270
	P	O	E	T	R	Y
	kind	from	all	other	lyrics	as	to	stand	in	a	class	by	itself.
	As	it	is	equal	in	importance	to	the	Great	Drama	of	Shake
	speare,	yEschylus,	and	Sophocles,	we	may	perhaps	be
	allowed	to	call	it	the	"Great	Lyric."	The	Great	Lyric
	must	be	religious	it	must,	it	would	seem,	be	an	out
	pouring	of	the	soul,	not	towards	man	but	towards	God,
	like	that	of	the	God-intoxicated	prophets	and	psalmists	of
	Scripture.	Even	the	lyric	fire	of	Pindar	owes	much	to	the
	fact	that	he	had	a	child-like	belief	in	the	myths	to	which
	so	many	of	his	contemporaries	had	begun	to	give	a	languid
	assent.	But	there	is	nothing	in	Pindar,	or	indeed	else
	where	in	Greek	poetry,	like	the	rapturous	song,	combining
	unconscious	power	with	unconscious	grace,	which	we	have
	called	the	Great	Lyric.	It	might	perhaps	be	said	indeed
	that	the	Great	Lyric	is	purely	Hebrew.
	The	great	But,	although	we	could	hardly	expect	to	find	it	among
	those	whose	language,	complex	of	syntax	and	alive	with
	brews	*"	self-conscious	inflexions,	bespeaks	the	scientific	knowing-
	stands	ness	of	the	Western	mind,	to	call	the	temper	of	the	Great
	alone.	Lyric	broadly	"Asiatic"	would	be	rash.	It	seems	to	belong
	as	a	birthright	to	those	descendants	of	Shem	who,	yearning
	always	to	look	straight	into	the	face	of	God	and	live,	could
	(when	the	Great	Lyric	was	sung)	see	not	much	else.
	Though	two	of	the	artistic	elements	of	the	Great	Lyric,
	unconsciousness	and	power,	are	no	doubt	plentiful	enough
	in	India,	the	element	of	grace	is	lacking	for	the	most
	part.	The	Vedic	hymns	are	both	nebulous	and	unemo
	tional,	as	compared	with	Semitic	hymns.	And	as	to	the
	Persians,	they,	it	would	seem,	have	the	grace	always,	the
	power	often,	but	the	unconsciousness	almost	never.	This
	is	inevitable	if	we	consider	for	a	moment	the	chief	charac
	teristic	of	the	Persian	imagination	an	imagination	whose
	wings	are	not	so	much	"bright	with	beauty"	as	heavy
	with	it	heavy	as	the	wings	of	a	golden	pheasant	steeped
	in	beauty	like	the	"	tiger-moth	s	deep	damasked	wings."
	Xow	beauty	of	this	kind	does	not	go	to	the	making	of	the
	Great	Lyric.
	Then	there	comes	that	poetry	which,	being	ethnologic-
	ally	Semitic,	might	be	supposed	to	exhibit	something	at
	least	of	the	Hebrew	temper	the	Arabian.	But,	whatever
	may	be	said	of	the	oldest	Arabic	poetry,	with	its	deep
	sense	of	fate	and	pain,	it	would	seem	that	nothing	can	be
	more	unlike	than	the	Hebrew	temper	and	the	Arabian
	temper	as	seen	in	later	poets.	It	is	not	with	Hebrew	but
	with	Persian	poetry	that	Arabian	poetry	can	be	usefully
	compared.	If	the	wings	of	the	Persian	imagination	are
	heavy	with	beauty,	those	of	the	later	Arabian	imagination
	are	bright	with	beauty	brilliant	as	an	Eastern	butterfly,
	quick	and	agile	as	a	dragon-fly	or	a	humming-bird.	To
	the	eye	of	the	Persian	poet	the	hues	of	earth	are	(as
	Firdausi	says	of	the	garden	of	Afrasiab)	"	like	the	tapestry
	of	the	kings	of	Ormuz,	the	air	is	perfumed	with	musk,
	and	the	waters	of	the	brooks	are	the	essence	of	roses."
	And	to	the	later	Arabian	no	less	than	to	the	Persian
	the	earth	is	beautiful	;	but	it	is	the	clear	and	sparkling
	beauty	of	the	earth	as	she	"wakes	up	to	life,	greeting
	the	Sabaean	morning":	we	feel	the	light	more	than	the
	colour.
	But	it	is	neither	the	Persian	s	instinct	for	beauty	nor
	the	Arabian	s	quenchless	wit	and	exhaustless	animal	spirits
	that	go	to	the	making	of	the	Great	Lyric	;	far	from	it.
	In	a	word,	the	Great	Lyric,	as	we	have	said,	cannot	be
	assigned	to	the	Asiatic	temper	generally	any	more	than	it
	can	be	assigned	to	the	European	temper.
	In	the	poetry	of	Europe,	if	we	cannot	say	of	Pindar,
	devout	as	he	is,	that	he	produced	the	Great	Lyric,	what
	can	we	say	of	any	other	European	poet	1	The	truth	is
	that,	like	the	Great	Drama,	so	straight	and	so	warm	does
	it	seem	to	come	from	the	heart	of	man	in	its	highest
	moods	that	we	scarcely	feel	it	to	be	literature	at	all.
	Passing,	however,	from	this	supreme	expression	of	lyiical
	imagination,	we	come	to	the	artistic	ode,	upon	which	The	arti
	subject	the	present	writer	can	only	reiterate	here	what	tic	d	ei
	he	has	more	fully	said	upon	a	former	occasion.	What-	"	reece	-
	ever	may	have	been	said	to	the	contrary,	enthusiasm	is,
	in	the	nature	of	things,	the	very	basis	of	the	ode	;	for
	the	ode	is	a	mono-drama,	the	actor	in	which	is	the	poet
	himself;	and,	as	Marmontel	has	well	pointed	out,	if	the
	actor	in	the	mono-drama	is	not	affected	by	the	sentiments
	he	expresses,	the	ode	must	be	cold	and	lifeless.	But,
	although	the	ode	is	a	natural	poetic	method	of	the	poet
	considered	as	prophet	although	it	is	the	voice	of	poetry
	as	a	fine	frenzy	it	must	not	be	supposed	that	there	is
	anything	lawless	in	its	structure.	"Pindar,"	says	the
	Italian	critic	Gravina,	"	launches	his	verses	upon	the	bosom
	of	the	sea	;	he	spreads	out	all	his	sails	;	he	confronts	the
	tempest	and	the	rocks	;	the	waves	arise	and	are	ready	to
	engulf	him	;	already	he	has	disappeared	from	the	spec
	tator	s	view	;	when	suddenly	he	springs	up	in	the	midst	of
	the	waters,	and	reaches	happily	the	shore."	Now	it	is	this
	Pindaric	discursiveness,	this	Pindaric	unrestraint	as	to	the
	matter,	which	has	led	poets	to	attempt	to	imitate	him	by
	adopting	an	unrestraint	as	to	form.	Although	no	two
	odes	of	Pindar	exhibit	the	same	metrical	structure	(the
	^olian	and	Lydian	rhythms	being	mingled	with	the	Doric
	in	different	proportions),	yet	each	ode	is	in	itself	obedient,
	severely	obedient,	to	structural	law.	This	we	feel	;	but
	what	the	law	is	no	metricist	has	perhaps	ever	yet	been
	able	to	explain.
	It	was	a	strange	misconception	that	led	people	for
	centuries	to	use	the	word	"	Pindaric	"	and	irregular	as
	synonymous	terms	;	whereas	the	very	essence	of	the	odes
	of	Pindar	(of	the	few,	alas	!	which	survive	to	us)	is	their
	regularit}	7	.	There	is	no	more	difficult	form	of	poetry	than
	this,	and	for	this	reason	:	when	in	any	poetical	composi
	tion	the	metres	are	varied,	there	must,	as	the	present
	writer	has	before	pointed	out,	be	a	reason	for	such	free
	dom,	and	that	reason	is	properly	subjective	the	varying
	form	must	embody	and	express	the	varying	emotions	of	the
	singer.	But	when	these	metrical	variations	are	governed
	by	no	subjective	law	at	all,	but	by	arbitrary	rules	sup
	posed	to	be	evolved	from	the	practice	of	Pindar,	then	that
	very	variety	which	should	aid	the	poet	in	expressing	his
	emotion	crystallizes	it	and	makes	the	ode	the	most	frigid
	of	all	compositions.	Great	as	Pindar	undoubtedly	is,	it	is
	deeply	to	be	regretted	that	no	other	poet	survives	to	repre
	sent	the	triumphal	ode	of	Greece,	the	digressions	of	his
	subject-matter	are	so	wide,	and	his	volubility	is	so	great.
	In	modern	literature	the	ode	has	been	ruined	by	theories	The
	and	experiments.	A	poet	like	La	Mothe,	for	instance,	modern
	writes	execrable	odes,	and	then	writes	a	treatise	to	prove	ode&gt;
	that	all	odes	should	be	written	on	the	same	model.
	There	is	much	confusion	of	mind	prevalent	among	poets
	as	to	what	is	and	what	is	not	an	ode.	All	odes	are,	no
	doubt,	divisible	into	two	great	classes	:	those	which,
	following	an	arrangement	in	stanzas,	are	commonly	called
	regular,	and	those	which,	following	no	such	arrangement,
	are	commonly	called	irregular.
	We	do	not	agree	with	those	who	assert	that	irregular	The	ir
	metres	are	of	necessity	inimical	to	poetic	art.	On	thegular-
	contrary,	we	believe	that	in	modern	prosody	the	arrange-
	ment	of	the	rhymes	and	the	length	of	the	lines	in	any
	rhymed	metrical	passage	may	be	determined	either	by	a
	fixed	stanzaic	law	or	by	a	law	infinitely	deeper	by	the
	law	which	impels	the	soul,	in	a	state	of	poetic	exaltation,
	to	seize	hold	of	every	kind	of	metrical	aid,	such	as	rhyme,
	caesura,	&c.,	for	the	purpose	of	accentuating	and	marking
	off	each	shade	of	emotion	as	it	arises,	regardless	of	any
	demands	of	stanza.	But	between	the	irregularity	of	make-
	ihift,	such	as	we	find	it	in	Cowley	and	his	imitators,	and


L1TEKATUKE.J
	PKOVENQAL
	decessors	and	contemporaries	disappeared	with	the	genera
	tions	who	heard	and	sang	them	;	arid	in	the	contrast	in
	form	and	subject	between	the	Boetius	poem	and	the
	stanzas	of	William	IX.	we	find	evidence	that	by	the	llth
	century	Provengal	poetry	was	being	rapidly	developed	in
	various	directions.	Whence	came	this	poetry	?	How	and
	by	whose	work	was	it	formed	1	That	it	has	no	connexion
	whatever	with	Latin	poetry	is	generally	admitted.	There
	is	absolutely	nothing	in	common	either	in	form	or	ideas
	between	the	last	productions	of	classical	Latinity,	as	they
	appear	in	Sidonius	Apollinaris	or	Fortunatus,	and	the
	first	poetic	compositions	in	Romanic.	The	view	which
	seems	to	meet	with	general	acceptance,	though	it	has	not
	been	distinctly	formulated	by	any	one,	is	that	Romanic
	poetry	sprang	out	of	a	popular	poetry	quietly	holding	its
	place	from	the	Roman	times,	no	specimen	of	which	has
	survived,	just	as	the	Romanic	languages	are	only	con
	tinuations	with	local	modifications	of	vulgar	Latin.	There
	are	both	truth	and	error	in	this	opinion.	The	question
	is	really	a	very	complex	one.	First	as	to	the	form	:	Romanic
	versification,	as	it	appears	in	the	Boetius	poem	and	the
	verses	of	William	IX.,	and	a	little	farther	north	in	the
	poem	of	the	Passion	and	the	Life	of	St	Leger	(10th	or
	llth	century),	has	with	all	its	variety	some	general	and
	permanent	characteristics	:	it	is	rhymed,	and	it	is	composed
	of	a	definite	number	of	syllables	certain	of	which	have	the
	syllabic	accent.	This	form	has	evident	affinity	with	the
	rhythmic	Latin	versification,	of	which	specimens	exist	from
	the	close	of	the	Roman	empire	in	ecclesiastical	poetry.
	The	exact	type	of	Romanic	verse	is	not	found,	however,
	in	this	ecclesiastical	Latin	poetry;	the	latter	was	not
	popular,	and	it	may	be	assumed	that	there	was	a	popular
	variety	of	rhythmic	poetry	from	which	Romanic	verse	is
	derived.
	Again,	as	regards	the	substance,	the	poetic	material,	we
	find	nothing	in	the	earliest	Provengal	which	is	strictly
	popular.	The	extremely	personal	compositions	of	William
	IX.	have	nothing	in	common	with	folklore.	They	are
	subjective	poetry	addressed	to	a	very	limited	and	probably
	rather	aristocratic	audience.	The	same	may	be	said	of
	the	Boetius	poem,	though	it	belongs	to	the	quite	different
	species	of	edifying	literature;	at	any	rate	it	is	not	popular
	poetry.	Vernacular	compositions	seem	to	have	been	at
	first	produced	for	the	amusement,	or	in	the	case	of	religious
	poetry	for	the	edification,	of	that	part	of	lay	society	which
	had	leisure	and	lands,	and	reckoned	intellectual	pastime
	among	the	good	things	of	life.	Gradually	this	class,
	intelligent,	but	with	no	Latin	education,	enlarged	the	circle
	of	its	ideas.	In	the	12th	century	and	still	more	in	the	13th,
	historical	works	and	popular	treatises	on	contemporary
	science	were	composed	for	its	use	in	the	only	language	it
	understood	;	and	vernacular	literature	continued	gradually
	to	develop	partly	on	original	lines	and	partly	by	borrow
	ing	from	the	literature	of	the	"	clerks."	But	in	the	llfch
	century	vernacular	poetry	\vas	still	rather	limited,	and	has
	hardly	any	higher	object	than	the	amusement	and	edifica
	tion	of	the	upper	classes.	An	aristocratic	poetry	like	the
	oldest	Provengal	cannot	be	the	production	of	shepherds
	and	husbandmen	;	and	there	is	no	probability	that	it	was
	invented	or	even	very	notably	improved	by	William	IX.
	From	what	class	of	persons	then	did	it	proceed	1	Latin
	chroniclers	of	the	Middle	Ages	mention	as	joculares,	jocula-
	tores,	men	of	a	class	not	very	highly	esteemed	whose	pro
	fession	consisted	in	amusing	their	audience	either	by	what
	we	still	call	jugglers	tricks,	by	exhibiting	performing
	animals,	or	by	recitation	and	song.	They	are	called	joglars
	in	Provengal,	jouglers	or	jougleors	in	French.	A	certain
	Barnaldus,	styled	joglarim,	appears	as	witness	in	1058	to
	a	charter	of	the	chartulary	of	Saint	Victor	at	Marseilles.
	In	1106	the	act	of	foundation	of	a	salva	terra	in	Rouergue
	873
	specifies	that	neither	knight	nor	man-at-arms	nor	joculator
	is	to	reside	in	the	village	about	to	be	created.	These
	individuals	successors	of	the	mimi	and	the	thymdid	of
	antiquity,	who	were	professional	amusers	of	the	public
	were	the	first	authors	of	poetry	in	the	vernacular	both	in
	the	south	and	in	the	north	of	France.	To	the	upper
	classes	who	welcomed	them	to	their	castles	they	supplied
	that	sort	of	entertainment	now	sought	at	the	theatre	or
	in	books	of	light	literature.	There	were	certain	of	them
	who,	leaving	buffoonery	to	the	ruder	and	less	intelligent
	members	of	the	profession,	devoted	themselves	to	the
	composition	of	pieces	intended	for	singing	and	conse
	quently	in	verse.	In	the	north,	where	manners	were	not
	so	refined	and	where	the	taste	for	warlike	adventure	pre
	vailed,	the	jongleurs	produced	chansons	de	geste	full	of
	tales	of	battle	and	combat.	In	the	courts	of	the	southern
	nobles,	where	wealth	was	more	abundant	and	a	life	of	ease
	and	pleasure	was	consequently	indulged	in,	they	produced
	love	songs.	There	is	probably	a	large	amount	of	truth	in
	the	remark	made	by	Dante	in	chapter	xxv.	of	his	Vita
	Nuova,	that	the	first	to	compose	in	the	vulgar	tongue	did
	so	because	he	wished	to	be	understood	by	a	lady	who
	would	have	found	it	difficult	to	follow	Latin	verses.	1	And
	in	fact	there	are	love	songs	among	the	pieces	by	William	of
	Poitiers	;	and	the	same	type	preponderates	among	the
	compositions	of	the	troubadours	who	came	immediately
	after	him.	But	it	is	worthy	of	note	that	in	all	this	vast
	body	of	love	poetry	there	is	no	epithalamium	nor	any
	address	to	a	marriageable	lady.	The	social	conditions	of
	the	south	of	France	in	the	feudal	period	explain	in	great
	measure	the	powerful	development	of	this	kind	of	poetry,
	and	also	its	peculiar	characteristics	the	profound	respect,
	the	extreme	deference	of	the	poet	towards	the	lady	whom
	he	addresses.	Rich	heiresses	were	married	young,	often
	when	hardly	out	of	their	girlhood,	and	most	frequently
	without	their	fancy	being	consulted.	But	they	seem	after
	marriage	to	have	enjoyed	great	liberty.	Eager	for	plea
	sure	and	greedy	of	praise,	the	fair	ladies	of	the	castle
	became	the	natural	patronesses	of	the	mesnie	or	household
	of	men-at-arms	and	jongleurs	whom	their	husbands	main
	tained	in	their	castles.	Songs	of	love	addressed	to	them
	soon	became	an	accepted	and	almost	conventional	form	of
	literature	;	and,	as	in	social	position	the	authors	were
	generally	far	below	those	to	whom	they	directed	their
	amorous	plaints,	this	kind	of	poetry	was	always	distin
	guished	by	great	reserve	and	an	essentially	respectful	style.
	From	the	beginning	the	sentiments,	real	or	assumed,	of
	the	poets	are	expressed	in	such	a	refined	and	guarded	style
	that	some	historians,	overestimating	the	virtue	of	the
	ladies	of	that	time,	have	been	misled	to	the	belief	that	the
	love	of	the	troubadour	for	the	mistress	of	his	thoughts	was
	generally	platonic	and	conventional.
	The	conditions	under	which	Romanic	poetry	arose	in	the
	south	of	France	being	thus	determined	as	accurately	as
	the	scarcity	of	documents	allows,	we	now	proceed	to	give
	a	survey	of	the	various	forms	of	Provengal	literature,
	chronological	order	being	followed	in	each	instance.	By
	this	arrangement	the	wealth	of	each	form	will	be	better
	displayed	;	and,	as	it	is	rare	in	the	south	of	France	for	the
	same	person	to	distinguish	himself	in	more	than	one	of
	them,	there	will	be	generally	no	occasion	to	introduce	the
	same	author	in	different	sections.
	Poetry	of	the	Troubadours.	Though	he	was	certainly
	not	the	creator	of	the	lyric	poetry	of	southern	France,
	William,	count	of	Poitiers,	by	personally	cultivating	it	gave
	it	a	position	of	honour,	and	indirectly	contributed	in	a
	very	powerful	degree	to	insure	its	development	and	pre-
	1	"	E	lo	primo	che	comencio	a	dire	sicome	poeta	volgare	si	mosse
	peroche	voile	fare	intendere	le	sue	parole	a	donna	alia	quale	era	mala-
	gevole	ad	intendere	i	versi	latini."
	XIX.	no


552	HARRISON'S	SPEECHES.
	come	together	to	find	that	the	unlikeness	is	not	so	great	as	you
	had	thought,	and	to	find	your	common	sympathies	and	common
	purposes	greater	and	larger	than	you	had	thought	large	enough
	presently	to	overspread	and	to	extinguish	all	these	transitory	lines
	of	division.
	I	am	glad	to	know	that	as	followers	of	Wesley,	whose	hymns	we
	sing,	you	have	been	in	consultation	as	to	the	methods	by	which
	these	minor	divisions	among	you	might	be	obliterated.	It	is	the
	natural	order	that	subdivisions	should	be	wiped	out	before	the
	grand	divisions	of	the	Church	can	be	united.	[Applause.	]	Who
	does	not	greatly	rejoice	that	the	controversial	clash	of	the	churches
	is	less	than	it	once	was	;	that	we	hear	more	of	the	Master	and	His
	teachings	of	love	and	duty	than	of	hair-splitting	theological	differ-
	ences?	[Applause.	]
	Many	years	ago,	while	visiting	in	Wisconsin,	when	Sunday
	came	around	I	went	with	some	frienfls	to	the	little	Methodist
	church	in	an	adjoining	village.	The	preacher	undertook	to	over-
	turn	my	Presbyterianism.	[Laughter	and	applause.]	An	irrev-
	erent	friend	who	sat	beside	me	as	the	young	man	delivered	his
	telling	blows	against	Calvinism	was	constantly	emphasizing	the
	points	made	by	nudging	me	with	his	elbow.	[Laughter.	J	Now	I
	am	glad	to	say	that	very	often	since	then	I	have	worshipped	in
	Methodist	churches,	and	that	is	the	last	experience	of	that	kind	I
	have	had.	[Applause]
	You	have	to-day	as	the	theme	of	discussion	the	subject	of	inter-
	national	arbitration	;	and	this	being	a	public,	or,	in	a	large	sense
	of	the	word,	a	political	question,	perhaps	makes	my	presence	here
	as	an	officer	of	the	United	States	especially	appropriate.	[Applause.	]
	It	is	a	curious	incident	that	some	days	ago,	and	before	I	was
	aware	of	the	theme	or	the	occasion	which	we	have	here	this	morn-
	ing,	I	had	appointed	this	afternoon	to	visit	the	great	gun	foundry
	of	the	United	States	at	the	navy	yard.	Things	have	come	in	their
	proper	sequence.	I	am	here	at	this	arbitration	meeting	before	I
	go	to	the	gun	factory.	[Laughter.	]
	This	subject	is	one	that	has	long	attracted	the	attention,	and
	I	think	I	may	say	has,	perhaps,	as	greatly	attracted	the	interest
	and	adherence	of	the	United	States	as	that	of	any	other	Christian
	power	in	the	world.	[Applause.	]
	It	is	known	to	you	all	that	in	the	recent	conference	of	the	Amer-
	ican	states	at	Washington	the	proposition	was	distinctly	made	and
	adopted	by	the	representatives	of	all,	or	nearly	all,	of	the	govern-
	ments	of	America	that,	as	applied	to	this	hemisphere,	all	inter-
	national	disputes	should	be	settled	by	arbitration.	[Applause.	]


"	In	every	respect,	both	of	style,	arrangement,	and	philosophical	deduction,	it
	is	a	valuable	accession	to	legal	literature,	and	cannot	fail	to	command	the	highest
	reputation."	HunCs	Magazine.
	DA	VIS'S	JUSTICES.	A	Practical	Treatise	upon	the	Authority
	and	Duty	of	Justices	of	the	Peace,	in	Criminal	Prosecutions.	By	Daniel
	Davis,	Solicitor-General	of	Massachusetts.	Third	Edition.	Revised	and
	greatly	enlarged.	Edited	by	F.	F.	Heard,	Esq.	1	vol.	8vo.	$4.00.
	"	This	work	has	been	always	popular	with	^atgistrates	and	the	profession.
	The	present	edition	is	eminently	creditable	to	the	editor	and	to	the	publishers.
	In	its	typographical	beauty	it	fully	sustains	the	high	reputation	of	the	law	publi-
	cations	of	Messrs.	Little,	Brown	&	Co.	The	editor	has	evidently	spent	much	time
	and	care	in	the	preparation	of	this	edition,	for	adapting	it	to	the	present	wants	of
	the	profession,	by	the	omission	of	certain	portions	that	had	become	useless,	and	the
	addition	of	other	matters	which	have	become	important,	exclusive	of	references
	to	recent	decisions.	In	a	very	modest	advertisement,	he	says	:
	'	In	preparing	the	third	edition	of	this	work,	the	editor	has	endeavored	to	render
	it	worthy	of	the	favor	with	which	the	first	two	editions	were	received	by	the	pro-
	fession	and	the	public.	Independent	of	the	additions	which	were	necessary	to
	bring	the	work	down	to	the	present	day,	it	will	be	found	that	many	new	chapters
	have	been	added,	and	others	entirely	re-written.	The	addition	of	the	recent	de-
	cisions	and	enactments	upon	the	subject	of	the	Criminal	Law,	so	augmented	the
	bulk	of	the	book,	that	it	was	thought	expedient	to	omit	several	chapters	which
	appeared	in	the	former	editions,	but	which	were	of	no	general	practical	utility.
	The	precedents	of	Complaints	have	all	been	carefully	revised,	and	new	precedents
	have	been	added,	applicable	to	the	offences	created	by	the	recent	Statutes.	The
	increased	utility	of	the	work	will,	it	is	hoped,	be	a	sufficient	apology	for	the	in-
	crease	in	size.'
	This	edition,	we	believe,	is	the	most	complete	work	which	has	been	published,
	upon	the	authority	and	duty	of	justices	of	the	peace	in	criminal	prosecutions,	and
	it	is	worthy	of	a	place	in	the	library	of	every	magistrate."	Boston	Advertiser.
	CHITTY'S	EQUITY	DIGEST.	An	Index	to	all	the	Reported
	Cases	decided	in	the	several	Courts	of	Equity	in	England	and	Ireland,
	the	Privy	Council,	and	the	House	of	Lords	;	and	to	the	Statutes	on	or
	relating	to	the	Principle,	Pleading,	and	Practice	of	Equity	and	Bank-
	ruptcy,	from	the	Earliest	Period.	By	Edward	Chitty,	of	Lincoln's	Inn,
	Barrister	at	Law.	New	Revised	Edition,	brought	down	to	the	Present
	Time.	4	vols.	8vo.	$25.00.
	THORNTON'S	CONVEYANCING.	Digest	of	the	Conveyancing,
	Testamentary,	and	Registry	Laws	of	all	the	States	of	the	Union,	em-
	bracing	References	to	the	Leading	Decisions	upon	these	subjects,	in
	most	of	the	States	;	together	with	the	Forms	of	Acknowledgment,	Pro-
	bate,	Relinquishment,	&c.,	required	by	the	Statutes	of,	and	in	use	in
	each,	preceded	by	a	brief	Treatise	on	the	General	Rules	relating	to	the
	Nature,	Execution,	and	Operation	of	Deeds	and	Wills,	and	followed	by
	an	Appendix	of	the	most	approved	general	Forms	of	those	Instruments,
	being	a	practical	Manual	and	Guide	for	Lawyers,	Public	Officers,	and
	Men	of	Business.	Second	Edition,	revised	and	enlarged.	1	vol.	8vo.
	$4.50.
	"	The	utility	of	such	a	comprehensive	and	reliable	compilation	of	the	laws	of
	the	several	States	in	regard	to	deeds	and	wills,	is	obviously	great	to	the	profes-
	sion	at	large.	Indeed,	it	must	be	deemed	indispensable	to	every	practising	law-
	yer,	as	well	as	to	commissioners	of	deeds	and	notaries	public."	N.	Y.	Com.	Adv.
	GREENLEAF	ON	EVIDENCE.	Vol.	III.	A	Treatise	on	the
	Law	of	Evidence.	By	Hon.	Simon	Greenleaf,	LL.	D.	Vol.	III.	8vo.
	$5.50.


The	Observations	of
	witness	Michael	Angelo	s	sonnets	and	Vidor
	Hugo	s	sketches.	Little	intentional	literature	has
	charmed	the	world	like	the	amateur	quatrains	of
	Omar	the	astronomer,	translated	by	Fitzgerald
	the	dilettante.
	"Is	a	man	an	idealist	or	a	realist?	Let	him
	ponder	Don	Quixote	s	impradicali	ty	and	Sancho
	Pah^a	.r&imlessness,	following	inner	impulse	or
	outward	stimulus,	denying	the	world	or	losing
	his	owii	fcoul:	r	Let	him	ponder,	moreover,	Rem
	brandt	s	struggle	to	serve	both	at	the	same	time.
	The	pitfalls	of	the	realist	are	proverbial,	but
	ideals,	also,	may	be	dangerous,	through	mistaken
	selection,	partial	generalization,	or	imperfect	ad
	justment	to	the	fads	in	hand.
	"What,	again,	are	our	innate	or	acquired	inter
	ests	and	desires?	Does	their	vision	of	the	future
	help	or	hinder	our	realization	of	the	present?	Do
	we	aspire	after	the	impossible,	expecting	preci
	sion	or	clarity,	brevity	or	completeness,	where
	they	cannot	or	should	not	be	?	Do	we	apprehend
	the	unlikely?	If	any	thing	external	vexes	you,
	says	Marcus	Aurelius,	take	notice	that	it	is	not
	the	thing	which	disturbs	you,	but	your	notion
	about	it,	which	notion	you	may	dismiss	at	once
	if	you	please.	Disappointment,	says	Dr.	John
	son,	you	may	easily	compensate	by	enjoining
	[	102]


PAINTING	AND	POETRY	in
	life.	It	is	therefore	the	most	indefinite	of	the	arts.	Its	effect
	is	indescribable.	It	seems	all	but	born	into	this	tangible	world
	of	ours	and	not	wholly	incarnated	until	its	union	with	poetry	be
	accomplished.
	Now	if	poetry	advanced	not	a	stage	beyond	painting	it	could
	never	substitute	description	for	delineation.	To	speak	in	terms
	of	logic,	painting	gives	us	the	premise,	whilst	poetry	gives	us	the
	inference.	The	former	is	the	combination,	and	the	latter	the
	permutation,	of	artistic	thought.	Still	if	poetry	gains	in	freedom,
	it	loses	in	exactitude.	Thus	portraiture	proper	is	impossible	in
	poetry	since	this	art	is	denied	pictorial	fidelity.	The	expression
	also	of	visible	creation	is	alone	possible	to	that	art	which	lays
	claim	to	anything	like	accurate	representation.	So	the	meanest
	poetry	is	that	which	merely	catalogues	nature.	It	is	landscape-
	painting	without	its	charm	of	synchronal	visualisation.	And
	this	because	the	transitional	moments	of	poetry	are	destructive
	of	the	unity	and	simultaneity	of	material	beauty.	Poetry,
	indeed,	was	born	for	a	higher	purpose.	It	must	deliver	itself
	of	the	inner	meaning	of	nature,	and	not	fail	in	the	endeavour
	to	reproduce	her.	Painting	transcribes,	but	poetry	translates.
	The	poet	alone	can	read	off	for	us	the	mind	of	the	universe.	And
	for	the	very	same	reason	that	poetry	is	capable	of	giving	us
	mentality	is	it	powerless	to	give	us	adequately	the	mould	of	life.
	Here	the	painter	excels	beyond	the	most	ravishing	dreams	of	the
	poet.	When	the	latter	attempts	to	draw	for	us	form	or	feature,
	he.	ceases	to	conquer	and	becomes	only	chimerical.	It	is	only
	some	tenuous	ghost	that	gathers	round	the	bones	of	death.
	Figuration	in	poetry	becomes	at	once	amorphous	and	indistinct.
	In	music,	again,	configuration	reaches	its	vanishing	point.	Here
	we	have	little	if	any	material	aspect	of	esthetic	truth.	Lessing
	in	his	"	Laokoon	"	labours	this	point.	He	writes:	"	The	poet
	since	he	can	only	exhibit	in	succession	its	component	parts
	entirely	abstains	from	the	description	of	material	beauty	as
	beauty."	Poetry	then	is	weak	in	the	portrayal	of	physical
	beauty.	Being	a	continuous	sequence,	we	lose	the	totality	in	the
	mere	procession	of	parts	and	description	of	details.	The	likeness
	which	the	poet	gives	us	is,	therefore,	that	of	the	mental,	and	not
	that	of	the	material,	man.	Painting	limns	the	individual,	but
	poetry,	by	means	of	language,	delineates	the	hidden	humanity.
	And	the	mind	is	more	indefinite	than	the	visage,	and	the	feelings,


POETRY	AND	MUSIC	147
	CHAPTER	XIX
	POETRY	AND	MUSIC
	BEFORE	we	leave	this	present	consideration	of	poetry	and	deal
	exclusively	with	music,	it	will	be	necessary	to	say	a	few	words
	about	these	same	arts	taken	in	conjunction.	And	the	reason	for
	this	is	obvious;	for	that	which	precedes	something	else	in	uni
	versal	development	must	inevitably	have	a	very	immediate	and
	vital	connection	therewith.	And	since	we	have	already	assumed
	that	poetry	leads	directly	up	to	music	in	the	ascending	scale	of
	progressive	estheticism,	we	shall	expect	to	find	a	more	than
	intimate	relationship	existing	between	these	special	modes	of
	beauty.	Such	a	consideration	will,	therefore,	help	us	the	better
	to	usher	in	music	for	critical	consideration	on	its	own	behalf.
	This	contention,	moreover,	is	fully	born	out	by	the	irrefutable
	facts	of	history;	for	long	before	music	existed	as	a	self-existent
	art,	glorying	in	its	own	isolation,	it	floated	down	the	ages,	bound
	up	with	the	destiny	of	poetry	for	an	indefinite	period	of	time.
	Indeed,	Lessing	held	that	music	and	poetry	when	united	formed
	really	one	art,	and	that,	too,	highest	poetry.	Even	now	the
	Germans	call	their	composers	tone-poets.	The	Greeks,	again,
	placed	music	and	poetry	in	the	same	category.	Once,	however,
	having	severed	itself	from	this	sweet	bondage,	music	was	for	ever
	free	to	prosecute	its	own	mission	and	carry	on	the	world	of
	expression	to	its	ultimate	consummation.	The	exact	relation
	that	poetry	bears	to	music	is	then	our	immediate	consideration.
	And	in	viewing	the	matter	thus,	poetry	may	be	regarded	as
	fostering	music	before	she	broke	away	to	beat	her	wings	in	a	more
	rarefied	atmosphere	of	beauty.	Or	to	speak	the	language	of
	reality,	we	are	here	witnessing	the	pending	emancipation	of
	spirit	as	it	strives	to	fulfil	its	own	destiny.	We	have	then,	at
	this	present	juncture,	under	observation	poetry	striving	to
	extend	her	borders	and	music	yearning	for	liberty	a	point	of
	view	immediately	prior	to	the	severance	of	their	amicable
	alliance.	It	would	not	be	inappropriate	then	to	regard	this


14*	HERMAIA
	section	as,	roughly	speaking,	the	relation	that	speech	bears	to
	song.
	To	begin	with,	all	audible	utterance	was	born	of	mere	bald
	ejaculation.	Ultimately,	however,	speech,	receiving	its	stimulus
	from	without,	had	reference	rather	to	objective	nature	whose
	sounds	it	sought	to	imitate;	whilst	music	dawned	with	those
	subjective	feelings	which	sought	to	relieve	their	intensity	by
	vocal	expression.	The	former	was,	therefore,	nearer	akin	to	the
	utility	of	mental	intercourse,	while	the	latter	was	relative	to
	the	more	vital	concern	of	the	creature.	Thus	Herbert	Spencer
	tells	us	that	"	it	may	be	shown	that	music	is	but	an	idealisation
	of	the	natural	language	of	emotion."	Of	course	we	need	hardly
	add	that	it	never	attained	to	the	dignity	of	true	art	until
	it	assumed	coherent	form	and	distinct	meaning.	Poetry,	also,
	never	realised	itself	as	such	until	mere	speech	became	fired	with
	enthusiasm.	And	what	is	true	of	these	two	arts	taken	separately
	is	also	true	when	regarded	sequentially.	For	the	very	enthusiasm
	which	converted	prose	into	poetry	broke	also	the	bonds	of	the
	verbal	art	and	waxed	musical.	So	Wagner,	it	may	be	noted,
	felt	that	intense	poetry	strove	to	press	forward	into	the	realms
	of	music.	To	quote	his	own	language:	"	Music	is	the	inarticu
	late	speech	of	the	heart,	which	cannot	be	compressed	into	words
	because	it	is	infinite."	Thus	as	speech	rises	and	becomes	poetical
	it	does	but	approximate	the	musical.	It	is,	after	all,	but	the	law
	of	continuity	which	obtains	in	both	the	real	and	ideal	world.
	For,	as	already	intimated,	music	is	as	the	overplus	of	poetry,
	just	as	poetry	was	seen	to	be	the	residuum	of	painting.	In	other
	words,	the	atmosphere	of	painting	is	the	poetry	thereof,	and	the
	atmosphere	of	poetry	is	the	all-suffusing	spirit	of	its	music.
	Consequently,	the	more	truly	artistic	element	of	painting	is	its
	poetic	feeling,	and	the	genius	of	poetry	is	its	music.	And	this
	we	shall	more	readily	understand	if	we	realise	that	where	paint
	ing	ends,	poetry	begins	;	and	where	poetry	ceases	to	be	effectual,
	music	starts	its	esthetic	career.	And	as	we	pass	from	poetry
	to	music	we	do	but	pass	from	the	letter	to	the	spirit	of	beauty.
	Thus	poetry	and	music	would	appear	to	be	more	closely	allied
	than	are	any	of	the	other	arts.	Carlyle	has	some	significant	words
	in	this	connection.	He	writes:	"	Poetry,	therefore,	we	will	call
	musical	Thought.	The	Poet	is	he	who	thinks	in	that	manner.
	At	bottom,	it	turns	still	on	power	of	intellect;	it	is	a	man's


T.	TEMBAROM	151
	On	the	day	of	Mr.	Palford's	departure	a	thick	fog	had	de
	scended	and	seemed	to	enwrap	the	world	in	the	white	wool.
	Tembarom	found	it	close	to	his	windows	when	he	got	up,	and
	he	had	dressed	by	the	light	of	tall	wax	candles,	the	previous
	Mr.	Temple	Barholm	having	objected	to	more	modern	and
	vulgar	methods	of	illumination.
	"	I	guess	this	is	what	you	call	a	London	fog,"	he	said	to
	Pearson.
	"No,	not	exactly	the	London	sort,	sir/'	Pearson	answered.
	<(	A	London	fog	is	yellow	when	it	is	n't	brown	or	black.	It
	settles	on	the	hands	and	face.	A	fog	in	the	country	is	n't	dirty
	with	smoke.	It	's	much	less	trying,	sir."
	When	Palford	had	departed	and	he	was	entirely	alone,	Tem
	barom	found	a	country	fog	trying	enough	for	a	man	without
	a	companion.	A	degree	of	relief	permeated	his	being	with
	the	knowledge	that	he	need	no	longer	endeavor	to	make	suitable
	reply	to	his	solicitor's	efforts	at	conversation.	He	had	made
	conversational	efforts	himself.	You	couldn't	let	a	man	feel
	that	you	would	n't	talk	to	him	if	you	could	when	he	was	doing
	business	for	you,	but	what	in	thunder	did	you	have	to	talk
	about	that	a	man	like	that	would	n't	be	bored	stiff	by	?	He
	did	n't	like	New	York,	he	did	n't	know	anything	about	it,	and
	he	didn't	want	to	know,	and	Tembarom	knew	nothing	about
	anything	else,	and	was	homesick	for	the	very	stones	of	the
	roaring	city's	streets.	When	he	said	anything,	Palford	either
	didn't	understand	what	he	was	getting	at	or	he	didn't	like
	it.	And	he	always	looked	as	if	he	was	watching	to	see	if	you
	were	trying	to	get	a	joke	on	him.	Tembarom	was	frequently
	not	nearly	so	much	inclined	to	be	humorous	as	Mr.	Palford
	had	irritably	suspected	him	of	being.	His	modes	of	expression
	might	on	numerous	occasions	have	roused	to	mirth	when	his
	underlying	idea	was	almost	entirely	serious	v	,The	mode	of	ex
	pression	was	merely	a	result	of	habit.
	Mr.	Palford	left	by	an	extremely	early	train,	and	after	he
	was	gone,	Tembarom	sat	over	his	breakfast	as	long	as	possible,
	and	then,	going	to	the	library,	smoked	long.	The	library	was
	certainly	comfortable,	though	the	fire	and	the	big	wax	candles
	were	called	upon	to	do	their	best	to	defy	the	chill,	mysterious


LIONIZING	191
	Vougeot,	and	told,	with	his	eyes	shut,	the	difference
	between	Sherry	and	Amontillado.
	There	was	Signor	Tintontintino	from	Florence.
	He	discoursed	of	Cimabue",	Arpino,	Carpaccio,	and
	Argostino	of	the	gloom	of	Caravaggio,	of	the
	amenity	of	Albano,	of	the	colors	of	Titian,	of	the
	frows	of	Rubens,	and	of	the	waggeries	of	Jan	Steen.
	There	was	the	President	of	the	Fum-Fudge
	University.	He	was	of	opinion	that	the	moon	was
	called	Bendis	in	Thrace,	Bubastis	in	Egypt,	Dian	in
	Rome,	and	Artemis	in	Greece.
	There	was	a	Grand	Turk	from	Stamboul.	He
	could	not	help	thinking	that	the	angels	were	horses,
	cocks,	and	bulls;	that	somebody	in	the	sixth
	heaven	had	seventy	thousand	heads;	and	that	the
	earth	was	supported	by	a	sky-blue	cow	with	an	in
	calculable	number	of	green	horns.
	There	was	Delphinus	Polyglott.	He	told	us	what
	had	become	of	the	eighty-three	lost	tragedies	of
	^Eschylus;	of	the	fifty-four	orations	of	Isasus;	of	the
	three	hundred	and	ninety-one	speeches	of	Lysias;
	of	the	hundred	and	eighty	treatises	of	Theophrastus	;
	of	the	eighth	book	of	the	conic	sections	of	Apol-
	lonius;	of	Pindar	s	hymns	and	dithyrambics	;	and	of
	the	five	and	forty	tragedies	of	Homer	Junior.
	There	was	Ferdinand	Fitz-Fossillus	Feltspar.
	He	informed	us	all	about	internal	fires	and	tertiary
	formations;	about	aeriforms,	fluidiforms,	and	solidi-
	forms;	about	quartz	and	marl;	about	schist	and
	schorl;	about	gypsum	and	trap;	about	talc	and	calc;
	about	blende	and	horn-blende	;	about	mica-slate	and
	pudding-stone;	about	cyanite	and	lepidolite;	about
	haematite	and	tremolite;	about	antimony	and	cal-
	cedony,	about	manganese	and	whatever	you	please.
	There	was	myself.	I	spoke	of	myself;	of	my
	self,	of	myself,	of	myself;	of	Nosology,	of	my


BooK	X	203
	Were	halls	with	earthen	floors,	and	into	these
	We	rode	our	horses	:	there	we	stood	concealed,
	Ready	at	any	instant	to	rush	forth
	And	overwhelm	the	multitudes	that	soon
	Should	throng	the	plaza.	On	the	roofs	above
	Were	cannon,	grim	in	readiness,	their	mouths
	An	hungered	for	the	horrid	feast	of	blood.
	Thus	were	we	stationed	:	with	his	infantry
	Pizarro	held	the	center;	I	the	right,
	With	cavalry;	Hernando	on	the	left
	Stood	likewise	ready	with	his	mounted	men.
	The	horses'	breastplates	all	were	hung	with	bells,
	To	heighten	the	mad	clangor	of	our	charge.
	Impatiently	we	waited	;	but	long	hours
	Passed,	and	the	King	came	not.	The	morning	waned,
	Noon	glowed	in	dazzling	radiance,	and	then	died,
	Yet	still	with	anxious	eyes	we	peered	without,
	Vainly,	to	sight	our	prey.	But	when	the	sun
	Stood	scarce	two	hours	from	setting,	came	a	troop
	Of	servants	of	the	monarch,	singing	songs
	Wherein	they	voiced	the	glories	of	their	King;
	Of	higher	rank,	next	came	another	throng,
	Bedight	in	robes	of	checkered	white	and	red;
	Then	came	still	higher	orders,	garbed	in	white,
	And	bearing	argent	maces	in	their	hands	;
	Next	to	these	marched	a	guard	of	noblemen
	With	blue	robes,	jeweled	bracelets,	glittering	chains,
	And	golden	earrings	in	distended	ears.
	After	them	all	came	Atahuallpa,	borne
	Upon	a	throne	set	on	a	palanquin;
	The	throne	itself	was	wrought	of	purest	gold	;
	The	palanquin,	of	silver	and	of	gold,
	Was	lined	with	glowing	plumes	of	tropic	birds.


