To see a commentary note, click on a blue square. To see the Latin text, click on a green square.
OU have, learned reader, the second volume of Musae
Anglicanae: but this is a genuine one, printed by the permission
of
its authors. We concede this praise to that London editor: that he may
turn a shilling at the expense of authors’ reputations, scarce envying
these men who commit works so disfigured and purloined that their very
parents would not recognize their deformed children, or, if they did,
would blush. We trust that these works, thoroughly
polished and perfected, are not displeasing to you, as you have
received inchoate and unrefined stuff so charitably.
It is
nevertheless to be admitted that this work is less than perfect,
inasmuch as it is unadorned by any Cambridge verse. This misfortune is
the more to be attributed to their excessive modesty than to my wishes,
for more than once I have awaited their most outstanding poems, in
vain. For I have read no little of their work with the greatest of
pleasure, and by printing these (had it pleased their authors), not
without honor would the Sheldonian press have performed its offices.
But I have refused to publish any man’s writings unbeknownst to him,
lest I appear to be conferring reputation on the unwilling, and by my
own example show approval to that which I have found wanting in
Wellington’s Examen Poeticum.
In the
interim may the University of Oxford forgive me, if I have rejected
some men’s verses, so there might be some felicities remaining for a
third volume.
I deem it
superfluous to say much about my authors by way of preface. The
reputations of those now deceased is above the reach of envy, a repute
which even the most exacting readers cannot erase from the verses of
those still living. Just reflect to yourself, how Whitfield’s poems,
corrected, would have appeared had they been published in his lifetime,
which so excelled, albeit they were issued posthumously, and were the
work of a young man.
And,
finally, I have not made my selection as the sectary of any clique,
being swayed by a poem’s elegance more than by its subject. Rather, you
will readily perceive that he most stimulates poets’ talents who
provides them with the most matter. Nor, I trust, will it be unwelcome
to our William to have had so many men crying his praise - unless
perchance you are vexed not to find a bard equal to the task of
celebrating such great virtue.
CHARLES MONTAGU, GENTLEMAN,
CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER, TREASURER, MEMBER OF THE ROYAL PRIVY COUNCIL, &c.
Since so great a throng of
bungling bards makes a din in your ears, you have no grounds for
complaint that something untoward has befallen you, when you have noted
this excellent subject to have been violated by my verses too. The
glory of recent history goes to show how much the British excel in
martial virtue; but the trifling verses I have newly published serve as
proof that we are not eminent in the liberal arts of peacetime. For if
that Congreve of yours, seized by
divine frenzy as he is wont to be, had not served as an ornament to the
matter, the Peace herself would not be worth so much that we would take
pleasure in hearing her hymned by so many depraved poetasters. But, as
I inveigh against others, I seem to have forgotten myself, who perhaps
will purvey you no less tedium in Latin than that which they have
provided in their vernacular songs - unless amidst those agonies
variety of torture should serve as some manner of palliative. Nor
should I ever be induced to place poetry written in our native tongue
before the eyes of you, who do not deter all the rest from such
undertakings any the less than you shall have stimulated them by your
favor.
The most devoted admirer of your kindness,
JOSEPH ADDISON
After
the great shouting of men, and the blare of bugles, and all war’s
hubbub have ceased see, Caesar, what gifts
the industrious poets, that importunate crew, have fetched for you! Let
the noble flames, the dire image of arms, the sad specters of war flee
from your heart. O at length break off, gorged with triumphs, wholly
banish Mars from your mind.
No more are the plains thrown into confusion before our
eyes by throngs of soldiery, fields are not ablaze with their
accustomed tumult. Deep tranquility is at hand on every side. Leaning
into his curved plough, the husbandman overturns the abandoned
trenchworks and camps that had menaced camps, surveying with mute fear
the horror of the place, the slaughter-polluted fields. Now the
longed-for crop grows green above the rampart and the extended
fortifications, now the palisades laugh in the new springtime. He who
dwells there is amazed by strange stalks, the soil’s fertility, and the harvest
fattened on blood.
Lo how the
traveler, drawn from all over the
world, comes and inspects the site of battles, towns turned into
rubble, and walls overthrown by storms of fire; how he consults the
fearful histories of events and the sad list of hardships, so that with
astonished eyes he may inspect half-standing towers, rivers still
sullied with gore, and the fields made notorious by Ormonde’s wound.
Here, where lie rocks smeared with
dashed-out brains and gaps yawn in shattered walls, that intrepid man planted his banner, whose temples have
lately been shaded by the victory-palms of Buda and a foreign laurel. Rushing into the midst of the fray,
where raged round him a hail of hurled iron and a most dense rain of
lead, he entered into a sulfurous night and pitch-black clouds, and
into smoke ruddy with abundant flashes. How the walls in their various
turnings are rent asunder, their stones cast down everywhere, and
monstrously they threaten from above with their horrible cliffs, and
hang fearfully!
Here one could discern the hidden
plague, and the huge structure crammed with powder, which roiled with
great tumult amidst the pitched battle, when the burst gates thundered
horribly with a sudden crash; hideous death snatched half-burned
members, smoking limbs, and mangled corpses, and a black blast sent
them a-whirling in the air.
Thus, after
the father of the gods had cast down Enceladus’ brothers with his
thunderbolt, and had forbidden them to scorn the gods, mortals were
awe-stricken by the face of the earth, rent asunder, and the monstrous
ruins. They were amazed that lofty Pelion was gone from thence and Ossa
uprooted and overturned; that here a river was gliding amidst its huge
mass and tumbled rocks, learning to flow between new banks. Doubtfully
they stand, and seek for familiar mountains and shadows, baffled by
their uncertain wandering and the novelty of the scenery.
For here the battalions were lately
gathered, following the flag of the Prince of Orange, here were the
Britons of warlike heart, the fierce German and, a league having been
struck, the Belgian and he who, condemned to an unfavorable clime and a
harsh Boreas, lives his life in the darkness, and he who, tanned, his face newly
scorched, shows signs of the sun that had been applied to him. They came together from all quarters,
battalions conscripted from throughout the world, which, in their
swarms, protected Nassau’s flanks with their allied arms, mixing their
uproars and murmurs, disjunct in such varied homelands, dissonant in so
many tongues.
But remove
yourself from amidst the squadrons,
bravest leader. If my songs have any power, you will gain life and the
enduring praises of our future people; trained in all manner of arts
and distinguished for Minerva’s arts, you who Rhedycina unwillingly
entrusted to raging Mars, and in whom she takes pride as so great a
son. Not the Arctic glow, or the poverty of our sky, but a more torrid
zone, where the sun sheds his rays more intensely, India, wholly
exposed to Phoebus, gave you birth, and from your tender years baked
into you uncommon virtue, and the fires of a noble mind.
Now too he who unhappily surveys the
north star and everlasting winter, and moves about, chill, shaggy in
bear-hides, tells his friends the great deeds of William, eagerly
enumerating the battles that have been fought in their order, caring
naught for winter or chill. Lo, he who subjects the end of the world to
his rule abandons his vast tracts
of
snow and his pallid realm, his native storms, and with silent eyes
scans the British hero. Now the scattered walls of Namur defer, now defers the Boyne, which has mostly
flowed with sluggish gore, now defers the undistinguished palm of
doubtful Seneffe. What a figure of a man, and how great! With what a
head he towers to the air! With what a stride he plants his steps,
admirable for his unschooled majesty and his fierce countenance!
Thus once Alcides, covered with the
Lion’s monstrous limbs by way of his spoils, bore himself with vast
bulk when, embracing Evander, he sought to clasp his hand and entered
his palace as a great guest. When he hears of your battles and bloody
fields, William, the lively blood boils in his veins, his heart throbs,
and an envious ardor assaults his mind. Not now will the enemy despoil
the northern fields unpunished nor will Poland drive off spoils
unavenged.
But what is
this distant uproar? What murmurs of
the populace are repeating “Nassau”? Round about, I see her concave
shores a-boil with oars, growing white with suddenly-appearing sails.
Fear not, England, and dismiss your empty complains; secure in your
Nassau, cease peering at the heaving floods, anxious in your mind;
cease reproaching the harsh northerlies and seeking the tardy ship.
Your longed-for Caesar is at hand, nor will you see him troubled, as
before, by war’s concerns, pondering in his heart plans deadly to the
French, and secret plans for battles. Welcome quiet and tranquil peace
have composed his fearsome face, and have wafted him happy honors. Many
a soldier crowds around him in a dense throng! How exultantly he regards his nation
and his ancient homestead! He takes pleasure in displaying the new
scars on his face, unhealed wounds, extraordinary marks of
sword-thrusts, and powder-scorched limbs. His dear wife is amazed,
uncertainly scrutinizing the visage of her returned husband. His
offspring, shaking with fear, stand apart, and in their ignorance
shudder at their father’s wounds. He recounts heavy calamities and the
perils of the hard war, and renews battles in his pride-inflated words.
Thus after the Argo, pregnant with heroes, had returned Phryxus’ fleece
to his homeland, the sailor showed the Greeks the bristling wool of the
fleece’s twisted gold, he described infamous shores with their terrible
monsters, a serpent breathing fire mixed with smoke, watchful beasts,
bulls groaning at a strange plough, and fire-snorting bullocks.
Yet we
receive you back, o William, rescued from
how many perils: for you the goddess Britannia pours forth Commons and
Peerage. Wherever you progress through the midst of our cities,
thronged processions surge together from every side, there is rejoicing
and applause. As you go by, the crowd surrounds you in disorder, with
loud cheering. For you Jupiter delays the year’s turning; winter,
marveling at the serene days, smiles, and the sky remains clear for
your festive triumph.
And now
your little nephew is at hand with the
happy stride of youth, giving testimony to his joy with sweet laughter.
How his inherited vigor and the grace of his high countenance breathes
forth a Caesar and infuses the boy with awful majesty! How his fair
mother smoothes his august brow, and tempers his sublime visage! I
perceive his double face, his intermingled parentage. Now, William, he
imitates battalions, sad wars, and your battles under the harmless
guise of play. Now, like to you when your blood is up, he presses the
fleeing backs of a diminutive squadron, filling it with fictive fears,
and lays low the tiny make-believe Frenchmen. Now he invents
battlements, and designates small ramparts with varied names. And with
sudden turmoil he busily tears down feeble fortresses and a miniature
Namur. In the meantime, by degrees noble flames arise in his youthful
breast; fire and a lovable thrill marks his honorable cheeks with a
ruddy glow.
Yet who
will furnish great displays for the Augusta in his songs, where
everywhere spilt wines run red in our muddy gutters and their purple
lends variety to the dyed filth? Who will tell of the falling of stars,
the earthenware heaven, where the
reeking streets display shredded paper, bits of sulfur, and little
tubes smeared with pitch?
Lo, in the distance I see the
astonished night lighten with an unwonted glare! Bright fire falls on
every side, and flaming storms. Everywhere crackling stars are a-glow,
incendiaries rain throughout the sky. No less does Vulcan assume a
thousand forms on earth: fire-belching beasts and flashing monsters,
shapes terrible to behold! Here he imitates the Lion’s shaggy limbs,
shaking a neck maned with twisted flames, his glowing mane. Here the
slithering Snake plays, rising up and hissing with much fire.
Secure at last, the citizen
celebrates
his immense joy and his effusive happiness. With fear abandoned he
follows the winds, safely bringing his fleet past the world’s ultimate
parts, and wandering over the sea in freedom, whether he looks on
icebound fields or those bristling in Cancer’s midmost months, or
whether he prefers to spread his billowing sails to the fragrant north
wind, where Aeolus mixes perfumed gusts and fills the breezes with
peaceful odors.
You illustrious souls of heroes, and
new-made shades, whose mangled, still-dripping bodies lie with fresh
wounds, thanks to whom this hoped-for peace is obtained for the world,
do not yet remove this loyal comradeship from your Nassau, but attend
your commander in your wonted battalions, surround him with your
ghostly squadrons. And you, Mary, never unmindful of your Britons, o
divine lady, o patiently await your great consort, envy not this world
its master, though it detains him longer and enjoys a protracted peace
under its champion.
Where
the miner penetrates the earth’s dark caverns, fruitful with formless
ore, gleaming with unworked veins, while he marvels at hidden treasures
and future coins, he excavates liquid silver, and a shining fluid,
which, poured forth, leaves no trace of its path, and in its rolling
marks the earth with no sign of dampness, but rather, broken asunder
into globules, preserves its round shape and, flowing, gathers itself
into soft spheres.
Uncertain of its nature, whether it refuses to
be
worked further, he prematurely scorns its useless glitter. Or perhaps
the sun’s imperfect force leaves this silver incompletely ripened, its
riches fluid. Whatever it will be, it boasts itself noble for a great
purpose. Nor once did Jove shine more visibly when, being costly, he
enfolded Danae in his expensive embrace and, his lust urging upon him
this welcome form, he rained his liquefied godhead in a shower of gold.
But come, take a brittle tube, from
which denser air has been expunged. A pool of quicksilver settles at
the bottom of the glass, so that when rain impends the mobile metal
lowers, or again, when the heat demands, the fluid reveals itself and,
that it may once more occupy the vacuum by its rising, rushes farther
into all the tube.
Now this conscious fluid advises one
of
the sky’s aspect and future temperatures, telling of frost and chill.
For as often as the liquid rises, and in the glass the previous sides
of its channel cannot restrain its ascent, then one may hope for glad
some days, the fields acknowledge the heat and smile at the widely-shed
sunlight. But it the silvery fluid rises immoderately and, when it is
excessively pushed, the plants now grow parched, now the flame cooks
off their fertile juices, and the meadows languish, their greenness
consumed.
But when the earth’s vents pour forth
thin mists, and damp fumes flow over the seas, fodder for impending
rains, then its fluid weight seeks lower levels: no more surely does
the heron indicate damp skies when,
traversing the aether’s middle tracts, she takes advantage of the
thicker air and scatters the dewy clouds with her dripping wings. Now
drops collect, cold compacts the scattered particles, the rarefied
liquid is compacted into clouds. The meadows grow green, the aether
irrigates the crops with fructifying rains, supplying food for the
thirsty root. And when the metal’s fluid descends more than is just,
hugging the bottom, impatient of rain and fearing a storm, let farmers
beware. The husbandman does not look on this with safety. Soon the air,
pregnant with vapors, will display its gathered storms and thundering
tempest. But even if the silvery mass, lessened by the oppressing
weight, subsides and hides itself deep in its chamber, all else swells.
Rivers gone astray overrun their toppled banks, the flood is a-boil
with foamy waves, the lawlessness of the rapid sea is poured forth.
This marvelous glass conceals none of
heaven’s secrets, but rather reveals the sky’s varying aspects and
weathers, telling you beforehand when you may safely go abroad lightly
clad, and when, chilled, you will look forward to your fire.
Relying on the augury, albeit the
black
sky’s clouds are a-bursting, darkly threatening a stormy day and rain,
if this device denies it and promises fair weather, let the confident
traveler take the road though clouds loom. And, fearing not a downpour,
let the reaper lay low the crops when they require it. Now a harmless
winter cold descends upon the earth, chills fall that are scarcely
destined to work harm, and will strike at men who are ready.
I
tell of winged battalions and the lamentable war of the Pygmies. You,
Muse, align the tiny cohorts, the death-dealing beaks, celebrating the
offended Cranes, indignant
at this diminutive campaign, the tumult of birds and men.
The Muses’ effort has exhausted the
great souls of heroes and their dire wars, in sonorous verse has bidden
them arise in the immortal procession of their meters. Who knows not
Greece’s chosen youths,
dark-glaring Theseus,
fleet-footed Achilles. Who is ignorant of Aeneas’ struggles, and the
achievements
of William? Who has not worn himself
out
reading of
the Theban brothers, and Pompey’s sad fate? I shall be the first to
represent in song an untouched
battle-line, and the feeble sounds of bugles, following a novel camp. I
shall sing of miniature combatants, of heroes ill-disposed towards
Cranes, and a foeman surging forth from darkling clouds.
Where the sun waxes warm at its
rising,
and India glows glad some at the day’s dawning, the kingdom of the
Pygmies once stood amidst inhospitable crags (extending through a
peaceful dale and greenswards accessible to few). Here, plying various
arts, they busily tended their livelihood, and their fields were a-boil
with this industrious people. Now if some traveler makes his way
through those harsh rocks and abandoned homesteads, he sees fields
white with tiny bones, and marvels at their minute traces. With
impunity, the victorious realm of the birds holds these desolate
reaches, and the rude Crane issues his creaking call from a secure
nest. It was not thus while the miniature
race remained unconquered for many a year: then, if some bird dared
come to grips and entrust himself to joined battle, a fierce soldier
was at hand, and the savage little fellow would take up arms and lay
low the death-bound bird, and on his shoulders would bear off his huge
prize and feast on his slaughtered foe. Often he would slay them
unawares, often he would delight in tearing down a nest, or revenge
himself on a parent by killing its offspring. For as often as a bird
had constructed a home with great art, or had deposited its womb’s
weight, a future bird, immediately the soldier, looking fierce with his
menacing glance, would lay waste to everything, killing the innocent
chicks and cutting short their unfinished lives, when his enemy had not
yet ripened in its warm egg.
