 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
5. VOLUME FIVE GRYLL GRANGE
89
THE DEATH OF PHILEMON.
I.
Closed was Philemon's hundredth year:
The theatre was thronged to hear
His last completed play:
In the mid scene, a sudden rain
Dispersed the crowd—to meet again
On the succeeding day.
The theatre was thronged to hear
His last completed play:
In the mid scene, a sudden rain
Dispersed the crowd—to meet again
On the succeeding day.
He sought his home, and slept, and dreamed,
Nine maidens through his door, it seemed,
Passed to the public street.
He asked them, “Why they left his home?”
They said, “A guest will hither come,
We must not stay to meet.”
Nine maidens through his door, it seemed,
Passed to the public street.
He asked them, “Why they left his home?”
They said, “A guest will hither come,
We must not stay to meet.”
He called his boy with morning light,
Told him the vision of the night,
And bade his play be brought.
His finished page again he scanned,
Resting his head upon his hand,
Absorbed in studious thought.
Told him the vision of the night,
And bade his play be brought.
His finished page again he scanned,
Resting his head upon his hand,
Absorbed in studious thought.
He knew not what the dream foreshowed:
That nought divine may hold abode
Where death's dark shade is felt:
And therefore were the Muses nine
Leaving the old poetic shrine,
Where they so long had dwelt.
That nought divine may hold abode
Where death's dark shade is felt:
And therefore were the Muses nine
Leaving the old poetic shrine,
Where they so long had dwelt.
90
II.
The theatre was thronged once more,
More thickly than the day before,
To hear the half-heard song.
The day wore on. Impatience came.
They called upon Philemon's name,
With murmurs loud and long.
More thickly than the day before,
To hear the half-heard song.
The day wore on. Impatience came.
They called upon Philemon's name,
With murmurs loud and long.
Some sought at length his studious cell,
And to the stage returned, to tell
What thousands strove to ask.
“The poet we have been to seek
Sate with his hand upon his cheek,
As pondering o'er his task.
And to the stage returned, to tell
What thousands strove to ask.
“The poet we have been to seek
Sate with his hand upon his cheek,
As pondering o'er his task.
“We spoke. He made us no reply.
We reverentially drew nigh,
And twice our errand told.
He answered not. We drew more near:
The awful mystery then was clear:
We found him stiff and cold.
We reverentially drew nigh,
And twice our errand told.
He answered not. We drew more near:
The awful mystery then was clear:
We found him stiff and cold.
“Struck by so fair a death, we stood
Awhile in sad admiring mood;
Then hastened back, to say
That he, the praised and loved of all,
Is deaf for ever to your call:
That on this self-same day,
Awhile in sad admiring mood;
Then hastened back, to say
That he, the praised and loved of all,
Is deaf for ever to your call:
That on this self-same day,
“When here presented should have been
The close of his fictitious scene,
His life's true scene was o'er:
We seemed, in solemn silence awed,
To hear the ‘Farewell and applaud,’
Which he may speak no more.
The close of his fictitious scene,
His life's true scene was o'er:
We seemed, in solemn silence awed,
To hear the ‘Farewell and applaud,’
Which he may speak no more.
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“Of tears the rain gave prophecy:
The nuptial dance of comedy
Yields to the funeral train.
Assemble where his pyre must burn:
Honour his ashes in their urn:
And on another day return
To hear his songs again.”
The nuptial dance of comedy
Yields to the funeral train.
Assemble where his pyre must burn:
Honour his ashes in their urn:
And on another day return
To hear his songs again.”
144
THE DAPPLED PALFREY.
“My traitorous uncle has wooed for himself:
Her father has sold her for land and for pelf:
My steed, for whose equal the world they might search,
In mockery they borrow to bear her to church.
Her father has sold her for land and for pelf:
My steed, for whose equal the world they might search,
In mockery they borrow to bear her to church.
“Oh! there is one path through the forest so green,
Where thou and I only, my palfrey, have been:
We traversed it oft, when I rode to her bower
To tell my love tale through the rift of the tower.
Where thou and I only, my palfrey, have been:
We traversed it oft, when I rode to her bower
To tell my love tale through the rift of the tower.
“Thou know'st not my words, but thy instinct is good:
By the road to the church lies the path through the wood:
Thy instinct is good, and her love is as true:
Thou wilt see thy way homeward: dear palfrey, adieu.”
By the road to the church lies the path through the wood:
Thy instinct is good, and her love is as true:
Thou wilt see thy way homeward: dear palfrey, adieu.”
They feasted full late and full early they rose,
And church-ward they rode more than half in a doze:
The steed in an instant broke off from the throng,
And pierced the green path, which he bounded along.
And church-ward they rode more than half in a doze:
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And pierced the green path, which he bounded along.
In vain was pursuit, though some followed pell-mell:
Through bramble and thicket they floundered and fell.
On the backs of their coursers some dozed as before,
And missed not the bride till they reached the church-door.
Through bramble and thicket they floundered and fell.
On the backs of their coursers some dozed as before,
And missed not the bride till they reached the church-door.
The knight from his keep on the forest-bound gazed:
The drawbridge was down, the portcullis was raised:
And true to his hope came the palfrey amain,
With his only loved lady, who checked not the rein.
The drawbridge was down, the portcullis was raised:
And true to his hope came the palfrey amain,
With his only loved lady, who checked not the rein.
The drawbridge went up: the portcullis went down:
The chaplain was ready with bell, book, and gown:
The wreck of the bride-train arrived at the gate:
The bride showed the ring, and they muttered “Too late!”
The chaplain was ready with bell, book, and gown:
The wreck of the bride-train arrived at the gate:
The bride showed the ring, and they muttered “Too late!”
“Not too late for a feast, though too late for a fray:
What's done can't be undone: make peace while you may:”
So spake the young knight, and the old ones complied,
And quaffed a deep health to the bridegroom and bride.
What's done can't be undone: make peace while you may:”
So spake the young knight, and the old ones complied,
And quaffed a deep health to the bridegroom and bride.
146
LOVE AND AGE.
I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wandered hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.
When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wandered hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.
You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;
And I did love you, very dearly,
How dearly words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;
And I did love you, very dearly,
How dearly words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.
Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking,—
But that was forty years ago.
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking,—
But that was forty years ago.
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And I loved on, to wed another:
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression;—
But that was thirty years ago.
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression;—
But that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christened:—
But that was twenty years ago.
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christened:—
But that was twenty years ago.
Time passed. My eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire grey;
One pet of four years old I've carried
Among the wild-flowered meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,—
And that is not ten years ago.
And I am now a grandsire grey;
One pet of four years old I've carried
Among the wild-flowered meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,—
And that is not ten years ago.
But though first love's impassioned blindness
Has passed away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever-rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.
Has passed away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever-rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.
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A NEW ORDER OF CHIVALRY.
I.
Sir Moses, Sir Aaron, Sir Jamramajee,
Two stock-jobbing Jews, and a shroffing Parsee,
Have girt on the armour of old Chivalrie,
And, instead of the Red Cross, have hoisted Balls Three.
Two stock-jobbing Jews, and a shroffing Parsee,
Have girt on the armour of old Chivalrie,
And, instead of the Red Cross, have hoisted Balls Three.
Now fancy our Sovereign, so gracious and bland,
With the sword of Saint George in her royal right hand,
Instructing this trio of marvellous Knights
In the mystical meanings of Chivalry's rites.
With the sword of Saint George in her royal right hand,
Instructing this trio of marvellous Knights
In the mystical meanings of Chivalry's rites.
“You have come from the bath, all in milk-white array,
To show you have washed worldly feelings away,
And, pure as your vestments from secular stain,
Renounce sordid passions and seekings for gain.
To show you have washed worldly feelings away,
And, pure as your vestments from secular stain,
Renounce sordid passions and seekings for gain.
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“This scarf of deep red o'er your vestments I throw,
In token, that down them your life-blood shall flow,
Ere Chivalry's honour, or Christendom's faith,
Shall meet, through your failure, or peril or scaith.
In token, that down them your life-blood shall flow,
Ere Chivalry's honour, or Christendom's faith,
Shall meet, through your failure, or peril or scaith.
“These slippers of silk, of the colour of earth,
Are in sign of remembrance of whence you had birth;
That from earth you have sprung, and to earth you return,
But stand for the faith, life immortal to earn.
Are in sign of remembrance of whence you had birth;
That from earth you have sprung, and to earth you return,
But stand for the faith, life immortal to earn.
“This blow of the sword, on your shoulder-blades true,
Is the mandate of homage, where homage is due,
And the sign, that your swords from the scabbard shall fly,
When ‘St. George and the Right’ is the rallying cry.
Is the mandate of homage, where homage is due,
And the sign, that your swords from the scabbard shall fly,
When ‘St. George and the Right’ is the rallying cry.
“This belt of white silk, which no speck has defaced,
Is the sign of a bosom with purity graced,
And binds you to prove, whatsoever betides,
Of damsels distressed the friends, champions, and guides.
Is the sign of a bosom with purity graced,
And binds you to prove, whatsoever betides,
Of damsels distressed the friends, champions, and guides.
“These spurs of pure gold are the symbols which say,
As your steeds obey them, you the Church shall obey,
And speed at her bidding, through country and town,
To strike, with your faulchions, her enemies down.”
As your steeds obey them, you the Church shall obey,
And speed at her bidding, through country and town,
To strike, with your faulchions, her enemies down.”
II.
Now fancy these Knights, when the speech they have heard,
As they stand, scarfed, shoed, shoulder-dubbed, belted and spurred,
With the cross-handled sword duly sheathed on the thigh,
Thus simply and candidly making reply:
As they stand, scarfed, shoed, shoulder-dubbed, belted and spurred,
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Thus simply and candidly making reply:
“By your majesty's grace we have risen up Knights,
But we feel little relish for frays and for fights:
There are heroes enough, full of spirit and fire,
Always ready to shoot and be shot at for hire.
But we feel little relish for frays and for fights:
There are heroes enough, full of spirit and fire,
Always ready to shoot and be shot at for hire.
“True, with bulls and with bears we have battled our cause;
But the bulls have no horns, and the bears have no paws;
And the mightiest blow which we ever have struck,
Has achieved but the glory of laming a duck.
But the bulls have no horns, and the bears have no paws;
And the mightiest blow which we ever have struck,
Has achieved but the glory of laming a duck.
“With two nations in arms, friends impartial to both,
To raise each a loan we shall be nothing loth;
We will lend them the pay, to fit men for the fray;
But shall keep ourselves carefully out of the way.
To raise each a loan we shall be nothing loth;
We will lend them the pay, to fit men for the fray;
But shall keep ourselves carefully out of the way.
184
“We have small taste for championing maids in distress:
For State we care little: for Church we care less:
To Premium and Bonus our homage we plight:
‘Percentage!’ we cry: and ‘A fig for the right!’
For State we care little: for Church we care less:
To Premium and Bonus our homage we plight:
‘Percentage!’ we cry: and ‘A fig for the right!’
“'Twixt Saint George and the Dragon, we settle it thus:
Which has scrip above par, is the Hero for us:
For a turn in the market, the Dragon's red gorge
Shall have our free welcome to swallow Saint George.”
Which has scrip above par, is the Hero for us:
For a turn in the market, the Dragon's red gorge
Shall have our free welcome to swallow Saint George.”
Now God save our Queen, and if aught should occur,
To peril the crown, or the safety of her,
God send that the leader, who faces the foe,
May have more of King Richard than Moses and Co.
To peril the crown, or the safety of her,
God send that the leader, who faces the foe,
May have more of King Richard than Moses and Co.
In Stock Exchange slang, Bulls are speculators for a rise, Bears for a fall. A lame duck is a man who cannot pay his differences, and is said to waddle off. The patriotism of the money-market is well touched by Ponsard, in his comedy La Bourse; Acte IV. Scène 3:—
ALFRED.Quand nous sommes vainqueurs, dire qu'on a baissé!
Si nous étions battus, on aurait donc haussé?
Si nous étions battus, on aurait donc haussé?
DELATOUR.
On a craint qu'un succès, si brillant pour la France,
De la paix qu'on rêvait n'éloignât l'espérance.
De la paix qu'on rêvait n'éloignât l'espérance.
ALFRED.
Cette Bourse, morbleu! n'a donc rien dans le cœur!
Ventre affamé n'a point d'oreilles . . . pour l'honneur!
Aussi je ne veux plus jouer—qu'après ma noce—
Et j'attends Waterloo pour me mettre à la hausse.
Ventre affamé n'a point d'oreilles . . . pour l'honneur!
Aussi je ne veux plus jouer—qu'après ma noce—
Et j'attends Waterloo pour me mettre à la hausse.
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[Wake, Gryllus, and arise in human form.]
CIRCE.Wake, Gryllus, and arise in human form.
GRYLLUS.
I have slept soundly, and had pleasant dreams.
CIRCE.
I, too, have soundly slept. Divine how long.
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Why, judging by the sun, some fourteen hours.
CIRCE.
Three thousand years.
GRYLLUS.
That is a nap, indeed.
But this is not your garden, nor your palace.
Where are we now?
CIRCE.
Three thousand years ago,
This land was forest, and a bright pure river
Ran through it to and from the Ocean stream.
Now, through a wilderness of human forms,
And human dwellings, a polluted flood
Rolls up and down, charged with all earthly poisons,
Poisoning the air in turn.
GRYLLUS.
I see vast masses
Of strange unnatural things.
CIRCE.
Houses, and ships,
And boats, and chimneys vomiting black smoke,
Horses, and carriages of every form,
And restless bipeds, rushing here and there
For profit or for pleasure, as they phrase it.
GRYLLUS.
Oh, Jupiter and Bacchus! what a crowd,
Flitting, like shadows without mind or purpose,
Such as Ulysses saw in Erebus.
But wherefore are we here?
280
There have arisen
Some mighty masters of the invisible world,
And these have summoned us.
GRYLLUS.
With what design?
CIRCE.
That they themselves must tell. Behold they come,
Carrying a mystic table, around which
They work their magic spells. Stand by, and mark.
Three spirit-rappers appeared, carrying a table, which they placed on one side of the stage:
1.
Carefully the table place,
Let our gifted brother trace
A ring around the enchanted space.
2.
Let him tow'rd the table point,
With his first fore-finger joint,
And, with mesmerized beginning,
Set the sentient oak-slab spinning.
3.
Now it spins around, around,
Sending forth a murmuring sound,
By the initiate understood
As of spirits in the wood.
ALL.
Once more Circe we invoke.
CIRCE.
Here: not bound in ribs of oak,
Nor, from wooden disk revolving,
In strange sounds strange riddles solving,
But in native form appearing,
Plain to sight, as clear to hearing.
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Thee with wonder we behold.
By thy hair of burning gold,
By thy face with radiance bright,
By thine eyes of beaming light,
We confess thee, mighty one,
For the daughter of the Sun.
On thy form we gaze appalled.
CIRCE.
Gryllus, too, your summons called.
THE THREE.
Him of yore thy powerful spell
Doomed in swinish shape to dwell:
Yet such life he reckoned then
Happier than the life of men.
Now, when carefully he ponders
All our scientific wonders,
Steam-driven myriads, all in motion,
On the land and on the ocean,
Going, for the sake of going,
Wheresoever waves are flowing,
Wheresoever winds are blowing;
Converse through the sea transmitted,
Swift as ever thought has flitted;
All the glories of our time,
Past the praise of loftiest rhyme;
Will he, seeing these, indeed,
Still retain his ancient creed,
Ranking, in his mental plan,
Life of beast o'er life of man?
CIRCE.
Speak, Gryllus.
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It is early yet to judge:
But all the novelties I yet have seen
Seem changes for the worse.
THE THREE.
If we could show him
Our triumphs in succession, one by one,
'Twould surely change his judgment: and herein
How might'st thou aid us, Circe!
CIRCE.
I will do so:
And calling down, like Socrates of yore,
The Clouds to aid us, they shall shadow forth,
In bright succession, all that they behold,
From air, on earth and sea. I wave my wand:
And lo! they come, even as they came in Athens,
Shining like virgins of ethereal life.
The Chorus of Clouds descended, and a dazzling array of female beauty was revealed by degrees through folds of misty gauze. They sang their first choral song:
CHORUS OF CLOUDS.
I
Clouds ever-flowing, conspicuously soaring,From loud-rolling Ocean, whose stream gave us birth,
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To the deep quiet vales of the fruit-giving earth,—
As the broad eye of Æther, unwearied in brightness,
Dissolves our mist-veil in its glittering rays,
Our forms we reveal from its vapoury lightness,
In semblance immortal, with far-seeing gaze.
II
Shower-bearing Virgins, we seek not the regionsWhence Pallas, the Muses, and Bacchus have fled,
But the city, where Commerce embodies her legions,
And Mammon exalts his omnipotent head.
All joys of thought, feeling, and taste are before us,
Wherever the beams of his favour are warm:
Though transient full oft as the veil of our chorus,
Now golden with glory, now passing in storm.
The first stanza is pretty closely adapted from the strophe of Aristophanes: Αεναοι Νεφελαι. The second is only a distant imitation of the antistrophe: Παρθενοι ομβροφοροι.
In Homer, and all the older poets, the ocean is a river surrounding the earth, and the seas are inlets from it.
285
I
As before the pike will flyDace and roach and such small fry;
As the leaf before the gale,
As the chaff beneath the flail;
As before the wolf the flocks,
As before the hounds the fox;
As before the cat the mouse,
As the rat from falling house;
As the fiend before the spell
Of holy water, book, and bell;
As the ghost from dawning day,—
So has fled, in gaunt dismay,
This septemvirate of quacks,
From the shadowy attacks
Of Cœur-de-Lion's battle-axe.
II
Could he in corporeal might,Plain to feeling as to sight,
Rise again to solar light,
How his arm would put to flight
All the forms of Stygian night,
That round us rise in grim array,
Darkening the meridian day:
Bigotry, whose chief employ
Is embittering earthly joy;
Chaos, throned in pedant state,
Teaching echo how to prate;
And “Ignorance, with looks profound,”
Not “with eye that loves the ground,”
But stalking wide, with lofty crest,
In science's pretentious vest.
286
III
And now, great masters of the realms of shade,To end the task which called us down from air,
We shall present, in pictured show arrayed,
Of this your modern world the triumphs rare,
That Gryllus's benighted spirit
May wake to your transcendent merit,
And, with profoundest admiration thrilled,
He may with willing mind assume his place
In your steam-nursed, steam-borne, steam-killed,
And gas-enlightened race.
CIRCE.
Speak, Gryllus, what you see.
GRYLLUS.
I see the ocean,
And o'er its face ships passing wide and far;
Some with expanded sails before the breeze,
And some with neither sails nor oars, impelled
By some invisible power against the wind,
Scattering the spray before them. But of many
One is on fire, and one has struck on rocks
And melted in the waves like fallen snow.
Two crash together in the middle sea,
And go to pieces on the instant, leaving
No soul to tell the tale; and one is hurled
In fragments to the sky, strewing the deep
With death and wreck. I had rather live with Circe
Even as I was, than flit about the world
In those enchanted ships, which some Alastor
Must have devised as traps for mortal ruin.
CIRCE.
Look yet again.
287
Now the whole scene is changed.
I see long trains of strange machines on wheels,
With one in front of each, puffing white smoke
From a black hollow column. Fast and far
They speed, like yellow leaves before the gale,
When autumn winds are strongest. Through their windows
I judge them thronged with people; but distinctly
Their speed forbids my seeing.
SPIRIT-RAPPER.
This is one
Of the great glories of our modern time.
“Men are become as birds,” and skim like swallows
The surface of the world.
GRYLLUS.
For what good end?
SPIRIT-RAPPER.
The end is in itself—the end of skimming
The surface of the world.
GRYLLUS.
If that be all,
I had rather sit in peace in my old home:
But while I look, two of them meet and clash,
And pile their way with ruin. One is rolled
Down a steep bank; one through a broken bridge
Is dashed into a flood. Dead, dying, wounded,
Are there as in a battle-field. Are these
Your modern triumphs? Jove preserve me from them.
SPIRIT-RAPPER.
These ills are rare. Millions are borne in safety
Where one incurs mischance. Look yet again.
288
I see a mass of light brighter than that
Which burned in Circe's palace, and beneath it
A motley crew dancing to joyous music.
But from that light explosion comes, and flame;
And forth the dancers rush in haste and fear
From their wide-blazing hall.
SPIRIT-RAPPER.
Oh, Circe! Circe!
Thou show'st him all the evil of our arts
In more than just proportion to the good.
Good without evil is not given to man.
Jove, from his urns dispensing good and ill,
Gives ill unmixed to some, and good and ill
Mingled to many—good unmixed to none.
Our arts are good. The inevitable ill
That mixes with them, as with all things human,
Is as a drop of water in a goblet
Full of old wine.
289
More than one drop, I fear,
And those of bitter water.
CIRCE.
There is yet
An ample field of scientific triumph:
What shall we show him next?
SPIRIT-RAPPER.
Pause we awhile.
He is not in the mood to feel conviction
Of our superior greatness. He is all
For rural comfort and domestic ease,
But our impulsive days are all for moving:
Sometimes with some ulterior end, but still
For moving, moving, always. There is nothing
Common between us in our points of judgment.
He takes his stand upon tranquillity,
We ours upon excitement. There we place
The being, end, and aim of mortal life.
The many are with us: some few, perhaps,
With him. We put the question to the vote
By universal suffrage. Aid us, Circe!
On talismanic wings your spells can waft
The question and reply. Are we not wiser,
Happier, and better, than the men of old,
Of Homer's days, of Athens, and of Rome?
290
Aye. No. Aye, aye. No. Aye, aye, aye, aye, aye.
We are the wisest race the earth has known,
The most advanced in all the arts of life,
In science, and in morals.
SPIRIT-RAPPER.
The Ayes have it.
What is that wondrous sound, that seems like thunder,
Mixed with gigantic laughter?
CIRCE.
It is Jupiter,
Who laughs at your presumption; half in anger,
And half in mockery. Now, my worthy masters,
You must in turn experience in yourselves
The mighty magic thus far tried on others.
This is the true sense of the Homeric passage:—
Δοιοι γαρ τε πιθοι κατακειαται εν Διος ουδει
Δωρων, οια διδωσι, κακων, ετερος δε εαων:
Ωι μεν καμμιξας δωη Ζευς τερπικεραυνος,
Αλλοτε μεν τε κακω ογε κυρεται, αλλοτε δ' εσθλω.
Ωι δε κε των λυγρων δωη, λωβητον εθηκε,
Και ε κακη βουβρωστις επι χθονα διαν ελαυνει:
Φοιτα δ' ουτε θεοισι τετιμενος, ουτε βροτοισιν.
Δωρων, οια διδωσι, κακων, ετερος δε εαων:
Ωι μεν καμμιξας δωη Ζευς τερπικεραυνος,
Αλλοτε μεν τε κακω ογε κυρεται, αλλοτε δ' εσθλω.
Ωι δε κε των λυγρων δωη, λωβητον εθηκε,
Και ε κακη βουβρωστις επι χθονα διαν ελαυνει:
Φοιτα δ' ουτε θεοισι τετιμενος, ουτε βροτοισιν.
Homer: Il. xxiv.
There are only two distributions: good and ill mixed, and unmixed ill. None, as Heyne has observed, receive unmixed good. Ex dolio bonorum nemo meracius accipit: hoc memorare omisit. This sense is implied, not expressed. Pope missed it in his otherwise beautiful translation.
Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood,
The source of evil one, and one of good:
From thence the cup of mortal man he fills,
Blessings to these, to those distributes ills,
To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed
To taste the bad, unmixed, is curst indeed:
Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven,
He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven.
The source of evil one, and one of good:
From thence the cup of mortal man he fills,
Blessings to these, to those distributes ills,
To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed
To taste the bad, unmixed, is curst indeed:
Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven,
He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven.
Pope.
Now, Gryllus, we may seek our ancient home
In my enchanted isle.
291
Not yet, not yet.
Good signs are toward of a joyous supper.
Therein the modern world may have its glory,
And I, like an impartial judge, am ready
To do it ample justice. But, perhaps,
As all we hitherto have seen are shadows,
So too may be the supper.
CIRCE.
Fear not, Gryllus.
That you will find a sound reality,
To which the land and air, seas, lakes, and rivers,
Have sent their several tributes. Now, kind friends,
Who with your smiles have graciously rewarded
Our humble but most earnest aims to please,
And with your presence at our festal board
Will charm the winter midnight, Music gives
The signal: Welcome and old wine await you.
THE CHORUS.
Shadows to-night have offered portraits true
Of many follies which the world enthral.
“Shadows we are, and shadows we pursue:”
But in the banquet's well-illumined hall,
Realities, delectable to all,
Invite you now our festal joy to share.
Could we our Attic prototype recal,
One compound word should give our bill of fare:
But where our language fails, our hearts true welcome bear.
365
THE LEGEND OF SAINT LAURA.
Saint Laura, in her sleep of death,
Preserves beneath the tomb
—'Tis willed where what is will must be—
In incorruptibility
Her beauty and her bloom.
Preserves beneath the tomb
—'Tis willed where what is will must be—
In incorruptibility
Her beauty and her bloom.
So pure her maiden life had been,
So free from earthly stain,
'Twas fixed in fate by Heaven's own Queen,
That till the earth's last closing scene
She should unchanged remain.
So free from earthly stain,
'Twas fixed in fate by Heaven's own Queen,
That till the earth's last closing scene
She should unchanged remain.
Within a deep sarcophagus
Of alabaster sheen,
With sculptured lid of roses white,
She slumbered in unbroken night,
By mortal eyes unseen.
Of alabaster sheen,
With sculptured lid of roses white,
She slumbered in unbroken night,
By mortal eyes unseen.
366
Above her marble couch was reared
A monumental shrine,
Where cloistered sisters, gathering round,
Made night and morn the aisle resound
With choristry divine.
A monumental shrine,
Where cloistered sisters, gathering round,
Made night and morn the aisle resound
With choristry divine.
The abbess died: and in her pride
Her parting mandate said,
They should her final rest provide,
The alabaster couch beside,
Where slept the sainted dead.
Her parting mandate said,
They should her final rest provide,
The alabaster couch beside,
Where slept the sainted dead.
The abbess came of princely race:
The nuns might not gainsay:
And sadly passed the timid band,
To execute the high command
They dared not disobey.
The nuns might not gainsay:
And sadly passed the timid band,
To execute the high command
They dared not disobey.
The monument was opened then:
It gave to general sight
The alabaster couch alone:
But all its lucid substance shone
With præternatural light.
It gave to general sight
The alabaster couch alone:
But all its lucid substance shone
With præternatural light.
They laid the corpse within the shrine:
They closed its doors again:
But nameless terror seemed to fall,
Throughout the live-long night, on all
Who formed the funeral train.
They closed its doors again:
But nameless terror seemed to fall,
Throughout the live-long night, on all
Who formed the funeral train.
Lo! on the morrow morn, still closed
The monument was found:
But in its robes funereal drest,
The corpse they had consigned to rest
Lay on the stony ground.
The monument was found:
But in its robes funereal drest,
The corpse they had consigned to rest
Lay on the stony ground.
367
Fear and amazement seized on all:
They called on Mary's aid:
And in the tomb, unclosed again,
With choral hymn and funeral train,
The corpse again was laid.
They called on Mary's aid:
And in the tomb, unclosed again,
With choral hymn and funeral train,
The corpse again was laid.
But with the incorruptible
Corruption might not rest:
The lonely chapel's stone-paved floor
Received the ejected corpse once more,
In robes funereal drest.
Corruption might not rest:
The lonely chapel's stone-paved floor
Received the ejected corpse once more,
In robes funereal drest.
So was it found when morning beamed:
In solemn suppliant strain
The nuns implored all saints in heaven,
That rest might to the corpse be given,
Which they entombed again.
In solemn suppliant strain
The nuns implored all saints in heaven,
That rest might to the corpse be given,
Which they entombed again.
On the third night a watch was kept
By many a friar and nun:
Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer,
Till on the dreary midnight air
Rolled the deep bell-toll, “One!”
By many a friar and nun:
Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer,
Till on the dreary midnight air
Rolled the deep bell-toll, “One!”
The saint within the opening tomb
Like marble statue stood:
All fell to earth in deep dismay:
And through their ranks she passed away,
In calm unchanging mood.
Like marble statue stood:
All fell to earth in deep dismay:
And through their ranks she passed away,
In calm unchanging mood.
No answering sound her footsteps raised
Along the stony floor:
Silent as death, severe as fate,
She glided through the chapel gate,
And none beheld her more.
Along the stony floor:
Silent as death, severe as fate,
She glided through the chapel gate,
And none beheld her more.
368
The alabaster couch was gone:
The tomb was void and bare:
For the last time, with hasty rite,
Even 'mid the terror of the night,
They laid the abbess there.
The tomb was void and bare:
For the last time, with hasty rite,
Even 'mid the terror of the night,
They laid the abbess there.
'Tis said, the abbess rests not well
In that sepulchral pile:
But yearly, when the night comes round,
As dies of “One” the bell's deep sound
She flits along the aisle.
In that sepulchral pile:
But yearly, when the night comes round,
As dies of “One” the bell's deep sound
She flits along the aisle.
But whither passed the virgin saint,
To slumber far away,
Destined by Mary to endure,
Unaltered in her semblance pure,
Until the judgment day?
To slumber far away,
Destined by Mary to endure,
Unaltered in her semblance pure,
Until the judgment day?
None knew, and none may ever know:
Angels the secret keep:
Impenetrable ramparts bound,
Eternal silence dwells around,
The chamber of her sleep.
Angels the secret keep:
Impenetrable ramparts bound,
Eternal silence dwells around,
The chamber of her sleep.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |