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Title: Verses and Translations

Author: Charles Stuart Calverley

Release Date: May 1, 2003 [EBook #4096]

Language: English

Credits:

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

Transcribed from the 1862 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglag.org

VERSES

AND

TRANSLATIONS.

BY C. S. C.

SECOND EDITION, REVISED.

CAMBRIDGE:

DEIGHTON, BELL, AND CO.

LONDON: BELL AND DALDY.

1862.

Cambridge:

PRINTED BY JONATHAN PALMER, SIDNEY STREET.

CONTENTS.

Page

VISIONS

1

GEMINI AND VIRGO

6

“THERE STANDS A CITY”

14

STRIKING

18

VOICES OF THE NIGHT

21

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY

24

A, B, C.

26

TO MRS. GOODCHILD

28

ODE—‘ON A DISTANT PROSPECT’ OF MAKING A FORTUNE

33

ISABEL

37

DIRGE

40

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY

45

“HIC VIR, HIC EST”

47

BEER

52

ODE TO TOBACCO

60

DOVER TO MUNICH

63

CHARADES

77

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY

97

TRANSLATIONS:

LYCIDAS

106

IN MEMORIAM

128

LAURA MATILDA’S DIRGE

132

“LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL”

136

“LET US TURN HITHERWARD OUR BARK”

140

CARMEN SÆCULARE

144

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE:

TO A SHIP

152

TO VIRGIL

154

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA

156

TO IBYCUS’S WIFE

158

SORACTE

160

TO LEUCONÖE

162

JUNO’S SPEECH

163

TO A FAUN

168

TO LYCE

170

TO HIS SLAVE

172

TRANSLATIONS:

FROM VIRGIL

173

FROM THEOCRITUS

175

SPEECH OF AJAX

177

FROM LUCRETIUS

180

FROM HOMER

188

VISIONS.

“She was a phantom,” &c.

IN lone Glenartney’s thickets lies couched the lordly stag,

The dreaming terrier’s tail forgets its customary wag;

And plodding ploughmen’s weary steps insensibly grow quicker,

As broadening casements light them on towards home, or home-brewed liquor.

It is (in fact) the evening—that pure and pleasant time,

When stars break into splendour, and poets into rhyme;

When in the glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine—

And when, of course, Miss Goodchild’s is prominent in mine.

Miss Goodchild!—Julia Goodchild!—how graciously you smiled

Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child:

When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb’s instruction,

And sent those streaky lollipops home for your fairy suction!

“She wore” her natural “roses, the night when first we met”—

Her golden hair was gleaming ’neath the coercive net:

“Her brow was like the snawdrift,” her step was like Queen Mab’s,

And gone was instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb’s.

The parlour-boarder chasséed tow’rds her on graceful limb;

The onyx decked his bosom—but her smiles were not for him:

With me she danced—till drowsily her eyes “began to blink,”

And I brought raisin wine, and said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”

And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows,

And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows;

Shall I—with that soft hand in mine—enact ideal Lancers,

And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned answers:—

I know that never, never may her love for me return—

At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern—

But ever shall I bless that day: (I don’t bless, as a rule,

The days I spent at “Dr. Crabb’s Preparatory School.”)

And yet—we two may meet again—(Be still, my throbbing heart!)—

Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry tart:—

One night I saw a vision—’Twas when musk-roses bloom

I stood—we stood—upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:

One hand clasped hers—one easily reposed upon my hip—

And “BLESS YE!” burst abruptly from Mr. Goodchild’s lip:

I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering gleam—

My heart beat wildly—and I woke, and lo! it was a dream.

GEMINI AND VIRGO.

Some vast amount of years ago,

Ere all my youth had vanished from me,

A boy it was my lot to know,

Whom his familiar friends called Tommy.

I love to gaze upon a child;

A young bud bursting into blossom;

Artless, as Eve yet unbeguiled,

And agile as a young opossum:

And such was he.  A calm-browed lad,

Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter:

Why hatters as a race are mad

I never knew, nor does it matter.

He was what nurses call a ‘limb;’

One of those small misguided creatures,

Who, though their intellects are dim,

Are one too many for their teachers:

And, if you asked of him to say

What twice 10 was, or 3 times 7,

He’d glance (in quite a placid way)

From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven:

And smile, and look politely round,

To catch a casual suggestion;

But make no effort to propound

Any solution of the question.

And so not much esteemed was he

Of the authorities: and therefore

He fraternized by chance with me,

Needing a somebody to care for:

And three fair summers did we twain

Live (as they say) and love together;

And bore by turns the wholesome cane

Till our young skins became as leather:

And carved our names on every desk,

And tore our clothes, and inked our collars;

And looked unique and picturesque,

But not, it may be, model scholars.

We did much as we chose to do;

We’d never heard of Mrs. Grundy;

All the theology we knew

Was that we mightn’t play on Sunday;

And all the general truths, that cakes

Were to be bought at four a-penny,

And that excruciating aches

Resulted if we ate too many:

And seeing ignorance is bliss,

And wisdom consequently folly,

The obvious result is this—

That our two lives were very jolly.

At last the separation came.

Real love, at that time, was the fashion;

And by a horrid chance, the same

Young thing was, to us both, a passion.

Old POSER snorted like a horse:

His feet were large, his hands were pimply,

His manner, when excited, coarse:—

But Miss P. was an angel simply.

She was a blushing gushing thing;

All—more than all—my fancy painted;

Once—when she helped me to a wing

Of goose—I thought I should have fainted.

The people said that she was blue:

But I was green, and loved her dearly.

She was approaching thirty-two;

And I was then eleven, nearly.

I did not love as others do;

(None ever did that I’ve heard tell of;)

My passion was a byword through

The town she was, of course, the belle of.

Oh sweet—as to the toilworn man

The far-off sound of rippling river;

As to cadets in Hindostan

The fleeting remnant of their liver—

To me was ANNA; dear as gold

That fills the miser’s sunless coffers;

As to the spinster, growing old,

The thought—the dream—that she had offers.

I’d sent her little gifts of fruit;

I’d written lines to her as Venus;

I’d sworn unflinchingly to shoot

The man who dared to come between us:

And it was you, my Thomas, you,

The friend in whom my soul confided,

Who dared to gaze on her—to do,

I may say, much the same as I did.

One night I saw him squeeze her hand;

There was no doubt about the matter;

I said he must resign, or stand

My vengeance—and he chose the latter.

We met, we ‘planted’ blows on blows:

We fought as long as we were able:

My rival had a bottle-nose,

And both my speaking eyes were sable.

When the school-bell cut short our strife,

Miss P. gave both of us a plaster;

And in a week became the wife

Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master.

* * *

I loved her then—I’d love her still,

Only one must not love Another’s:

But thou and I, my Tommy, will,

When we again meet, meet as brothers.

It may be that in age one seeks

Peace only: that the blood is brisker

In boy’s veins, than in theirs whose cheeks

Are partially obscured by whisker;

Or that the growing ages steal

The memories of past wrongs from us.

But this is certain—that I feel

Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas!

And wheresoe’er we meet again,

On this or that side the equator,

If I’ve not turned teetotaller then,

And have wherewith to pay the waiter,

To thee I’ll drain the modest cup,

Ignite with thee the mild Havannah;

And we will waft, while liquoring up,

Forgiveness to the heartless ANNA.

“There Stands a City.”

INGOLDSBY.

YEAR by year do Beauty’s daughters,

In the sweetest gloves and shawls,

Troop to taste the Chattenham waters,

And adorn the Chattenham balls.

‘Nulla non donanda lauru’

Is that city: you could not,

Placing England’s map before you,

Light on a more favoured spot.

If no clear translucent river

Winds ’neath willow-shaded paths,

“Children and adults” may shiver

All day in “Chalybeate baths:”

If “the inimitable Fechter”

Never brings the gallery down,

Constantly “the Great Protector”

There “rejects the British crown:”

And on every side the painter

Looks on wooded vale and plain

And on fair hills, faint and fainter

Outlined as they near the main.

There I met with him, my chosen

Friend—the ‘long’ but not ‘stern swell,’ [15a]

Faultless in his hats and hosen,

Whom the Johnian lawns know well:—

Oh my comrade, ever valued!

Still I see your festive face;

Hear you humming of “the gal you’d

Left behind” in massive bass:

See you sit with that composure

On the eeliest of hacks,

That the novice would suppose your

Manly limbs encased in wax:

Or anon,—when evening lent her

Tranquil light to hill and vale,—

Urge, towards the table’s centre,

With unerring hand, the squail.

Ah delectablest of summers!

How my heart—that “muffled drum”

Which ignores the aid of drummers—

Beats, as back thy memories come!

Oh, among the dancers peerless,

Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!

Need I say to you that cheerless

Must my days be till I die?

At my side she mashed the fragrant

Strawberry; lashes soft as silk

Drooped o’er saddened eyes, when vagrant

Gnats sought watery graves in milk:

Then we danced, we walked together;

Talked—no doubt on trivial topics;

Such as Blondin, or the weather,

Which “recalled us to the tropics.”

But—oh! in the deuxtemps peerless,

Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!—

Once more I repeat, that cheerless

Shall my days be till I die.

And the lean and hungry raven,

As he picks my bones, will start

To observe ‘M. N.’ engraven

Neatly on my blighted heart.

STRIKING.

IT was a railway passenger,

And he lept out jauntilie.

“Now up and bear, thou stout portèr,

My two chattèls to me.

“Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red,

And portmanteau so brown:

(They lie in the van, for a trusty man

He labelled them London town:)

“And fetch me eke a cabman bold,

That I may be his fare, his fare;

And he shall have a good shilling,

If by two of the clock he do me bring

To the Terminus, Euston Square.”

“Now,—so to thee the saints alway,

Good gentleman, give luck,—

As never a cab may I find this day,

For the cabman wights have struck:

And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,

Or else at the Dog and Duck,

Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin,

The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin

Right pleasantly they do suck.”

“Now rede me aright, thou stout portèr,

What were it best that I should do:

For woe is me, an I reach not there

Or ever the clock strike two.”

“I have a son, a lytel son;

Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck’s:

Give him a shilling, and eke a brown,

And he shall carry thy chattels down,

To Euston, or half over London town,

On one of the station trucks.”

Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare,

The gent, and the son of the stout portèr,

Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair,

Through all the mire and muck:

“A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray:

For by two of the clock must I needs away.”

“That may hardly be,” the clerk did say,

“For indeed—the clocks have struck.”

VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

“The tender Grace of a day that is past.”

THE dew is on the roses,

The owl hath spread her wing;

And vocal are the noses

Of peasant and of king:

“Nature” (in short) “reposes;”

But I do no such thing.

Pent in my lonesome study

Here I must sit and muse;

Sit till the morn grows ruddy,

Till, rising with the dews,

“Jeameses” remove the muddy

Spots from their masters’ shoes.

Yet are sweet faces flinging

Their witchery o’er me here:

I hear sweet voices singing

A song as soft, as clear,

As (previously to stinging)

A gnat sings round one’s ear.

Does Grace draw young Apollos

In blue mustachios still?

Does Emma tell the swallows

How she will pipe and trill,

When, some fine day, she follows

Those birds to the window-sill?

And oh! has Albert faded

From Grace’s memory yet?

Albert, whose “brow was shaded

By locks of glossiest jet,”

Whom almost any lady’d

Have given her eyes to get?

Does not her conscience smite her

For one who hourly pines,

Thinking her bright eyes brighter

Than any star that shines—

I mean of course the writer

Of these pathetic lines?

Who knows?  As quoth Sir Walter,

“Time rolls his ceaseless course:

“The Grace of yore” may alter—

And then, I’ve one resource:

I’ll invest in a bran-new halter,

And I’ll perish without remorse.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

ERE the morn the East has crimsoned,

When the stars are twinkling there,

(As they did in Watts’s Hymns, and

Made him wonder what they were:)

When the forest-nymphs are beading

Fern and flower with silvery dew—

My infallible proceeding

Is to wake, and think of you.

When the hunter’s ringing bugle

Sounds farewell to field and copse,

And I sit before my frugal

Meal of gravy-soup and chops:

When (as Gray remarks) “the moping

Owl doth to the moon complain,”

And the hour suggests eloping—

Fly my thoughts to you again.

May my dreams be granted never?

Must I aye endure affliction

Rarely realised, if ever,

In our wildest works of fiction?

Madly Romeo loved his Juliet;

Copperfield began to pine

When he hadn’t been to school yet—

But their loves were cold to mine.

Give me hope, the least, the dimmest,

Ere I drain the poisoned cup:

Tell me I may tell the chymist

Not to make that arsenic up!

Else, this heart shall soon cease throbbing;

And when, musing o’er my bones,

Travellers ask, “Who killed Cock Robin?”

They’ll be told, “Miss Sarah J—s.”

A, B, C.

A is an Angel of blushing eighteen:

B is the Ball where the Angel was seen:

C is her Chaperone, who cheated at cards:

D is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards:

E is the Eye which those dark lashes cover:

F is the Fan it peeped wickedly over:

G is the Glove of superlative kid:

H is the Hand which it spitefully hid:

I is the Ice which spent nature demanded:

J is the Juvenile who hurried to hand it:

K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art:

L is the Lace which composed the chief part.

M is the old Maid who watch’d the girls dance:

N is the Nose she turned up at each glance:

O is the Olga (just then in its prime):

P is the Partner who wouldn’t keep time:

Q ’s a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers:

R the Remonstrances made by the dancers:

S is the Supper, where all went in pairs:

T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs:

U is the Uncle who ‘thought we’d be going’:

V is the Voice which his niece replied ‘No’ in:

W is the Waiter, who sat up till eight:

X is his Exit, not rigidly straight:

Y is a Yawning fit caused by the Ball:

Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all.

TO MRS. GOODCHILD.

THE night-wind’s shriek is pitiless and hollow,

The boding bat flits by on sullen wing,

And I sit desolate, like that “one swallow”

Who found (with horror) that he’d not brought spring:

Lonely as he who erst with venturous thumb

Drew from its pie-y lair the solitary plum.

And to my gaze the phantoms of the Past,

The cherished fictions of my boyhood, rise:

I see Red Ridinghood observe, aghast,

The fixed expression of her grandam’s eyes;

I hear the fiendish chattering and chuckling

Which those misguided fowls raised at the Ugly Duckling.

The House that Jack built—and the Malt that lay

Within the House—the Rat that ate the Malt—

The Cat, that in that sanguinary way

Punished the poor thing for its venial fault—

The Worrier-Dog—the Cow with Crumpled horn—

And then—ah yes! and then—the Maiden all forlorn!

O Mrs. Gurton—(may I call thee Gammer?)

Thou more than mother to my infant mind!

I loved thee better than I loved my grammar—

I used to wonder why the Mice were blind,

And who was gardener to Mistress Mary,

And what—I don’t know still—was meant by “quite contrary”?

“Tota contraria,” an “Arundo Cami”

Has phrased it—which is possibly explicit,

Ingenious certainly—but all the same I

Still ask, when coming on the word, ‘What is it?’

There were more things in Mrs. Gurton’s eye,

Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.

No doubt the Editor of ‘Notes and Queries’

Or ‘Things not generally known’ could tell

That word’s real force—my only lurking fear is

That the great Gammer “didna ken hersel”:

(I’ve precedent, yet feel I owe apology

For passing in this way to Scottish phraseology).

Alas, dear Madam, I must ask your pardon

For making this unwarranted digression,

Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary’s garden:—

And beg to send, with every expression

Of personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes,

For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times.

There is a youth, who keeps a ‘crumpled Horn,’

(Living next me, upon the selfsame story,)

And ever, ’twixt the midnight and the morn,

He solaces his soul with Annie Laurie.

The tune is good; the habit p’raps romantic;

But tending, if pursued, to drive one’s neighbours frantic.

And now,—at this unprecedented hour,

When the young Dawn is “trampling out the stars,”—

I hear that youth—with more than usual power

And pathos—struggling with the first few bars.

And I do think the amateur cornopean

Should be put down by law—but that’s perhaps Utopian.

Who knows what “things unknown” I might have “bodied

Forth,” if not checked by that absurd Too-too?

But don’t I know that when my friend has plodded

Through the first verse, the second will ensue?

Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely

Send the aforesaid book—and am yours most sincerely.

ODE—‘ON A DISTANT PROSPECT’ OF MAKING A FORTUNE.

NOW the “rosy morn appearing”

Floods with light the dazzled heaven;

And the schoolboy groans on hearing

That eternal clock strike seven:—

Now the waggoner is driving

Towards the fields his clattering wain;

Now the bluebottle, reviving,

Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful:

Wearily I stretch my legs,

Dress, and settle to my plateful

Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.

Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,

Mentioned “rent,” which “p’raps I’d pay;”

And I have a dismal presage

That she’ll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,

Smoked through silver-mounted pipes—

Then how my patrician nose would

Turn up at the thought of “swipes!”

Ale,—occasionally claret,—

Graced my luncheon then:—and now

I drink porter in a garret,

To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened,

And I doff my hat and gloves,

No sweet bird is there to “cheep and

Twitter twenty million loves:”

No dark-ringleted canaries

Sing to me of “hungry foam;”

No imaginary “Marys”

Call fictitious “cattle home.”

Araminta, sweetest, fairest!

Solace once of every ill!

How I wonder if thou bearest

Mivins in remembrance still!

If that Friday night is banished

Yet from that retentive mind,

When the others somehow vanished,

And we two were left behind:—

When in accents low, yet thrilling,

I did all my love declare;

Mentioned that I’d not a shilling—

Hinted that we need not care:

And complacently you listened

To my somewhat long address—

(Listening, at the same time, isn’t

Quite the same as saying Yes).

Once, a happy child, I carolled

O’er green lawns the whole day through,

Not unpleasingly apparelled

In a tightish suit of blue:—

What a change has now passed o’er me!

Now with what dismay I see

Every rising morn before me!

Goodness gracious, patience me!

And I’ll prowl, a moodier Lara,

Through the world, as prowls the bat,

And habitually wear a

Cypress wreath around my hat:

And when Death snuffs out the taper

Of my Life, (as soon he must),

I’ll send up to every paper,

“Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.”

ISABEL.

NOW o’er the landscape crowd the deepening shades,

And the shut lily cradles not the bee;

The red deer couches in the forest glades,

And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea:

And ere I rest, one prayer I’ll breathe for thee,

The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams:

Lady, forgive, that ever upon me

Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams

Linger on Merlin’s rock, or dark Sabrina’s streams.

On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray,

And watch far off the glimmering roselight break

O’er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray

Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake.

Oh! who felt not new life within him wake,

And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn—

(Save one we wot of, whom the cold did make

Feel “shooting pains in every joint in turn,”)

When first he saw the sun gild thy green shores, Lucerne?

And years have past, and I have gazed once more

On blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue;

And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before—

For all awakened memories of you.

Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieu

Of that red matron, whom the flies would worry,

(Flies in those parts unfortunately do,)

Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry,

And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray!

O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme

That ere drew dreamer on to poësy,

Since “Peggy’s locks” made Burns neglect his team,

And Stella’s smile lured Johnson from his tea—

I may not tell thee what thou art to me!

But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear,

Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be,

Would he but “do the duty that lies near,”

And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard-rooms, and beer.

DIRGE.

“Dr. Birch’s young friends will reassemble to-day, Feb. 1st.”

WHITE is the wold, and ghostly

The dank and leafless trees;

And ‘M’s and ‘N’s are mostly

Pronounced like ‘B’s and ‘D’s:

’Neath bleak sheds, ice-encrusted,

The sheep stands, mute and stolid:

And ducks find out, disgusted,

That all the ponds are solid.

Many a stout steer’s work is

(At least in this world) finished;

The gross amount of turkies

Is sensibly diminished:

The holly-boughs are faded,

The painted crackers gone;

Would I could write, as Gray did,

An Elegy thereon!

For Christmas-time is ended:

Now is “our youth” regaining

Those sweet spots where are “blended

Home-comforts and school-training.”

Now they’re, I dare say, venting

Their grief in transient sobs,

And I am “left lamenting”

At home, with Mrs. Dobbs.

O Posthumus!  “Fugaces

Labuntur anni” still;

Time robs us of our graces,

Evade him as we will.

We were the twins of Siam:

Now she thinks me a bore,

And I admit that I am

Inclined at times to snore.

I was her own Nathaniel;

With her I took sweet counsel,

Brought seed-cake for her spaniel,

And kept her bird in groundsel:

We’ve murmured, “How delightful

A landscape, seen by night, is,”—

And woke next day in frightful

Pain from acute bronchitis.

* * *

But ah! for them, whose laughter

We heard last New Year’s Day,—

(They reeked not of Hereafter,

Or what the Doctor’d say,)—

For those small forms that fluttered

Moth-like around the plate,

When Sally brought the buttered

Buns in at half-past eight!

Ah for the altered visage

Of her, our tiny Belle,

Whom my boy Gus (at his age!)

Said was a “deuced swell!”

P’raps now Miss Tickler’s tocsin

Has caged that pert young linnet;

Old Birch perhaps is boxing

My Gus’s ears this minute.

Yet, though your young ears be as

Red as mamma’s geraniums,

Yet grieve not!  Thus ideas

Pass into infant craniums.

Use not complaints unseemly;

Tho’ you must work like bricks;

And it is cold, extremely,

Rising at half-past six.

Soon sunnier will the day grow,

And the east wind not blow so;

Soon, as of yore, L’Allegro

Succeed Il Penseroso:

Stick to your Magnall’s Questions

And Long Division sums;

And come—with good digestions—

Home when next Christmas comes.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

DARKNESS succeeds to twilight:

Through lattice and through skylight

The stars no doubt, if one looked out,

Might be observed to shine:

And sitting by the embers

I elevate my members

On a stray chair, and then and there

Commence a Valentine.

Yea! by St. Valentinus,

Emma shall not be minus

What all young ladies, whate’er their grade is,

Expect to-day no doubt:

Emma the fair, the stately—

Whom I beheld so lately,

Smiling beneath the snow-white wreath

Which told that she was “out.”

Wherefore fly to her, swallow,

And mention that I’d “follow,”

And “pipe and trill,” et cetera, till

I died, had I but wings:

Say the North’s “true and tender,”

The South an old offender;

And hint in fact, with your well-known tact,

All kinds of pretty things.

Say I grow hourly thinner,

Simply abhor my dinner—

Tho’ I do try and absorb some viand

Each day, for form’s sake merely:

And ask her, when all’s ended,

And I am found extended,

With vest blood-spotted and cut carotid,

To think on Her’s sincerely.

“HIC VIR, HIC EST.”

OFTEN, when o’er tree and turret,

Eve a dying radiance flings,

By that ancient pile I linger

Known familiarly as “King’s.”

And the ghosts of days departed

Rise, and in my burning breast

All the undergraduate wakens,

And my spirit is at rest.

What, but a revolting fiction,

Seems the actual result

Of the Census’s enquiries

Made upon the 15th ult.?

Still my soul is in its boyhood;

Nor of year or changes recks.

Though my scalp is almost hairless,

And my figure grows convex.

Backward moves the kindly dial;

And I’m numbered once again

With those noblest of their species

Called emphatically ‘Men’:

Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime,

Through the streets, with tranquil mind,

And a long-backed fancy-mongrel

Trailing casually behind:

Past the Senate-house I saunter,

Whistling with an easy grace;

Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet

Still the beefy market-place;

Poising evermore the eye-glass

In the light sarcastic eye,

Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid

Pass, without a tribute, by.

Once, an unassuming Freshman,

Through these wilds I wandered on,

Seeing in each house a College,

Under every cap a Don:

Each perambulating infant

Had a magic in its squall,

For my eager eye detected

Senior Wranglers in them all.

By degrees my education

Grew, and I became as others;

Learned to court delirium tremens

By the aid of Bacon Brothers;

Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock,

And colossal prints of Roe;

And ignored the proposition

That both time and money go.

Learned to work the wary dogcart

Artfully through King’s Parade;

Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with

Amaryllis in the shade:

Struck, at Brown’s, the dashing hazard;

Or (more curious sport than that)

Dropped, at Callaby’s, the terrier

Down upon the prisoned rat.

I have stood serene on Fenner’s

Ground, indifferent to blisters,

While the Buttress of the period

Bowled me his peculiar twisters:

Sung ‘We won’t go home till morning’;

Striven to part my backhair straight;

Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller’s

Old dry wines at 78:—

When within my veins the blood ran,

And the curls were on my brow,

I did, oh ye undergraduates,

Much as ye are doing now.

Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones:—

Now unto mine inn must I,

Your ‘poor moralist,’ [51a] betake me,

In my ‘solitary fly.’

BEER.

IN those old days which poets say were golden—

(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:

And, if they did, I’m all the more beholden

To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,

Who talk to me “in language quaint and olden”

Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,

Pans with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,

And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette

(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.

They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,

No fashions varying as the hues of morn.

Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,

Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)

And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,

And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:

And oft, I own, my ‘wayward fancy roams’

Back to those times, so different from the present;

When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes,

Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant,

Nor ‘did’ their hair by means of long-tailed combs,

Nor migrated to Brighton once a-year,

Nor—most astonishing of all—drank Beer.

No, they did not drink Beer, “which brings me to”

(As Gilpin said) “the middle of my song.”

Not that “the middle” is precisely true,

Or else I should not tax your patience long:

If I had said ‘beginning,’ it might do;

But I have a dislike to quoting wrong:

I was unlucky—sinned against, not sinning—

When Cowper wrote down ‘middle’ for ‘beginning.’

So to proceed.  That abstinence from Malt

Has always struck me as extremely curious.

