The Poetical Works of James Thomson The City of Dreadful Night: By James Thomson ("B. V."): Edited by Bertram Dobell: With a Memoir of the Author: In two volumes |
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PROLOGUE TO THE PILGRIMAGE TO SAINT NICOTINE OF THE HOLY HERB |
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 | The Poetical Works of James Thomson |  |
273
PROLOGUE TO THE PILGRIMAGE TO SAINT NICOTINE OF THE HOLY HERB
In every country and in every age
Have men been wont to go on pilgrimage,
As I have read,—each visiting that shrine
Which seems to him most blessèd and divine;
Athwart far lands, athwart the wild sea foam:
Some to Jerusalem, and some to Rome;
And some to Lourdes,—très lourdes, très lourdes God wot,
Les pauvres âmes which seek that sacred spot;
And some to Santiago far in Spain,
Anear the roar of the Atlantic main;
And some unto our Lady of Lorette,—
Full many votaries this Dame doth get:
The very Paynims bring their vows and prayers
To Mecca and to Yeddo and Benares:
While others piously seek out the tombs
Of mighty men who have fulfilled their dooms,
The fields where battles long ago were fought,
The scenes wherever wondrous works were wrought,
The sites of antique cities overthrown,
The fanes of fair gods dead and turned to stone:—
What need write more? when saint and bard and sage
Declare our whole life but one Pilgrimage;
A journey from the cradle to the bier
Of all the restless millions wandering here;
A toilsome travel of all things alive
Unto the Temple where they all arrive,
And bowing down before the Shrine of Death
Find peace at last in breathing their last breath.
Have men been wont to go on pilgrimage,
As I have read,—each visiting that shrine
Which seems to him most blessèd and divine;
Athwart far lands, athwart the wild sea foam:
Some to Jerusalem, and some to Rome;
And some to Lourdes,—très lourdes, très lourdes God wot,
Les pauvres âmes which seek that sacred spot;
And some to Santiago far in Spain,
Anear the roar of the Atlantic main;
And some unto our Lady of Lorette,—
Full many votaries this Dame doth get:
The very Paynims bring their vows and prayers
To Mecca and to Yeddo and Benares:
274
Of mighty men who have fulfilled their dooms,
The fields where battles long ago were fought,
The scenes wherever wondrous works were wrought,
The sites of antique cities overthrown,
The fanes of fair gods dead and turned to stone:—
What need write more? when saint and bard and sage
Declare our whole life but one Pilgrimage;
A journey from the cradle to the bier
Of all the restless millions wandering here;
A toilsome travel of all things alive
Unto the Temple where they all arrive,
And bowing down before the Shrine of Death
Find peace at last in breathing their last breath.
But furthermore thus teacheth the wise man;
That age by age our human caravan
Is like unto all those that went before
And all that shall come after evermore:
New names, new robes, new thoughts and words and deeds,
New toys and treasures, sciences and creeds
But ever the same passions and same needs:
The same old Drama on the same old Stage,
The same old tears and laughters, joy and rage;
The selfsame characters upon the Scene,
Wise, foolish, rich and poor, and great and mean
Old actors fall away with weary hearts,
Fresh actors come to take the selfsame parts;
And whosoe'er the destined rôles may fill,
Hamlet is Hamlet—Osric, Osric still;
And ever with the fifth act come the knaves
To vent their clownish jests and dig the graves;
And ever with the last scene entereth
Some princely one demanding—“O proud death,
What feast is toward in thine eternal cell?
And so the Play is over: very well,
It shall be played again, and have a run,
Coëval with the earth's around the sun.
That age by age our human caravan
Is like unto all those that went before
And all that shall come after evermore:
New names, new robes, new thoughts and words and deeds,
New toys and treasures, sciences and creeds
But ever the same passions and same needs:
The same old Drama on the same old Stage,
The same old tears and laughters, joy and rage;
The selfsame characters upon the Scene,
Wise, foolish, rich and poor, and great and mean
275
Fresh actors come to take the selfsame parts;
And whosoe'er the destined rôles may fill,
Hamlet is Hamlet—Osric, Osric still;
And ever with the fifth act come the knaves
To vent their clownish jests and dig the graves;
And ever with the last scene entereth
Some princely one demanding—“O proud death,
What feast is toward in thine eternal cell?
And so the Play is over: very well,
It shall be played again, and have a run,
Coëval with the earth's around the sun.
Lo this is what men call philosophie,
Whereof I know not anything perdie,
But it hath brought us to our proper theme,
Our Card of beauty and of joy supreme,
Our peerless Pilgrimage unto the Shrine
Of most beneficent Saint Nicotine.
Five hundred years agone Dan Chaucer went
A-riding through the pleasant lanes of Kent,
In April on the eight and twentieth day,
Which were with us I ween a week in May,
He and his compagnie of twenty-nine,
Both men and women, to the holy shrine
Of Him by hot Knights at the altar slain,
And now by Master Froude killed over again
All in cold blood; alas! a piteous doom,
Sword-pierced in life and pen-pierced in the tomb:
But Master Freeman now hath set to work
To maul this Froude as if he were a Turk;
And he who kicked A'Becket as he lay
Is like to kick the bucket in this fray.
This compagnie it was of all degrees,
The high, the low, the midway; and all these,
Yea, each and all, our Poet doth rehearse
And picture lifelike in his cordial verse;
As sweet and rath as his own daisy was
“Upon the smalè, softè, swotè gras,”
As rich and free and cheerful as the gush
Of gratulation from a mid-June thrush:
I rede you read him once and twice and thrice,
And over again; it is my boon advice;
And learn what all these men and women were
In mind and body, state and garb and air;
And feel what full red-blooded life did flow
Thorough their veins five hundred years ago;
And find what Tales they told upon their way
Of noble tragedy and jolly play;
And see that we are now what they were then,
Since fashions change, not women, neither men.
Whereof I know not anything perdie,
But it hath brought us to our proper theme,
Our Card of beauty and of joy supreme,
Our peerless Pilgrimage unto the Shrine
Of most beneficent Saint Nicotine.
Five hundred years agone Dan Chaucer went
A-riding through the pleasant lanes of Kent,
In April on the eight and twentieth day,
Which were with us I ween a week in May,
276
Both men and women, to the holy shrine
Of Him by hot Knights at the altar slain,
And now by Master Froude killed over again
All in cold blood; alas! a piteous doom,
Sword-pierced in life and pen-pierced in the tomb:
But Master Freeman now hath set to work
To maul this Froude as if he were a Turk;
And he who kicked A'Becket as he lay
Is like to kick the bucket in this fray.
This compagnie it was of all degrees,
The high, the low, the midway; and all these,
Yea, each and all, our Poet doth rehearse
And picture lifelike in his cordial verse;
277
“Upon the smalè, softè, swotè gras,”
As rich and free and cheerful as the gush
Of gratulation from a mid-June thrush:
I rede you read him once and twice and thrice,
And over again; it is my boon advice;
And learn what all these men and women were
In mind and body, state and garb and air;
And feel what full red-blooded life did flow
Thorough their veins five hundred years ago;
And find what Tales they told upon their way
Of noble tragedy and jolly play;
And see that we are now what they were then,
Since fashions change, not women, neither men.
What this first Poet, whom we love so well,
Of merrie England, in his verse did tell
Of these glad Pilgrims, both their mind and make,
That Artist of the Visions clepèd Blake,
Who also sang delightful young-world songs,
Soaring aloof from all our old-world wrongs,
Did picture forth with pencil and engrave,
Form after form to match the Poet brave:
We touch not him, for he was grand and wild;
We leave this giant who became a child.
A graceful limner, Stothard was his name,
Did set himself to enterprise the same,
And him we follow in our noble Card;
But whereas he went backward to the Bard
Through all the centuries, to match his rhyme,
We choose our Pilgrims from our very time:
For why? our Saint is not the Saint of old,
But hath more votaries a hundredfold;
Lo you shall hear of him anon, but first
Behoves the jolly Pilgrims be rehearsed;
New Saint, New Pilgrims, but the counterparts
Of Chaucer's rout en route in brains and hearts.
Of merrie England, in his verse did tell
Of these glad Pilgrims, both their mind and make,
That Artist of the Visions clepèd Blake,
Who also sang delightful young-world songs,
Soaring aloof from all our old-world wrongs,
Did picture forth with pencil and engrave,
Form after form to match the Poet brave:
We touch not him, for he was grand and wild;
We leave this giant who became a child.
A graceful limner, Stothard was his name,
Did set himself to enterprise the same,
278
But whereas he went backward to the Bard
Through all the centuries, to match his rhyme,
We choose our Pilgrims from our very time:
For why? our Saint is not the Saint of old,
But hath more votaries a hundredfold;
Lo you shall hear of him anon, but first
Behoves the jolly Pilgrims be rehearsed;
New Saint, New Pilgrims, but the counterparts
Of Chaucer's rout en route in brains and hearts.
1878.
There has been much learned astronomical discussion, of dubious import, about the exact time of the year, as indicated in the opening of the Prologue to the “Canterbury Tales.” If the deep scientific gentlemen engaged had but condescended to look forward to the Man of Law's Prologue they might have read in the beginning thereof—
“And though he [the host] were not depe expert in lore,
He wiste it was the eighte and twenty day
Of April, that is messager to May.”
This may suffice to fix the date accurately enough for us who
are not astronomers. The Old Style, I suppose, would then be
about eight days behind the New, as the difference I believe
increases three days in every four centuries (one in each of the
three which is not a multiple of four), and was eleven days in
1752, when the New Style was adopted in England (we all know
how the populace vociferously demanded the eleven days of
which they conceived themselves defrauded): the Russians, who
keep to the Old Style, now date twelve days behind us. Thus
Chaucer's April 28 would be our May 6. In reading Herrick
and his contemporaries on the delights of going a-Maying, we
are apt to forget that their May-day the 1st was our 11th; so
with many old weather proverbs.
He wiste it was the eighte and twenty day
Of April, that is messager to May.”
| The Poetical Works of James Thomson | |