The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | ||
The Day of Wrath
A recent republication of the late Gen. John A. Dix's disappointing translation of this famous medieval hymn, together with some researches into its history, which I happened to be making at the time, induces me to undertake a translation myself. It may seem presumption in me to attempt that which so many eminent scholars of so many generations have attempted before me; but failure of others encourages me to hope that success, being still unachieved, is still achievable. The fault of many translations, from Lord Macaulay's to that of Gen. Dix, has been, I venture to think, a too strict literalness, whereby the delicate irony and subtle humor of the immortal poem—though doubtless these admirable qualities were valued by the translators—have been sacrificed in the result. In none of the English versions that I have examined is more than a trace of the mocking spirit of insincerity pervading the whole prayer,—the cool effrontery of the suppliant in enumerating his demerits, his serenely illogical demands of salvation in spite, or rather because, of them, his meek submission to the punishment of others, and the many similarly pleasing characteristics of this amusing work being most imperfectly
I must bespeak the reader's charitable consideration in respect of the first stanza, the insuperable difficulties of which seem to have been purposely contrived in order to warn off trespassers at the very boundary of the alluring domain. I have got over the inhibition—somehow—but David and the Sibyl must try to forgive me if they find themselves represented merely by the names of those conspicuous personal qualities to which they probably owed their powers of prophecy, as Samson's strength lay in his hair.
Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty;
So says Virtue, so says Beauty.
When the Judge the truth's undraping—
Cats from every bag escaping!
Calls the dead to condemnation;
All receive an invitation.
And the late lamented, waking,
In their breezy shrouds are shaking.
And the Clerk, to them referring,
Makes it awkward for the erring.
We shall all attend confession,
Loudly preaching non-suppression
Mitigating circumstances?
Even the just must take their chances.
Save thou him who sings thy praises;
Fountain, quench my private blazes.
Mine the playful hand that gave your
Death-blow. Pardon such behavior.
Calvary's outlook naught availed thee;
Now 'twere cruel if I failed thee.
Pray thy prejudices smother
Ere we meet to try each other.
And my face vermilion flushes;
Spare me for my pretty blushes.
Thou forgavest—complimenting
Me with sign of like relenting.
I'll receive with due submission
My dismissal—from perdition.
From the goats, may I, respected,
Stand amongst them undetected.
And with trial-flames ignited,
Elsewhere I'll attend if cited.
When of death I see the air full,
Lest I perish too be careful.
When, to enjoy the conflagration,
Men come forth, O be not cruel:
Spare me, Lord—make them thy fuel.
The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | ||