and misdemeanours. I impeach him in the name 180 
 of the Commons' House of Parliament, whose trust he 
 has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the Eng- 
 lish nation, whose ancient honour he has sullied. I im- 
 peach him in the name of the people of India, whose 
 rights he has trodden under foot, and whose country he 185 
 has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of human 
 nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of 
 every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the 
 common enemy and oppressor of all ! "
 
 (i8oi-i8go) 
 
 IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 
 . Knowledge in Relation to Culture 
 
 A GREAT memory, as I have already said, does not 
 make a philosopher, any more than a dictionary can be 
 called a grammar. There are men who embrace in their 
 minds a vast multitude of ideas, but with little sensi- 
 bility about their real relations towards each other. 5 
 These may be antiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they 
 may be learned in the law; they may be versed in sta- 
 tistics; they are most useful in their own place; I 
 should shrink from speaking disrespectfully of them; 
 still, there is nothing in such attainments to guaran- 10 
 tee the absence of narrowness- of mind. If they are 
 nothing more than well-read men, or men of informa- 
 tion, they have not what specially deserves the name 
 of culture of mind, or fulfils the type of Liberal Edu- 
 cation. 15 
 
 In like manner, we sometimes fall in with persons 
 who have seen much of the world, and of the men who, 
 in their day, have played a conspicuous part in it, but 
 who generalize nothing, and have no observation, in the 
 true sense of the word. They abound in information in 20 
 detail, curious and entertaining, about men and things; 
 and, having lived under the influence of no very clear
 
 520 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 or settled principles, religious or political, they speak 
 of every one and every thing, only as so many phenom- 
 ena, which are complete in themselves, and lead to 25 
 nothing, not discussing them, or teaching any truth, or 
 instructing the hearer, but simply talking. No one 
 would say that these persons, well informed as they are, 
 had attained to any great culture of intellect or to phi- 
 losophy. 30 
 
 The case is the same still more strikingly where the 
 persons in question are beyond dispute men of inferior 
 powers and deficient education. Perhaps they have 
 been much in foreign countries, and they receive, in 
 a passive, otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts which 35 
 are forced upon them there. Seafaring men, for ex- 
 ample, range from one end of the earth to the other; 
 but the multiplicity of external objects, which they 
 have encountered, forms no symmetrical and consistent 
 picture upon their imagination; they see the tapestry 40 
 of human life, as it were on the wrong side, and it 
 tells no story. They sleep, and they rise up, and they 
 find themselves, now in Europe, now in Asia; they see 
 visions of great cities and wild regions; they are in the 
 marts of commerce, or amid the islands of the South; 45 
 they gaze on Pompey's Pillar, or on the Andes; and 
 nothing which meets them carries them forward or back- 
 ward, to any idea beyond itself. Nothing has a drift 
 or relation; nothing has a history or a promise. Every 
 thing stands by itself, and comes and goes in its turn, 50 
 like the shifting scenes of a show, which leave the spec- 
 tator where he was. Perhaps you are near such a man 
 on a particular occasion, and expect him to be shocked 
 or perplexed at something which occurs; but one thing 
 is much the same to him as another, or, if he is per- 55
 
 NEWMAN 521 
 
 plexed, it is as not knowing what to say, whether it is 
 right to admire, or to ridicule, or to disapprove, while 
 conscious that some expression of opinion is expected 
 from him; for in fact he has no standard of judgment 
 at all, and no landmarks to guide him to a conclusion. 60 
 Such is mere acquisition, and, I repeat, no one would 
 dream of calling it philosophy. 
 
 Instances, such as these, confirm, by the contrast, the 
 conclusion I have already drawn from those which pre- 
 ceded them. That only is true enlargement of mind 65 
 which is the power of viewing many things at once as 
 one whole, of referring them severally to their true 
 place in the universal system, of understanding their 
 respective values, and determining their mutual depend- 
 ence. Thus is that form of Universal Knowledge, of 70 
 which I have on a former occasion spoken, set up in 
 the individual intellect, and constitutes its perfection. 
 Possessed of this real illumination, the mind never views 
 any part of the extended subject-matter of Knowledge 
 without recollecting that it is but a part, or without the 75 
 associations which spring from this recollection. It 
 makes everything in some sort lead to everything else; 
 it would communicate the image of the whole to every 
 separate portion, till that whole becomes in imagina- 
 tion like a spirit, everywhere pervading and penetrating 80 
 its component parts, and giving them one definite mean- 
 ing. Just as our bodily organs, when mentioned, recall 
 their function in the body, as the word "creation" sug- 
 gests the Creator, and "subjects" a sovereign, so, in the 
 mind of the Philosopher, as we are abstractly conceiv- 85 
 ing of him, the elements of the physical and moral 
 world, sciences, arts, pursuits, ranks, offices, events, 
 opinions, individualities, are all viewed as one, with
 
 522 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 correlative functions, and as gradually by successive 
 combinations converging, one and all, to the true 90 
 centre. 
 
 To have even a portion of this illuminative reason 
 and true philosophy is the highest state to which nat- 
 ure can aspire, in the way of intellect; it puts the 
 mind above the influences of chance and necessity, above 95 
 anxiety, suspense, unsettlement, and superstition, which 
 is the lot of the many. Men, whose minds are possessed 
 with some one object, take exaggerated views of its im- 
 portance, are feverish in the pursuit of it, make it the 
 measure of things which are utterly foreign to it, and 100 
 are startled and despond if it happens to fail them. 
 They are ever in alarm or in transport. Those on the 
 other hand who have no object or principle whatever to 
 hold by, lose their way every step they take. They are 
 thrown out, and do not know what to think or say, at 105 
 every fresh juncture; they have no view of persons, or 
 occurrences, or facts, which come suddenly upon them, 
 and they hang upon the opinion of others for want of 
 internal resources. But the intellect, which has been 
 disciplined to the perfection of its powers, which knows, no 
 and thinks while it knows, which has learned to leaven 
 the dense mass of facts and events with the elastic force 
 of reason, such an intellect cannot be partial, cannot be 
 exclusive, cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, 
 cannot but be patient, collected, and majestically calm, 115 
 because it discerns the end in every beginning, the ori- 
 gin in every end, the law in every interruption, the limit 
 in each delay; because it ever knows where it stands, 
 and how its path lies from one point to another. It is 
 the TCTymywi'os of the Peripatetic, and has the "nil ad- 120 
 mirari " of the Stoic,
 
 NEWMAN 523 
 
 Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, 
 Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum 
 Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari. 
 
 There are men who, when in difficulties, originate at 125 
 the moment vast ideas or dazzling projects; who, under 
 the influence of excitement, are able to cast a light, 
 almost as if from inspiration, on a subject or course 
 of action which comes before them; who have a sudden 
 presence of mind equal to any emergency, rising with 130 
 the occasion, and an undaunted magnanimous bearing, 
 and an energy and keenness which is but made intense 
 by opposition. This is genius, this is heroism; it is 
 the exhibition of a natural gift, which no culture can 
 teach, at which no Institution can aim : here, on the 135 
 contrary, we are concerned, not with mere nature, but 
 with training and teaching. That perfection of the In- 
 tellect, which is the result of Education, and its beau 
 ideal, to be imparted to individuals in their respective 
 measures, is the clear, calm, accurate vision and com- 140 
 prehension of all things, as far as the finite mind can 
 embrace them, each in its place, and with its own char- 
 acteristics upon it. It is almost prophetic from its 
 knowledge of history; it is almost heart-searching from 
 its knowledge of human nature; it has almost super- 145 
 natural charity from its freedom from littleness and 
 prejudice; it has almost the repose of faith, because 
 nothing can startle it; it has almost the beauty and 
 harmony of heavenly contemplation, so intimate is it 
 with the eternal order of things and the music of the 150 
 spheres.
 
 524 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 CALLISTA: A TALE OF THE THIRD CENTURY 
 Callista's Vision 
 
 O WISDOM of the world ! and strength of the world ! 
 what are you when matched beside the foolishness and 
 the weakness of the Christian? You are great in re- 
 sources, manifold in methods, hopeful in prospects; 
 but one thing you have not, and that is peace. You 5 
 are always tumultuous, restless, apprehensive. You have 
 nothing you can rely upon. You have no rock under 
 your feet. But the humblest, feeblest Christian has that 
 which is impossible to you. Callista had once felt the 
 misery of maladies akin to yours. She had passed 10 
 through doubt, anxiety, perplexity, despondency, pas- 
 sion; but now she was in peace. Now she feared the 
 torture or the flame as little as the breeze which arose 
 at nightfall, or the busy chatter of the grasshoppers at 
 the noonday. Nay, rather, she did not think of torture 15 
 and death at all, but was possessed by a peace which 
 bore her up, as if bodily, on its mighty wings. For 
 hours she remained on her knees, after Caecilius left 
 her : then she lay down on her rushes and slept her last 
 mortal sleep. 20 
 
 She slept sound; she dreamed. She thought she was 
 no longer in Africa, but in her own Greece, more sunny 
 and bright than before; but the inhabitants were gone. 
 Its majestic mountains, its rich plains, its expanse of 
 waters, all silent: no one to converse with, no one to 25 
 sympathize with. And, as she wandered on and won- 
 dered, suddenly its face changed, and its colours were 
 illuminated tenfold by a heavenly glory, and each hue 
 upon the scene was of a beauty she had never known,
 
 NEWMAN 525 
 
 and seemed strangely to affect all her senses at once, 30 
 being fragrance and music, as well as light. And there 
 came out of the grottos, and glens, and woods, and out 
 of the seas, myriads of bright images, whose forms she 
 could not discern; and these came all around her, and 
 became a sort of scene or landscape, which she could 35 
 not have described in words, as if it were a world of 
 spirits, not of matter. And as she gazed, she thought 
 she saw before her a well-known face, only glorified. 
 She, who had been a slave, now was arrayed more bril- 
 liantly than an oriental queen; and she looked at Cal- 40 
 lista with a smile so sweet, that Callista felt she could 
 but dance to it. 
 
 And as she looked more earnestly, doubting whether 
 she should begin or not, the face changed, and now was 
 more marvellous still. It had an innocence in its look, 45 
 and also a tenderness, which bespoke both Maid and 
 Mother, and so transported Callista, that she must needs 
 advance towards her, out of love and reverence. And 
 the Lady seemed to make signs of encouragement: so 
 she began a solemn measure, unlike all dances of earth,, 50 
 with hands and feet, serenely moving on towards what 
 she heard some of them call a great action and a glori- 
 ous consummation, though she did not know what they 
 meant. At length she was fain to sing as well as dance; 
 and her words were, " In the Name of the Father, and 55 
 of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost"; on which another 
 said, "A good beginning of the sacrifice." And when 
 she had come close to this gracious figure, there was a 
 fresh change. The face, the features were the same; but 
 the light of Divinity now seemed to beam through them, 60 
 and the hair parted, and hung down long on each side of 
 the forehead; and there was a crown of another fashion
 
 526 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 from the Lady's round about it, made of what looked 
 like thorns. And the palms of the hands were spread 
 out as if towards her, and there were marks of wounds 65 
 in them. And the vestment had fallen, and there was a 
 deep opening in the side. And as she stood entranced 
 before Him, and motionless, she felt a consciousness 
 that her own palms were pierced like His, and her feet 
 also. And she looked round, and saw the likeness of 70 
 His face and of His wounds upon all that company. 
 And now they were suddenly moving on, and bearing 
 something, or some one, heaven-wards; and they too 
 began to sing, and their words seemed to be, "Rejoice 
 with Me, for I have found My sheep," ever repeated. 75 
 They went up through an avenue or long grotto, with 
 torches of diamonds, and amethysts, and sapphires, 
 which lit up its spars and made them sparkle. And 
 she tried to look, but could not discover what they were 
 carrying, till she heard a very piercing cry, which awoke 80 
 her. 
 
 UNIVERSITY SERMONS 
 Music a Symbol of the Unseen 
 
 LET us take another instance, of an outward and 
 earthly form, or economy, under which great wonders 
 unknown seem to be typified; I mean musical sounds, 
 as they are exhibited most perfectly in instrumental har- 
 mony. There are seven notes in the scale; make them 
 fourteen; yet what a slender outfit for so vast an enter- 
 prise! What science brings so much out of so little? 
 Out of what poor elements does some great master in it 
 create his new world ! Shall we say that all this exuber-
 
 NEWMAN 527 
 
 ant inventiveness is a mere ingenuity or trick of art, 10 
 like some game or fashion of the day, without reality, 
 without meaning? We may do so; and then, perhaps, 
 we shall also account the science of theology to be a 
 matter of words; yet, as there is a divinity in the theol- 
 ogy of the Church, which those who feel cannot com- 15 
 municate, so is there also in the wonderful creation of 
 sublimity and beauty of which I am speaking. To many 
 men the very names which the science employs are 
 utterly incomprehensible. To speak of an idea or a 
 subject seems to be fanciful or trifling, to speak of the 20 
 views which it opens upon us to be childish extrava- 
 gance; yet is it possible that that inexhaustible evolu- 
 tion and disposition of notes, so rich yet so simple, so 
 intricate yet so regulated, so various yet so majestic, 
 should be a mere sound, which is gone and perishes? 25 
 Can it be that those mysterious stirrings of heart, and 
 keen emotions, and strange yearnings after we know not 
 what, and awful impressions from we know not whence, 
 should be wrought in us by what is unsubstantial, and 
 comes and goes, and begins and ends in itself? It is 30 
 not so; it cannot be. No; they have escaped from 
 some higher sphere ; they are the outpourings of eternal 
 harmony in the medium of created sound; they are 
 echoes from our home; they are the voice of angels, or 
 the Magnificat of saints, or the living laws of divine 35 
 governance, or the divine attributes; something are they 
 besides themselves, which we cannot compass, which we 
 cannot utter, though mortal man, and he perhaps not 
 otherwise distinguished above his fellows, has the gift 
 of eliciting them. 40
 
 ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 
 
 (1809-1892) 
 
 THE DYING SWAN 
 
 THE plain was grassy, wild, and bare, 
 Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
 Which had built up everywhere 
 
 An under-roof of doleful gray. 
 With an inner voice the river ran, 5 
 
 Adown it floated a dying swan, 
 And loudly did lament. 
 
 It was the middle of the day. 
 Ever the weary wind went on, 
 
 And took the reed-tops as it went. 10 
 
 Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
 And white against the cold-white sky, 
 Shone out their crowning snows, 
 
 One willow over the river wept, 
 And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; 15 
 
 Above in the wind was the swallow, 
 
 Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
 
 And far thro' the marish green and still 
 
 The tangled water-courses slept, 
 Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 20 
 
 The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
 Of that waste place with joy 
 528
 
 TENNYSON $29 
 
 Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear 
 
 The warble was low, and full and clear; 
 
 And floating about the under-sky, 25 
 
 Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 
 
 Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 
 
 But anon her awful jubilant voice, 
 
 With a music strange and manifold, 
 
 Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold; 30 
 
 As when a mighty people rejoice 
 
 With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 
 
 And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 
 
 Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 
 
 To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 35 
 
 And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, 
 
 And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 
 
 And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, 
 
 And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, 
 
 And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 40 
 
 The desolate creeks and pools among, 
 
 Were flooded over with eddying song. 
 
 THE POET 
 
 THE poet in a golden clime was born, 
 
 With golden stars above; 
 
 Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
 The love of love. 
 
 He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, 5 
 
 He saw thro' his own soul. 
 The marvel of the everlasting will, 
 An open scroll, 
 
 2M
 
 530 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded 
 
 The secretest walks of fame : 10 
 
 The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
 And wing'd with flame, 
 
 Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, 
 
 And of so fierce a flight, 
 
 From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 15 
 
 Filling with light 
 
 And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 
 
 Them earthward till they lit; 
 Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, 
 
 The fruitful wit 20 
 
 Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew 
 
 Where'er they fell, behold, 
 Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
 A flower all gold, 
 
 And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 25 
 
 The winged shafts of truth, 
 
 To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring 
 Of Hope and Youth. 
 
 So many minds did gird their orbs with beams } 
 
 Tho' one did fling the fire. 30 
 
 Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
 Of high desire. 
 
 Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world 
 
 Like one great garden show'd, 
 
 And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, 35 
 Rare sunrise flow'd.
 
 TENNYSON 531 
 
 And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 
 
 Her beautiful bold brow, 
 When rites and forms before his burning eyes 
 
 Melted like snow. 40 
 
 There was no blood upon her maiden robes 
 
 Sunn'd by those orient skies; 
 But round about the circles of the globes 
 Of her keen eyes 
 
 And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 45 
 
 WISDOM, a name to shake 
 All evil dreams of power a sacred name. 
 And when she spake, 
 
 Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 
 
 And as the lightning to the thunder 50 
 
 Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, 
 Making earth wonder, 
 
 So was their meaning to her words. No sword 
 
 Of wrath her right arm whirl' d, 
 
 But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 55 
 
 She shook the world. 
 
 THE POET'S MIND 
 
 VEX not thou the poet's mind 
 
 With thy shallow wit : 
 Vex not thou the poet's mind; 
 
 For thou canst not fathom it. 
 Clear and bright it should be ever, 
 Flowing like a crystal river; 
 Bright as light, and clear as wind.
 
 532 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; 
 
 All the place is holy ground; 
 Hollow smile and frozen sneer in 
 
 Come not here. 
 Holy water will I pour 
 Into every spicy flower 
 Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
 The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 15 
 
 In your eye there is death, 
 There is frost in your breath 
 Which would blight the plants. 
 Where you stand you cannot hear 
 
 From the groves within 20 
 
 The wild-bird's din. 
 
 In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, 
 It would fall to the ground if you came in. 
 In the middle leaps a fountain 
 
 Like sheet-lightning. 25 
 
 Ever brightening 
 With a low melodious thunder; 
 All day and all night it is ever drawn 
 From the brain of the purple mountain 
 Which stands in the distance yonder : 30 
 
 It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
 And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, 
 And it sings a song of undying love; 
 And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, 
 You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; 35 
 So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; 
 It would shrink to the earth if you came in.
 
 TENNYSON 533 
 
 THE POET'S SONG 
 
 THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 
 
 He pass'd by the town and out of the street, 
 A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, 
 
 And waves of shadow went over the wheat, 
 And he sat him down in a lonely place, 5 
 
 And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
 That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 
 
 And the lark drop down at his feet. 
 
 The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 
 
 The snake slipt under a spray, 10 
 
 The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, 
 
 And stared, with his foot on the prey, 
 And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many songs, 
 
 But never a one so gay, 
 For he sings of what the world will be 15 
 
 When the years have died away." 
 
 SIR GALAHAD 
 
 MY good blade carves the casques of men, 
 
 My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
 My strength is as the strength of ten, 
 
 Because my heart is pure. 
 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 
 
 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, 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
 
 That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
 
 534 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 
 On whom their favors fall ! 
 For them I battle till the end, 15 
 
 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. ao 
 
 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. 
 
 When down the stormy crescent goes, 25 
 
 A light before me swims, 
 Between dark stems the forest glows, 
 
 I hear a noise of hymns : 
 Then by some secret shrine I ride; 
 
 I hear a voice, but none are there ; 30 
 
 The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 
 
 The tapers burning fair. 
 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
 
 The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
 The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 35 
 
 And solemn chants resound between. 
 
 Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
 
 I find a magic bark; 
 I leap on board; no helmsman steers : 
 
 I float till all is dark. 40 
 
 A gentle sound, an awful light ! 
 
 Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
 With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
 
 On sleeping wings they sail.
 
 TENNYSON 535 
 
 Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 45 
 
 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 towns 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 branchy thicket shelter yields; 
 But blessed forms in whistling storms 
 
 Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 60 
 
 A maiden knight to me is given 
 
 Such hope, I know not fear; 
 I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
 
 That often meet me here. 
 I muse on joy that will not cease, 65 
 
 Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
 Pure lilies of eternal peace, 
 
 Whose odors haunt my dreams; 
 And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
 
 This mortal armor that I wear, 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.
 
 536 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
 
 Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
 " O just and faithful knight of God ! 
 
 Ride on ! the prize is near." 
 So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 
 
 By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
 All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 
 
 Until I find the holy Grail. 
 
 ULYSSES 
 
 IT little profits that, an idle king, 
 
 By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 
 
 Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
 
 Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
 
 That hoard and sleep and feed and know not me. 5 
 
 I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
 
 Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed 
 
 Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 
 
 That loved me, and alone : on shore, and when 
 
 Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 10 
 
 Vexed 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 honored 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 wherethrough 
 
 Gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades 20 
 
 Forever and forever when I move.
 
 TENNYSON 537 
 
 How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
 
 To rust unburnished, not to shine in use ! 
 
 As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life 
 
 Were all too little, and of one to me 25 
 
 Little remains; but every hour is saved 
 
 From that eternal silence something more, 
 
 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 labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
 A rugged people, and through soft degrees 
 Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
 Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
 Of common duties, decent not to fail 4 
 
 In ofKces of tenderness, and pay 
 Meet adoration to my household gods 
 When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 
 
 There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; 
 There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 45 
 
 Souls that have toiled and wrought and thought with me, 
 That ever with a frolic welcome took 
 The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
 Free hearts, free foreheads, you and I are old. 
 Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. 50 
 
 Death closes all; but something ere the end, 
 Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
 Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. 
 The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
 
 538 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 
 
 The 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. 
 
 Though much is taken, much abides; and though 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 
 
 SONGS FROM "THE PRINCESS" 
 
 I 
 SWEET and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the western sea, 
 Low, low, breathe and blow, 
 Wind of the western sea ! 
 
 Over the rolling waters go, 5 
 
 Come from the dying moon, and blow, 
 
 Blow him again to me; 
 While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
 
 Father will come to thee soon; 10 
 
 Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 
 
 Father will come to thee soon;
 
 TENNYSON 539 
 
 Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
 Silver sails all out of the west 
 
 Under the silver moon : 15 
 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 
 
 THE splendour falls on castle walls 
 And snowy summits old in story : 
 The long light shakes across the lakes, 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 5 
 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 
 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
 O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 10 
 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky, 
 
 They faint on hill or field or river: 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 15 
 
 And grow for ever and for ever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 in 
 
 TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
 Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
 Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
 In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
 And thinking of the days that are no more. 5
 
 54O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
 That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 
 
 Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-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. 
 
 Dear as remember'd 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. 
 
 TO THE QUEEN 
 
 REVERED, beloved O you that hold 
 
 A nobler office upon earth 
 
 Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
 Could give the warrior kings of old, 
 
 Victoria, since your Royal grace 
 To one of less desert allows 
 This laurel greener from the brows 
 
 Of him that uttered nothing base; 
 
 And should your greatness, and the care 
 That yokes with empire, yield you time 
 To make demand of modern rhyme 
 
 If aught of ancient worth be there;
 
 TENNYSON 54! 
 
 Then while a sweeter music wakes, 
 
 And thro' wild March the throstle calls, 
 Where all about your palace-walls 15 
 
 The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes 
 
 Take, Madam, this poor book of song; 
 
 For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
 
 In vacant chambers, I could trust 
 Your kindness. May you rule us long .-20 
 
 And leave us rulers of your blood 
 
 As noble till the latest day ! 
 
 May children of our children say, 
 "She wrought her people lasting good; 
 
 "Her court was pure; her life serene; 25 
 
 God gave her peace; her land reposed; 
 A thousand claims to reverence closed 
 
 In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; 
 
 "And statesmen at her council met 
 
 Who knew the seasons when to take 30 
 
 Occasion by the hand, and make 
 The bounds of freedom wider yet 
 
 " By shaping some august decree, 
 
 Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
 Broad-based upon her people's will, 35 
 
 And compass'd by the inviolate sea." 
 
 MILTON 
 
 O MIGHTY-MOUTH 'D inventor of harmonies, 
 O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
 God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
 Milton, a name to resound for ages;
 
 542 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 5 
 
 Starr 'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries, 
 Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
 
 Rings to the roar of an angel onset 
 Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
 The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 10 
 
 And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
 
 Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
 Where some refulgent sunset of India 
 Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
 
 And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods 15 
 
 Whisper in odorous heights of even. 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR 
 
 SUNSET and evening star, 
 
 And one clear call for me ! 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
 
 When I put out to sea, 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 5 
 
 Too full for sound and foam, 
 When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Twilight and evening bell, 
 
 And after that the dark ! 10 
 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell, 
 
 When I embark; 
 
 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 
 
 When I have crost the bar.
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 (1811-1863) 
 
 VANITY FAIR 
 Becky Sharp 
 
 Miss SHARP'S father was an artist, and in that quality 
 had given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. 
 He was a clever man; a pleasant companion; a careless 
 student; with a great propensity for running into debt, 
 and a partiality for the tavern. When he was drunk, he 
 used to beat his wife and daughter; and the next morn- 
 ing, with a headache, he would rail at the world for its 
 neglect of his genius, and abuse, with a good deal of 
 cleverness, and sometimes with perfect reason, the fools, 
 his brother painters. As it was with the utmost diffi- 
 culty that he could keep himself, and as he owed money 
 for a mile round Soho, where he lived, he thought to 
 better his circumstances by marrying a young woman of 
 the French nation, who was by profession an opera-girl. 
 The humble calling of her female parent, Miss Sharp 
 never alluded to, but used to state subsequently that the 
 Entrechats were a noble family of Gascony, and took 
 great pride in her descent from them. And curious it 
 is, that as she advanced in life this young lady's ances- 
 tors increased in rank and splendour. 
 
 Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, 
 and her daughter spoke French with purity and a Pari- 
 
 543
 
 544 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 sian accent. It was in those days rather a rare accom- 
 plishment, and led to her engagement with the orthodox 
 Miss Pinkerton. For her mother being dead, her father, 25 
 finding himself not likely to recover, after his third 
 attack of delirium tremens, wrote a manly and pathetic 
 letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child 
 to her protection, and so descended to the grave, after 
 two bailiffs had quarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was 30 
 seventeen when she came to Chiswick, and was bound 
 over as an articled pupil; her duties being to talk 
 French, as we have seen; and her privileges to live 
 cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to gather 
 scraps of knowledge from the professors who attended 35 
 the school. 
 
 She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy- 
 haired, and with eyes habitually cast down : when they 
 looked up they were very large, odd, and attractive; so 
 attractive, that the Reverend Mr. Crisp, fresh from 40 
 Oxford, and curate to the Vicar of Chiswick, the Rev- 
 erend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in love with Miss Sharp; 
 being shot dead by a glance of her eyes which was fired 
 all the way across Chiswick Church from the school-pew 
 to the reading-desk. This infatuated young man used 45 
 sometimes to take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to whom he 
 had been presented by his mamma, and actually pro- 
 posed something like marriage in an intercepted note, 
 which the one-eyed apple-woman was charged to deliver. 
 Mrs. Crisp was summoned from Buxton, and abruptly 50 
 carried off her darling boy; but the idea, even, of such 
 an eagle in the Chiswick dovecot caused a great flutter 
 in the breast of Miss Pinkerton, who would have sent 
 away Miss Sharp, but that she was bound to her under 
 a forfeit, and who never could thoroughly believe the 55
 
 THACKERAY 545 
 
 young lady's protestations that she had never exchanged 
 a single word with Mr. Crisp, except under her own 
 eyes on the two occasions when she had met him at tea. 
 
 By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies 
 in the establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. 60 
 But she had the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a 
 dun had she talked to, and turned away from her father's 
 door; many a tradesman had she coaxed and wheedled 
 into good-humour, and into the granting of one meal 
 more. She sate commonly with her father, who was 65 
 very proud of her wit, and heard the talk of many of 
 his wild companions often but ill-suited for a girl to 
 hear. But she never had been a girl, she said; she had 
 been a woman since she was eight years old. O why did 
 Miss Pinkerton let such a dangerous bird into her cage? 70 
 
 The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the 
 meekest creature in the world, so admirably, on the 
 occasions when her father brought her to Chiswick, used 
 Rebecca to perform the part of the ingenue ; and only 
 a year before the arrangement by which Rebecca had 75 
 been admitted into the house, and when Rebecca was 
 sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton majestically, and with 
 a little speech, made her a present of a doll which 
 was, by the way, the confiscated property of Miss Swindle, 
 discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school-hours. 80 
 How the father and daughter laughed as they trudged 
 home together after the evening party (it was on the 
 occasion of the speeches, when all the professors were 
 invited), and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had 
 she seen the caricature of herself which the little mimic, 85 
 Rebecca, managed to make out of her doll. Becky used 
 to go through dialogues with it; it formed the delight of 
 Newman Street, Gerard Street, and the artists' quarter:
 
 546 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 and the young painters, when they came to take their 
 gin and water with their lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial 90 
 senior, used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton 
 was at home : she was well known to them, poor soul ! 
 as Mr. Lawrence or President West. Once Rebecca had 
 the honour to pass a few days at Chiswick; after which 
 she brought back Jemima, and erected another doll as 95 
 Miss Jemmy : for though that honest creature had made 
 and given her jelly and cake enough for three children, 
 and a seven-shilling piece at parting, the girl's sense of 
 ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude, and she 
 sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her sister. 100 
 
 The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the 
 Mall as to her home. The rigid formality of the place 
 suffocated her: the prayers and the meals, the lessons 
 and the walks, which were arranged with a conventual 
 regularity, oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and 105 
 she looked back to the freedom and the beggary of the 
 old studio in Soho with so much regret, that everybody, 
 herself included, fancied she was consumed with grief for 
 her father. She had a little room in the garret, where the 
 maids heard her walking and sobbing at night; but it no 
 was with rage, and not with grief. She had not been 
 much of a dissembler, until now her loneliness taught 
 her to feign. She had never mingled in the society of 
 women: her father, reprobate as he was, was a man 
 of talent; his conversation was a thousand times more 115 
 agreeable to her than the talk of such of her own sex as 
 she now encountered. The pompous vanity of the old 
 schoolmistress, the foolish good-humour of her sister, 
 the silly chat and scandal of the elder girls, and the 
 frigid correctness of the governesses equally annoyed i2> 
 her; and she had no soft maternal heart, this unlucky
 
 THACKERAY 547 
 
 girl, otherwise the prattle and talk of the younger chil- 
 dren, with whose care she was chiefly intrusted, might 
 have soothed and interested her; but she lived among 
 them two years, and not one was sorry that she went 125 
 away. The gentle tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the 
 only person to whom she could attach herself in the 
 least; and who could help attaching herself to Amelia? 
 
 The happiness the superior advantages of the young 
 women round about her, gave Rebecca inexpressible 130 
 pangs of envy. " What airs that girl gives herself, be- 
 cause she is an Earl's granddaughter," she said of one. 
 " How they cringe and bow to that Creole, because of her 
 hundred thousand pounds ! I am a thousand times clev- 
 erer and more charming than that creature, for all her 13-5 
 wealth. I am as well bred as the Earl's granddaughter, 
 for all her fine pedigree; and yet every one passes me 
 by here. And yet, when I was at my father's, did not 
 the men give up their gayest balls and parties in order 
 to pass the evening with me? " She determined at any 140 
 rate to get free from the prison in which she found her- 
 self, and now began to act for herself, and for the first 
 time to make connected plans for the future. 
 
 She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study 
 the place offered her; and as she was already a musician 145 
 and a good linguist, she speedily went through the little 
 course of study which was considered necessary for 
 ladies in those days. Her music she practised inces- 
 santly, and one day, when the girls were out, and she 
 had remained at home, she was overheard to play a 150 
 piece so well, that Minerva thought wisely, she could 
 spare herself the expense of a master for the juniors, 
 and intimated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct 
 them in music for the future.
 
 548 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the 155 
 astonishment of the majestic mistress of the school. " I 
 am here to speak French with the children," Rebecca 
 said abruptly, " not to teach them music, and save money 
 for you. Give me money, and I will teach them." 
 
 Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, dis- 160 
 liked her from that day. "For five-and- thirty years," 
 she said, and with great justice, "I never have seen the 
 individual who had dared in my own house to question 
 my authority. I have nourished a viper in my bosom." 
 
 DE FINIBUS 
 Another Finis Written 
 
 ANOTHER Finis written; another milestone passed on 
 this journey from birth to the next world ! Sure it is a 
 subject for solemn cogitation. Shall we continue this 
 story-telling business, and be voluble to the end of our 
 age? Will it not be presently time, O prattler, to hold 5 
 your tongue, and let younger people speak? I have a 
 friend, a painter, who, like other persons who shall be 
 nameless, is growing old. He has never painted with 
 such laborious finish as his works now show. This mas- 
 ter is still the most humble and diligent of scholars. 10 
 Of Art, his mistress, he is always an eager, reverent 
 pupil. In his calling, in yours, in mine, industry and 
 humility will help and comfort us. A word with you. 
 In a pretty large experience, I have not found the men 
 who write books superior in wit or learning to those 15 
 who don't write at all. In regard of mere information, 
 non-writers must often be superior to writers. You 
 don't expect a lawyer in full practice to be conversant
 
 THACKERAY 549 
 
 with all kinds of literature, he is too busy with his law; 
 and so a writer is commonly too busy with his own 20 
 books to be able to bestow attention on the works of 
 other people. After a day's work (in which I have been 
 depicting, let us say, the agonies of Louisa on parting 
 with the captain, or the atrocious behavior of the wicked 
 marquis to Lady Emily) I march to the Club, propose 25 
 to improve my mind and keep myself "posted up," as 
 the Americans phrase it, with the literature of the day. 
 And what happens? Given, a walk after luncheon, a 
 pleasing book, and a most comfortable arm-chair by the 
 fire, and you know the rest. A doze ensues. Pleasing 30 
 book drops suddenly, is picked up once with an air of 
 some confusion, is laid presently softly in lap; head 
 falls on comfortable arm-chair cushion; eyes close; soft 
 nasal music is heard. Am I telling Club secrets? Of 
 afternoons, after lunch, I say, scores of sensible fogies 35 
 have a doze. Perhaps I have fallen asleep over that 
 very book to which " Finis " has just been written. 
 And if the writer sleeps, what happens to the readers? 
 says Jones, coming down upon me with his lightning 
 wit. What ! you did sleep over it? And a very good 40 
 thing too. These eyes have more than once seen a 
 friend dozing over pages which this hand has written. 
 There is a vignette somewhere in one of my books of a 
 friend so caught napping with Pendennis, or the New- 
 comes, in his lap; and if a writer can give you a sweet, 45 
 soothing, harmless sleep, has he not done you a kind- 
 ness? So is the author who excites and interests you 
 worthy of your thanks and benedictions. I am troubled 
 with fever and ague, that seizes me at odd intervals and 
 prostrates me for a day. There is cold fit, for which, I 50 
 am thankful to say, hot brandy-and-water is prescribed,
 
 55O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 and this induces hot fit, and so on. In one or two of 
 these fits I have read novels with the most fearful con- 
 tentment of mind. Once, on the Mississippi, it was my 
 dearly beloved Jacob Faithful ; once, at Frankfort O. M., 55 
 the delightful Vingt Ans Apres of Monsieur Dumas; 
 once, at Tunbridge Wells, the thrilling Woman in 
 White; and these books gave me amusement from 
 morning till sunset. I remember those ague-fits with a 
 great deal of pleasure and gratitude. Think of a whole 60 
 day in bed, and a good novel for a companion! No 
 cares, no remorse about idleness, no visitors, and the 
 Woman in White or the Chevalier d' 'Artagnan to tell me 
 stories from dawn to night! "Please, ma'am, my mas- 
 ter's compliments, and can he have the third volume? " 65 
 (This message was sent to an astonished friend and 
 neighbor who lent me, volume by volume, the W. in 
 W. ) How do you like your novels? I like mine 
 strong, "hot with," and no mistake; no love-making, 
 no observations about society, little dialogue, except 70 
 where the characters are bullying each other, plenty of 
 fighting, and a villain in the cupboard who is to suffer 
 tortures just before Finis. I don't like your melancholy 
 Finis. I never read the history of a consumptive hero- 
 ine twice. ... 75 
 
 Among the sins of commission which novel-writers 
 not seldom perpetrate is the sin of grandiloquence, or 
 tall-talking, against which, for my part, I will offer up 
 a special libera me. This is the sin of schoolmasters, 
 governesses, critics, sermoners, and instructors of young 80 
 or old people. Nay (for I am making a clean breast, 
 and liberating my soul), perhaps of all the novel-spin- 
 ners now extant, the present speaker is the most ad- 
 dicted to preaching. Does he not stop perpetually in
 
 THACKERAY 551 
 
 his story and begin to preach to you ? When he ought 85 
 to be engaged with business, is he not forever taking 
 the Muse by the sleeve and plaguing her with some of 
 his cynical sermons? I cry peccavi loudly and heartily. 
 I tell you I would like to be able to write a story which 
 should show no egotism whatever in which there 90 
 should be no reflections, no cynicism, no vulgarity (and 
 so forth), but an incident in every other page, a villain, 
 a battle, a mystery in every chapter. I should like to be 
 able to feed a reader so spicily as to leave him hungering 
 and thirsting for more at the end of every monthly meal. 95 
 
 Alexandre Dumas describes himself, when inventing 
 the plan of a work, as lying silent on his back for two 
 whole days on the deck of a yacht in a Mediterranean 
 port. At the end of the two days he arose and called 
 for dinner. In those two days he had built his plot. 100 
 He had moulded a mighty clay, to be cast presently in 
 perennial brass. The chapters, the characters, the inci- 
 dents, the combinations, were all arranged in the artist's 
 brain ere he set a pen to paper. My Pegasus won't fly, 
 so as to let me survey the field below me. He has no 105 
 wings; he is blind of one eye certainly; he is restive, 
 stubborn, slow; crops a hedge when he ought to be gal- 
 loping, or gallops when he ought to be quiet. He never 
 will show off when I want him. Sometimes he goes at 
 a pace which surprises me. Sometimes, when I most no 
 wish him to make the running, the brute turns restive, 
 and I am obliged to let him take his own time. I 
 wonder do other novel-writers experience this fatalism? 
 They must go a certain way, in spite of themselves. I 
 have been surprised at the observations made by some 115 
 of my characters. It seems as if an occult Power was 
 moving the pen. The personage does.or says something,
 
 552 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 and I ask, How the dickens did he come to think of 
 that? Every man has remarked in dreams the vast dra- 
 matic power which is sometimes evinced I won't say 120 
 the surprising power for nothing does surprise you in 
 dreams. But those strange characters you meet make 
 instant observations of which you never can have thought 
 previously. In like manner, the imagination foretells 
 things. We spake anon of the inflated style of some 125 
 writers. What, also, if there is an afflated style, when 
 a writer is like a Pythoness on her oracle tripod, and 
 mighty words words which he cannot help come 
 blowing and bellowing and whistling and moaning 
 through the speaking-pipes of his bodily organ? 1 130 
 have told you it was a very queer shock to me the 
 other day when, with a letter of introduction in his 
 hand, the artist's (not my) Philip Firmin walked into 
 this room and sat down in the chair opposite. In the 
 novel of Pendennis, written ten years ago, there is an 135 
 account of a certain Costigan, whom I had invented (as 
 I suppose authors invent their personages out of scraps, 
 heel-taps, odds and ends of characters). I was smoking 
 in a tavern parlor one night, and this Costigan came 
 into the room alive the very man the most remark- 140 
 able resemblance of the printed sketches of the man, of 
 the rude drawings in which I had depicted him. He 
 had the same little coat, the same battered hat cocked on 
 one eye, the same twinkle in that eye. "Sir," said I, 
 knowing him to be an old friend whom I had met in 145 
 unknown regions "sir," I said, "may I offer you a 
 glass of brandy-and-water ? " " Bedad ye may," says he, 
 "and I'll sing you a song fu." Of course he spoke with 
 an Irish brogue. Of course he had been in the army. 
 In ten minutes he pulled out an army agent's account, 150
 
 THACKERAY 553 
 
 whereon his name was written. A few months after we 
 read of him in a police court. How had I come to 
 know him, to divine him? Nothing shall convince me 
 that I have not seen that man in the world of spirits. 
 In the world of spirits-and-water I know I did; but that 155 
 is a mere quibble of words. I was not surprised when 
 he spoke in an Irish brogue. I had had cognizance of 
 him before, somehow. Who has not felt that little shock 
 which arises when a person, a place, some words in a 
 book (there is always a collocation) present themselves 160 
 to you, and you know that you have before met the 
 same person, words, scene, and so forth? . . . 
 
 I had a capital half hour with Jacob Faithful last 
 night when the last sheet was corrected, when " Finis " 
 had been written, and the printer's boy, with the copy, 165 
 was safe in Green Arbor Court. So you are gone, little 
 printer's boy, with the last scratches and corrections on 
 the proof, and a fine flourish by way of Finis at the 
 story's end. The last corrections? I say those last cor- 
 rections seem never to be finished. A plague upon the 170 
 weeds ! Every day, when I walk in my own little liter- 
 ary garden-plot, I spy some, and should like to have a 
 spud and root them out. Those idle words, neighbor, 
 are past remedy. That turning back to the old pages 
 produces anything but elation of mind. Would you not 175 
 pay a pretty fine to be able to cancel some of them? 
 Oh, the sad old pages, the dull old pages! Oh, the 
 cares, the ennui, the squabbles, the repetitions, the old 
 conversations over and over again. But now and again 
 a kind thought is recalled, and now and again a dear 180 
 memory. Yet a few chapters more, and then the last : 
 after which, behold Finis itself come to an end, and 
 the Infinite begun.
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 (1811-1870) 
 
 OLIVER TWIST 
 Sikes and his Dog 
 
 HE went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind 
 him, and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the 
 road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him which 
 shook him to the core. Every object before him, sub- 
 stance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance 5 
 of some fearful thing; but these fears were nothing 
 compared to the sense that haunted him of that morn- 
 ing's ghastly figure following at his heels. He could 
 trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest item 
 of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed 10 
 to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in 
 the leaves; and every breath of wind came laden with 
 that last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If 
 he ran, it followed not running too; that would have 
 been a relief: but like a corpse endowed with the mere 15 
 machinery of life, and borne on one slow melancholy 
 wind that never rose or fell. 
 
 At times, he turned, with desperate determination, 
 resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should look 
 him dead; but the hair rose on his head, and his blood 20 
 stood still : for it had turned with him and was behind 
 him then. He had kept it before him that morning, 
 
 554
 
 DICKENS 555 
 
 but it was behind him now always. He leaned his 
 back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, 
 visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threw him- 25 
 self upon the road on his back upon the road. At 
 his head it stood, silent, erect, and still a living grave- 
 stone, with its epitaph in blood. 
 
 Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and 
 hint that Providence must sleep. There were twenty 30 
 score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony 
 of fear. 
 
 There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered 
 shelter for the night. Before the door, were three tall 
 poplar trees, which made it very dark within; and the 35 
 wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He 
 could not walk on, till daylight came again; and here 
 he stretched himself close to the wall to undergo new 
 torture. 
 
 For now, a vision came before him, as constant and 40 
 more terrible than that from which he had escaped. 
 Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so glassy, 
 that he had better borne to see them than think upon 
 them, appeared in the midst of the darkness : light in 
 themselves, but giving light to nothing. There were 45 
 but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the 
 sight, there came the room with every well-known object 
 some, indeed, that he would have forgotten, if he had 
 gone over its contents from memory each in its accus- 
 tomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyes 50 
 were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, 
 and rushed into the field without. The figure was 
 behind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrank down 
 once more. The eyes were there, before he had laid 
 himself along. 55
 
 556 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 And here he remained, in such terror as none but he 
 can know, trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat 
 starting from every pore, when suddenly there arose 
 upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and 
 the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any 60 
 sound of men in that lonely place, even though it con- 
 veyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. He 
 regained his strength and energy at the prospect of per- 
 sonal danger; and, springing to his feet, rushed into the 
 open air. 65 
 
 The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air 
 with showers of sparks, and rolling one above the other, 
 were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere for miles 
 round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction 
 where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices 70 
 swelled the roar, and he could hear the cry of Fire ! 
 mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of 
 heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames as they twined 
 round some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though re- 
 freshed by food. The noise increased as he looked. 75 
 There were people there men and women light, 
 bustle. It was like new life to him. He darted on- 
 ward straight, headlong dashing through brier and 
 brake, and leaping gate and fence as madly as the 
 dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before 80 
 him. 
 
 He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed 
 figures tearing to and fro, some endeavouring to drag 
 the frightened horses from the stables, others driving 
 the cattle from the yard and outhouses, and others com- 85 
 ing laden from the burning pile, amidst a shower of 
 falling sparks, and the tumbling down of redhot beams. 
 The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour
 
 DICKENS 557 
 
 ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls rocked and 
 crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and 90 
 iron poured down, white hot, upon the ground. Women 
 and children shrieked, and men encouraged each other 
 with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the 
 engine-pumps, and the spirting and hissing of the water 
 as it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremen- 95 
 dous roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and, 
 flying from memory and himself, plunged into the 
 thickest of the throng. 
 
 Hither and thither he dived that night: now working 
 at the pumps, and now hurrying through the smoke and 100 
 flame, but never ceasing to engage himself wherever 
 noise and men were thickest. Up and down the lad- 
 ders, upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that 
 quaked and trembled with his weight, under the lee 
 of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great 105 
 fire was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither 
 scratch nor bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morn- 
 ing dawned again, and only smoke and blackened ruins 
 remained. 
 
 This mad excitement over, there returned, with ten- no 
 fold force, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. He 
 looked suspiciously about him, for the men were con- 
 versing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of 
 their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his 
 finger, and they drew off, stealthily, together. He 115 
 passed near an engine where some men were seated, 
 and they called to him to share in their refreshment. 
 He took some bread and meat; and as he drank a 
 draught of beer, heard the firemen, who were from 
 London, talking about the murder. " He has gone to 120 
 Birmingham, they say," said one: "but they'll have him
 
 558 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 yet, for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night 
 there'll be a cry all through the country." 
 
 He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped 
 upon the ground; then lay down in a lane, and had a 125 
 long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on 
 again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the 
 fear of another solitary night. 
 
 Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution of going 
 back to London. 130 
 
 "There's somebody to speak to there, at all events," 
 bethought. " A good hiding-place, too. They'll never 
 expect to nab me there, after this country scent. Why 
 can't I lay by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from 
 Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I'll risk it." 135 
 
 He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choos- 
 ing the least frequented roads began his journey back, 
 resolved to lie concealed within a short distance of the 
 metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a circuitous 
 route, to proceed straight to that part of it which he 140 
 had fixed on for his destination. 
 
 The dog, though if any descriptions of him were 
 out, it would not be forgotten that the dog was missing, 
 and had probably gone with him. This might lead to 
 his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He 145 
 resolved to drown him, and walked on, looking atout 
 for a pond : picking up a heavy stone and tying it to 
 his handkerchief as he went. 
 
 The animal looked up into his master's face while 
 these preparations were making; and, whether his in- 150 
 stinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the 
 robber's sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, 
 skulked a little farther in the rear than usual, and cow- 
 ered as he came more slowly along. When his master
 
 DICKENS 559 
 
 halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to call 155 
 him, he stopped outright. 
 
 "Do you hear me call? Come here! " cried Sikes. 
 
 The animal came up from the very force of habit; but 
 as Sikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat, 
 he uttered a low growl and started back. 160 
 
 "Come back!" said the robber, stamping on the 
 ground. 
 
 The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made 
 a running noose and called him again. 
 
 The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, 165 
 turned, and scoured away at his hardest speed. 
 
 The man whistled again and again, and sat down and 
 waited in the expectation that he would return. But 
 no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 Christmas at the Cratchits 1 
 
 THEN up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed 
 out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in 
 ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for 
 sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda 
 Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in rib- 5 
 bons; while Master -Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into 
 the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his 
 monstrous shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred 
 upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his 
 mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and 10 
 yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. 
 And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came
 
 560 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had 
 smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and bask- 
 ing in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young 15 
 Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master 
 Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, al- 
 though his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, 
 until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at 
 the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled. 20 
 
 "What has ever got your precious father then?" said 
 Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim! And 
 Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half-an- 
 hour!" 
 
 "Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as 25 
 she spoke. 
 
 " Here's Martha, mother ! " cried the two young Crat- 
 chits. "Hurrah! There's such a goose, Martha! " 
 
 " Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you 
 are ! " said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and 30 
 taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious 
 zeal. 
 
 "We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied 
 the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother! " 
 
 "Well! Never mind so long as you are come," said 35 
 Mrs. Cratchit. " Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, 
 and have a warm, Lord bless ye ! " 
 
 "No, no! There's father coming," cried the two 
 young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. " Hide, 
 Martha, hide ! " 40 
 
 So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the 
 father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of 
 the fringe, hanging down before him; and his thread- 
 bare clothes darned up and brushed to look seasonable; 
 and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, 45
 
 DICKENS 561 
 
 he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by 
 an iron frame ! 
 
 "Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, 
 looking round. 
 
 "Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. 50 
 
 "Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension 
 in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse 
 all the way from church, and had come home rampant. 
 " Not coming upon Christmas Day ! " 
 
 Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were 55 
 only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind 
 the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two 
 young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off 
 into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding 
 singing in the copper. 60 
 
 "And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Crat- 
 chit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and 
 Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. 
 
 "As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow 
 he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and 65 
 thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told 
 me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him 
 in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might 
 be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas Day, 
 who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." 70 
 
 Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, 
 and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was 
 growing strong and hearty. 
 
 His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and 
 back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, 75 
 escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the 
 fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs as if, poor 
 fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby
 
 562 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and 
 lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on 80 
 the hob to simmer; Master Peter, and the two ubiqui- 
 tous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which 
 they soon returned in high procession. 
 
 Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a 
 goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, 85 
 to which a black swan was a matter of course and in 
 truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. 
 Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little 
 saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the pota- 
 toes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up 90 
 the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob 
 took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny cdrner at the table; 
 the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not for- 
 getting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, 
 crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should 95 
 shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. 
 At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It 
 was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, 
 looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to 
 plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the 100 
 long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur 
 of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, 
 excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table 
 with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah ! 
 
 There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't 105 
 believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tender- 
 ness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of 
 universal admiration. Eked out by the apple sauce and 
 mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole 
 family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight no 
 (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they
 
 DICKENS 563 
 
 hadn't ate it all at last ! Yet every one had had enough, 
 and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped 
 in sage and onion to the eyebrows ! But now, the plates 
 being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the 115 
 room alone too nervous to bear witnesses to take the 
 pudding up and bring it in. 
 
 Suppose it should not be done enough ! Suppose it 
 should break in turning out ! Suppose somebody should 
 have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, 120 
 while they were merry with the goose a supposition at 
 which the two young Cratchits became livid ! All sorts 
 of horrors were supposed. 
 
 Hallo ! A great deal of steam ! The pudding was out 
 of the copper. A smell like a washing-day ! That was 125 
 the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry- 
 cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next 
 door to that ! That was the pudding ! In half a minute 
 Mrs. Cratchit entered flushed, but smiling proudly 
 with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard 139 
 and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited 
 brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the 
 top. 
 
 Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and 
 calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success 135 
 achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. 
 Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she 
 would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity 
 of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but' 
 nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for 140 
 a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. 
 Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. 
 
 At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, 
 the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound
 
 564 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples 145 
 and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel- full 
 of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratch it family 
 drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a 
 circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow 
 stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a 150 
 custard-cup without a handle. 
 
 These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well 
 as golden goblets would have done ; and Bob served it 
 out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire 
 sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed : 155 
 
 "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless 
 us!" 
 
 Which all the family re-echoed. 
 
 "God bless us every one ! " said Tiny Tim, the last of 
 all. 1 60 
 
 He sat very close to his father's side upon his little 
 stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if 
 he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, 
 and dreaded that he might be taken from him. 
 
 THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER 
 The Very Queer Small Boy 
 
 I GOT into the travelling chariot it was of German 
 make, roomy, heavy, and unvarnished I got into the 
 travelling chariot, pulled up the steps after me, shut 
 myself in with a smart bang of the door, and gave the 
 word, "Goon!" 
 
 Immediately, all that W. and S. W. division of London 
 began to slide away at a pace so lively, that I was over
 
 DICKENS 565 
 
 the river, and past the Old Kent Road, and out on 
 Blackheath, and even ascending Shooter's Hill, before 
 I had had time to look about me in the carriage, like a 10 
 collected traveller. 
 
 I had two ample Imperials on the roof, other fitted 
 storage for luggage in front, and other up behind; I 
 had a net for books overhead, great pockets to all the 
 windows, a leathern pouch or two hung up for odds and 15 
 ends, and a reading lamp fixed in the back of the 
 chariot, in case I should be benighted. I was amply 
 provided in all respects, and had no idea where I was 
 going (which was delightful), except that I was going 
 abroad. 20 
 
 So smooth was the old high road, and so fresh were 
 the horses, and so fast went I, that it was midway be- 
 tween Gravesend and Rochester, and the widening river 
 was bearing the ships, white-sailed or black-smoked, out 
 to sea, when I noticed by the wayside a very queer small 25 
 boy. 
 
 " Halloa ! " said I, to the very queer small boy, " where 
 do you live ? " 
 
 "At Chatham," says he. 
 
 "What do you do there?" says I. 30 
 
 "I go to school," says he. 
 
 I took him up in a moment, and we went on. Pres- 
 ently, the very queer small boy says, "This is Gads-hill 
 we are coming to, where Falstaff went out to rob those 
 travellers, and ran away." 35 
 
 "You know something about Falstaff, eh?" said I. 
 
 "All about him," said the very queer small boy. "I 
 am old (I am nine), and I read all sorts of books. But 
 do let us stop at the top of the hill, and look at the 
 house there, if you please ! " 4
 
 566 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 "You admire that house?" said I. 
 
 "Bless you, sir," said the very queer small boy, "when 
 I was not more than half as old as nine, it used to be a 
 treat for me to be brought to look at it. And now I am 
 nine, I come by myself to look at it. And ever since I 45 
 can recollect, my father, seeing me so fond of it, has 
 often said to me, ' If you were to be very persevering 
 and were to work hard, you might some day come to live 
 in it.' Though that's impossible! " said the very queer 
 small boy, drawing a low breath, and now staring at the 50 
 house out of window with all his might. 
 
 I was rather amazed to be told this by the very queer 
 small boy; for that house happens to be my house, and 
 I have reason to believe that what he said was true. 
 
 Well ! I made no halt there, and I soon dropped the 55 
 very queer small boy and went on.
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 WANTING IS WHAT? 
 
 WANTING is what? 
 Summer redundant, 
 Blueness abundant, 
 
 Where is the spot? 
 
 Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, 
 
 Framework which waits for a picture to frame : 
 What of the leafage, what of the flower? 
 
 Roses embowering with nought they embower! 
 Come then, complete incompletion, O Comer, 
 Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer ! 
 Breathe but one breath 
 Rose-beauty above, 
 And all that was death 
 Grows life, grows love, 
 Grows love ! 
 
 MY STAR 
 
 ALL that I know 
 
 Of a certain star 
 Is, it can throw 
 
 (Like the angled spar) 
 Now a dart of red, 
 
 Now a dart of blue ; 
 Till my friends have said 
 567
 
 568 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 They would fain see, too, 
 My star that dartles the red and the blue ! 
 Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: 
 
 They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. 
 What matter to me if their star is a world ? 
 
 Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. 
 
 PIPPA'S SONG 
 
 THE year's at the spring, 
 And day's at the morn; 
 Morning's at seven; 
 The hill-side's dew-pearled; 
 The lark's on the wing; 
 The snail's on the thorn: 
 God's in his heaven 
 All's right with the world! 
 
 CONFESSIONS 
 I 
 
 WHAT is he buzzing in my ears? 
 
 "Now that I come to die, 
 Do I view the world as a vale of tears? " 
 
 Ah, reverend sir, not I ! 
 
 What I viewed there once, what I view again 
 
 Where the physic bottles stand 
 On the table's edge, is a suburb lane, 
 
 With a wall to my bedside hand.
 
 BROWNING 569 
 
 HI 
 
 That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 
 From a house you could descry 
 
 O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue 
 Or green to a healthy eye? 
 
 rv 
 
 To mine, it serves for the old June weather 
 
 Blue above lane and wall; 
 And that farthest bottle labelled " Ether " 15 
 
 Is the house o'er- topping all. 
 
 At a terrace, somewhat near the stopper, 
 
 There watched for me, one June, 
 A girl : I know, sir, it's improper, 
 
 My poor mind's out of tune. 20 
 
 VI 
 
 Only, there was a way . . . you crept 
 
 Close by the side, to dodge 
 Eyes in the house, two eyes except : 
 
 They styled their house "The Lodge." 
 
 vn 
 
 What right had a lounger up their lane? 25 
 
 But, by creeping very close, 
 With the good wall's help, their eyes might strain 
 
 And stretch themselves to Oes,
 
 57O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 vra 
 Yet never catch her and me together, 
 
 As she left the attic, there, 30 
 
 By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether," 
 
 And stole from stair to stair, 
 
 EX 
 And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, 
 
 We loved, sir used to meet : 
 How sad and bad and mad it was 35 
 
 But then, how it was sweet ! 
 
 RESPECTABILITY 
 I 
 
 DEAR, had the world in its caprice 
 
 Deigned to proclaim " I know you both, 
 Have recognized your plighted troth, 
 
 Am sponsor for you : live in peace ! " 
 
 How many precious months and years 5 
 
 Of youth had passed, that speed so fast, 
 Before we found it out at last, 
 
 The world, and what it fears? 
 
 ii 
 How much of priceless life were spent 
 
 With men that every virtue decks, 10 
 
 And women models of their sex, 
 Society's true ornament, 
 Ere we dared wander, nights like this, 
 
 Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine, 
 
 And feel the Boulevart break again 15 
 
 To warmth and light and bliss?
 
 BROWNING 571 
 
 III 
 
 I know! the world proscribes not love; 
 
 Allows my ringer to caress 
 
 Your lips' contour and downiness, 
 Provided it supply a glove. za 
 
 The world's good word! the Institute! 
 
 Guizot receives Montalembert ! 
 
 Eh? Down the court three lampions flare: 
 Put forward your best foot ! 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 
 
 OH, to be in England now that April's there, 
 And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, una- 
 ware, 
 
 That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 
 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 
 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
 In England now! 
 And after April, when May follows 
 And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows ! 
 Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
 Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
 Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge 
 That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over 
 Lest you should think he never could recapture 
 The first fine careless rapture ! 
 And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 
 And will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
 The buttercups, the little children's dower 
 Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower !
 
 5/2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 
 
 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 north-east distance, dawned Gibraltar 
 
 grand and gray; 
 " Here and here did England help me, how can I help 5 
 
 England ? " say, 
 Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise 
 
 and pray, 
 While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 
 
 PROSPICE 
 
 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 attained, 
 
 And the barriers fall, 10 
 
 Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 
 
 The reward of it all. 
 I was ever a fighter, so one fight more, 
 
 The best and the last ! 
 I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 15 
 
 And bade me creep past.
 
 BROWNING 573 
 
 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, 25 
 
 Then a light, then thy breast, 
 O thou soul of my soul ! 
 
 I shall clasp thee again, 
 And with God be the rest ! 
 
 MEMORABILIA 
 
 I 
 AH, did you once see Shelley plain, 
 
 And did he stop and speak to you, 
 And did you speak to him again? 
 How strange it seems, and new ! 
 
 ii 
 But you were living before that, 
 
 And also you are living after; 
 And the memory I started at 
 
 My starting moves your laughter ! 
 
 in 
 I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 
 
 And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 
 Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
 
 'Mid the blank miles round about;
 
 574 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 IV 
 
 For there I picked up on the heather 
 And there I put inside my breast 
 
 A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 
 Well, I forget the rest. 
 
 DEATH IN THE DESERT 
 11 Three Souls, One Man" 
 
 "THREE souls which make up one soul; first, to wit, 
 
 A soul of each and all the bodily parts, 
 
 Seated therein, which works, and is what Does, 
 
 And has the use of earth, and ends the man 
 
 Downward; but tending upward for advice, 5 
 
 Grows into, and again is grown into 
 
 By the next soul, which, seated in the brain, 
 
 Useth the first with its collected use, 
 
 And feeleth, thinketh, willeth, is what Knows: 
 
 Which duly tending upward in its turn, 10 
 
 Grows into, and again is grown into 
 
 By the last soul, that uses both the first, 
 
 Subsisting whether they assist or no, 
 
 And, constituting man's self, is what Is 
 
 And leans upon the former, makes it play, 15 
 
 As that played off the first: and, tending up, 
 
 Holds, is upheld by, God, and ends the man 
 
 Upward in that dread point of intercourse, 
 
 Nor needs a place, for it returns to Him. 
 
 What Does, what Knows, what Is; three souls, one man." 20
 
 GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 (1819-1880) 
 
 ADAM BEDE 
 A Farm House 
 
 EVIDENTLY that gate is never opened: for the long 
 grass and the great hemlocks grow close against it; and 
 if it were opened, it is so rusty, that the force necessary 
 to turn it on its hinges would be likely to pull down the 
 square stone-built pillars, to the detriment of the two 5 
 stone lionesses which grin with a carnivorous affability 
 above a coat of arms surmounting each of the pillars. 
 It would be easy enough, by the aid of the nicks in the 
 stone pillars, to climb over the brick wall with its smooth 
 stone coping; but by putting our eyes close to the rusty 10 
 bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough, and 
 all but the very corners of the grassy enclosure. 
 
 It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by 
 a pale powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with a 
 happy irregularity, so as to bring the red brick into 15 
 terms of friendly companionship with the limestone or- 
 naments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and 
 the door-place. But the windows are patched with 
 wooden panes, and the door, I think, is like the gate 
 it is never opened: how it would groan and grate 20 
 against the stone floor if it were ! For it is a solid, 
 heavy, handsome door, and must once have been in the 
 habit of shutting with a sonorous bang behind a liveried 
 
 575
 
 5/6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 lackey, who had just seen his master and mistress off the 
 grounds in a carriage and pair. 25 
 
 But at present one might fancy the house in the early 
 stage of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that 
 grand double row of walnut-trees on the right hand of 
 the enclosure would fall and rot among the grass, if it 
 were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs echo- 30 
 ing from great buildings at the back. And now the half- 
 weaned calves that have been sheltering themselves in a 
 gorse-built hovel against the left-hand wall, come out 
 and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless 
 supposing that it has reference to buckets of milk. 35 
 
 Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by 
 whom; for imagination is a licensed trespasser; it has 
 no fear of dogs," but may climb over walls and peep in 
 at windows with impunity. Put your face to one of the 
 glass panes in the right-hand window; what do you see? 40 
 A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs in it, and a bare- 
 boarded floor; at the far end, fleeces of wool stacked 
 up; in the middle of the floor, some empty corn-bags. 
 That is the furniture of the dining-room. And what 
 through the left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, 45 
 a pillion, a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open, 
 and stuffed full of coloured rags. At the edge of this 
 box there lies a great wooden doll, which, so far as 
 mutilation is concerned, bears a strong resemblance to 
 the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total 50 
 loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the 
 butt-end of a boy's leather long-lashed whip. 
 
 The history of the house is plain now. It was once 
 the residence of a country squire, whose family, prob- 
 ably dwindling down to mere spinsterhood, got merged 55 
 in the more territorial name of Donnithorne. It was
 
 ELIOT 577 
 
 once the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life 
 in some coast town that was once a watering-place, and 
 is now a port, where the genteel streets are silent and 
 grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses busy and res- 60 
 onant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no 
 longer radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen 
 and the farm -yard. 
 
 Plenty of life there ! though this is the drowsiest time 
 of the year, just before the hay-harvest; and it is the 65 
 drowsiest time of the day too, for it is close upon three 
 by the sun, and it is half-past three by Mrs. Peyser's 
 handsome eight day clock. But there is always a 
 stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after 
 rain; and now he is pouring down his beams, and mak- 70 
 ing sparks among the wet straw, and lighting up every 
 patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow- 
 shed, and turning even the muddy water that is hurrying 
 along the channel to the drain into a mirror for the yel- 
 low-billed ducks, who are seizing the opportunity of get- 75 
 ting a drink with as much body in it as possible. There 
 is quite a concert of noises : the great bull-dog, chained 
 against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation 
 by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of 
 his kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is 80 
 answered by two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite 
 cow-house; the old top-knotted hens, scratching with 
 their chicks among the straw, set up a sympathetic 
 croaking as the discomfited cock joins them; a sow 
 with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and 85 
 curled as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato 
 notes; our friends the calves are bleating from the same 
 home croft; and under all a fine ear discerns the con- 
 tinuous hum of human voices.
 
 578 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 For the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and 90 
 men are busy there mending the harness, under the super- 
 intendence of Mr. Goby, the "whittaw," otherwise sad- 
 dler, who entertains them with the latest Treddleston 
 gossip. It is certainly rather an unfortunate day that 
 Alick, the shepherd, has chosen for having the whit- 95 
 taws, since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs. 
 Poyser had spoken her mind pretty strongly as to the 
 dirt which the extra number of men's shoes brought 
 into the house at dinner-time. Indeed she has not yet 
 recovered her equanimity on the subject, though it is 100 
 now nearly three hours since dinner, and the house floor 
 is perfectly clean again; as clean as everything else in 
 that wonderful house-place, where the only chance of 
 collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the 
 salt-coffer, and put your finger on the high mantel-shelf 105 
 on which the glittering brass candle-sticks are enjoying 
 their summer sinecure; for at this time of year, of 
 course, every one goes to bed while it is yet light, or 
 at least light enough to discern the outline of objects 
 after you have bruised your shins against them. Surely no 
 nowhere else could an oak clock-case and an oak table 
 have got such a polish by the hand: genuine "elbow 
 polish," as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God 
 she never had any of your varnished rubbish in her 
 house. Hetty Sorrel often took the opportunity, when 115 
 her aunt's back was turned, of looking at the pleasant 
 reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, for the oak 
 table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more for 
 ornament than for use; and she could see herself some- 
 times in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged 120 
 on the shelves above the long deal dinner table, or in 
 the hobs of the grate, which always shone like jasper.
 
 ELIOT 579 
 
 Everything was looking at its brightest at this mo- 
 ment, for the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, 
 and from their reflecting surfaces pleasant jets of light 125 
 were thrown on mellow oak and bright brass; and on 
 a still pleasanter object than these; for some of the rays 
 fell on Dinah's finely moulded cheek, and lit up her 
 pale red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy 
 household linen which she was mending for her aunt. 130 
 No scene could have been more peaceful ; if Mrs. Poy- 
 ser, who was ironing a few things that still remained 
 from the Monday's wash, had not been making frequent 
 clinking with her iron, and moving to and fro whenever 
 she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen glance of her 135 
 blue-gray eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty 
 was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the 
 back-kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of 
 the oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs. Poyser 
 was elderly or shrewish in her appearance ; she was a 140 
 good-looking woman, not more than eight-and-thirty, 
 of fair complexion and sandy hair, vvell-shapen, light- 
 footed : the most conspicuous article in her attire was 
 an ample, checkered linen apron, which almost covered 
 her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less notice- 145 
 able than her cap and gown, for there was no weakness 
 of which she was less tolerant than feminine vanity, and 
 the preference of ornament to utility. The family like- 
 ness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the 
 contrast between her keenness and Dinah's seraphic gen- 150 
 tleness of expression, might have served a painter as an 
 excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their eyes 
 were just of the same colour, but a striking test of the 
 difference in their operation was seen in the demeanour 
 of Trip, the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much- 155
 
 580 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 suspected dog unwarily exposed himself to the freezing 
 arctic ray of Mrs. Peyser's glances. Her tongue was 
 not less keen than her eye, and, whenever a damsel 
 came within earshot, seemed to take up an unfinished 
 lecture, as a barrel-organ takes up a tune, precisely at 160 
 the point where it had left off. 
 
 ROMOLA 
 
 Savonarola's Benediction 
 
 ABOUT ten o'clock on the morning of the twenty- 
 seventh of February the currents of passengers along the 
 Florentine streets set decidedly towards San Marco. It 
 was the last morning of the Carnival, and every one 
 knew there was a second Bonfire of Vanities being pre- 5 
 pared in front of the Old Palace; but at this hour it 
 was evident that the centre of popular interest lay else- 
 where. 
 
 The Piazza di San Marco was filled by a multitude 
 who showed no other movement than that which pro- 10 
 ceeded from the pressure of new comers trying to force 
 their way forward from all the openings, but the front 
 ranks were already close-serried, and resisted the press- 
 ure. Those ranks were ranged around a semicircular 
 barrier in front of the church, and within this barrier 15 
 were already assembling the Dominican Brethren of San 
 Marco. 
 
 But the temporary wooden pulpit erected over the 
 church-door was still empty. It was presently to be 
 entered by the man whom the Pope's command had 20 
 banished from the pulpit of the Duomo, whom the other
 
 ELIOT 58l 
 
 ecclesiastics of Florence had been forbidden to consort 
 with, whom the citizens had been forbidden to hear on 
 pain of excommunication. This man had said, "A 
 wicked, unbelieving Pope who had gained the pontifi- 25 
 cal chair by bribery is not Christ's Vicar. His curses 
 are broken swords: he grasps a hilt without a blade. 
 His commands are contrary to the Christian life : it is 
 lawful to disobey them nay, // is not lawful to obey 
 them.'" And the people still flocked to hear him as he 30 
 preached in his own church of San Marco, though the 
 Pope was hanging terrible threats over Florence if it 
 did not renounce the pestilential schismatic, and send 
 him to Rome to be "converted" still, as on this very 
 morning, accepted the Communion from his excommu- 35 
 nicated hands. For how if this Frate had really more 
 command over the Divine lightnings than that official 
 successor of Saint Peter? It was a momentous question, 
 which for the mass of citizens could never be decided 
 by the Frate 's ultimate test, namely, what was and what 40 
 was not accordant with the highest spiritual law. No; 
 in such a case as this, if God had chosen the Frate as 
 his prophet to rebuke the High Priest who carried the 
 mystic raiment unworthily, he would attest his choice 
 by some unmistakable sign. As long as the belief in 45 
 the prophet carried no threat of outward calamity, but 
 rather the confident hope of exceptional safety, no sign 
 was needed; his preaching was a music to which the 
 people felt themselves marching along the way they 
 wished to go; but now that belief meant an immediate 50 
 blow to their commerce, the shaking of their position 
 among the Italian States, and an interdict on their city, 
 there inevitably came the question, " What miracle show- 
 est thou?" Slowly at first, then faster and faster, that
 
 582 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 fatal demand had been swelling in Savonarola's ear, pro- 55 
 voking a response, outwardly in the declaration that at 
 the fitting time the miracle would come; inwardly in 
 the faith not unwavering, for what faith is so? that 
 if the need for miracle became urgent, the work he had 
 before him was too great for the Divine power to leave 60 
 it halting. His faith wavered, but not his speech; it 
 is the lot of every man who has to speak for the satisfac- 
 tion of the crowd, that he must often speak in virtue of 
 yesterday's faith, hoping it will come back to-morrow. 
 
 It was in preparation for a scene, which was really a 65 
 response to the popular impatience for some supernatu- 
 ral guarantee of the Prophet's mission, that the wooden 
 pulpit had been erected above the church door. But 
 while the ordinary Frati in black mantles were entering 
 and arranging themselves, the faces of the multitude 70 
 were not yet eagerly directed towards the pulpit; it 
 was felt that Savonarola would not appear just yet, and 
 there was some interest in singling out the various 
 monks, some of them belonging to high Florentine fam- 
 ilies, many of them having fathers, brothers, or cousins 75 
 among the artisans and shopkeepers who made the ma- 
 jority of the crowd. It was not till the tale of monks 
 was complete, not till they had fluttered their books and 
 had begun to chant, that people said to each other, 
 "Fra Girolamo must be coming now." 80 
 
 That expectation rather than any spell from the accus- 
 tomed wail of psalmody was what made silence, and 
 expectation seemed to spread like a paling solemn light 
 over the multitude of upturned faces, all now directed 
 towards the empty pulpit. 85 
 
 The next instant the pulpit was no longer empty. A 
 figure covered from head to foot in black cowl and
 
 ELIOT 583 
 
 mantle had entered it, and was kneeling with bent head 
 and with face turned away. It seemed a weary time to 
 the eager people while the black figure knelt and the 90 
 monks chanted. But the stillness was not broken, for 
 the Frate's audiences with heaven were yet charged with 
 electric awe for that mixed multitude, so that those who 
 already had the will to stone him felt their arms unnerved. 
 
 At last there was a vibration among the multitude, 95 
 each seeming to give his neighbour a momentary aspen- 
 like touch, as when men who have been watching for 
 something in the heavens see the expected presence 
 silently disclosing itself. The Frate had risen, turned 
 towards the people, and partly pushed back his cowl, roo 
 The monotonous wail of psalmody had ceased, and to 
 those who stood near the pulpit, it was as if the sounds 
 which had just been filling their ears had suddenly 
 merged themselves in the force of Savonarola's flaming 
 glance as he looked round him in the silence. Then he 105 
 stretched out his hands, which, in their exquisite deli- 
 cacy, seemed transfigured from an animal organ for 
 grasping into vehicles of sensibility too acute to need 
 any gross contact, hands that came like an appealing 
 speech from that part of his soul which was masked by no 
 his strong passionate face, written on now with deeper 
 lines about the mouth and brow than are made by forty- 
 four years of ordinary life. 
 
 At the first stretching out of the hands some of the 
 crowd in the front ranks fell on their knees, and here 115 
 and there a devout disciple farther off; but the great 
 majority stood firm, some resisting the impulse to kneel 
 before this excommunicated man (might not a great 
 judgment fall upon him even in this act of blessing?) 
 others jarred with scorn and hatred of the ambitious 120
 
 584 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 deceiver who was getting up this new comedy, before 
 which, nevertheless, they felt themselves impotent, as 
 before the triumph of a fashion. 
 
 But then came the voice, clear and low at first, utter- 
 ing the words of absolution " Misereatur ves/ri" 125 
 and more fell on their knees; and as it rose higher and 
 yet clearer, the erect heads became fewer and fewer, till at 
 the words " Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus" it rose to a 
 masculine cry, as if protesting its power to bless under 
 the clutch of a demon that wanted to stifle it; it rang 130 
 like a trumpet to the extremities of the Piazza, and 
 under it every head was bowed. 
 
 After the utterance of that blessing, Savonarola him- 
 self fell on his knees, and hid his face in temporary 
 exhaustion. Those great jets of emotion were a neces- 135 
 sary part of his life; he himself had said to the people 
 long ago, "Without preaching I cannot live." But it 
 was a life that shattered him. 
 
 In a few minutes more, some had risen to their feet, 
 but a large number remained kneeling, and all faces 140 
 were intently watching him. He had taken into his 
 hands a crystal vessel containing the consecrated Host, 
 and was about to address the people. 
 
 "You remember, my children, three days ago I be- 
 sought you, when I should hold this Sacrament in my 145 
 hand in the face of you all, to pray fervently to the 
 Most High that if this work of mine does not come 
 from Him, He will send a fire and consume me, that I 
 may vanish into the eternal darkness away from His 
 light which I have hidden with my falsity. Again I 150 
 beseech you to make that prayer, and to make it now" 
 
 It was a breathless moment; perhaps no man really 
 prayed, if some in a spirit of devout obedience made
 
 ELIOT 585 
 
 the effort to pray. Every consciousness was chiefly pos- 
 sessed by the sense that Savonarola was praying, in a 155 
 voice not loud, but distinctly audible in the wide still- 
 ness. 
 
 " Lord, if I have not wrought in sincerity of soul, if 
 my word cometh not from Thee, strike me in this mo- 
 ment with Thy thunder, and let the fires of Thy wrath 160 
 enclose me." 
 
 He ceased to speak, and stood motionless with the 
 consecrated Mystery in his hand, with eyes uplifted, and 
 a quivering excitement in his whole aspect. Every one 
 else was motionless and silent too, while the sunlight, 165 
 which for the last quarter of an hour had here and there 
 been piercing the grayness, made fitful streaks across the 
 convent wall, causing some awe-stricken spectators to 
 start timidly. But soon there was a wider parting, and 
 with a gentle quickness, like a smile, a stream of bright- 170 
 ness poured itself on the crystal vase, and then spread 
 itself over Savonarola's face with mild glorification. 
 
 An instantaneous shout rang through the Piazza, " Be- 
 hold the answer ! " 
 
 The warm radiance thrilled through Savonarola's frame, 175 
 and so did the shout. It was his last moment of un- 
 troubled triumph, and in its rapturous confidence he 
 felt carried to a grander scene yet to come, before 
 an audience that would represent all Christendom, in 
 whose presence he should again be sealed as the mes- 180 
 senger of the supreme righteousness, and feel himself 
 full charged with Divine strength. It was but a moment 
 that expanded itself in that prevision. While the shout 
 was still ringing in his ears, he turned away within the 
 church, feeling the strain too great for him to bear it 185 
 longer.
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE 
 
 O STREAM descending to the sea, 
 
 Thy mossy banks between, 
 The flowerets blow, the grasses grow, 
 
 The leafy trees are green. 
 
 In garden plots the children play, 5 
 
 The fields the labourers till, 
 And houses stand on either hand, 
 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 O life descending into death, 
 
 Our waking eyes behold, 10 
 
 Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 
 
 Companions young and old. 
 
 Strong purposes our mind possess, 
 
 Our hearts affections fill, 
 We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 15 
 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 O end to which our currents tend, 
 
 Inevitable sea, 
 To which we flow, what do we know, 
 
 What shall we guess of thee ? 20 
 
 586
 
 CLOUGH 587 
 
 A roar we hear upon thy shore, 
 As we our course fulfil; 
 
 Scarce we divine a sun will shine 
 And be above us still. 
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 
 The Highland Stream 
 
 THERE is a stream (I name not its name, lest inquisitive 
 
 tourist 
 
 Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at last into guide- 
 books), 
 Springing far off from a loch unexplored in the folds of 
 
 great mountains, 
 Falling two miles through rowan and stunted alder, 
 
 enveloped 
 Then for four more in a forest of pine, where broad and 5 
 
 ample 
 Spreads, to convey it, the glen with heathery slopes on 
 
 both sides : 
 Broad and fair the stream, with occasional falls and 
 
 narrows; 
 But, where the glen of its course approaches the vale of 
 
 the river, 
 
 Met and blocked by a huge interposing mass of granite, 
 Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging up, and raging 10 
 
 onward, 
 Forces its flood through a passage so narrow a lady would 
 
 step it. 
 There, across the great rocky wharves, a wooden bridge 
 
 goes,
 
 588 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Carrying a path to the forest; below, three hundred 
 yards, say, 
 
 Lower in level some twenty-five feet, through flats of 
 shingle, 
 
 Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open val- 15 
 
 ley. 
 But in the interval here the boiling pent-up water 
 
 Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a basin, 
 
 Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and 
 fury 
 
 Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror; 
 
 Beautiful there for the colour derived from green rocks 20 
 under; 
 
 Beautiful, most of all, where beads of foam uprising 
 
 Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the 
 stillness, 
 
 Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent birch 
 boughs, 
 
 Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and path- 
 way, 
 
 Still more enclosed from below by wood and rocky pro- 25 
 jection. 
 
 You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection 
 of water, 
 
 Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the god- 
 dess of bathing. 
 
 Here, the pride of the plunger, you stride the fall and 
 clear it; 
 
 Here, the delight of the bather, you roll in beaded spark- 
 lings, 
 
 Here into pure green depth drop down from lofty ledges. 30
 
 CLOUGH 589 
 
 WHERE LIES THE LAND? 
 
 WHERE lies the land to which the ship would go? 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 
 On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 5 
 
 Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; 
 Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
 The foaming wake far widening as we go. 
 
 On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, 
 How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 10 
 The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
 Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 
 
 Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from? Away, 15 
 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 
 SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 
 
 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; 
 
 It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
 Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 
 
 And, but for you, possess the field.
 
 590 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
 Come silent, flooding in, the main, 
 
 And not by eastern windows only, 
 
 When daylight comes, comes in the light, 
 
 In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
 But westward, look, the land is bright. 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side, 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried; 
 
 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
 And all the darkling hours they plied, 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 
 
 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, 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared !
 
 CLOUGH 591 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guides 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 20 
 
 But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again, 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, 25 
 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, 
 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
 At last, at last, unite them there ! 
 
 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 
 That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall. 
 
 'O 09 /iera arov \ * 
 
 FAREWELL, my Highland lassie! when the year returns 
 
 around, 
 Be it Greece, or be it Norway, where my vagrant feet 
 
 are found, 
 
 * God be with you.
 
 592 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 I shall call to mind the place, I shall call to mind the 
 
 day, 
 
 The day that's gone forever, and the glen that's far away; 
 I shall mind me, be it Rhine or Rhone, Italian land or 5 
 
 France, 
 Of the laughings and the whispers, of the pipings and 
 
 the dance; 
 I shall see thy soft brown eyes dilate to wakening woman 
 
 thought, 
 And whiter still the white cheek grow to which the blush 
 
 was brought; 
 And oh, with mind commixing I thy breath of life shall 
 
 feel, 
 And clasp thy shyly passive hands in joyous Highland 10 
 
 reel; 
 
 I shall hear, and see, and feel, and in sequence sadly true, 
 Shall repeat the bitter-sweet of the lingering last adieu; 
 I shall seem as now to leave thee, with the kiss upon the 
 
 brow, 
 And the fervent benediction of 'O cos /xcra 
 
 Ah me, my Highland lassie ! though in winter drear and 15 
 
 long, 
 Deep arose the heavy snows, and the stormy winds were 
 
 strong, 
 Though the rain, in summer's brightest, it were raining 
 
 every day, 
 With worldly comforts few and far, how glad were I to 
 
 stay! 
 I fall to sleep with dreams of life in some black bothie 
 
 spent, 
 Coarse poortith's were thou changing there to gold of 20 
 
 pure content,
 
 CLOUGH 593 
 
 With barefoot lads and lassies round, and thee the cheery 
 
 wife, 
 
 In the braes of old Lochaber a laborious homely life; 
 But I wake, to leave thee, smiling, with the kiss upon 
 
 the brow, 
 And the peaceful benediction of 'O e6s /ACTO, a-ov I 
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE 
 
 GREEN fields of England! wheresoe'er 
 Across this watery waste we fare, 
 Your image at our hearts we bear, 
 Green fields of England, everywhere. 
 
 Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
 Past where the waves' last confines be, 
 Ere your loved smile I cease to see, 
 Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 
 
 Dear home in England, safe and fast 
 If but in thee my lot lie cast, 
 The past shall seem a nothing past 
 To thee, dear home, if won at last; 
 Dear home in England, won at last. 
 
 A RIVER POOL 
 
 SWEET streamlet basin ! at thy side 
 Weary and faint within me cried 
 My longing heart. In such pure deep 
 How sweet it were to sit and sleep; 
 
 2Q
 
 594 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 To feel each passage from without 5 
 
 Close up, above me and about, 
 
 Those circling waters crystal clear, 
 
 That calm impervious atmosphere ! 
 
 There on thy pearly pavement pure, 
 
 To lean, and feel myself secure, 10 
 
 Or through the dim-lit interspace 
 
 Afar at whiles upgazing trace 
 
 The dimpling bubbles dance around 
 
 Upon thy smooth exterior face; 
 
 Or idly list the dreamy sound 15 
 
 Of ripples lightly flung, above 
 
 That home, of peace, if not of love. 
 
 COME, POET, COME 
 
 COME, Poet, come! 
 A thousand labourers ply their task, 
 And what it tends to scarcely ask, 
 And trembling thinkers on the brink 
 Shiver, and know not how to think. 
 To tell the purport of their pain, 
 And what our silly joys contain; 
 In lasting lineaments portray 
 The substance of the shadowy day; 
 Our real and inner deeds rehearse, 
 And make our meaning clear in verse: 
 Come, Poet, come ! for but in vain 
 We do the work or feel the pain, 
 And gather up in seeming gain, 
 Unless before the end thou come 
 To take, ere they be lost, their sum.
 
 CLOUGH 595 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 
 And give an utterance to the dumb, 
 And make vain babbles silent, come; 
 A thousand dupes point here and there, 20 
 
 Bewildered by the show and glare; 
 And wise men half have learned to doubt 
 Whether we are not best without. 
 Come, Poet; both but wait to see 
 Their error proved to them in thee. 25 
 
 Come, Poet, come! 
 In vain I seem to call. And yet 
 Think not the living times forget. 
 Ages of heroes fought and fell 
 That Homer in the end might tell; 30 
 
 O'er grovelling generations past 
 Upstood the Doric fane at last; 
 And countless hearts on countless years 
 Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, 
 Rude laughter and unmeaning tears, 35 
 
 Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome 
 The pure perfection of her dome. 
 Others, I doubt not, if not we, 
 The issue of our toils shall see; 
 Young children gather as their own 40 
 
 The harvest that the dead had sown, 
 The dead forgotten and unknown. 
 
 IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS 
 
 EACH for himself is still the rule; 
 We learn it when we go to school 
 The devil take the hindmost, O!
 
 59 6 
 
 And when the schoolboys grow to men, 
 In life they learn it o'er again 
 The devil take the hindmost, O ! 
 
 For in the church, and at the bar, 
 On 'Change, at court, where'er they are, 
 The devil takes the hindmost, O ! 
 
 Husband for husband, wife for wife, 
 Are careful that in married life 
 
 The devil takes the hindmost, O ! 
 
 From youth to age, whate'er the game, 
 
 The unvarying practice is the same 
 
 The devil takes the hindmost, O ! 
 
 And after death, we do not know, 
 But scarce can doubt where'er we go 
 The devil takes the hindmost, O ! 
 
 Ti rol de rol, ti rol de ro, 
 
 The devil take the hindmost, O !
 
 JOHN RUSKIN 
 
 (1819- ) 
 
 PRAETERITA 
 77/i? Consecration 
 
 DIFFICULT enough for you to imagine, that old travel- 
 lers' time, when Switzerland was yet the land of the 
 Swiss, and the Alps had never been trod by foot of man. 
 Steam, never heard of yet, but for short, fair-weather 
 crossing at sea (were there paddle-packets across Atlan- 5 
 tic? I forget). Anyway, the roads by land were safe; 
 and entered once into this mountain Paradise, we wound 
 on through its balmy glens, past cottage after cottage on 
 their lawns, still glistening in the dew. 
 
 The road got into more barren heights by the mid- 10 
 day, the hills arduous; once or twice we had to wait for 
 horses, and we were still twenty miles from Schaffhausen 
 at sunset; it was past midnight when we reached her 
 closed gates. The disturbed porter had the grace to 
 open them not quite wide enough; we carried away 15 
 one of the lamps in collision with the slanting bar as 
 we drove through the arch. How much happier the 
 privilege of dreamily entering a mediaeval city, though 
 with the loss of a lamp, than the free ingress of being 
 jammed between a dray and a tram-car at a railroad 20 
 station ! 
 
 It is strange that I but dimly recollect the following 
 597
 
 598 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 morning; I fancy we must have gone to some sort of 
 church or other; and certainly, part of the day went in 
 admiring the bow-windows projecting into the clean 25 
 streets. None of us seemed to have thought the Alps 
 would be visible without profane exertion in climbing 
 hills. We dined at four, as usual, and the evening 
 being entirely fine, went to walk, all of us, my father 
 and mother and Mary and I. 30 
 
 We must have still spent some time in town seeing, 
 for it was drawing toward sunset when we got up to 
 some sort of garden promenade west of the town, I 
 believe; and high above the Rhine, so as to command 
 the open country across it to south and west. At which 35 
 open country of low undulation, far into blue, gazing 
 as at one of our own distances from Malvern of Worces- 
 tershire, or Dorking of Kent, suddenly behold be- 
 yond. 
 
 There was no thought in any of us for a moment of 40 
 their being clouds. They were as clear as crystal, sharp 
 on the pure horizon sky, and already tinged with rose by 
 the sinking sun. Infinitely beyond all that we had ever 
 thought or dreamed, the seen walls of lost Eden could 
 not have been more beautiful to us; not more awful, 45 
 round heaven, the walls of sacred Death. 
 
