The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

The poetical works of Leigh Hunt

Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould

Hunt, Leigh (1784-1859)

Narrative Poems.

Narrative Modernizations.

Narrative Imitations.

THE TAPISER'S TALE.

THE SHEWE OF FAIRE SEEMING;

Political and Critical Poems.

Sonnets.

Blank Verse.

Miscellaneous Poems.

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171

Narrative Imitations.

THE TAPISER'S TALE.

ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CHAUCER.

[_]

Among the Canterbury Pilgrims, of whom Chaucer, for the most part, has given such particular as well as admirable descriptions, mention is made of five, who appear only in their corporate capacity, as members of one and the same guild; to wit, a Haberdasher, a Carpenter, a Webbé (webber or weaver), a Deyer (dyer), and a Tapiser—that is to say, a maker of tapestry. The same term designated an upholsterer: so common was it in the days of the poet to cover with tapestry the walls of apartments.

These persons, who are all represented as substantial citizens of no little importance, are said by the poet to have contributed their tales on the road to Canterbury, like the rest of the pilgrims; but none of the tales appear, Chaucer's great work having been either left unfinished, or unfortunate enough to have lost thus much of its copy.

From this deficiency in its requisite quantity of matter, occasion has here been taken to suppose that the Carpenter has just been telling a tale, which his hearers have found tedious, pretentious, and wanting in good fellowship; and that the Host of the Tabard Inn, who is the guide of the pilgrimage, and the constituted arbiter in such matters, feels himself warranted in rebuking the narrator, and in calling upon another person, after his wonted jovial fashion, for a tale of a different sort.

The groundwork of the story made its first English appearance in the pages of the once-vilified but now deservedly-respected old traveller, Sir John Mandeville; and the reader may find it repeated, verbatim, in the second volume, page fifty-four, of Mr. MacFarlane's excellent little work, the Romance of Travel; the only fault of which, by the way, though it has contrived to be copious too, is that it is too short. Mr. MacFarlane, after praising the legend itself, as well as its narrator, adds, that “Hafez, whose song was all of the rose and nightingale, might have sung it in Persian verse; and Dan Chaucer, our traveller's contemporary, have introduced it into his Canterbury Tales, or have made another Romaunt of the Rose about it.”

Hence the present attempt;—with how much reverence for Chaucer, whether endeavouring to imitate his graver or his lighter manner, and how heartily prepared to admit objections from Chaucerophilists more devoted (if such there be), need not, it is hoped, be said. Reverence and want of reverence may equally attempt to give an idea of the manner of a master; but the one will do it with all submission, as a filial study; the other with feelings fit only to be disclaimed.

172

THE PROLOGUE.

The Carpenter, whan that his tale was done,
Which sette us nigh on sleepyng everych one,
Al be it sorely smote us pilgryms gay,
Who gat us too moche comfort by the way,
Lookéd as big and highe, as thof his lore
Gaf him Saint Joseph for his auncestor.
Him seemèd, thof his eyne were somedele wry,
Which in wise head breedeth humilitee,
As he had been yborn and designate,
By that same mark, to setten all things straight;
And because termés of one craft he knew,
Which, save of carpenters, are known of few,
That he ne wanted nought to bringe to schoole
All craftés else, and rap hem with his rule.

Oure Host, good Harry Bailey, colde not bide
The mannés folie; and right loude he cryed,
“By corpus, and by bell, and holy Luke,
Ful bitter and right foule is the rebuke
Thy tale hath given, Maister Carpentere,
To all the good and worthie sinners here.
God pardon me for saying worthie and good
Of anie sort of men or multitude,
For gentle and simple we are sinners all,
Albeit some be grete and some be smalle,
And sinnes of carpenteres none may espie,
Save by some helpe of gymlet for the eie.
But that which made thy bitternesse so strong.
Sir Joyner, was, it was so veray long;
For sette ye case, there colde be made of physick
A draughte as long, who wolde not beare his tizzic,
Blotches, or blaines, and rot in veray bonés,
Sooner than draine swiche potion all at onés?
Thou shouldst have thought, how often thou hast wishéd
The sermon done while that thy meate was dishéd;
For at swiche times men care but for their shinnes
Of beef or pork, and nothing for their sinnes.”

173

And thereupon whiles laughen all yfere,
Oure Host he turned him to the Tapisere,
And said, “Sir Tapisere, as ay tis mete
That long and bitter end in short and swete,
In Goddés name telleth us sodenlie
Some littel mirthe or lovely tragedie,
Some veray lumpe of sugar of a tale,
Or ellés certés we all fainte and fayle,
And may not ride but sick into the town.
Grete choyce of tales hast thou, as is reasoun,
Seeing what store thy needle hath ytold
In wol and flax; yea, and in cloth of gold;
What griesly gestés and sweete histories
Of Judiths, and of Jaels, and Sir Guys,
Of Arthurs, Esthers, Troy and Seneca,
Saint Theseus, and the grete Duke Joshua,
With hundreds moe than I may telle or think,
John Prester, and the lovely Tree of Drink;
And what, I note, so pleaseth clerkly pen,
Susanna and the twey false aldermen.
Therefore, say on. Only, in anie sort,
Deare and belovéd Tapisere, be short.”

The Tapisere, who was a worthy man,
Said, “I wol do my beste,” and so began.

THE TALE.

Within a mile or twey of Bethlem toun,
As holy bookés maketh mencion,
Lyeth a feeld men clepe Feeld Floridus;
For al so sicker as in May with us
The feeldés ben daysies and cuppés alle,
Which n'are but brighté weedés, chepe and smalle,
This feeld, though it lye lone as anie plaine,
And tended is of nought save sunne and raine,
Bloometh with roses all, both redde and whyte,
That everych yere men runnen to the sighte;
Ne marvel is it, though a wondrous thing,
For it is Goddés owné gardening;

174

For these were the first roses ever made;
And why they were, sirs, now shall it be sayd.

In oldé dayés of King Gomerus,
Which was the first king after Noachus,
There bode in Bethlem a poore orphan mayd,
Gladsome by kind, by change of fortune staid,
Who wrongfully, by gealous frenesie,
Was brought to judgment for unchastitie,
And maugre all her true, beseechynge breth,
Was dampned to the dredful fiery deth,
The likest helle on erthe, even the stake.

Oh puré blood, swiche feendlich thirst to slake!
Alas for the soft flesche and gentil herte!
Alas, why colde she not fro life asterte
Softlie and sodenlie, with no moe care!
Alas, that strongé men, which wol not beare
The prycking of a thorne, but they must curse,
And rage, and ban, and shew themselven worse
Than manie a Pagan, yet, sirs, can desire
To put a poore young creature to the fire!
I n'ot how they colde beare the nights and dayes,
That wasted her with frights and with amaze
For constant thinking of that passe of helle.
Beare it I may not, I, nor you it telle;
And so I hasten th' executioun.

Come is the daye, and crowded by the toun
Is Felon's Feeld, all save the stakés place,
And there full soone is seen the simple face,
All redde at first, then whyte, and nothing stern,
That fro the spinning-wheele was tane to burn.

And “Oh, grete God!” thus dumbly prayeth she,
“That willest me to beare this miserie
For some just cause, though it I may not finde
In the remembraunce of my feeble minde,
I praye thee adde it not to mine offence
If speedilie I wolde be burnéd hence,
And ask the grace thereto at mannés hand.”

175

And, with the wordes, a littel from her stand
She yearnéd to the man that readie stood
To put the lighted torche unto the wood,
And said, “Hast thou a wife, or female child?”
And he said, “Both.” And she in a sort smiled
For comfort of the kindred of the man,
And said, “For their sakes I beseeche thee than,
That thou wilt put the wood a litel higher
About me, that the sooner by the fire
I may be reachéd in the throat and breth,
And so be ended.” And the man of deth,
The whiles he graunted her the dredfull grace,
For veray pity turnd away his face,
And swiftly as he colde the fagots lit.
But manie in the croud colde bearen it
No moe, mothers and wives in speciall,
But gat them holpen back unto the wall:
They felt the unborn babe stir at their hertes;
So piteous swete, and void of ill desertes,
She lookéd, somedele shrinking at the flame;
Then hid her face, not to behold the same,
And bow'd her hed, and shope her for to die.

