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The Poetical Works of Ernest Christopher Dowson

Edited, with an introduction, by Desmond Flower

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PART II DRAMATIC AND EPIC POETRY



II. PART II DRAMATIC AND EPIC POETRY



THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

A DRAMATIC PHANTASY IN ONE ACT


175

    THE CHARACTERS

  • A Moon Maiden
  • Pierrot
THE SCENE
A glade in the Parc du Petit Trianon. In the centre a Doric temple with steps coming down the stage. On the left a little Cupid on a pedestal. Twilight.

177

(Pierrot enters with his hands full of lilies. He is burdened with a little basket. He stands gazing at the Temple and the Statue.)
Pierrot.
My journey's end! This surely is the glade
Which I was promised: I have well obeyed!
A clue of lilies was I bid to find,
Where the green alleys most obscurely wind;
Where tall oaks darkliest canopy o'erhead,
And moss and violet make the softest bed;
Where the path ends, and leagues behind me lie
The gleaming courts and gardens of Versailles;
The lilies streamed before me, green and white;
I gathered, following: they led me right,
To the bright temple and the sacred grove:
This is, in truth, the very shrine of Love!

(He gathers together his flowers and lays them at the foot of Cupid's statue; then he goes timidly up the first steps of the temple and stops.)
Pierrot.
It is so solitary, I grow afraid.
Is there no priest here, no devoted maid?
Is there no oracle, no voice to speak,
Interpreting to me the word I seek?

(A very gentle music of lutes floats out from the temple. Pierrot starts back; he shows extreme

178

surprise; then he returns to the foreground, and crouches down in rapt attention until the music ceases. His face grows puzzled and petulant.)
Pierrot.
Too soon! too soon! in that enchanting strain,
Days yet unlived, I almost lived again:
It almost taught me that I most would know—
Why am I here, and why am I Pierrot?

(Absently he picks up a lily which has fallen to the ground, and repeats:)
Pierrot.
Why came I here, and why am I Pierrot?
That music and this silence both affright;
Pierrot can never be a friend of night.
I never felt my solitude before—
Once safe at home, I will return no more.
Yet the commandment of the scroll was plain;
While the light lingers let me read again.

(He takes a scroll from his bosom and reads:)
Pierrot.
He loves to-night who never loved before;
Who ever loved, to-night shall love once more.’
I never loved! know not what love is.
I am so ignorant—but what is this?

179

(Reads)
‘Who would adventure to encounter Love
Must rest one night within this hallowed grove.
Cast down thy lilies, which have led thee on,
Before the tender feet of Cupidon.’
Thus much is done, the night remains to me.
Well, Cupidon, be my security!
Here is more writing, but too faint to read.
(He puzzles for a moment, then casts the scroll down.)

Pierrot.
Hence, vain old parchment. I have learnt thy rede!
(He looks round uneasily, starts at his shadow; then discovers his basket with glee. He takes out a flask of wine, pours it into a glass, and drinks.)

Pierrot.
Courage, mon Ami! I shall never miss
Society with such a friend as this.
How merrily the rosy bubbles pass,
Across the amber crystal of the glass.
I had forgotten you. Methinks this quest
Can wake no sweeter echo in my breast.
(Looks round at the statue, and starts.)


180

Pierrot.
Nay, little god! forgive. I did but jest.

(He fills another glass, and pours it upon the statue.)
Pierrot.
This libation, Cupid, take,
With the lilies at thy feet;
Cherish Pierrot for their sake
Send him visions strange and sweet,
While he slumbers at thy feet.
Only love kiss him awake!
Only love kiss him awake!

(Slowly falls the darkness, soft music plays, while Pierrot gathers together fern and foliage into a rough couch at the foot of the steps which lead to the Temple d'Amour. Then he lies down upon it, having made his prayer. It is night.)
Pierrot.
(Softly.)
Music, more music, far away and faint:
It is an echo of mine heart's complaint.
Why should I be so musical and sad?
I wonder why I used to be so glad?
In single glee I chased blue butterflies,
Half butterfly myself, but not so wise,
For they were twain, and I was only one.
Ah me! how pitiful to be alone.

181

My brown birds told me much, but in mine ear
They never whispered this—I learned it here:
The soft wood sounds, the rustlings in the breeze,
Are but the stealthy kisses of the trees.
Each flower and fern in this enchanted wood
Leans to her fellow, and is understood;
The eglantine, in loftier station set,
Stoops down to woo the maidly violet.
In gracile pairs the very lilies grow:
None is companionless except Pierrot.
Music, more music! how its echoes steal
Upon my senses with unlooked for weal.
Tired am I, tired, and far from this lone glade
Seems mine old joy in rout and masquerade.
Sleep cometh over me, now will I prove,
By Cupid's grace, what is this thing called love. (Sleeps.)


(There is more music of lutes for an interval, during which a bright radiance, white and cold, streams from the temple upon the face of Pierrot. Presently a Moon Maiden steps out of the temple; she descends and stands over the sleeper.)
The Lady.
Who is this mortal
Who ventures to-night
To woo an immortal,
Cold, cold the moon's light,

182

For sleep at this portal,
Bold lover of night.
Fair is the mortal
In soft, silken white,
Who seeks an immortal.
Ah, lover of night,
Be warned at the portal,
And save thee in flight!

(She stoops over him: Pierrot stirs in his sleep.)
Pierrot
(Murmuring).
Forget not, Cupid. Teach me all thy lore:
‘He loves to-night who never loved before.’

The Lady.
Unwitting boy! when, be it soon or late,
What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate?
What if I warned him! He might yet evade,
Through the long windings of this verdant glade;
Seek his companions in the blither way,
Which, else, must be as lost as yesterday.
So might he still pass some unheeding hours
In the sweet company of birds and flowers.
How fair he is, with red lips formed for joy,
As softly curved as those of Venus' boy.
Methinks his eyes, beneath their silver sheaves,
Rest tranquilly like lilies under leaves.
Arrayed in innocence, what touch of grace
Reveals the scion of a courtly race?

183

Well, I will warn him, though, I fear, too late—
What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate?
But, see, he stirs, new knowledge fires his brain,
And Cupid's vision bids him wake again.
Dione's Daughter! but how fair he is,
Would it be wrong to rouse him with a kiss?

(She stoops down and kisses him, then withdraws into the shadow.)
Pierrot
(Rubbing his eyes).
Celestial messenger! remain, remain;
Or, if a vision, visit me again!
What is this light, and whither am I come
To sleep beneath the stars so far from home?

(Rises slowly to his feet.)
Pierrot.
Stay, I remember this is Venus' Grove,
And I am hither come to encounter—

The Lady
(Coming forward, but veiled).
Love!

Pierrot
(In ecstasy, throwing himself at her feet).
Then have I ventured and encountered Love?

The Lady.
Not yet, rash boy! and, if thou wouldst be wise,
Return unknowing; he is safe who flies.


184

Pierrot.
Never, sweet lady, will I leave this place
Until I see the wonder of thy face.
Goddess or Naiad! lady of this Grove,
Made mortal for a night to teach me love,
Unveil thyself, although thy beauty be
Too luminous for my mortality.

The Lady
(Unveiling).
Then, foolish boy, receive at length thy will:
Now knowest thou the greatness of thine ill.

Pierrot.
Now have I lost my heart, and gained my goal.

The Lady.
Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll?

Pierrot
(Picking up the parchment).
I read it all, as on this quest I fared,
Save where it was illegible and hard.

The Lady.
Alack! poor scholar, wast thou never taught
A little knowledge serveth less than naught?
Hadst thou perused—but, stay, I will explain
What was the writing which thou didst disdain.

185

(Reads)
‘Au Petit Trianon, at night's full noon,
Mortal, beware the kisses of the moon!
Whoso seeks her she gathers like a flower—
He gives a life, and only gains an hour.’

Pierrot
(Laughing recklessly).
Bear me away to thine enchanted bower,
All of my life I venture for an hour.

The Lady.
Take up thy destiny of short delight;
I am thy lady for a summer's night.
Lift up your viols, maidens of my train,
And work such havoc on this mortal's brain
That for a moment he may touch and know
Immortal things, and be full Pierrot.
White music, Nymphs! Violet and Eglantine!
To stir his tired veins like magic wine.
What visitants across his spirit glance,
Lying on lilies, while he watch me dance?
Watch, and forget all weary things of earth,
All memories and cares, all joy and mirth,
While my dance wooes him, light and rythmical,
And weaves his heart into my coronal.
Music, more music for his soul's delight:
Love is his lady for a summer's night.

(Pierrot reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and stands at her side.)

186

Pierrot.
Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody?

The Lady.
Pan made it long ago in Arcady.

Pierrot.
I heard it long ago, I know not where,
As I knew thee, or ever I came here.
But I forget all things—my name and race,
All that I ever knew except thy face.
Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me,
That I may tell it like a rosary.
Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees,
How art thou designate—art thou Heart's-Ease?

The Lady.
Waste not the night in idle questioning,
Since Love departs at dawn's awakening.

Pierrot.
Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state,
Since thou art lovely and compassionate.
Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre.

The Lady.
I am to each the face of his desire.


187

Pierrot.
I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove,
Who craves a refuge on the breast of love.

The Lady.
What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon?
Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon.

Pierrot.
Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car,
Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star—
Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,—
Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies,
Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids,
Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades;
Mount me beside thee, bear me far away
From the low regions of the solar day;
Over the rainbow, up into the moon,
Where is thy palace and thine opal throne;
There on thy bosom—

The Lady.
Too ambitious boy!
I did but promise thee one hour of joy.
This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light,
Could hardly be completed in a night.
Hast thou no craving less remote than this?

Pierrot.
Would it be impudent to beg a kiss?


188

The Lady.
I say not that: yet prithee have a care!
Often audacity has proved a snare.
How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow—
Dost thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot?

Pierrot.
As one who faints upon the Libyan plain
Fears the oasis which brings life again!

The Lady.
Where far away green palm trees seem to stand
May be a mirage of the wreathing sand.

Pierrot.
Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught,
Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught.

The Lady.
Dost thou persist?

Pierrot.
I do entreat this boon!

(She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter.)
The Lady.
Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon?


189

Pierrot.
Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell;
Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle!
Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream
Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream:
But with its frost such sweetness did conspire
That all my veins are filled with running fire;
Never I knew that life contained such bliss
As the divine completeness of a kiss.

The Lady.
Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught,
Warning, as usual, has gone for naught.

Pierrot.
Had all my schooling been of this soft kind,
To play the truant I were less inclined.
Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce—
I never knew a task by conning once.

The Lady.
Then come with me! below this pleasant shrine
Of Venus we will presently recline,
Until birds' twitter beckon me away
To mine own home, beyond the milky-way.
I will instruct thee, for I deem as yet
Of Love thou knowest but the alphabet.


190

Pierrot.
In its sweet grammar I shall grow most wise,
If all its rules be written in thine eyes.

(The lady sits upon a step of the temple, and Pierrot leans upon his elbow at her feet, regarding her.)
Pierrot.
Sweet contemplation! how my senses yearn
To be thy scholar always, always learn.
Hold not so high from me thy radiant mouth,
Fragrant with all the spices of the South;
Nor turn, O sweet! thy golden face away,
For with it goes the light of all my day.
Let me peruse it, till I know by rote
Each line of it, like music, note by note;
Raise thy long lashes, Lady! smile again:
These studies profit me.

(Taking her hand.)
The Lady.
Refrain, refrain!

Pierrot
(With passion).
I am but studious, so do not stir;
Thou art my star, I thine astronomer!
Geometry was founded on thy lip.

(Kisses her hand.)

191

The Lady.
This attitude becomes not scholarship!
Thy zeal I praise; but, prithee, not so fast,
Nor leave the rudiments until the last.
Science applied is good, but t'were a schism
To study such before the catechism.
Bear thee more modestly, while I submit
Some easy problems to confirm thy wit.

Pierrot.
In all humility my mind I pit
Against her problems which would test my wit.

The Lady
(Questioning him from a little book bound deliciously in vellum).
What is Love?
Is it a folly,
Is it mirth, or melancholy?
Joys above,
Are there many, or not any?
What is love?

Pierrot
(Answering in a very humble attitude of scholarship).
If you please,
A most sweet folly!
Full of mirth and melancholy:
Both of these!
In its sadness worth all gladness,
If you please!


192

The Lady.
Prithee where,
Goes Love a-hiding?
Is he long in his abiding
Anywhere?
Can you bind him when you find him;
Prithee, where?

Pierrot.
With spring days
Love comes and dallies:
Upon the mountains, through the valleys
Lie Love's ways.
Then he leaves you and deceives you
In spring days.

The Lady.
Thine answers please me: 'tis thy turn to ask.
To meet thy questioning be now my task.

Pierrot.
Since I know thee, dear Immortal,
Is my heart become a blossom,
To be worn upon thy bosom.
When thou turn me from this portal,
Whither shall I, hapless mortal,
Seek love out and win again
Heart of me that thou retain?


193

The Lady.
In and out the woods and valleys,
Circling, soaring like a swallow,
Love shall flee and thou shalt follow:
Though he stops awhile and dallies,
Never shalt thou stay his malice!
Moon-kissed mortals seek in vain
To possess their hearts again!

Pierrot.
Tell me, Lady, shall I never
Rid me of this grievous burden!
Follow Love and find his guerdon
In no maiden whatsoever?
Wilt thou hold my heart for ever?
Rather would I thine forget,
In some earthly Pierrette!

The Lady.
Thus thy fate, whate'er thy will is!
Moon-struck child, go seek my traces
Vainly in all mortal faces!
In and out among the lilies,
Court each rural Amaryllis:
Seek the signet of Love's hand
In each courtly Corisande!

Pierrot.
Now, verily, sweet maid, of school I tire:
These answers are not such as I desire.


194

The Lady.
Why art thou sad?

Pierrot.
I dare not tell.

The Lady
(Caressingly).
Come, say!

Pierrot.
Is love all schooling, with no time to play?

The Lady.
Though all love's lessons be a holiday,
Yet I will humour thee: what wouldst thou play?

Pierrot.
What are the games that small moon-maids enjoy,
Or is their time all spent in staid employ?

The Lady.
Sedate they are, yet games they much enjoy:
They skip with stars, the rainbow is their toy.

Pierrot.
That is too hard!

The Lady.
For mortal's play.

Pierrot.
What then?

The Lady.
Teach me some pastime from the world of men.


195

Pierrot.
I have it, maiden.

The Lady.
Can it soon be taught?

Pierrot.
A simple game, I learnt it at the Court.
I sit by thee.

The Lady.
But, prithee, not so near.

Pierrot.
That is essential, as will soon appear.
Lay here thine hand, which cold night dews anoint,
Washing its white—

The Lady.
Now is this to the point?

Pierrot.
Prithee, forbear! Such is the game's design.

The Lady.
Here is my hand.

Pierrot.
I cover it with mine.

The Lady.
What must I next?

(They play.)

196

Pierrot.
Withdraw.

The Lady.
It goes too fast.

(They continue playing, until Pierrot catches her hand.)
Pierrot
(Laughing).
Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last.

(He tries to embrace her. She escapes; he chases her round the stage; she eludes him.)
The Lady.
Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch
A moon-beam, must use twice as much despatch.

Pierrot
(Sitting down sulkily).
I grow aweary, and my heart is sore.
Thou dost not love me; I will play no more.

(He buries his face in his hands: the lady stands over him.)
The Lady.
What is this petulance?

Pierrot.
'Tis quick to tell—
Thou hast but mocked me.

The Lady.
Nay! I love thee well!


197

Pierrot.
Repeat those words, for still within my breast
A whisper warns me they are said in jest.

The Lady.
I jested not: at daybreak I must go,
Yet loving thee far better than thou know.

Pierrot.
Then, by this altar, and this sacred shrine,
Take my sworn troth, and swear thee wholly mine!
The gods have wedded mortals long ere this.

The Lady.
There was enough betrothal in my kiss.
What need of further oaths?

Pierrot.
That bound not thee!

The Lady.
Peace! since I tell thee that it may not be.
But sit beside me whilst I soothe thy bale
With some moon fancy or celestial tale.

Pierrot.
Tell me of thee, and that dim, happy place
Where lies thine home, with maidens of thy race!


198

The Lady
(Seating herself).
Calm is it yonder, very calm; the air
For mortals' breath is too refined and rare;
Hard by a green lagoon our palace rears
Its dome of agate through a myriad years.
A hundred chambers its bright walls enthrone,
Each one carved strangely from a precious stone.
Within the fairest, clad in purity,
Our mother dwelleth immemorially:
Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon stones on her gown
The floor she treads with little pearls is sown;
She sits upon a throne of amethysts,
And orders mortal fortunes as she lists;
I, and my sisters, all around her stand,
And, when she speaks, accomplish her demand.

Pierrot.
Methought grim Clotho and her sisters twain
With shrivelled fingers spun this web of bane!

The Lady.
Their's and my mother's realm is far apart;
Her's is the lustrous kingdom of the heart,
And dreamers all, and all who sing and love,
Her power acknowledge, and her rule approve.

Pierrot.
Me, even me, she hath led into this grove.


199

The Lady.
Yea, thou art one of hers! But, ere this night,
Often I watched my sisters take their flight
Down heaven's stairway of the clustered stars
To gaze on mortals through their lattice bars;
And some in sleep they woo with dreams of bliss
Too shadowy to tell, and some they kiss.
But all to whom they come, my sisters say,
Forthwith forget all joyance of the day,
Forget their laughter and forget their tears,
And dream away with singing all their years—
Moon-lovers always!

(She sighs.)
Pierrot.
Why art sad, sweet Moon?

(Laughing.)
The Lady.
For this, my story, grant me now a boon.

Pierrot.
I am thy servitor.

The Lady.
Would, then, I knew
More of the earth, what men and women do.

Pierrot.
I will explain.


200

The Lady.
Let brevity attend
Thy wit, for night approaches to its end.

Pierrot.
Once was I a page at Court, so trust in me:
That's the first lesson of society.

The Lady.
Society?

Pierrot.
I mean the very best
Pardy! thou wouldst not hear about the rest.
I know it not, but am a petit maître
At rout and festival and bal champêtre.
But since example be instruction's ease,
Let's play the thing.—Now, Madame, if you please!

(He helps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses her hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air.)
The Lady.
What am I, then?

Pierrot.
A most divine Marquise!
Perhaps that attitude hath too much ease. (Passes her.)

Ah, that is better! To complete the plan,
Nothing is necessary save a fan.


201

The Lady.
Cool is the night, what needs it?

Pierrot.
Madame, pray
Reflect, it is essential to our play.

The Lady
(Taking a lily).
Here is my fan!

Pierrot.
So, use it with intent:
The deadliest arm in beauty's armament!

The Lady.
What do we next?

Pierrot.
We talk!

The Lady.
But what about?

Pierrot.
We quiz the company and praise the rout;
Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly,
Or what you will, so reputations die.
Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace,
With the red eminence.

The Lady.
A pretty face!


202

Pierrot.
For something tarter set thy wits to search—
‘She loves the churchman better than the church.’

The Lady.
Her blush is charming; would it were her own!

Pierrot.
Madame is merciless!

The Lady.
Is that the tone?

Pierrot.
The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught,
Madame was evidently bred at Court.

The Lady.
Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age.

Pierrot.
I listened much, as best becomes a page.

The Lady.
I like thy Court but little—

Pierrot.
Hush! the Queen!
Bow, but not low—thou knowest what I mean.

The Lady.
Nay, that I know not!


203

Pierrot.
Though she wear a crown,
'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown.

The Lady.
Thou art a child: thy malice is a game.

Pierrot.
A most sweet pastime—scandal is its name.

The Lady.
Enough, it wearies me.

Pierrot.
Then, rare Marquise,
Desert the crowd to wander through the trees.

(He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. When they pass before the Statue he seizes her hand and falls on his knee.)
The Lady.
What wouldst thou now?

Pierrot.
Ah, prithee, what, save thee!

The Lady.
Was this included in thy comedy?

Pierrot.
Ah, mock me not! In vain with quirk and jest
I strive to quench the passion in my breast;

204

In vain thy blandishments would make me play:
Still I desire far more than I can say.
My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous,
Instruct me still, while time remains to us,
Be what thou wist, Goddess, moon-maid, Marquise,
So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease,
Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies!

The Lady.
Hush! I beseech thee, even now night dies.

Pierrot.
Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake.

(He entreats her with imploring gestures, she hesitates: then puts her finger on her lip, hushing him.)
The Lady.
It is too late, for hark! the birds awake.

Pierrot.
The birds awake! It is the voice of day!

The Lady.
Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away.

(The light changes, it grows daylight: and music imitates the twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: then Pierrot sinks back upon his bed, he covers his face in his hands.)

205

The Lady
(Bending over him).
Music, my maids! His weary senses steep
In soft untroubled and oblivious sleep,
With mandragore anoint his tirèd eyes,
That they may open on mere memories,
Then shall a vision seem his lost delight,
With love, his lady for a summer's night.
Dream thou hast dreamt all this, when thou awake,
Yet still be sorrowful, for a dream's sake.
I leave thee, sleeper! Yea, I leave thee now,
Yet take my legacy upon thy brow:
Remember me, who was compassionate,
And opened for thee once, the ivory gate.
I come no more, thou shalt not see my face
When I am gone to mine exalted place:
Yet all thy days are mine, dreamer of dreams,
All silvered over with the moon's pale beams:
Go forth and seek in each fair face in vain,
To find the image of thy love again.
All maids are kind to thee, yet never one
Shall hold thy truant heart till day be done.
Whom once the moon has kissed, loves long and late,
Yet never finds the maid to be his mate.
Farewell, dear sleeper, follow out thy fate.