 It is not possible to imagine, in any time of the 
 world, a more blessed entrance into life, for a child of 
 such a temperament as mine. True, the temperament 
 belonged to the age: a very few years, within the 50 
 hundred, before that, no child could have been born 
 to care for the mountains, or for the men that lived 
 among them, in that way. Till Rousseau's time, there 
 had been no "sentimental" love of nature; and till 
 Scott's, no such apprehensive love of "all sorts and con- 55
 
 RUSK IN 599 
 
 ditions of men," not in the soul merely, but in the flesh. 
 St. Bernard of La Fontaine, looking out to Mont Blanc, 
 with his child's eyes, sees above Mont Blanc the Ma- 
 donna; St. Bernard of Talloires, not the Lake of An- 
 necy but the dead between Martigny and Aosta. But 60 
 for me, the Alps and their people were alike beautiful 
 in their snow, and their humanity; and I wanted, 
 neither for them nor myself, sight of any throne in 
 heaven but the rocks, or of any spirits in heaven but the 
 clouds. 65 
 
 Thus, in perfect health of life and fire of heart, not 
 wanting to be anything but the boy I was, not wanting 
 to have anything more than I had; knowing of sorrow 
 only just so much as to make life serious to me, not 
 enough to slacken in the least its sinews; and with so 70 
 much of science mixed with feeling as to make the sight 
 of the Alps not only the revelation of the beauty of the 
 earth, but the opening of the first page of its volume, 
 I went down that evening from the garden-terrace of 
 Schaffhausen with my destiny fixed in all of it that was 75 
 to be sacred and useful. To that terrace, and the shore 
 of the Lake of Geneva, my heart and faith return to this 
 day, in every impulse that is yet nobly alive in them, 
 and every thought that has in it help or peace. 
 
 MODERN PAINTERS 
 Real Happiness 
 
 THE great mechanical impulses of the age, of which 
 most of us are so proud, are a mere passing fever, half 
 speculative, half childish. People will discover at last
 
 600 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 that royal roads to anything can no more be laid in iron 
 than they can in dust; that there are, in fact, no royal 5 
 roads to anywhere worth going to; that if there were, it 
 would that instant cease to be worth going to, I mean so 
 far as the things to be obtained are in any way estimable 
 in terms of price. For there are two classes of precious 
 things in the world : those that God gives us for nothing 10 
 sun, air, and life (both mortal life and immortal); 
 and the secondarily precious things which He gives us 
 for a price : these secondarily precious things, worldly 
 wine and milk, can only be bought for definite money; 
 they never can be cheapened. No cheating nor bargain- 15 
 ing will ever get a single thing out of nature's " establish- 
 ment" at half-price. Do we want to be strong? we 
 must work. To be hungry? we must starve. To be 
 happy? we must be kind. To be wise? we must 
 look and think. No changing of place at a hundred 20 
 miles an hour, nor making of stuffs a thousand yards a 
 minute will make us one whit stronger, happier, or 
 wiser. There was always more in the world than men 
 could see, walked they ever so solwly; they will see it 
 no better for going fast. And they will at last, and 25 
 soon, too, find out that their grand inventions for con- 
 quering (as they think) space and time do in reality 
 conquer nothing; for space and time are, in their own 
 essence, unconquerable, and besides did not want any 
 sort of conquering; they wanted using. A fool always 30 
 wants to shorten space and time : a wise man wants to 
 lengthen both. A fool wants to kill space and kill time: 
 a wise man, first to gain them, then to animate them. 
 Your railroad, when you come to understand it, is 
 only a device for making the world smaller: and as for 35 
 being able to talk from place to place, that is, indeed,
 
 RUSK IN 60 1 
 
 well and convenient; but suppose you have, originally, 
 nothing to say. We shall be obliged at last to confess, 
 what we should long ago have known, that the really 
 precious things are thought and sight, not pace. It 40 
 does a bullet no good to go fast; and a man, if he be 
 truly a man, no harm to go slow; for his glory is not at 
 all in going, but in being. . . . 
 
 And I am Utopian and enthusiastic enough to believe, 
 that the time will come when the world will discover 45 
 this. It has now made its experiments in every possible 
 direction but the right one; and it seems that it must, 
 at last, try the right one, in a mathematical necessity. 
 It has tried fighting, and preaching, and fasting, buying 
 and selling, pomp and parsimony, pride and humilia- 50 
 tion, every possible manner of existence in which it 
 could conjecture there was any happiness or dignity; 
 and all the while, as it bought, sold, and fought, and 
 fasted, and wearied itself with policies, and ambitions, 
 and self-denials, God has placed its real happiness in 55 
 the keeping of the little mosses of the wayside, and of 
 the clouds of the firmament. Now and then a weary 
 king, or a tormented slave, found out where the true 
 kingdoms of the world were, and possessed himself, in 
 a furrow or two of garden ground, of a truly infinite 60 
 dominion. But the world would not believe their re- 
 port, and went on trampling down the mosses, and for- 
 getting the clouds, and seeking happiness in its own 
 way, until, at last, blundering and late, came natural 
 science; and in natural science not only the observation 65 
 of things, but the finding out of new uses for them. Of 
 course the world, having a choice left to it, went wrong, 
 as usual, and thought that these mere material uses were 
 to be the sources of its happiness. It got the clouds
 
 602 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 packed into iron cylinders, and made it carry its wise 70 
 self at their own cloud pace. It got weavable fibres out 
 of the mosses, and made clothes for itself, cheap and 
 fine, here was happiness at last. To go as fast as the 
 clouds, and manufacture everything out of anything, 
 here was paradise, indeed. 75 
 
 And now, when, in a little while, it is unparadised 
 again, if there were any other mistake that the world 
 could make, it would of course make it. But I see not 
 that there is any other; and, standing fairly at its wits' 
 ends, having found that going fast, when it is used to 80 
 it, is no more paradisaical than going slow; and that all 
 the prints and cottons in Manchester cannot make it 
 comfortable in its mind, I do verily believe it will 
 come, finally, to understand that God paints the clouds 
 and shapes the moss-fibres, that men may be happy in 85 
 seeing Him at His work, and that in resting quietly 
 beside Him, and watching His working, and accord- 
 ing to the power He has communicated to ourselves, 
 and the guidance He grants, in carrying out His pur- 
 poses of peace and charity among all His creatures, are 90 
 the only real happiness that ever were, or ever will be, 
 possible to mankind. 
 
 LECTURES ON ART 
 The Function of Art 
 
 LET me now finally, and with all distinctness possible 
 to me, state to you the main business of all Art; its 
 service in the actual uses of daily life. 
 
 You are surprised, perhaps, to hear me call this its 
 main business. That is indeed so, however. The giv-
 
 RUSK IN 603 
 
 ing brightness to picture is much, but the giving bright- 
 ness to life more. And remember, were it as patterns 
 only, you cannot, without the realities, have the pict- 
 ures. You cannot have a landscape by Turner, without 
 a country for him to paint; you cannot have a portrait 10 
 by Titian, without a man to be pourtrayed. I need not 
 prove that to you, I suppose, in these short terms; but 
 in the outcome I can get no soul to believe that the 
 beginning of art is in getting our country clean and our 
 people beautiful. I have been ten years trying to get 15 
 this very plain certainty I do not say believed but 
 even thought of, as anything but a monstrous proposi- 
 tion. To get your country clean, and your people lovely; 
 
 I assure you that is a necessary work of art to begin 
 with ! There has indeed been art in countries where 20 
 people lived in dirt to serve God, but never in countries 
 where they lived in dirt to serve the devil. There has 
 indeed been art where the people were not at all lovely, 
 
 where even their lips were thick and their skins 
 black, because the sun had looked upon them ; but never 25 
 in a country where the people were pale with miserable 
 toil and deadly shade, and where the lips of youth, in- 
 stead of being full with blood, were pinched by famine, 
 
 or warped with poison. And now, therefore, note this 
 well, the gist of all these long prefatory talks. I said 30 
 that the two great moral instincts were those of Order 
 and Kindness. Now, all the arts are founded on agri- 
 culture by the hand, and on the graces, and kindness of 
 feeding, and dressing, and lodging your people. Greek 
 ar begins in the gardens of Alcinous perfect order, 35 
 leeks in beds, and fountains in pipes. And Christian 
 art, as it arose out of chivalry, was only possible so far 
 as chivalry compelled both kings and knights to care for
 
 604 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 the right personal training of their people; it perished 
 utterly when those kings and knights became Sr)fj.oft6poi, 40 
 devourers of the people. And it will become possible 
 again only, when, literally, the sword is beaten into the 
 ploughshare, when your St. George of England shall jus- 
 tify his name, and Christian art shall be known, as its 
 Master was, in breaking of bread. ... 45 
 
 Now, I have given you my message, containing, as I 
 know, offence enough, and itself, it may seem to many, 
 unnecessary enough. But just in proportion to its ap- 
 parent non-necessity, and to its certain offence, was its 
 real need, and my real duty to speak it. ... And there- 50 
 fore these are the things that I have first and last to tell 
 you in this place : that the fine arts are not to be learned 
 by Locomotion, but by making the homes we live in 
 lovely and by staying in them; that the fine arts are 
 not to be learned by Competition, but by doing our quiet 55 
 best in our own way; that the fine arts are not to be 
 learned by Exhibition, but by doing what is right and 
 making what is honest, whether it be exhibited or not; 
 and, for the sum of all, that men must paint and build 
 neither for pride nor for money, but for love; for love of 60 
 their art, for love of their neighbour, and whatever better 
 love may be than these, founded on these. . . . Begin 
 with wooden floors; the tessellated ones will take care 
 of themselves; begin with thatching roofs, and you shall 
 end by splendidly vaulting them; begin by taking care 65 
 that no old eyes fail over their Bibles, nor young ones 
 over their needles, for want of rushlight, and then you 
 may have whatever true good is to be got out of col- 
 oured glass or wax candles. And in thus putting the 
 arts to universal use, you will find also their universal 70 ' 
 inspiration, their universal benediction.
 
 RUSK IN 605 
 
 STONES OF VENICE 
 Knowledge and Wisdom 
 
 YET, observe, I do not mean to speak of the body and 
 soul as separable. The man is made up of both : they 
 are to be raised and glorified together, and all art is an 
 expression of one, by and through the other. All that 
 I would insist upon, is, the necessity of the whole man 5 
 being in his work; the body must be in it. Hands and 
 habits must be in it, whether we will or not; but the 
 nobler part of the man may often not be in it. And 
 that nobler part acts principally in love, reverence, and 
 admiration, together with those conditions of thought 10 
 which arise out of them. For we usually fall into much 
 error by considering the intellectual powers as having 
 dignity in themselves, and separable from the heart; 
 whereas the truth is, that the intellect becomes noble 
 and ignoble according to the food we give it, and the 15 
 kind of subjects with which it is conversant. It is not 
 the reasoning power which, of itself, is noble, but the 
 reasoning power occupied with its proper objects. Half 
 of the mistakes of metaphysicians have arisen from their 
 not observing this; namely, that the intellect, going 20 
 through the same process, is yet mean or noble accord- 
 ing to the matter it deals with, and wastes itself away in 
 mere rotary motion, if it be set to grind straws and dust. 
 If we reason only respecting words, or lines, or any tri- 
 fling and finite things, the reason becomes a contempt- 25 
 ible faculty; but reason employed on holy and infinite 
 things, becomes herself holy and infinite. . . . For it 
 must be felt at once that the increase of knowledge, 
 merely as such, does not make the soul larger or smaller;
 
 606 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 that, in the sight of God, all the knowledge man can 30 
 gain is as nothing, but that the soul, ... be it igno- 
 rant or be it wise, is all in all, and in the activity, 
 strength, health, and well-being of this soul, lies the 
 main difference, in His sight, between one man and an- 
 other. And that which is all in all in God's estimate is 35 
 also, be assured, all in all in man's labour, and to have 
 the heart open, and the eyes clear, and the emotions 
 and thoughts warm and quick, and not the knowing of 
 this or the other fact, is the state needed for all mighty 
 doing in this world. And therefore, finally, for this the 40 
 weightiest of all reasons, let us take no pride in our 
 knowledge. We may, in a certain sense, be proud of 
 being immortal; we may be proud of being God's chil- 
 dren; we may be proud of loving, thinking, seeing, and 
 of all that we are by no human teaching: but not of 45 
 what we have been taught by rote; not of the ballast 
 and freight of the ship of the spirit, but only of its 
 pilotage, without which all the freight will only sink it 
 faster, and strew the sea more richly with its ruin. 
 There is not at this moment a youth of twenty, having 50 
 received what we moderns ridiculously call education, 
 but he knows more of everything, except the soul, than 
 Plato or St. Paul did; but he is not for that reason a 
 greater man, or fitter for his work, or more fit to be 
 heard by others, than Plato or St. Paul. 55
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 (1822-1888) 
 
 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 Callicles 1 Song 
 
 THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts 
 Thick breaks the red flame; 
 All Etna heaves fiercely 
 Her forest-clothed frame. 
 
 Not here, O Apollo ! 5 
 
 Are haunts meet for thee. 
 
 But, where Helicon breaks down 
 
 In cliff to the sea, 
 
 Where the moon-silver'd inlets 
 
 Send far their light voice ic 
 
 Up the still vale of Thisbe, 
 
 O speed, and rejoice ! 
 
 On the sward at the cliff-top 
 
 Lie strewn the white flocks, 
 
 On the cliff-side the pigeons 15 
 
 Roost deep in the rocks. 
 
 In the moonlight the shepherds, 
 Soft lull'd by the rills, 
 Lie wrapt in their blankets 
 Asleep on the hills. to 
 
 607
 
 6oS FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 What forms are these coming 
 So white through the gloom? 
 What garments out-glistening 
 The gold-flower'd broom? 
 
 What sweet-breathing presence 25 
 
 Out-perfumes the thyme? 
 
 What voices enrapture 
 
 The night's balmy prime? 
 
 'Tis Apollo comes leading 
 
 His choir, the Nine. 30 
 
 The leader is fairest, 
 But all are divine. 
 
 They are lost in the hollows! 
 
 They stream up again ! 
 
 What seeks on this mountain 35 
 
 The glorified train? 
 
 They bathe on this mountain, 
 
 In the spring by their road; 
 
 Then on to Olympus, 
 
 Their endless abode. 40 
 
 Whose praise do they mention? 
 Of what is it told? 
 
 What will be for ever; 
 What was from of old. 
 
 First hymn they the Father 45 
 
 Of all things; and then, 
 The rest of immortals, 
 The action of men.
 
 ARNOLD 609 
 
 The day in his hotness, 
 
 The strife with the palm; 50 
 
 The night in her silence, 
 
 The stars in their calm. 
 
 DOVER BEACH 
 
 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 land, 
 
 Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
 
 Of 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 15 
 
 Heard it on the Aegean, 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. 20 
 
 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 
 
 2R
 
 6lO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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 
 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams, 
 
 So various, so beautiful, so new, 
 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 
 
 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. 
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES 
 
 GOETHE in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
 Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
 But one such death remain'd to come; 
 The last poetic voice is dumb 
 We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb. 
 
 When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
 We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
 He taught us little; but our soul 
 Had/*?// him like the thunder's roll. 
 With shivering heart the strife we saw 
 Of passion with eternal law; 
 And yet with reverential awe 
 We watch 'd the fount of fiery life 
 Which served for that Titanic strife.
 
 ARNOLD 6ll 
 
 When Goethe's death was told, we said : 15 
 
 Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 
 
 Physician of the iron age, 
 
 Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
 
 He took the suffering human race, 
 
 He read each wound, each weakness clear; 20 
 
 And struck his finger on the place, 
 
 And said : Thou ailest here and here ! 
 
 He look'd on Europe's dying hour 
 
 Of fitful dream and feverish power; 
 
 His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 25 
 
 The turmoil of expiring life 
 
 He said : The end is everywhere, 
 
 Art still has truth, take refuge there ! 
 
 And he was happy, if to know 
 
 Causes of things, and far below 30 
 
 His feet to see the lurid flow 
 
 Of terror, and insane distress, 
 
 And headlong fate, be happiness. 
 
 And Wordsworth! Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice! 
 
 For never has such soothing voice 35 
 
 Been to your shadowy world convey 'd, 
 
 Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade 
 
 Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
 
 Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
 
 Wordsworth has gone from us and ye, 40 
 
 Ah, may ye feel his voice as we ! 
 
 He too upon a wintry clime 
 
 Had fallen on this iron time 
 
 Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
 
 He found us when the age had bound 45 
 
 Our souls in its benumbing round;
 
 6l2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 
 
 He laid us as we lay at birth 
 
 On the cool flowery lap of earth, 
 
 Smiles broke from us and we had ease; 50 
 
 The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 
 Went o'er the sun-lit fields again; 
 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
 
 Our youth return' d; for there was shed 
 
 On spirits that had long been dead, 55 
 
 Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, 
 
 The freshness of the early world. 
 
 Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 
 
 Man's prudence and man's fiery might, 
 
 Time may restore us in his course 60 
 
 Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; 
 
 But where will Europe's latter hour 
 
 Again find Wordsworth's healing power? 
 
 Others will teach us how to dare 
 
 And against fear our breast to steel; 65 
 
 Others will strengthen us to bear 
 
 But who, ah! who, will make us feel? 
 
 The cloud of mortal destiny, 
 
 Others will front it fearlessly 
 
 But who, like him, will put it by? 70 
 
 Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
 O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
 Sing him thy best! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.
 
 ARNOLD 613 
 
 RUGBY CHAPEL 
 Servants of God 
 
 THEN, in such hour of need 
 
 Of your fainting, dispirited race, 
 
 Ye, like angels, appear, 
 
 Radiant with ardour divine ! 
 
 Beacons of hope, ye appear ! 5 
 
 Languor is not in your heart, 
 
 Weakness is not in your word, 
 
 Weariness not on your brow. 
 
 Ye alight in our van ! at your voice, 
 
 Panic, despair, flee away. 10 
 
 Ye move through the ranks, recall 
 
 The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 
 
 Praise, re-inspire the brave ! 
 
 Order, courage, return. 
 
 Eyes rekindling, and prayers, 15 
 
 Follow your steps as ye go. 
 
 Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 
 
 Strengthen the wavering line, 
 
 Stablish, continue our march, 
 
 On, to the bound of the waste, *> 
 
 On, to the City of God. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. 
 We ask and ask Thou smilest and art still, 
 Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, 
 Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
 
 6 14 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 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-school '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. 
 
 WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS 
 
 'O MONSTROUS, dead, unprofitable world, 
 That thou canst hear and hearing hold thy way! 
 A voice oracular hath peal'd to-day, 
 To-day a hero's banner is unfurl'd; 
 
 'Hast thou no lip for welcome? ' So I said. 5 
 
 Man after man, the world smiled and pass'd by; 
 A smile of wistful incredulity 
 As though we spoke of life unto the dead 
 
 Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full 
 
 Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free; 10 
 
 Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful; 
 
 The seeds of godlike power are in us still; 
 Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will! 
 Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery?
 
 ARNOLD 615 
 
 EAST LONDON 
 
 'TWAS August, and the fierce sun overhead 
 Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 
 And the pale weaver, through his windows seen 
 In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 
 
 I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 
 
 '111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene?' 
 
 'Bravely! ' said he; 'for I of late have been 
 
 Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread. ' 
 
 O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
 Set up a mark of everlasting light, 
 Above the howling sense's ebb and flow, 
 
 To cheer thee, and so right thee if thou roam 
 Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! 
 Thoumak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. 
 
 CALAIS SANDS 
 
 A THOUSAND knights have reined their steeds 
 To watch this line of sand-hills run, 
 Along the never silent strait, 
 To Calais glittering in the sun. 
 
 To look toward Ardres' Golden Field, 
 Across this wide aerial plain, 
 Which glows as if the Middle Age 
 Were gorgeous upon earth again.
 
 6l6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 Oh, that to share this famous scene, 
 
 I saw, upon the open sand, 10 
 
 Thy lovely presence at my side, 
 
 Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand ! 
 
 How exquisite thy voice would come, 
 
 My darling, on this lonely air ! 
 
 How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze 15 
 
 Shake loose some band of soft brown hair ! 
 
 Yet now my glance but once hath roved 
 
 O'er Calais and its famous plain; 
 
 To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd, 
 
 O'er the blue strait mine eyes I strain. 20 
 
 Thou comest! Yes! the vessel's cloud 
 Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. 
 Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine, 
 To win one instant's glimpse of thee ! 
 
 I must not spring to grasp thy hand, 25 
 
 To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye; 
 But I may stand far off, and gaze, 
 And watch thee pass unconscious by, 
 
 And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, 
 Mixtwith the idlers on the pier 30 
 
 Ah, might I always rest unseen, 
 So I might have thee always near ! 
 
 To-morrow hurry through the fields 
 
 Of Flanders to the storied Rome ! 
 
 To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close 35 
 
 Beneath one roof, my queen ! with mine.
 
 ARNOLD 617 
 
 THE STUDY OF POETRY 
 Poetry a Criticism of Life 
 
 WE should conceive of poetry worthily, and more 
 highly than it has been the custom to conceive of it. 
 We should conceive of it as capable of higher uses, and 
 called to higher destinies, than those which in general 
 men have assigned to it hitherto. More and more man- 5 
 kind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to 
 interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. With- 
 out poetry, our science will appear incomplete; and 
 most of what now passes with us for religion and phi- 
 losophy will be replaced by poetry. Science, I say, will 10 
 appear incomplete without it. For finely and truly does 
 Wordsworth call poetry 'the impassioned expression 
 which is in the countenance of all science ' ; and what 
 is a countenance without its expression? Again, Words- 
 worth finely and truly calls poetry 'the breath and finer 15 
 spirit of all knowledge ' : our religion, parading evi- 
 dences such as those on which the popular mind relies 
 now; our philosophy, pluming itself on its reasonings 
 about causation and finite and infinite being; what are 
 they but the shadows and dreams and false shows of 20 
 knowledge ? The day will come when we shall wonder 
 at ourselves for having trusted to them, for having taken 
 them seriously; and the more we perceive their hollow- 
 ness, the more we shall prize 'the breath and finer spirit 
 of knowledge ' offered to us by poetry. 25 
 
 But if we conceive thus highly of the destinies of 
 poetry, we must also set our standard for poetry high, 
 since poetry, to be capable of fulfilling such high desti- 
 nies, must be poetry of a high order of excellence. We
 
 6l8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 must accustom ourselves to a high standard and to a 30 
 strict judgment. Sainte-Beuve relates that Napoleon 
 one day said, when somebody was spoken of in his 
 presence as a charlatan: 'Charlatan as much as you 
 please; but where is there not charlatanism?' 'Yes,' 
 answers Sainte-Beuve, 'in politics, in the art of govern- 35 
 ing mankind, that is perhaps true. But in the order of 
 thought, in art, the glory, the eternal honour is that 
 charlatanism shall find no entrance; herein lies the in- 
 violableness of that noble portion of man's being. ' It 
 is admirably said, and let us hold fast to it. In poetry, 40 
 which is thought and art in one, it is the glory, the eter- 
 nal honour, that charlatanism shall find no entrance : that 
 this noble sphere be kept inviolate and inviolable. Char- 
 latanism is for confusing or obliterating the distinctions 
 between excellent and inferior, sound and unsound or 45 
 only half-sound, true and untrue or only half-true. It 
 is charlatanism, conscious or unconscious, whenever \ve 
 confuse or obliterate these. And in poetry, more than 
 anywhere else, it is unpermissible to confuse or obliter- 
 ate them. For in poetry the distinction between excel- 50 
 lent and inferior, sound and unsound or only half-sound, 
 true and untrue or only half-true, is of paramount im- 
 portance. It is of paramount importance because of the 
 high destinies of poetry. In poetry, as a criticism of 
 life under the conditions fixed for such a criticism by 55 
 the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty, the spirit of 
 our race will find, we have said, as time goes on and as 
 other helps fail, its consolation and stay. But the con- 
 solation and stay will be of power in proportion to the 
 power of the criticism of life. And the criticism of life 60 
 will be of power in proportion as the poetry conveying 
 it is excellent rather than inferior, sound rather than
 
 ARNOLD 619 
 
 unsound or half-sound, true rather than untrue or half- 
 true. 
 
 The best poetry is what we want; the best poetry will 65 
 be found to have a power of forming, sustaining, and 
 delighting us, as nothing else can. A clearer, deeper 
 sense of the best in poetry, and of the strength and joy 
 to be drawn from it, is the most precious benefit which 
 we can gather from a poetical collection such as the 70 
 present. And yet in the very nature and conduct of 
 such a collection there is inevitably something which 
 tends to obscure in us the consciousness of what our 
 benefit should be, and to distract us from the pursuit of 
 it. We should therefore steadily set it before our minds 75 
 at the outset, and should compel ourselves to revert con- 
 stantly to the thought of it as we proceed. 
 
 Yes; constantly, in reading poetry, a sense for the 
 best, the really excellent, and of the strength and joy 
 to be drawn from it, should be present in our minds and 80 
 should govern our estimate of what we read. But this 
 real estimate, the only true one, is liable to be super- 
 seded, if we are not watchful, by two other kinds of esti- 
 mate, the historic estimate and the personal estimate, 
 both of which are fallacious. A poet or a poem may 85 
 count to us historically, they may count to us on grounds 
 personal to ourselves, and they may count to us really. 
 They may count to us historically. The course of devel- 
 opment of a nation's language, thought, and poetry, is 
 profoundly interesting; and by regarding a poet's work 90 
 as a stage in this course of development we may easily 
 bring ourselves to make it of more importance as poetry 
 than in itself it really is, we may come to use a language 
 of quite exaggerated praise in criticising it; in short, to 
 over-rate it. So arises in our poetic judgments the fal- 95
 
 620 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 
 
 lacy caused by the estimate which we may call historic. 
 Then, again, a poet or a poem may count to us on 
 grounds personal to ourselves. Our personal affinities, 
 likings, and circumstances, have great power to sway our 
 estimate of this or that poet's work, and to make us at- 100 
 tach more importance to it as poetry than in itself it 
 really possesses, because to us it is, or has been, of high 
 importance. Here also we over-rate the object of our in- 
 terest, and apply to it a language of praise which is quite 
 exaggerated. And thus we get the source of a second 105 
 fallacy in our poetic judgments, the fallacy caused by 
 an estimate which we may call personal. 
 
 At any rate the end to which the method and the 
 estimate are designed to lead, and from leading to 
 which, if they do lead to it, they get their whole value, no 
 the benefit of being able clearly to feel and deeply to 
 enjoy the best, the truly classic, in poetry, is an end, 
 let me say it once more at parting, of supreme impor- 
 tance. We are often told that an era is opening in 
 which we are to see multitudes of a common sort of 115 
 readers, and masses of a common sort of literature; that 
 such readers do not want and could not relish anything 
 better than such literature, and that to provide it is 
 becoming a vast and profitable industry. Even if good 
 literature entirely lost currency with the world, it would 120 
 still be abundantly worth while to continue to enjoy it 
 by oneself. But it never will lose currency with the 
 world, in spite of momentary appearances; it never will 
 lose supremacy. Currency and supremacy are insured 
 to it, not indeed by the world's deliberate and conscious 125 
 choice, but by something far deeper, by the instinct of 
 self-preservation in humanity.
 
 NOTES 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 THE England before Chaucer was a complex of elements, Celtic, 
 Roman, Saxon, and Norman, which, under the influences within 
 and without, gradually became united, until there developed a dis- 
 tinct national polity and national religion. The former was evolved 
 from within ; the latter came from without. The song of war and con- 
 quest, full of the strain of the sea, which the Saxons brought with them 
 from the Continent, under the milder influences of Christianity at 
 Whitby became a song of religious struggle and devotion with Caedman 
 and Cynewulf. When by the inroads of the Danes literature was 
 driven from Northumbria it found a home at Winchester, the court of 
 Alfred, and English prose was born in the Saxon Chronicle. Like the 
 verse of the North, this was English in language, and religious in sen- 
 timent, and we now have a national literature. When that mighty 
 wave of Norman influence crossed the channel and reached the shores 
 of England, the Church, the State, and Literature became transformed, 
 at least in their external nature. The Norman bishop supplanted the 
 Saxon bishop, the baron supplanted the earl, the minstrel, the gleeman, 
 and end-rhyme, alliteration. To all appearances the revolution was 
 complete, but deep down in the life and thought of the subjugated 
 English, seeds were growing which would, in time, break the bands of 
 external formality, and, in the milder atmosphere of Norman culture 
 and romance cycles, develop into the graceful and sinewy new tongue. 
 Its growth is marked by the work of Layamon, the story tellers, song 
 and ballad, Wicliff, Langland, and Gower, until it reaches a stage ready 
 for the fashioning of the master, and in Chaucer the Formative Period 
 attains its culmination. 
 
 " Chaucer sang matins, sweet his note and strong, 
 His singing-robe the green, white garb of Spring." 
 621
 
 622 NOTES: CHAUCER 
 
 In this fresh, clear, strong singer, we have the union of the best in 
 sentiment and form of the ages which preceded, and the Canterbury 
 Tales is its finest expression. He thus modestly describes himself as 
 a gleaner in the fields where others have gathered a harvest : 
 
 " And I come after, gleaning here and there, 
 And am full glad if I can find an ear 
 Of any goodly word that ye have left." 
 
 He anticipated Shakespeare in the art of holding the mirror up to 
 nature, " to show virtue her own features, scorn her own image, and the 
 very age and body of the time his form and pressure." 
 
 " Chaucer is the father of our splendid English poetry; he is our 
 ' well of English undefiled,' because by the lovely charm of his diction, 
 the lovely charm of his movement, he makes an epoch, and founds a 
 tradition. He is a genuine source of joy and strength which is flowing 
 still for us, and will flow always." MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 " Chaucer seems to me to have been one of the most purely original 
 of poets, as much so in respect to the world that is about us, as Dante 
 in respect to that which is within us. There had been nothing like him 
 before, there has been nothing like him since." J. R. LOWELL. 
 
 7. yonge sonne. The sun is young because it first entered on its 
 course through the zodiac. 
 