But what is this, that maketh heavenlie
The aire, with smell of flowrés strange and new,
As if from veray Paradise it blew,
Or Heaven has opend, flowr-like, on the place?
And lo! the stake; and lo! the blissful face;
All blissful is the face, but now so lorne,
For, of the fagots, all just lit beforne
Are turnd to trees of roses, redde and brighte,
And all, not lit, are turnd to roses whyte!
Her foes are gone, feeble with dredfull feare;
And all the croud, whiles such as standen neare
Drawe back to make moe wyde the holy ring,
Fall downe to kneelynge and to worshippynge:
And there she standeth, shining all abrede,
Like to an angell, paradysd in dede.

176

THE SHEWE OF FAIRE SEEMING;

ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

[_]

Bearing in mind what was said in the preface to the preceding Attempt in the Manner of Chaucer, respecting the difference between reverent and irreverent endeavours of the kind, the reader will be good enough to give the author credit for the like propriety of feeling in the present instance.

In an effusion which, compared with a poem so long as the Faerie Queene, is a brevity of the briefest description, several reasons have hindered him from attempting to imitate that diffuser, and at the same time more inverted portion of the manner of Spenser, in which the poet was wont to indulge himself, when expatiating at large over his unbounded domains. The author, in directing his effort more particularly to what is considered the chief characteristic of Spenser,—his allegory,—availed himself of the closer style observable in the master on occasions which tended to confine him, like a portrait-painter, to the objects immediately before him.

The invention, such as it is, is the writer's own; which was the case also with the particulars in the Imitation of Chaucer, excepting the simple facts of the condemnation to the stake, the metamorphosis of the fagots into roses, and the name of Floridus which the roses gave to the place of execution. He mentions this, because some of his readers appear to have thought otherwise.

The imitation of Spenser, like that of his predecessor, being assumed to be the production of the poet himself, is supposed to have been written soon after he was introduced to the family of the Sidneys. It contained a few more stanzas, the purpose of which was to show how Wisdom, strictly so called, and thoroughly understood, contained of necessity all the really prudential qualities exclusively attributed to what is called Worldly Wisdom, in order to give the latter a false character, and elevate what is base in it. For no kind of real wisdom can be either antagonistic or supplementary to wisdom itself; and it is out of an instinctive sense to this effect, that the epithet “worldly” always implies something of a corruption of wisdom, and therefore something not truly and finally wise. But the author has touched upon this point in stanza 37; and he feared to be too long, as well as to pay too little compliment to the discernment of his readers.

ARGUMENT.

Wisdom, upon his wondrous stage,
Doth shewe his scenes to youth;
Which Worldly Wisdom, fault-finding
Stirreth to further truth.

177

I

A faire old house, less statelie than serene,
Nigh to a towne, yet deepe within a glade,
And looking on a lawne of gladsome greene,
Whence crept a path to manie a thoughtful shade,
Wisdom whilere his gentle dwelling made.
A little brooke, neare beehives not a few,
Glimmer'd in front; beside whose streame there play'd
Children, the which it pleas'd him much to view;
And bright, the streame beyond, a beauteous garden grew.

II

There ofte, at breake of day, be seene he might,
Drawing sweet balsams from the bitterest flowers;
Or, at his doore, by the starres' booke at night,
Reading of endlesse, angell-wingèd houres;
For he held converse with celestiall powers,
From which he sole true name of wizard bore;
And among other giftes and goodly dowers,
Sights could he shewe, most faire, to aide his lore,
And also sights most uglie, for to urge it more.

III

What, weigh'd with him, were wizards every one,
So call'd, but fooles, tricking and trick'd withal?
As Merlin, he that was a devil's son,
Yet in a trap set by his dame did fall;
Or that same slaine Maugis, faulse cardinall;
Or Faustus, selling to the sire of lies
His worthlesse selfe, whence neither gain'd at all.
Wizard is wiseard; and the onlie wise
Is he, whose setting sun is heavenlie as its rise.