Hence the grounds for wrath, hence
wars, fatal wars, and battle-lines bent on death, the conjoined
massacre of birds and men, the chaotic image of death. Never did the
bard of Maeonia sing of such
movements, nor of such a memorable war, in his sublime song, when it
threw the whole marsh into confusion with din and fighting. Here -
piteous sight! - the bodies of mice lie strewn about, transfixed with
reeds, and here a raucous-throated frog feels agony, and, with a knee
sliced off, creeps on the ground, not transporting itself with its
usual hops.
And now the day was at hand for the
Pygmy, at which time he repented the slaughtered chicks and preferred
that the eggs had remained untouched. For on their account the
indignant Crane is outraged and blazes forth in heavy wrath. All those
who occupy Strymon’s waters, or the
Mareotic marsh, or Cayster’s bottom-waters, are at hand together; birds
land, roused from their Scythian marsh and the Danube, leagued by an
oath. While yet absent, a bird broods on huge massacres and woundings,
whetting his talons while meditating his future strike, and preparing
his sharp beak, and adapting his wings for flight. So great is their
love of war, and aroused zeal for vengeance. So, having obtained the
suitable springtime, the legion hovering in the high air makes a din
with its clapping wings, and looks down on the immense tracts of the
earth and the far-off waters, countless birds traverse the north and
its cloudy spaces: the great aether flows about them with its strong
current, and an endless commotion throws all heaven into confusion.
There is no less movement on earth, as the industrious dwarf prepares
for wars, forms his army, strengthens its fighting-lines, and
spiritedly rages, with weapons snatched up, until his cavalry squadron
is ranged on his two flanks, crowded in its ranks, and drawn up with
martial skill.
And now the ardent commander of the
Pygmies comes between the two lines of battle, who, awesome in his
majesty and grave in his stride, towers above the rest in his gigantic
mass, rising as high as half a cubit. Fierce of aspect (for an enemy had
carved scars into his face), he displays the honorable marks of beaks
on his countenance, and unhealed bites on his breast. He has harassed
the winged tribe with undying hatred and everlasting wrath. No bird,
relying on beak or hooked feet, could attack him with impunity. How
often he has drawn his lethal sword and sliced off wings, denying
escape to his swift foe! What slaughter he has worked! How much death,
alas, has he visited on defenseless chicks, and how often has he filled
the Strymon with weeping!
And now a sound is heard from afar,
and
they see a pitch-black cloud come a-flying and enemies bearing war. At
length it spreads out and a great army of birds, constructed of many
varied ranks, offers itself to their eyes, fanning the air with
flapping wings. The throng fills the skies, the monstrous apparition
overshadows the Pygmy forces, hanging thick amidst the clouds, now
dense, but soon to be returned less populous to its ancestral climes.
The Pygmies are afire with battle-lust, regarding their enemy with a
savage eye. No great time passes, and with a horrific swoop the huge
flock of Cranes falls heavily on their ranks, bringing war on those who
are hoping for it. An uproar commences. Wrenched off, feathers float
about in the air. But soon an exhausted bird removes itself upon light
wings and, its strength renewed, seeks the earth again with a rush. The
fortune of arms hangs in the balance. Here a bird, pierced with a
spear, furiously turns with a bloody twist and helplessly aims its beak
at this foe, and in death retracts his curved talons. There Pygmy blood
drips sluggish from a wound, he takes great gasps and drums the ground
with his tiny feet and, dying, curses the sharp claw. All the earth
boils with the racket, grows red with warm blood, is strewn with
swords, strewn with wings, talons and fingers, beaks mingled with
forearms.
The Pygmy captain rages, ablaze amidst
thousands,
he whom the dying bodies of Cranes surround on all sides. He ranges in
the midst of death, yet falls not by blow of wing or strike of beak. He
is the terror of the Cranes, about him battle is joined most thickly,
and the whole war is waged in this one man. Then (thus the gods willed
it), summoned by the sudden commotion, a great formidable bird
unexpectedly seizes him with its feet as he is fighting and (sad to
relate) bears him up to heaven. The warrior
hangs from its claws, dangling, and from all sides a swarm of birds
gathers with screeching. With sad eyes the Pygmies helplessly mourn
their king up in the clouds, looking at the hero, smaller than usual, while the Cranes applaud their feast.
And now the battle resumes, from
above
a Crane harries a Pygmy with his beak, and on high attacks his enemy
with his biting. Then he makes his escape, flying aloft. He in turn
brandishes his arm, heedless of his wound, and rages at the empty air.
Such was the appearance of the war, when mighty Briareus heaved Pelion
into the sky, and would have cast the Thunderer down to earth.
Lightning-bolts and crags were scattered throughout the air. Flying
missiles were hurled downwards, driven by Jove’s hand, while the
Giants’ great bodies lay outstretched, and, half-burnt, reeked of
sulphur.
Their strength consumed, at last the
Pygmy bands grow weary. So part turn tail, stricken with panic, and
part lifts up their tiny voices. the two-foot race widely scatters. The
birds press their backs, rending them and pulling at them mercilessly,
determined to kill off this wicked race.
Thus the Pygmy dynasty, having been
dominant for many a year, having waged so many wars, happy for so many
triumphs over the Cranes, perished utterly. For an assured end awaits
all realms, there are fixed limits which it is unlawful to pass. thus
once the empire of Assyria collapsed, thus that of great Persia was
cast off its foundations, and Rome, greater than them both. Now in its insubstantial multitude it
surveys the vales of Elysium, and this small folk is intermingled with
the great shades of the ancient heroes. Or, if the old wive’s tale
deserves any credence, in the dark of night shepherds often see the
tiny shades of disembodies Pygmies, as, safe from the Cranes and
forgetful of its sufferings, this race is wholly free for gladness and
indulges in dancing; treading the narrow pathways and greeny rings,
this lightsome crew gambols, and rejoices in the name of fairies.
AS DEPICTED NEAR THE ALTAR OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, OXFORD
Click here to see the discussion of this poem in the Introduction
In
novel song, Muse, describe the brilliant expanses of paint, and the
pencil’s exertions, the rising forms of men, the blazing face of the
Judge, and the images displaying fear in wondrous ways, a terrifying
pageant, and kindle a bard’s holy frenzies.
Once whitewash covered with rude and
simple adornment the surface now occupied by this picture with its riot
of colors. But, lest any crack betray its original surface, the artist
quickly laid a foundation for his future painting, and applied a
penetrating fluid over the walls; the walls were roughened by this
thick coating, and daubed with its blank tints.
As, when the sky was not yet filled
with glittering stars, lest its great mass gape open with empty void
throughout heaven’s vault and broad curved expanses, the interspersing
aether flowed in; and soon the Titan was scorching a new-made world
with his radiant light, and pale Cynthia more gently flashed her
borrowed fires; and now the sky was a-glitter, sown with many stars,
now the Milky Way flowed throughout the heaven, and shone white in its
long expanse; thus after the painter has played his prelude, while the
wall is still mean and proclaims no Apelles, he very carefully plies
his pencils, and adroitly disturbs the sticky lime, launches his attack
on its juices, and at length introduces all his outlines. Everywhere
there appears a silent assembly, an empty throng of cartoons.
The wall’s extreme border is reserved
for winged messengers, and scattered throughout the picture a celestial
band blows upon hoarse trumpets, puffing out their cheeks, and fill an
astonished world with their clangor. The sound is heard by the dead,
and the ground painted at the picture’s bottom swells, out from the
open earth its children come forth, and many a specter arises.
Thus, when Cadmus gave seeds to the
fertile furrows, the pregnant earth grew swollen, the life-filled clod
labored, the field was rife with a breathing crop, all the soil grew
warm, and there arose a bumper harvest of men.
Now their dust, strewn throughout the
world’s sundry climes (whether it has gradually stiffened, compacted
within veins of soft ore, or has intermingled itself with plants) is
released. The dispersed corpse grows into a single mass once more,
their erstwhile articulation rejoins sundered joints, uniting limbs are
fit together again. Here a specter rises up anew, its appearance not
yet perfected: mangled of visage, by an unseemly wounding deprived of a
nose, and with much as yet missing from its deformed body. There, with
a feeble motion, life, gradually insinuated into a stiff corpse, barely
moves with revived limbs. Horror fills their faces, and in the whole
representation fear, fully pervading the astonished figures, shows pale.
Yet tear away your eyes, viewer, and,
if they can withstand the glaring daylight, inspect the middle of the
wall, where sits God’s risen Son, God Himself, bathed with a tranquil
light, showered with dazzling rays. Peaceful flames are shed about His
brow, greatly His majesty shines in its full godhead. How changed, oh
how changed from Him Who, crucified, atoned for sins not His own, Who
dragged out His struggling life as death delayed. But it was in vain
that Golgotha craved to bury His dead divinity, as, the rule of the
Fates overcome, He sought His native heaven and, borne above the
aether, looked down on a tiny moon and a smaller sun.
Now He displays His pierced side and
both His hands, the wound in the foot, the marks of the nails, and the
traces of a spear once run through Him. Here hasten the blessed shades,
a plentiful crew seeks the heavens and reaches for His everlasting
gifts. Mothers, the bodies of babes now given over to a long life,
young men, boys, unwedded girls stand round and fix their avid eyes on
His godhead, drinking in His undying light. The aether resounds with
praises, and the whole heaven laughs with gladsome triumph. Impatient
love and the joys they have conceived wholly grips their minds, and
they are a-boil deep within their breasts. Not equally did the Sibyl
exult in her flaming heart when it swelled with the guest pent within
and she felt her wits moved by the god’s prickings, warmed by a great
infusion of Phoebus.
But what new glare dazzles the eyes?
The portrait which the painter has distinguished by a miter, rising
from his honorable tomb, supported by a winged servant. I recognize his
face, a second Waynflete resides in
that countenance, thus he displayed his eyes, his expression: when,
alas, will an image equal to his mind be found? When will virtue
possess another of his like? In security, he regards the innocent wrath
of an angry God, and fixes fearless eyes on his Judge.
But come, now you must look upon a
horrible scene of fire mixed with darkness: daubed with abundant paint
the walls represent a river afire with molten sulphur, and feigned fire
is set alight with so great skill that you would fear for the entire
painting, lest the livid fire creep through the whole work and the
consumed picture be reduced to fine ash, doomed to perish by its own
embers. Here an unhappy throng is brought, and, base to see, gnashes
its teeth and grimaces. Implacably, the avenger rages at their backs,
and wielding his lightning sword, again expels these sinners from the
precincts of Paradise, in a blazing procession. Alas! What is this sad
man to do? Where can he betake himself from the celestial wrath? O how
much he would now prefer to cultivate virtue in the high aether! But at
length he sighs in vain, too late he was dissolved in tears. The
irrevocable Fates and an inexorable godhead stand in his way.
How many delights the painting
reveals!
How many marks of the skillful pencil we scan! What grace of colors
offers itself! Many-hued Iris does not display their like, when the
flowery rain shines with light in all its moisture, and gleams in every
drop.
O splendor
of paint, o fair colors, endure! Nor, painting, may your beauty’s glory
fade, until you witness the Last Day you yourself depict.
Here, where the grassy lawn spreads in its flat plane, and the great
area lies as an empty
field, when the misty meadows have not yet acknowledged the risen sun,
and fat droplets hang on the grass, the relentless sickle crops last
night’s growth, shaving a slight harvest from the turf. Then with its
industrious motion the revolving stone rolls down
the protruding earth and crushes the rising blades. A wooden set glides
over this verdant playground, anointed and glistening with oil, to whom the craftsman imparted a round
shape, making them easily moved. Yet, lest the incautious knock the
wrong one in error by confusing the balls, each sphere stands graven
with its own markings. But one fellow wants this kind of ball, which,
made unbalanced by an infusion of much metal, rolls in a curve, running
an uneven path, whereas another man is pleased by a different kind,
which is more sparingly affected by the influence of lead, and this
allows it to proceed in a straight line.
So after either judgment or lot has
divided the set into equal parts, each man girds his loins. A little
ball flies out, a target which designates the future course. He who opens the contest, following the
track of this thrown ball, casts the first bowl, but it, feebly sent
forth, traces a path tending towards a slight curve, until, its
original force gradually expended, it comes to rest. Suddenly one ball
after another darts forth.
Soon, when a thick cluster of balls
lies strewn in a small circle, crowding around the target and
forbidding an easy approach, now a rolling wood makes its appearance
more cannily, and gently insinuates itself. But if perchance he who
bowled the ball sees it creep along lifelessly, and suddenly lose the
motion imparted to it, he urges the sphere’s track and follows it
anxiously, cursing its delays and hovering above his running ball. And
in order to save the honor of his slack hand, he lays blame on the
rough earth and a clod sticking up into the air.
Nor have
they restrained their laughter, when a
ball is sent rolling by a disgraceful pitch, or the lead affects its
track overmuch, and its innate force pulls the globe from a straight
path. Then the man who bowled it emits useless noises and, his body
bent into a variety of contortions, he rails at its errant wanderings,
and curses the wood. But the sphere, scorning the mockery of his wrath,
continues on the route it has begun, and, deaf, is unmoved by any
complaints.
That ball, however, earns the highest
praise and
honor which does not break its course or cease its movement until,
having slid in amongst the thick crowd, it runs its race to the end and
comes to rest leaning against the goal. But a rival strives to shove
away the ball clinging to the little spheroid, and with eyes marking
the way he strains all his forces and stoutly shoves his missile:
scarce idle, the ball goes flying, as he shoves forward his arm.
Not so swiftly is the charioteer
borne
out of the starting-gate at Elis when, carried on swift wheels, he sees
homes go running by, and retreating buildings.
Yet if,
impeded by many of its mates, it crashes into these solid companions
and throws the balls into confusion, then his bile boils over and he
damns his rotten luck, calling gods and stars cruel.
But if it finds an easy entrance and an open
lane,
his competitor will be robbed of the honor he has gained. The
disorderly group applauds, his companions shout huzzah” in loud tones,
all the green rings with noise.
In the meantime Sirius, with his hostile stair,
seizes on the exhausted bowlers, and their bodies shed salt droplets.
Now breezes, wafting gentle coolness, and shade are sought out, and the
flowing moisture is wiped from their brows.
A MOST DISTINGUISHED PHYSICIAN AND POET
O you who sings a song more
sweetly than tuneful Orpheus, and who often, with happier result,
recalls a soul from the sorrowful shades,
Now, whether
you are forcing unbound feet into numbers, or protecting a body ill and
scarce clinging to life, or are scrutinizing a cadaver with your keen
eyes,
Abandoning
your work, snatch yourself for a space of respite, smooth your careworn
brow, and happily call for a cup laden with purple Bacchus.
Now request
bumpers, mindful of great William; now let that mighty minister, no
frail bulwark, excite your thirst, Montagu.
At length
leave off your sad work and heavy cares, alas too dutiful! Nor, careful
to heal others, diminish your own health.
In vain you
press with your thumb the surging blood, its pulsations fast-driven, and attentively examine a fever-swollen
vein.
In vain the
potions produced by the chemist’s furnace, and the circulation of the
blood, and the innate power of herbs fatigue you.
Soon or
late, we are all owed to the grave; life, banished by diseases, will
desert the inhospitable body, and offspring will mourn or lingering
corpse, the offscourings of the soul.
You too will
see the phantom shades, which your art shall have rendered fewer; but
conquering Libitina will subdue her conqueror in turn.
Life runs
along happier for the man who does not make his day troublesome by
over-anxiety, or encourages cares that quite sufficiently oppress of
their own accord,
And who
delights in the passage of smooth-running days, and in a happy life
with mutual friendships, well tempered with harmless pleasures.
(ENGLISHED, A PUPPET-SHOW)
I sing the
admirable
sights of insubstantial beings, a miniature race, and the hollow,
brainless puppet, whom some
Prometheus, not employing fire stolen from heaven’s furnace, had
created by a more harmless art.
At street-corners where men are
a-boil
with laughter, and where the performer draws a crowd, delighting the
gaping throng with his clowning, as often as they are gripped by
eagerness for fun or novelty, they flock together from every side and
fill the benches provided them. Nor is the precedence random: seats go
for various prices, and different chairs are let for differing sums. At
length, when the curtain is raised, their eyes scan the narrow
aperture, where a number of strings bisect their vision lest, if the
opening be presented with an unoccupied facade, the deception be
apparent, unobstructed. Soon the
creaking band enter their gaudy home, its walls rough with paint. Here,
amidst the humble scenery and narrow confines, the little cast mimes
whatever men do (encounters, battles, and triumphs) in its tiny theater.
But in addition to the rest enters a
mannikin, shouting in his hoarse voice. A larger pin fastens his costume, and
his rolling eyes ape live ones. His paunch swells immoderately. A huge
hump protrudes behind from his back. Being larger, he terrifies the
Pygmy band, and that crew marvels at the huge giant. Relying on his
great size, trusting in his larger arms, he hurls insults at the tiny cast,
and,
a witty soul, opens his mouth in frequent laughter. Although the
serious matter is being enacted with solemn pomp, he incorrigibly
scorns the busy commotion and is rudely at hand with his sneering,
throwing everything into turmoil. Not infrequently he attacks the
gentle ladies, seeking a painted girl with his boorish mouth, planting
a kiss on unwilling wood.
But his
cast of companions tire out their limbs
with manifold pranks, and full of motion, sports with varied leaping.
And often this wooden race makes its
appearance glittering with gems and handsome in gold, and takes pride
in its bright purple. For, as often as it celebrates some make-believe
holiday, an honorable bevy of girls enters in orderly procession, and
wee Peers, and little Commoners. You would think the Pygmies to be
grown gentle, their wars abandoned, and now, scorning battles against
Cranes, to be indulging in play in security, free for gentle dances.
Tiny faeries of this kind dance about
when the sun
has set from mid-heaven, and that wee people proceed in festive
circles, following about on their own footsteps, stamping out a narrow
circle with their frequent progress. Their
tracks are visible in the morning, the growing grass rises in great
abundance, and the circle flourishes with its tender plants.
But these
tranquil days do not lack their clouds; wars, awful wars, often arise
with great hurly-burly. The quarrelsome cast produces weaponry, tiffs
disrupt the peaceful quiet to such point that everyone’s pleasure is
spoiled, and intermingled cares put a restraint on their joys. Now
swords, powder-packed muskets, leveled spears, gleaming weaponry, and
great threats of missiles come to the fore. Doors slam loudly, exploding firecrackers rattle and
intermingle their whistling. The ground is all littered with those on
the point of death; on all sides slaughtered bands can be seen, the
crimes of civil war.
But after
battle’s mad passion has burned itself out, and they have given vent to
their quarrelsome spirits, with Mars now banished, they seek their
various arts anew, their previous concerns. Not infrequently heroes of
old, whom the sacred page supplies, and whom a happier age once
produced, return here in miniature guise. In their hoary procession you
can see the ancient Fathers appear, a venerable troop. Their faces are
graven with wrinkles, the profuse grayness of their beards dangles off
their chins. Thus sluggish old age shrank Tithonus when
he
assumed a cicada’s form entire, by degrees assuming this meager guise.
But now I
shall explain whence the puppet takes his birth, he whom the crowd
demands to move, and what hand supplies his hidden strength. An artisan
forges sticks and useless wood into human shapes, forming this
wood-born offspring with his tool, and strong lacing binds its legs to
its feet, fits arms to its shoulders, and fixes limb to limb, sews
joint to joint. Then he adds swift-running pulleys by which he might
adroitly manipulate his small burden, and, manipulating this inert mass
with his hand, supply hidden motions, and provide its voice.
Constructed with these devices, the entire contraption displays
skillful signs of carving, and traces of the hard steel. Hence it
capers and bounds, incited by agile movement, and emits tiny sounds,
and words not its own.
DOMINUS THOMAS BURNET,
AUTHOR OF A SACRED THEORY OF THE EARTH
You require no ordinary pinions
of song, Burnet, no lowly measures. You scorn the common quill, the
service of a weakly Muse.
You are
aware of the commingled seeds of things, and you perceive the estranged mass,
both the solid earth and the ocean sheltered within her capacious bosom,
As,
persevering in the search for truth, you reveal unknown things, scarce
concerned how stands popular opinion and common error.
A great
crashing is suddenly heard, the earth reels and deserts her tottering
foundations, and, her binding loosened, falls on the waters outspread
below.
Stricken,
the lawlessness of its waters released, in turn the middle sea encloses
the lands, and in these waters the remains of the previous world go
a-floating.
Now, its
prison unbarred, the whale glimpses the sun’s bright image, and wonders
at the swimming stars, and the reflections of the shimmering moon.
What a
display of words, not to be imitated! What a spirit of genius glows
warm! How you quell the Flood’s roaring frenzy!
Who is so steely in his stout heart
that he does not walk in trembling with a timid foot, when you disclose
the frail calamities of this treacherous world?
Indeed,
restoring Nature, soon destined to resume her prior form, requires the
fragments of collapsing mountains to assume a simple aspect.
You can see
Jove aglow with clouds of sulphur: how a fierce storm rages with its
liquid fires, planning a common pyre for the world and its peoples!
Barren,
Athos mourns its melted snows and soon, itself molten, pours forth its
peak, as its rocks, dissolved, flow through the lowest valleys.
Now heaven’s
high walls collapse, and at length (for shame!) your pages add to the
conflagration, Burnet, destined, alas, to perish along with their
companion world.
Quickly the
earth is level, quickly sudden-appearing verdure is everywhere smiling.
Behold the globe made smooth! Behold the happy gusts of springtime
southerlies, its enduring flowers!
O mighty
heart! O great mind, able to embrace the world! If I prophecize aright,
our warmth, will receive you as her citizen, in the place where she
will flourish renewed.
TITYRUS Since we are met here
amidst the dense hazels, their shady crowns, to sing together, let us
pronounce the praises of heroes, Mopsus, as is our wont. Thus the hours
will pass pleasantly for us as we sing; now come, say whom you will
take up to be celebrated in our song.
MOPSUS
Tityrus, now let pious gifts of praise be repaid to those who shall
have given us leisure and tranquil peace. That is,
let the greenwoods resound with lauds of the ones who shall have
deigned to rebuild the realm’s ruins.
T. Such
great things ill suit our humble, thin reed. But since they say that in
great things it is enough to have had the will, I shall
sing your praises, William, and those of Mary. For nobody should
separate those whom love has joined.
M. So be
favorable to me as I sing, Phoebus and you Muses, lest their honors be
diminished by the fault of my talent.
T. But I
care not of Phoebus or Phoebus’ sisters, for now the
theme suits me as I sing my song
M. Though
they be ennobled by high pedigree, they are yet more ennobled by their
own virtues.
T. If he who
governs the heart’s great fervors is a king, then how many realms
William holds! How many does Mary!
M. He is
famed Mars, she is a second wise Pallas; he wounds with his arms, she
by her beauty.
T. When they
essayed the sea’s highways, the proud ocean raised itself up to the
clouds, swelling with pride.
M. When they
attained the land, all we citizens of Arcady offered up a tender young
lamb to Pan, the Arcadian god.
T. Then once
more the whole field resounded with music, once more shepherds and
nymphs joined in chorus.
M. Then the
happy lamb sported in the grassy fields, the butting kidlings went
a-leaping amidst new flowers.
T. What a
victor was William, when he conquered his people’s hearts, conquered
the foe, conquered himself!
M. Mary
shared her bridegroom’s virtue and kingdom, worthy of three realms, and worthy
of so great a husband.
T. He is
first in government, second to none in virtue; thus the sun shines with
a greater light than the stars.
M. But, as
the moon gleams amidst the lesser stars, such Mary seems when
surrounded by her company.
T. But now,
Tityrus, what things should we pray for, worthy of them, who have
granted the flock and the masters of the flock the freedom to play?
M. Let them
find the enduring peace they have bestowed!
T. And let
either star be late in adorning the firmament!
When Ireland, impatient of her
master, cast off her bonds, wholly rushing headlong into war and civil
strife, whatever
upright men looked on her grave disturbances - such,
alas, was virtue’s price - were cast into chains, and dragged out
hateful lives with groaning and imprisonment. Far and wide the fields
grew shaggy with tares, the rough countryside flourished with a crop of
thorns, no autumn came to Ireland, the reaper was lacking for the
croplands that sought him. Everywhere a foreign throng strove with
self-serving wiles, wanton power oppressed the native populace. The
entire nation dissolved in tears, general grievings were manifest in
all parts, and she showed her distress with a single face.
Then Ireland
grew headlong towards penalties late in the paying, and thus she
ripened to her impending downfall; by no means would she have been made
deserving of such an avenger, had she earlier had experience
of William’s terrible wrath.
England,
long dissolved in base repose, cast off
her sloth when roused by your commands, Nassau, and stoked her
long-dormant fires. What slaughter she worked with you her captain!
What campaigns she waged! While murder was a-boil and blood drenched
the fields, the busy Sisters toiled at plying their work, and Charon’s
crowded skiff groaned under its weight. Hounding their backs, avenging
Caesar snatched at the fleeing foeman, and its own ruination brought
down each part: a storm of
lead overwhelmed this one, that one fell from bar shot from afar,
another vainly sought to evade the flying iron as in flight it delayed
pursuing retribution and, doomed to death, entrusted itself to a
treacherous marsh. By these steps Ireland freed herself from her
protracted sorrow; at length waxing indignant at the banished tyrant,
she sought nobler bonds, put on hoped-for chains, and, adorned by
William’s yoke, grew proud.
Nation so dear to God! Such happy
Britons, if no grief had checked the floodtide of joy, and a Duke’s
death, scarce
ignoble, had not chastised the great passions of rejoicing! He, so
often triumphing over the enemy in security, loyal to his exiled gods and his
ancestral altars, ah, finally succumbed, distinguished for piety and
military feats. Woe for you, how you lie, a corpse of venerable bulk!
What honor of face, and happy old age on your brow! Alas for your
piety! Alas for your ancient faith! And your martial virtue - when will
it find its equal?
But, my
untimely Muse, mute your sorrows; be mute, Melpomene, I think this did
not occur without divine will. This old man’s fate enhanced your fame,
victorious William, nor does any rival virtue share divided honors.
Go, our
glory, let savage France acknowledge your conquering hand, and let her,
who first witnessed you bearing arms, experience the full powers of
your mature frame. But beware, while ardent impulse carries you to war;
o beware, lest, driven with excessive martial spirit, you fall upon the
enemy and three realms produce a widespread collapse.
At length,
James, abandon your insane effort, abandon further reliance on Louis’
arms. Now you vainly lament the honors torn from your brow, your sighs
come too late, too late you are now questing, although, if your mind
had not been foolish, and if you had not trusted in your consort’s
treacherous art, now, happy,
you could have been administering laws to peaceful Britons, and been
governing your ancestral flock with a better destiny. But now the Fates
forbid, and their irrevocable decree.
Click here to see the discussion of these poems in the Introduction
When conquering Spain swelled up with excessive pride, she one succumbed to your arms, Elisa. Because of that, her immoderate ambition and her desire to gain the world have learned to abandon their monstrous greed. You, vain France with your burned ships, have also learned what a woman's hand can do. Do you not see how the fleet is still smoking on the Spanish shore, and how all the Indies are sailing to the British. Go how, scorn a woman's government with that Salic Law of yours, having felt the thunderbolt of an English goddess.
You are conquered, my French sir, yet you never admit you have been beaten, you sing of false trophies amidst a genuine defeat. Mars favors Eugene, but you, Vendôme, celebrate a triumph, the Teuton routs the Celt, but the routed Celt is crowing. The Basque hides his wounds and stretches forth his empty hands, praising the gods as just though they have harmed him. As often as a sorrowful camp bewails its beaten ranks, the court deceives its people with a happy funeral-pyre. Nust now their fleet, a terror to the world, is wrecked, and their Indian treasure is a-flying away as ashes. Vainglorious France, you who turn losses into sources of joy, you may add these these torches to your happy bonfires.
When Neptune saw the defeat on the Spanish Main, he said, “Jupiter is wielding these weapons agains tthe French. For that fleet which has already burned so many harmless fortresses is perishing by an avenging fire. Phaethon, when he would have destroyed the world, imagining himself to be the sun's equal, likewise burned amidst the waves.”
It was fire that gave everlasting life to the Phoenix. Anne, this ash gives you eternal glory.
Then Anna built a pyre for her dying sister Elissa, and now a new one is being readied by Anne. Lest the doomed power of kings go without a funeral, Anne has placed funeral torches beneath their fleet.