 8. the Ram. The sun runs one half course in the sign of the Ram 
 in March, and the second in April. 
 
 17. martir. Thomas a Becket. 
 
 20. Tabard. So called from the sign a tabard. It was an inn in 
 Southwark by London. 
 
 25. aventure i-falle. By chance having fallen. 
 
 29. esed atte beste. Entertained in the best manner. 
 
 51. Alisaundre. Alexandria. 
 
 52. the bord bigonne. Taken the head of the table. 
 
 53-58. Pruce, Prussia; Lettow, Lithuania; Ruce, Russia; Ger- 
 nade, Grenada; Algezir, taken from the Moors in 1344; Belmarye, 
 Palmyra; Lyeys, in Armenia; Satalye. Attalia. 
 
 59. the Crete See. The Mediterranean. 
 
 62. Tramyssene. Tremezen, in Africa. 
 
 65. Palatye. A lordship in Anatolia. 
 
 88. lady. This is a genitive.
 
 NOTES: CHAUCER 623 
 
 115. Christophere. Figure worn as protection from evil. 
 
 1 20. se'int Loy. Saint Eligius who refused to take an oath. The 
 allusion meaning that the Prioress never swore. 
 
 125. scole. Anglo-Norman French, used in the convents. 
 
 173. seint Maure. A disciple of Seint Beneil, or Benedict, estab- 
 lished the Benedictine order in France. 
 
 210. ordres foure. Dominicans, Carmelites, Franciscans, Augus- 
 tinians. 
 
 220. licenciat. Licensed to hear confession. 
 
 254. In principio. He began his address with the first two words 
 of St. John's Gospel. 
 
 256. rente. Friars had no fixed property. 
 
 277. Middelburgh. Opposite the Orwell on the Dutch coast. 
 
 278. sheeldes. French crowns. 
 
 310. Parvys. Porch of St. Paul's, where lawyers met for con 
 sultation. 
 
 319. fee symple. He could carry all before him. 
 
 340. Seint Julian. Famous for good entertainment. 
 
 341. after oon. Of the best. 
 
 400. By water. Drowned his prisoners. 
 
 408. Gootlond. Jutland. 
 
 416. in houres. Watched for the favorable star of astrology. 
 
 429-434. Esculapius. This and the following are names of famous 
 physicians. 
 
 442. pestilence. Plagues were frequent in the fourteenth century. 
 
 460. at chirche dore. Marriage service began at the entrance of 
 the church. 
 
 465,466. Boloigne, Boulogne; Galice, Galicia; Coloigne, Cologne, 
 where were shrines. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. A. \V. Ward, English Men of Letters; 
 M. Brown, Chaucer's England ; J. J. Jusserand, Literary History of 
 the English People; English Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages; 
 J. Saunders, The Canterbury Tales ; H. Corson, The Canterbury Tales; 
 W. J. Courthope, History of English Poetry, Vol. I. ; J. R. Lowell, 
 Prose, Vol. III.; W. Minto, Characteristics of English Poets; A. Q. 
 Couch, Adventures in Criticism ; W. W. Skeat, Complete Works of 
 Chaucer ; T. R. Lounsbury, Studies in Chaucer ; W. Hazlitt, Lectures 
 on the English Poets ; L. Hunt, Essays.
 
 624 NOTES: MALORY; LYLY 
 
 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 MORTE D'ARTHUR 
 
 In the early legendary history of Britain there rises the mighty figure 
 of the national hero, King Arthur, a figure around which has been 
 gathered more great imaginative literature than about any other in 
 history. This literature, known as the Arthurian Legend, Celtic folk- 
 lore tales, in origin and development is as intricate and shadowy as 
 that of the Homeric poems. In the fifteenth century innumerable 
 tales of this kind had become crystallized into three separate romances, 
 which deal (i) with Merlin and the early history of Arthur; (2) with 
 Launcelot, including the Quest of the Grail and death of Arthur; 
 (3) with Tristram. Malory, "the servant of Jesu both clay and 
 night," combined these into a single story, or epic, translating many, 
 if not all, from old Anglo-French MSS. His work is related to pre- 
 vious prose much as Chaucer's is to previous verse, and may be said to 
 mark the beginning of modern prose in England. His book was 
 printed by Caxton at Westminster. Malory's style is exceedingly 
 modern; it is pure, simple, direct, with a quaint charm and nobility 
 closely related to that of Chaucer. Speaking of the century following 
 Chaucer, in which there was a change from verse to prose, Professor 
 Earle says: "The chief monument of this change is the work of Sir 
 Thomas Malory, who brought the Arthurian cycle of legends out of the 
 degenerate poetry in which they were then current, and gave them a 
 new life in English prose. This is a monument of great importance, as 
 it is the first start of that career in the field of entertaining literature 
 wherein English prose would be eminently successful." 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. J. Rhys, Studies in (he Arthurian 
 Legend ; M. W. Maccallum, Tennyson's Idyls and Arthurian Story ; 
 C. Guest, Boys' King Arthur; E. Gosse, Modern Literature; Ten 
 Brink, History of English Literature; A. T. Martin, Selections from 
 Malory's King Arthur (Introduction). 
 
 JOHN LYLY 
 
 In the last quarter of the sixteenth century there arose a grotesque, 
 yet animating, fashion of speech which Professor Earle calls " a transient 
 phase of madness," in the work of John Lyly. His Eufhues is in two
 
 NOTES: LYLY; SIDNEY 62$ 
 
 parts : Euphues, the Anatomic of Wit, and Euphues and His Eng- 
 land. In an age of frivolous tastes and serious instincts, Euphues, a 
 young Athenian, goes to Naples and then to England to study men 
 and governments. Having become well informed on every subject, he 
 instructs upon friendship, marriage, travel, religion, etc. Euphues is 
 addressed mainly to women. " For I am content," he says, " that yout 
 dogges lie in your laps, so ' Euphues ' may be in your hands." Lyly 
 established drawing-room literature, full of extravagant gallantry, im- 
 moderate metaphors, strange similes from the classics and natural 
 history. It was a mirror of the life and talk of the court. Euphuism 
 became fashionable. Lyly was petted and praised by the ladies, and 
 became " king of the predeux," of affectations and prettinesses. Here 
 is the germ of that English novel of society which we find in Richard- 
 son. For a ridicule of this style read Shakespeare's Love's Labour 
 Lost, the character of Holofernes; and Scott's Monastery, Sir Piercie 
 Shafton. 
 
 Lyly wrote plays for Her Majesty's Company of Child Players, "Chil- 
 dren of Paul's." These were acted in the Chapel Royal. It is certain 
 that Lyly exerted no little influence on Shakespeare. The exquisite 
 little lyrics to be found in his dramas are the forerunners of the songs 
 which are the charm of Shakespeare's plays. 
 
 " No Frenchman in any age was ever more light and gay than the 
 ' witty, comical, facetiously quick and unparalleled John Lyly,' Queen 
 Elizabeth's favorite, and the inventor or perfecter of a fashionable style 
 of sentimental speech among her courtiers." WILLIAM MINTO. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. F. W. Fairholt, Works, with Life; W. 
 S. Rushton, Shakespeare's Euphuism ; G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Lit- 
 erature ; J. J. Jusserand, The Novel in the Time of Shakespeare ; W. J. 
 Courthope, History of English Poetry, Vol. II.; E. Gosse, Modern 
 Literature. 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 Poetry in its loftier strains had hardly been heard since Chaucer, 
 for nearly two hundred years ; it had fallen into discredit and con- 
 tempt. 
 
 Sidney's Apologie was written as a defence of the nobler ideas and 
 uses of poetry, and was suggested probably by the attack upon poetry 
 and plays in Stephen Gosson's School of Abuse, published in 1579. It 
 as
 
 626 NOTES: SIDNEY 
 
 sets before us the great principles which governed the creation of 
 poetry from Plato to Spenser, principles which have been so splendidly 
 set forth in our own time by Coleridge and Arnold. 
 
 " A specimen of flexible, spirited, fluent prose without excessive orna- 
 ment of style, or learned impedimenta." JUSSERAND. 
 
 The Arcadia was written for his sister, the noble Countess of Pem- 
 broke, the mother of William Herbert, the ' W. H.' of Shakespeare's 
 sonnets. " For severer eyes it is not," says he to his sister, " being but 
 a trifle and triflingly handled." It is difficult to conceive that Sidney 
 wrote the Apologie and the Arcadia at the same time, so marked is the 
 difference in style. He was the very pattern of right nobility, 'a paia- 
 din of art,' and it is natural that with his high ideas of what court life 
 should be, he should become the creator of court Romance, as Lyly 
 had been of court dialect. It may be considered as the beginning of 
 the English novel of Romance which we find in Defoe. Although he 
 condemned Euphuism in the Apologie, yet here it is highly artificial. 
 Jusserand says, " When the book was published after his death, people 
 were enraptured with his ingeniously dressed phrases. Lyly might 
 shake with envy without having the right to complain, for Sidney did 
 not imitate him." The famous Du Bartas, whose works influenced 
 Milton so much, named Sidney as one of the " three firm pillars of 
 English speech." 
 
 " The Arcadia supplanted Euphues in those circles in which it had 
 been a fashionable book, and the new fascination outcharmed the 
 old." PROF. JOHN EARLE. 
 
 The sonnet is one of the most interesting and artistic of the literary 
 forms which came into England from Italy. The leaders of the Renais- 
 sance, Wyatt and Surrey, " who had tasted the sweet and stately meas- 
 ures and style of Italian poesy," introduced this short poem of fourteen 
 lines given to the expression of a single idea. With Sidney, Spenser, 
 and Shakespeare, it remained true to the Italian spirit, love; but with 
 Milton and Wordsworth, it comprised the entire range of man's hopes, 
 fears, and aspirations. Sidney's sonnets are an after tune to the 
 Arcadia, The Stella of these poems is the daughter of the Earl of 
 Essex. Sidney's chivalrous youth, his passionate love, and his tragic 
 death have touched the imagination of English poets in a most mar- 
 vellous manner. Lamb says that to read these sonnets, " We must be
 
 NOTES: SIDNEY; BALLADS 627 
 
 Lovers or, at least, the cooling touch of time, the circum praecordia 
 frigiis, must not have so damped bur faculties, as to take away our 
 recollection that we were once so." 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Fox Bourne, Heroes of Nations (Sid- 
 ney) ; J. A. Symonds, English Men of Letters : J. J. Jusserand, The 
 English Novel in the Time of Shakespeare; Literary History of the 
 English People ; W. J. Courthope, History of English Poetry, Vol. II.; 
 G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan England ; Lamb, Last Essays of Elia ', 
 E. Gosse, Modern Literature. 
 
 BALLADS 
 
 With the coming of the Normans, the English gleeman was sup- 
 planted in the high places by the Norman minstrel, but yet he sang 
 on in the language of communal life, and when this language be- 
 came national in Chaucer, his songs rose to the surface, and are now 
 cherished as one of the lost arts. The balladists were the natural 
 successors of Chaucer. The ballads of England and Scotland, 
 primitive folk-songs of 
 
 " Some natural sorrow, loss or pain, 
 That has been and may be again," 
 
 are placed here because it was about this time the printer caught them 
 and gave them something of permanent form, although they were con- 
 stantly subject to alteration until the eighteenth century. Their authors 
 are unknown, and the situations and incidents are often the property 
 of many peoples. They were composed in the North of England and 
 South of Scotland at a time when the arts were ' by the people and for 
 the people, a joy to the maker and the user.' They are born not of 
 vainglory nor love of praise; they lie deep down amid the life of all 
 time, and reveal the great truth of Abt Vogler as given by Browning : 
 
 " Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear; 
 
 Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and the woe ; 
 But God has a fesv of us whom he whispers in the ear; 
 
 The rest may reason and welcome : 'tis we musicians know." 
 
 Bishop Percy's chance discovery of an old tattered MS. of these 
 ballads in the handwriting of the early seventeenth century and their 
 publication in 1765 gave them a new lease of life, and restored the
 
 628 NOTES: BALLADS; SPENSER 
 
 drooping spirits of English poesy. Scott's splendid collection, The 
 Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, in 1802, increased the interest in 
 ballad literature, and established it as a great national inheritance. 
 
 HISTORICAL. Percy, Reliques of Ancient English Poetry; Herd, 
 Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs ; Ritson, Ancient Popular Poetry ; 
 Robin Hood; Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border ; Child, English 
 and Scottish Ballads ; Bates, A Ballad Book ; Gummere, Old English 
 Ballads ; Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; Sketches in History and Poetry ; 
 Veitch, History and Poetry of the Scottish Border; W. Allingham, The 
 Ballad Book. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER 
 
 The century which followed the death of Chaucer was not a fruitful 
 one in literary art, yet sure foundations were being laid in the inven- 
 tion of printing, the interest in classical studies, and the new life in the 
 universities, so that when the impulse of the Renaissance came, it 
 found a ready response. This impulse had its first great revelation in 
 Spenser's Shepheard's Calender, and with it modern poetry began. 
 The Calender consists of a series of eclogues, modelled on those uf 
 Theocritus, one for each month in the year. Januarie, June, and 
 December treat of Spenser's disappointment in love. On its publica- 
 tion Spenser took his place by the side of Chaucer, " the pattern and 
 fount of poetry." 
 
 Colin Cloute is the pastoral name under which Spenser wrote, and 
 Hobbinol is his friend Gabriel Harvey. 
 
 Spenser's love of Sidney is revealed in the Astrophel, the first of 
 those splendid elegies which English poets have given to the world. 
 It is dedicated to the daughter of the Earl of Essex, the Stella of Sid- 
 ney's love. 
 
 The Rosalind of the Shepheard's Calender treated Spenser 'with 
 scorn and foule despite,' and he gave up the hope of winning her. In 
 1592 he met Elizabeth Boyle, and the story of his patient wooing and 
 happy winning of her love is told in the Sonnets. 
 
 "The flower of Edmund Spenser's genius is the most delicately per- 
 fumed in the whole rich garden of English verse." EDMUND GOSSE. 
 
 " Spenser was at once the morning star of England's later, and the 
 evening star of her earlier literature." AUBREY DE VERE.
 
 NOTES: SPENSER; HOOKER; MARLOWE 629 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. R. W. Church, English Men of Letters 
 Series ; G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Literature ; J. R. Lowell, Among 
 My Books; W. Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets ; E. Dowden, 
 Transcripts and Studies ; J. C. Shairp, Poetic Interpretation of Nat- 
 ure ; A. De Vere, Essays on Poetry, Vol. II.; W. J. Courthope, His- 
 tory of English Poetry, Vol. II. 
 
 RICHARD HOOKER 
 
 Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity is one of the few theological works 
 which attain the first rank in literature. His style is characterized by 
 that peculiarity of Latin syntax which distorts the natural English 
 order, and yet it is lighted up with such splendid outbursts of graceful 
 rhetoric and noble eloquence that it is a model of Hellenic felicity, 
 strength, and clearness. 
 
 " The Ecclesiastical Polity is the first monument of splendid literary 
 prose we possess." S. A. BROOKE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Literature ; 
 E. Gosse, Modern Literature ; J. Earle, English Prose ; Isaac Walton, 
 Life of Hooker ; R. W. Church, Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
 
 We often hear of ' Marlowe's mighty line,' but we seldom read it. 
 This may be due to the fact that Shakespeare's sprightly line is so 
 much more attractive, yet Marlowe occupies a commanding position 
 among pre-Shakespearean dramatists, and is worthy of study both 
 because of his intrinsic value as a poet and because of his relation to 
 Shakespeare. In splendor of imagination, richness and stateliness of 
 verse, strength and warmth of passion, he is at times almost the equal 
 of Shakespeare. " Only Milton," says Mr. Swinburne, " has surpassed 
 the opening soliloquy of Barabas." 
 
 P. 112, 1. 39. halcyon's bill. Anciently a stuffed halcyon was sus- 
 pended as a weather-vane. 
 
 P. 117, 1. 188. From Terence's Andria, I am always dear to myself. 
 
 P. 120, 1. 93. Corpo di Dio ! By my Faith ! 
 
 P. 129, 1. 39. My gains were not for everyone's benefit. 
 
 P. 130, 1. 64. Exquisite pleasure of money.
 
 630 NOTES: MARLOWE; SHAKESPEARE 
 
 " The tragic imagination in its wildest flights has never summoned 
 up images of pity and terror more imposing, more moving, than those 
 excited by the Jew of Malta." GEORGE SAINTSBURY. 
 
 " By the force of poetry, not of dramatic art, Marlowe made a noble 
 porch to the temple which Shakespeare built." S. A. BROOKE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. J. A. Symonds, Introduction to Mar- 
 lowe (Mermaid Series); Havelock Ellis, Christopher Marlowe ; G. Saints- 
 bury, Elizabethan Literature; E. Dowden, Christopher Marlowe 
 (Transcripts and Studies) ; J. R. Lowell, The Old English Dramatists. 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 We have not always given due consideration to the lyrical ele- 
 ment in Shakespeare's works, so much has the dramatic attracted us. 
 Wordsworth says, " With this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart." 
 If this be so, he did not throw open the door wide enough for the 
 critics to get a very clear view of what was within. Nothing in the 
 history of literature is more humorous than the pranks Puck has 
 played with these men. Life is too short to examine all the theories 
 as to who was " W. H., the onlie begetter of these insuing sonnets." 
 Some have refused to trace their origin to real incidents in Shake- 
 speare's life, and think that they are allegorical or philosophical; that 
 the young friend is the poet's Ideal Self, or the Spirit of Beauty; that 
 the dark mistress is Dramatic Art, or the Bride of the Canticles, etc. 
 
 Professor Dowden says : " In the Sonnets we recognize three things, 
 that Shakespeare was capable of measureless personal devotion; 
 that he was tenderly sensitive, sensitive, above all, to every diminution 
 or alteration of that love his heart so eagerly craved." 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. H. Phillips, Outlines of the Life of 
 Shakespeare; Gervinus, Shakespeare Commentaries; E. Dowden, 
 Shakespeare, his Mind and Art; Shakespeare's Sonnets; H. N. 
 Hudson, Shakespeare's Life, Art, and Character ; C. Elze, William 
 Shakespeare ; W. J. Rolfe, The Boyhood of Shakespeare ; W. Hazlitt, 
 Lectures on the English Poets; G. Wyndham, The Poems of Shake- 
 speare.
 
 NOTES: THE BIBLE; BACON 63! 
 
 THE BIBLE 
 
 There can be no doubt that the influence of the Bible of 1611, 
 known as the Authorized or King James Version, has exerted a greater 
 influence in enriching and ennobling English prose than has any other 
 book in the language; and the process by which our English attains 
 its distinction of directness, strength, and beauty, of simplicity, sub- 
 limity, and harmony, ought to prove of interest to all students. " If 
 we may reckon from the time when Tyndale may be supposed to have 
 begun his work," says Professor Earle, "we may count the Bible of 161 1 
 as the nation's travails of a hundred years." While the Revised Ver- 
 sion has its advantages of translation and division of text into verse 
 and prose, yet the Authorized Edition will ever remain as the noblest 
 example of the English tongue. 
 
 " I have with deeper gratitude to chronicle what I owed to my 
 mother for the resolutely consistent lessons which so exercised me in 
 the Scriptures as to make every word of them familiar to my ear in 
 habitual music. . . . This maternal installation of my mind in that 
 property of chapters, I count very confidently the most precious, and, 
 on the whole, the most essential, part of all my education." RUSKIN. 
 
 HISTORICAL AND CRITICAL. J. Earle, English Prose, Chap. XII.; 
 G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Literature, Chap. VI.; J. R. Green, History 
 of the English People, Bk. VII., Chap. I.; Bowen, A Layman's Study 
 of the English Bible, Chap. I.; J. H. Newman, Idea of a University, 
 pp. 289, 290; A. S. Cook, The Bible and English Prose Style ; Taine, 
 English Literature, Vol. I., " The Christian Renaissance." 
 
 FRANCIS BACON 
 
 It is a singular fact that, of the many writings of Bacon, the Essays 
 which he committed to the frail bark of our English which he thought 
 would "play the bankrupt with books " are those whose immortality 
 is best assured. Their dignity, wealth of fancy, masculine grasp of eth- 
 ical questions, language all compact, produce an effect, not of warmth 
 and friendliness, but of intellectual activity. Bacon called himself " a 
 bell-ringer who is up first to call others to church." 
 
 P. 157, 1. 31. Vinum Daemonum. Wine of spirits (Augustine's 
 Confessions}.
 
 632 NOTES: BACON; JONSON 
 
 P. 161, 11. 39, 40. Abeunt studia in Mores. Studies terminate in 
 manners. 
 
 P. 161, 1. 50. Cymini sectores. Splitters of hairs, dialecticians. 
 
 " As English prose Bacon's Essays is indeed a very remarkable book, 
 especially as it lets us see through the now prevailing and rampant 
 Classicism to some select retreat where the true English tradition 
 flourishes with its native vigor." PROFESSOR JOHN EARLE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. R. W. Church, English Men of Let- 
 ters ; E. Gosse, Modern Literature ; G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Liter- 
 ature ; J. Spedding, Letters and Life of Bacon and Life and Times ; 
 E. A. Abbott, Bacon and Essex ; P. Anton, England 1 s Essayists. 
 
 BEN JONSON 
 
 The contrast between Shakespeare and Jonson has often been 
 expressed by saying that one wrote plays, and the other works; but we 
 must not forget that, with his ponderous learning and prodigious power 
 of work, Jonson knew how to play. Witness that magnificent group 
 of masques which he created between 1600 and 1635. Early in the 
 reign of Elizabeth, when the miracle plays and mysteries were evolved 
 into the pageant and the drama of Shakespeare, there was also evolved 
 a ceremonial in which actors represented allegorical characters, and 
 accompanied lords and ladies on great occasions for the purpose of 
 lending interest by action, dialogue, music, and dance. In the reign 
 of James I. and Charles I. these entertainments were frequent and 
 magnificently apportioned. Artists, musicians, poets, and managers 
 were commissioned to prepare the pageant for a marriage, a birthday, 
 a royal visitor, or the reception of distinguished foreigners, and the 
 pastoral or idyl of Spenser appeared as a pastoral drama or masque. 
 
 P. 170, 1. 5. elementarii senes. Old men at their A B C's. 
 
 P. 170, 1. 27. Deorum hominumque interpres. The interpreter of 
 gods and men. 
 
 P. 170,1. 33. 'EvKVKXoirtuBtCav. The circle of general education. 
 
 P. 170, 1. 34. Verborum delectus origo est eloquentias. Choice of 
 words is the beginning of eloquence. 
 
 P. 171,1. 42. translation. Rhetorical figure. 
 
 P. 171, 1. 43. Nam temerd nihil transferatur a prudenti. A wise 
 man uses no metaphors at random.
 
 NOTES: JON SON; MILTON 633 
 
 " One title which no competent criticism has ever grudged him is 
 that of the best epitaph writer in the English language." GEORGE 
 SAINTSBURY. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Literature ; 
 E. Gosse, Modern Literature ; Barry Cornwall, Memoir (Moxon edition 
 of Jonson's Works) ; E. P. Whipple, Literature of the Age of Elizabeth ; 
 W. Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 
 
 JOHN MILTON 
 
 The stars which shed their influences around the cradle of Milton 
 were of the Renaissance and Reformation respectively. The one was 
 setting in splendor and beauty; the other was rising in dignity and 
 power. The great names of Elizabethan England are Sidney, Spen- 
 ser, Shakespeare; of Puritan England they are Milton and Bunyan. 
 Milton is a solitary peak that caught the last gleams of the Renaissance 
 and flashed them across a century. In their light arose Wordsworth 
 and Coleridge, those 
 
 "Twin morning stars of the new century's song." 
 
 P. 178, 1. 102. Faery Mab. Cf. Romeo and Juliet, i. 4. 
 P. 1 8 1, 1. 19. Ethiop. Cassiope. 
 P. 183,1. 109. him. Chaucer. 
 
 " Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played 
 before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which who 
 listens had need bring docile thoughts and purged ears." CHARLES 
 LAMB. 
 
 Milton's prose was developed in the heat of political and religious 
 controversy. The Apology was in defence of his manner of life, and 
 the Areopagitica, a plea for the free development of men and books. 
 They are the finest specimens of his stately, brilliant, and lucid prose. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. D. Masson, Life of John Milton; R. 
 Garnett, Great Writers ; M. Pattison, English Men of Letters ; Arnold, 
 Essays in Criticism, 2d Series; A. Birrell, Obiter Dicta, Vol. II.; S. A. 
 Brooke, Classical Writers (Milton); J. R. Lowell, Prose, IV.; H. Van 
 Dyke, Poetry of Tennyson (Milton and Tennyson); W. E. Channing, 
 Works ; W. Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets.
 
 634 NOTES: BUTLER; BUNYAN 
 
 SAMUEL BUTLER 
 
 We have seen that the literature of the age of Elizabeth was char- 
 acterized by the Greek spirit, "spontaneity of consciousness"; and 
 that of the Reformation by the Hebrew, "strictness of conscience." 
 As a result of the Restoration a new school arises, in which French 
 influence prevails, emphasizing correctness of form rather than spon- 
 taneity of feeling. Hence poetry becomes intellectual, even contro- 
 versial. Butler represents the satiric, Dryden and Pope the didactic 
 and critical, of the head rather than of the heart. Hudibras reveals 
 the fierce and caustic resentment against the Puritans. It was eagerly 
 read at the very time when Milton's Paradise Lost remained almost 
 unnoticed. 
 
 P. 197, 1. 124. Sorbonist. Member of the French College of the 
 Sorbonne. 
 
 "The sense of Butler is masculine, his wit inexhaustible, and it is 
 supplied from every source of reading and observation." HALLAM. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
 ture; Modern Literature; H. Morley, Hudibras; S. Johnson, Lives 
 of the Poets. 
 
 JOHN BUNYAN 
 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
 
 " To the Constables of Bedford and to every of them 
 
 Whereas information and complaint is made unto us 
 that (notwithstanding the King's Majties late Act of 
 
 J. Napier most gracious generall and free pardon to all his sub- 
 
 jects for past misdemeanors that by his said clemencie 
 and indulgent grace and favor they might bee moved 
 
 \V. Beecher and induced for the time to come more carefully to 
 observe his Highness' lawes and Statutes and to con- 
 
 G. Blundell tinue in theire loyall and due obedience to his Majtie) 
 
 Yett one John Bunnyon of youre said Towne Tynker 
 hath divers times within one month last past in con- 
 tempt of his Majties Good Lawes preached or teached 
 
 Hum : Monoux at a Conventicle Meeting, or Assembly under color or 
 ptence of exercise of Religion in other manner than 
 according to the Liturgie or practiss of the Church of
 
 NOTES: BUN VAN 635 
 
 \Yill ffranklin England These are therefore in his Majties name to 
 command you forthwith to apprehend and bring the 
 Body of the said John Bunnion before us or any of us 
 or other his Majties Justice of Peace within the said 
 
 John Ventris County to answer the premisses and further to doo and 
 receave as to Lawe and Justice shall appertaine and 
 hereof you are not to faile. Given under our handes 
 and scales this fforth day of March in the seven and 
 twentieth yeare of the Raigne of our most gracious 
 Soveraigne Lord King Charles the Second. A que 
 Diii juxta &c 1674 
 
 Will Spencer 
 
 Will Gery St Jo Chervocke Wm Daniels 
 
 T Browne W (foster 
 
 Gaius Squire " 
 
 This warrant was the occasion of the second imprisonment of Bun- 
 yan. During this imprisonment he wrote Pilgrim's Progress. The 
 place which this religious allegory holds in the history of English 
 literature is unique. Its origin and its history combine to make it one 
 of the most interesting of literary masterpieces which the world pos- 
 sesses. In graphic characterization, in breadth of sympathy, in rich- 
 ness of imagination, in clearness and force of homely Saxon speech, it 
 is the greatest of all the monuments created by the English Bible. As 
 a product of the influences of the Reformation, it stands beside the 
 works of Milton, with which it is spiritually akin. 
 
 " Bunyan, with whom the visionary power was often involuntary, 
 would live for a day and a night in some metaphor that had attacked 
 his imagination." EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
 " For wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
 \Vhere truth in closest words shall fail, 
 When truth embodied in a tale 
 Shall enter in at lowly doors." TENNYSON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. J. Brown, Bunyan: His Life and 
 Works; J. A. Froude, English Men of Letters ; E. Venables, Great 
 Writers ; G. Dawson, Biographical Lectures ; Macaulay, Essays, Vol. I.; 
 E. Gosse, Modern Literature.
 
 636 NOTES: DRYDEN; DEFOE 
 
 JOHN DRYDEX 
 
 Dryden is the greatest literary force in the Age of the Restoration 
 because of the excellence as well as the variety of his work. With 
 him English criticism begins. His criticism is based on the canon : 
 " Polish, repolish, every color lay, 
 And sometimes add, but oftener take away." 
 
 He was a vigorous satirist, but always fair and honorable in combat, 
 a subtle intellectualist in verse. By force of his masculine reason 
 he elevated criticism above creation, and for a century he was the 
 literary dictator of a large band of craftsmen. He said, " They cannot 
 be good poets who are not accustomed to argue well." 
 
 The Elegy on Mrs. Anne Killegrevi, maid of honor to the Duchess 
 of York, and Alexander's Feast reveal Dryden at his best in elegant, 
 stately, and musical verse. 
 