IV

And who such lore could teache as Wisdom's selfe?
Therefore did Heaven itselfe, from all he sawe,
And all he found in knowledge on his shelfe,
Give him unearthlie power sights forth to drawe
Of spirituall thinges, bound to obey no lawe

178

Of like compulsion, or be seene of eyes,
Save theirs whom he would grace, or would adawe,
With beauteous cherishment, or dread surprise:
And ever they came soft, and swiftlie, servant-wise.

V

His house's largest roome, as was his wont,
Making kinde schoole for youthes of budding age,
He, with these sights and shewes therein, would daunt
Their hastie wills, and reverent thoughts engage,
Setting all forth upon a very stage:
For much the stage he lov'd, and wise theàtre,
Counting it as a church, in which the page
Of vertuous verse found the sole dispensator,
That could, with doubling force, make auditor spectator.

VI

At lessons thus high taught in sagest schoole,
Smiling approofe as each before him rose,
A would-be sib, who secretly its rule
Deem'd fond, and for small tricks took those great shewes,
(His name was Worldly Wisdom) one day chose
To sit; and though as in approofe he sat,
'Twas in such sort as one that inly knowes
More than he heares; and though commending that,
Hath something still in store, to raise a caveat.

VII

The chosen youthes, who that day sat athirst
For new shewes promis'd them on Wisdom's stage,
Were such as nighed unto the time, when first
They left, to seeke the worlde, his safer page,
And felt their bloods warming to kindlie rage
For all that manlie was, and good, and faire.
Alas! too truly fitted to assuage
That thirst the shewes were found, for sad they were;
The more for seeming glad, when first they came from aire.

179

VIII

From aire they came, soft sliding, without pace,
And unto musick fitting each in tone;
And as they, one by one, stood fix'd in place,
Voices of friends invisible made known
Their names with zeale, in which much love was shewn,
With great avisement of their vertues rare.
The names were faulse, and not the names alone,
Ne faulser than their fronts and faces were;
And foule was all their substance, as their seeming faire,

IX

The first was Honesty, a chapman plaine,
With manlie cheare, half smiling and half stayed,
To shewe that he one measure for his gaine
And one for equall dealing kept in trade.
His clothing stout had all for use been made;
Which to keepe cleane, and make it last the more,
O'er all his front an apron he had laid;
And in his heavie hand from Chepe he bore
A cornucopia long, whose mouth shewed piled up store.

X

Awhile he stood, as making gentle suit
For custom, which the youthfull gazers all
Had fain accorded, so faire look'd his fruit,
So closely pack'd, and mark'd at price so small,
And he himself fellow so good withal:
And scarce could they forbeare to cry aloud,
And call him to them as from publicke stall;
Till recollecting he was shewe avowed
Of magic crafte, they whist, and still'd their joyous crowd.

XI

With loutings then, and visage still in view,
Like to a player's congee on the stage,
He backward stepp'd, as one his path that knew,
And so would finish: but the wizard sage
Sternly him stopp'd, like a right archimage,

180

And bade him in his going turne about:
On which the man, with looks at first of rage,
Then of remonstrance, then refusal stout,
Then fear and abject reverence, turn'd him to go out.

XII

But what a change was then! and how the back
Belied the front of that same chapman plaine!
For it was all one rotten pedlar's pack,
On which there swarm'd in heapes grubs close as grain;
And like a Janus he had faces twain,
Of which the hindmost was a beetle's face
Made bigger, such as rolleth dirt with pain;
Whiles up to that same cornucopia's grace
Of shewe in front, there ran one vile long hollow place.

XIII

Then voices very different from those first
That prais'd the man, and gave him noble name,
Cried out “Dishonesty!” and him accurst
As one that pill'd the poore, and did great shame
Unto true Honesty, and wrongfull blame;
And all those youthes, the which had put their trust
In his full horne, and long'd to buy the same
Not more for feast, than joy in one so just,
Felt scorne and shame, and bann'd his loathly trunk and bust.

XIV

He went; and in his place presented was
One, in those youthes that seem'd to take great pride,
And by those first fond tongues, as with true cause,
By name of Just Laudation was outcried
With lusty loudness, that dissent defied.
A doctor's gowne he wore, his right that showed
To judge in schooles, and speake of scholars tried;
And ever as he came, his visage glowed
With greeting so entranced, as worldes of praise bestowed.

181

XV

Not olde he was, ne was his gowne in sooth
Much overnewe, but somewhat bare of thread;
Which yet he wore, as one that cared for truth
Much more than treasure, ne would fain be fed
With feast, provided he got noble bread
Out of the sweat of a free-judging brow,
Which look'd unto deedes done, not sayings sed;
And then he spoke, and owned he knew not how
To call halfe-knowledge whole, ne unto halfe-worth bow.

XVI

“Therefore,” he sed, “he prais'd their teacher sage,
And eke the sires that sought a guide so rare
To save the leaders of th' ensuing age
From erring into byewayes seeming faire,
Which were but swamp, and sandiland, and snare;
Ne should the height of some of those great sires,
Much less their wealth, or here and there an heir
Worthy their worth, stay laud that truth requires:
Wealth were a curse indeed, that marr'd such just desires.”

XVII

The youthes, and those same heirs in speciall,
Albeit they but late a sight had seene,
Which warn'd them how they fell againe in thrall
Of a first view of what might double been,
Fell not in thrall alone, but transport clean
With all which Just Laudation had them told.
They roar'd; they ramp'd, they glorified I ween,
Their foolish selves thrice over in their bold
Praise of his praise, untill they shamed their teacher old.

XVIII

Who now in ire (if sage in ire could be)
Cried to that maddener of his boyish rout,
“Begone, base trier of my masterie,
And in thy going turne thy lie about,
And shewe them what, for every senseless shout

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Will make them wish they had been shorn of ears.”
The liar turn'd; and they, withouten doubt,
Wish'd themselves neither hearers then, ne seers,
Ne dared a glance aside at their like blushing peers.

XIX

For lo! this shape, like to the former shape,
Was double-visaged; and the face in view
Was all a masse of mockery and jape,
With tongue out-lolling, winking eyes askew,
And filthy slaver, of toad-eating hue;
And all the while, as it would ever dine,
And hugg'd itself on thoughts of dishes new,
It patted, betwixt grunt and fondling whine,
Stomach, which still to feast it sought occasion fine.

XX

And “Parasite!” exclaim'd those tongues of truth,
The wiles the falshood took his twofold way.
Ne hiss, ne breath, was heard from all those youth,
Such load of shame upon their spirits lay,
And sense of future biting of that day:
Till taking pity in his secret thought
On that so plaine remorse which did them fray,
The gentle wizard straight before them brought
The third of those strange shapes which so their looking sought.

XXI

Which so their looking sought, but this the most,
And most obtain'd, and sweetest seem'd to eyes,
Ne one feare brought of what those two had cost
To their misjudging haste with dread surprise,
Which bade them henceforth trust no outward guise:
For this a damsel was, and seem'd a may,
So made of all that maketh ecstasies,
That when her unseen ushers Love did say,
Her look at once bore memory, sense, and soul away.

183

XXII

A loose light vest of blue she wore, with hood
O'er half her locks; and with a lavish glee
She shook from out its sleeves, as in a flood,
Heaps of red roses, which the lovely she
Then danced among with joyous impulse free:
And then she stood, and as in some sweet want
Of friend to finish her felicity,
Warbled a song, learnt where the Sirens haunt,
Of “Hither, love, oh hither! Let no feare thee daunt.”

XXIII

Up sprang the youthes, and would have rent the roofe
With raptures fiercer far than all before,
Had not the sire, with swifter shrill reproofe,
Cried out, and turn'd the halfe-born stifled roar
Into a sound far liker that of yore,
When its last groan the brazen bull out-gave
For what its human, burning bowels bore;
For now was seen a sight, that nearly drave
Youth's life-delighted selfe to wish itselfe in grave.

XXIV

The Love was turn'd; its hood, and more, gone clean,
Shewing that second face, which in those two
Vile shapes before had so detested been;
But more detested far was now the view;
For whereas those, being mockeries, almost knew
Some touch of comic, this was tragic all,
Nay, sadder still for want of sadness due,
Being stone-hard, like face cut forth in wall,
And more indifferent-eyed than mute at funerall.

XXV

Nathless both sad and sick, though hard 'twas,
Als anger'd, though corpse-cold, and seeming dead.
Pale snakes, entwined with strings of coin, alas!
Writhed foul, though little felt, about its head;
And for the ghastlier anti-life, instead

184

Of back, and substance, and where heart should be,
The trunk, like to a tray disfurnishéd,
Was front alone, and hollow now to see,
Like trunk of dread Elle-Maiden, haunting Germany.

XXVI

“Detestable, and miserable, and faulse!”
The Master cried,—“Go,—into nothing go.”
And like to shadowes fading upon walles,
But with a gesture faint of mop and mow
At what might have seem'd comfort worded so,
The shape sank backward, gaping death-bed-wise.
The youthes dumb-stricken sate, slain of that showe
In pride and courage, ne scarce lifted eyes,
Ne breath'd, save when as thought took sad reliefe in sighs.

XXVII

What first was Love, was now call'd Loathednesse,
Though unto some it was known of neither name;
And some confused it with a Piteousnesse
By heartlesse men brought into heart-felt shame,
And forced to beare its owne and others' blame:
But these be riddles needing not recall
Into such thoughts as here avisement claim:
In good sad time youth will be taught them all;
May Wisdom give them then his knowledge integrall.

XXVIII

As right reproofes least look'd for, latest given,
And follow'd by no theme of alien force,
Best take and best keepe root in conscience riven,
And in and in still bite with sweet remorse,
Wisdom would fain have left his shewes that course,
But that his namesake, Worldy Wisdom hight,
With voice once softe and sleke, now vinous hoarse,
Broke forth, whenas was finish'd that third sight,
In wordes heavy at heart, though seeming gay and light.

185

XXIX

“Behold!” he cried: “see, see! here see, good youths,
In these plaine shewes, the good of great plaine speaking:
Here Wisdom hath indeed told wisdom-truths,
Here whineth not in wordes pining and peaking,
Well wotting such be gullery all, and gleeking.
Lo, Honesty! what is it? false pretences:
Lo, Praise of others! what is that? self-seeking:
Lo, Love desired! what but the honest senses?
When done with, what but emptinesse and worse offences?

XXX

“Certes of arts a master great is here:
High proofes he bringeth of his wondrous skill,
And his quick servants causeth to appeare
Quaint monitors 'gainst honeysops that still
Must tice poore youth, and turne to bitter pill.
Nathless, methinks, in these his goodly meanes
To bless his youthes, and mould them to his will,
And make them saints and angells in their teens,
Something is miss'd, 'twixt true and false that intervenes.

XXXI

“Truth, as men say, is gold; and true it is;
And gold, as eke 'tis said, needeth alloy
For a great sake; to wit, expediency's;
Else 'tis so hard, it worketh much annoy,
And hindereth commerce all, and social joy.
Therefore a wisdom beyond Wisdom's self,
To wit, beyond his letter, simple and coy,
Ordainèd hath, despite of ghost and elf,
His book at such nice times should be laid up on shelf.

XXXII

“For, maugre these his makings of dread faces,
Faces we all must make, in sense and reason;
To say not so, were to beat all gimaces:
For who one face to loyalty and treason,
To court and mob, or in and out of season,

186

Like to a very vice could keepe in screw,
And not make true men yearn to twist his weason?
No cheat am I; yet I, not only two,
But twenty faces have, and none unfit to view.”

XXXIII

Ah, luckless wordes! and luckless wight! for lo!
By some new cunning of great Wisdom's art
Poor Worldly Wisdom by some sudden blow
Was sent about, and with the hinder part
Of his owne head made all the gazers start:
They shudder'd! then laugh'd out; and evermore
Laugh'd and laugh'd on, each from his very heart,
Untill their breaths grew scant, and sides grew sore,
And all the room seem'd rolling in the huge uproar.

XXXIV

For the poore wretch was nothing but a dish
With a mouth over it, and two blind eyes;
In sensual living had been all his wish,
And this was all was left him of his prize.
He saw not heart, ne hope, ne fields, ne skies,
Ne lov'd or tasted aught, except his dinner,
And that with tooth grown dull. He held it lies
To say that old age ever was a winner
Of any least thing else. God pity him a sinner!

XXXV

In that last thought, through Wisdom's gentle moving,
Fell, and so died, the stormy merriment,
The whiles, as if at their late scorn's reproving,
The small mean vision wither'd up and went,
Like one to nothingness by nature bent,
Soon as the laugh was not upon his side.
“Well worth your scorn and scoff was his intent
To make believe, my children,” Wisdom cried,
“That because faulse is faulse, all truth is nullified.

187

XXXVI

“All those faire fronts ye sawe were masks alone
Whate'er they seem'd, or still may daily seeme
'Twixt man and man in fleshly vision shewne;
For wheresoe'er cometh deceit extreme,
Cometh of what it looks nought but the dreame,
And only the Soul's Face, which ay is hid
Save by the single-minded, dares forth beame
In one sole front. Those which to turn I bid,
Were all Soul's Faces, forc'd to shewe them as they did.

XXXVII

“Thus I but warn'd of falsehood; bid ye guard
'Gainst foolish deeming all that glistens gold;
But not the lesse its fierie trial hard
The true ore stands, when melts the baser mould.
No: nor the lesse, as the sage did of old,
May true men buy and sell, and sager shine
For knowing gain's good uses manifold.
Praiser of youth was Socrates divine;
But blaming too when wrong, gave praise its value fine.

XXXVIII

“And Love?—What wise man knoweth not how true
And single-faced loveliest true love can be?
How sure to meete the face it answereth to,
In mirth with smiles, smiling how totally!
In griefe with teares, soothing how helpfully!
For surest of sure thinges is helpe in love.
But now your eyes shall learne, and grieve not.—See!
Beholde, for sample, one faire household dove,
One of our England's angells, not yet call'd above.”

XXXIX

While thus he spoke, lo! Wisdom's stage became
A plot of grass within a bowery nook,
In which, as though she round her felt the same,
There walk'd a youthfull ladie with a book,
Loving now that, now bird, now bud, now brook,

188

The more for what in the sweete page she red,
As you might guesse by her referring look.
“'Tis Sidney's sister,” Wisdom softly sed:—
“With brother's love begins the love that well shall spred.

XL

“With brother's love, and love of parents good,
And love of all that with celestiall aire
Fills home, begins the love that is endued
With gifts to make another's home as faire.
There seek ye your Sirens; finde your first loves there,
And earne them soone, and love them first and last.
There only, or with grief-taught sweetnesse rare,
Shapes will ye finde, in whose one mould are cast
Fair Seeming and True Being, bound in substance fast.

XLI

“See, in her bower waiteth a spinning-wheele,
And, 'tis a herbal nigheth the guitar.
She studieth to clothe the poor, and heale,
And blithely then singeth, as though her star
Shone on a worlde of peace without a jar;
Grave looks in her are sweete as gay in others,
And gay in her true as their gravest are:
Hence flowereth she, pride of the flower of brothers,
Hence will be pride and flower of dearest wives and mothers.”

XLII

Here the sweete ladie, turning as he spoke,
Her gentle steps in walking to retrace,
Oh! what a transport in the youthes awoke,
Simply at witnessing no second face!
They waited not to note the shape and grace;
They lov'd the very falling of her haire;
Nay, deem'd its ribbon of celestiall race.
Her coming had been all that was most faire;
Her going beat all comings, angells' though they were.

189

XLIII

No shout ensued; no noise; nought save a murmur
Of their entrancèd souls, each unto each;
None needed more their faith in love made firmer;
Here fairest faire was found without impeach;
Here an earth-heaven, which if they might not reach
(So high a star in place was Sidney's sister),
Nathless of heaven the like they might beseech:
Therefore, in thought, each with deare worship kiss'd her,
When, as in cruell dreame, lo! suddenlie they miss'd her.

XLIV

Miss'd her; for now as suddenlie there rose
The deepe church-organ's gently-gathering might,
With which the sage was duly wont to close
Teachings, harmonious with good and right.
Rose then his schoole, and parted for the night
Each to his thoughts, sweete as those notes, and strong;
And as they went, the great heaven-opening sight
Of th' order-keeping stars, never yet wrong,
Shewed to what great sweete ends all firme good thoughts belong.