FROM 'STEPS TO THE TEMPLE' AND 'DELIGHTS OF THE MUSES,' ETC. 1646-1648. NOTE. Among the English poems of the 'Steps to the Temple' and 'Delights of the Muses' of 1646 were the following, in order: In Picturam Reverendissimi Episcopi D. Andrews (p. 89)—Epitaphium in Dominum Herrisium (pp. 92-3)—Principi recens natae omen maternae indolis (pp. 108-9)—In Serenissimae Reginae partum hyemalem (pp. 118-9)—Ad Reginam (pp. 121-2)—In faciem Augustiss. Regis a morbillis integram (p. 127)—Rex Redux (pp. 131-2), and Ad Principem nondum natum (p. 133). In the enlarged edition of 1648 besides these, there appeared: Bulla (pp. 54-58)—Thesaurus Malorum Foemina (p. 59)—In Apollinea depereuntem Daphnen (pp. 60-1)—Aeneas Patris sui Bajulus (p. 61)—In Pygmaliona (p. 61)—Arion (pp. 61-2)—Phoenicis Genethliacon et Epicedion (p. 63)—Epitaphium (p. 64)—Damno affici saepe fit Lucrum (pp. 64-5)—Humanae Vitae Descriptio (p. 65)—Tranquillitas Animi, Similitudine ducta ab Ave captiva et canora tamen (pp. 66-7). These Poems I have arranged under two classes: (a) Miscellaneous, really, not merely formally, poetry: (b) Royal and other commemorative pieces. The former in the present section, the latter in the next. See our Essay on each. Nearly the whole of the translations in this division are by myself, with additional renderings of some by Rev. Thomas Ashe, M.A., as before, and others by Rev. Richard Wilton, M.A., as before, as pointed out in the places. As before, I note here the more misleading errors of Turnbull's text. In 'Bulla,' l. 1, 'timores' for 'tumores;' l. 4, 'dextera mihi' for 'dextra mei;' l. 54, 'nitent' for 'niteat;' l. 80, 'avis' for 'uvis;' l. 84, 'nives' for 'niveae;' l. 85, 'sint' for 'sunt;' l. 154, 'desinet' for 'defluet;' l. 157, 'Tempe' for 'Nempe:' in Tranquillitas Animi,' l. 13, 'minis minisque' for 'nimis nimisque;' l. 16, 'patrisque' for 'patreaeque;' l. 20, 'provocabit' for 'provocabat:' in 'Humanae Vitae Descriptio,' l. 13, 'more' for 'mare:' in 'Apollinea depereuntem Daphnen,' l. 12, 'ores' for 'oris:' in Phoenicis Genethliacon et Epicedion,' l. 5, 'teipsum' for 'teipsam:' in 'Epitaphium,' l. 6, 'tremulum' for 'tremulam;' l. 7, 'discas' for 'disces,' 'hinc' for 'huc,' and 'reponas' for 'repones;' l. 10, 'miseris' for 'nimis:' in 'Thesaurus Malorum Foemina,' l. 16, 'Pietas' for 'Pectus.' G.
Decoration M BULLA. Quid tibi vana suos offert mea Bulla tumores?
Quid facit ad vestrum pondus inane meum?
Expectat nostros humeros toga fortior. Ista
En mea Bulla, lares en tua dextra mei.
Quid tu? quae nova machina,5
Quae tam fortuito globo
In vitam properas brevem?
Qualis virgineos adhuc
Cypris concutiens sinus,
Cypris jam nova, jam recens,10
Et spumis media in suis,
Promsit purpureum latus;
Concha de patria micas,
Pulchroque exsilis impetu;
Statim et millibus ebria15
Ducens terga coloribus
Evolvis tumidos sinus
Sphaera plena volubili.
Cujus per varium latus,
Cujus per teretem globum20
Iris lubrica cursitans
Centum per species vagas,
Et picti facies chori
Circum regnat, et undique,
Et se Diva volatilis25
Jucundo levis impetu
Et vertigine perfida
Lasciva sequitur fuga,
Et pulchre dubitat; fluit
Tam fallax toties novis,30
Tot se per reduces vias,
Erroresque reciprocos
Spargit vena coloribus;
Et pompa natat ebria.
Tali militia micans35
Agmen se rude dividit;
Campis quippe volantibus,
Et campi levis aequore
Ordo insanus obambulans
Passim se fugit, et fugat.40
Passim perdit, et invenit.
Pulchrum spargitur hic Chaos.
Hic viva, hic vaga flumina
Ripa non propria meant,
Sed miscent socias vias,45
Communique sub alveo
Stipant delicias suas.
Quarum proximitas vaga
Tam discrimine lubrico,
Tam subtilibus arguit50
Juncturam tenuem notis,
Pompa ut florida nullibi
Sinceras habeat vias;
Nec vultu niteat suo.
Sed dulcis cumulus novos55
Miscens purpureus sinus
Flagrant divitiis suis,
Privatum renuens jubar.
Floris diluvio vagi,
Floris sidere publico60
Late ver subit aureum,
Atque effunditur in suae
Vires undique copiae.
Nempe omnis quia cernitur,
Nullus cernitur hic color,65
Et vicinia contumax
Allidit species vagas.
Illic contiguis aquis
Marcent pallidulae faces.
Unde hic vena tenellulae,70
Flaminis ebria proximis
Discit purpureas vias,
Et rubro salit alveo.
Ostri sanguineum jubar
Lambunt lactea flumina;75
Suasu caerulei maris
Mansuescit seges aurea;
Et lucis faciles genae
Vanas ad nebulas stupent;
Subque uvis rubicundulis80
Flagrant sobria lilia;
Vicinis adeo rosis
Vicinae invigilant nives;
Ut sint et niveae rosae,
Ut sunt et roseae nives,85
Accenduntque rosae nives,
Extinguuntque nives rosas.
Illic cum viridi rubet,
Hic et cum rutile viret,
Lascivi facies chori.90
Et quicquid rota lubrica
Caudae stelligerae notat,
Pulchrum pergit et in ambitum.
Hic coeli implicitus labor,
Orbes orbibus obvii;95
ex velleris aurei,
Grex pellucidus aetheris;
Qui noctis nigra pascua
Puris morsibus atterit;
Hic quicquid nitidum et vagum100
Coeli vibrat arenula,
Dulci pingitur in joco;
Hic mundus tener impedit
Sese amplexibus in suis.
Succinctique sinu globi105
Errat per proprium decus.
Hic nictant subitae faces,
Et ludunt tremulum diem,
Mox se surripiunt sui et
Quaerunt tecta supercili,110
Atque abdunt petulans jubar,
Subsiduntque proterviter.
Atque haec omnia quam brevis
Sunt mendacia machinae!
Currunt scilicet omnia115
Sphaera, non vitrea quidem—
Ut quondam Siculus globus—
Sed vitro nitida magis,
Sed vitro fragili magis,
Et vitro vitrea magis.120
Sum venti ingenium breve,
Flos sum, scilicet, aËris,
Sidus scilicet aequoris;
Naturae jocus aureus,
Naturae vaga fabula,125
Naturae breve somnium.
Nugarum decus et dolor;
Dulcis doctaque vanitas.
Aurae filia perfidae;
Et risus facilis parens.130
Tantum gutta superbior,
Fortunatius et lutum.
Sum fluxae pretium spei;
Una ex Hesperidum insulis.
Formae pyxis, amantium135
Clare caecus ocellulus;
Vanae et cor leve gloriae.
Sum caecae speculum Deae,
Sum Fortunae ego tessera,
Quam dat militibus suis;140
Sum Fortunae ego symbolum,
Quo sancit fragilem fidem
Cum mortalibus ebriis,
Obsignatque tabellulas.
Sum blandum, petulans, vagum,145
Pulchrum, purpureum, et decens,
Comptum, floridulum, et recens,
Distinctum nivibus, rosis,
Undis, ignibus, aere,
Pictum, gemmeum, et aureum,150
O sum, scilicet, Ô nihil.
Si piget, et longam traxisse in taedia pompam
Vivax, et nimium Bulla videtur anus:
Tolle tuos oculos pensum leve defluet, illam
Parca metet facili non operosa manu.155
Vixit adhuc. Cur vixit? adhuc tu nempe legebas.
Nempe fuit tempus tum potuisse mori?
NOTE. A collation of the 'Bulla' with the Tanner MS. corrects the punctuation of the original and subsequent printed texts, and specially puts right in the last line 'Nempe' for 'Tempe,' so long retained. In the fourth line from close the printed texts read 'desinet' for 'defluet.' Nothing else noticeable. G.
Decoration F Translation. THE BUBBLE. [TO REV. DR. LANY.] What art thou? What new device,
Globe, chance-fashion'd in a trice,
Into brief existence bounding,
Perfectly thy circle rounding?
As when Cypris, her breast smiting—
Virgin still, all love inviting—
Cypris in young loveliness
Couch'd rosy where the white waves press
Her to bear and her to bless;
So forth from thy native shell
Gleamest thou ineffable!
Springing up with graceful bound
And describing dainty round;
Thousand colours come and go
As thou dost thy fair curves show,
Swelling out—a whirling ball
Meet for Fairy-Festival;
Through whose sides of shifting hue,
Through whose smooth-turn'd globe, we view
Iris' gliding rainbow sitting,
In a hundred forms soft-flitting:
And semblance of a troop displaying,
All around dominion swaying:
And the Goddess volatile
With witching step and luring smile
Follows still with twinkling foot
In link'd mazes involute:
With many a sight-deceiving turn
And flight which makes pursuers burn,
And a graceful hesitation—
Only treacherous simulation:
Just so, and no less deceiving,
Our Bubble, all its colours weaving,
Follows ever-varying courses,
Or in air itself disperses:
Here now, there now, coming, going,
Wand'ring as if ebbing, flowing:
Sporting Passion's colours all
In ways that are bacchanal;
And the Globes undisciplin'd
As though driven by the wind,
Borne along the fleeting plains
Light as air; nor order reigns—
But the heaven-possess'd array
Moving each in its own way,
Hither now and thither flying,
Glancing, wavering, and dying,
Losing still their path and finding,
In a random inter-winding:
Rising, falling, on careering,
Vis'ble now, now disappearing;
Living wand'ring streams outgoing,
Ev'n Confusion beauteous showing:
Flowing not each in its course,
But each to other joining force;
Moving in pleasant pastime still
In a mutual good-will:
And a nearness that's so near
You the contact almost fear,
Yet so finely drawn to eye
In its delicate subtlety
That the procession, blossom-fair,
Nowhere has direction clear:
Nor with their own aspect glance,
But in the sweet luxuriance
Which skiey influences lend,
As in new windings on they trend:
Throwing off the stol'n sunlight
In a flood of blossoms bright,
Scatter'd on the fields of light;
Such a brilliancy of bloom
As all may share if all will come.
Now golden Spring advances lightly,
Spreading itself on all sides brightly,
Out of its rich and full supply
Open-handed, lavishly.
Since all colours you discern,
No one colour may you learn:
All tints melted into one
In a sweet confusion,
You cannot tell 'tis that or this,
So shifting is the loveliness:
Gleams as of the peacock's crest,
Or such as on dove's neck rest;
Opal, edg'd with amethyst,
Or the sunset's purpl'd mist,
Or the splendour that there lies
In a maiden's azure eyes,
Kindling in a sweet surprise:
Flower-tints, shell-tints, tender-dy'd,
Save to curious unespied:
Lo, one Bubble follows t'other,
Differing still from its frail brother,
Striking still from change to change
With a quick and vivid range.
There in the contiguous wave
Torches palely-glist'ning lave;
Here what delicate love-lights shine!
Through them near flames bick'ring shine.
Matching flushing of the rose,
As the ruddy channel flows:
Milky rivers in white tide
Lucent, hush, still onwards glide:
Purple rivers in high flood—
Red as is man's awful blood:
Corn-fields smiling goldenly
Meet the blue laugh of the sea:
Mist-clouds sailing on their way
Darken the changeful cheeks of Day:
And beneath vine-clusters red
Lilies are transfigurÈd:
Here you mark as 'twere the snows
Folding o'er the neighb'ring rose;
Snow into blown roses flushing,
Roses wearied of their blushing,
As the shifting tints embrace,
And their course you scarce can trace;
Now retiring, now advancing,
Now in wanton mazes dancing;
Now a flow'ry red appears,
Now a purpl'd green careers.
All the signs in heaven that burn
Where the gliding wheel doth turn,
Here in radiant courses go,
As though 'twere a heaven below:
The sky's mazes involute
Circling onward with deft foot,
Sphere on heavenly sphere attending,
Coming, going, inter-blending:
And the gold-fleec'd flocks of air
Wand'ring inviolate and fair;
Flocks that drink in chaste delight
Dewy pastures of the Night,
Leaving no trace of foot or bite.
Whate'er of change above you note,
As these clouds o'er heaven float,
Lo, repeated here we see
In a sportive mimicry.
Here the tiny tender world
Within its own brightness furl'd
Wavers, as in fairy robe
'Twere a belted linÈd globe.
Lights as of the breaking Day
Tremble with iridescent play,
But now swiftly upward going,
Evanescent colours showing,
In some nook their beams concealing,
Nor their wantonness revealing.
O, what store of wonders here
In this short-liv'd slender Sphere!
For all wonders I have told
Are within its Globe enroll'd:
Not such globe as skillÈd he
Fashion'd of old in Sicily:
Brighter e'en than crystals are,
And than crystal frailer far.
'I am Spirit of the Wind,
For a flitting breath design'd;
I am Blossom born of air;
I'm of Ocean, guiding Star;
I'm a golden sport of Nature,
Frolic stamp'd on ev'ry feature:
I'm a myth, an idle theme,
The brief substance of a dream:
Grace and grief of trifles, I
Charm—a well-skill'd vanity;
Begotten of the treacherous breeze,
Parent of absurdities:
Yet, a drop or mote, at best,
Favour'd more than are the rest.
I'm price of Hope that no more is,
One of the Hesperides:
Beauty's casket, doating eye
Of lovers blinded wilfully:
The light Spirit of Vanity.
I am Fortune's looking-glass,
The countersign which she doth pass
To her troop of warriors:
I'm the oath by which she swears,
And wherewith she doth induce
Men to trust a fragile truce.
Charming, provoking, still astray,
Fair and elegant and gay,
Trim and fresh and blossom-hu'd;
Interchangeably imbu'd
With rosy-red and the snow's whiteness,
Air and water and fire's brightness:
Painted, gemm'd, of golden dye,
Nothing—after all—am I!'
If now, O gentle Reader, it appear
Irksome my Bubble's chatterings to hear;
If on it frowning, 'Words, words, words!' thou say,
No more I'll chatter, but at once obey.
So, turn thine eye, my Friend, no more give heed;
My Bubble lives but if thou choose to read.
Cease thou to read, and I resign my breath;
Cease thou to read, and that will be my death. G.
TRANQUILLITAS ANIMI: SIMILITUDINE DUCTA AB AVE CAPTIVA, ET CANORA TAMEN. Ut cum delicias leves, loquacem
Convivam nemoris vagamque musam
Observans, dubia viator arte
Prendit desuper: horridusve ruris
Eversor, male perfido paratu,5
Heu durus! rapit, atque io triumphans
Vadit: protinus et sagace nisu
Evolvens digitos, opus tenellum
Ducens pollice lenis erudito,
Virgarum implicat ordinem severum,10
Angustam meditans domum volucri.
Illa autem, hospitium licet vetustum
Mentem solicitet nimis nimisque,
Et suetum nemus, hinc opaca mitis
Umbrae frigora, et hinc aprica puri15
Solis fulgura, patriaeque sylvae
Nunquam muta quies; ubi illa dudum
Totum per nemus, arborem per omnem,
Hospes libera liberis querelis
Cognatum bene provocabat agmen:20
Quanquam ipsum nemus arboresque alumnam
Implorant profugam, atque amata multum
Quaerant murmura lubricumque carmen
Blandi gutturis et melos serenum.
Illa autem, tamen, illa jam relictae,25
Simplex! haud meminit domus, nec ultra
Sylvas cogitat; at brevi sub antro,
Ah penna nimium brevis recisa,
Ah ritu vidua sibique sola,
Privata heu fidicen! canit, vagoque30
Exercens querulam domum susurro
Fallit vincula, carceremque mulcet;
Nec pugnans placidae procax quieti
Luctatur gravis, orbe sed reducto
Discursu vaga saltitans tenello,35
Metitur spatia invidae cavernae.
Sic in se pia mens reposta, secum
Alte tuta sedet, nec ardet extra,
Aut ullo solet aestuare fato:
Quamvis cuncta tumultuentur, atrae40
Sortis turbine non movetur illa.
Fortunae furias onusque triste
Non tergo minus accipit quieto,
Quam vectrix Veneris columba blando
Admittat juga delicata collo.45
Torvae si quid inhorruit procellae,
Si quid saeviat et minetur, illa
Spernit, nescit, et obviis furorem
Fallit blanditiis, amatque et ambit
Ipsum, quo male vulneratur, ictum.50
Curas murmure non fatetur ullo;
Non lambit lacrymas dolor, nec atrae
Mentis nubila frons iniqua prodit.
Quod si lacryma pervicax rebelli
Erumpit tamen evolatque gutta,55
Invitis lacrymis, negante luctu,
Ludunt perspicui per ora risus.
Translation. PEACE OF MIND:[98] UNDER THE SIMILITUDE OF A CAPTIVE SONG-BIRD. The time of the singing of birds is come;
I will away i' the greenwood to roam;
I will away; and thou azure-ey'd Muse
Deign with thy gifts my mind to suffuse.—
So o'erheard I one say, as he withdrew
To a fairy scene that well I knew,
Light lac'd with shadow, shadow with light,
Leaves playing bo-peep from morn unto night.
But, ah, what is this? Alas, and alas,
A sweet bird flutters upon the grass;
Flutters and struggles with quivering wing!
Tempted and snar'd—gentle, guileless thing.
Vain, vain thy struggles; for, lo, a hand
Hollow'd above, makes thee captive stand.
Home hies the Captor, loud singing his joy;
He has got a pet song-bird for his boy.
Now twining and twisting, a cage he makes
Wire-wrought and fast'n'd. Ah, my heart aches!
It is a prison, for the poor bird prepar'd;
Shut close and netted, netted and barr'd.
Comes the flutter and gleam of forest-leaves
Through the trellis'd window under the eaves;
Comes the breath and stir of the vernal wind,
Comes the goldening sunshine—to remind
Of all that is lost; comes now and again
Far off a song from the blading grain;
Calling, still calling the Songster to come
Back—once more back—to its woodland home.
I mark eyelids rise; mark the lifting wing;
Mark the swelling throat, as if it would sing;
Mark the weary 'chirp, chirp,' like infant's cry,
Yearning after the free and boundless sky;
For the grand old woods; once more to sit
On the swinging bough into blossom smit.
Vain, vain, poor bird! thou'rt captive still;
Thou must bend thee to thy Captor's will:
Thy wing is cut; from thy mate thou'rt taken;
All alone thou abidest, sad, forsaken.
The days pass on; and I look in once more
On the captive bird 'bove the ivied door.
Sweetly it sings, as if all by itself,
A short, quiet song. O thou silly elf,
Hast forgot the greenwood, the forest hoar,
The flash of the sky, the wind's soften'd roar?
Hast forgot that thou still a captive art,
Prison'd in wire-work? hast forgot thy smart?
'Tis even so: for now down, and now up,
Now hopping on perch, now sipping from cup,
I mark it sullen and pining no more,
But keeping within, though open the door.
List ye, now list—from its swelling throat,
Of its woodland song you miss never a note.
Alone, it is true, and in a wir'd cage;
But kindness has melted the captive's rage.
Behold a sweet meaning in this bird's story—
How the child of God is ripen'd for glory:
For it is thus with the child of God,
Smitten and bleeding 'neath His rod:
Thus 'tis with him; for, tranquil and calm
'Mid dangers and insults, he singeth his psalm:
Alone, all alone, deserted of man,
Slander'd and trampl'd and plac'd under ban,
He frets not, he pines not, he plains not still,
But sees clear in all his dear Father's will:
Come loss, come cross, come bereavement, come wrong,
He sets all to music, turns all to song;
Come terror, come trial, come dark day, come bright,
Still upward he looks, and knows all is right:
Wounded, he sees the Hand gives the stroke,
Bending his neck to bear his Lord's yoke,
And finds it grow light, by grace from Above,
As love's slender collars o' the Queen of Love;
Comes the starting tear, 'tis dried with a smile;
Comes a cloud, as you look 'tis gone the while;
Stirs the 'old Adam' to tempt and to dare,
He thinks Who was tempted and knows what we are;
Gentle and meek, murmurs not nor rebels,
But serene as in heaven and tranquil dwells:
And so the Believer has 'songs in the night,'
And so every cloud has a lining of light.
Thus, even thus, the captive bird's story
Tells how a soul is ripen'd for glory. G.
DAMNO AFFICI SAEPE FIT LUCRUM. Damna adsunt multis taciti compendia lucri,
Felicique docent plus properare mora.
Luxuriem annorum posita sic pelle redemit,
Atque sagax serpens in nova saecla subit.
Cernis ut ipsa sibi replicato suppetat aevo,
Seque iteret multa morte perennis avis?
Succrescit generosa sibi, facilesque per ignes
Perque suos cineres, per sua fata ferax.
Quae sollers jactura sui? quis funeris usus?
Flammarumque fides ingeniumque rogi?
Siccine fraude subis? pretiosaque funera ludis?
Siccine tu mortem, ne moriaris, adis?
Felix cui medicae tanta experientia mortis,
Cui tam Parcarum est officiosa manus.
TRANSLATION. GAIN OUT OF LOSS. Losses are often source of secret gain,
Delays good-speed, and ease the child of pain.
The subtle snake, laying aside her fears,
Casts off her slough, and heals the waste of years.
The phoenix thus her waning pride supplies,
And, to be ever-living, often dies;
Bold for her good, she makes the fires her friend,
And to begin anew, will plot her end.
What skilful losing! what wise use of dying!
What trust in flames! and what a craft in plying
That trick of immolation! Canst thou so
Compound with griefs? canst wisely undergo
Life's losses, crosses? play with gainful doom?
Canst, to be quicken'd, gladly seek the tomb?
Thrice-happy he thus touch'd with healing sorrow,
For whom night's strife plots but a gracious morrow. A.
ANOTHER RENDERING (more freely). Suff'ring is not always loss;
Often underneath the cross—
Heavy, crushing, wearing, slow,
Causing us in dread to go—
All unsuspected lieth gain,
Like sunshine in vernal rain.
Lo, the serpent's mottled skin
Cast, new lease of years doth win:
Lo, the phoenix in the fire
Leaps immortal from its pyre,
The mystic plumage mewing,
And life by death renewing.
What a wise loss thus to lose!—
Who will gainsay or abuse?
What strange end to fun'ral pile,
Thus in Death's gaunt face to smile!
Faith still strong within the fire,
Faith triumphant o'er its ire.
How stands it, fellow-man, with thee?
What meaning in this myth dost see?
Happy thou, if when thou'rt lying
On thy sick-bed slow a-dying,
Cometh vision of the Eternal,
Cometh strength for the supernal,
Cometh triumph o'er the infernal;
And thou canst the Last Enemy
Calmly meet, serenely die;
The hard Sisters life's web snipping,
But thy spirit never gripping;
Good, not evil, to thee bringing;
Hushing not thy upward singing,
To the Golden City winging.
Even so to die is gain,
Like the Harvest's tawnied grain:
Suffering is not always loss;
The Crown succeeds the Cross. G.
HUMANAE VITAE DESCRIPTIO. TRANSLATION. DESCRIPTION OF HUMAN LIFE. O Life, or but some evanescent madness
And glittering spoil of life snatch'd with blind gladness!
Of endless Error, transitory guest;
Sad human Error, which would fain find rest.
O certain Error, 'neath uncertain sky
Suspending here our frail mortality;
Leading us through a thousand devious ways
And intricacies of a treacherous maze!
Our staggering footsteps how dost thou beguile
Through wanton rounds of unavailing toil,
And our entangl'd days to nothing bring!
O fates, how much of our poor life takes wing,
Wasted on winds and shadows! On life's stage
Shadows and winds a serious part engage,
The scene confusing. On life's billow tost,
The sport of changeful tide, we're well-nigh lost,
And, like a frail boat on a stormy sea,
We waver up and down uncertainly.
Nay, e'en the threads spun by the Fates on high,
As with stern fingers they divinely ply
The web of life, twine round us as we go,
And draw us backwards, forwards, to and fro;
Till Ruin trips us up, and we are found
Helpless and weary, stretched along the ground.
Happy the man who, welcoming each day
With smiles that answer to its fleeting ray,
Pursues with step serene his purpos'd way;
The alluring snares peculiar to the age
His soul enslave not, nor his mind engage;
His life with peaceful tenor glides along,
By fav'ring breezes fann'd, and sooth'd with song;
Inspir'd by Heaven with soul-sustaining force,
Seldom he falls, or falters in his course;
But ever, as the eddying years roll round,
Bursting through all the perils that abound,
A wise assertor of himself is found. R. Wi.
IN PYGMALIONA. Poenitet artis
Pygmaliona suae,
Quod felix opus esset,
Infelix erat artifex;
Sentit vulnera, nec videt ictum.
Quis credit? gelido veniunt de marmore flammae:
Marmor ingratum nimis
Incendit autorem suum.
Concepit hic vanos furores,
Opus suum miratur atque adorat.
Prius creavit, ecce nunc colit manus;
Tentantes digitos molliter applicat;
Decipit molles caro dura tactus.
An virgo vera est, an sit eburnea;
Reddat an oscula quae dabantur,
Nescit; sed dubitat, sed metuit, munere supplicat,
Blanditiasque miscet.
Te, miser, poenas dare vult, hos Venus, hos triumphos
Capit a te, quod amorem fugis omnem.
Cur fugis heu vivos? mortua te necat puella.
Non erit innocua haec, quamvis tua fingas manu;
Ipsa heu nocens erit nimis, cujus imago nocet.
TRANSLATION. ON PYGMALION. Grief for work his hands have done
Harroweth Pygmalion;
Happy reach of art! yet he
The artificer, unhappily,
He feels the wounds: what deals the blow?
Can it be true? can flames from gelid marble flow?
Marble, treacherous and to blame
To burn your Sculptor with such flame!
What madness in his heart is hid?
He wonders at, he adores the work he did.
First he made, and next his hand
With wandering fingers softly tries
The mystery to understand.
Ah, surely now the hard flesh lies!
Is it a living maiden, see!
O treacherous blisses!
Is it no marble? can it frail flesh be?
Does it return his kisses?
He knows not, he.
He doubts, he fears, he prays; what mean
All these sweet blandishments between?
Venus, wretched Sculptor, wills
You should suffer these sad ills;
This is her triumph over you,
Because at love your lips would curl;
Your will not living overthrows yet this dead girl.
Weep, ah, weep, Pygmalion!
Though you shap'd her with your hands,
With your chisel, out of stone,
Not innocuous here she stands.
O image of a maiden!
If you so strangely baneful prove,
With what despair will you come laden,
Coming alive to claim his love! A.
ANOTHER VERSION (more freely). Pygmalion mourns his own success;
Was ever such strange wretchedness?
His work itself, a work of Art,
Perfect in its every part;
But himself? Alas, artist he
Of his own utmost misery.
He feels his wounds, but who shall tell
Whence come the drops that downward steal?
Flames leap out from the marble, cold
As ice itself by storm-wind roll'd:
And he, contriver of that fire,
Burns self-immolate on his own pyre;
Furies of his own genius born
Cast him, adoring and forlorn,
Into a strange captivity
Before his own hands' work; and he
Clings to the shapely form, until,
In ecstasy of love a-thrill,
He burning lips to cold lips sets,
And wild with passion her cheek wets;
Strains to his breast insensate stone,
As 'twere a breathing thing; with moan,
With clasp and grasp and tingling touch,
As though he ne'er could grip too much;
And wilder'd cry of agony,
That she respond would; by him lie
A virgin pure as drifted snow,
Or lilies that i' the meadows blow.
Is it ivory? is it stone?
Lives it? or is it clay alone?
O that to flesh the stone would melt,
And show a soul within it dwelt!
He looks, he yearns, he sighs, he sobs,
Convulsive his whole body throbs;
He doubts, he fears, he supplicates
With wistful gaze; he on her waits;
Gifts lavish he lays at her feet,
And, stung to passion, will entreat,
As though the image he has made
Were thing of life he might persuade—
Persuade and woo, and on her stake
His future, all. O sad mistake!
For thee, Pygmalion, Venus sends
These triumphs which thy chisel lends,
To punish thee, for that no love
Erewhile thy obstinate heart might move.
Why flee'st thou the living, say,
When this image thee doth slay?
Thee doth—ay, slay! Why dost thou stand
Entranc'd before the work o' thy hand,
None the less hurtful that it is
Thine own genius yields the bliss?
Venus must thee still deny;
The sculptured maid must breathless lie. G.
ARION. Squammea vivae
Lubrica terga ratis
Jam conscendet Arion.
Merces tam nova solvitur
Navis quam nova scanditur. Illa
AËrea est merces, haec est et aquatica navis.
Perdidere illum viri
Mercede magna, servat hic
Mercede nulla piscis: et sic
Salute plus ruina constat illi;
Minoris et servatur hinc quam perditur.
Hic dum findit aquas, findit hic aËra:
Cursibus, piscis; digitis, Arion:
Et sternit undas, sternit et aËra:
Carminis hoc placido Tridente
Abjurat sua jam murmura, ventusque modestior
Auribus ora mutat:
Ora dediscit, minimos et metuit susurros;
Sonus alter restat, ut fit sonus illis
Aura strepens circum muta sit lateri adjacente penna,
Ambit et ora viri, nec vela ventis hic egent;
Attendit hanc ventus ratem: non trahit, at trahitur.
TRANSLATION (full). ARION. Never since ship was set a-float
Have men seen so strange a boat:
Alive it is from deck to keel,
Having the gray gleam of steel;
Slippery as wave-wash'd wreck,
Or as a war-ship's bloody deck.
A Dolphin, lo, its huge back bending,
Safety to Arion lending
From the sailors of Sicily,
Covetous of his golden monie;
Money that as prize he had won
Before all Singers aneath the sun;
Playing and singing so famouslie,
Singing and playing so wondrouslie,
That there went up from ev'ry throat
The verdict, 'for Arion I vote:'
Vote the prize; and gifts as well,
Crowns of gold and of asphodel;
Lyres all a-glow with gems,
Robes bejewell'd to their hems;
A thousand golden pieces and one
For the gifted son of Poseidon:
And, hark, as 'twere the bellowing thunder,
In clang'rous shouts men tell their wonder.
Arion now homeward takes his way
In a fair ship steer'd for Corinth Bay;
Proud of his prizes, proud of his skill,
Proud that soon Periander will
Welcome him fondly, and call him friend,
With words such as no money can send.
Alas and alas, such crime to tell!
The ship-captain and sailors fell
Covet his gold, and have it must,
Though Arion they murder by blow or thrust.
But Apollo at midnight hour
Sendeth a dream in mystic power;
It showeth the men, it showeth their crime.
Arion awakes with the morning's chime;
Awakes, and planneth how to escape.
Vain, vain all; on him they gape,
Thirsting alike for gold and life,
Murder and covetousness at strife.
'Suffer me, then,' Arion said,
'That I may play as I have play'd;
Here is my poor Lyre, and, ere I die,
Let me prove its minstrelsy.'
He has donn'd him now in gay attire,
Festal robes; in his hand his Lyre.
List ye, list ye; above, below,
Sounds such as only the angels know;
Sounds that are born of rapture and bliss,
Of the throbbing heart and the burning love-kiss.
Now it is soft, pathetic, low,
Then 'gins to change to cry of woe;
Now it comes rushing as if the thunder
Came booming from the deep earth under;
Pulsing along each quivering string
As though the Lyre were a living thing,
And Arion's hand had so cunning a spell
As should win all heaven—ay and hell.
O, came there never such melodie
From mortal earth or mortal sky.
He mounted to the good ship's prow,
And mingling with his song a vow
To the gods, he himself threw
Out 'mid the waves from that damnable crew.
Up through the waves the Dolphins bound,
A hundred bended backs are found,
Each one more eager than the rest
To upbear the sweet Player on Ocean's breast.
Arion ascends; and, lo, he stands,
His Lyre unwet within his hands:
Onward and onward careering they go;
O soft and true the notes that flow!
Rising, falling, swelling, dying,
Near and nearer, far-off flying;
Pulsing along each quivering string
As though the Lyre were a living thing.
New is the ship, as new the freight;
The Dolphin feels never the weight;
New is the ship, and new the fare,
That of the water, this of the air:
The sailors in their greed him lost,
The Dolphin bears him withouten cost.
Away and away with a shim'ring track
Arion goes on the Dolphin's back;
Away and away, still softly playing,
Each string his lightest touch obeying.
Under the spell the Sea grows calm,
Listing attent his witching psalm;
Under the spell the air grows mild,
Breathing soft as sleeping child.
But who may seek all the tale to tell?
It is a tale unspeakable.
Onward and onward careering they go,
Silence above and silence below:
The Storm-gale shuts its mouth and lists,
The Wind folds its pinions and desists,
Following, not blowing, drawing not, but drawn,
From early ev'ning to breaking dawn.
Tenarus at last Arion beheld;
Tenarus, his own dear home that held;
And as together they swiftly come,
He claps hands loud and thinks of home.
The Dolphin seeks a quiet cove;
The Dolphin arching its back above
The azure waters, leaves him there,
A-list'ning still his Lyre to hear.
Homeward to Corinth Arion proceeds:
Periander a tale of suff'ring reads
In the thinnÈd cheek and the dreamy eye,
In the tremulous words and the laden sigh.
The story is told. O story of wrong!
The ship returns; and it is not long
Ere captain and crew, at bar arraign'd,
Must tell where Arion they detain'd.
'He tarries,' quoth they, 'in Sicily,
Winning all men by his minstrelsie.'
Lies were proven in their throat.
Periander his hands together smote,
Swearing a solemn oath that they—
One, all—should drown'd be in the Bay.
Tied hand and foot, pallor'd and grim,
'Tis done as they would ha' done to him.
A plunge as of a plunging stone,
A few bubbles—Vengeance is done! G.
Decoration D
Decoration G
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