The Greek mind must have had some vital fault,

That they should stick to liquors so injurious—

(Wine, water, tempered p’raps with Attic salt)—

And not at once invent that mild, luxurious,

And artful beverage, Beer.  How the digestion

Got on without it, is a startling question.

Had they digestions? and an actual body

Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on?

Were they abstract ideas—(like Tom Noddy

And Mr. Briggs)—or men, like Jones and Jackson?

Then Nectar—was that beer, or whiskey-toddy?

Some say the Gaelic mixture, I the Saxon:

I think a strict adherence to the latter

Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter.

Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shews

That the real beverage for feasting gods on

Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose

And also to the palate, known as ‘Hodgson.’

I know a man—a tailor’s son—who rose

To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on,

(Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,)

That that man owed his rise to copious Beer.

O Beer!  O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass!

Names that should be on every infant’s tongue!

Shall days and months and years and centuries pass,

And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?

Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,

And wished that lyre could yet again be strung

Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her

Misguided sons that “the best drink was water.”

How would he now recant that wild opinion,

And sing—as would that I could sing—of you!

I was not born (alas!) the “Muses’ minion,”

I’m not poetical, not even blue:

And he (we know) but strives with waxen pinion,

Whoe’er he is that entertains the view

Of emulating Pindar, and will be

Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea.

Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned

With all the lustre of the dying day,

And on Cithæron’s brow the reaper turned,

(Humming, of course, in his delightful way,

How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned

The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay;

And how rock told to rock the dreadful story

That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:)

What would that lone and labouring soul have given,

At that soft moment, for a pewter pot!

How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven,

And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot!

If his own grandmother had died unshriven,

In two short seconds he’d have recked it not;

Such power hath Beer.  The heart which Grief hath canker’d

Hath one unfailing remedy—the Tankard.

Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa;

Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen:

When ‘Dulce et desipere in loco’

Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.

When a rapt audience has encored ‘Fra Poco’

Or ‘Casta Diva,’ I have heard that then

The Prima Donna, smiling herself out,

Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,

Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?

What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry,

But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?

Nay stout itself—(though good with oysters, very)—

Is not a thing your reading man should take.

He that would shine, and petrify his tutor,

Should drink draught Allsop in its “native pewter.”

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear—

A soft and silvery sound—I know it well.

Its tinkling tells me that a time is near

Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.

O blessed Bell!  Thou bringest beef and beer,

Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:

Seared is (of course) my heart—but unsubdued

Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go.  Untaught and feeble is my pen:

But on one statement I may safely venture;

That few of our most highly gifted men

Have more appreciation of the trencher.

I go.  One pound of British beef, and then

What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher;”

That home-returning, I may ‘soothly say,’

“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”

ODE TO TOBACCO.

THOU who, when fears attack,

Bid’st them avaunt, and Black

Care, at the horseman’s back

Perching, unseatest;

Sweet when the morn is grey;

Sweet, when they’ve cleared away

Lunch; and at close of day

Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old

For thee, though manifold

Stories, I know, are told,

Not to thy credit;

How one (or two at most)

Drops make a cat a ghost—

Useless, except to roast—

Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees

All grow by slow degrees

Brainless as chimpanzees,

Meagre as lizards;

Go mad, and beat their wives;

Plunge (after shocking lives)

Razors and carving knives

Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!

Yet know I five or six

Smokers who freely mix

Still with their neighbours;

Jones—who, I’m glad to say,

Asked leave of Mrs. J.)—

Daily absorbs a clay

After his labours.

Cats may have had their goose

Cooked by tobacco-juice;

Still why deny its use

Thoughtfully taken?

We’re not as tabbies are:

Smith, take a fresh cigar!

Jones, the tobacco-jar!

Here’s to thee, Bacon!

DOVER TO MUNICH.

FAREWELL, farewell!  Before our prow

Leaps in white foam the noisy channel,

A tourist’s cap is on my brow,

My legs are cased in tourists’ flannel:

Around me gasp the invalids—

(The quantity to-night is fearful)—

I take a brace or so of weeds,

And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.

The night wears on:—my thirst I quench

With one imperial pint of porter;

Then drop upon a casual bench—

(The bench is short, but I am shorter)—

Place ’neath my head the harve-sac

Which I have stowed my little all in,

And sleep, though moist about the back,

Serenely in an old tarpaulin.

* * *

Bed at Ostend at 5 A.M.

Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30.

Tickets to Königswinter (mem.

The seats objectionably dirty).

And onward through those dreary flats

We move, with scanty space to sit on,

Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats,

And waists that paralyse a Briton;—

By many a tidy little town,

Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting;

(The men’s pursuits are, lying down,

Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)

And doze, and execrate the heat,

And wonder how far off Cologne is,

And if we shall get aught to eat,

Till we get there, save raw polonies:

Until at last the “grey old pile”

Is seen, is past, and three hours later

We’re ordering steaks, and talking vile

Mock-German to an Austrian waiter.

* * *

Königswinter, hateful Königswinter!

Burying-place of all I loved so well!

Never did the most extensive printer

Print a tale so dark as thou could’st tell!

In the sapphire West the eve yet lingered,

Bathed in kindly light those hill-tops cold;

Fringed each cloud, and, stooping rosy-fingered,

Changed Rhine’s waters into molten gold;—

While still nearer did his light waves splinter

Into silvery shafts the streaming light;

And I said I loved thee, Königswinter,

For the glory that was thine that night.

And we gazed, till slowly disappearing,

Like a day-dream, passed the pageant by,

And I saw but those lone hills, uprearing

Dull dark shapes against a hueless sky.

Then I turned, and on those bright hopes pondered

Whereof yon gay fancies were the type;

And my hand mechanically wandered

Towards my left-hand pocket for a pipe.

Ah! why starts each eyeball from its socket,

As, in Hamlet, start the guilty Queen’s?

There, deep-hid in its accustomed pocket,

Lay my sole pipe, smashed to smithereens!

* * *

On, on the vessel steals;

Round go the paddle-wheels,

And now the tourist feels

As he should;

For king-like rolls the Rhine,

And the scenery’s divine,

And the victuals and the wine

Rather good.

From every crag we pass’ll

Rise up some hoar old castle;

The hanging fir-groves tassel

Every slope;

And the vine her lithe arms stretches

O’er peasants singing catches—

And you’ll make no end of sketches,

I should hope.

We’ve a nun here (called Therèse),

Two couriers out of place,

One Yankee, with a face

Like a ferret’s:

And three youths in scarlet caps

Drinking chocolate and schnapps—

A diet which perhaps

Has its merits.

And day again declines:

In shadow sleep the vines,

And the last ray through the pines

Feebly glows,

Then sinks behind yon ridge;

And the usual evening midge

Is settling on the bridge

Of my nose.

And keen’s the air and cold,

And the sheep are in the fold,

And Night walks sable-stoled

Through the trees;

And on the silent river

The floating starbeams quiver;—

And now, the saints deliver

Us from fleas.

* * *

Avenues of broad white houses,

Basking in the noontide glare;—

Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from,

As on hot plates shrinks the bear;—

Elsewhere lawns, and vista’d gardens,

Statues white, and cool arcades,

Where at eve the German warrior

Winks upon the German maids;—

Such is Munich:—broad and stately,

Rich of hue, and fair of form;

But, towards the end of August,

Unequivocally warm.

There, the long dim galleries threading,

May the artist’s eye behold,

Breathing from the “deathless canvass”

Records of the years of old:

Pallas there, and Jove, and Juno,

“Take” once more “their walks abroad,”

Under Titian’s fiery woodlands

And the saffron skies of Claude:

There the Amazons of Rubens

Lift the failing arm to strike,

And the pale light falls in masses

On the horsemen of Vandyke;

And in Berghem’s pools reflected

Hang the cattle’s graceful shapes,

And Murillo’s soft boy-faces

Laugh amid the Seville grapes;

And all purest, loveliest fancies

That in poets’ souls may dwell

Started into shape and substance

At the touch of Raphael.—

Lo! her wan arms folded meekly,

And the glory of her hair

Falling as a robe around her,

Kneels the Magdalene in prayer;

And the white-robed Virgin-mother

Smiles, as centuries back she smiled,

Half in gladness, half in wonder,

On the calm face of her Child:—

And that mighty Judgment-vision

Tells how man essayed to climb

Up the ladder of the ages,

Past the frontier-walls of Time;

Heard the trumpet-echoes rolling

Through the phantom-peopled sky,

And the still voice bid this mortal

Put on immortality.

* * *

Thence we turned, what time the blackbird

Pipes to vespers from his perch,

And from out the clattering city

Pass’d into the silent church;

Marked the shower of sunlight breaking

Thro’ the crimson panes o’erhead,

And on pictured wall and window

Read the histories of the dead:

Till the kneelers round us, rising,

Cross’d their foreheads and were gone;

And o’er aisle and arch and cornice,

Layer on layer, the night came on.

CHARADES.

I.

SHE stood at Greenwich, motionless amid

The ever-shifting crowd of passengers.

I marked a big tear quivering on the lid

Of her deep-lustrous eye, and knew that hers

Were days of bitterness.  But, “Oh! what stirs”

I said “such storm within so fair a breast?”

Even as I spoke, two apoplectic curs

Came feebly up: with one wild cry she prest

Each singly to her heart, and faltered, “Heaven be blest!”

Yet once again I saw her, from the deck

Of a black ship that steamed towards Blackwall.

She walked upon my first.  Her stately neck

Bent o’er an object shrouded in her shawl:

I could not see the tears—the glad tears—fall,

Yet knew they fell.  And “Ah,” I said, “not puppies,

Seen unexpectedly, could lift the pall

From hearts who know what tasting misery’s cup is,

As Niobe’s, or mine, or Mr. William Guppy’s.”

* * *

Spake John Grogblossom the coachman to Eliza Spinks the cook:

“Mrs. Spinks,” says he, “I’ve foundered: ‘Liza dear, I’m overtook.

Druv into a corner reglar, puzzled as a babe unborn;

Speak the word, my blessed ‘Liza; speak, and John the coachman’s yourn.”

Then Eliza Spinks made answer, blushing, to the coachman John:

“John, I’m born and bred a spinster: I’ve begun and I’ll go on.

Endless cares and endless worrits, well I knows it, has a wife:

Cooking for a genteel family, John, it’s a goluptious life!

“I gets £20 per annum—tea and things o’ course not reckoned,—

There’s a cat that eats the butter, takes the coals, and breaks my second:

There’s soci’ty—James the footman;—(not that I look after him;

But he’s aff’ble in his manners, with amazing length of limb;)—

“Never durst the missis enter here until I’ve said ‘Come in’:

If I saw the master peeping, I’d catch up the rolling-pin.

Christmas-boxes, that’s a something; perkisites, that’s something too;

And I think, take all together, John, I won’t be on with you.”

John the coachman took his hat up, for he thought he’d had enough;

Rubbed an elongated forehead with a meditative cuff;

Paused before the stable doorway; said, when there, in accents mild,

“She’s a fine young ’oman, cook is; but that’s where it is, she’s spiled.”

* * *

I have read in some not marvellous tale,

(Or if I have not, I’ve dreamed)

Of one who filled up the convivial cup

Till the company round him seemed

To be vanished and gone, tho’ the lamps upon

Their face as aforetime gleamed:

And his head sunk down, and a Lethe crept

O’er his powerful brain, and the young man slept.

Then they laid him with care in his moonlit bed:

But first—having thoughtfully fetched some tar—

Adorned him with feathers, aware that the weather’s

Uncertainty brings on at nights catarrh.

They staid in his room till the sun was high:

But still did the feathered one give no sign

Of opening a peeper—he might be a sleeper

Such as rests on the Northern or Midland line.

At last he woke, and with profound

Bewilderment he gazed around;

Dropped one, then both feet to the ground,

But never spake a word:

Then to my whole he made his way;

Took one long lingering survey;

And softly, as he stole away,

Remarked, “By Jove, a bird!”

II.

IF you’ve seen a short man swagger tow’rds the footlights at Shoreditch,

Sing out “Heave aho! my hearties,” and perpetually hitch

Up, by an ingenious movement, trousers innocent of brace,

Briskly flourishing a cudgel in his pleased companion’s face;

If he preluded with hornpipes each successive thing he did,

From a sun-browned cheek extracting still an ostentatious quid;

And expectorated freely, and occasionally cursed:—

Then have you beheld, depicted by a master’s hand, my first.