 P. 209, 1. 1 8. Virgil, Eclogue, i. As are the cypresses among the 
 pliant shrubs. 
 
 P. 212, 1. 99. wit. Used here in sense of genius. 
 
 P. 213, 1. 23. traduction. Derived from one of the same kind. 
 
 P. 217, 1. 162. Orinda. The poetess Katherine Phillips. Anne 
 Killegrew wrote some verses in her honor. 
 
 " We are to regard Dryden as the puissant and glorious founder, 
 Pope as the splendid high priest, of our age of prose and reason, of 
 our excellent and indispensable eighteenth century. . . . Though they 
 may write in verse, though they may in a certain sense be masters of 
 the art of versification, Dryden and Pope are not classics of our poetry, 
 they are classics of our prose." MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Johnson, Lives of the Poets; G. Saints- 
 bury, English Men of Letters ; E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Literature ; 
 Macaulay, Essay on Dryden; Lowell, Prose, Vol. III.; Hazlitt, Lec- 
 tures on the English Poets. 
 
 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 The rise of periodical literature is the result of the new social activity 
 in the reign of Anne. In 1704, Defoe established the Review, in which 
 his discussions on subjects most interesting to the Scandalous Club were 
 presented. Time plays pranks with the plans of men, and Robinson
 
 NOTES: DEFOE; SWIFT 637 
 
 Crusoe, intended as a parable of Defoe's own life, " though allegorical," 
 he says, " yet historical," has become a story of adventure pure and 
 simple, the greatest child book in the language. It is the first great 
 English novel. 
 
 " Robinson Crusoe is one of the exceptional cases in which the poeti- 
 cal aspect of a position is brought out best by the most prosaic accuracy 
 of detail. The want of power in describing exertion, as compared with 
 the amazing power of describing facts, makes Robinson Crusoe a book 
 for boys." LESLIE STEPHEN. 
 
 P. 226, 1. 77. coup-de-grace. Blow that would kill. 
 P. 230, 1. 45. fire. The great fire in London, 1666. 
 
 In the Journal of the Plague in London, we see Defoe as a chronicler, 
 of infinite pains, versatile, clear, and easy in style, yet not altogether 
 free from the commonplace. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. W. Minto, English Men of Letters; 
 L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. I.; Hazlitt, Early Life and 
 Works; E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Literature; A. Q. Couch, Ad- 
 ventures in Criticism ; W. Raleigh, The English Novel ; D. Masson, 
 British Novelists; T. Wright, Defoe; W. Chadwick, Life and Times 
 of Daniel Defoe. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT 
 
 The life of Dean Swift abounds in the most startling contradictions. 
 He was poor, proud, a good hater, and a passionate lover. He sinned 
 greatly, and he suffered greatly; he was unforgetful and unforgiving. 
 He aimed his shafts at Dissenters, the Church of England in which he 
 was a high official, and the Catholics. The Battle of the Books was 
 written to defend Temple against the insinuations of Bentley and 
 Walton, which appeared in their Reflections upon Ancient and Modern 
 Learning. 
 
 Swift's inventive genius was of the first order, his language vigorous, 
 his satire keen, and his indignation tempestuous. All of these charac- 
 teristics are revealed in that " gospel of hatred and testament of woe," 
 Gtdliver's Travels, where he mocks at the social life, satirizes the in- 
 ventors and philosophers, and ridicules the politicians. 
 
 P. 237, 1. 83. brutum hominis. Irrational part of man.
 
 638 NOTES: SWIFT; ADD I SON 
 
 Addison, on sending one of his books to Swift, wrote on the blank 
 
 leaf: 
 
 " To Dr. Jonathan Swift, 
 
 The most agreeable companion, 
 
 The truest friend, 
 And the greatest genius of the age." 
 
 " If the stormy Dean had known that his Gulliver book would be 
 mostly relished by young folks, only for its story, and that its tremen- 
 dous satire which he intended should cut and draw blood would 
 have only rarest appreciation, how he would have raved and sworn ! " 
 D. G. MITCHELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
 ture; Modern Literature; L. Stephen, English .Men of Letters; G. Daw- 
 son, Biographical Lectures ; S. Johnson, Lives of the Poets ; Hazlitt, 
 Lectures on the English Poets ; A. Birrell, Men, Women and Books. 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 The Review was followed by the Spectator in 1611, by which the 
 English essay was created as one of the most enduring of literary forms. 
 In its columns there appeared those splendid studies of man and nature 
 which have made the name of Addison a household word, and genial 
 Sir Roger a delight of old and young. In graphic portraiture and 
 genial humor, in sweet temper and moral purity, combined with a 
 courtly grace and tender sympathy, Addison stands surpassingly great. 
 He is a great poet using the form of prose. His imagination is asso- 
 ciative, penetrative, and reflective. 
 
 " Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, 
 and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the 
 reading of Addison." SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. W. J. Courthope, English Men of 
 Letters Series ; J. Ashton, Social Life in the Reign of Queen Anne ; 
 Macaulay, Essay on Addison ; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets 
 (The Periodical Essayists); Johnson, Lives of the Poets; E. Gosse, 
 Eighteenth Century Literature.
 
 NOTES: POPE; THOMSON 639 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE 
 
 Imagination and passion disappeared from poetry with the new criti- 
 cism, the introduction of drawing-room subjects and court finery. In 
 Pope the classical spirit attained its fullest and completest development. 
 On the death of Dryden he ascended the vacant throne, and ruled with 
 despotic power. Though his work is as various as that of his great 
 predecessor, it is lacking in breadth and robustness. Dexterity and 
 elegance take the first position. The follies of fashion or the frigid 
 intellectualism of a thin philosophy claim the most attention; and yet 
 it cannot be doubted that Pope was an artist who loved art for its 
 own sake, even at a time when it was degraded to mere pecuniary 
 ends. 
 
 " Measured by any high standard of imagination, Pope will be found 
 wanting; tried by any test of wit, he is unrivalled." LOWELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. L. Stephen, English Men of Letters ; 
 Thackeray, Henry Esmond; Addison, Spectator, No. 253; Johnson, 
 Lives of the Poets; De Quincey, Essay on Pope ; On the Poetry of Pope ; 
 Lowell, Essay on Pope ; Gosse, From Shakespeare to Pope ; Eighteenth 
 Century Literature; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 
 
 JAMES THOMSON 
 
 The dawn of the new era (Modern Period) is heralded by Thomson, 
 Gray, Collins, and Goldsmith. New subjects, new spirit, new forms, 
 were now to be the watchword. With the first movements of the 
 rights of man due to the principles of Milton and Vane, which had 
 taken root in France a new religious activity due to the fact that 
 the best elements of Puritanism had lived in the simple quietude of 
 country life among strong men and noble women, and a fresh feel- 
 ing for nature, a reaction from the stifling atmosphere of town life, 
 manifested themselves in the new movement, which was democratic, 
 deeply religious, simple, fresh, and true. Thomson's Seasons reveal 
 the first impulse of the new life. They are simple, direct, and vigorous, 
 when compared with any work of the classic period. They are some- 
 what after the manner of the early Scottish poets. He wrote with his 
 eye on the subject, and has given some delightful nature work.
 
 640 NOTES: THOMSON; JOHNSON 
 
 P. 281,1. 101. There was a man, etc. William Paterson, Thom- 
 son's amanuensis. 
 
 P. 282, 1. 129. One shyer still. The poet Armstrong. 
 
 "No degeneracy of education or of fashion, short of an absolute 
 return to barbarism, can prevent The Seasons from attracting admira- 
 tion as soon as they are read or heard." GEORGE SAINTSBURY. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
 ture ; J. Veitch, Feeling for Nature in Scottish Poetry ; J. C. Shairp, 
 Poetic Interpretation of Nature ; W. Minto, Literature of the Georgian 
 Era; Johnson, Lives of the Poets; G. Saintsbury, Ward's English 
 Poets, Vol. III.; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets; W. Bayne, 
 Famous Scots Series. 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON 
 
 Johnson is in many respects as strange a character as Swift. He 
 ascended the loveless intellectual throne made vacant by the death of 
 Pope; but already forces were at work which were to set aside the 
 petty rules so slavishly obeyed from Dryden to Pope, and return again 
 to the great principles which characterized the Elizabethans. John- 
 son's work is as varied in prose as that of his predecessors in verse. 
 The Rambler and The Idler, successors to The Tatler and The Spec- 
 tator, furnished the medium through which much of his work was given 
 to the public. The Preface to his edition of Shakespeare is full of the 
 ripest good sense, while the Letter to the Earl shows how independent 
 of patronage he was. 
 
 "The more we study Johnson, the higher will be our esteem for 
 the power of his mind, the width of his interests, the largeness of 
 his knowledge, the freshness, fearlessness, and strength of his judg- 
 ments." MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Boswell's Life of Johnson, edited by 
 G. Birkbeck Hill; L. Stephen, English Men of Letters ; Hawthorne, 
 Our Old Home ; Essays on Johnson, by Macaulay and Carlyle, in John- 
 son's Lives of the Poets, edited by Matthew Arnold; F. Grant, Great 
 Writers; A. Birrell, Obiter Dicta, Vol. II.; E. Gosse, Eighteenth Cen- 
 tury Literature ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library.
 
 NOTES: GRAY; COLLINS 64! 
 
 THOMAS GRAY 
 
 " He never spoke out. In these four words," says Arnold, "is con- 
 tained the whole history of Gray, both as a man and as a poet." In 
 the age of transition Gray did a noble work in prose and verse, in 
 that he was the first Englishman to reveal the beauties of English 
 landscape. His letters describing nature in Yorkshire and Westmore- 
 land are even superior to his poetry in minuteness, freshness, and 
 wealth of imagery. The Elegy is English in every detail; in it are 
 united the love of nature and the love of man. 
 
 " If few English poets have written so little, none certainly have 
 written so little that has fallen into oblivion." LESLIE STEPHEN. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. E. Gosse, English Men of Letters; 
 Eighteenth Century Literature ; J. C. Shairp, Poetic Interpretation of 
 Nature; M. Arnold, Essays on Criticism, ad Series; J. R. Lowell, 
 Latest Literary Essays ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. III.; 
 W. L. Phelps, Selections from the Prose and Poetry of Gray (Intro- 
 duction); W. Minto, Literature of the Georgian Era. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS 
 
 In the work of Collins there is much less restraint than in that of 
 Gray. Collins indeed spoke out. This was due in part to the fact that 
 he was not troubled by any of the critical sensitiveness which made 
 Gray cautious. His love of beauty in man and nature was more intense 
 than that of Gray. 
 
 P. 306, 1. 36. Till they, etc. The Medici. 
 
 P. 312, 1. i. In yonder grave. Thomson was buried in Richmond 
 Church. 
 
 "The direct sincerity and purity of their positive and straightforward 
 inspiration will always keep his poems fresh and sweet to the senses of 
 all men. He was a solitary song-bird among many more or less excel- 
 lent pipers." A. C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
 ture; W. Minto, Literature of the Georgian Era; J. C. Shairp, Poetic 
 Interpretation of Nature ; A. C. Swinburne, Ward^s English Poets, 
 Vol. III.; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 
 21
 
 642 NOTES: GOLDSMITH; BURKE 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 Goldsmith, the impassioned, wayward, frolicsome Irishman, is one oi 
 the best loved of the poets; he is loved for his very eccentricity. His 
 life is fascinating in its nobility and foolishness. In the Deserted Vil- 
 lage and the Vicar of Wakefield we have his love of nature and man, 
 shot through with the characteristic elements of his varied and event- 
 ful life. They are graceful and touching in their revelation of the 
 pleasures and pains of mortal life, and yet there is not an element of 
 bitterness. In each nature and man are revealed with distinctness and 
 color, with warmth and naturalness, entirely new to English literature. 
 No changes of literary fashion can ever lessen the estimation in which 
 these works are held by all who love simplicity and truth. 
 
 " It is doubtful whether, either before, during, or since Wordsworth's 
 time, the sentiment that the imagination can infuse into the common 
 things around us ever received more happy expression." WILLIAM 
 BLACK. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. W. Black, English Men of Letters ; A. 
 Dobson, Great Writers ; Macaulay, Essay on Goldsmith; De Quincey, 
 Essay on Goldsmith ; G. Dawson, Biographical Lectures ; J. C. Shairp, 
 Poetic Interpretation of Nature ; E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
 ture ; W. Minto, Literature of the Georgian Era. 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 During the last half of the eighteenth century, when the energy of 
 England was taxed to its utmost in the political arena, there was devel- 
 oped the literature of oratory, and British eloquence added new splen- 
 dor to prose. The times were seeking the man of large and liberal 
 ideas. There existed a reading public. Parliamentary speeches were 
 now allowed to be published. The press was practically free to praise 
 or blame. The post carried the pamphlet and the newspaper to the 
 villages, and thus the English people became the audience. At length 
 the man was found, and that man was Edmund Burke. 
 
 The Speeches on the American War reveal Burke in his most charm- 
 ing attitude. He is calm, clear, logical, nobly tolerant, and grandly 
 wise.
 
 NOTES: BURKE; COW PER 643 
 
 " Burke is not literary because he takes from books, but because he 
 makes books, transmuting what he writes upon into literature. It is 
 this inevitable literary quality, this sure mastery of style, that mark the 
 man, as much as the thought itself." WOODROW WILSON. 
 
 " Wordsworth has been called the High Priest of Nature," says Mr. 
 Augustine Birrell, "and Burke may be called the High Priest of Order 
 a lover of settled ways, justice, peace, and security. His writings 
 are a storehouse of wisdom, not the cheap shrewdness of the mere man 
 of the world, but the noble, animating wisdom of one who has the 
 poet's heart as well as a statesman's brain." 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. J. Morley, English Men of Letters ; 
 Goodrich, Select British Eloquence; F. W. Maurice, Friendship of 
 Books ; Hazlitt, Political Essays and Eloquence of the British Senate ; 
 Sketches and Essays ; Macaulay, Essay on Burke ; W. Wilson, Mere 
 Literature (Interpreter of English History) ; A. J. George, ed. Burke 's 
 American Orations. 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 In Cowper and Burns the new movement received its second great 
 impulse. These poets wrought at their tasks, each unconscious of the 
 existence of the other, until one had published the Task, and the other 
 the first edition of his poems. The one in the dewy meadows of 
 Buckinghamshire, and the other on the Ayrshire hills, saw Nature as 
 she had not been seen since the time of Chaucer, in all her freshness 
 and beauty. Cowper's life was in many ways a sad one, and yet it is 
 through him that the religious element unites the love of nature and 
 man through the life of the lower animals about us. With birds and 
 beasts Cowper claimed fraternity. The revolutionary idea of the unity 
 of man was thus centred in the God of man and nature. 
 
 " Nowhere in our poetry is there heard a finer scorn of vanity, ambi- 
 tion, meanness; nowhere is truth more nobly exalted, or justice more 
 sternly glorified. His tenderness for the weak and poor and wronged 
 is as sweet as his hatred of oppression is strong." S. A. BROOKE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. G. Smith, English Men of Letters ; 
 W. Bagehot, Literary Studies, Vol. I. ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, 
 Vol. III.; G. Dawson, Biographical Lectures ; J. C. Shairp, Poetic In- 
 terpretation of Nature ; S. A. Brooke, Theology in the English Poets ;
 
 644 NOTES: GIBBON; BLAKE 
 
 Mrs. Oliphant, Literature of the Eighteenth Century; W. Minto, Litera- 
 ture of the Georgian Era ; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 
 
 EDWARD GIBBON 
 
 Prose now becomes the medium through which the life of the past 
 is made real, and, in the hands of Gibbon, the greatest master of his- 
 torical literature of the century, it attains distinct literary character. 
 Gibbon is an excellent illustration of those characteristics which Senator 
 Hoar gives as those of a great historian : " He must be capable of seeing 
 clearly the great forces which determine the currents of human affairs; 
 he must have the profound judgment and the insight of the phi- 
 losopher; he must have the imagination of the poet, idealizing the 
 national history with which he deals; he must have the artist's gift of 
 portraiture." 
 
 " Gibbon abated his pretensions as a philosopher, was content to 
 attempt some picture of the thing acted of the great pageant of 
 history and succeeded." AUGUSTINE BIRRELL. 
 
 " It was at Rome in 1764, while musing amid the ruins of the Capi- 
 tol, that the idea of writing his book arose in his mind, and his con- 
 ception of the work was that of an artist." S. A. BROOKE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
 ture ; Autobiography, with Essay, by W. D. Hovvells; R. E. Prothero, 
 Letters of Gibbon ; J. C. Morison, English Men of Letters ; W. Bage- 
 hot, Literary Studies, Vol. II. ; A. Birrell, Res Judicattz ; H. Rogers, 
 Biographies of Illustrious Men. 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 Blake, the poet, painter, printer, and publisher, combines elements 
 which make him unique among the men of his time. He was the first 
 poet of child life, and his work is fresh and strong with the angel music 
 of babyhood. He never attempted complex problems, but forever gave 
 himself to reflecting with grace and simplicity the effects of beauty 
 which impress the untutored child. He was " a being all sensitiveness 
 and lyric passion, and delicate aerial mystery." 
 
 " He possessed in a rare degree the secret by which the loveliness of 
 a scene can be arrested and registered in a line of verse, and he often 
 displays a faultless choice of language, and the finest sense of poetic 
 melody." COMYNS CARR.
 
 NOTES: BURNS; WORDSWORTH; COLERIDGE 64$ 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. W. M. Rossetti, Memoir in Blake's 
 Poetical Works; C. Patmore, Principle in Art; C. Carr, Ward's 
 English Poets, Vol. III.; Vida Scudder, Life of the Spirit in Modern 
 English Poetry. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 In simplicity, spontaneity, passion, and pathos the absolute spirit 
 of poetry Burns and Blake have never been surpassed. Burns was 
 the poet of the toiling multitude. He could laugh with those who 
 laughed, and shed tears with those in sorrow. His sympathies were 
 universal as the atmosphere and sunshine. By revealing a womanly 
 tenderness for all of God's creatures, Burns made poetry reflect as never 
 before the religion of Christ. His scorn of hypocrisy and littleness led 
 him into extremes perhaps, but this was to be preferred to the laissez 
 faire method of many of his time. 
 
 " Not Latimer, not Luther, struck more telling blows against false 
 theology than did this brave singer. The Confession of Augsburg, the 
 Declaration of Independence, the French Rights of Man, are not more 
 weighty documents in the history of freedom than the songs of Burns." 
 EMERSON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. J. C. Shairp, English Men of Letters; 
 Poetic Interpretation of Nature ; J. S. Blackie, Great Writers ; Setoun, 
 Famous Scots Series; S. A. Brooke, Theology' in the English Poets; 
 Emerson, Miscellanies ; Carlyle, Essay on Burns ; C. Kingsley, Liter- 
 ary Essays ; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary History of England, Vol. I.; 
 G. Saintsbury, Literature of the Nineteenth Century ; Select Poems of 
 Robert Burns, edited by A. J. George. 
 
 WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE 
 
 Natural and beautiful was the association of Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge, and the history of our literature has nothing more interesting and 
 suggestive than the friendship of these men. The circumstances under 
 which this love was fostered and sustained, and in consequence of which 
 each attained heights from which has been shed ever-enduring radiance, 
 are worthy of frequent repetition. The main impulse to that poetry and 
 criticism, which has been the most stimulating and productive " in its 
 application of ideas to life, in its natural magic and moral profundity,"
 
 646 NOTES: WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE 
 
 was the creation of this friendship. It created that little volume, the 
 Lyrical Ballads, which has exerted a greater influence on English 
 literature than has any other single volume. 
 
 Coleridge produced all of his poetry, which is of the first order, 
 directly under the influence of Wordsworth. It is to be regretted that 
 no adequate answer to the question, " What was the reciprocal influ- 
 ence of these men upon each other?" has ever been given. We may 
 believe that each evoked the best in the other, that Wordsworth gained 
 no less than Coleridge by the friendship. 
 
 " Coleridge was the ivy," says Mr. Alois Brandl, " which at last found 
 the oak on which it could lean and unfold its luxuriance. But with 
 him the act of twining and climbing was more important than the 
 result; with Wordsworth the result was the chief thing." 
 
 As Coleridge was one of the first to reveal certain aspects of external 
 nature, so was he the first to seize upon those principles of relationship 
 between thought and action, spirit and form, which determine the ethi- 
 cal and aesthetic value of verse and prose. He was our first great 
 philosophical critic. 
 
 P. 405, 1. 105. The Zoili. Zoilus was a Greek rhetorician, called 
 Homeromastix, Scourge of Homer, from his severe criticisms on that 
 poet. 
 
 " In this, I conceive, lies Wordsworth's transcendent power, that the 
 ideal light he sheds is a true light; and the more ideal it is, the more 
 true." J. C. SHAIRP. 
 
 " Of Coleridge's best verses, I venture to affirm that the world has 
 nothing like them, and can never have." A. C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Wordsworth: W. Knight, Life of 
 Wordsworth, 3 vols.; F. W. Myers, English Men of Letters ; S. A. 
 Brooke, Theology in the English Poets ; Shairp, Studies in Poetry and 
 Philosophy; E. Dowden, French Re-jolution on English Literature; 
 New Studies in Literature; H. N. Hudson, Studies on Wordsworth: 
 De Vere, Essays Chiefly on Poetry ; R. H. Hutton, Literary Essays; 
 Arnold, Essays in Criticism, 2d Series; W. Pater, Appreciations; 
 R. Noel, Essays on Poetry; F. W. Robertson, Lectures and Addresses ; 
 W. Bagehot, Literary Studies ; De Quincey, Literary Criticism. 
 Coleridge: H. D. Traill, English Men of Letters ; A. Brandl, Cole- 
 ridge; H. Caine, Great Writers ; J. D. Campbell, Life of Coleridge ;
 
 NOTES: SCOTT 647 
 
 W. Pater, Appreciations ; J. C. Shairp, Studies in Poetry and Philoso- 
 phy ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. III. ; S. A. Brooke, 
 Theology in the English Poets; De Quincey, Literary Reminiscences, 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 Together with the democratic movement in literature and life there 
 came the Mediaeval Revival which took two directions : art, resulting 
 in the romanticism of Scott; and religion, resulting in the Oxford move- 
 ment under Newman. 
 
 Scott was born in literary Edinburgh, but on account of physical 
 infirmity he was early taken to the farm of his paternal grandfather at 
 Sandyknowe, on the slopes of Smailholm crags. At the summit of the 
 crags stood the grim old sentinel, Smailholm tower, guarding the Bor- 
 derland, where " every field has its battle and every rivulet its song." 
 Not far away was the venerable Abbey of Dryburgh, the Eildons, and 
 the stretches of Lammermoor, Melrose, " like some tall rock with lichens 
 gay," almost encircled by the Tweed; while the vales of Ettrick and 
 Yarrow, fragrant with song and ballad, could be seen in the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Such were the sights that fed the wandering eyes of Scott's infancy 
 and boyhood, while his ear was trained to ballad, song, and story by 
 the grandmother and her auld gudeman. His aunt fired his imagina- 
 tion by the tales of Jamie Telfer, Wat of Harden, wight Willie, and by 
 the old ballads. " Hardiknute," says Scott, " was the first poem I ever 
 learnt, and the last I shall ever forget." From such influences came 
 the splendid verse and prose of the great magician. 
 
 " Others can name the plates of a coat of armour more learnedly 
 than he, but he made men wear them. He put living men under his 
 castled roofs, living men into his breastplates and taslets." A. LANG. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. R. H. Hutton, English Men of Letters; 
 Prof. Yonge, Great \Vriters; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Litera- 
 ture ; Hunnewell, Lands of Scott ; Carlyle, Miscella nies ; L.Stephen, 
 Hours in a Library ; J. C. Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; A. Lang, Letters 
 to Dead Authors ; Essays in Little ; W. J. Dawson, A fakers of Modern 
 English ; R. H. Hutton, Contemporary Thought and Thinkers, Vol. 
 II.; Sainte-Beuve, Essays; A. Q. Couch, Adventures in Criticism; 
 Hazlitt, The Spirit of the Age.
 
 648 NOTES: LANDOR; LAMB 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 
 
 Landor was a Greek in spirit, a classical writer in an age of romance, 
 and he offers marked contrast to Scott, the great romancer. In roman- 
 tic writing objects are seen in detail and in an atmosphere of varying 
 cloud and sunshine; in classic, every idea is presented as plainly and 
 simply as possible, and is almost devoid of color. Romantic writing is 
 full of movement, is democratic in spirit; classic is characterized by 
 repose, and is aristocratic, revealing the depth and serenity of the soul. 
 
 Landor has been less read than his romantic brothers, but his influ- 
 ence has been great, and his work has been warmly praised by the 
 judicious few. In an age of diffuseness, when the newspaper and the 
 periodical usurp the place of books, it is well to read Landor. 
 "Through the trumpet of a child of Rome 
 Rang the pure music of the flutes of Greece." 
 
 Landor said: "I shall dine late; but the dining-room will be well 
 lighted, and the guests few and select." 
 
 " \Vith all his remoteness, I can think of no author who has oftener 
 brimmed my eyes with tears of admiration or sympathy. He has 
 uttered more wisdom on such topics of life and thought as interested 
 or occurred to him than is to be found outside of Shakespeare." 
 LOWELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Forster, Life of Landor ; S. Colvin, 
 English Men of Letters ; Lowell, Latest Literary Essays ; E. Dowden, 
 Studies on Literature ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. II.; A. 
 De Vere, Essays, Vol. II.; E. C. Stedman, Victorian Poets; Mrs. Oli- 
 phant, Literary History of England ; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century 
 Literature ; De Quincey, Literary Criticism. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 There are some men whom we admire in spite of the fact that they 
 move in a world quite apart from that of our own joys and sorrows; 
 there are others whom we love because they are touched with the feel- 
 ing of our infirmities. To the latter class belonged Charles Lamb. 
 His life was the saddest, sweetest, tenderest, and most heroic to be 
 found in the annals of English letters. The story of Charles and Mary 
 Lamb is the story of a brother's love and sacrifice; that of William
 
 NOTES: LAMB; HAZLITT 649 
 
 and Dorothy Wordsworth is one of mutual helpfulness; but that of 
 Cowper and Mary Unwin is one of woman's sacrifice under conditions 
 similar to that of the Lambs. Such revelations are more convincing 
 evidences of Christianity than all the treatises. It is well to know the 
 tragedy in Lamb's life, for under its pressure he gave out his sweetest 
 fragrance, his most bewitching humor, his mad fun and fooling. 
 
 P. 426, 1. 43. lene tormentum. Mild torture. 
 
 P. 436, 1. 152. mundus edibilis. Kingdom of things eatable. 
 
 P. 436, 1. 153. princeps obsoniorum. The chief of victuals. 
 
 P. 437, 1. 157. amor immunditiae. Love of uncleanness. 
 
 " In his subtle capacity for enjoying the more refined points of earth, 
 of human relationship, he could throw the gleam of poetry or humor 
 on what seemed common or threadbare; has a care for sighs and the 
 weary, humdrum preoccupations of very weak people, down to their 
 little pathetic 'gentilities' even; while, in the purely human temper, 
 he can write of death almost like Shakespeare." WALTER PATER. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. A. Ainger, English Men of Letters ; 
 Letters of Charles Lamb ; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Litera- 
 ture ; A. Birrell, Res Judicata: ; Obiter Dicta, Vol. II.; W. Pater, 
 Appreciations ; G. Dawson, Biographical Lectures ; De Quincey, Bio- 
 graphical Essays; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary History of England; 
 P. Anton, England's Essayists. 
 
 WILLIAM HAZLITT 
 
 It should be considered a great commendation of any man to be 
 called the friend of Lamb, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and De Quin- 
 cey. Hazlitt was thus honored in virtue of those splendid literary 
 tastes and perceptions which were a consuming passion, and which 
 belong to the " Catholic Apostolic Church of Literature." It is to the 
 establishment of the great Reviews, The Quarterly, the New Review, 
 BlackwooJ's, and the Edinburgh Review, that we owe the best pro- 
 ductions in the critical and general essay. In criticism Hazlitt belongs 
 to the school of Coleridge and De Quincey, and while at times he 
 lacks the balance of the greatest, yet his work on the whole is charac- 
 terized by insight and a generous recognition of the best. Lamb said 
 that he was a great authority when he praised. Shakespearean criti- 
 cism began in England with Coleridge and Hazlitt, and has never
 
 650 NOTES: HAZLITT; HUNT; DE QUINCEY 
 
 attained greater heights than with them. Hazlitt's general essays are 
 even more interesting than his criticisms, for in them we find less of 
 his peculiar limitations. In many respects they are as admirable as 
 those of Addison. 
 
 "The same literary qualities mark all his writings. ... If he is not 
 a great rhetorician, if he aims at no gorgeous effects of complex har- 
 mony, he has yet an eloquence of his own." LESLIE STEPHEN. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century 
 Literature; Essays on English Literature; A. Birrell, Res Jitdicata ; 
 L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. II. ; De Quincey, Literary Criti- 
 cism ; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary History of England. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT 
 
 Among the distinguished literary men who graced the close of last 
 century and the first half of this, not the least interesting is Leigh 
 Hunt, the " Ariel of Criticism," as he was often called. He holds his 
 position by virtue of his prose, and yet he wrote verse which in a time 
 of less distinction would have been considered of no mean order. 
 Lamb alludes to his literary activity in the periodical, the Indicator, as 
 
 follows : 
 
 " Wit, poet, proseman, party man, translator, 
 
 Hunt, thy best title yet is ' Indicator.' " 
 
 As was to be expected from a man who had as passionate a love of 
 beauty as Keats, the most of his criticism is aesthetic. 
 
 " For most people a true opinion persuasively stated is of much more 
 consequence than the most elaborate logical justification of it; and it 
 is this that makes Leigh Hunt's criticism such excellent good reading." 
 GEORGE SAINTSBURY. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century 
 Literature; Essays in English Literature; C. Monkhouse, English 
 Writers ; C. Clarke, Recollections of Writers ; Hawthorne, Our Old . 
 Home ; Hazlitt, The Spirit of the Age ; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary His- 
 tory of England. 
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY 
 
 With De Quincey we are still in the charmed circle of that splendid 
 fraternity of artists in prose and verse. The chief distinction of the
 
 NOTES: DE QUINCE Y; BYRON 651 
 
 London Magazine in the twenties was that it gave to the world the 
 inimitable Essays of Elia and De Quincey's startling dream fantasies, 
 The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. After his settlement at 
 the Lakes he became a valiant defender of that despised "Lake School," 
 of which Wordsworth was the arch heretic in revolt against the ac- 
 credited literary creed of the day. Lamb, Hazlitt, and Hunt paid 
 much less attention to beauty of form than to truth and seriousness of 
 subject, but with De Quincey the art of felicitous imaginative splendor 
 of rhythmic form a revelation of corresponding splendor of thought 
 which creates style reached its highest manifestation. It is a cause 
 of pride that Americans were the first to conceive the idea of putting 
 the 150 magazine articles of De Quincey into permanent form. It is 
 not the only instance of our recognition of the value of the British 
 article before it was praised at home. The sixteen volumes are full of 
 the keenest intellectual perception, exact, penetrative, analytic. They 
 are never dull, because they are lighted up with a playful humor and 
 fun-loving fancy not at all incompatible with passion and pathos. 
 
 " A great deal of De Quincey's best and most characteristic writing 
 is in the stately and elaborate splendour, of prolonged wheeling and 
 soaring, as distinct from the style of crackle and brief glitter, of chirp 
 and short flight." MASSON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. D. Masson, English Men of Letters ; 
 L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. I.; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary His- 
 tory of England; W. Minto, Characteristics of English Prose Style; 
 P. Anton, England 's Essayists. 
 
 LORD BYRON 
 
 Fate has not dealt kindly with Byron, for it has led him from the 
 extreme of adulation to the extreme of detraction; and it is far better 
 to be seated in the mean; " Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, 
 but competency lives longer." For a time Byron was the only star in 
 the ascendant; Wordsworth was but a mere rushlight. But our pur- 
 pose in reading should not be to set poet against poet, rather to find 
 the excellences of each. Byron's life was a sad one, and he is entitled 
 to our sympathy from the first : 
 
 " What's done we partly may compute, 
 But know not what's resisted"
 
 652 NOTES: BYRON; SHELLEY 
 
 As we should expect in a man " proud as Lucifer and beautiful as 
 Apollo," the personal note in Byron is supreme. It is the note of a 
 struggling Titan's tempest-anger, tempest-mirth; and yet his best work 
 reached the very pinnacle of poetic glory. He has the distinction of 
 having made English letters appreciated in Europe. 
 
 " Along with his astounding power and passion, he had a strong and 
 deep sense of what is beautiful in nature and for what is beautiful in 
 human action and suffering." ARNOLD. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. R. Noel, English Writers ; Gait, Life 
 of Byron ; J. Nichol, English Men of Letters ; G. Saintsbury, Litera- 
 ture of the Nineteenth Century; R. H. Hutton, Literary Essays ; 
 Arnold, Essays in Criticism, 2d Series; A. Lang, Letters to Dead 
 Authors ; W. J. Dawson, Makers of Modern English ; R. Noel, Essays 
 on Poets; E. P. Whipple, Essays and Reviews, Vol. I.; C. Kingsley, 
 Essays; J. Morley, Miscellanies, Vol. I. 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 Byron was forever struggling against himself, Shelley against the 
 forces of his environment; and as he could not change them, he set 
 himself in open revolt against them. He allied himself with the 
 French Revolution, as did Wordsworth, but with results as different 
 as his temperament was different from that of Wordsworth. Arnold's 
 representation of him as a " beautiful and ineffectual angel, beating in 
 the void his luminous wings in vain," reveals that phase of his life 
 which was most prominent, and yet it needs to be supplemented by 
 that other phase of his life in which he created those beautiful poems 
 full of the lyrical cry, of a passionate love of nature, and of the magic 
 of style. 
 
 " Shelley is probably the English writer who has achieved the highest 
 successes in pure lyric, whether of an elaborate and antiphonal order, 
 or of that which springs in a stream of soaring music straight from the 
 heart." EDMUND GOSSE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. J. A. Symonds, English Men of Let- 
 ters ; W. Sharp, Great Writers; E. Dowden, Life of Shelley ; Studies 
 in Literature ; D. Masson, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats; J. C. 
 Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; A. Lang, Letters to Dead Authors; S. A.
 
 NOTES: KEATS; CARLYLE 653 
 
 Brooke, Introduction to Selections from Shelley ; G. Saintsbury, Nine- 
 teenth Century Literature ; L. Stephen, Hoztrs in a Library, Vol. III.; 
 R. Noel, Essays on Poets ; Arnold, Essays in Criticism, ad Series. 
 
 JOHN KEATS 
 
 Keats's life was too short for his faculties to ripen into the rich fruit 
 which they promised, and yet the luxurious blossoms yielded a fragrance 
 which has an immortal charm. He was a true Elizabethan, intoxicated 
 with the passion for beauty. He said that what the imagination seized 
 as Beauty must be Truth. " The Eternal Being, the Principle of Beauty, 
 and the Memory of Great Men" he worshipped; but to the public he 
 would not even bow. " I never wrote a single line of poetry," says he, 
 " with the least shadow of thought about their opinion." Keats reached 
 truth through beauty, as Browning reached beauty through truth. The 
 atmosphere of Keats's best work is serene, balmy, and refreshing, as 
 exhilarating as that of the loveliest English morning in May. 
 
 " By virtue of his feeling for beauty and of his perception of the 
 vital connection of beauty with truth, Keats accomplished so much in 
 poetry that in one of the two great modes by which poetry interprets, 
 in the faculty of naturalistic interpretation, in what we call natural 
 magic, Keats ranks with Shakespeare. No one else in English poetry, 
 save Shakespeare, has in expression quite the fascinating felicity of 
 Keats, his perfection of loveliness." ARNOLD. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. S. Colvin, English Men of Letters; 
 W. M. Rossetti, Great Writers ; R. M. Milnes, Letters and Literary 
 Remains ; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Literature ; D. Masson, 
 Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats; E. Gosse, Critical Kit Kats ; 
 W. Watson, Excursions in Criticism ; Arnold, Essays in Criticism, 
 2d Series; R. Noel, Essays on Poets ; C. Patmore, Principle in Art ; 
 H. \V. Mabie, Essays in Literary Interpretation. 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE 
 
 The life and work of Carlyle fall into two periods. The first 
 period, extending until 1834, when he settles in London, may be called 
 a sort of Preparatio Evangelica. In it he wrote his great works in 
 interpretation of literature; in it, too, his life was quickened and 
 enriched by the friendship of two rare souls, Goethe and Emerson.
 
 654 NOTES: CARLYLE; MACAULAY 
 
 The second period is that of Sturm und Drang storm and stress 
 in which he wore himself out, body, mind, and soul, in the herculean 
 task of cleansing the life and thought of his time from the sordid and 
 the selfish. His was the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and this 
 was his cry : " As the highest Gospel was a Biography, so is the life of 
 every good man an indubitable Gospel, and preaches to the eye, and 
 heart, and whole man, man is heaven-born not the thrall of circum- 
 stances, but the victorious subduer thereof." His first, and perhaps 
 greatest, critical work was upon a brother Scot Burns. By him 
 Burns received his first sympathetic interpretation. 
 
 Again it is worthy of note that America was the first to recognize 
 the value of British literary work. Through Emerson, Carlyle's works 
 were published here before they were at home. At the time when 
 Sartor was unpopular in England, Carlyle wrote to his wife : " Litera- 
 ture still a mystery; nothing paying. On the other hand, an order 
 from America to send a copy of the magazine, ' So long as there was 
 anything of Carlyle's in it.' " This was the cause of Carlyle's continu- 
 ing in literature. 
 
 " Carlyle has surpassingly powerful qualities of expression, reminding 
 one of the gifts of expression of the great poets of even Shakespeare 
 himself. What Emerson so admirably says of Carlyle's ' devouring 
 eyes, and pourtraying hand,' ' those thirsty eyes, those portrait-eating, 
 portrait-painting eyes of thine, those fatal perceptions,' is thoroughly 
 true." ARNOLD. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. J. Nichol, English Men of Letters ; 
 R. Garnett, Great Writers ; Carlyle, Reminiscences ; C. E. Norton, 
 Correspondence of Carlyle and Emerson; D. Masson, Edinburgh 
 Sketches and Memories; Macpherson, Famous Scots Series ; R. H. 
 Hutton, Modern Guides to Thought in Matters of Faith ; F. Harrison, 
 Early Victorian Literature; J. C. Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; Arnold, 
 Addresses in America ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. III. ; 
 J. J. Morley, Miscellanies, Vol. I. 
 
 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 
 
 Macaulay had the unusual good fortune to reach at a bound the high- 
 est step in the ladder of fame. The critics were disturbed because he 
 did not stop to show them his passports, and they at once began to call
 
 NOTES: MACAULAY; NEWMAN 655 
 
 him back, but their shrill notes were lost in the torrents of popular 
 acclaim. He made his debut in the Edinburgh Review with the 
 famous essay on Milton, and nothing that he produced later quite 
 equalled it. While he is not a great critic, he arouses interest in his 
 subject, which is perhaps more important, especially with young read- 
 ers, and this is the secret of his continued popularity. The contrasts 
 between Carlyle, De Quincey, and Macaulay are very marked. Carlyle 
 is a great poet, muscular, homely, lurid; De Quincey is a great artist, 
 incisive, subtle, brilliant; Macaulay is a great reporter of affairs, 
 aboundingly picturesque "a symphony in purple and gold." His 
 art was not evolved, it was cast. 
 
 P. 515, 1. 83. mens aequa in arduis. A mind serene in difficulties. 
 
 " Macaulay is a glorified journalist and reviewer, who brings the 
 matured results of scholars to the man in the street, in a form that he 
 can remember and enjoy, when he could not make use of a merely 
 learned book." FREDERICK HARRISON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. G. Trevelyan, Macaulay"s Life and 
 Letters; C. Morrison, English Men of Letters ; L. Stephen, Hoiirs in a 
 Library, Vol. III. ; F. Harrison, Early Victorian Literature ; W. Bage- 
 hot, Literary Studies, Vol. II.; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Lit- 
 erature ; Corrected Impressions ; E. P. Whipple, Essays and Reviews ; 
 J. Morley, Miscellanies, Vol. I. 
 
 JOHN HENRY CARDINAL NEWMAN 
 
 Medievalism attracted Scott because its action, its picturesqueness, 
 invigorated the imagination; it attracted Newman because its tradi- 
 tions stimulated speculation and casuistry. 
 
 Cardinal Newman is known as the author of that hymn which 
 breathes the most sublime faith, the calmest resignation, and the noblest 
 sentiment of which the human soul is capable. Lead, Kindly Light is 
 one of the most inspiring poems of the Christian Church, 
 
 " That undisturbed song of pure concent." 
 
 Newman's work reveals him as one of the great masters of graceful, 
 scholarly, finished prose. It is individual; it has charm, and this is the 
 secret of its power to interest. No writer of our time has reflected his 
 mind and heart in his work as has he. He has light for the intellect,
 
 656 NOTES: NEWMAN; TENNYSON 
 
 and warmth for the heart. Arnold gives the following picture of the 
 great Oxford preacher : 
 
 " Who could resist the charm of that spiritual apparition, gliding in 
 the dim afternoon light through the aisles of St. Mary's, rising into the 
 pulpit, and then, in the most entrancing of voices, breaking the silence 
 with words and thoughts which were a religious music subtle, sweet, 
 mournful? " 
 
 P. 522, 1. 1 20. rcTpd-ywvos. Four square, complete, nil admirari. 
 To find nothing wonderful. 
 
 P. 523, 11. 122-124. Felix qui, etc. Virgil, Georgics, II., 490-492: 
 " Happy he who has come to know the sequence of things, and is 
 thus above all fear, master of the dread march of fate, and careless of 
 the wild noise of greedy Acheron." 
 
 "The charm of Dr. Newman's style necessarily baffles d6cription; 
 as well might one seek to analyze the fragrance of a flower. It is hard 
 to describe charm." AUGUSTINE BIRRELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Newman, Apologia pro sua Vita; 
 R. H. Hutton, Cardinal Newman; Modern Guides to Thought in 
 Matters of Faith ; R. W. Church, The Oxford Movement ; A. Birrell, Res 
 Judicatff ; Obiter Dicta ; J. C. Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; L. E. Gates, 
 Selections from Newman; J. Martineau, Essays, Vol. I.; J. Jacobs, 
 George Eliot, Matthew Arnold^ Browning, Newman. 
 
 ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 
 
 Although Tennyson was from the first a master of melody who had 
 a wealth of "delicious metres and rhythmic susurrus," yet half a century 
 elapsed before the simple melodies passed into the deep-throated music 
 of the grand march in the Homeric blank verse. The sweet singer of 
 the early years in the century became in these later years the " Voice 
 of the age," 
 
 " Master who crown'st our immelodious days 
 \Vith flower of perfect speech." 
 
 The simplicity, devotion, and beauty of the artist, the dignity, strength, 
 and nobility of the man; the personal note so clear, so pure, so com- 
 plex in its variety of tone and color and intellectual conception; the 
 English atmosphere so invigorating in its power to heal and cleanse;
 
 NOTES: TENNYSON; THACKERAY 
 
 and the nineteenth-century idea so rich and attractive in content and 
 extent, these are the things to be found in the poetry of Alfred 
 Tennyson : 
 
 " Dow'r'd with the Doric grace, the Mantuan mien, 
 With Arno's depth and Avon's golden sheen, 
 Singer to whom the singing ages climb convergent." 
 The student should compare the lyrics of Tennyson with those of 
 Burns; the one is the literary, the other the natural song. 
 
 " Not of the howling dervishes of song, 
 
 Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, 
 
 Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart ! 
 Therefore to thee the laurel leaves belong, 
 To thee our love and our allegiance 
 
 For thy allegiance to the poet's art." LONGFELLOW. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. H. Tennyson, Memoir of Alfred Lord 
 Tennyson ; A. Waugh, Alfred Lord Tennyson ; S. A. Brooke, Ten- 
 nyson : His Art and Relation to Modern Life ; H. Van Dyke, The 
 Poetry of Tennyson; E. Dowden, Stttdies in Literature; R. H. 
 Hutton, Literary Essays; G. Napier, Homes and Haunts of Alfred 
 Tennyson; A. T. Ritchie, Recollections of Tennyson, Rtiskin, and 
 Browning; F. W. Robertson, Lectures and Addresses. 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 We have alluded to the rise of the novel in the Elizabethan period 
 and its history until the time of Defoe. It then passed into the 
 hands of Richardson, Fielding, Sterne, and Johnson, and in our own 
 century reached its greatest perfection in Scott, Thackeray, Dickens, 
 Hawthorne, and George Eliot. Of all these Thackeray is unquestion- 
 ably the great master in the art of English prose. His powers were 
 exercised in a greater variety of works than were those of any of his 
 contemporaries, burlesque essay, romance, biography, criticism in 
 prose and verse, and everywhere his literary touch is sure and sound. 
 From authors whose works reach fifteen or more volumes we must 
 select, and there can be no mistake in selecting from Thackeray 
 Vanity Fair and the English Humorists as types of his mighty work. 
 His essay (De Finibus), On Conclusions to his novels, reveals him in a 
 characteristic mood. 
 2U
 
 658 NOTES: THACKERAY; DICKENS; BROWNING 
 
 " Whenever you speak for yourself and speak in earnest, how magical, 
 how rare, how lonely in our literature is the beauty of your sentences, 
 " ' It needs heaven-sent moments fur this skill.' " 
 
 ANDREW LANG. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. A. Trollope, English Men of Letters ; 
 Merivale and Marzials, Great Writers ; J. T. Fields, Yesterdays with 
 Authors ; F. Harrison, Early Victorian Literature; D. Masson, British 
 Novelists ; A. Lang, Letters to Dead Authors; W. A. Raleigh, The 
 A T ovel ; G. Saintsbury, Corrected Impressions; Nineteenth Century 
 Literature. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 Some of the critics would have us believe that Dickens has had his 
 day, but here the booksellers have a word. So long as Dickens is a 
 delightful companion at our firesides, in whose presence children leave 
 their play and listen, he need not fear the critic, for love will keep its 
 own. Thackeray said that the business of humor was to awaken and 
 direct our love, our pity, our kindness, our scorn for imposture, our 
 tenderness for the weak, to comment on the actions and passions of 
 life, to be the week-day preacher. Dickens's universal sympathy and 
 his unbounded humor bring beauty, joy, and sunshine to the lowliest 
 of God's creatures. His mission was to heal and cleanse. Then let 
 us read and enjoy Dickens rather than discuss him. 
 
 " He caught character, so far as it could be caught, in a glance of 
 the eye, as no other Englishman probably ever yet caught it. There 
 is nothing in him as the most realistic and picturesque of describers to 
 equal his humor." R. H. HUTTON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. W. Ward, English Men of Letters , 
 Marzials, Great Writers; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Litera- 
 ture; A. Lang, Essays in Little ; J. T. Fields, Yesterdays with Authors ; 
 R. H. Hutton, Criticisms on Contemporary Thought and Thinkers ; 
 
 E. P. Whipple, Literature and Life ; A. Lang, Letters to Dead Authors ; 
 
 F. Harrison, Early Victorian Literature. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 The joyous, fearless activity of Browning, the noble aspirations of his 
 intellect and the mighty passions of his heart, the steady certainty that 
 God and man are one in kind, render him the most distinctly helpful
 
 NOTES: BROWNING; ELIOT 659 
 
 to those who have been vexed with the subtle speculations which have 
 abounded in our scientific age. More than any poet of modern times 
 he has that intellectual fearlessness which is thoroughly Greek; he 
 looks unflinchingly upon all that meets him, and he apparently cares 
 not for consequences. His is " a mind forever voyaging through strange 
 seas of thought, alone." In many of his poems we find united the 
 two great principles which lie at the basis of all his best work : one, 
 which has for its end, knowledge; the other, which has for its end, 
 conduct. The first is Browning's philosophy; the second Browning's 
 art. There are many who delight in Browning's intricate thought, 
 pure exercise of the mind, but we must believe that he contributed 
 more to the spiritual movement of the age by his Saul, Apparent Fail- 
 ure, Prospice, Abt Vogler, etc., than by all his argumentative verse. 
 These are indeed veritable fountain-heads of spiritual power. 
 
 " His best work, the work which will last when the noises are done, 
 is as simple as it is sensuous and passionate; and it is entirely original, 
 out of the overflowing of his heart." S. A. BROOKE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Mrs. S. Orr, Handbook to the Works of 
 Robert Browning; \V. Sharp, Great Writers ; W. Bagehot, Literary 
 Studies; W. J. Dawson, Makers of Modern English; E. Berdoe, 
 Browning's Message to his Times ; G. W. Cooke, Poets and Problems ; 
 E. C. Stedman, Victorian Poets ; G. Saintsbury, Corrected Impressions ; 
 H. Jones, Browning as a Philosophic and Religious Teacher ; H. Corson, 
 Introduction to Browning; W. J. Alexander, Introduction to Brown- 
 ing; Boston Browning Society, Papers. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Be an artist or prepare for oblivion is the stern decree of Time. No 
 amount of knowledge, no critical acumen, can be substituted for that 
 power of giving pleasure which we attribute as a quality of creative 
 work and call beauty. George Eliot (Marian Evans) was a systematic 
 thinker, a careful student, a master of human passion; but above all she 
 was an artist of superb qualities and noble aims. Silas Marner is an 
 exquisite study in light and shade, in contrasts of life; Adam Bede 
 is a delightful romance, spontaneous, cheerful, sweet; Romola a great 
 drama, and The Mill on the Floss is a revelation of the author's deepest 
 life; these are her representative works. In revealing Nature she has
 
 66O NOTES: ELIOT; C LOUGH 
 
 done for the English Midlands what Scott did for the Highlands of 
 Scotland. 
 
 P. 584, 1. 128. Benedicat, etc. "May Almighty God give you his 
 blessing." 
 
 " George Eliot's works are primarily works of art, and she herself is 
 artist as much as she is teacher. We feel in reading these books that 
 we are in the presence of a soul, and a soul which has had a history." 
 EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. G. Cross, Life of George Eliot; O. 
 Browning, Great Writers ; G. W. Cooke, George Eliot ; F. Harrison, 
 Early Victorian Literature; R. H. Hutton, Modern Guides to Thought 
 in Matters of Faith. ; E. Dowden, Studies in Literature ; L. Stephen, 
 Hours in a Library, Vol. II.; E. Scherer, Essays in English Litera- 
 ture, trans, by Saintsbury; J. Jacobs, George Eliot, Matthew Arnold, 
 Browning, Newman. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Clough and Arnold, the apostles of culture, were both distinguished 
 sons of Rugby and Oxford ; both voiced the intellectual unrest caused 
 by the Oxford Movement and the revelations of modern science. 
 Clough's nature was that of a scholar, impressionable, but simple, 
 strong, wholesome; and his search for truth was sincere and manly. 
 Sincerity and manliness give a tonic quality to all he wrote. His 
 poems reveal the struggle, at times agonizing, and the religious fervor 
 which made his life at once sad and joyous, 
 
 " In working out in heart and brain 
 The problem of our being here." 
 
 The sights and sounds of nature gave him ease and refreshment from 
 his intellectual quest. The choice spirits whom he attracted, quite as 
 much as his poetic excellence, reveal the manner of man he was. He 
 inspired one of the most touching and graceful elegies in the language, 
 Thyrsis. It reveals much that is intensely biographical. 
 
 " 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."
 
 NOTES: CLOUGH; RUSK IN; ARNOLD 66 1 
 
 "The massive and genial sympathy which Clough feels with the 
 universal instincts of human life, alike religious and social, is the first 
 marked feature that strikes us in all his poems." R. H. HUTTON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Clough, Prose Remains ; R. H. Hut- 
 ton, Essays, Vol. II.; C. Patmore, Principle in Art ; H. W. Mabie, My 
 Study Fire, Vol. II. ; W. Bagehot, Literary Studies, Vol. I. ; V. D. Scud- 
 der, The Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poetry ; G. Saintsbury, 
 Nineteenth Century Literature ; J. C. Shairp, Portraits of Friends. 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN 
 
 Carlyle and Ruskin are the two prophets of the century, and their 
 cry is, " sursum corda .'" Both began work as interpreters, the one 
 of literature and life, the other of nature and art, and both gradually 
 passed from critics to great preachers of social regeneration. One 
 sought social reform as a basis for conduct, the other as a basis for 
 beauty. Ideas of conduct and ideas of beauty comprise the whole of 
 life. Ruskin's prose is often as picturesque and rhythmic as Tennyson's 
 verse. He possesses the eye of the scientist, the imagination of the 
 poet, the harmony of the composer, and the moral earnestness of the 
 preacher. 
 
 " The more one reads Ruskin, the more one feels inclined almost to 
 let him go uncriticised, to vote him the primacy in nineteenth century 
 prose by simple acclamation." G. SAINTSBURY. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. W. G. Collingwood, Life and Works 
 of John Ruskin; J. M. Mather, John Ruskin: his Life and Teach- 
 ings; A. T. Ritchie, Records of Tennyson, Ruskin, and ro-iuning; 
 A. H. Japp, Three Great Teachers ; C. Waldstein, The Work of John 
 Ruskin ; V. D. Scudder, An Introduction to the Writings of John Rus- 
 kin ; G. Saintsbury, Corrected Impressions ; G. W. Cooke, Poets' and 
 Problems ; J. Ruskin, Pr&teriia. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 Arnold has done for literature what Ruskin did for art. By means 
 of his exquisite creative work and his clear and steady discernment of 
 the best that has been thought and said in the world, in a word, by 
 his study of perfection, he has enriched thought and quickened feel-
 
 662 NOTES: ARXOLD 
 
 ing. His intellectual activity is as varied and unceasing as his love 
 is strong and pure. His nature, genial, frank, and manly, is revealed 
 in poetry of elegance and power. He teaches the gospel of Words- 
 worth that we need shade in which to grow ripe, and leisure in 
 which to grow wise. As a literary critic he has no superior in the art 
 of revealing beauty, of stimulating enjoyment of the high and rare 
 excellence in literature. His instinct for seizing the spirit of the author 
 and embalming it in the amber of beautiful phrase, is as unfailing as his 
 analysis of the means by which that author attained distinction in form 
 is clear and sound. As a writer upon morals and politics, he is char- 
 acterized by the spirit of " sweetness and light," with a purpose to 
 make reason and the will of God prevail. The results of his work are 
 exceedingly great. 
 
 P. 619, 1. 70. a poetical collection. Ward's English Poets. 
 
 "To open Arnold's poems is to escape from a heated atmosphere 
 and a company not wholly free from offence, from loud-mouthed, ran- 
 dom-talking men, into a well-shaded retreat which seems able to impart 
 something of the coolness of falling water, something of the music of 
 rustling trees." AUGUSTINE BIRRELL. 
 
 " With a myriad minor variations and adaptations, poetry in England, 
 and therefore prose, is still what it became when Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge remodelled it in the coombes of the Quantocks." EDMUND 
 GOSSE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Arnold, Letters ; E. C. Stedman, Vic- 
 torian Poets; R. H. Hutton, Literary Essays; Clough, Prose Re- 
 mains ; A. Birrell, Res Judicattz ; W. J. Dawson, Makers of Modern 
 English ; J. Burroughs, Indoor Studies ; G. Saintsbury, Corrected Im- 
 pressions ; L. E. Gates, Selections from Arnold; J. Jacobs, George 
 Eliot, Matthew Arnold, Browning, Newman.
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS AND NOTES 
 
 Addison, Joseph, 246, 638. 
 Arnold, Matthew, 607, 661. 
 Bacon, Francis, 156, 631. 
 Ballads, 68, 627. 
 Bible, 143, 631. 
 Blake, William, 358, 644. 
 Browning, Robert, 567, 658. 
 Bunyan, John, 199, 634. 
 Burke, Edmund, 325, 642. 
 Burns, Robert, 367, 645. 
 Butler, Samuel, 193, 634. 
 Byron, Lord, 465, 651. 
 Carlyle, Thomas, 498, 653. 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey, I, 621. 
 Clough, Arthur Hugh, 586, 660. 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 396, 
 
 645- 
 
 Collins, William, 305, 641. 
 Cowper, William, 336, 643. 
 Defoe, Daniel, 224, 636. 
 De Quincey, Thomas, 454, 650. 
 Dickens, Charles, 554, 658. 
 Dryden, John, 209, 636. 
 Eliot, George (Evans, Marian), 
 
 575. 6 59- 
 
 Gibbon, Edward, 347, 644. 
 Goldsmith, Oliver, 314, 642. 
 Gray, Thomas, 292, 641. 
 
 Hazlitt, William, 438, 649. 
 Hooker, Richard, 105, 629. 
 Hunt, Leigh, 445, 650. 
 Johnson, Samuel, 283, 640. 
 Jonson, Benjamin, 162, 632. 
 Keats, John, 488, 653. 
 Lamb, Charles, 425, 648. 
 Landor, Walter Savage, 418, 648. 
 Lyly, John, 40, 624. 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 
 
 510,654. 
 
 Malory, Sir Thomas, 19, 624. 
 Marlowe, Christopher, in, 629. 
 Milton, John, 173, 633. 
 Newman, John Henry, 519, 655. 
 Pope, Alexander, 260, 639. 
 Ruskin, John, 597, 661. 
 Scott, Sir W'alter, 406, 647. 
 Shakespeare, William, 132, 630. 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 475, 652. 
 Sidney, Sir Philip, 53, 625. 
 Spenser, Edmund, 90, 628. 
 Swift, Jonathan, 235, 637. 
 Tennyson, Alfred, 528, 656. 
 Thackeray, William Makepeace, 
 
 543. 657. 
 
 Thomson, James, 272, 639. 
 Wordsworth, William, 380, 645. 
 
 663
 
 BOOKS OF GENERAL REFERENCE 
 
 Archer, T. The Highway of Letters. 
 Bascom, J. Philosophy of English Literature. 
 Bates, C. L. The English Religious Drama. 
 Brooke, S. A. English Literature. (Macmillan.) 
 Brooke, S. A. History of Early English Literature. 
 Bullen. England' 1 s Helicon. 
 Craik, H. English Prose. 
 Earle, J. English Prose. 
 Earle, J. Philosophy of the English Tongue. 
 Fisher. Outlines of Medieval and Modern History. 
 Fyffe. History of Modern Europe. 
 Gosse, E. Modern Literature. 
 Green. History of the English People. 
 Hodgkins, L. M. Nineteenth Century Authors. 
 Howett, W. Homes and Haunts of the British Poets. 
 Jusserand, J. J. English Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages. 
 Marsh. Lectures on the English Language. 
 McCarthy, J. History of Our Own Times. 
 Mitchell, D. G. English Lands, Letters, and Kings. 
 Morley, H. First Sketch of English Literature. 
 Morley, H. English Writers. 
 
 Oliphant. Literary History of England, XVIIIth and XlXth Cen- 
 turies. 
 
 Pancoast, H. S. An Introduction to English Literature. 
 Pepys, S. Diary. 
 
 Poole. Index to Periodical Literature. 
 Ryland. Chronological Outlines of English Literature. 
 Stephen, L. English Thought in the Eighteenth Century. 
 Symonds, J. A. Shakespeare's Predecessors in the English Drama. 
 Taine. English Literature. 
 Ten Brink, B. English Literature. 2 vols. 
 Ward, T. H. English Poets. 5 vols. 
 
 Welsh. Development of English Language and Literature. 
 Winter, W. Shakespeare's England. 
 Winter, W. Old Shrines and Ivy. 
 Winter, W. Gray Days and Gold. 
 
 664
 
 CRITICAL AND SUGGESTIVE 
 
 Aristotle. On the Art of Poetry. (Prickard.) 
 Arnold, M. Culture and Anarchy. 
 Arnold, M. Essays in Criticism. 1st and 2d Series. 
 Arnold, M. Addresses in America. 
 Bagehot, W. Literary Studies. 2 vols. 
 Bayne, P. Lessons from My Masters. 
 Birrell, A. Obiter Dicta. 2 vols. 
 Birrell, A. Res Judicatce. 
 Birrell, A. Men, Women, and Books. 
 
 Brooke, S. A. Tennyson : His Art and Relation to Modern Life. 
 Brooke, S. A. Theology in the English Poets. 
 Burroughs, J. Indoor Studies. 
 Burroughs, J. Fresh Fields. 
 Burroughs, J. Birds and Poets. 
 Caird, E. Literature and Philosophy. 
 Carlyle, T. On Heroes. 
 
 Coleridge, S. T. Principles of Criticism. (Edited by A. J. George.) 
 Cooke, G. W. Poets and Problems. 
 Corson, H. Aims of Literary Study. 
 Corson, H. The Voice and Spiritual Education. 
 Couch, A. Q. Adventures in Criticism. 
 Courthope, W. J. History of English Poetry. 
 Uavvson, W. J. Makers of Modern English. 
 Dawson, G. Biographical Lectures. 
 De Vere. Essays on Poetry. 
 Dowden, E. Studies in Literature. 
 Dowden, E. New Studies in Literature. 
 Dowden, E. Transcripts and Studies. 
 Emerson, R. W. Representative Men. 
 Gosse, E. Questions at Issue. 
 Gosse, E. Critical Kit Kats. 
 Harriso.n. F. Choice of Books. 
 Harrison, F. Early Victorian Literature. 
 Horace. The Art of Poetry. (Edited hy A. S. Cook.) 
 Hudson, H. Essays. 
 
 Hunt, L. What is Poetry? (Edited by A. S. Cook.) 
 665
 
 666 CRITICAL AND SUGGESTIVE 
 
 Hutton, R. H. Criticisms on Contemporary Thought and Thinkers. 
 
 Hutton, R. H. Literary Essays. 
 
 Hutton, R. H. Modern Guides to Thought in Matters of Faith. 
 
 Johnson, C. F. Three Americans and Three Englishmen. 
 
 Jones, H. Browning as a Philosophic and Religious Teacher. 
 
 Jonson. Timber. (Edited by F. Schelling.) 
 
 Kingsley, C. Literary Essays. 
 
 Lang, A. Essays in Little. 
 
 Lang, A. Letters to Dead Authors. 
 
 Lowell, J. R. Prose, Vol. IV. 
 
 Mabie, H.AV. Literary Interpretation. 
 
 Mabie, H. W. Studies in Literature. 
 
 Masson, D. Wordsivorth, Shelley, and Keats. 
 
 Masson, D. Edinburgh Sketches and Memories. 
 
 Maurice, F. W. The Friendship of Books. 
 
 Minto, W. Characteristics of English Poets. 
 
 Minto, W. Characteristics of English Prose. 
 
 Morley, J. Studies in Literature. 
 
 Morris, W. Hopes and Fears for Art. 
 
 Myers, F. W. H. Science and a Future Life. 
 
 Myers, F. W. H. Essays. (Modern.) 
 
 Noel, R. Essays on Poetry. 
 
 Palgrave, F. T. Landscape in Poetry. 
 
 Pater, W. Appreciations. 
 
 Patmore, C. Religio Poetce. 
 
 Patmore, C. Principle in Art. 
 
 Phelps, W. L. J^he English Romantic Movement. 
 
 Robertson, F. W. Addresses and Lectures. 
 
 Ruskin, J. Sesame and Lilies. 
 
 Sainte-Beuve. Essays. (Edited by E. Lee.) 
 
 Saintsbury, G. Corrected Impressions. 
 
 Saintsbury, G. Essays in English Literature. 
 
 Scherer, E. Essays in English Literature. 
 
 Scudder, H. Studies in Men and Books. 
 
 Scudder, V. D. Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poetry. 
 
 Shairp, J. C. Aspects of Poetry. 
 
 Shairp, J. C. Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. 
 
 Shairp, J. C. Poetic Interpretation of Nature. 
 
 Shelley, P. B. Defense of Poetry. 
 
 Sidney, P. Apologie for Poetrie. 
 
 Stedman, E. C. Nature of Poetry. 
 
 Stedman, E. C. Victorian Poets. 
 
 btephen, L. Hours in a Library. 3 vols.
 
 CRITICAL AND SUGGESTIVE 66? 
 
 Symoncls, J. A. Essays Speculative and Suggestive. 2 vols. 
 
 Taylor, H. Critical Essays. 
 
 Thompson, W. Ethics of Literary Art. 
 
 Van Dyke. The Poetry of Tennyson. 
 
 Veitch. Feeling for Nature in Scottish Poetry. 
 
 Watson, W. Excursions in Criticism. 
 
 Whipple, E. P. Essays and Reviews. 
 
 Wilson, W. Mere Literature. 
 
 Wordsworth, W. Prefaces on Poetry. (Edited by A. J. George.)
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 a', all. 
 
 aboon, above. 
 
 acorded not, was not fitting. 
 adoun, down, 
 advowsen, control, 
 aften, often, 
 after, according to. 
 aims, irons. 
 airt, direction, 
 albee, although. 
 als, as. 
 
 amaist, almost, 
 amang, among, 
 amblere, a horse that ambles, 
 an', and. 
 ance, once, 
 anlaas, short knife, 
 aright, favorably. 
 aryve, arrival, 
 ascendant, horoscope, 
 as nowthe, as now. 
 auld, old. 
 
 Austyn, Saint Austyn ( Augus- 
 tine). 
 
 avaunce, to be to one's advantage, 
 avaunt, to boast, 
 aventure, adventure. 
 ay, ever, 
 ayont, beyond. 
 
 baar, bore, 
 bairns, children, 
 baren, carried, 
 barres, ornaments. 
 
 basnet, helmet. 
 Bassoes, Pashas, 
 bauld, shoulder. 
 bedes, beads, 
 been, to be. 
 
 beggestere, beggarwoman. 
 bell, flower. 
 belyve, soon. 
 berd, beard, 
 berye, berry, 
 bet, better. 
 beth, are. 
 bield, shelter, 
 biek, bask. 
 bifil, befell, 
 bifoon, before, 
 biggit, builded. 
 biginne, to begin, 
 birkie, spirited fellow, 
 bisette, beset, 
 biside, near to. 
 bismotered, besmutted. 
 bisy, busy, 
 bit, biddeth. 
 
 blankmanger, a fricassee of ca- 
 pon. 
 
 blaws, blows. 
 bogles, spirits. 
 boille. to boil, 
 bonnie, beautiful, 
 boold, bold, 
 boote, remedy, 
 bord, table, 
 bracer, bowman's arm guard. 
 
 668
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 669 
 
 brae, slope of hill. 
 
 braw, handsome. 
 
 bree, broth. 
 
 breed, bread. 
 
 breem, bream, a kind of fish. 
 
 Britaigne, Brittany. 
 
 brood, broad. 
 
 burgeys, burgess. 
 
 burn, stream. 
 
 burnie, small stream. 
 
 burn-brae, stream at foot of hill. 
 
 busk, adorn. 
 
 ca', to drive. 
 
 ca', call. 
 
 caaf, law cases. 
 
 calivers, muskets. 
 
 canna, cannot. 
 
 cannie, carefully. 
 
 carf, carved. 
 
 carpe, to chatter. 
 
 Cartage, Carthage. 
 
 catel, property. 
 
 cauld, cold. 
 
 ceint, girdle. 
 
 celle, religious house. 
 
 certes, surely. 
 
 certeyn, certainly. 
 
 Champioun, combatant. 
 
 chaped, capped. 
 
 chapeleyne, chaplain. 
 
 chapman, merchant. 
 
 charitable, kind. 
 
 chasted, subdued. 
 
 chaunterie, an endowment for 
 chanting masses. 
 
 chevyssaunce, borrowing trans- 
 actions. 
 
 chiknes, chickens. 
 
 chows, chews. 
 
 chyvachie, cavalry expedition. 
 
 Clad, clothed. 
 
 claes, clothes. 
 
 cleere, clearly. 
 
 clenches, puns. 
 
 clennesse, cleanness. 
 
 cleped, called. 
 
 clerk, scholar. 
 
 cloke, cloak. 
 
 cloysterer, inmate of a cloister. 
 
 COfre, money box. 
 
 concent, harmony. 
 
 condicioun, condition. 
 
 conscience, sympathy. 
 
 consort, society. 
 
 contree, country. 
 
 convertite, a convert. 
 
 cood, cud. 
 
 coof, fool. 
 
 corage, courage. 
 
 cote, coat. 
 
 coude, knew. 
 
 countour, auditor of accounts. 
 
 countrefete, to imitate. 
 
 courtepy, short cloak. 
 
 couth, could. 
 
 crack, to joke. 
 
 cracknelles, hard biscuit. 
 
 cramasie, crimson cloth. 
 
 craw, crow. 
 
 cristen, Christian. 
 
 crulle, curly. 
 
 curch, kerchief. 
 
 custom, to enter. 
 
 daliannce, gossip. 
 
 daunce, olde, old game or custom, 
 
 daungerous, imperious. 
 
 dayesye, daisy. 
 
 deed, dead. 
 
 deef, deaf. 
 
 deelen with, to have to do with. 
 
 dees, dice. 
 
 delyvere, active.
 
 6/o 
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 Dertemouthe, Dartmouth, a sea- 
 port of England, 
 devyse, speak of. 
 deyntee, dainty, 
 deyntees, dainties, 
 deys, dais. 
 
 dighted, strove to stanch, 
 digne, worthy, 
 dispence, expense, 
 dole, sorrow, 
 doon, pi., do. 
 dorste, durst. 
 
 doute, out of, without doubt, 
 drawe, drawn, 
 drogte, drought, 
 dronken, pi., drank, 
 dyere, dyer. 
 dyvyne, divine. 
 
 echon, each one. 
 ecstasy, emotion, 
 e'e, eye. 
 eek, also. 
 een, pi., eyes, 
 embrouded, embroidered, 
 endite, to write. 
 ensample, example. 
 er, ere. 
 
 escapes, mistakes, 
 eschaunge, exchange, 
 esed, entertained, 
 esily, easily. 
 estaat, state, 
 estat, estate. 
 estatlich, dignified, 
 esy, easy, 
 evene, moderate. 
 everichon, every one. 
 every deel, every part, 
 eveychon, every one. 
 eydent, diligent. 
 eyen, pi., eyes. 
 
 fa', fall. 
 
 facultee, faculty, estimate of him- 
 self. 
 
 fader, father. 
 
 faire langage, elegant small talk. 
 
 faire, fairly. 
 
 fairness, fairness of life. 
 
 faldyng, coarse cloth. 
 
 farsed, crammed. 
 
 faught, fought. 
 
 faulding, folding. 
 
 faut, fault. 
 
 feare, frighten. 
 
 fee symple, the absolute posses- 
 sion- of an estate. 
 
 felawe, associate. 
 
 fell, bitterly. 
 
 fer, for. 
 
 feme = ferrene, distant. 
 
 ferre, farther. 
 
 ferthing, farthing. 
 
 festne, to fasten. 
 
 fetisly, elegantly. 
 
 fetys, neatly made. 
 
 fil, fell. 
 
 fithele, fiddle. 
 
 Flaundyssh, Flemish. 
 
 fleet, to float. 
 
 fley'd, frighted. 
 
 flitcherin', fluttering. 
 
 floytynge, fluting. 
 
 fond, foolish. 
 
 foo, foe. 
 
 footmantel, leggings, stretching 
 from hips down over boots. 
 
 for, in spite of, against. 
 
 forehammers, sledgehammers. 
 
 foment, in the face of. 
 
 forneys, furnace. 
 
 for sothe, forsooth. 
 
 forster, forester. 
 
 forthink, repent of.
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 6/1 
 
 forward, agreement, 
 fother, cartload. 
 fowel, fowl, 
 frae, from, 
 fraught, frightened. 
 fro, from. 
 fu, full, 
 furs, furrows. 
 
 gae, go. 
 gaed, went. 
 
 gaf, gave. 
 
 galyngale, sweet cypress root. 
 
 gang, to go. 
 
 garr'd, made. 
 
 gat toothed, with teeth far apart. 
 
 gauded, having the large beads 
 
 (gaudies) in the rosary, 
 geere, clothing, 
 geldhalle, guildhall, 
 gentil, well-bred. 
 gere, gear, 
 geve, to give, 
 ghaist, ghost. 
 gie, give. 
 gipser, pouch, 
 girdel, girdle. 
 goon, to go. 
 governaunce, management of 
 
 business. 
 gowd, gold, 
 grace, favor, 
 gree, prize. 
 greet, great. 
 
 Grete See, the Mediterranean, 
 grys, gray fur. 
 guid, good, 
 gurly, stormy. 
 gynglen, to jingle, 
 gypon, short cassock. 
 
 ha', hall. 
 
 haberdasshere, a seller of hats. 
 
 habergeon, coat of mail. 
 
 hae, have. 
 
 haffet locks, locks about the 
 
 temples, 
 hafflins, partly. 
 hained, spared, 
 halesome, wholesome. 
 hallan, a partition in a cottage, 
 half-fou, an eighth of a peck, 
 halwes, saints, 
 happily, haply, 
 hardily, boldly, 
 hardy, daring. 
 Haribee, place of execution at 
 
 Carlisle. 
 
 harneised, equipt. 
 haunt, skill, 
 haut, high, 
 havenes, havens, 
 hawkie, a cow with a white face, 
 heeld, held, 
 heeng, hung, 
 heeth, heath, 
 heigh, high (nose), 
 hem, them, 
 hente, to seize, 
 herberwe, harbor, 
 herry, spoil. 
 
 hethenesse, heathen land, 
 hewe, hue. 
 hight, was called. 
 him, for himself. 
 hipes, hips, 
 histie, dry. 
 holden, regarded. 
 holpen, helped, 
 holt, wood, 
 honeste, becoming, 
 hoot, hot. 
 hoote, hotly. 
 hors, horses. 
 horsely, horse-like.
 
 1 
 
 6; 2 
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 hostelrye, inn. 
 
 hostiler, innkeeper. 
 
 houndes, dogs. 
 
 houres, hours (astrological). 
 
 hussyfskip, housekeeping. 
 
 Hulle, Hull. 
 
 hye, high. 
 
 hyer bond, advantage, upper 
 
 hand, 
 hym-selven, himself. 
 
 i', in. 
 
 like, same. 
 
 infect, rendered invalid. 
 
 ingle, the fireside. 
 
 inne, in. 
 
 In principio, in the beginning. 
 
 intil, into. 
 
 jauk, joke, 
 juste, to joust. 
 justs, tournaments. 
 
 kan, knows, 
 kebbuck, cheese, 
 keepe, care, 
 ken, know. 
 kepe, to take care of. 
 kept, guarded, 
 koude, could, knew, 
 kowthe, known, 
 kye, cows. 
 
 laas, lace. 
 
 lady, gen., lady's. 
 
 lafte, left, failed. 
 
 lave, the rest. 
 
 lawing, reckoning. 
 
 lazar, leper. 
 
 lear, lore. 
 
 leed, a caldron, coffer. 
 
 leet, let. 
 
 lenger, longer. 
 
 lengthe, height. 
 
 leste, pleasure. 
 
 letuaries, electuaries. 
 
 levere, rather, liefer. 
 
 lewed, ignorant. 
 
 licenciat, one licensed to hear 
 confessions. 
 
 licht, light. 
 
 licour, liquor. 
 
 lightly, set light by. 
 
 lint, flax. 
 
 lipsed, lisped. 
 
 liste, it pleaseth. 
 
 lite, little. 
 
 lodemenage, pilotage. 
 
 lo'e, love. 
 
 lokkes, hair. 
 
 lend, land. 
 
 loore, lore. 
 
 lore, teaching. 
 
 loude, loudly. 
 
 lough estat, humble estate. 
 
 love dayes, days for settling dis- 
 putes. 
 
 love knotte, indissoluble union. 
 
 low, blaze. 
 
 luce, a full-grown pike. 
 
 lust, pleasure. 
 
 lyart, gray. 
 
 lyk, like. 
 
 lymytour, one licensed to beg 
 within certain limits. 
 
 lyned, lined. 
 
 lyveree, livery. 
 
 maad, made, 
 made, caused, 
 maistrie, mastery. 
 maill, rent, 
 make, companion, 
 make a thing, draw up a docu- 
 ment.
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 673 
 
 maner, manner. 
 many oon, many a one. 
 Martinmas, the eleventh of No- 
 vember. 
 
 marybones, marrowbones, 
 maun, must, 
 mayde, maid. 
 
 medlee cote, coat of mixed stuff, 
 meede, meadow, 
 meikle, as much, great, 
 men, man. 
 merye, pleasant, 
 meschief, trouble. 
 mesurable, moderate. 
 mete, food. 
 monie, many. 
 moone, moon. 
 mormal, gangrene. 
 morrwe, morrow, 
 mortreux, a stew, 
 motteleye, motley, 
 muche and lite, great and small, 
 muchel, a great deal, 
 murye, merry. 
 muwe, mew, coop. 
 
 na', not. 
 
 nae, no. 
 
 na mo, no more. 
 
 namoore, no more. 
 
 nas = ne was, was not. 
 
 nat, not. 
 
 nathelees, nevertheless. 
 
 ne, nor, not. 
 
 newe, newly. 
 
 noght, not. 
 
 nones, for the, for the nonce. 
 
 nonys, for the, for the nonce. 
 
 noot = ne woot, know not. 
 
 norissyng, nutritious. 
 
 not-heed, closely shaved head. 
 
 nowher, nowhere. 
 
 2X 
 
 nowthe, now. 
 nyghtertale, night time. 
 
 o', of. 
 
 of, some (Fr. de and des). 
 
 Of, by. 
 
 Of, off. 
 
 office, position (secular). 
 
 offryng, voluntary contribution 
 made to a priest. 
 
 offrynge, offering (at the altar). 
 
 oft-sithes, ofttimes. 
 
 olde daunce, old game. 
 
 OOn, one (and the same). 
 
 00th, oath. 
 
 ordres foure, four orders, Do- 
 minicans, Carmelites, Francis- 
 cans, and Augustinians. 
 
 outrely, utterly. 
 
 outridere, outrider. 
 
 overal, everywhere. 
 
 overeste, uppermost. 
 
 overhaile, draw over. 
 
 owner, anywhere. 
 
 pace, subj., go on. 
 pace, to pass. 
 pacient, patient, 
 pacient, enduring, 
 painture, painting, 
 parfit, perfect. 
 parisshens, parishioners. 
 parritch, oatmeal gruel, 
 partrich, partridge, 
 parvys, church porch, 
 passed, surpassed. 
 patente, letter patent, 
 peire, pair. 
 
 pers, stuff of sky blue color, 
 persoun, parson, priest, 
 peyned hire, took pains, 
 pight, pitched.
 
 6/4 
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 pituance, portion of food. 
 
 plentevous, plenteous. 
 
 pleyn, full. 
 
 pleyn, adv., fully. 
 
 pocock, peacock. 
 
 pommel, hilt of sword. 
 
 poraille, fourfold. 
 
 Portugals, Portuguese gold coins. 
 
 post, pillar. 
 
 poudre-marchant, flavoring pow- 
 der. 
 
 poure, to pore. 
 
 poure = povre, poor. 
 
 poynaunt, high seasoned, pun- 
 gent. 
 
 preye, to pray. 
 
 prikasour, hard rider. 
 
 priking, fast riding. 
 
 pris, prize. 
 
 prys, price. 
 
 pulled, plucked. 
 
 purchas, acquisition. 
 
 purtreye, to draw. 
 
 purvey, provide. 
 
 pye, pie. 
 
 pynched, closely pleated. 
 
 pynchen at, find fault with. 
 
 quo, saith. 
 
 rage, romp. 
 
 raughte, reached. 
 
 recchelees, reckless. 
 
 reduce, repair. 
 
 redy, ready. 
 
 reed, red. 
 
 regiment, rule. 
 
 reiver, robber. 
 
 rente, income. 
 
 resons, opinions. 
 
 reule, rule. 
 
 reysed, done military service. 
 
 rin, run. 
 
 rood, rode. 
 row, rough. 
 
 sae, so. 
 
 sair, sore, hard. 
 
 sangwyn, red. 
 
 saugh, saw. 
 
 sautrie, psaltery. 
 
 scambled, gathered. 
 
 scathe, misfortune, a pity. 
 
 scaud, scald. 
 
 science, legal knowledge. 
 
 scole, school, style. 
 
 scoler, scholar. 
 
 scoleye, to go to school. 
 
 seege, siege. 
 
 seeke, sick. 
 
 semely, properly, seemly. 
 
 semycope, short ecclesiastical 
 
 cloak. 
 
 sendal, fine silk, 
 sendel, linen, 
 seneschal, steward, 
 sesons, seasons, 
 sethe, to seethe, 
 sex, sect. 
 
 seyde, subj., would say. 
 seyen, to say. 
 shake, shaken, 
 shaply, suitable. 
 sheeldes, French crowns, 
 shipman, merchant sailor, 
 sho, shoe. 
 sholde, should, 
 shoon, shone, 
 shortly, briefly, 
 shyne, shin. 
 siege, seat, 
 sike, sick, 
 sikerly, surely, 
 sin, since, 
 sin, sun.
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 675 
 
 skeely, skilful. 
 
 sleep, slept. 
 
 smerte, smartly. 
 
 smerte, pain. 
 
 smoot, smote. 
 
 snewed, abounded. 
 
 snybben, to snub. 
 
 solempne, sportive. 
 
 solempnely, pompously. 
 
 som-del, somewhat. 
 
 somer, summer. 
 
 somtyme, at one time. 
 
 sondry, several. 
 
 soong, sang. 
 
 soore, sorely. 
 
 soote, sweet. 
 
 sooth, truth. 
 
 soothly, truly. 
 
 sope in wyn, sop in wine, bread 
 
 dipped in wine. 
 soper, supper, 
 souple, supple, 
 sownynge, importing, 
 spait, flood. 
 space, time. 
 
 speke, of, to, in respect to. 
 speken, for, to, in respect to. 
 spiced, scrupulous. 
 spier, to ask for. 
 splent, armor. 
 spores, spurs. 
 
 stacher, walk with difficulty, 
 stane, stone, 
 stear, stir. 
 stemed, shone, 
 stepe, bright, 
 sterres, stars. 
 stoor, stock, 
 stoure, dust, 
 streit, strict. 
 streite, closely, 
 strem, stream. 
 
 stronde, shore, strand, 
 stuwe, stew, fishpond, 
 substaunce, means, 
 suffisaunce, sufficiency, 
 sugh, a rushing sound. 
 swich, such. 
 swynk, toil, 
 swynken, to toil, 
 synynge, singing. 
 
 tabard, a herald's coat of arms, 
 table dormant, sideboard, 
 taffata, silk stuff, 
 takel, arrows, 
 tale, reckoning, 
 tapicer, upholsterer, 
 tappestere, barmaid, 
 targe, target, shield, 
 teche, to teach, 
 tell, to count, 
 tentie, heedful, 
 termes, court terms (?). 
 that, the. 
 theekit, thatched, 
 thencrees, the increase, 
 ther as, where that, 
 thilke, that same, 
 thoughte, it seemed, 
 thries, thrice. 
 thriftily, becomingly, 
 thynketh, it seems, 
 tickle, unsteady, 
 to drive, to pass. 
 to, too. 
 
 tomorn, tomorrow, 
 towmond, a twelvemonth, 
 tretys, shapely, 
 trouthe, fidelity, truth, 
 trysted, hour for love meeting, 
 tydes, tides. 
 
 typet, friar's hood or cowl used 
 as a pocket.
 
 6/6 
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 unco, very, 
 uncos, strange tales, 
 undertake, venture to say. 
 undertake, to conduct an enter- 
 prise. 
 
 unknowe, unknown, 
 unnethes, scarcely. 
 
 vavasour, landholder, 
 venerie, hunting. 
 verray, very, true, 
 vertu, virtue, power. 
 vertuous, efficient, 
 viage, voyage, 
 vigilies, vigils, 
 villynye, villainy. 
 vitaille, provisions, 
 vouche-saut, to vouchsafe. 
 
 wa', wall. 
 
 wad, would. 
 
 wails, chooses. 
 
 waited after, watched for. 
 
 waly, a cry of lamentation. 
 
 wan, won. 
 
 wantowne, wanton. 
 
 war, aware. 
 
 wastel breed, cake bread. 
 
 weams, blotches. 
 
 webbe, weaver. 
 
 wee, little. 
 
 weel, well. 
 
 ween, think. 
 
 welked, withered, waned. 
 
 were, to wear. 
 
 werre, war. 
 
 what, why. 
 
 whelp, dog. 
 
 wi, with. 
 
 wist, pret., knew. 
 
 wit. to know. 
 
 withholde, withheld, took it easy. 
 
 withouten, outside of. 
 
 wo, woful. 
 
 wol, will. 
 
 wolde, would, wished. 
 
 wonder, \\ondrously. 
 
 wonderly, wonderfully. 
 
 wone, wont. 
 
 wons, dwells. 
 
 wonynge, dwelling. 
 
 wood, mad. 
 
 Woodhouselee, the house of Buc- 
 
 cleuch on the Border, 
 woot, know. 
 write, written, 
 wroghte, wrought, 
 wrooth, angry, wroth. 
 wydwe, widow. 
 wympul, a nun's head and neck 
 
 cloth, wimple. 
 
 y, a relic of Anglo-Saxon ge, 
 
 sign of the past participle. 
 y-blent, blended, 
 y-bore, borne, 
 y-cleped, called, 
 yeddynges, songs, 
 yeman, yeoman, 
 yemanly, yeomanly. 
 yerde, yard, 
 y-falle, fallen, 
 y-go, gone, 
 y-knowe, known, 
 yont, beyond, 
 younkers, young ones, 
 yow, yourself, 
 yowes, ewes, 
 y-purfiled, trimmed, 
 y-ronne, run. 
 y-shryve, shriven, 
 y-taught, taught, 
 y-teyd, tied, 
 y-wrought, wrought. 
 y-wympled, wimpled.
 
 A HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE. 
 
 Being the History of English Poetry from its Beginnings 
 to the Accession of King Alfred. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. STOPFORD A. BROOKE. 
 
 WITH MAPS. 
 Large 12010. Gilt top. $2.50. 
 
 NOTICES. 
 
 " I had been eagerly awaiting it, and find it on examination distinctly the 
 best treatise on its subject." 
 
 PROF. CHARLES F. RICHARDSON, Dartmouth College. 
 
 " I know of no literary estimate of Anglo-Saxon poetry that in breadth 
 of view and sympathetic appreciation can be compared with this." 
 
 PROF. W. E. MEAD, Wesleyan University, 
 
 " In this work we have the view of a real lover of literature, and we have 
 its utterance in a diction graceful enough to make the reading an intellectual 
 pleasure in itself." The Christian Union. 
 
 " No other book exists in English from which a reader unacquainted 
 with Anglo-Saxon may gain so vivid a sense of the literary quality of our 
 earliest poetry." The Dial. 
 
 " A delightful exposition of the poetic spirit and achievement of the 
 eighth century." Chicago Tribune. 
 
 " In Mr. Stopford Brooke's monumental work he strives with rare skill 
 and insight to present our earliest national poetry as a living literature, and 
 not as a mere material for research." London Times. 
 
 " It is a monument of scholarship and learning, while it furnishes an 
 authentic history of English literature at a period when little before was 
 known respecting it." Public Opinion. 
 
 " It is a comprehensive critical account of Anglo-Saxon poetry from its 
 beginnings to the accession of King Alfred. A thorough knowledge of the 
 Anglo-Saxon language was needed by the man who undertook such a weighty 
 enterprise, and this knowledge is possessed by Mr. Brooke in a degree 
 probably unsurpassed by any living scholar." Evening Bulletin. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 A HISTORY 
 
 ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE. 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE SAINTSBURY. 
 Price, $1.00, net. 
 
 NOTICES. 
 
 " Mr. Saintsbury has produced a most useful, first-hand survey com- 
 prehensive, compendious, and spirited of that unique period of literary 
 history when 'all the muses still were in their prime.' One knows not 
 where else to look for so well-proportioned and well-ordered conspectus of 
 the astonishingly varied and rich products of the turning English mind 
 during the century that begins with Tortel's Miscellany and the birth of 
 Bacon, and closes with the restoration." The Dial. 
 
 " Regarding Mr. Saintsbury's work we know not where else to find so 
 compact, yet comprehensive,' so judicious, weighty, and well written a 
 review and critique of Elizabethan literature. But the analysis generally 
 is eminently distinguished by insight, delicacy, and sound judgment, and 
 that applies quite as much to the estimates of prose writers as to those of 
 the poets and dramatists. ... A work which deserves to be be styled 
 admirable." New York Tribune. 
 
 " The work has been most judiciously done and in a literary style and 
 perfection of which, alas, the present era has furnished too few examples." 
 
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 A HISTORY 
 
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