(The Moon Maiden withdraws: a song is sung from behind: it is full day.)

206

The Moon Maiden's Song

Sleep! Cast thy canopy
Over this sleeper's brain,
Dim grow his memory,
When he awake again.
Love stays a summer night,
Till lights of morning come;
Then takes her wingèd flight
Back to her starry home.
Sleep! Yet thy days are mine;
Love's seal is over thee:
Far though my ways from thine,
Dim though thy memory.
Love stays a summer night,
Till lights of morning come;
Then takes her wingèd flight
Back to her starry home.
(When the song is finished, the curtain falls upon Pierrot sleeping.)
The End


SECTIONS FROM LA PUCELLE


209

EXTRACT FROM CANTO XIII

[A glorious spectacle now rose to view,
The age of pleasure and of wonders too,
Great Louis and his sumptuous court now move,
Where all the arts were instigate by love.
Love reared the structure of Versailles renowned,
By Love the dazzled multitudes were crowned,
From flowery couch Love formed great Louis' throne,
Spite of the clash of arms and battle's groan;
Love, to the chief and sun of all his court
Led the most charming rivals to resort,
Impatient all and glowing with desire;
First Mazarin's fair niece, her eyes on fire,
Then generous and tender Vallière,
Then Montespan, more proud and debonnaire.
One yielding to ecstatic rapture's power,
The other waiting pleasure's promised hour.]
A metamorphosis his vision had;
In long black cloak lugubriously clad,
Love casts aside the roses from his hair
And hides his forehead 'neath a bonnet square.
White silly Scruple, icy Decency.
Conceal his traits of smiling infancy.
Him follows Hymen on mysterious feet:
His torches twain flame out with equal heat,
Fires without glow, whose chilly flames and white
Fatigue the places they pretend to light.

210

By these sad candles' flickering unkind,
With pimps and eke a priest, who go behind,
Great Louis, poppy-crowned and cassock led
Proceeds his ancient Harridan to wed.
He, who of Bourbons, far surpassed the rest,
The monk sees cozened by a flabby breast,
Upon a couch he stirs his aged nag;
Love is in tears and all his faithful tag:
To Paphos all the games and laughter fly,
Paris, the Court are all for piety.
A lechery as brutal as intense
Is all the pleasure now that's left to sense.
The air grows dense, and cynic wits maintain
Diogenes', not Epicurus' reign.
In deep extremes of drunkenness obscure
The courtier seeks his freedom to procure;
Cassocked Hercules, Priapus in a cloak,
Upon the palace lay their obscene yolk;
To this disgusting pair all hommage tends,
Whom sheer brutality alone commends,
Beauty and grace at their good pleasure dance;
Such is the end of gentle love in France,
When Providential care or Destiny,
The bigot king laid with his ancestry.
The monk then saw the Regent's happy time;
The pleasant reign of license had its prime,
As folly tinkling loud her bells in hand
With lightsome step tripped over Gallia's land,
When pious men as simple fools appear,
Soft Argenton and joyous Parabère!

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'Tis through your care, Cythera's god once more,
In Orléans' palace, men again adore,
About his shrines once more the incense blows.
The god of Taste, the one compeer Love knows,
To genius seeks to join all charms that please.
Fauns and Priapus, brutal Hercules
Are forced to make the Convents their retreat,
Nor dare in merry France to take their seat.

212

CANTO XVII CORISANDRE

My reader by experience is acquaint
That the fair god, whom as a child they paint,
(Though childish games are hardly all his sport)
Hath quivers two, of very different sort.
The one holds arrows, whose entrancing sting
Is felt with little risk or suffering;
These grow with time, and penetrate the heart,
Leaving the lively wounds they there impart.
Like raging fire, his other arrows fly,
Swift from the bow and burning instantly,
On senses five destruction fell they wreak,
With lively red illuminate the cheek;
With a new blood, men feel their bodies fired,
And with new being, hold themselves inspired.
Nothing they understand, their eyes are bright,
Gesture and action follow their mad flight.
Waters which boil tumultuous on the fire,
Which, o'er the copper's brink, rise and retire,
Which run away and leap and fall and waltz,
Are but an image, incomplete and false,
Of love's fierce fire, when once it agitates:
You know it, brethren mine, and all its states!
But this capricious god, our light love's king,
Contrived anon a far more pleasant thing:
Betwixt Cutendre and Blois, he caused to dwell
A beauteous maid, whose aspect amiable

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Had left the charms of Agnes far behind,
If, with her beauty, her heart had been kind.
(A kind heart's worth much beauty in a dame!)
Foolish and young, Corisandre was her name.
Love's will it was, each king or cavalier,
Young bachelor or magistrate severe,
Should seek, grown foolish, being overfond
With this fair idiot a closer bond;
Servants, the people and the viler herd
Alone exempt were from this law absurd;
Gentle or kingly race one had to own
Thus to grow mad. Nor was it that alone:
The healing art, as much hemp as you will,
Brought little help and succour 'gainst this ill;
And worse and worse the brain would daily grow,
Till the fair fool would some complaisance show,
And such a time in destiny was writ
That, at the last, she might attain to wit.
On Loire's banks nurtured, lovers, more than one,
For Corisandre's sight, were all undone;
One, losing memory and sense, for food
Just as a stag, would pasture in the wood;
And one would think his buttocks were of glass,
And being jostled by the folk who pass,
Would weep because his back-side had been broke.
Goyon is sure he is of female folk,
Wears petticoats and dies of his despairs,
Because, to truss them up no lover cares:
A saddle Valori takes, by no means light;

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He thinks himself an ass—is doubtless right—
Asks for his load, and ceases not to bray.
Sablé, transformed into a saucepot's way,
On three feet walks; upon the ground, one hand,
And one bow-legged. Alas, in this our land,
Amongst the madmen we might well have been,
Though the fair Corisandre we ne'er had seen.
Who is the sapient wit, who has not once,
Through his desires, been proved a very dunce?
Who has not had a check? In prose or verse,
All men are madmen, if they are not worse.
Now Corisandre a grandmother possessed,
Though stiff, a worthy dame by all confessed,
Whose pride, though she concealed it in the shade,
Was to behold the fools her daughter made.
But scruples 'gan her mind at last to urge,
Sorry she was for such a dismal scourge.
Her daughter then so fatal to the mind,
Within an hidden chamber she confined.
Before the castle she took care to place
Custodians two, with a forbidding face,
Ready the house's entrance to maintain
Against all comers, who would risk their brain.
The foolish Fair, to such seclusion brought,
Sang, sewed, embroidered, very little thought,
Regret or care, not e'en the least desire
Moved her to heal her lovers' maddened fire,
Though had the beauty had this tenderness,
All it had cost her, would be to say Yes.

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The haughty Chandos, in high anger still
That his proud combatant had 'scaped his skill,
Straight to his Britons in his wrath returns;
E'en as the hound, whose savage jaw which yearns
Has snapped in vain at the escaping hare,
Turns, while his yelps of anger rend the air,
Then to his master with slow steps will go,
Head hanging down, and long tail drooping low.
Well his unworthy animal he cursed
Who, in soft duel, brought him off the worst.
His general withal, hastes to supply
A youthful colonel, happening to be by;
Bold Irishman, by name Paul Tirconel,
Whose chest was broad, who bore himself right well,
As stout of arm as limb, with iron spine,
Whose haughty brow was sealed with the consign
Of one who never such affronts would face,
As now made Chandos redden in disgrace.
This martial pair, with gallant throng behind,
The gates of Corisandre's house now find;
They seek to enter, when the porters cry:
‘We bid you halt; bethink you ere you try
To enter here and Corisandre behold,
If you would wish what wits you have to hold.’
Proud Chandos this a further insult deems,
Onward he rushes, while his fury teems;
With one straight blow, he sends twelve yards away
One porter, with his arm put out of play;
Aching and bruised he lies upon the sand.

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Paul Tirconel, with no less ruthless hand,
Spurs on his fiery steed and whips him twice,
Presses his knees, lets rein and in a trice
The courser like a lightning flash has sped,
And passes o'er the other porter's head;
Lifting his front, a moment still he gazed,
A moment rests astonished and amazed,
Then turning round receives a doughty blow,
Which, like his erstwhile colleague, lays him low.
So in the province, some gay officer,
A dandy, natty, fond of sport and stir,
Runs to the play amain, the porter beats
And, without paying, from his ravished seats
He hisses everything he contemplates.
The English suite within the courtyard swarm;
The ancient Dame descends in high alarm,
While Corisandre, affrighted at the noise,
Her kirtle dons and from her room deploys.
Chandos addresses her a salute short,
True Englishman! much speech was not his forte;
But when he saw a face so innocent,
That lily-skin, those charms so succulent,
Those budding breasts and arms of ivory,
Which nature's hands had rounded artfully,
A happy chance he vowed was his to seize;
When Corisandre, with mien not quite at ease,
Casts him a glance which little seemed to say.
For Paul Tirconel, in his courteous way,
Saluted both the daughter and the dame,

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And ogled in his turn and felt love's flame.
What happened then? Alas, fell madness came.
Chandos, affected by that malady,
As horse-dealer, native of Normandy,
The youthful fair declares to be a horse,
Who must be saddled, mounted in due course,
He whips her fleshly saddle with a crack,
And in a trice is mounted on her back.
The fair cries out, and under Chandos falls.
Paul Tirconel, whom different mania calls,
A tavern-keeper holds himself to be,
And takes the fair, who's crouched upon her knee,
For a fat tun of wine, which he must bore,
Good wine and lees from th'orifice to draw.
Still straddling her, Chandos cries out: ‘Have done,
God dam! You're mad, I think the evil one
Has crossed your wits; you cannot even tell
From tun of wine, my white mare Isabel!...’
‘It is my tun, my tap's occasion.’
‘It is my horse...’ ‘My brother, 'tis my tun...’
Both were exactly certain they were right,
And for their mad opinion fain to fight,
With just such fire, as monks in angry vein,
Devotion of their scapular maintain,
Or d'Olivet upholds his Cicero.
Swift contradictions rattle to and fro,
And certain words, which, thank my modesty,
I spare my readers' ears; vocabulary
Which, loathed by proper pride, our Britons famed,

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Who vaunt their sabres, look on unashamed.
As winds, which gather force, though erstwhile weak,
Are roused and growl and fragile vessels break,
Which toss too much the waters to withstand,
Horror is shed by them o'er all the land—
So our two Englishmen at first were viewed
In laughter's semblance and a joking mood;
Then vexed, delirious fancies on them steal,
They both rush on, determined death to deal.
Both are on guard, in a like posture shown,
With outstretched arms and bodies forward thrown,
In quart, in tierce, their tough skins they attack.
But soon all rule and measure 'gin to lack,
As hotter still, and fiercer, more incensed
With slashing blows of the keen steel they fenced.
Less fierce in Etna's forge the one-eyed crew,
Out of the anvil, fiery sparks pursue,
Beneath less heavy hammers, who prepare
For thunder's master his big cannon there.
On every side blood casts a lavish stain,
From neck and arm and from the riven brain,
But not one cry succeeded to the wound;
The worthy dame would cure them sans a sound,
To strip them of their armour she desired,
A Pater said, a confessor required:
Her daughter all the time, with languid view,
Bridled and sought her coiffure to renew.
Our British pair, exhausted, drenched in gore,
Were lying both full length upon the floor,

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When who should come but the great King of France
With all his gallant knights, who bore the lance,
And those bright fair, within his court, who throve
Worthy of Mars and of the God of Love.
Beholding these, the beauteous Fool draws nigh,
And humbly drops a clumsy curtesy,
Bids them good day with utter nonchalance,
And looks at all things with indifference.
Who e'er had thought that nature would admit
Poison so much in eyes so lacking wit.
The beauty even hardly deigns to glance
At the distracted, handsome heads of France.
Heaven sheds its benign graces every day,
Which mortals take in very different way;
All things are fashioned to the time and place,
And very diverse are the effects of grace.
The self-same sap when nourished in the earth,
Of divers fruits the essences of birth,
Produces pinks, the thistle and the rose;
And d'Argens sighs when d'Arget laughter knows.
Maupertuis of folly's as prolific
As Newton of his theories scientific.
A certain king to use his soldiers knows
As often for his loves as 'gainst his foes.
All's variable; and in a different strain
Function the British and the Gallic brain:
Each one the customs of his country fits;
With Englishmen, of hard and sombre wits,
Madness is atrabilious, black as night;
But with the French, it lively is and light.

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Our folk the hands of one and other seize,
Dance in a ring, sing choruses that please.
The fat Bonneau exertions makes immense,
Though just as scant of breath as of cadence;
While Father Bonifoux, psalter in hand,
Dances with slower steps with the mad band;
Him doth the page, above the rest, beguile,
Though by his pious language and his smile,
His accent, gestures and his eyes so kind,
It seemed the Father had a rag of mind.
That novel ill which fascinates the view
Of this most royal and fantastic crew,
Leads them the castle's great court-yard to deem
A garden, wherein flows a pleasant stream.
They wish to bathe, their clothes and corslets pass,
And nakedly disport them on the grass,
Swim in the void, and lift aloft the chin,
Thinking clear water covers them within.
The monk, the while he swam, 'tis meet to note,
From the enchanting page was ne'er remote.
At such a mass of noddles without brain,
Such nudity, our modest fair with pain,
The Maid and Agnes and fair Dorothy
Discreetly turned their head and shut the eye,
Then looked again, then after once again
Eyes, heart and hand to the celestial plain.
‘Have I then come’, cried Joan, ‘to such a pass?
I have St. Denis for me and mine ass;

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And many an impious Briton I have braved,
Avenged my prince, and many a convent saved;
T'wards Orléans' walls my stressful way I've ta'en;
And Destiny must make my labour vain—
Our heroes mad?’ Agnes and Dorothy
Contained themselves with certain difficulty;
Sometimes they laughed, sometimes were passing sad
To see great kings and noble heroes mad.
But what to do? Where fly? Oh, whither get?
Cutendre's castle they might well regret;
Had not a servant, of her secret lore,
Taught them the art wits wandering to restore.
‘Good sense once lost,’ she said, ‘'tis Fate's decree,
To brains whence it has flown, restored can be,
Only when Corisandre the fair will deign
In snares of love to let herself be ta'en.’
This good advice was not without avail,
The muleteer to heed it did not fail:
Doubtless you know that lecher of remark
Was always amorous of Joan of Arc,
And jealous of the ass, discreet of walk,
That Amazon he never ceased to stalk.
When thus he heard, in confidence arrayed,
He starts forthwith his King and France to aid.
Just in a corner chanced the fair to lie,
Whom from afar he had been pleased to spy;
T'wards her he runs, well armed with fire and rage.
They thought him mad, who was the only sage.

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O muleteer! on thee what treasures rare
Kind nature had bestowed with partial care,
Thy lowly fortune compensating well.
With one swift bound he subjugates the belle.
To her, in fine, the pleasing moment came
To learn and know; and scarce was lit that flame
Of pleasure, whereof previous ignorance
In her young soul had dulled intelligence,
Than the enchaunting spell prevails no more,
And every brain is almost as before;
Almost I say, for there was slight mistake.
King Charles, forsooth, the sturdy sense must take
Of old Bonneau, who, for his part received
Wits of the monk; and thus were all deceived.
Little advantage came of this exchange;
The human reason, God's great gift, 'tis strange,
Is a small thing, but grudgingly bestowed,
And every mortal's content with his load.
So change had with the lovers no effect;
Each one preserved for his fair dame elect
His former taste and sweet significance:
And what has love to do with common sense?
For Corisandre, new knowledge she procured
Of good and ill; a confidence assured
Of art and taste, an excellent reward
For all her previous innocence ignored;

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All this the presents of a muleteer!
Thus Adam's silly partner, so we hear,
In garden lived and pleasure came not near,
Until the Devil hove within her sight,
And made her charming, subtile, witty, light,
As are the women whom to day we meet,
Who have no need the Devil to entreat.

224

CANTO XXI

Now must I tell what consequences sad
Conculix' most disgraceful conduct had;
What to audacious Tirconel befell,
What succour strange and salutary as well
Our Reverend friar was able to entreat
For Dorothy, and for the Sorel sweet,
And with what art he set them safe and free.
With what a fire and what dexterity,
Maid from Dunois was ravished by the ass,
And how God's vengeance on him came to pass,
Who had, with Satan's help, defiled the Maid.
But before all, 'tis Orléans siege arrayed,
Where many warriors brave clashed arms and fell,
'Tis there we need to let our interest dwell.
O God of Love! O power by frailty known!
O fatal Love! how nearly hadst thou thrown
That citadel of France in hostile hands,
Success unhoped of those who hate our lands.
What Bedford, in experience grown old,
And Talbot sought to do, albeit bold,
And failed at last, O Love, thou wouldst attain!
Reader, reflect, their fatal flames of bane
Your bodies burn, and sore your souls beguile.
Dear child! thou workest ruin with a smile.
In that sad land, while Love his arrows flings,
Where hundred heroes struggled for two Kings,
His tender hand, months since wrought grievous smart

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On mighty Talbot with a golden dart,
That in the first of his two sheaves he found.
It was before that siege so long renowned,
An armistice, alas too short, they make;
Louvet and he, in peace their supper take;
This Louvet, president of worthy fame,
Was rash enough to bid to sup his dame.
Madame inclined somewhat to play the prude;
Wherefore Love thought her pride should be subdued.
For prudes he hates and oft will them abase.
Thus he deranged the sternness of her face,
Her noble dignity he changed indeed,
For certain traits which unto madness lead.
Dame President, on this auspicious day,
Great Talbot wins and charms his wits away.
You've seen already that grim escalade,
Assault of blood, and horrid cannonade,
Those brave attempts, and all those desperate fights,
Within, without, and on the ramparts' heights;
When Talbot and his fiery following train
The ramparts and the gates had burst and ta'en;
When on them from the houses' tops there broke
Sword, flame and grisly death at one fell stroke.
Then fiery Talbot, with his agile walk,
Tramples the dying, through the town to stalk,
He upset all things, crying out aloud:
‘My Britons, enter and disarm the crowd!’
Much he resembled then to war's great god,
Beneath his footsteps echoing the sod,

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When Discord and Bellona and high Fate,
As minister of Death arm him with hate.
Dame President within her walls a breach
That looked upon a ruined cot, could reach;
And through this hole her gallant could espy,
His golden helm, where feathers curl and fly,
His mailed arm, and those live sparks of flame,
Which from his pupils' orbits darting came,
That carriage proud, that demi-god's great air;
Dame President was almost in despair;
With shame dumbfounded and bereft of wits:
As once, when in her grated stage box sits
That erst famed beauty love has sore inflamed,
And ogles Baron, actor justly famed.
With ardent eyes she feasts upon his face,
His rich adornment, gestures and his grace,
Mingled with his her accents in tones low,
Love's flames received, her senses owned the glow.
Unable to resist, Dame President,
Consumed by passion, calls her confidant:
‘Run, Suson, fly, and when you find him, say,
O bid him come and lead me hence away!
Convey to him, if him you can not find
That he take pity on my lot unkind;
That if he be a worthy, gallant knight,
I'll sup with him, within his house to-night.’
The confidant dispatched a little page;
It was her brother; well he earned his wage;

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With no delay six hardy lackeys call
At Louvet's house, and force the outer wall.
They enter and a woman masked they see,
Painted and patched, with many a coquetry,
Her hair or true or false raised to a bow,
On either side in curls was rayed below.
They take her up; she vanished from view,
By secret paths which the brave Talbot knew.
The handsome Talbot on that famous day
Through so much blood and fire had made his way,
That on the eve in dalliance with Love's charms,
He would forget the trouble of his arms.
Each mighty hero, though he win or lose,
To sup with a fair dame, would rather choose.
Thus Talbot, who has suffered no defeat,
Awaits within his house his lady sweet.
All things are ready for a supper fine;
The chased glass flagons of the rarest wine
Twixt lumps of cooling ice are there to tap,
Those liquid rubies, and that brilliant sap,
Which Citeaux' blessed cellars hoard and hide;
In the proud tent, upon the other side,
A sofa, elegantly shaped, is placed,
Soft, low and wide, with proper fittings graced,
With back inclined, and two supports incased.
There our two lovers at their will could play;
Sir Talbot 'gan to live in the French way.

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His care was first forthwith, the fair to find,
Who to his wooing had proved passing kind.
All things around him of his lady tell.
They bring her in, she's introduced as well.
A monster gray, in childish ruffs and frills,
Just three feet high, not to forget her heels.
Her little eyes with lively red ornate,
Yellow effusions ever inundate;
Her broad flat nose, twisted and turned within
Seems to drop straight upon her long hooked chin.
The Devil's mistress, Talbot thinks to take;
He utters cries at which the tables shake.
It was fat Louvet's sister whom had brought
The guard when in his house his wife they sought;
She strutted round with pride and pleasure spent,
In rich delight at such a ravishment.
Dame President the direst grief assailed;
To think how her high enterprise had failed,
She quite lost heart at this misreckoning,
And cursed her sister like a Valois King.
Already love had troubled sore her wit,
'Twas worse now jealousy had part in it,
Her troubled mind was lit with further flame,
And madder than before she now became.