O my countryman! if ever from thy arm the bolster sped,

In thy school-days, with precision at a young companion’s head;

If ’twas thine to lodge the marble in the centre of the ring,

Or with well-directed pebble make the sitting hen take wing:

Then do thou—each fair May morning, when the blue lake is as glass,

And the gossamers are twinkling star-like in the beaded grass;

When the mountain-bee is sipping fragrance from the bluebell’s lip,

And the bathing-woman tells you, Now’s your time to take a dip:

When along the misty valleys fieldward winds the lowing herd,

And the early worm is being dropped on by the early bird;

And Aurora hangs her jewels from the bending rose’s cup,

And the myriad voice of Nature calls thee to my second up:—

Hie thee to the breezy common, where the melancholy goose

Stalks, and the astonished donkey finds that he is really loose;

There amid green fern and furze-bush shalt thou soon my whole behold,

Rising ‘bull-eyed and majestic’—as Olympus queen of old:

Kneel,—at a respectful distance,—as they kneeled to her, and try

With judicious hand to put a ball into that ball-less eye:

Till a stiffness seize thy elbows, and the general public wake—

Then return, and, clear of conscience, walk into thy well-earned steak.

III.

ERE yet “knowledge for the million”

Came out “neatly bound in boards;”

When like Care upon a pillion

Matrons rode behind their lords:

Rarely, save to hear the Rector,

Forth did younger ladies roam;

Making pies, and brewing nectar

From the gooseberry-trees at home.

They’d not dreamed of Pan or Vevay;

Ne’er should into blossom burst

At the ball or at the levée;

Never come, in fact, my first:

Nor illumine cards by dozens

With some labyrinthine text,

Nor work smoking-caps for cousins

Who were pounding at my next.

Now have skirts, and minds, grown ampler;

Now not all they seek to do

Is create upon a sampler

Beasts which Buffon never knew:

But their venturous muslins rustle

O’er the cragstone and the snow,

Or at home their biceps muscle

Grows by practising the bow.

Worthier they those dames who, fable

Says, rode “palfreys” to the war

With gigantic Thanes, whose “sable

Destriers caracoled” before;

Smiled, as—springing from the war-horse

As men spring in modern ‘cirques’—

They plunged, ponderous as a four-horse

Coach, among the vanished Turks:—

In the good times when the jester

Asked the monarch how he was,

And the landlady addrest her

Guests as ‘gossip’ or as ‘coz’;

When the Templar said, “Gramercy,”

Or, “’Twas shrewdly thrust, i’ fegs,”

To Sir Halbert or Sir Percy

As they knocked him off his legs:

And, by way of mild reminders

That he needed coin, the Knight

Day by day extracted grinders

From the howling Israelite:

And my whole in merry Sherwood

Sent, with preterhuman luck,

Missiles—not of steel but firwood—

Thro’ the two-mile-distant buck.

IV.

EVENING threw soberer hue

Over the blue sky, and the few

Poplars that grew just in the view

Of the hall of Sir Hugo de Wynkle:

“Answer me true,” pleaded Sir Hugh,

(Striving to woo no matter who,)

“What shall I do, Lady, for you?

’Twill be done, ere your eye may twinkle.

Shall I borrow the wand of a Moorish enchanter,

And bid a decanter contain the Levant, or

The brass from the face of a Mormonite ranter?

Shall I go for the mule of the Spanish Infantar—

(That r, for the sake of the line, we must grant her,)—

And race with the foul fiend, and beat in a canter,

Like that first of equestrians Tam o’ Shanter?

I talk not mere banter—say not that I can’t, or

By this my first—(a Virginia planter

Sold it me to kill rats)—I will die instanter.”

The Lady bended her ivory neck, and

Whispered mournfully, “Go for—my second.”

She said, and the red from Sir Hugh’s cheek fled,

And “Nay,” did he say, as he stalked away

The fiercest of injured men:

“Twice have I humbled my haughty soul,

And on bended knee I have pressed my whole—

But I never will press it again!”

V.

ON pinnacled St. Mary’s

Lingers the setting sun;

Into the street the blackguards

Are skulking one by one:

Butcher and Boots and Bargeman

Lay pipe and pewter down;

And with wild shout come tumbling out

To join the Town and Gown.

And now the undergraduates

Come forth by twos and threes,

From the broad tower of Trinity,

From the green gate of Caius:

The wily bargeman marks them,

And swears to do his worst;

To turn to impotence their strength,

And their beauty to my first.

But before Corpus gateway

My second first arose,

When Barnacles the freshman

Was pinned upon the nose:

Pinned on the nose by Boxer,

Who brought a hobnailed herd

From Barnwell, where he kept a van,

Being indeed a dogsmeat man,

Vendor of terriers, blue or tan,

And dealer in my third.

’Twere long to tell how Boxer

Was ‘countered’ on the cheek,

And knocked into the middle

Of the ensuing week:

How Barnacles the Freshman

Was asked his name and college;

And how he did the fatal facts

Reluctantly acknowledge.

He called upon the Proctor

Next day at half-past ten;

Men whispered that the Freshman cut

A different figure then:—

That the brass forsook his forehead,

The iron fled his soul,

As with blanched lip and visage wan

Before the stony-hearted Don

He kneeled upon my whole.

VI.

SIKES, housebreaker, of Houndsditch,

Habitually swore;

But so surpassingly profane

He never was before,

As on a night in winter,

When—softly as he stole

In the dim light from stair to stair,

Noiseless as boys who in her lair

Seek to surprise a fat old hare—

He barked his shinbone, unaware

Encountering my whole.

As pours the Anio plainward,

When rains have swollen the dykes,

So, with such noise, poured down my first,

Stirred by the shins of Sikes.

The Butler Bibulus heard it;

And straightway ceased to snore,

And sat up, like an egg on end,

While men might count a score:

Then spake he to Tigerius,

A Buttons bold was he:

“Buttons, I think there’s thieves about;

Just strike a light and tumble out;

If you can’t find one, go without,

And see what you may see.”

But now was all the household,

Almost, upon its legs,

Each treading carefully about

As if they trod on eggs.

With robe far-streaming issued

Paterfamilias forth;

And close behind him,—stout and true

And tender as the North,—

Came Mrs. P., supporting

On her broad arm her fourth.

Betsy the nurse, who never

From largest beetle ran,

And—conscious p’raps of pleasing caps—

The housemaids, formed the van:

And Bibulus the Butler,

His calm brows slightly arched;

(No mortal wight had ere that night

Seen him with shirt unstarched;)

And Bob, the shockhaired knifeboy,

Wielding two Sheffield blades,

And James Plush of the sinewy legs,

The love of lady’s maids:

And charwoman and chaplain

Stood mingled in a mass,

And “Things,” thought he of Houndsditch,

“Is come to a pretty pass.”

Beyond all things a Baby

Is to the schoolgirl dear;

Next to herself the nursemaid loves

Her dashing grenadier;

Only with life the sailor

Parts from the British flag;

While one hope lingers, the cracksman’s fingers

Drop not his hard-earned ‘swag.’

But, as hares do my second

Thro’ green Calabria’s copses,

As females vanish at the sight

Of short-horns and of wopses;

So, dropping forks and teaspoons,

The pride of Houndsditch fled,

Dumbfoundered by the hue and cry

He’d raised up overhead.

* * * *

They gave him—did the Judges—

As much as was his due.

And, Saxon, should’st thou e’er be led

To deem this tale untrue;

Then—any night in winter,

When the cold north wind blows,

And bairns are told to keep out cold

By tallowing the nose:

When round the fire the elders

Are gathered in a bunch,

And the girls are doing crochet,

And the boys are reading Punch:—

Go thou and look in Leech’s book;

There haply shalt thou spy

A stout man on a staircase stand,

With aspect anything but bland,

And rub his right shin with his hand,

To witness if I lie.

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

Introductory.

ART thou beautiful, O my daughter, as the budding rose of April?

Are all thy motions music, and is poetry throned in thine eye?

Then hearken unto me; and I will make the bud a fair flower,

I will plant it upon the bank of Elegance, and water it with the water of Cologne;

And in the season it shall “come out,” yea bloom, the pride of the parterre;

Ladies shall marvel at its beauty, and a Lord shall pluck it at the last.

Of Propriety.

Study first Propriety: for she is indeed the Polestar

Which shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair;

Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society;

The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Eros.

Verily Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed being naked;

Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice:

And when she is drest, behold! she knoweth not herself again.—

I walked in the Forest; and above me stood the Yew,

Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade;

Then I pass’d into the citizen’s garden, and marked a tree clipt into shape,

(The giant’s locks had been shorn by the Dalilahshears of Decorum;)

And I said, “Surely nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!”

I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky,

And my foolish heart went after him, and lo! I blessed him as he rose;

Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bulfinch,

Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up water:

And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with thunder,

Must yield to him that danceth and ‘moveth in the circles’ at Astley’s.

For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade,

And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another:

A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upwards,

And it needeth that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety:

He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure,

Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork.

Of Friendship.

Choose judiciously thy friends; for to discard them is undesirable,

Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop thy ‘H’s’.

Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of light?

Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the Morning Post?

If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and mind;

Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding:

So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be “formed,”

And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great shall fly open:

Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation,

His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth remove:

Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning’s papers,

Side by side with rumours of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and sieges,

Shall appear thy name, and the minutiæ of thy head-dress and petticoat,

For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin.

Of Reading.

Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life;

Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet intelligible:

Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth not:

Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream, but do.

Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old,

Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful:

Likewise study the “creations” of “the Prince of modern Romance;”

Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy:

Learn how “love is the dram-drinking of existence;”

And how we “invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets,

The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen.”

Listen how Maltravers and the orphan “forgot all but love,”

And how Devereux’s family chaplain “made and unmade kings:”

How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer,

Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind.

So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and master-spirits;

And if thou canst not realise the Ideal, thou shalt at least idealise the Real.

TRANSLATIONS. [105]

LYCIDAS.

YET once more, O ye laurels! and once more

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,

And with forced fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,

Compels me to disturb your season due;

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:

Who would not sing for Lycidas?  He knew

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

He must not float upon his watery bier

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,

Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, sisters, of the sacred well,

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,

So may some gentle muse

With lucky words favour my destined urn,

And, as he passes, turn

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud:

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,

Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared

Under the opening eyelids of the morn,

We drove afield, and both together heard

What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn,

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright,

Toward Heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

Tempered to the oaten flute;

Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel

From the glad sound would not be absent long,

And old Damætas loved to hear our song.

But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone,

Now thou art gone, and never must return!

Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves

With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,

And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel copses green,

Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,

When first the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep

Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie;

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:

Ay me!  I fondly dream!

Had ye been there, for what could that have done?

What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,

The muse herself for her enchanting son,

Whom universal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,

His gory visage down the stream was sent,

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care

To tend the homely slighted shepherd’s trade,

And strictly meditate the thankless muse?

Were it not better done as others use,

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights, and live laborious days,

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,

And slits the thin-spun life.  “But not the praise,”

Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;

“Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.”

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,

That strain I heard was of a higher mood:

But now my oat proceeds,

And listens to the herald of the sea

That came in Neptune’s plea;

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,

What hard mishap had doomed this gentle swain?

And questioned every gust of rugged wings,

That blows from off each beaked promontory:

They knew not of his story,

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,

That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed,

The air was calm, and on the level brine

Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.

It was that fatal and perfidious bark

Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge,

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.

“Ah! who hath reft,” quoth he, “my dearest pledge?”

Last came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:

“How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,

Enow of such as for their bellies’ sake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!

Of other care they little reckoning make,

Than how to scramble at the shearer’s feast,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest;

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold

A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least

That to the faithful herdsman’s art belongs!

What reeks it them?  What need they?  They are sped;

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,

But swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw

Daily devours apace, and nothing said.

But that two-handed engine at the door

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.”

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,

That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,

And call the vales, and bid them hither cast

Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use

Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,

On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,

Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,

That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,

The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears:

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,

To strow the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.

For so to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.

Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas

Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurled,

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,

Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide

Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,

Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,

Where the great vision of the guarded mount

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;

Look homeward, angel now, and melt with ruth:

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;

So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of him that walked the waves,

Where other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.

There entertain him all the saints above,

In solemn troops, and sweet societies,

That sing, and singing in their glory move,

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;

Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,

While the still morn went out with sandals gray,

He touched the tender stops of various quills,

With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:

And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,

And now was dropped into the western bay;

At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue,

Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

LYCIDAS.

EN! iterum laurus, iterum salvete myricæ

Pallentes, nullique hederæ quæ ceditis ævo.

Has venio baccas, quanquam sapor asper acerbis,

Decerptum, quassumque manu folia ipsa proterva,

Maturescentem prævortens improbus annum.

Causa gravis, pia cansa, subest, et amara deûm lex;

Nec jam sponte mea vobis rata tempora turbo.

Nam periit Lycidas, periit superante juventa

Imberbis Lycidas, quo non præstantior alter.

Quis cantare super Lycida neget?  Ipse quoque artem

Nôrat Apollineam, versumque imponere versu

Non nullo vitreum fas innatet ille feretrum

Flente, voluteturque arentes corpus ad auras,

Indotatum adeo et lacrymæ vocalis egenum.

Quare agite, o sacri fontis queis cura, sorores,

Cui sub inaccessi sella Jovis exit origo:

Incipite, et sonitu graviore impellite chordas.

Lingua procul male prompta loqui, suasorque morarum

Sit pudor: alloquiis ut mollior una secundis

Pieridum faveat, cui mox ego destiner, urnæ:

Et gressus prætergrediens convertat, et “Esto”

Dicat “amoena quies atra tibi veste latenti:”

Uno namque jugo duo nutribamur: eosdem

Pavit uterque greges ad fontem et rivulum et umbram.

Tempore nos illo, nemorum convexa priusquam,

Aurora reserante oculos, cæpere videri,

Urgebamus equos ad pascua: novimus horam

Aridus audiri solitus qua clangor asili;

Rore recentes greges passi pinguescere noctis

Sæpius, albuerat donec quod vespere sidus

Hesperios axes prono inclinasset Olympo.

At pastorales non cessavere camœnæ,

Fistula disparibus quas temperat apta cicutis:

Saltabant Satyri informes, nec murmure læto

Capripedes potuere diu se avertere Fauni;

Damætasque modos nostros longævus amabat.

Jamque, relicta tibi, quantum mutata videntur

Rura—relicta tibi, cui non spes ulla regressûs!

Te sylvæ, teque antra, puer, deserta ferarum,

Incultis obducta thymis ac vite sequaci,

Decessisse gemunt; gemitusque reverberat Echo.

Non salices, non glauca ergo coryleta videbo

Molles ad numeros lætum motare cacumen:—

Quale rosis scabies; quam formidabile vermis

Depulso jam lacte gregi, dum tondet agellos;

Sive quod, indutis verna jam veste, pruinæ

Floribus, albet ubi primum paliurus in agris:

Tale fuit nostris, Lycidam periisse, bubulcis.

Qua, Nymphæ, latuistis, ubi crudele profundum

Delicias Lycidam vestras sub vortice torsit?

Nam neque vos scopulis tum ludebatis in illis

Quos veteres, Druidæ, Vates, illustria servant

Nomina; nec celsæ setoso in culmine Monæ,

Nec, quos Deva locos magicis amplectitur undis.

Væ mihi! delusos exercent somnia sensus:

Venissetis enim; numquid venisse juvaret?

Numquid Pieris ipsa parens interfuit Orphei,

Pieris ipsa suæ sobolis, qui carmine rexit

Corda virum, quem terra olim, quam magna, dolebat,

Tempore quo, dirum auditu strepitante caterva,

Ora secundo amni missa, ac foedata cruore,

Lesbia præcipitans ad litora detulit Hebrus?

Eheu quid prodest noctes instare diesque

Pastorum curas spretas humilesque tuendo,

Nilque relaturam meditari rite Camoenam?

Nonne fuit satius lusus agitare sub umbra,

(Ut mos est aliis,) Amaryllida sive Neæram

Sectanti, ac tortis digitum impediisse capillis?

Scilcet ingenuum cor Fama, novissimus error

Illa animi majoris, uti calcaribus urget

Spernere delicias ac dedi rebus agendis.

Quanquam—exoptatam jam spes attingere dotem;

Jam nec opinata remur splendescere flamma:—

Cæca sed invisa cum forfice venit Erinnys,

Quæ resecet tenui hærentem subtemine vitam.

“At Famam non illa,” refert, tangitque trementes

Phœbus Apollo aures.  “Fama haud, vulgaris ad instar

Floris, amat terrestre solum, fictosque nitores

Queis inhiat populus, nec cum Rumore patescit.

Vivere dant illi, dant increbrescere late

Puri oculi ac vox summa Jovis, cui sola Potestas.

Fecerit ille semel de facto quoque virorum

Arbitrium: tantum famæ manet æthera nactis.”

Fons Arethusa! sacro placidus qui laberis alveo,

Frontem vocali prætextus arundine, Minci!

Sensi equidem gravius carmen.  Nunc cetera pastor

Exsequor.  Adstat enim missus pro rege marino,

Seque rogâsse refert fluctus, ventosque rapaces,

Quæ sors dura nimis tenerum rapuisset agrestem.

Compellasse refert alarum quicquid ab omni

Spirat, acerba sonans, scopulo, qui cuspidis instar

Prominet in pelagus; fama haud pervenerat illuc.

Hæc ultro pater Hippotades responsa ferebat:

“Nulli sunt nostro palati carcere venti.

Straverat æquor aquas, et sub Jove compta sereno

Lusum exercebat Panope nymphæque sorores.

Quam Furiæ struxere per interlunia, leto

Fetam ac fraude ratem,—malos velarat Erinnys,—

Credas in mala tanta caput mersisse sacratum.”

Proximus huic tardum senior se Camus agebat;

Cui setosa chlamys, cui pileus ulva: figuris

Idem intertextus dubiis erat, utque cruentos

Quos perhibent flores, inscriptus margine luctum.

“Nam quis,” ait, “prædulce meum me pignus ademit?”

Post hos, qui Galilæa regit per stagna carinas,

Post hos venit iturus: habet manus utraque clavim,

(Queis aperit clauditque) auro ferrove gravatam.

Mitra tegit crines; quassis quibus, acriter infit:

“Scilicet optassem pro te dare corpora leto

Sat multa, o juvenis: quot serpunt ventribus acti,

Vi quot iter faciunt spretis in ovilia muris.

Hic labor, hoc opus est, pecus ut tondente magistro

Præripiant epulas, trudatur dignior hospes.

Capti oculis, non ore! pedum tractare nec ipsi

Norunt; quotve bonis sunt upilionibus artes.

Sed quid enim refert, quove eat opus, omnia nactis?

Fert ubi mens, tenue ac deductum carmen avenam

Radit stridentem stipulis.  Pastore negato

Suspicit ægra pecus: vento gravis ac lue tracta

Tabescit; mox foeda capit contagia vulgus.

Quid dicam, stabulis ut clandestinus oberrans

Expleat ingluviem tristis lupus, indice nullo?

Illa tamen bimanus custodit machina portam,

Stricta, paratque malis plagam non amplius unam.”

En, Alphee, redi!  Quibus ima cohorruit unda

Voces præteriere: redux quoque Sicelis omnes

Musa voca valles; huc pendentes hyacinthos

Fac jaciant, teneros huc flores mille colorum.

O nemorum depressa, sonant ubi crebra susurri

Umbrarum, et salientis aquæ, Zephyrique protervi;

Queisque virens gremium penetrare Canicula parcit:

Picturata modis jacite huc mihi lumina miris,

Mellitos imbres queis per viridantia rura

Mos haurire, novo quo tellus vere rubescat.

Huc ranunculus, ipse arbos, pallorque ligustri,

Quæque relicta perit, vixdum matura feratur

Pnimula: quique ebeno distinctus, cætera flavet

Flos, et qui specie nomen detrectat eburna.

Ardenti violæ rosa proxima fundat odores;

Serpyllumque placens, et acerbo flexile vultu

Verbascum, ac tristem si quid sibi legit amictum.

Quicquid habes pulcri fundas, amarante: coronent

Narcissi lacrymis calices, sternantque feretrum

Tectus ubi lauro Lycidas jacet: adsit ut oti

Saltem aliquid, ficta ludantur imagine mentes.

Me miserum!  Tua nam litus, pelagusque sonorum

Ossa ferunt, queiscunque procul jacteris in oris;

Sive procellosas ultra Symplegadas ingens

Jam subter mare visis, alit quæ monstra profundum;

Sive (negavit enim precibus te Jupiter udis)

Cum sene Bellero, veterum qui fabula, dormis,

Qua custoditi montis prægrandis imago

Namancum atque arces longe prospectat Iberas.

Verte retro te, verte deum, mollire precando:

Et vos infaustum juvenem delphines agatis.

Ponite jam lacrymas, sat enim flevistis, agrestes.

Non periit Lycidas, vestri moeroris origo,

Marmorei quanquam fluctus hausere cadentem.

Sic et in æquoreum se condere sæpe cubile

Luciferum videas; nec longum tempus, et effert

Demissum caput, igne novo vestitus; et, aurum

Ceu rutilans, in fronte poli splendescit Eoi.

Sic obiit Lycidas, sic assurrexit in altum;

Illo, quem peditem mare sustulit, usus amico.

Nunc campos alios, alia errans stagna secundum,

Rorantesque lavans integro nectare crines,

Audit inauditos nobis cantari Hymenæos,

Fortunatorum sedes ubi mitis amorem

Lætitiamque affert.  Hic illum, quotquot Olympum

Prædulces habitant turbæ, venerabilis ordo,

Circumstant: aliæque canunt, interque canendum

Majestate sua veniunt abeuntque catervæ,

Omnes ex oculis lacrymas arcere paratæ.

Ergo non Lycidam jam lamentantur agrestes.

Divus eris ripæ, puer, hoc ex tempore nobis,

Grande, nec immerito, veniens in munus; opemque

Poscent usque tuam, dubiis quot in æstubus errant.

Hæc incultus aquis puer ilicibusque canebat;

Processit dum mane silens talaribus albis.

Multa manu teneris discrimina tentat avenis,

Dorica non studio modulatus carmina segni:

Et jam sol abiens colles extenderat omnes,

Jamque sub Hesperium se præcipitaverat alveum.

Surrexit tandem, glaucumque retraxit amictum;

Cras lucos, reor, ille novos, nova pascua quæret.

IN MEMORIAM.

CVI.

THE time admits not flowers or leaves

To deck the banquet.  Fiercely flies

The blast of North and East, and ice

Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves,

And bristles all the brakes and thorns

To yon hard crescent, as she hangs

Above the wood which grides and clangs

Its leafless ribs and iron horns

Together, in the drifts that pass,

To darken on the rolling brine

That breaks the coast.  But fetch the wine,

Arrange the board and brim the glass;

Bring in great logs and let them lie,

To make a solid core of heat;

Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat

Of all things ev’n as he were by:

We keep the day with festal cheer,

With books and music.  Surely we

Will drink to him whate’er he be,

And sing the songs he loved to hear.

IN MEMORIAM.

NON hora myrto, non violis sinit

Nitere mensas.  Trux Aquilo foras

Bacchatur, ac passim pruina

Tigna sagittifera coruscant;

Horretque saltus spinifer, algidæ

Sub falce lunæ, dum nemori imminet,

Quod stridet illiditque costis

Cornua, jam vacuis honorum,

Ferrata; nimbis prætereuntibus,

Ut incubent tandem implacido sali

Qui curvat oras.  Tu Falernum

Prome, dapes strue, dic coronent

Crateras: ignis cor solidum, graves

Repone truncos.  Jamque doloribus

Loquare securus fugatis

Quæ socio loquereris illo;

Hunc dedicamus lætitiæ diem

Lyræque musisque.  Illius, illius

Da, quicquid audit: nec silebunt

Qui numeri placuere vivo.

LAURA MATILDA’S DIRGE.

FROM ‘REJECTED ADDRESSES.’

BALMY Zephyrs, lightly flitting,

Shade me with your azure wing;

On Parnassus’ summit sitting,

Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

Softly slept the dome of Drury

O’er the empyreal crest,

When Alecto’s sister-fury

Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.

Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,

Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,

Cytherea yielding tamely

To the Cyclops dark and dire.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,

Dulcet joys and sports of youth,

Soon must yield to haughty sadness;

Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

See Erostratas the second

Fires again Diana’s fane;

By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d,

Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

Where is Cupid’s crimson motion?

Billowy ecstasy of woe,

Bear me straight, meandering ocean,

Where the stagnant torrents flow.

Blood in every vein is gushing,

Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;

See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!

Never, never let us part.

NÆNIA.

O QUOT odoriferi voitatis in aëre venti,

Cæruleum tegmen vestra sit ala mihi:

Tuque sedens Parnassus ubi caput erigit ingens,

Dextra veni, Clio: teque docente canam.

Jam suaves somnos Tholus affectare Theatri

Cœperat, igniflui trans laqueare poli:

Alectûs consanguineam quo tempore Erinnyn,

Suave soporatam, coepit adire quies.

Lustra sed ecce labans claudo pede Lemnia linquit

Luridus (at lente lugubriterque) Deus:

Amisit veteres, amisit inultus, amores;

Teter habet Venerem terribilisque Cyclops.

Electri nebulas, potioraque somnia vero;

Quotque placent pueris gaudia, quotque joci;

Omnia tristiæ fas concessisse superbæ:

Admissum Pietas scitque premitque nefas.

Respice!  Nonne vides ut Erostratus alter ad ædem

Rursus agat flammas, spreta Diana, tuam?

Mox, Acheronteis quas Parca eduxit ab antris,

Druriacam nubes corripuere domum.

O ubi purpurei motus pueri alitis? o qui

Me mihi turbineis surripis, angor, aquis!

Duc, labyrintheum, duc me, mare, tramite recto

Quo rapidi fontes, pigra caterva, ruunt!

Jamque—soporat enim pectus Vindicta Virago;

Omnibus a venis sanguinis unda salit;

Gorgoneique greges præceps (adverte!) feruntur—

Sim, precor, o! semper sim tibi junctus ego.

“LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL.”

FELICIA HEMANS.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind’s breath,

And stars to set: but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings at the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,

But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

The banquet has its hour,

The feverish hour of mirth and song and wine:

There comes a day for grief’s overwhelming shower,

A time for softer tears: but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee!—but thou art not of those

That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey!

“FRONDES EST UBI DECIDANT.”

FRONDES est ubi decidant,

Marcescantque rosæ flatu Aquilonio:

Horis astra cadunt suis;

Sed, Mors, cuncta tibi tempera vindicas.

Curis nata virûm dies;

Vesper colloquiis dulcibus ad focum;

Somnis nox magis, et preci:

Sed nil, Terrigenum maxima, non tibi.

Festis hora epulis datur,

(Fervens hora jocis, carminibus, mero;)

Fusis altera lacrymis

Aut fletu tacito: quæque tamen tua.

Virgo, seu rosa pullulans,

Tantum quippe nitent ut nequeant mori?

Rident te?  Neque enim soles

Prædæ parcere, dum flos adoleverit.

“LET US TURN HITHERWARD OUR BARK.”

R. C. TRENCH.

“LET us turn hitherward our bark,” they cried,

“And, ’mid the blisses of this happy isle,

Past toil forgetting and to come, abide

In joyfulness awhile.

And then, refreshed, our tasks resume again,

If other tasks we yet are bound unto,

Combing the hoary tresses of the main

With sharp swift keel anew.”

O heroes, that had once a nobler aim,

O heroes, sprung from many a godlike line,

What will ye do, unmindful of your fame,

And of your race divine?

But they, by these prevailing voices now

Lured, evermore draw nearer to the land,

Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow,

That strewed that fatal strand;

Or seeing, feared not—warning taking none

From the plain doom of all who went before,

Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun,

And whitened all the shore.

“QUIN HUC, FREMEBANT.”

“QUIN huc,” fremebant, “dirigimus ratem:

Hic, dote læti divitis insulæ,

Paullisper hæremus, futuri

Nec memores operis, nec acti:

“Curas refecti cras iterabimus,

Si qua supersunt emeritis novæ

Pexisse pernices acuta

Canitiem pelagi carina.”

O rebus olim nobilioribus

Pares: origo Dî quibus ac Deæ

Heroës! oblitine famiæ

Hæc struitis, generisque summi?

Atqui propinquant jam magis ac magis,

Ducti magistra voce, solum: neque

Videre prorarum nefandas

Fragmina nobilium per oras;

Vidisse seu non poenitet—ominis

Incuriosos tot præëuntium,

Quorum ossa sol siccantque venti,

Candet adhuc quibus omnis ora.

CARMEN SÆCULARE.

MDCCCLIII.

“Quicquid agunt homines, nostri est farrago libelli.”

ACRIS hyems jam venit: hyems genus omne perosa

Foemineum, et senibus glacies non æqua rotundis:

Apparent rari stantes in tramite glauco;

Radit iter, cogitque nives, sua tela, juventus.

Trux matrona ruit, multos dominata per annos,

Digna indigna minans, glomeratque volumina crurum;

Illa parte senex, amisso forte galero,

Per plateas bacchatur; eum chorus omnis agrestum

Ridet anhelantem frustra, et jam jamque tenentem

Quod petit; illud agunt venti prensumque resorbent.

Post, ubi compositus tandem votique potitus

Sedit humi; flet crura tuens nive candida lenta,

Et vestem laceram, et venturas conjugis iras:

Itque domum tendens duplices ad sidera palmas,

Corda miser, desiderio perfixa galeri.

At juvenis (sed cruda viro viridisque juventus)

Quærit bacciferas, tunica pendente, [145a] tabernas:

Pervigil ecce Baco furva depromit ab arca

Splendidius quiddam solito, plenumque saporem

Laudat, et antiqua jurat de stripe Jamaicæ.

O fumose puer, nimium ne crede Baconi:

Manillas vocat; hoc prætexit nomine caules.

Te vero, cui forte dedit maturior ætas

Scire potestates herbarum, te quoque quanti

Circumstent casus, paucis (adverte) docebo.

Præcipue, seu raptat amor te simplicis herbæ, [145b]

Seu potius tenui Musam meditaris avena,

Procuratorem fugito, nam ferreus idem est.

Vita semiboves catulos, redimicula vita

Candida: de coelo descendit σῶζε σεαυτόν.

Nube vaporis item conspergere præter euntes

Jura vetant, notumque furens quid femina possit:

Odit enim dulces succos anus, odit odorem;

Odit Lethæi diffusa volumina fumi.

Mille modis reliqui fugiuntque feruntque laborem.

Hic vir ad Eleos, pedibus talaria gestans,

Fervidus it latices, nec quidquam acquirit eundo: [146a]

Ille petit virides (sed non e gramine) mensas,

Pollicitus meliora patri, tormentaque [146b] flexus

Per labyrintheos plus quam mortalia tentat,

Acre tuens, loculisque pilas immittit et aufert.

Sunt alii, quos frigus aquæ, tenuisque phaselus

Captat, et æquali surgentes ordine remi.

His edura cutis, nec ligno rasile tergum;

Par saxi sinus: esca boves cum robore Bassi.

Tollunt in numerum fera brachia, vique feruntur

Per fluctus: sonuere viæ clamore secundo:

Et piceâ de puppe fremens immane bubulcus

Invocat exitium cunctis, et verbera rapto

Stipite defessis onerat graviora caballis.

Nil humoris egent alii.  Labor arva vagari,

Flectere ludus equos, et amantem devia [147a] currum.

Nosco purpureas vestes, clangentia nosco

Signa tubæ, et caudas inter virgulta caninas.

Stat venator equus, tactoque ferocior armo

Surgit in arrectum, vix auditurus habenam;

Et jam prata fuga superat, jam flumina saltu.

Aspicias alios ab iniqua sepe rotari

In caput, ut scrobibus quæ sint fastigia quærant;

Eque rubis aut amne pigro trahere humida crura,

Et fœdam faciem, defloccatumque galerum.

Sanctius his animal, cui quadravisse rotundum [148a]

Musæ suadet amor, Camique ardentis imago,

Inspicat calamos contracta fronte malignos,

Perque Mathematicum pelagus, loca turbida, anhelat.

Circum dirus “Hymers,” nec pondus inutile, “Lignum,”

“Salmoque,” et pueris tu detestate, “Colenso,”

Horribiles visu formæ; livente notatæ

Ungue omnes, omnes insignes aure canina. [148b]

Fervet opus; tacitum pertentant gaudia pectus

Tutorum; “pulchrumque mori,” dixere, “legendo.”

Nec vero juvenes facere omnes omnia possunt.

Atque unum memini ipse, deus qui dictus amicis,

Et multum referens de rixatore [148c] secundo,

Nocte terens ulnas ac scrinia, solus in alto

Degebat tripode; arcta viro vilisque supellex;

Et sic torva tuens, pedibus per mutua nexis,

Sedit, lacte mero mentem mulcente tenellam.

Et fors ad summos tandem venisset honores;

Sed rapidi juvenes, queis gratior usus equorum,

Subveniunt, siccoque vetant inolescere libro.

Improbus hos Lector pueros, mentumque virili

Lævius, et duræ gravat inclementia Mortis: [149a]

Agmen iners; queis mos alienâ vivere quadrâ, [149b]

Et lituo vexare viros, calcare caballos.

Tales mane novo sæpe admiramur euntes

Torquibus in rigidis et pelle Libystidis ursæ;

Admiramur opus [149c] tunicæ, vestemque [149d] sororem

Iridis, et crurum non enarrabile tegmen.

Hos inter comites implebat pocula sorbis

Infelix puer, et sese reereabat ad ignem,

“Evœ, [150a] BASSE,” fremens: dum velox præterit ætas;

Venit summa dies; et Junior Optimus exit.

Saucius at juvenis nota intra tecta refugit,

Horrendum ridens, lucemque miserrimus odit:

Informem famulus laqueum pendentiaque ossa

Mane videt, refugitque feri meminisse magistri.

Di nobis meliora!  Modum re servat in omni

Qui sapit: haud ilium semper recubare sub umbra,

Haud semper madidis juvat impallescere chartis.

Nos numerus sumus, et libros consumere nati;

Sed requies sit rebus; amant alterna Camenæ.

Nocte dieque legas, cum tertius advenit annus:

Tum libros cape; claude fores, et prandia defer.

Quartus venit: ini, [150b] rebus jam rite paratis,

Exultans, et coge gradum conferre magistros.

His animadversis, fugies immane Barathrum.

His, operose puer, si qua fata aspera rumpas,

Tu rixator eris.  Saltem non crebra revises

Ad stabulum, [151a] et tota moerens carpere juventa;

Classe nec amisso nil profectura dolentem

Tradet ludibriis te plena leporis HIRUDO. [151b]

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE.

TO A SHIP.

OD. i. 14.

YET on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,

O ship?  What dost thou?  Seek a hav’n, and there

Rest thee: for lo! thy side

Is oarless all and bare,

And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,

And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,

Yield must thy keel at last

On pitiless sea-waves tossed

Too rudely.  Goodly canvas is not thine,

Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:—

Though thou—a Pontic pine,

Child of a stately forest,—

Boastest high name and empty pedigree,

Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail:

Stay, unless doomed to be

The plaything of the gale.

Flee—what of late sore burden was to me,

Now a sad memory and a bitter pain,—

Those shining Cyclads flee

That stud the far-off main.

TO VIRGIL.

OD. i. 24.

UNSHAMED, unchecked, for one so dear

We sorrow.  Lead the mournful choir,

Melpomene, to whom thy sire

Gave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear!

Sleeps He the sleep that knows no morn?

Oh Honour, oh twin-born with Right,

Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light,

When shall again his like be born?

Many a kind heart for Him makes moan;

Thine, Virgil, first.  But ah! in vain

Thy love bids heaven restore again

That which it took not as a loan:

Were sweeter lute than Orpheus given

To thee, did trees thy voice obey;

The blood revisits not the clay

Which He, with lifted wand, hath driven

Into his dark assemblage, who

Unlocks not fate to mortal’s prayer.

Hard lot!  Yet light their griefs who BEAR

The ills which they may not undo.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA.

OD. iii. 13.

BANDUSIA, stainless mirror of the sky!

Thine is the flower-crown’d bowl, for thee shall die,

When dawns again yon sun, the kid;

Whose budding horns, half-seen, half-hid,

Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain!

Soon must the hope of the wild herd be slain,

And those cold springs of thine

With blood incarnadine.

Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beam

Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream

To labour-wearied ox,

Or wanderer from the flocks:

And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:

My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain,

Topt by the brown oak-tree,

Thou breakest babblingly.

TO IBYCUS’S WIFE.

OD. ii. 15.

SPOUSE of penniless Ibycus,

Thus late, bring to a close all thy delinquencies,

All thy studious infamy:—

Nearing swiftly the grave—(that not an early one)—

Cease girls’ sport to participate,

Blurring stars which were else cloudlessly brilliant.

What suits her who is beautiful

Suits not equally thee: rightly devastates

Thy fair daughter the homes of men,

Wild as Thyad, who wakes stirred by the kettle-drums.

Nothus’ beauty constraining her,

Like some kid at his play, holds she her revelry:

Thy years stately Luceria’s

Wools more fitly become—not din of harpsichords,

Not pink-petallèd roseblossoms,

Not casks drained by an old lip to the sediment.

SORACTE.

OD. i. 9.

ONE dazzling mass of solid snow

Soracte stands; the bent woods fret

Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set

With frost, the streams have ceased to flow.

Pile on great faggots and break up

The ice: let influence more benign

Enter with four-years-treasured wine,

Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup:

Leave to the Gods all else.  When they

Have once bid rest the winds that war

Over the passionate seas, no more

Grey ash and cypress rock and sway.

Ask not what future suns shall bring,

Count to-day gain, whate’er it chance

To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance,

Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,

Ere Time thy April youth hath changed

To sourness.  Park and public walk

Attract thee now, and whispered talk

At twilight meetings pre-arranged;

Hear now the pretty laugh that tells

In what dim corner lurks thy love;

And snatch a bracelet or a glove

From wrist or hand that scarce rebels.

TO LEUCONÖE.

OD. i. 11.

SEEK not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;

Ask not of Chaldæa’s science what God wills, Leuconöe:

Better far, what comes, to bear it.  Haply many a wintry blast

Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last,

Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone-reef.

Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is brief,

Hopes that reach into the future.  While I speak, hath stol’n away

Jealous Time.  Mistrust To-morrow, catch the blossom of To-day.

JUNO’S SPEECH.

OD. iii. 3.

THE just man’s single-purposed mind

Not furious mobs that prompt to ill

May move, nor kings’ frowns shake his will

Which is as rock; not warrior-winds

That keep the seas in wild unrest;

Nor bolt by Jove’s own finger hurled:

The fragments of a shivered world

Would crash round him still self-possest.

Jove’s wandering son reached, thus endowed,

The fiery bastions of the skies;

Thus Pollux; with them Cæsar lies

Beside his nectar, radiant-browed.

For this rewarded, tiger-drawn

Rode Bacchus, reining necks before

Untamed; for this War’s horses bore

Quirinus up from Acheron,

When in heav’n’s conclave Juno said,

Thrice welcomed: “Troy is in the dust;

Troy, by a judge accursed, unjust,

And that strange woman prostrated.

“The day Laomedon ignored

His god-pledged word, resigned to me

And Pallas ever-pure, was she,

Her people, and their traitor lord.

“No more the Greek girl’s guilty guest

Sits splendour-girt: Priam’s perjured sons

Find not against the mighty ones

Of Greece a shield in Hector’s breast:

“And, long drawn out by private jars,

The war sleeps.  Lo! my wrath is o’er:

And him the Trojan vestal bore

(Sprung of that hated line) to Mars,

“To Mars restore I.  His be rest

In halls of light: by him be drained

The nectar-bowl, his place obtained

In the calm companies of the blest.

“While betwixt Rome and Ilion raves

A length of ocean, where they will

Rise empires for the exiles still:

While Paris’s and Priam’s graves

“Are hoof-trod, and the she-wolf breeds

Securely there, unharmed shall stand

Rome’s lustrous Capitol, her hand

Impose proud laws on trampled Medes.

“Wide-feared, to far-off climes be borne

Her story; where the central main

Europe and Libya parts in twain,

Where full Nile laves a land of corn:

“The buried secret of the mine,

(Best left there) resolute to spurn,

And not to man’s base uses turn

With hand that spares not things divine.

“Earth’s utmost end, where’er it be,

May her hosts reach; careering proud

O’er lands where watery rain and cloud,

Or where wild suns hold revelry.

“But, to the soldier-sons of Rome,

Tied by this law, such fates are willed;

That they seek never to rebuild,

Too fond, too bold, their grandsires’ home.

“With darkest omens, deadliest strife,

Shall Troy, raised up again, repeat

Her history; I the victor-fleet

Shall lead, Jove’s sister and his wife.

“Thrice let Apollo rear the wall

Of brass; and thrice my Greeks shall hew

The fabric down; thrice matrons rue

In chains their sons’, their husbands’ fall.”

Ill my light lyre such notes beseem.

Stay, Muse; nor, wayward still, rehearse

God-utterances in puny verse

That may but mar a mighty theme.

TO A FAUN.

OD. iii. 18.

WOOER of young Nymphs who fly thee,

Lightly o’er my sunlit lawn

Trip, and go, nor injured by thee

Be my weanling herds, O Faun:

If the kid his doomed head bows, and

Brims with wine the loving cup,

When the year is full; and thousand

Scents from altars hoar go up.

Each flock in the rich grass gambols

When the month comes which is thine;

And the happy village rambles

Fieldward with the idle kine:

Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour:

Wild woods deck thee with their spoil;

And with glee the sons of labour

Stamp thrice on their foe, the soil.

TO LYCE.

OD. iv. 13.

LYCE, the gods have listened to my prayer;

The gods have listened, Lyce.  Thou art grey,

And still would’st thou seem fair;

Still unshamed drink, and play,

And, wine-flushed, woo slow-answering Love with weak

Shrill pipings.  With young Chia He doth dwell,

Queen of the harp; her cheek

Is his sweet citadel:—

He marked the withered oak, and on he flew

Intolerant; shrank from Lyce grim and wrinkled,

Whose teeth are ghastly-blue,

Whose temples snow-besprinkled:—

Not purple, not the brightest gem that glows,

Brings back to her the years which, fleeting fast,

Time hath once shut in those

Dark annals of the Past.

Oh, where is all thy loveliness? soft hue

And motions soft?  Oh, what of Her doth rest,

Her, who breathed love, who drew

My heart out of my breast?

Fair, and far-famed, and subtly sweet, thy face

Ranked next to Cinara’s.  But to Cinara fate

Gave but a few years’ grace;

And lets live, all too late,

Lyce, the rival of the beldam crow:

That fiery youth may see with scornful brow

The torch that long ago

Beamed bright, a cinder now.

TO HIS SLAVE.

OD. i. 38.

PERSIAN grandeur I abhor;

Linden-wreathèd crowns, avaunt:

Boy, I bid thee not explore

Woods which latest roses haunt:

Try on nought thy busy craft

Save plain myrtle; so arrayed

Thou shalt fetch, I drain, the draught

Fitliest ’neath the scant vine-shade.

THE DEAD OX.

GEORG. IV.

LO! smoking in the stubborn plough, the ox

Falls, from his lip foam gushing crimson-stained,

And sobs his life out.  Sad of face the ploughman

Moves, disentangling from his comrade’s corpse

The lone survivor: and its work half-done,

Abandoned in the furrow stands the plough.

Not shadiest forest-depths, not softest lawns,

May move him now: not river amber-pure,

That volumes o’er the cragstones to the plain.

Powerless the broad sides, glazed the rayless eye,

And low and lower sinks the ponderous neck.

What thank hath he for all the toil he toiled,

The heavy-clodded land in man’s behoof

Upturning?  Yet the grape of Italy,

The stored-up feast hath wrought no harm to him:

Green leaf and taintless grass are all their fare;

The clear rill or the travel-freshen’d stream

Their cup: nor one care mars their honest sleep.

FROM THEOCRITUS.

IDYLL.  VII.

SCARCE midway were we yet, nor yet descried

The stone that hides what once was Brasidas:

When there drew near a wayfarer from Crete,

Young Lycidas, the Muses’ votary.

The horned herd was his care: a glance might tell

So much: for every inch a herdsman he.

Slung o’er his shoulder was a ruddy hide

Torn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,

That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt clasped

A patched cloak round his breast, and for a staff

A gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.

Soon with a quiet smile he spoke—his eye

Twinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:

“And whither ploddest thou thy weary way

Beneath the noontide sun, Simichides?

For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,

The crested lark hath closed his wandering wing.

Speed’st thou, a bidd’n guest, to some reveller’s board?

Or townwards, to the treading of the grape?

For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feet

The pavement-stones ring out right merrily.”

SPEECH OF AJAX.

SOPH. AJ. 645.

ALL strangest things the multitudinous years

Bring forth, and shadow from us all we know.

Falter alike great oath and steeled resolve;

And none shall say of aught, ‘This may not be.’

Lo! I myself, but yesterday so strong,

As new-dipt steel am weak and all unsexed

By yonder woman: yea I mourn for them,

Widow and orphan, left amid their foes.

But I will journey seaward—where the shore

Lies meadow-fringed—so haply wash away

My sin, and flee that wrath that weighs me down.

And, lighting somewhere on an untrodden way,

I will bury this my lance, this hateful thing,

Deep in some earth-hole where no eye shall see—

Night and Hell keep it in the underworld!

For never to this day, since first I grasped

The gift that Hector gave, my bitterest foe,

Have I reaped aught of honour from the Greeks.

So true that byword in the mouths of men,

“A foeman’s gifts are no gifts, but a curse.”

Wherefore henceforward shall I know that God

Is great; and strive to honour Atreus’ sons.

Princes they are, and should be obeyed.  How else?

Do not all terrible and most puissant things

Yet bow to loftier majesties?  The Winter,

Who walks forth scattering snows, gives place anon

To fruitage-laden Summer; and the orb

Of weary Night doth in her turn stand by,

And let shine out, with her white steeds, the Day:

Stern tempest-blasts at last sing lullaby

To groaning seas: even the arch-tyrant, Sleep,

Doth loose his slaves, not hold them chained for ever.

And shall not mankind too learn discipline?

I know, of late experience taught, that him

Who is my foe I must but hate as one

Whom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves me

Will I but serve and cherish as a man

Whose love is not abiding.  Few be they

Who, reaching Friendship’s port, have there found rest.

But, for these things they shall be well.  Go thou,

Lady, within, and there pray that the Gods

May fill unto the full my heart’s desire.

And ye, my mates, do unto me with her

Like honour: bid young Teucer, if he come,

To care for me, but to be your friend still.

For where my way leads, thither I shall go:

Do ye my bidding; haply ye may hear,

Though now is my dark hour, that I have peace.

FROM LUCRETIUS.

BOOK II.

SWEET, when the great sea’s water is stirred to his depths by the storm-winds,

Standing ashore to descry one afar-off mightily struggling:

Not that a neighbour’s sorrow to you yields blissful enjoyment;

But that the sight hath a sweetness, of ills ourselves are exempt from.

Sweet ’tis too to behold, on a broad plain mustering, war-hosts

Arm them for some great battle, one’s self unscathed by the danger:—

Yet still happier this:—To possess, impregnably guarded,

Those calm heights of the sages, which have for an origin Wisdom;

Thence to survey our fellows, observe them this way and that way

Wander amidst Life’s paths, poor stragglers seeking a highway:

Watch mind battle with mind, and escutcheon rival escutcheon;

Gaze on that untold strife, which is waged ’neath the sun and the starlight,

Up as they toil to the surface whereon rest Riches and Empire.

O race born unto trouble!  O minds all lacking of eyesight!

’Neath what a vital darkness, amidst how terrible dangers,

Move ye thro’ this thing, Life, this fragment!  Fools, that ye hear not

Nature clamour aloud for the one thing only; that, all pain

Parted and past from the Body, the Mind too bask in a blissful

Dream, all fear of the future and all anxiety over!

So, as regards Man’s Body, a few things only are needful,

(Few, tho’ we sum up all,) to remove all misery from him;

Aye, and to strew in his path such a lib’ral carpet of pleasures,

That scarce Nature herself would at times ask happiness ampler.

Statues of youth and of beauty may not gleam golden around him,

(Each in his right hand bearing a great lamp lustrously burning,

Whence to the midnight revel a light may be furnished always);

Silver may not shine softly, nor gold blaze bright, in his mansion,

Nor to the noise of the tabret his halls gold-cornicèd echo:—

Yet still he, with his fellow, reposed on the velvety greensward,

Near to a rippling stream, by a tall tree canopied over,

Shall, though they lack great riches, enjoy all bodily pleasure.

Chiefliest then, when above them a fair sky smiles, and the young year

Flings with a bounteous hand over each green meadow the wild-flowers:—

Not more quickly depart from his bosom fiery fevers,

Who beneath crimson hangings and pictures cunningly broidered

Tosses about, than from him who must lie in beggarly raiment.

Therefore, since to the Body avail not Riches, avails not

Heraldry’s utmost boast, nor the pomp and the pride of an Empire;

Next shall you own, that the Mind needs likewise nothing of these things.

Unless—when, peradventure, your armies over the champaign

Spread with a stir and a ferment, and bid War’s image awaken,

Or when with stir and with ferment a fleet sails forth upon Ocean—

Cowed before these brave sights, pale Superstition abandon

Straightway your mind as you gaze, Death seem no longer alarming,

Trouble vacate your bosom, and Peace hold holiday in you.

But, if (again) all this be a vain impossible fiction;

If of a truth men’s fears, and the cares which hourly beset them,

Heed not the jav’lin’s fury, regard not clashing of broadswords;

But all-boldly amongst crowned heads and the rulers of empires

Stalk, not shrinking abashed from the dazzling glare of the red gold,

Not from the pomp of the monarch, who walks forth purple-apparelled:

These things shew that at times we are bankrupt, surely, of Reason;

When too all Man’s life through a great Dark laboureth onward.

For, as a young boy trembles, and in that mystery, Darkness,

Sees all terrible things: so do we too, ev’n in the daylight,

Ofttimes shudder at that, which is not more really alarming

Than boys’ fears, when they waken, and say some danger is o’er them.

So this panic of mind, these clouds which gather around us,

Fly not the bright sunbeam, nor the ivory shafts of the Day-star:

Nature, rightly revealed, and the Reason only, dispel them.

Now, how moving about do the prime material atoms

Shape forth this thing and that thing; and, once shaped, how they resolve them;

What power says unto each, This must be; how an inherent

Elasticity drives them about Space vagrantly onward;—

I shall unfold: thou simply give all thyself to my teaching.

Matter mingled and massed into indissoluble union

Does not exist.  For we see how wastes each separate substance;

So flow piecemeal away, with the length’ning centuries, all things,

Till from our eye by degrees that old self passes, and is not.

Still Universal Nature abides unchanged as aforetime.

Whereof this is the cause.  When the atoms part from a substance,

That suffers loss; but another is elsewhere gaining an increase:

So that, as one thing wanes, still a second bursts into blossom,

Soon, in its turn, to be left.  Thus draws this Universe always

Gain out of loss; thus live we mortals one on another.

Bourgeons one generation, and one fades.  Let but a few years

Pass, and a race has arisen which was not: as in a racecourse,

One hands on to another the burning torch of Existence.

FROM HOMER.

Il. I.

SING, O daughter of heaven, of Peleus’ son, of Achilles,

Him whose terrible wrath brought thousand woes on Achaia.

Many a stalwart soul did it hurl untimely to Hades,

Souls of the heroes of old: and their bones lay strown on the sea-sands,

Prey to the vulture and dog.  Yet was Zeus fulfilling a purpose;

Since that far-off day, when in hot strife parted asunder

Atreus’ sceptred son, and the chos’n of heaven, Achilles.

Say then, which of the Gods bid arise up battle between them?

Zeus’s and Leto’s son.  With the king was kindled his anger:

Then went sickness abroad, and the people died of the sickness:

For that of Atreus’ son had his priest been lightly entreated,

Chryses, Apollo’s priest.  For he came to the ships of Achaia,

Bearing a daughter’s ransom, a sum not easy to number:

And in his hand was the emblem of Him, far-darting Apollo,

High on a sceptre of gold: and he made his prayer to the Grecians;

Chiefly to Atreus’ sons, twin chieftains, ordering armies

“Chiefs sprung of Atreus’ loins; and ye, brazen-greavèd Achaians!

So may the Gods this day, the Olympus-palacèd, grant you

Priam’s city to raze, and return unscathed to your homesteads:

Only my own dear daughter I ask; take ransom and yield her,

Rev’rencing His great name, son of Zeus, far-darting Apollo.”

Then from the host of Achaians arose tumultuous answer:

“Due to the priest is his honour; accept rich ransom and yield her.”

But there was war in the spirit of Atreus’ son, Agamemnon;

Disdainful he dismissed him, a right stern fiat appending:—

“Woe be to thee, old man, if I find thee lingering longer,

Yea or returning again, by the hollow ships of Achaians!

Scarce much then will avail thee the great god’s sceptre and emblem.

Her will I never release.  Old age must first come upon her,

In my own home, yea in Argos, afar from the land of her fathers,

Following the loom and attending upon my bed.  But avaunt thee!

Go, and provoke not me, that thy way may be haply securer.”

These were the words of the king, and the old man feared and obeyed him:

Voiceless he went by the shore of the great dull-echoing ocean,

Thither he got him apart, that ancient man; and a long prayer

Prayed to Apollo his Lord, son of golden-ringleted Leto.

“Lord of the silver bow, whose arm girds Chryse and Cilla,—

Cilla, loved of the Gods,—and in might sways Tenedos, hearken!

Oh! if, in days gone by, I have built from floor unto cornice,

Smintheus, a fair shrine for thee; or burned in the flames of the altar

Fat flesh of bulls and of goats; then do this thing that I ask thee:

Hurl on the Greeks thy shafts, that thy servant’s tears be avengèd!”

So did he pray, and his prayer reached the ears of Phoebus Apollo.

Dark was the soul of the god as he moved from the heights of Olympus,

Shouldering a bow, and a quiver on this side fast and on that side.

Onward in anger he moved.  And the arrows, stirred by the motion,

Rattled and rang on his shoulder: he came, as cometh the midnight.

Hard by the ships he stayed him, and loosed one shaft from the bow-string;

Harshly the stretched string twanged of the bow all silvery-shining;

First fell his wrath on the mules, and the swift-footed hound of the herdsman;

Afterward smote he the host.  With a rankling arrow he smote them

Aye; and the morn and the even were red with the glare of the corpse-fires.

Nine days over the host sped the shafts of the god: and the tenth day

Dawned; and Achilles said, “Be a council called of the people.”

(Such thought came to his mind from the goddess, Hera the white-armed,

Hera who loved those Greeks, and who saw them dying around her.)

So when all were collected and ranged in a solemn assembly,

Straightway rose up amidst them and spake swift-footed Achilles:—

“Atreus’ son! it were better, I think this day, that we wandered

Back, re-seeking our homes, (if a warfare may be avoided);

Now when the sword and the plague, these two things, fight with Achaians.

Come, let us seek out now some priest, some seer amongst us,

Yea or a dreamer of dreams—for a dream too cometh of God’s hand—

Whence we may learn what hath angered in this wise Phoebus Apollo.

Whether mayhap he reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered;

Whether, accepting the incense of lambs and of blemishless he-goats,

Yet it be his high will to remove this misery from us.”

Down sat the prince: he had spoken.  And uprose to them in answer

Kalchas Thestor’s son, high chief of the host of the augurs.

Well he knew what is present, what will be, and what was aforetime;

He into Ilion’s harbour had led those ships of Achaia,

All by the Power of the Art, which he gained from Phoebus Apollo.

Thus then, kindliest-hearted, arising spake he before them:

“Peleus’ son!  Thou demandest, a man heavenfavor’d, an answer

Touching the Great King’s wrath, the afar-off-aiming Apollo:

Therefore I lift up my voice.  Swear thou to me, duly digesting

All,—that with right good will, by word and by deed, thou wilt aid me.

Surely the ire will awaken of one who mightily ruleth

Over the Argives all: and upon him wait the Achaians.

Aye is the battle the king’s, when a poor man kindleth his anger:

For, if but this one day he devour his indignation,

Still on the morrow abideth a rage, that its end be accomplished,

Deep in the soul of the king.  So bethink thee, wilt thou deliver.”

Then unto him making answer arose swift-footed Achilles:

“Fearing nought, up and open the god’s will, all that is told thee:

For by Apollo’s self, heaven’s favourite, whom thou, Kalchas,

Serving aright, to the armies aloud God-oracles op’nest:

None—while as yet I breathe upon earth, yet walk in the daylight—

Shall, at the hollow ships, lift hand of oppression against thee,

None out of all yon host—not and if thou said’st Agamemnon,

Who now sits in his glory, the topmost flower of the armies.”

Then did the blameless prophet at last wax valiant and answer:

“Lo!  He doth not reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered;

But for his servant’s sake, the disdained of king Agamemnon,

(In that he loosed not his daughter, inclined not his ear to a ransom,)—

Therefore the Far-darter sendeth, and yet shall send on us, evil.

Nor shall he stay from the slaughter the hand that is heavy upon you,

Till to her own dear father the bright-eyed maiden is yielded,

No price asked, no ransom; and ships bear hallowèd oxen

Chryse-wards:—then, it may be, will he shew mercy and hear us.”

These words said, sat he down.  Then rose in his place and addressed them

Atreus’ warrior son, Agamemnon king of the nations,

Sore grieved.  Fury was working in each dark cell of his bosom,

And in his eye was a glare as a burning fiery furnace:

First to the priest he addressed him, his whole mien boding a mischief.

“Priest of ill luck!  Never heard I of aught good from thee, but evil.

Still doth the evil thing unto thee seem sweeter of utt’rance;

Leaving the thing which is good all unspoke, all unaccomplished.

Lo! this day to the people thou say’st, God-oracles opening,

What, but that I am the cause why the god’s hand worketh against them,

For that in sooth I rejected a ransom, aye and a rich one,

Brought for the girl Briseis.  I did.  For I chose to possess her,

Rather, at home: less favour hath Clytemnestra before me,

Clytemnestra my wife: unto her Briseis is equal,

Equal in form and in stature, in mind and in womanly wisdom.

Still, even thus, am I ready to yield her, so it be better:

Better is saving alive, I hold, than slaying a nation.

Meanwhile deck me a guerdon in her stead, lest of Achaians

I should alone lack honour; an unmeet thing and a shameful.

See all men, that my guerdon, I wot not whither it goeth.”

Then unto him made answer the swift-foot chieftain Achilles:

“O most vaunting of men, most gain-loving, off-spring of Atreus!

How shall the lords of Achaia bestow fresh guerdon upon thee?

Surely we know not yet of a treasure piled in abundance:

That which the sacking of cities hath brought to us, all hath an owner,

Yea it were all unfit that the host make redistribution.

Yield thou the maid to the god.  So threefold surely and fourfold

All we Greeks will requite thee, should that day dawn, when the great Gods

Grant that of yon proud walls not one stone rest on another.”

* * * * * *

THE END.

FOOTNOTES

[15a]  “The kites know well the long stern swell

That bids the Romans close.”

MACAULAY.

[51a]  “Poor moralist, and what art thou?

A solitary fly.”

GRAY.

[105]  In the printed book the translation appears on one page and the Latin on the facing page.  In this transcription the Latin has been moved to end of the English, hence the strange page numbering on both.

[145a]  tunicâ pendente: h. e. ‘suspensâ e brachio.’  Quod procuratoribus illis valde, ut ferunt, displicebat.  Dicunt vero morem a barbaris tractum, urbem Bosporiam in fl. Iside habitantibus.  Bacciferas tabernas: id q.  nostri vocant “tobacco-shops.”

[145b]  herbæ—avenâ.  Duo quasi genera artis poeta videtur distinguere.   ‘Weed,’ ‘pipe,’ recte Scaliger.

[146a]  nil acquirit eundo.  Aqua enim aspera, et radentibus parum habilis.  Immersum hic aliquem et vix aut ne vix quidem extractum refert schol.

[146b]  tormenta p. q. mortalia.  Eleganter, ut solet, Peile, ‘unearthly cannons.’  (Cf. Ainaw. D. s. v.)   Perrecondita autem est quæstio de lusibus illorum temporum, neque in Smithii Dict. Class. satis elucidata.  Consule omnino Kentf. de Bill.  Loculis, bene vertas, ‘pockets.’

[147a]  amantem devio.  Quorsum hoc, quærunt Interpretes.  Suspicor equidem respiciendos, vv. 19–23, de precuratoribus.

[148a]  quadr. rotm.—Cami ard. imo.  Quadrando enim rotundum (Ang. ‘squaring the circle’) Camum accendere, juvenes ingenui semper nitebantur.  Fecisse vero quemquam non liquet.

[148b]  aure caninâ.  Iterum audi Peile, ‘dog’s-eared.’

[148c]  rixatore.  non male Heins. cum Aldinâ, ‘wrangler.’

[149a]  Mortis.  Verbum generali fere sensu dictum inveni.  Suspicor autem poetam virum quendam innuisse, qui currus, caballos, id genus omne, mercede non minimâ locaret.

[149b]  aliessâ quadrâ.  Sunt qui de pileis Academicis accipiunt.  Rapidiores enim suas fere amittebant.  Sed judicet sibi lector.

[149c]  opus tunicæ, ‘shirt-work.’ Alii opes.  Perperam.

[149d]  vestem.  Nota proprietatem verbi.  ‘Vest,’ enim apud politos id. q. vulgo ‘waistcoat’ appellatur.  Quod et feminæ usurpahant, ut hodiernæ, fibula revinctum, teste Virgillo:

‘crines nodantur in aurum,

Aurea purpuream subnectit fibula vestem.’

[150a]  Basse. cft.  Interpretes illud Horatianum, “Bassum Threicâ vincat amystide.”  Non perspexere viri docti alterum hic alludi, Anglicanæ originis, neque illum, ut perhibent, a potu aversum.

[150b]  Ini.  Sic nostri, ‘Go in and win.’  rebus, ‘subjects.’

[151a]  crebra r. a. stabulum.  “Turn up year after year at the old diggings, (i. e. the Senate House,) and be plucked,” &c.  Peile.  Quo quid jejunius?

[151b]  Classe—Hirudo.  Obscurior allusio ad picturam quandam (in collectione viri, vel plusquam viri, Punchii repositam,) in qua juvenis custodem stationis moerens alloquitur.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Verses and Translations, by Charles Stuart Calverley

VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS.

CONTENTS.

VISIONS.

GEMINI AND VIRGO.

“There Stands a City.”

STRIKING.

VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

A, B, C.

TO MRS. GOODCHILD.

ODE—‘ON A DISTANT PROSPECT’ OF MAKING A FORTUNE.

ISABEL.

DIRGE.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

“HIC VIR, HIC EST.”

BEER.

ODE TO TOBACCO.

DOVER TO MUNICH.

CHARADES.

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

Introductory.

Of Propriety.

Of Friendship.

Of Reading.

TRANSLATIONS. [105]

LYCIDAS.

LYCIDAS.

IN MEMORIAM.

CVI.

IN MEMORIAM.

LAURA MATILDA’S DIRGE.

NÆNIA.

“LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL.”

“FRONDES EST UBI DECIDANT.”

“LET US TURN HITHERWARD OUR BARK.”

“QUIN HUC, FREMEBANT.”

CARMEN SÆCULARE.

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE.

TO A SHIP. Od. i. 14.

TO VIRGIL. Od. i. 24.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. Od. iii. 13.

TO IBYCUS’S WIFE. Od. ii. 15.

SORACTE. Od. i. 9.

TO LEUCONÖE. Od. i. 11.

JUNO’S SPEECH. Od. iii. 3.

TO A FAUN. Od. iii. 18.

TO LYCE. Od. iv. 13.

TO HIS SLAVE. Od. i. 38.

THE DEAD OX. Georg. iv.

FROM THEOCRITUS. Idyll. VII.

SPEECH OF AJAX. Soph. Aj. 645.

FROM LUCRETIUS. Book II.

FROM HOMER. Il. I.

FOOTNOTES

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE