A Sicilian Story :: :: University of Virginia Library

This Story of Gyges, if I may so designate the slight thread of narrative that runs through these stanzas, comes from Herodotus. It is englished in “Painter's Palace of Pleasure,” and is there prefaced by the following moral.

“That husband, which is beautified with a comely “and honest wife, whose rare excellencie doth surpasse “others, as wel in lineaments, proporcion, and feature “of bodie, as in inwarde qualities of minde: if he cannot “retaine in the secrecie and silence of his breast, “that excellinge gifte and benefite, is worthy to be inaugured “with a laurel crown of follie.

Vol. I. Nov. 6.

I have imposed the name of ‘Lais’ upon the queen of Candaules, who is without a name in the Story.

There is another account (in Plato, I believe,) of this same Gyges and his famous ring, which rendered him invisible, and by means of which he gained access to the Lydian Queen. This however would have been at variance with the moral, and was excluded.

117

‘Lydian measures.’
Dryden.

I

I've often thought that if I had more leisure
I'd try my hand upon that pleasant rhyme,
The old ‘ottava rima,’ (quite a treasure
To poets who can make their triplets chime
Smoothly:) 'tis equally adapt to pleasure,
To war, wit, love, or grief, or mock-sublime:
And yet—when pretty woman's in the case,
The lines go tripping with a better grace.

118

II

I've but small wit, and therefore will not venture
On wit; and fighting—'tis a noisy game;
From this too I'm bound down by my indenture;
(At least I swear I am, and that's the same;)
Then grief—I scarcely ever think she meant her
Madonna face—no 'twould not do: of fame
Or pleasure I know little to rehearse,
But Love is shaped and fit for every verse.

III

Love! oh! he breathes and rambles 'round the world
An idol and idolater: he flies
Touching, with passing beauty, ringlets curl'd,
Ripe lips, and bosoms white, and starry eyes,
And wheresoe'er his colours are unfurled
Full many a young and panting spirit hies.
His ranks are raw, for all are volunteers:
Some fired with hope, and plenty plagued with fears.

119

IV

He is the sweetest, yet the fiercest passion,
That ever soothed or scarred the human heart,
Worshipped and jeered by all in every nation,
And hugged and bidden while he's hugged, depart.
Yet, to say truth, if I should have occasion
Again to know him, I should beg his dart
Might be a little blunted; nay, before,
'Twas tipp'd with gall—it should be sugar'd o'er.

V

And I would have this dart held by a hand
That would pour balm upon the wound it gave:
Like that ‘white wonder’ of a foreign land,
Whose mistress in the silver moonlight gave
Tokens of early love, and did command
One heart's devotion—but I'm getting grave:
That damsel's sweetheart sadden'd, to be brief,
And washed down ('twas with poison) all his grief.

120

VI

I'd have her eyes dark as the summer night,
When Dian sleeps, and fair the planets roll
Along their golden journeys: 'tis a sight
That comes like—like—I mean that, on the whole,
It touches and, as 'twere, transports one quite,
And makes one feel that one must have a soul;
And then our wits go wandering from their ways,
Wild, and ‘wool-gathering,’ as the proverb says.

VII

So much for eyes, and now for smiles. A smile
I hold to be like balm; (the sting's the tongue:)
It soothes the cankers of the heart awhile,
And is a sort of silent music flung
(Or sunbeam) o'er the lips, and can beguile
The very d---l; pshaw! he never clung
To woman's lips: I blush and blush again.
'Twas all mistake: he ‘puts up’ with the men.

121

VIII

I never saw a fault in women yet:
Their bodies and their minds are full of grace:
Sometimes indeed their tongue—but I forget,
And 'faith that runs a very pretty race,
And doth bewilder one like wine, or debt,
Or whist when in an ancient partner's face,
We read supreme contempt, and hear her groan,
And feel that all the blunders are our own.

IX

This is vexatious I must own, and so
Are many things if but the mind were given
To make the most of trifles, but I go
Gently and jogging on (I hope) to heaven,
Sometimes in mirth, but oft'ner touch'd with woe,
(For I have somewhat of the mortal leaven,)
And string on rainy days an idle rhyme,
And kill the present to feed future time.

122

X

Now to my tale, which I would fain indite
(Tho' many a living bard can scribble better)
Without deploying to the left and right,
To see how others touch this style and metre;
I'll even keep Lord Byron out of sight.
By the bye, Lord B. and I were school'd together
At Harrow where, as here, he has a name.
I—I'm not even on the list of fame.

XI

But I am quite impatient. O, my muse!
If muse I have, hie thee across the sea,
And where in plenteous drops the famous ‘dews
Of Castalie' fall, beg a few for me;
A laurel branch too; sure they'll not refuse,
(The sisters)—if they do, then strip the tree,
And we will cultivate the laurel here,
And advertise for claimants far and near.

123

XII

Bards have a pleasant method, I must say,
Of mixing up their songs in this lax age.
Now, sweet and sharp and luscious dash'd with gay
(Like Christmas puddings, laurell'd,) are the rage;
Some stuff huge pamphlets in the duckling way,
(With ‘thoughts’) and now and then leave out ‘the sage;’
Some mark their tales (like pork) with lines and crosses;
Some hide things over-done with piquant sauces.

XIII

Some hash the orts of others, and re-hash:
Some rub the edge off jokes—to make 'em fair;
Some cut up characters, (that's rather rash,
And more than serious people well can bear:)
In short there's many a way to make a dash:
Now, if you write incog.—that has an air;
(Yet men may as I have for this good reason:)
Then Love's a thing that's never out of season.

124

XIV

Love is a pure and evanescent thing,
And, when its delicate plumes are soil'd, it dies.
There is a story of a Lydian king,
Candaules, who it seems thought otherwise:
Aloose, uxorious monarch, passioning
For what he had already. Husbands wise!
Attend the moral of my curious story,
For I intend to lay it now before ye.

XV

Candaules king of Lydia had a wife,
Beautiful Lais: she was such as I
(Had she not ta'en her silly husband's life,
Which shews a certain taste for cruelty,)
Could love;—but no! we might have had some strife,
And she was rather cold and somewhat ‘high,’
And I detest that stalking, marble grace,
Which makes one think the heart has left its place.

125

XVI

Now King Candaules was an amorous sot,
A mere, loose, vulgar simpleton d'ye see;
Bad to be sure, yet of so hard a lot
Not quite deserving, surely: and that she
All old ties should so quickly have forgot
Seems odd. We talk of ‘woman's constancy
And love’—yet Lais' lord was but a fool,
And she's but the exception, not the rule.

XVII

She had the stature of a queen: her eyes
Were bright and large but all too proud to rove,
And black, which I have heard some people prize;
Lightly along the ground she deign'd to move,
Gazed at and woo'd by every wind that flies,
And her deep bosom seem'd the throne of love:
And yet she was, for my poor taste, too grand,
And likely for ‘obey’ to read ‘command.’

126

XVIII

Give me less faultless woman, so she might
Be all my own, trusted at home and far,
With whom the world might be forgotten quite,
The country's scandal and the city's jar,
And in whose deep blue eyes Love's tenderest light
Should rise in beauty, like a vesper star,
On my return at evening, aye, and shine
On hearts I prized. By Jove! 'twould be divine.

XIX

Oh! we would turn some pleasant page together,
And 'plaud the wit, the tale, the poet's tropes,
Or, wandering in the early summer weather,
Talk of the past mischance and future hopes,
Or ride at times, (and that would save shoe-leather,)
For nought so well with nervous humours copes
As riding; i. e. taken by degrees;
It warms the blood, and saves all doctor's fees.

127

XX

Candaules' court was much like courts in general
In times of peace, that is, 'twas pretty gay:
To my taste better much than when the men are all
Busy in horrid fighting far away,
With scarce a sound but drums beating the ‘generale;’
Yes—now and then, when the wild trumpets bray,
And their rich voice goes riding on the wind
Like mounted war, but leaves no track behind.

XXI

There was a Lydian boy who ‘pleas'd at court;’
A youngster such as girls would smile to see,
Excellent in each brave and gentle sport,
War and the chace, the song, the dance, was he,
But scribbling tender verses was his forte,
And Gyges was quite fam'd for modesty,
And when the king would praise his queen, the youth
Yawn'd, in a way provoking: 'twas in truth.

128

XXII

And yet he was not altogether cold;
(This I conclude, the story does not tell;)
I mean, he was not sheepish, nor too bold,
Nor did he swear, nor languish like a belle:
Pshaw! had I had my wits I might have told
This in five words; he pleased the women well.
They said indeed at times, ‘a little bolder;’
But this they knew would change, when he grew older.

XXIII

There was a mark on Lais' swan-like breast,
(A purple flower with its leaf of green,)
Like that the Italian saw when on the rest
He stole of the unconscious Imogene,
And bore away the dark fallacious test
Of what was not, altho' it might have been,
And much perplex'd Leonatus Posthumus;
In truth he might have puzzled one of us.

129

XXIV

The king told Gyges of the purple flower;
(It chanced to be the flower the boy lik'd most;)
It has a scent as though Love, for its dower,
Had on it all his odorous arrows tost,
For tho' the Rose has more perfuming power,
The Violet (haply 'cause 'tis almost lost,
And takes us so much trouble to discover)
Stands first with most: but always with a lover.

XXV

He blush'd and listen'd—panted like a fawn
That's just escaped the fraudful hunters' range,
And his eyes sparkled like approaching morn,
And on his cheek he felt the colour change
Until he trembled—and the blush was gone:
His brain was stagger'd with a notion strange:
He sighed to see, tho' but for once, the flower;
The monarch laugh'd, but 'twas a dangerous hour

130

XXVI

In the first rushing of that burning tide
Hath many a glorious spirit been swept away;
Heroes, bards, kings, have been brain-struck and died
When the first burst of love, in full array
Hath shewn the world at once its pomp and pride
Of beauty, starting into sudden day:
Hence men restor'd to sight by surgic toil,
Should learn to court the shade, at least awhile.

XXVII

Next day he (Gyges) led the talk. He said
He thought it ‘curious’ nature ever should
Imprint an useless mark—that he was bred
To think what seem'd most sportive in her mood,
Was for a purpose: then he hung his head,
And o'er his fine face flush'd the eloquent blood,
And the king's broad and boastful stare he shunn'd:
He look'd like a man in debt who had been dunn'd.

131

XXVIII

Candaules (shame upon the silly king!)
Vowed that the curious boy this mark should see.
He saw—(In faith 'twould be a pretty thing
If even kings could take this liberty).
He saw her in her beauty, fluttering
From pleasure as she glanc'd her smiling eye
On the broau mirror which displayed a breast
Unlaced, where Jove himself might sigh to rest.

XXIX

The boy came (guided by the king) to where,
In the most deep and silent hour of night,
Stood Lais: quite unloos'd, her golden hair
Went streaming all about like lines of light
And, thro' the lattice-leaves gusts of soft air
Sighedlike perfume, and touched her shoulders white,
And o'er her tresses and her bosom played,
Seeming to love each place o'er which they strayed.

132

XXX

Then sank she on her couch and drew aside
The silken curtains and let in the moon,
Which trembling ran around the chamber wide,
Kissing and flooding the rich flowers which June
Had fann'd to life, and which in summer-pride
'Rose like a queen's companions. Lais soon,
Touch'd by the scene, look'd as she had forgot
The world: the boy stood rooted to the spot.

XXXI

He stood, with beating pulse and widen'd eyes,
Like one struck dumb by some magician's charm,
Listening to the low music of her sighs,
And gazing on her white and rounded arm;
At last the lady motion'd as to rise,
When it occurr'd to him there might be harm
Unless he left (and quickly left) the place:
He mov'd, and then she met him, face to face.

133

XXXII

It was the lady's turn to wonder now.
She wonder'd, but her wonder soon subsided,
And scorn and anger flash'd across her brow;
At length, she grew more calm, and (perhaps guided
By pity for his youth) she asked him how—
How a young gentleman like him who prided
Himself upon his modesty could call
At such an hour:—he blush'd, and told her all.

XXXIII

She swore she would have vengeance for the wrong,
Double and deadly vengeance—and she had.
His majesty soon after took that long
Journey whence none but ghosts, or things as bad,
Return: 'twas said his wine grew mighty strong,
And that 'twas handed by this curious lad,
(Gyges) whom Lais fancied from that day,
And made Lord of herself and Lydia.

134

XXXIV

That king! he was the last of all his race.
A race of kings and heroes, and he lay
Helpless and dead: his smile gave pow'r and place
Honour and wealth and joy, but yesterday.
But poison had swept the smile from off his face,
And his cold limbs went floating far away,
Stript of the tomb wherein he should have slept:
He liv'd unhonour'd, and he died unwept.

XXXV

It is a chilling thing to see, as I
Have seen, a man go down into the grave,
Without a tear, or ev'n an alter'd eye:
Oh! sadder far than when fond women rave,
Or children weep or aged parents sigh
O'er one whom art and love doth strive to save
In vain; man's heart is sooth'd by every tone
Of pity, saying he's ‘not quite alone.’

135

XXXVI

I saw a pauper once, when I was young,
Borne to his shallow grave: the bearers trod
Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung,
And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod:
On the rough boards the earth was gaily flung:
Methought the prayer which gave him to his God
Was coldly said:—then all, passing away,
Left the scarce-coffin'd wretch to quick decay.

XXXVII

It was an autumn evening, and the rain
Had ceased awhile, but the loud winds did shriek
And call'd the deluging tempest back again,
The flag-staff on the church-yard tow'r did creak,
And thro' the black clouds ran a lightning vein,
And then the flapping raven came to seek
Its home: its flight was heavy, and its wing
Seem'd weary with a long day's wandering.

136

XXXVIII

How the frail pair lived on I know not: I
Have but subdued Candaules to my strain.
It was enough for me that he should die,
And having kill'd the king, why—that's the main:
So, for the moral of the story, try
(Turning to the beginning once again,)
To trace it in the quaint and antique text;
You'll find the meaning not at all perplex'd.

XXXIX

Reader, this trifle's ended: I have told
The tale and shewn the moral ‘in a way:’
Yet doth my page another truth unfold,
Namely that women of the present day
Are not so bad, nor half, as those of old.
Then, cast not thou the lesson quite away,
That—as they're better than they were before,
Why, men should love 'em (wisely) more and more.