10	WORKS	OF	EDGAR	ALLAN	POE
	spots	look	like	eyes,	eh?	and	the	longer	one	at
	the	bottom	like	a	mouth	and	then	the	shape	of
	the	whole	is	oval."
	"	Perhaps	so,"	said	I;	&lt;l	but,	Legrand,	I	fear
	you	are	no	artist.	I	must	wait	until	I	see	the
	beetle	itself,	if	I	am	to	form	any	idea	of	its	per
	sonal	appearance."
	"	Well,	I	don	t	know,"	said	he,	a	little	net
	tled,	I	draw	tolerably	should	do	it	at	least
	have	had	good	masters,	and	flatter	myself	that
	I	am	not	quite	a	blockhead."
	"	But,	my	dear	fellow,	you	are	joking	then,"
	said	I,	"	this	is	a	very	passable	skull	indeed,	I
	may	say	that	it	is	a	very	excellent	skull,	accord
	ing	to	the	vulgar	notions	about	such	specimens
	of	physiology	and	your	scarabwus	must	be	the
	queerest	scarabceus	in	the	world	if	it	resembles
	it.	Why,	we	may	get	up	a	very	thrilling	bit	of
	superstition	upon	this	hint.	I	presume	you	will
	call	the	bug	scarabceus	caput	hominis,	or	some
	thing	of	that	kind	there	are	many	similar	titles
	in	the	Natural	Histories.	But	where	are	the
	antennce	you	spoke	of	?
	"	The	antennce!	"	said	Legrand,	who	seemed
	to	be	getting	unaccountably	warm	upon	the	sub
	ject;	"	I	am	sure	you	must	see	the	antennas.
	I	made	them	as	distinct	as	they	are	in	the	orig
	inal	insect,	and	I	presume	that	is	sufficient."
	"	Well,	well,"	I	said,	"	perhaps	you	have-
	still	I	don	t	see	them;"	and	I	handed	him	the
	paper	without	additional	remark,	not	wishing	to
	ruffle	his	temper;	but	I	was	much	surprised	at
	the	turn	affairs	had	taken	;	his	ill	humor	puzzled


70	POETRY	AND	ITS	VARIETIES.
	painted	with	scrupulous	truth,	the	poetry	is	bad
	poetry,	i.e.	is	not	poetry	at	all,	but	a	failure.
	Thus	far	our	progress	towards	a	clear	view	of	the
	essentials	of	poetry	has	brought	us	very	close	to	the
	last	two	attempts	at	a	definition	of	poetry	which	we
	happen	to	have	seen	in	print,	both	of	them	by	poets
	arid	men	of	genius.	The	one	is	by	Ebenezer	Elliott,
	the	author	of	Corn-Law	Rhymes,	and	other	poems	of
	still	greater	merit.	Poetry,	says	he,	l	is	impassioned
	truth.	The	other	is	by	a	writer	in	Blackwood	s
	Magazine,	and	comes,	we	think,	still	nearer	the	mark.
	He	defines	poetry,	man	s	thoughts	tinged	by	his
	feelings.	There	is	in	either	definition	a	near	approxi
	mation	to	what	we	are	in	search	of.	Every	truth
	which	a	human	being	can	enunciate,	every	thought,
	even	every	outward	impression,	which	can	enter	into
	his	consciousness,	may	become	poetry	when	shown
	through	any	impassioned	medium,	when	invested	with
	the	colouring	of	joy,	or	grief,	or	pity,	or	affection,	or
	admiration,	or	reverence,	or	awe,	or	even	hatred	or
	terror	:	and,	unless	so	coloured,	nothing,	be	it	as	inte
	resting	as	it	may,	is	poetry.	But	both	these	defini
	tions	fail	to	discriminate	between	poetry	and	eloquence.
	Eloquence,	as	well	as	poetry,	is	impassioned	truth;
	eloquence,	as	well	as	poetry,	is	thoughts	coloured	by
	the	feelings.	Yet	common	apprehension	and	philo
	sophic	criticism	alike	recognise	a	distinction	between
	the	two	:	there	is	much	that	every	one	would	call
	eloquence,	which	no	one	would	think	of	classing	as
	poetry.	A	question	will	sometimes	arise,	whether
	some	particular	author	is	a	poet;	and	those	who
	maintain	the	negative	commonly	allow,	that	though
	not	a	poet,	he	is	a	highly	eloquent	writer.	The	dis-
	lM*H*	)oo	&gt;*&gt;-)
	.A
	-r


POETRY	AND	ITS	VARIETIES.	71
	tinction	between	poetry	and	eloquence	appears	to	us
	to	be	equally	fundamental	with	the	distinction	between
	poetry	and	narrative,	or	between	poetry	and	descrip
	tion,	while	it	is	still	farther	from	having	been	satis
	factorily	cleared	up	than	either	of	the	others.
	Poetry	and	eloquence	are	both	alike	the	expression
	wo	should	say	that	eloqiience	is	heard,
	poetry	is	overheard.	Eloquence	supposes	an	audience	;
	the	peculiarity	of	poetry	appears	to	us	to	lie	in	the
	poet	s	utter	unconsciousness	of	a	listener.	Poetry	is
	feeling	confessing	itself	to	itself,	in	moments	of	soli
	tude,	and	embodying	itself	in	symbols	which	are	the
	nearest	possible	representations	of	the	feeling	in	the
	exact	shape	in	which	it	exists	in	the	poet	s	mind.
	Eloquence	is	feeling	pouring	itself	out	to	other	minds,
	courting	their	sympathy,	or	endeavouring	to	influence
	belief	or	move	them	to	passion	or	to	action.
	poetry	is	.of.	f.Tift	nnf.nrp	of	snlilnqny"!	It	may
	be	said	that	poetry	which	is	printed	on	loot-pressed
	paper	and	sold	at	a	bookseller	s	shop,	is	a	soliloquy
	in	full	dress,	and	on	the	stage.	It	is	so;	but	there
	is	nothing	absurd	in	the	idea	of	such	a	mode	of	solilo
	quizing.	What	we	have	said	to	ourselves,	we	may
	tell	to	others	afterwards	;	what	we	have	said	or	done
	in	solitude,	we	may	voluntarily	reproduce	when	we
	know	that	other	eyes	are	upon	us.	But	no	trace	of
	consciousness	that	any	eyes	are	upon	us	must	be
	visible	in	the	work	itself.	The	actor	knows	that
	there	is	an	audience	present	;	but	if	he	act	as	though
	he	knew	it,	he	acts	ill.	A	poet	may	write	poetry	not
	only	with	the	intention	of	printing	it,	but	for	the
	express	purpose	of	being	paid	for	it;	that	it	should


POETRY	AND	ITS	VARIETIES.	79
	eternal	truth,	or	but	a	dream	are	among	the	last
	results	of	the	most	matured	and	perfect	intellect.	Not
	to	mention	that	the	poet,	110	more	than	any	other
	person	who	writes,	confines	himself	altogether	to	in
	tuitive	truths,	nor	has	any	means	of	communicating
	even	these	but	by	words,	every	one	of	which	derives
	all	its	power	of	conveying	a	meaning,	from	a	whole
	host	of	acquired	notions,	and	facts	learnt	by	study
	and	experience.
	[^Nevertheless,	it	seems	undeniable	in	point	of	fact,
	and	consistent	with	the	principles	of	a	sound	meta
	physics,	that	there	are	poetic	natures.	There	j&_ja.Y
	mental	.and	physical	constitution	or	temperament,	pe
	culiarly	fitted	for	poetry.	^	This	temperament	will	not	/
	of	itself	make	a	poet,	no	more	than	the	soil	will	the
	fruit	;	and	as	good	fruit	may	be	raised	by	culture	from
	in	different	soils,	so	may	good	poetry	from	naturally
	unpoetical	minds.	But	the	poetry	of	one	who	is	a
	poet	by	nature,	will	be	clearly	and	broadly	distin
	guishable	from	the	poetry	of	mere	culture.	It	may
	not	be	truer;	it	may	not	be	more	useful;	but	it	will
	be	different:	fewer	will	appreciate	it,	even	though
	many	should	affect	to	do	so;	but	in	those	few	it	will
	find	a	keener	sympathy,	and	will	yield	them	a	deeper
	enjoyment	.7
	r	One	may	write	genuine	poetry,	and	not	be	a	poet	;
	for	whosoever	writes	out	truly	any	human	feeling,
	writes	poetry.	All	persons,	even	the	most	unimagi
	native,	in	moments	of	strong	emotion,	speak	poetry;
	and	hence	the	drama	is	poetry,	which	else	were	always
	prose,	except	when	a	poet	is	one	of	the	characters.
	Whatjs	poetry,	boitJiLaJ^QUglits.-^^	which
	(emotion	spontaneously	embodies	itself?	As	there	are


88	POETKY	AND	ITS	VARIETIES.
	degree	resembled	them.	Never	did	a	fancy	so	teem
	with	sensuous	imagery	as	Shelley	s.	Wordsworth	\
	economizes	an	image,	and	detains	it	until	he	has	dis
	tilled	all	the	poetry	out	of	it,	and	it	will	not	yield	a	/
	drop	more	:	Shelley	lavishes	his	with	a	profusion	which	j
	is	unconscious,	because	it	is	inexhaustible.
	If,	then,	the	maxim	Nascitur	poeta,	mean,	either
	that	the	power	of	producing	poetical	compositions	is
	a	peculiar	faculty	which	the	poet	brings	into	the
	world	with	him,	which	grows	with	his	growth	like
	any	of	his	bodily	powers,	and	is	as	independent	of
	culture	as	his	height,	and	his	complexion	;	or	that	any
	natural	peculiarity	whatever	is	implied	in	producing
	poetry,	real	poetry,	and	in	any	quantity	such	poetry
	too,	as,	to	the	majority	of	educated	and	intelligent
	readers,	shall	appear	quite	as	good	as,	or	even	better
	than,	any	other;	in	either	sense	the	doctrine	is	false.
	And	nevertheless,	there	is	poetry	which	could	not
	emanate	but	from	a	mental	and	physical	constitution
	peculiar,	not	in	the	kind,	but	in	the	degree	of	its	sus
	ceptibility	:	a	constitution	which	makes	its	possessor
	capable	of	greater	happiness	than	mankind	in	general,
	and	also	of	greater	unhappiness;	and	because	greater,
	so	also	more	various.	And	such	poetry,	to	all	who
	know	enough	of	nature	to	own	it	as	being	in	nature,
	is	much	more	poetry,	is	poetry	in	a	far	higher	sense,
	than	any	other;	since	the	common	element	of	all
	poetry,	that	which	constitutes	poetry,	human	feeling,
	enters	far	more	largely	into	this	than	into	the	poetry
	of	culture.	Not	only	because	the	natures	which	we
	have	called	poetical,	really	feel	more,	and	consequently
	have	more	feeling	to	express;	but	because,	the	capa
	city	of	feeling	being	so	great,	feeling,	when	excited


170	EDGAR	ALLAN	POE
	and	found	a	current	setting	still	southwardly,	and
	at	the	rate	of	three	quarters	of	a	mile	per	hour.	The
	variation	per	azimuth	had	diminished,	and	the
	temperature	of	the	air	was	mild	and	pleasant,	the
	thermometer	being	as	high	as	fifty-one.	At	this
	period	not	a	particle	of	ice	was	to	be	discovered.
	All	hands	on	board	now	felt	certain	of	attaining	the
	pole.
	January	17.	This	day	was	full	of	incident.	In
	numerable	flights	of	birds	flew	over	us	from	the
	southward,	and	several	were	shot	from	the	deck;
	one	from	them,	a	species	of	pelican,	proved	to	be	ex
	cellent	eating.	About	midday	a	small	floe	of	ice
	was	seen	from	the	masthead	off	the	larboard	bow,
	and	upon	it	there	appeared	to	be	some	large	animal.
	As	the	weather	was	good	and	nearly	calm,	Captain
	Guy	ordered	out	two	of	the	boats	to	see	what	it	was.
	Dirk	Peters	and	myself	accompanied	the	mate	in	the
	larger	boat.	Upon	coming	up	with	the	floe,	we	per
	ceived	that	it	was	in	the	possession	of	a	gigantic	crea
	ture	of	the	race	of	the	Arctic	bear,	but	far	exceeding	in
	size	the	largest	of	these	animals.	Being	well	armed,
	we	made	no	scruple	of	attacking	it	at	once.	Several
	shots	were	fired	in	quick	succession,	the	most	of
	which	took	effect,	apparently,	in	the	head	and	body.
	Nothing	discouraged,	however,	the	monster	threw
	himself	from	the	ice,	and	swam,	with	open	jaws,
	to	the	boat	in	which	were	Peters	and	myself.	Owing
	to	the	confusion	which	ensued	among	us	at	this	un
	expected	turn	of	the	adventure,	no	person	was	ready
	immediately	with	a	second	shot,	and	the	bear	had
	actually	succeeded	in	getting	half	his	vast	bulk
	across	our	gunwale,	and	seizing	one	of	the	men	by
	the	small	of	his	back,	before	any	efficient	means
	were	taken	to	repel	him.	In	this	extremity	nothing
	but	the	promptness	and	agility	of	Peters	saved	us


8	NATURE
	ture	never	wears	a	mean	appearance.	Neither
	does	the	wisest	man	extort	her	secret,	and	lose
	his	curiosity	by	finding	out	all	her	perfection.
	Nature	never	became	a	toy	to	a	wise	spirit.	The
	flowers,	the	animals,	the	mountains,	reflected	the
	wisdom	of	his	best	hour,	as	much	as	they	had
	delighted	the	simplicity	of	his	childhood.
	When	we	speak	of	nature	in	this	manner,	we
	have	a	distinct	but	most	poetical	sense	in	the
	mind.	We	mean	the	integrity	of	impression
	made	by	manifold	natural	objects.	It	is	this
	which	distinguishes	the	stick	of	timber	of	the
	wood-cutter	from	the	tree	of	the	poet.	The
	charming	landscape	which	I	saw	this	morning	is
	indubitably	made	up	of	some	twenty	or	thirty
	farms.	Miller	owns	this	field,	Locke	that,	and
	Manning	the	woodland	beyond.	But	none	of
	them	owns	the	landscape.	There	is	a	property
	in	the	horizon	which	no	man	has	but	he	whose
	eye	can	integrate	all	the	parts,	that	is,	the	poet.
	This	is	the	best	part	of	these	men	s	farms,	yet
	to	this	their	warranty-deeds	give	no	title.
	To	speak	truly,	few	adult	persons	can	see	na
	ture.	Most	persons	do	not	see	the	sun.	At
	least	they	have	a	very	superficial	seeing.	The
	sun	illuminates	only	the	eye	of	the	man,	but
	shines	into	the	eye	and	the	heart	of	the	child.


66	POETRY	AND	IMAGINATION
	virtue.	He	is	the	true	Orpheus	who	writes	his
	ode,	not	with	syllables,	but	men.	"	In	poetry,"
	said	Goethe,	"only	the	really	great	and	pure
	advances	us,	and	this	exists	as	a	second	nature,
	either	elevating	us	to	itself,	or	rejecting	us."
	The	poet	must	let	Humanity	sit	with	the	Muse
	in	his	head,	as	the	charioteer	sits	with	the	hero
	in	the	Iliad.	"	Show	me,	*	said	Sarona	in	the
	novel,	"	one	wicked	man	who	has	written	poetry,
	and	I	will	show	you	where	his	poetry	is	not
	poetry	;	or	rather,	I	will	show	you	in	his	poetry
	no	poetry	at	all."	x
	I	have	heard	that	there	is	a	hope	which	pre
	cedes	and	must	precede	all	science	of	the	visible
	or	the	invisible	world	;	and	that	science	is	the
	realization	of	that	hope	in	either	region.	I	count
	the	genius	of	Swedenborg	and	Wordsworth	as
	the	agents	of	a	reform	in	philosophy,	the	bring
	ing	poetry	back	to	Nature,	to	the	marrying
	of	Nature	and	mind,	undoing	the	old	divorce	in
	which	poetry	had	been	famished	and	false,	and
	Nature	had	been	suspected	and	pagan.	The
	philosophy	which	a	nation	receives,	rules	its	re
	ligion,	poetry,	politics,	arts,	trades	and	whole
	history.	A	good	poem	say	Shakspeare	s	Mac
	beth,	or	Hamlet,	or	the	Tempest	goes	about
	the	world	offering	itself	to	reasonable	men,	who


THE	SAMOAN	AND	LOYALTY	ISLANDS.	6	1
	at	other	islands,	going	at	last	to	Raiatea,	where,
	with	the	exception	of	two	short	trips	to	Samoa,
	he	stayed	until	he	went	off	on	his	final	voyage.
	The	evening	before	he	set	out	on	this	last
	journey	an	old	blind	chief	came	to	him	and
	begged	to	be	taken	with	him.
	"Teacher	Williams,"	said	the	old	man,	"I
	am	a	blind	man,	but	I	have	a	great	desire	to	go
	with	you	to	the	dark	lands.	Perhaps	my	being
	blind	will	make	them	pity	me,	and	not	kill	me,
	and	while	I	can	talk	to	them,	and	tell	them	of
	Jesus,	my	boy	here	can	read	and	write,	and	so
	we	can	teach	them	something."
	Of	course	the	poor	old	blind	man	could	not
	go	on	the	long	perilous	voyage,	but	brave	ten
	der-hearted	John	Williams	was	much	touched
	by	his	devotion	and	earnestness,	and	no	doubt
	the	simple,	honest,	loving	words	came	back	to
	him	with	cheer	and	comfort	during	the	follow
	ing	weeks	on	the	stormy	sea,	as	he	sailed	on	to
	wards	the	last	harbor	that	he	should	make	until
	he	should	anchor	in	the	quiet	haven	of	the
	heavenly	home.
	On	the	third	of	November,	1839,	he	preached
	his	farewell	sermon,	the	text	of	which	was	from
	Acts	20	:	36-38	:	"	And	they	all	wept	sore,	and
	fell	upon	Paul	s	neck	and	kissed	him,	sorrow
	ing	most	of	all	for	the	words	which	he	spake,
	that	they	should	see	his	face	no	more."


POE	POÈTE	:	POÉSIES	JUVÉNILES	321
	sionnée,	le	morose	étudiant	déclassé	de	Charlottesville	ait	senti	la
	fibre	douloureuse	de	son	cœur	étrangement	vibrer	sous	les	vigou-
	reux	coups	d'archet	dun	maître	qui	chantait	si	éloquemment	les
	orgueilleuses	misères	de	l'inadaptation	sociale?	Prédestiné	au
	byronisme	par	sa	dégénérescence	comme	par	son	déclassement,
	Poe	ne	pouvait,	en	quelque	pays	que	ce	fût,	manquer	de	recon-
	naître	en	cette	troublante	poésie	sa	propre	âme	troublée	;	il	ne
	pouvait	manquer	de	demander	aux	fantasques	héros	roman-
	tiques	l'art	de	cultiver	ces	tares	innées	qui	étaient	leur	lot	com-
	mun.	Byron	fut	donc	pour	lui	Tévocateur,	bien	plus	que	l'inspira-
	teur,	des	sinistres	délires	de	la	Muse	malade	:	car	le	fils	détraqué
	des	misérables	alcooliques	de	Baltimore	n'avait	qu'à	puiser	en
	son	propre	fonds	héréditaire	pour	surpasser	en	raffinements	mor-
	bides	le	descendant	exalté	de	la	vieille	famille	tarée	des	Byrons.
	Ce	précoce	byronisme	a	du	reste	une	nuance	spéciale,	toute
	grise	encore	avant	d'atteindre	la	noire	teinte	finale.	Poe	n'exa-
	gérait	pas,	lorsqu'il	disait	à	Neal	:	«	Je	ne	suis	et	n'ai	été	depuis
	mon	enfance	qu'un	rêveur	^	»	Des	dix	poèmes	qui	composent	son
	court	volume,	il	n'en	est	pas,	en	effet,	à	part	les	quatre	strophes
	à	sa	fiancée	infidèle,	un	seul	qui	ne	soit	le	commentaire	de	quelque
	rêve.	Une	extraordinaire	prédisposition	à	rêver	forme	le	fond	per-
	manent	de	cette	âme	adolescente,	sinon	enfantine,	si	permanent
	qu'il	en	devient	pathologique.	Sans	doute,	Byron	aussi	rêvait,
	mais	il	y	avait	en	sa	riche	nature	trop	de	passion	fougueuse	pour
	qu'il	pût	longtemps	se	complaire	en	cette	attitude	purement	pas-
	sive	de	l'esprit-;	et	Shelley,	qui	fut	peut-être	en	notre	monde	occi-
	dental	le	plus	grand	rêveur	devant	l'Éternel,	ne	semble	avoir	ni
	si	tôt	ni	si	profondément	goûté	en	pur	égotiste	ces	molles	et	per-
	fides	jouissances.
	«	Les	rêves...,	dit	Poe;	en	ce	riche	coloris	qu'ils	prêtent	à	la	vie,
	comme	en	cette	lutte,	insaisissable	sous	leurs	voiles	d'ombres	et	de
	1.	Voir	la	Vie,	p.	."JG.
	2.	On	peut	se	faire	une	idée	de	la	différence	qui	sépare	le	rêve	contempla-
	tif	de	Byron	de	l'extase	symbolique	de	Poe,	en	voyant	l'interprétation	que	ce
	dernier	donne	dans	ses	Stances	(Works,	X,	p.	d22)	de	quatre	vers	de	Vile.


158
	BUTLER'S	POEMS.
	From	whose	corrupted	flesh	that	breed
	Of	vermin	did	at	first	proceed	:
	So,	ere	the	storm	of	war	broke	out,
	Religion	spawn'd	a	various	rout
	Of	petulant	capricious	sects,
	The	maggots	of	corrupted	texts,
	That	first	run	all	religion	down,
	And	after	every	swarm	its	own	:
	For	as	the	Persian	magi	once
	Upon	their	mothers	got	their	sons,
	That	were	incapable	t'	enjoy
	That	empire	any	other	way,
	So	Presbyter	begot	the	other
	Upon	the	Good	Old	Cause,	his	mother,
	Then	bore	them,	like	the	Devil's	dam,
	Whose	son	and	husband	are	the	same	;
	And	yet	no	natural	tie	of	blood,
	Nor	interest	for	the	common	good,
	Could,	when	their	profits	interfer'd,
	Get	quarter	for	each	other's	beard	:
	For	when	they	thriv'd	they	never	fadg'd,
	But	only	by	the	ears	engag'd	;
	Like	dogs	that	snarl	about	a	bone,
	And	play	together	when	they	've	none	j
	As	by	their	truest	characters,
	Their	constant	actions,	plainly	appears.
	Rebellion	now	began,	for	lack
	Of	zeal	arid	plunder,	to	grow	slack	;
	The	cause	and	covenant	to	lessen,
	And	Providence	to	be	out	of	season	:
	For	now	there	was	no	more	to	purchase
	O'	th'	king's	revenue,	and	the	church's,
	But	all	divided,	shar'd,	and	gone,
	That	us'd	to	urge	the	brethren	on	;
	Which	forc'd	the	stubborn'st	for	the	cause,
	To	cross	the	cudgel^	to	the	laws,
	That	what	by	breaking	them	they	'ad	gain'd,
	By	their	support	might	be	maintain'd	;
	Like	thieves,	that	in	a	hemp-plot	ie,
	Secur'd	against	the	Hue-and-cry;
	For	Presbyter	and	Independent
	Were	now	turn'd	plaintiff	and	defendant	;
	Laid	out	their	apostolic	functions
	On	carnal	orders	and	injunctions;
	And	all	their	precious	gifts	and	graces
	On	outlawries	and	Scire	facias	;
	At	Michael's	term	had	many	trial,
	Worse	than	the	Dragon	and	St.	Michael,
	Where	thousands	fell,	in	shape	of	fees,
	Into	the	bottomless	abyss.
	For	when,	like	brethren,	and	like	friends,
	They	came	to	share	their	dividends,
	And	every	partner	to	possess
	His	church	and	state	joint-purchases,
	In	which	the	ablest	saint,	and	best,
	Was	nam'd	in	trust	by	all	the	rest
	To	pay	their	money,	and,	instead
	Of	every	brother,	pass	the	deed,
	He	straight	converted	all	his	gifts
	To	pious	frauds	and	holy	shifts,
	And	settled	all	the	other	shares
	Upon	his	outward	man	and	's	heirs	;
	Held	all	they	claim'd	as	forfeit	lands
	Deliver'd	up	into	his	hands,
	And	pass'd	upon	his	conscience
	By	pre-entail	of	Providence	;
	Impeach'd	the	rest	for	reprobates,
	That	had	no	titles	to	estates,
	But,	by	their	spiritual	attaints,
	Degraded	from	the	right	of	saints.
	This	being	reveal'd,	they	now	begun
	With	law	and	conscience	to	fall	on,
	And	laid	about	as	hot	and	brain-sick
	As	th'	Utter	barrister	of	Swanswick	*	;
	Engag'd	with	money-bags,	as	bold
	As	men	with	sand-bags	did	of	old,
	That	brought	the	lawyers	in	more	fees
	Than	all	unsanctify'd	trustees	j
	Till	he	who	had	no	more	to	show
	P	th'case,	receiv'd	the	overthrow	;
	Or,	both	sides	having	had	the	worst,
	They	parted	as	they	met	at	first.
	Poor	presbyter	was	now	reduc'd,
	Secluded,	and	cashier'd,	and	chous'd	!
	Turn'd	out,	and	excommunicate
	From	all	affairs	of	church	and	state,
	Reform'd	to	a	reformado	saint,
	And	glad	to	turn	itinerant,
	To	stroll	and	teach	from	town	to	town,
	And	those	he	had	taught	up	teach	down,
	And	make	those	uses	serve	again
	Against	the	new-enlighten'd	men,
	As	fit	as	when	at	first	they	were
	Reveal'd	against	the	cavalier	;
	Damn	anabaptist	and	fanatic
	As	pat	as	popish	and	prelatic	;
	And	with	as	little	variation,
	To	serve	for	any	sect	i'	th'	nation.
	The	Good	Old	Cause,	which	some	believe
	To	be	the	Devil	that	tempted	Eve
	With	knowledge,	and	does	still	invite
	The	world	to	mischief	with	new	light,
	Had	store	of	money	in	her	purse,
	When	he	took	her	for	better	or	worse	:
	But	now	was	grown	deform'd	and	poor,
	And	fit	to	be	turn'd	out	of	door.
	The	independents	(whose	first	station
	Was	in	the	rear	of	reformation,
	A	mongrel	kind	of	church-dragoons,
	That	serv'd	for	horse	and	foot	at	once,
	And	in	the	saddle	of	one	steed
	The	Saracen	and	Christian	rid,
	Were	free	of	every	spiritual	order,
	To	preach,	and	fight,	and	pray,	and	murder)
	No	sooner	got	the	start,	to	lurch
	Both	disciplines,	of	war	and	church,
	And	providence	enough	to	run
	The	chief	commanders	of	them	down,
	But	carry'	d	on	the	war	against
	The	common	enemy	o'	th'	saints,
	And	in	a	while	prevail'd	so	far,
	To	win	of	them	the	game	of	war,
	And	be	at	liberty	once	more
	T'	attack	themselves	as	they	'ad	before.
	For	now	there	was	no	foe	in	arms
	T'	unite	their	factions	with	alarms,
	But	all	reduc'd	and	overcome,
	Except	their	worst	themselves	at	home,
	Who	'ad	compass'd	all	they	pray'd,	and	swore,
	And	fought,	and	preach'd,	and	plunder'd	for,
	Subdued	the	nation,	church,	and	state,
	Arid	all	things	but	their	laws	and	hate	;
	But	when	they	came	to	treat	and	transact,'
	And	share	the	spoil	of	all	they	'ad	ransackt,
	To	botch	up	what	they	'ad	torn	and	rent,
	Religion	and	the	government,
	They	met	no	sooner,	but	prepar'd
	To	pull	down	all	the	war	had	spar'd	j
	1	W.	Prynne,	a	voluminous	writer.


THE	HIND	AND	THE	PANTHER.
	583
	For	those	whom	God	to	ruin	has	dcsign'd,
	He	fits	for	fate,	and	first	destroys	their	mind.
	"	New	doubts	indeed	they	daily	strove	to	raise,
	Suggested	dangers,	interpos'd	delays	;
	And	emissary	Pigeons	had	in	store,
	Such	as	the	Meccan	prophet	us'd	of	yore,
	To	whisper	counsels	in	their	patron's	ear;
	And	veil'd	their	false	advice	with	zealous	fear.
	The	master	smil'd,	to	see	them	work	in	vain,
	To	wear	him	out,	and	make	an	idle	reign	:
	He	saw,	but	suffer'd	their	protractive	arts,
	And	strove	by	mildness	to	reduce	their	hearts	:
	But	they	abus'd	that	grace	to	make	allies,
	And	fondly	clos'd	with	former	enemies,
	For	fools	are	doubly	fools,	endeavouring	to	be	wise.
	"	After	a	grave	consult	what	course	were	best,
	One,	more	mature	in	folly	than	the	rest,
	Stood	up,	and	told	them	with	his	head	aside,
	'That	desperate	cures	must	be	to	desperate	ills
	apply'd	:
	And	therefore,	since	their	main	impending	fear
	Was	from	th'	increasing	race	of	Chanticleer,
	Some	potent	bird	of	prey	they	ought	to	find,
	A	foe	profess'd	to	him,	and	all	his	kind	:
	Some	haggard	Hawk,	who	had	her	eyry	nigh,
	Well	pounc'd	to	fasten,	and	well	wing'd	to	fly	:
	One	they	might	trust,	their	common	wrongs	to
	wreak	:
	The	Musquet	and	the	Coystrel	were	too	weak,
	Too	fierce	the	Falcon	;	but,	above	the	rest,
	The	noble	Buzzard	ever	pleas'	d	me	best;
	Of	small	renown,	'tis	true	;	for,	not	to	lie,
	We	call	him	but	a	Hawk	by	courtesy.
	I	know	he	hates	the	pigeon-house	and	farm,
	And	more,	in	time	of	war,	has	done	vis	harm	:
	But	all	his	hate	on	trivial	points	depends	:
	Give	up	our	forms,	and	we	shall	soon	be	friends.
	For	pigeon's	flesh	he	seems	not	much	to	care;
	Cramm'd	chickens	are	a	more	delicious	fare.
	On	this	high	potentate,	without	delay,
	I	wish	you	would	confer	the	sovereign	sway	:
	Petition	him	t'	accept	the	government,
	And	let	a	splendid	embassy	be	sent.'
	"	This	pithy	speech	prevailed;	and	all	agreed,
	Old	enmities	forgot,	the	Buzzard	should	succeed.
	"	Their	welcome	suit	was	granted	soon	as	heard,
	His	lodgings	furnish'd,	and	a	train	prepar'd,
	With	B's	upon	their	breast,	appointed	for	his	guard.
	He	came,	and,	crown'd	with	great	solemnity,
	'	God	save	king	Buzzard	!'	was	the	general	cry.
	"	A	portly	prince,	and	goodly	to	the	sight,
	He	seem'd	a	son	of	Anach	for	his	height	:
	Like	those	whom	stature	did	to	crowns	prefer	:
	Black-brow'd,	and	bluff,	like	Homer's	Jupiter	:
	Broad-back'd,	and	brawny-built	for	love's	delight	;
	A	prophet	form'd	to	make	a	female	proselyte.
	A	theologue	more	by	need	than	genial	bent;
	By	breeding	sharp,	by	nature	confident.
	Interest	in	all	his	actions	was	discern'd	;
	More	learn'd	than	honest,	more	a	wit	than	learn'd:
	Or	forc'd	by	fear,	or	by	his	profit	led,
	Or	both	conjoin'd,	his	native	clime	he	fled	:
	But	brought	the	virtues	of	his	heaven	along	;
	A	fair	behaviour,	and	a	fluent	tongue.
	And	yet	with	all	his	arts	he	could	not	thrive;
	The	most	unlucky	parasite	alive.
	Loud	praises	to	prepare	his	paths	he	sent,
	And	then	himself	pursued	his	compliment	;
	But,	by	reverse	of	fortune	chas'd	away,
	His	gifts	no	longer	than	their	author	stay	:
	He	shakes	the	dust	against	th'	ungrateful	race,
	And	leaves	the	stench	of	ordures	in	the	place.
	Oft	has	he	flatter'd	and	blasphem'd	the	same	;
	For	in	his	rage	he	spares	no	sovereign's	name	:
	The	hero	and	the	tyrant	change	their	style
	By	the	same	measure	that	they	frown	or	smiU*.
	When	well	receiv'd	by	hospitable	foes,
	The	kindness	he	returns,	is	to	expose	;
	For	courtesies,	though	undeserv'd	and	great,
	No	gratitude	in	felon-	minds	beget	;
	As	tribute	to	his	wit,	the	churl	receives	the	treat.
	His	praise	of	foes	is	venomously	nice	;
	So	touch'd,	it	turns	a	virtue	to	a	vice	:
	'	A	Greek,	and	bountiful,	forewarns	us	twice.	11
	Seven	sacraments	he	wisely	does	disown,
	Because	he	knows	confession	stands	for	one	;
	Where	sins	to	sacred	silence	are	convey'd,
	And	not	for	fear,	or	love,	to	be	betray'd:
	But	he,	uncall'd,	his	patron	to	control,
	Divulg'd	the	secret	whispers	of	his	soul	;
	Stood	forth	th'	accusing	Satan	of	his	crimes,
	And	offer'd	to	the	Moloch	of	the	times.
	Prompt	to	assail,	and	careless	of	defence,
	Invulnerable	in	his	impudence,
	He	dares	the	world	;	and,	eager	of	a	name,
	He	thrusts	about,	and	justles	into	fame.
	Frontless,	and	satire-proof,	he	scowers	the	streets,
	And	runs	an	Indian-muck	at	all	he	meets.	,
	So	fond	of	loud	report,	that	not	to	miss
	Of	being	known,	(his	last	and	utmost	bliss)
	He	rather	would	be	known	for	what	he	is.
	"	Such	was,	and	is,	the	captain	of	the	Test,
	Though	half	his	virtues	are	not	here	express'd	;
	The	modesty	of	fame	conceals	the	rest.
	The	spleenful	Pigeons	never	could	create
	A	prince	more	proper	to	revenge	their	hate	;
	Indeed,	more	proper	to	revenge,	than	save.
	A	king,	whom	in	his	wrath	th'	Almighty	gave	:
	For	all	the	grace	the	landlord	had	allow'd,
	But	made	the	Buzzard	and	the	Pigeons	proud	;
	Gave	time	to	fix	their	friends,	and	to	seduce	the
	crowd.
	They	long	their	fellow-subjects	to	entkral,
	Their	patron's	promise	into	question	call,
	And	vainly	think	he	meant	to	make	them	lords	of	all.
	"	False	fears	their	leaders	fail'd	not	to	suggest,
	As	if	the	Doves	were	to	be	dispossess'd	;
	Nor	sighs,	nor	groans,	nor	gogling	eyes,	did	want;
	For	now	the	Pigeons	too	had	learn'd	to	cant.
	The	house	of	prayer	is	stock'd	with	large	increase;
	Nor	doors	nor	windows	can	contain	the	press	:
	For	birds	of	every	feather	fill	th'	abode;
	Ev'n	atheists	out	of	envy	own	a	God:
	And	reeking	from	the	stews	adulterers	come,
	Like	Goths	and	Vandals	to	demolish	Rome.
	That	Conscience,	which	to	all	their	crimes	was	mute,
	Now	calls	aloud,	and	cries	to	persecute	:
	No	rigour	of	the	laws	to	be	releas'd.
	And	much	the	less,	because	it	was	their	lord's	request	:
	They	thought	it	great	their	sovereign	to	control,
	And	nam'd	their	pride,	nobility	of	soul.
	"	'Tis	true,	the	Pigeons,	and	their	prince	elect,
	Were	short	of	power,	their	purpose	to	effect	:
	But	with	their	quills	did	all	the	hurt	they	could,
	And	cuff'd	the	tender	Chickens	from	their	food	:
	And	much	the	Buzzard	in	their	cause	did	stir,
	Though	naming	not	the	patron,	to	infer
	With	all	respect,	he	was	a	gross	idolater.
	"	But	when	th'	imperial	owner	did	espy,
	That	thus	they	turn'd	bis	grace	to	villainy,


PALAMON	AND	ARC1TE.
	The	town	besieg'cl,	and	how	much	blood	it	cost
	The	female	army	and	th'	Athenian	host	;
	The	spousalsof	Hippolita,	the	queen	;
	What	tilts	and	turneys	at	the	feast	were	seen	;
	The	storm	at	their	return,	the	ladies'	fear:
	But	these,	and	other	things,	I	must	forbear.
	The	field	is	spacious	I	design	to	sow,
	With	oxen	far	unfit	to	draw	the	plow	:
	The	remnant	of	my	tale	is	of	a	length
	To	tire	your	patience,	and	to	waste	my	strength
	And	trivial	accidents	shall	be	forborn,
	That	others	may	have	time	to	take	their	turn	;
	As	was	at	first	enjoin'd	us	by	mine	host,
	That	he	whose	tale	is	best,	and	pleases	most,
	Should	win	his	supper	at	our	common	cost.
	And	therefore	where	1	left,	I	will	pursue
	This	ancient	story,	\rhether	false	or	true,
	In	hope	it	may	be	mended	with	a	new.
	The	prince	I	mentioned,	full	of	high	renown,
	In	this	array	drew	near	th'	Athenian	town	;
	When,	in	his	pomp	and	utmost	of	his	pride,
	Marching,	he	chanc'd	to	cast	his	eye	aside,
	And	saw	a	choir	of	mourning	dames,	who	lay
	By	two	and	two	across	the	common	way	:
	At	his	approach	they	rais'd	a	rueful	cry,	[high
	And	beat	their	breasts,	and	held	their	hands	on
	Creeping	and	crying,	till	they	seiz'd	at	last
	His	courser's	bridle,	and	his	feet	embraced.
	"	Tell	me,"	said	Theseus,	"	what	and	whence
	you	are,
	And	why	this	funeral	pageant	you	prepare	?
	Is	this	the	welcome	of	my	worthy	deeds,
	To	meet	my	triumph	in	ill-omen'd	weeds	?
	Or	envy	you	my	praise,	and	would	destroy
	With	grief	my	pleasures,	and	pollute	my	joy	?
	Or	are	you	injur'd,	and	demand	relief?
	Name	your	request,	and	I	will	ease	your	grief."
	The	mostin	years	of	all	the	mourning	train
	Began	(but	swooned	first	away	for	pain);
	Then	scarce	recover'd	spoke	:	"	Nor	envy	we
	Thy	great	renown,	nor	grudge	thy	victory;
	>Tis	thine,	O	king,th'	afflicted	to	redress,
	And	Fame	has	fill'd	the	world	with	thy	success	:
	We,	wretched	women,	sue	for	that	alone,
	Which	of	thy	goodness	is	refus'd	to	none;
	Let	fall	some	drops	of	pity	on	our	grief,
	If	what	we	beg	be	just,	and	we	deserve	relief:
	For	none	of	us,	who	now	thy	grace	implore,
	But	held	the	rank	of	sovereign	queen	before	;
	Till,	thanks	to	giddy	Chance,	which	never	bears,
	That	mortal	bliss	should	last	for	length	of	years,
	She	cast	us	headlong	from	our	high	estate,
	And	here	in	hope	of	thy	return	we	wait	-.
	And	long	have	waited	in	the	temple	nigh,
	Built	to	the	gracious	goddess	Clemency,	[bears,
	But	reverence	thou	the	power	whose	name	it
	Believe	th'	oppress'd,	and	wipe	the	widow's	tears.
	I,	wretched	I,	have	other	fortune	seen,
	The	wife	of	Capaneus,	and	once	a	queen	:
	At	Thebes	he	fell,	curst	be	the	fatal	day	!
	And	all	the	rest	thou	seest	in	this	array
	To	make	their	moan,	their	lords	in	battle	lost
	Before	that	town,	besieg'd	by	our	confederate
	host:
	But	Creon,	old	and	impiovis,	who	commands
	The	Theban	city,	and	usurps	the	lands,
	Denies	the	rites	of	funeral	fires	to	those
	Whose	breathless	bodies	yet	he	calls	his	foes.
	Unburn'd,	unbury'd,on	a	heap	tfyey	lie	;
	Such	is	their	fate,	and	such	his	tyranny	;
	No	friend	has	leave	to	bear	away	tlje	dead,
	But	with	their	lifeless	limbs	his	hounds	are	fed."
	At	this	she	shriek'd	aloud	;	the	mournful	train
	Echo'd	her	grief,	and,	groveling	on	the	plain,
	With	groans,	and	hands	upheld,	to	move	his	mind,
	Besought	his	pity	to	their	helpless	kind	!
	The	prince	was	touch'd,	his	tears	began	to	flow,
	And,	as	his	tender	heart	would	break	in	two,
	He	sigh'd,	and	could	not	but	their	fate	deplore,
	So	wretched	now,	so	fortunate	before.
	Then	lightly	from	his	lofty	steed	he	flew,
	And	raising,	one	by	one,	the	suppliant	crew,
	To	comfort	each,	full	solemnly	he	swore,
	That	by	the	faith	which	knights	to	knighthood
	And	whate'er	else	to	chivalry	belongs,	[bore,
	He	would	not	cease,	till	he	reveng'd	their	wrongs	:
	That	Greece,	should	see	perform'd	what	he	de-
	And	cruel	Creon	find	his	just	reward.	[clar'd	j
	He	said	no	more,	but,	shunning	all	delay,	.	*
	Rode	on	;	nor	enter'd	Athens	on	his	way	:
	But	left	his	sister	and	his	queen	behind,
	And	wav'd	his	royal	banner	in	the	wind	:
	Where	in	an	argent	field	the	god	of	war
	Was	drawn	triumphant	on	his	iron	car;
	Red	was	his	sword,	and	shield,	and	whole	attire,
	And	all	the	godhead	seem'd	to	glow	with	fire	;
	Ev'n	the	ground	glitter'd	where	the	standard	flew,
	And	the	green	grass	was	dy'd	to	sanguine	hue.
	High	on	his	pointed	lance	his	pennon	bore
	His	Cretan	fight,	the	conqucr'd	Minotaur	:
	The	soldiers	shout	around	with	generous	rage,
	And	in	that	victory	their	own	presage.
	He	prais'd	their	ardour	;	inly	pleas'd	to	see
	His	host	the	flower	of	Grecian	chivalry.
	All	day	he	march'd;	and	alith'	ensuing	night
	And	saw	the	city	with	returning	light.
	The	process	of	the	war	I	need	not	tell,
	How	Theseus	conquered,	and	how	Creon	fell	:
	Or	after,	how	by	storm	the	walls	were	won,
	Or	how	the	victor	sack'd	and	burn'd	the	town	:
	How	to	the	ladies	he	restor'd	again
	The	bodies	of	their	lords	in	battle	slain	:
	And	with	what	ancient	rites	they	were	interr'd;
	AH	these	to	fitter	times	shall	be	deferr'd	:
	I	spare	the	widows	tears,	their	woeful	cries,
	And	howling	at	their	husband's	obsequies	;
	How	Theseus	at	these	funerals	did	assist,
	And	with	what	gifts	the	mourning	dames	dismiss'd.
	Thus	when	the	victor	chief	had	Creon	slain,
	And	conquer'd	Thebes,	he	pitch'd	upon	the	plain
	Elis	mighty	camp,	and,	when	the	day	return'd,
	The	country	wasted,	and	the	hamlets	burn'd,
	And	left	the	pillagers,	to	rapine	bred,
	Without	control	to	strip	and	spoil	the	dead.
	There,	in	a	heap	of	slain,	among	the	rest
	Two	youthful	knights	they	found	beneath	a	load
	oppress'd
	Of	slaughtered	foes,	whom	first	to	death	they	sent,
	The	trophies	of	their	strength,	a	bloody	mo
	nument.
	3oth	fair,	and	both	of	royal	Wood	they	seem'J,
	Whom	kinsmen	to	the	crown	the	heralds	deem	r	d;
	That	day	in	equal	arms	they	fought	for	fame	;
	Their	swords,	their	shields,	their	surcoats,	were
	the	same.
	Close	by	each	other	laid,	they	press'd	the	ground,
	Their	manly	bosoms	pierc'd	with	many	a	griesly
	wound	;
	Nor	well	alive,	nor	wholly	dead	they	were,
	But	some	faint	signs	of	feeble	life	appear	:


22
	DRYDEN'S	POEMS.
	The	wandering	breath	was	on	the	wing	to	part,
	Weak	was	the	pulse,	and	hardly	heav'd	the	heart.
	These	two	were	sisters'	sons	;	and	Arcite	one,
	Much	fam'din	fields,	with	valiant	Palamon.
	From	these	their	costly	arms	the	spoilers	rent,
	And	softly	both	convey'd	to	Theseus'	tent	:
	Whom,	known	of	Creoti's	line,	and	cur'd	with
	care,
	He	to	his	city	sent	as	prisoners	of	the	war,
	Hopeless	of	ransom,	and	condemn'd	to	lie
	In	durance,	doom'd	a	lingering	death	to	die.
	Thi*	done,	he	march'd	away	with	warlike	sound,
	And	to	his	Athens	turn'd	with	laurels	crown'd,
	Where	happy	long	he	liv'd,	much	lov'd,	and
	more	renown'd.
	But	in	a	tower,	and	never	to	be	loos'd,
	The	woeful	captive	kinsmen	are	enclos'd.
	Thus	year	by	year	they	pass,	and	day	by	day,
	Till	once,	'twas	on	the	morn	of	cheerful	May,
	The	young	Emilia,	fairer	to	be	seen
	Than	the	fair	lily	on	the	flowery	green,
	More	fresh	than	May	herself	in	blossoms	new,
	For	with	the	rosy	colour	strove	her	hue,
	Wak'd,	as	her	custom	was,	before	the	day,
	To	do	th'	observance	due	to	sprightly	May	:
	For	sprightly	May	commands	our	youth	to	keep
	The	vigils	of	her	night,	and	breaks	their	sluggard
	sleep	;
	Each	gentle	breast	with	kindly	warmth	she	moves;
	Inspires	new	flames,	revives	extinguish'd	loves.
	In	this	remembrance	Emily,	ere	day,
	Arose,	and	dress'd	herself	in	rich	array	;
	Fresh	as	the	month,	and	as	the	morning	fair;
	A	down	her	shoulders	fell	her	length	of	hair	:
	A	ribband	did	the	braided	tresses	bind,
	The	rest	was	loose,	and	wanton'd	in	the	wind	:
	Aurora	had	but	newly	chas'd	the	night,
	And	purpled	o'er	the	sky	with	blushing	light,
	IV	he	n	to	the	garden	walk	she	took	her	way,
	To	sport	and	trip	along	in	cool	of	day,
	And	offer	maiden	vows	in	honour	of	the	May.
	At	every	turn,	she	made	a	little	stand,
	And	thrust	among	the	thorns	her	lily	hand
	To	draw	the	rose	;	and	every	rose	she	drew,
	She	shook	the	stalk,	ana	brush'd	away	the	dew	:
	Then	party-colour'd	flowers	of	white	and	red
	She	wove,	to	make	a	garland	for	her	head	:
	This	clone,	she	sung	and	carol'd	orit	so	clear,
	That	men	and	angels	might	rejoice	to	hear	:
	Ev'n	wondering	Philomel	forgot	to	sing,
	And	learn'd	from	her	to	welcome-in	the	Spring.	'
	The	tower,	of	which	before	was	mention	made,
	Within	whose	keep	the	captive	knights	were	laid,
	Built	of	a	large	extent,	and	strong	withal,
	Was	one	partition	of	the	palace	wall	:
	The	garden	was	enclos'd	within	the	square,
	Where	young	Emilia	took	the	morning	air.
	It	happeu'd	Palamon,	the	prisoner	knight,
	Restless	for	woe,	arose	before	the	light,
	And	with	his	jailor's	leave	desir'd	to	breathe
	An	air	more	wholesome	than	the	damps	beneath	:
	This	granted,	to	tlje	tower	he	took	his	way,
	Chear'd	with	the	promise	of	a	glorious	day	:
	Then	cast	a	languishing	regard	around,
	And	saw	with	hateful	eyes	the	temples	crown'd
	With	golden	spires,	and	all	the	hostile	ground.
	He	sigh'd,	and	turn'd	his	eyes,	because	he	knew
	'Twas	but	a	larger	gaol	he	had	in	view	:
	Then	look'd	below,	and,	from	the	castle's	height,
	Beheld	a	nearer	and	more	pleasing	sight,
	The	garden,	which	before	he	had	not	seen,
	In	Spring's.	new	livery	clad	of	white	and	green,
	Fresh	flowers	in	wide	parterres,	and	shady	walks
	between.
	This	view'd,	but	not	enjoy'd,	with	arms	across
	He	stood,	reflecting	on	his	country's	loss	;
	Himself	an	object	of	the	public	scorn,
	And	often	wish'd	he	never	had	been	born.
	At	last,	for	so	his	destiny	required,
	With	walking	giddy,	and	with	thinking	tirM,
	He	through	a	little	window	cast	his	sight,
	Though	thick	of	bars,	that	gave	a	scanty	light	:
	But	ev'n	that	glimmering	serv'd	him	to	descry
	Th'	inevitable	charms	of	Emily.	[smart,
	Scarce	had	he	seen,	but,	seiz'd	with	sudden,	v
	Stung	to	the	quick,	he	felt	it	at	his	heart	;
	Struck	blind	with	over-powering	light	he	stood,
	Then	started	back	amaz'd,	and	cry'd	aloud.
	Young	At	cite	heard	;	and	up	he	ran	with	haste,
	To	help	his	friend,	and	in	his	arms	embrac'd	;
	And	ask'd	him	why	he	look'd	so	deadly	wan,
	And	whence	and	how	his	change	of	cheer	began,
	Or	who	had	done	th'	offence	?	"	But	if,"	said	he,
	"	Your	grief	alone	is	hard	captivity,
	For	love	of	Heaven,	with	patience	undergo
	A	cureless	ill,	since	Fate	will	have	it	so	:
	So	stood	our	horoscope	in	chains	to	lie,
	And	Saturn	in	the	dungeon	of	the	sky,
	Or	other	baleful	aspect,	rul'd	our	birth,
	When	all	the	friendly	stars	were	under	Earth	:
	Whate'er	betides,	by	Destiny	'tis	done	;	[shun."
	And	better	bear	like	men,	than	vainly	seek	to
	"	Nor	of	my	bonds,"	said	Palamon	again,
	Nor	of	unhappy	planets	1	complain	;
	But	when	my	mortal	anguish	caus'd	me	cry,
	That	moment	I	was	hurt	through	either	eye	;
	Pierc'd	with	a	random	shaft,	I	faint	away,
	And	perish	with	insensible	decay	:
	A	glance	of	some	new	goddess	gave	the	wound,
	Whom,	like	Acteou,	unaware	I	found.
	Look	how	she	walks	along	yon	shady	space,
	Not	Juno	moves	with	more	majestic	grace	;
	And	all	the	Cyprian	queen	is	in	her	face.
	If	thou	art	Venus	(for	thy	charms	confess
	That	face	was	form'd	in	Heaven,	nor	art	thou	less;
	Disguis'd	in	habit,	undisguis'd	in	shape)
	O	help	us	captives	from	our	chains	t'	escape;
	But	if	our	doom	be	past,	in	bonds	to	lie
	For	life,	and	in	a	loathsome	dungeon	die,
	Then	be	thy	wrath	appeas'd	with	our	disgrace,
	And	show	compassion	to	the	Theban	race,
	Oppress'd	by	tyrant	power^	While	yet	he
	Arcite	on	Ernily	had	fix'd	his	look	;	-"	[spoke,
	The	fatal	dart	a	ready	passage	found,
	And	deep	within	his	heart	infix'd	the	wound	:
	So	that	if	Palamon	were	wounded	sore,
	Arcite	was	hurt	as	much	as	he,	or	more	:
	Then	from	his	inmost	soul	he	sigh'd,	and	said,
	"	The	beauty	I	behold	has	struck	me	dead	:
	Unknowingly	she	strikes,	and	kills	by	chance	;
	Poison	is	in	her	eyes,	and	death	in	every	glance.
	O,	1	must	ask,	nor,	ask	alone,	but	move
	Her	rnind	to	mercy,	or	must	die	for	love."
	Thus	Arcite	:	and	thus	Palamon	replies,
	(Eager	his	tone,	and	ardent	were	his	eyes.)
	"	Speak'st	thou	in	earnest,	or	in	jesting	vein	?"
	"	Jesting,"	said	Arcite,	"	suits	but	ill	with	pain."
	"	It	suits	far	worse"	(said	Palamon	again,	[weigh,
	And	bent	his	brows)	"	with	men	who	honour
	Their	faith	to	break,	their	friendship	to	betray	;


PALAMON	AND	ARCITE.
	Sure	to	be	slain,	but	death	is	my	desire,
	Since	in	Emilia's	sight	I	shall	expire."
	By	chance	he	spy'd	a	mirror	while	he	spoke,
	And	gazing	there	beheld	his	alter	1	d	look	;
	Wondering,	he	saw	his	features	and	his	hue
	So	much	were	chang'd,	that	scarce	himself	he
	knew.
	A	sudden	thought	then	starting	in	his	mind,
	"	Since	I	in	Arcite	cannot	Arcite	find,
	The	world	may	search	in	vain	with	all	their	eyes,
	But	never	penetrate	through	this	disguise.
	Thanks	to	the	change	which	grief	and	sickness
	give,
	In	low	estate	1	may	securely	live,
	And	see	unknown	my	mistress	day	by	day."
	He	said	;	and	cloth'd	himself	in	coarse	array	:
	A	labouring	hind	in	show,	then	forth	he	went,
	And	to	th'	Athenian	towers	his	journey	bent	:
	One	squire	attended	in	the	same	disguise,
	Made	conscious	of	his	master's	enterprise.
	Arriv'd	at	Athens,	soon	he	came	to	court,
	Unknown,	unquestion'd,	in	that	thick	resort	:
	Proffering	for	hire	his	service	at	the	gate,
	To	drudge,	draw	water,	and	to	run	or	wait.
	So	fair	befell	him,	that	for	little	gain
	He	serv'd	at	first	Emilia's	chamberlain	;
	And,	watchful	all	advantages	to	spy,
	Was	still	at	hand,	and	in	his	master's	eye	;
	And	as	his	bones	were	big,	and	sinews	strong,
	Refus'd	no	toil,	that	could	to	slaves	belong	;
	But	from	deep	wells	with	engines	water	drew,
	And	ns'd	his	noble	hands	the	wood	to	hew.
	Hepass'd	a	year	at	least	attending	thus
	On	Emily,	and	call'd	Philostratus.
	But	never	was	there	man	of	his	degree
	So	much	esteem'd,	so	well	belov'd	as	-he.
	So	gentle	of	condition	was	he	known,
	That	through	the	court	his	courtesy	was	blown	:
	All	think	him	worthy	of	a	greater	place,
	And	recommend	him	to	the	royal	grace,
	That,	exercis'd	within	a	higher	sphere,
	His	virtues	more	conspicuous	might	appear.
	Thus	by	the	general	voice	was	Arcite	prais'd,
	And	by	great	Theseus	to	high	favour	rais'd	:
	Among	his	menial	servants	first	enroll'd,
	And	largely	entertain'd	with	sums	of	gold	:
	Besides	what	secretly	from	Thebes	was	sent,
	Of	his	own	income,	and	his	annual	rent:
	This	well	employ'd,	he	purchas'd	friends	and
	fame,
	But	cautiously	conceal'd	from	whence	it	came.
	Thus	for	three	years	he	liv'd	with	large	increase,
	In	arms	of	honour,	and	esteem	in	peace	;
	To	Theseus'	person	he	was	ever	near	;
	And	Theseus	for	his	virtues	held	him	dear.
	PALAMON	AND	ARCITE:
	OR	THE	KNIGHT'S	TALE.
	BOOK	II.
	HILE	Arcite	lives	in	bliss,	the	story	turns
	Where	hopeless	Palamon	in	prison	mourns.
	For	six	long	years	immur'd,	the	captive	knight
	Had	dragg'd	his	chains,	and	scarcely	seen	the
	light	:
	Lost	liberty,	and	love,	at	once	he	bore	:
	His	prison	pain'd	him	much,	his	passion	more	:
	Nor	dares	he	hope	his	fetters	to	remove,
	Nor	ever	wishes	to	he	free	from	love.
	But	when	the	sixth	revolving	year	was	fun,
	And	May	within	the	Twins	receiv'd	the	Sun,
	Were	it	by	Chance,	or	forceful	Destiny,
	Which	forms	in	causes	first	whate'er	shall	be,
	Assisted	by	a	friend,	one	moonless	night,
	This	Palamon	from	prison	took	his	flight	:
	A	pleasant	beverage	he	prepar'd	before
	Of	wine	and	honey,	mix'd	with	added	store
	Of	opium	;	to	his	keeper	this	he	brought,
	Who	swallow'd	unaware	the	sleepy	draught,
	And	snor'd	secure	till	morn,	his	senses	bound
	In	slumber,	and	in	long	oblivion	drown'd.
	Short	was	the	night,	and	careful	Palamon
	Sought	the	next	covert	ere	the	rising	Sun.
	A	thick	spread	forest	near	the	city	lay,
	To	this	with	lengthen'd	strides	he	took	bis	way
	(For	far	toe	could	not	fly,	and	fear'd	the	day).
	Safe	from	pursuit,	he	meant	to	shun	the	light,
	Till	the	brown	shadows	of	the	friendly	night
	To	Thebes	might	favour	his	intended	flight.
	When	to	his	country	come,	his	next	design
	Was	all	the	Theban	race	in	arms	to	join,
	And	war	on	Theseus,	till	he	lost	his	life,
	Or	won	the	beauteous	Emily	to	wife.
	Thus	while	his	thoughts	the	lingering	day	be
	guile,
	To	gentle	Arcite	let	us	turn	our	style	;
	Who	little	dreamt	how	nigh	he	was	to	care,
	Till	treacherous	Fortune	caught	him	in	the	snare.
	The	morning-lark,	the	messenger	of	Day,
	Saluted	in	her	song	the	morning	gray	;
	And	soon	the	Sun	arose	with	beams	so	bright,
	That	all	th'	horizon	laugh'd	to	see	the	joyous
	,	sight;
	He	with	his	tepid	rays	the	rose	renews,
	And	licks	the	drooping	leaves,	and	tlries	the
	dews	;
	When	Arcite	left	his	bed,	resolv'd	to	pay
	Observance	to	the	month	of	merry	May	:
	Forth	on	his	fiery	steed	betimes	he	rode,
	That	scarcely	prints	the	turf	on	which	he-trod	:
	At	ease	he	seem'd,	and,	prancing	o'er	the	plains,
	Turn'd	only	to	the	grove	his	horse's	reins,
	The	grove	I	nam'd	before	;	and,	lighted	there,
	A	woodbine	garland	sought	to	crown	his	hair	;
	Then	turn'd	his	face	against	the	rising	day,
	And	rais'd	his	voice	to	welcome	in	the	May.
	"	For	thee,	sweet	month,	the	groves	green
	liveries	wear,
	If	not	the	first,	the	fairest	of	the	year	:
	For	thee	the	Graces	lead	the	dancing	Hours,
	A	nd	Nature's	ready	pencil	paints	the	flowers	:
	When	thy	short	reign	is	past,	the	feverish	Sun
	The	sultry	tropic	fears,	and	moves	more	slowly	on.
	So	may	thy	tender	blossoms	fear	no	blight,
	Nor	goats	with	venom'd	teeth	thy	tendrils	bite,
	As	thou	shalt	guide	my	wandering	feet	tq	find
	The	fragrant	greens	I	seek,	my	brows	to	bind."
	His	vows	address'd,	within	the	grove	he
	stray'd,
	Till	Fate,	or	Fortune,	near	the	place	convey'd
	His	steps	where	secret	Palamon	was	laid.
	Full	little	thought	of	him	the	gentle	knight,
	Who,	flying	death,	had	there	conceal'd	his	flight,
	In	brakes	and	brambles	hid,	and	shunning	mortal
	sight	:


DRYDEN'S	POEMS.
	.And	less	he	knew	him	for	his	hated	foe,
	But	fear'd	him	as	a	man	he	did	not	know.
	But	as	it	has	been	said	of	ancient	years,
	That	fields	are	full	of	eyes,	and	woods	have	ears	;
	For	this	the	wise	are	ever	on	their	guardj
	For,	unforeseen,	they	say,	is	uuprepar'd.
	Uiicautious	Arcite	thought	himself	alone,
	And	less	than	all	suspected	Palamon,
	Who,	listening,	heard	him,	while	he	search'd	the
	grove,
	And	loudly	sung	his	roundelay	of	love	:
	But	on	the	sudden	stopp'd,	and	silent	stood,
	As	lovers	often	muse,	and	change	their	mood	;
	Now	high	as	Heaven,,	and	then	as	low	as	Hell	;
	Now	up,	now	down,	as	buckets	in	a	well	:
	For	Venus,	like	her	day,	will	change	her	cheer,
	And	seldom	shall	we	see	a	Friday	clear.
	Thus	Arcite,	having	sung,	with	alter'd	hue
	Sunk	on	the	ground,	and	from	his	bosom	drew
	A	desperate	sigh,	accusing	Heaven	and	Fate,
	And	angry	Juno's	unrelenting	hate.
	"	Curs'd	be	the	day	when	first	I	did	appear	;
	Let	it	be	blotted	from	the	calendar,
	Lest	it	pollute	the	month,	s	and	poison	all	the
	year.
	Still	will	the	jealous	queen	pursue	our	race	?
	Cadmus	is	dead,	the	Theban	city	was	:
	Yet	ceases	not	her	hate	:	fur	all	who	come
	From	Cadmus	are	involv'd	in	Cadmus'	doom.
	1	suffer	for	my	blood	:	unjust	decree	!
	That	punishes	another's	crime	on	me.
	In	mean	estate	1	serve	my	mortal	foe,
	The	man	who	caused	my	country's	overthrow.
	This	is	not	all	;	for	Juno,	to	my	shame,
	Has	forc'd	me	to	forsake	my	former	name	;
	Arcite	1	was,	Philostratus	1	am.
	That	side	of	Heaven	is	all	my	enemy	:
	Mars	ruin'd	Thebes	:	his	mother	ruin'd	me.
	Of	all	the	royal	race	remains	but	one
	Besides	myself,	the	unhappy	Palamon,
	Whom	Theseus	holds	in	bonds,	and	will	not
	free;
	Without	a	crime,	except	his	kin	to	me.
	Yet	these,	arid	all	the	rest,	I	could	endure	;
	But	love's	a	malady	without	a	cure	;
	Fierce	Love	has	pierc'd	me	with	his	fiery	dart,
	He	fires	within,	and	hisses	at	my	heart.
	Your	eyes,	fair	Emily,	my	fate	pursue	;
	I	suffer	for	the	rest,	I	die	for	you.
	Of	such	a	goddess	no	time	leaves	record,
	Who	burn'd	the	temple	where	she	was	ador'd	:
	And	let	it	burn,	I	never	will	complain,
	Pleas'd	with	my	sufferings,	if	you	knew	my
	pain."
	At	this	a	sickly	qualm	his	heart	assail'd,
	His	ears	ring	inward,	and	his	senses	fail'd.
	No	word	miss'd	Palamon	of	all	he	spoke,
	But	soon	to	deadly	pale	he	chang'd	his	look	:
	He	trembled	every	limb,	and	felt	a	smart,
	As	if	cold	steel	had	glided.	through	his	heart	;
	No	longer	staid,	but,	starting	from	his	place,
	Discovered	stood,	and	show'd	his	hostile	face	:
	"	False	traitor	Arcite,	traitor	to	thy	blood,
	Bound	by	thy	sacred	oath	to	seek	my	good,
	Now	art	thou	found	foresworn,	for	Emily	;
	And	dar'st	attempt	her	love,	for	whom	1	die.
	So	hast	thou	cheated	Theseus	with	a	wile,
	Against	thy	vow,,	returning	to	beguile
	Under	a	borrow'd	name	:	as	false	to	me,
	So	false	thou	art	to	him	vvho	set	thee	free	:
	But	rest	assur'd,	that	either	thou	shalt	die,
	Or	else	renounce	thy	claim	in	Emily:
	For,	though	unarm'd	I	am,	and	(free'd	by	chance)
	Arn	here	without	my	sword,	or	pointed	launce	:
	Hope	not,	base	man,	unquestfon'd	hence	to	go,
	For	I	am	Paiamon,	thy	mortal	foe."
	Arcite,	who	heard	his	tale,	and	knew	the	man,
	His	sword	unsheath'd,	and	fiercely	thus	began	:
	"	Now	by	the	gods	who	govern	Heaven	above,
	AVert	thou	not	weak	with	hunger,	mad	with	love,
	That	word	had	been	thy	last,	or	in	this	grove
	This	hand	should	force	thee	to	renounce	thy	love.*
	The	surety	which	I	gave	thee,	1	defy	:
	Fool,	not.	to	know,	that	love	endures	no	tie,
	And	Jove	but	laughs	at	lovers	perjury.
	Know	1	will	serve	the	fair	in	thy	despight
	But	since	thou	art	my	kinsman,	and	a	knight,
	Here,	have	my	faith,	to	morrow	in	this	grove
	Our	arms	shall	plead	the	titles	of	our	love	:
	And	Heaven	so	help	my	right,	as	1	alone
	Will	come,	and	keep	the	cause	and	quarrel	both
	unknown;
	With	arms	of	proof	both	for	myself	and	theej
	Choose	thou	the	best,	and	leave	the	worst	to	me.
	And,	that	a	better	ease	thou	may'st	abide,
	Bedding	and	cloaths	I	will	this	night	provide,
	And	needful	sustenance,	that	thou	mayst	be
	A	conquest	better	won,	and	worthy	me."
	His	promise	Palamon	accepts	;	but	pray'd,
	To	keep	it	better	than	the	first	he	made.
	Thus	fair	they	parted	till	the	morrow's	dawn,
	For	each	had	laid	his	plighted	faith	to	pawn.
	O	Love!	thou	sternly	dost	thy	power	main
	tain,
	And	wilt	not	bear	a	rival	in	thy	reign,
	Tyrants	and	thou	all	fellowship	disdain.
	This	was	in	Arcite	prov'd,	and	Palamon	;
	Both	in	despair,	yet	each	would	love	alone.
	Arcite	return'd,	and,	as	in	honour	ty'd,
	His	foe	with	bedding	and	with	food	supply'd	;
	Then,	ere	the	day,	two	suits	of	armour	sought,
	Which	borne	before	him	on	his	steed	he	brought	:
	Both	were	of	shining	steel,	and	wrought	so	pure,
	As	might	the	strokes	of	two	such	arms	endure.
	Now,	at	the	time,	and	in	th'	appointed	place,
	The	challenger	and	challenged,	face	to	face,
	Approach	;	each	other	from	afar	they	knew,
	And	from	afar	their	hatred	chang'd	their	hue.
	So	stands	the	Thracian	herdsman	with	his	spear,
	Full	in	the	gap,	and	hopes	the	hunted	bear,
	And	hears	him	rustling	in	the	wood,	and	sees
	His	course	at	distance	by	the	bending	trees,
	And	thinks,	here	comes	my	mortal	enemy,
	And	either	he	must	fall	in	fight,	or	I	:
	This	while	he	thinks,	he	lifts	aloft	hjs	dart	;
	A	generous	chilness	seizes	every	part	;
	The	veins	pour	back	the	blood,	and	fortify	the
	heart.
	Thus	pale	they	meet;	their	eyes	with	fury	burn	;
	None	greets	;	for	none	the	greeting	will	return	:
	But	in	dumb	surliness,	each	arm'd	with	care
	His	foe	profest,	as	brother	of	the	war	:
	Then	both,	no	moment	lost,	at	once	advance
	Against	each	other,	arm'd	with	sword	and	lance:
	They	lash,	they	foin,	they	pass,	they	strive	to
	bore
	Their	corslets,	and	the	thinnest	parts	explore.
	Thus	two	long	hours	in	equal	arms	they	stood,
	And	wounded,	wound	:	till	both	were	bath'd	in
	blood	j


,28
	DRYftEN'S	POEMS.
	"	Offence!	of	what?	to	whom?	who	judg'd	the
	cause	?
	The	prisoner	freed	himself	by	Nature's	laws	:
	Bora	free,	he	sought	his	right	:	the	man	he	freed
	Was	perjur'd,	but	his	love	excus'd	the	deed."
	Thus	pondering,	he	look'd	under	with	his	eyes,
	And	saw	the	women's	tears,	and	heard	their	cries,
	Which	mov'd	compassion	more;	he	shook	his	head,
	And	softly	sighing	to	himself	he	said	:
	"	Curse	on	th'	unpardoning	prince,	whom	tears
	can	draw
	To	no	remorse	;	who	rules	by	lions'	law	;
	And	deaf	to	prayers,	by	no	submission	bow'd,
	Rends	all	alike	;	the	penitent,	and	proud."
	At	this,	with	look	serene,	he	rais'd	his	head	;
	Reason	resum'd	her	place,	and	Passion	fled:
	Then	thus	aloud	he	spoke	:	"	The	power	of	Love,
	In	Eailh,	and	seas,	and	air,	and	Heaven	above,
	Rules,	unresisted,	with	an	awful	nod	;
	By	daily	miracles	declar'd	a	god	:
	He	blinds	the	wise,	gives	eye-sight	to	the	blind	;
	And	moulds	and	stamps	anew	the	lover's	mind.
	Behold	that	Arcite,	and	this	Palamon,
	Freed	from	my	fetters,	and	in	safety	gone,
	What	hinder'd	either	in	their	native	soil
	At	ease	to	reap	the	harvest	of	their	toil;
	But	Love,	their	lord,	did	otherwise	ordain,
	And	brought	them	in	their	own	despite	again,
	To	suffer	death	deserv'd	;	for	well	they	know,
	'Tis	in	my	power,	and	I	their	deadly	foe;
	The	proverb	holds,	that	to	be	wise	and	love,
	Is	hardly	granted	to	the	gods	above.
	See	how	the	madmen	bleed	:	behold	the	gains
	With	which	their	master,	Love,	rewards	their
	For	seven	long	years,	on	duty	every	day,	[pains;
	Lo	their	obedience,	and	their	monarch's	pay	:
	Yet,	as	in	duty	bound,	they	serve	him	on	;
	And,	ask	the	fools,	they	think	it	wisely	done	;
	Nor	ease,	nor	wealth,	nor	life	itself	rega	:d,
	For	'tis	their	maxim,	love	is	love's	reward.
	This	is	not	all	;	the	fair	for	whom	they	strove
	Nor	knew	before,	nor	could	suspect	their	love,
	Nor	thought,	when	she	beheld	the	fight	from	far,
	Her	beauty	was	th'	occasion	of	the	war.
	But	sure	a	general	doom	on	man	is	past,
	And	all	are	fools	and	lovers,	first	or	last	:
	This	both	by	others	and	myself	I	know,
	For	I	have	scrv'd	their	sovereign	long	ago	;
	Oft	have	been	caught	within	the	winding	train
	Of	female	snares,	and	felt	the	lover's	pain,
	And	learn'd	how	far	the	god	can	human	hearts
	constrain.
	To	this	remembrance,	and	the	prayers	of	those
	Who	for	th	1	offending	warriors	interpose,
	1	give	their	forfeit	lives	;	on	this	accord,
	To	do	me	homage	as	their	sovereign	lord	;
	And	as	my	vassals,	to	their	utmost	might,
	Assist	my	person,	and	assert	my	right."	^
	This	freely	sworn,	the	knights	their	grace	obtain'd.
	Then	thus	the	king	his	secret	thoughts	explain'd	:
	"	If	wealth,	or	honour,	or	a	royal	race,
	Or	each,	or	all,	may	win	a	lady's	gruce,
	Then	either	of	you	knights	may	well	deserve
	A	princess	born;	and	such	is	she	you	serve	:
	For	Emily	is	sister	to	the	crown,
	And	but	too	well	to	both	her	beauty	known	:
	But	should	you	combat	till	you	both	were	dead,
	Two	lovers	cannot	share	a	single	bed	:
	As	therefore	both	are	equal	in	degree,
	The	lot	of	both	be	left	to	Destiny,
	Now	hear	th'	award,	and	happy	may	it	prove
	To	her,	and	him	who	best	deserves	her	love	!
	Depart	from	hence	in	peace,	and	free	as	air,
	Search	the	wide	world,	and	where	you	please
	But	on	the	day	when	this	returning	Sun	[repair;
	To	the	same	point	through	every	sign	has	run,
	Then	each	of	you	his	hundred	knights	shall	bring,
	In	royal	lists,	to	fight	before	the	king	;
	And	then	the	knight,	whom	Fate	or	happy	Chance
	Shall	with	his	friends	to	victory	advance,
	And	grace	his	arms	so	far	in	equal	fight,
	From	out	the	bars	to	force	his	opposite,
	Or	kill,	or	make	him	recreant	on	the	plain,
	The	prize	of	valour	and	of	love	shall	gain	;
	The	vanquished	paily	shall	their	claim	release,
	And	tht.;	long	jars	conclude	in	lasting	peace.
	The	charge	be	mine	t'	adorn	the	chosen	ground,
	The	theatre	of	war,	for	champions	so	reuown'd	;
	And	take	the	patron's	place	of	either	knight,
	With	eyes	impartial	to	behold	the	fight;
	And	Heaven	of	me	so	judge,	as	I	shall	judge
	aright.
	If	both	are	satisfied	with	this	accord,
	Swear	by	the	laws	of	knighthood	on	my	sword.''
	Who	now	but	Palamon	exults	with	joy	?
	And	ravish'd	Arcite	seems	to	touch	the	sky:
	The	whole	assembled	troop	was	pleas'd	as	well,
	Extol	th'	award,	and	on	their	knees	they	fell
	To	bless	the	gracious	king.	The	knights,	with
	leave
	Departing	from	the	place,	his	last	commands
	On	Emily	with	equal	ardour	look,	[receive	;
	And	from	her	eyes	their	inspiration	took	:
	From	thence	to	Thebes'	old	walls	pursue	their
	way,
	Each	to	provide	his	champions	for	the	day.
	It	might	be	d<	em'd,	on	our	historian's	part,
	Or	too	much	negligence	or	want	of	art,
	If	he	forgot	the	vast	magnificence
	Of	royal	Theseus,	arid	his	large	expense.
	He	fir:;t	enclos'd	for	lists	a	level	ground,
	The	whole	circumference	a	mile	around	;
	The	form	was	circular;	and	all	without
	A	trench	was	sunk,	to	moat	the	place	about.
	Within,	an	amphitheatre	appear'd,
	Rais'd	in	degrees,	to	sixty	paces	rear'd	;
	That	when	a	man	wus	plac'd	in	one	degree,
	Height	was	allow'd	for	him	above	to	see.
	Eastward	was	built	a	gate	of	marble	white	;
	The	like	adorn'd	the	western	opposite.
	A	nobler	object	than	this	fabric	was,
	Rome	never	saw	:	nor	of	so	vast	a	space	:
	For,	rich	with	spoils	of	many	a	conquer'd	land,
	All	arts	and	ai'tists	Theseus	could	command	:
	Who	sold	for	hire,	or	wrought	for	better	fame,
	The	master-painters,	arid	the	carvers,	came.
	So	rose	within	the	compass	of	the	year
	An	age's	work,	a	glorious	theatre.
	Then	o'er	its	eastern	gate	was	rais'd,	above,
	A	temple,	sacred	to	the	queen	of	love;
	An	altar	stood	below	:	on	either	hand
	A	pi-iest	with	roses	crown'd,	who	held	a	myrtle
	wand.
	The	dome	of	Mars	was	on	the	gate	oppos'd,
	And	on	the	north	a	turret	was	enclos'd,
	Within	the	wall,	of	alabaster	white,
	And	crimson	coral,	for	the	queen	of	night,
	Who	takes	in	sylvan	sports	her	chaste	delight.
	Witljin	these	oratories	might	you	see
	Rich	carvings,	portraitures,	and	imagery	: