Chaucer.The besy lark, the messenger of day,Saleweth in hire song the morwè gray;And firy Phœbus riseth up so brightThat all the orient laugheth of the sight,And with his stremès drieth in the grevesThe silver dropès hanging on the leves,And Arcite that is in the court realWith Theseus the squier principal,Is risen, and loketh on the mery day.And for to don his observance to May,Remembring on the point of his desireHe on his courser, sterting as the fire,Is ridden to the feldès him to play,Out of the court, were it a mile or tway.And to the grove of which that I you told,By aventure his way he 'gan to hold,To maken him a gerlond of the greves,Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leves,And loud he song agen the sonnè shene.O May, with all thy flourès and thy grene,Right welcome be thou fairè freshè May,I hope that I some grene here getten may.Dryden.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 the horizon laugh'd to see the joyous sight.He, with his tepid rays, the rose renews,And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews;When Arcite left his bed, resolved to payObservance to the month of merry May:Forth, on his fiery steed, betimes he rode,That scarcely prints the turf on which he trode:At ease he seem'd, and prancing o'er the plains,Turn'd only to the grove his horse's reins,The grove I named before, and lighting thereA woodbine garland sought to crown his hair;Then turn'd his face against the rising day,And raised 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,And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers:When thy short reign is past, the feverish sunThe 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 to findThe fragrant greens I seek my brows to bind.
Chaucer.
The besy lark, the messenger of day,Saleweth in hire song the morwè gray;And firy Phœbus riseth up so brightThat all the orient laugheth of the sight,And with his stremès drieth in the grevesThe silver dropès hanging on the leves,And Arcite that is in the court realWith Theseus the squier principal,Is risen, and loketh on the mery day.And for to don his observance to May,Remembring on the point of his desireHe on his courser, sterting as the fire,Is ridden to the feldès him to play,Out of the court, were it a mile or tway.And to the grove of which that I you told,By aventure his way he 'gan to hold,To maken him a gerlond of the greves,Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leves,And loud he song agen the sonnè shene.
O May, with all thy flourès and thy grene,Right welcome be thou fairè freshè May,I hope that I some grene here getten may.
Dryden.
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 the horizon laugh'd to see the joyous sight.He, with his tepid rays, the rose renews,And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews;When Arcite left his bed, resolved to payObservance to the month of merry May:Forth, on his fiery steed, betimes he rode,That scarcely prints the turf on which he trode:
At ease he seem'd, and prancing o'er the plains,Turn'd only to the grove his horse's reins,The grove I named before, and lighting thereA woodbine garland sought to crown his hair;Then turn'd his face against the rising day,And raised 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,And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers:When thy short reign is past, the feverish sunThe 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 to findThe fragrant greens I seek my brows to bind.
In Chaucer, Arcite's address to the "mery May" is but of three plain lines, and they suffice; in Dryden, of ten ornate, and they suffice too—"alike, but oh! how different!" The plain three are more in character, for Arcite was thinking of Emelie all the while—but the ornate ten are in season now, for summer has come at last, and recite them to yourself and Amaryllis in the shade.
But now for a loftier strain. Palamon and Arcite are about to fight for Emelie—and lo and behold their auxiliar kings!
Ther maist thou se coming with PalamonLicurge himself, the gretè king of Trace:Blake was his berd, and manly was his face.The cercles of his eyen in his headThey gloweden betwixen yelwe and red,And like a griffon loked he about,With kemped herès on his browès stout;His limmès gret, his brawnès hard and stronge,His shouldres brode, his armès round and longe.And as the guisè was in his countree,Full high upon a char of gold stood he,With fourè whitè bollès in the trais.Instead of cote-armure on his harnais,With naylès yelwe, and bright as any gold,He had a berès-skin, cole-blake for old.His longè here was kempt behind his bak,As any ravenes fether it shone for blake.A wreth of gold arm-gret, of hugè weight,Upon his hed sate ful of stonès bright,Of finè rubins and of diamants.About his char ther wenten white alaunsTwenty and mo, as great as any stere,To hunten at the leon or the dere,And folwed him, with mosel fast ybound,Colered with gold, and torettes filed round.A hundred lordès had he in his route,Armed full wel with hertès sterne and stoute.With Arcite, in stories as men find,The gret Emetrius, the King of Inde,Upon a stedè bay, trapped in stele,Covered with cloth of gold diapered well,Came riding like the god of armès, Mars.His cote-armure was of a cloth of Tars,Couched with perlès, white, and round, and grete.His sadel was of brent gold new ybete:A mantelet upon his shouldres hanging,Bret-ful of rubies red, as fire sparkling.His crispè here like ringès was yronne,And that was yelwe, and glittered as the sonne.His nose was high, his eyen bright eitrin,His lippès round, his colour was sanguin,A fewè fraknes in his face yspreint,Betwixen yelwe and blake somdel ymeint,And as a leon he his loking caste.Of five-and-twenty yere his age I caste.His berd was wel begonnen for to spring;His vois was as a trompè thondering.Upon his hed he wered of laurer greneA gerlond fresshe, and lusty for to sene.Upon his hond he bare for his deduitAn egle tame, as any lily whit.An hundred lordès had he with him thereAll armed save hir hedes in all hir gere,Full richèly in allè manere thinges.For trusteth wel, that erlès, dukès, kinges,Were gathered in this noble compagnie,For love, and for encrease of chevalrie.About this king ther ran on every partFull many a tame leon and leopart.
Ther maist thou se coming with PalamonLicurge himself, the gretè king of Trace:Blake was his berd, and manly was his face.The cercles of his eyen in his headThey gloweden betwixen yelwe and red,And like a griffon loked he about,With kemped herès on his browès stout;His limmès gret, his brawnès hard and stronge,His shouldres brode, his armès round and longe.And as the guisè was in his countree,Full high upon a char of gold stood he,With fourè whitè bollès in the trais.Instead of cote-armure on his harnais,With naylès yelwe, and bright as any gold,He had a berès-skin, cole-blake for old.His longè here was kempt behind his bak,As any ravenes fether it shone for blake.A wreth of gold arm-gret, of hugè weight,Upon his hed sate ful of stonès bright,Of finè rubins and of diamants.About his char ther wenten white alaunsTwenty and mo, as great as any stere,To hunten at the leon or the dere,And folwed him, with mosel fast ybound,Colered with gold, and torettes filed round.A hundred lordès had he in his route,Armed full wel with hertès sterne and stoute.
With Arcite, in stories as men find,The gret Emetrius, the King of Inde,Upon a stedè bay, trapped in stele,Covered with cloth of gold diapered well,Came riding like the god of armès, Mars.His cote-armure was of a cloth of Tars,Couched with perlès, white, and round, and grete.His sadel was of brent gold new ybete:A mantelet upon his shouldres hanging,Bret-ful of rubies red, as fire sparkling.His crispè here like ringès was yronne,And that was yelwe, and glittered as the sonne.His nose was high, his eyen bright eitrin,His lippès round, his colour was sanguin,A fewè fraknes in his face yspreint,Betwixen yelwe and blake somdel ymeint,And as a leon he his loking caste.Of five-and-twenty yere his age I caste.His berd was wel begonnen for to spring;His vois was as a trompè thondering.Upon his hed he wered of laurer greneA gerlond fresshe, and lusty for to sene.Upon his hond he bare for his deduitAn egle tame, as any lily whit.An hundred lordès had he with him thereAll armed save hir hedes in all hir gere,Full richèly in allè manere thinges.For trusteth wel, that erlès, dukès, kinges,Were gathered in this noble compagnie,For love, and for encrease of chevalrie.About this king ther ran on every partFull many a tame leon and leopart.
What a plenitude of brilliant and powerful description! Every verse, every half verse, adds a characterizing circumstance, a vivifying image. And what an integrity and self-completeness has the daring and large conception of either martial king! And how distinguishably the two stand apart from each other! But above all, what a sudden and rich addition to our stock of heroic poetical portraitures! Here is no imitation. Neither Lycurge nor Emetrius is any where in poetry but here. Not in theIliad-not in theÆneid. You cannot compose either of them from the heroes of antiquity. Each is original—new—self-subsisting. The monarch of Thrace is invested with more of uncouth and savage terror. He is bigger, broader. Might for destroying is in his bulk of bone and muscle. Bulls draw him, and he looks taurine. A bear-skin mantles him; and you would think him of ursine consanguinity. The huge lump of gold upon his raven-black head, and the monster hounds, bigger than the dog-kind can be imagined to produce, that gambol about his chariot, all betoken the grosser character of power—the power that is in size—material. The impression of the portentous is made without going avowedly out of the real. His looking is resembled to that of a griffin, because in that monster imagined at or beyond the verge of nature, the ferocity of a devouring, destroying creature can be conceived as more wild, and grim, and fearful than in nature's known offspring, in all of whom some kindlier sparkles from the heart of the great mother, some beneficently-implanted instincts are thought of as tempering and qualifying the pure animal fierceness and rage.
The opposed King of Inde has also of the prodigious, within the limits of the apparently natural. He is also a tremendous champion; but he has more fire, and less of mere thewes, in the furnishing of his warlike sufficiency. There is more of mind and fancy about him. His fair complexion at once places him in a more gracious category of death-doers. Compare to the car drawn by four white bulls, the gallant bay charger barded with steel, and caparisoned with cloth of gold. Compare to that yellow-nailed, swart bear-skin, the coat-armour made with cloth of Tars, the mantelet thick-sown with rubies; for the locks like the raven's plumage, the curls like Apollo's tresses. He is in the dazzling prime of youth. Black Lycurge, without question, has more than twice his years. The beard that yet springs, joined close to the voice that is like a trumpet, is well found for raising the expression of nativepower in that thundering voice. The laurel wreath for the ponderous golden diadem—the white eagle on the wrist for the snowy alauns, are all studied to carry through the same opposition. Emetrius is a son of chivalry; Lycurge might be kin or kith, with a difference for the better, of that renowned tyrant Diomedes, who put men's limbs for hay into his manger, and of whom Hercules had, not so long ago, ridded the world.Hislooking, too, is paralleled away from humanity, but it is by the kingly and generous lion. Observe that the companions of the two kings are described, whether through chance or choice, in terms correspondingly opposite. The Thracian leads a hundred lords, with hearts stern and stout. The Indian's following, earls, dukes, kings, have thronged to him, for the love and increment of chivalry. The lions and leopards, too, that run about him have been tamed. They finish the Indian picture.
How does Dryden acquit himself here? Grandly.
Dryden.With Palamon, above the rest in place,Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace;Black was his beard, and manly was his face:The balls of his broad eyes roll'd in his head,And glared bewixt a yellow and a red;He look'd a lion with a gloomy stare,And o'er his eye-brows hung his matted hair;Big-boned, and large of limbs, with sinews strong,Broad-shoulder'd, and his arms were round and long.Four milk-white bulls (the Thracian use of old,)Were yoked to draw his car of burnish'd gold.Upright he stood, and bore aloft his shield,Conspicuous from afar, and overlook'd the field.His surcoat was a bear-skin on his back;His hair hung long behind, and glossy raven-black.His ample forehead bore a coronetWith sparkling diamonds, and with rubies set;Ten brace, and more, of greyhounds, snowy fair,And tall as stags, ran loose, and coursed around his chair,A match for pards in flight, in grappling for the bear.With golden muzzles all their mouths were bound,And collars of the same their necks surround.Thus through the field Lycurgus took his way;His hundred knights attend in pomp and proud array.To match this monarch, with strong Arcite cameEmetrius, king of Inde, a mighty name!On a bay courser, goodly to behold,The trappings of his horse emboss'd with barbarous gold.Not Mars bestrode a steed with greater grace;His surcoat o'er his arms was cloth of Thrace,Adorn'd with pearls, all orient, round, and great;His saddle was of gold, with emeralds set;His shoulders large a mantle did attire,With rubies thick, and sparkling as the fire;His amber-coloured locks in ringlets run,With graceful negligence, and shone against the sun.His nose was aquiline, his eyes were blue,Ruddy his lips, and fresh and fair his hue;Some sprinkled freckles on his face were seen,Whose dusk set off the whiteness of the skin.His awful presence did the crowd surprise,Nor durst the rash spectator meet his eyes,Eyes that confess'd him born for kingly sway,So fierce, they flash'd intolerable day.His age in nature's youthful prime appear'd,And just began to bloom his yellow beard.Whene'er he spoke, his voice was heard around,Loud as a trumpet, with a silver sound;A laurel wreath'd his temples, fresh and green,And myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were mix'd between.Upon his fist he bore, for his delight,An eagle well reclaim'd, and lily white.His hundred knights attend him to the war,All arm'd for battle, save their heads were bare.Words and devices blazed on every shield,And pleasing was the terror of the field.For kings, and dukes, and barons you might see,Like sparkling stars, though different in degree,All for the increase of arms, and love of chivalry.Before the king tame leopards led the way,And troops of lions innocently play.So Bacchus through the conquer'd Indies rode,And beasts in gambols frisk'd before the honest god.
Dryden.
With Palamon, above the rest in place,Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace;Black was his beard, and manly was his face:The balls of his broad eyes roll'd in his head,And glared bewixt a yellow and a red;He look'd a lion with a gloomy stare,And o'er his eye-brows hung his matted hair;Big-boned, and large of limbs, with sinews strong,Broad-shoulder'd, and his arms were round and long.Four milk-white bulls (the Thracian use of old,)Were yoked to draw his car of burnish'd gold.Upright he stood, and bore aloft his shield,Conspicuous from afar, and overlook'd the field.His surcoat was a bear-skin on his back;His hair hung long behind, and glossy raven-black.His ample forehead bore a coronetWith sparkling diamonds, and with rubies set;Ten brace, and more, of greyhounds, snowy fair,And tall as stags, ran loose, and coursed around his chair,A match for pards in flight, in grappling for the bear.With golden muzzles all their mouths were bound,And collars of the same their necks surround.Thus through the field Lycurgus took his way;His hundred knights attend in pomp and proud array.
To match this monarch, with strong Arcite cameEmetrius, king of Inde, a mighty name!On a bay courser, goodly to behold,The trappings of his horse emboss'd with barbarous gold.Not Mars bestrode a steed with greater grace;His surcoat o'er his arms was cloth of Thrace,Adorn'd with pearls, all orient, round, and great;His saddle was of gold, with emeralds set;His shoulders large a mantle did attire,With rubies thick, and sparkling as the fire;His amber-coloured locks in ringlets run,With graceful negligence, and shone against the sun.His nose was aquiline, his eyes were blue,Ruddy his lips, and fresh and fair his hue;Some sprinkled freckles on his face were seen,Whose dusk set off the whiteness of the skin.His awful presence did the crowd surprise,Nor durst the rash spectator meet his eyes,Eyes that confess'd him born for kingly sway,So fierce, they flash'd intolerable day.His age in nature's youthful prime appear'd,And just began to bloom his yellow beard.Whene'er he spoke, his voice was heard around,Loud as a trumpet, with a silver sound;A laurel wreath'd his temples, fresh and green,And myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were mix'd between.Upon his fist he bore, for his delight,An eagle well reclaim'd, and lily white.
His hundred knights attend him to the war,All arm'd for battle, save their heads were bare.Words and devices blazed on every shield,And pleasing was the terror of the field.For kings, and dukes, and barons you might see,Like sparkling stars, though different in degree,All for the increase of arms, and love of chivalry.Before the king tame leopards led the way,And troops of lions innocently play.So Bacchus through the conquer'd Indies rode,And beasts in gambols frisk'd before the honest god.
Dryden, you will have noticed, smooths down, in some places, a little the savagery of the Thracian. He has let go the fell gryphon, borrowing instead the lion's glances of Emetrius. For the more refined poetical invention of the advanced world, the opposition of the two animals for contrasting the two heroes, had possibly something of the burlesque. To Chaucer it was simply energetic. Or Dryden perhaps had not taken up a right view of the gryphon's looking, or he thought that his readers would not. He compensates Emetrius with plainly describing his eyes, in four very animated verses. Lycurge's combed eye-brows are a little mitigated, as is his ferocious bear-skin; and the ring of gold, as thick as a man's arm, has become merely a well-jewelled coronet. The spirit of the figure is, notwithstanding, caught and given. Dryden intends and conveys the impression purposed and effected by Chaucer.
If the black and sullen portrait loses a little grimness under the rich and harmonious pencil of Dryden, the needful contradistinction of the two royal auxiliars is maintained by heightening the favour of the more pleasing one. Throughout, Dryden with pains insists upon the more attractive features which we have claimed for the King of Inde. Grace is twice attributed to his appearance. He has gained blue eyes. His complexion is carefully and delicately handled, as may be especially seen in the management of the freckles. Thebloomingof his yellow beard, the thundering of the trumpet changed into a silvery sound, the myrtle sprigs mixed amongst the warlike laurel—all unequivocally display the gracious intentions of Dryden towards Emetrius—all aid in rendering effective the opposition which Chaucer has deliberately represented betwixt the two kings. Why the surly Thracian should be rather allied to the knight who serves Venus, and the more gallant Emetrius to the fierce Arcite, the favourite of the War-god, is left for the meditation of readers in all time to come.
The two opposed pictures are perhaps as highly finished as any part of the version. The words fall into their own places, painting their objects. The verse marches with freedom, fervour, and power. Translation has then reached its highest perfection when the suspicion of an original vanishes. The translator makes the matter his own, and writes as if from his own unassisted conception. The allusion to Bacchus is Dryden's own happy addition.
Now read with us—perhaps for the first time—the famous recital of the death of Arcite.
Chaucer.Nought may the woful spirit in myn herteDeclare o point of all my sorwès smerteTo you, my lady, that I lovè most;But I bequethe the service of my gostTo you aboven every creature,Sin that my lif ne may no longer dure.Alas the wo! alas the peinès strongeThat I for you have suffered, and so longe!Alas the deth! Alas min Emilie!Alas departing of our compagnie!Alas min hertès quene! alas my wif!My hertès ladie, ender of my lif!What is this world? what axen men to have?Now with his love, now in his coldè graveAlone withouten any compagnie.Farewel my swete, farewel min Emilie,And softè take me in your armès twey,For love of God, and herkeneth what I sey.I have here with my cosin PalamonHad strif and rancour many a day agonFor love of you, and for my jealousie.And Jupiter so wis my soulè gie,To speken of a servant proprely,With allè circumstancè trewèly,That is to sayn, trouth, honour, and knighthede,Wisdom, humblesse, estat, and high kinrede,Fredom, and all that longeth to that art,So Jupiter have of my soulè part,As in this world right now ne know I nonSo worthy to be loved as Palamon,That serveth you, and wol don all his lif.And if that ever ye shal ben a wif,Foryete not Palamon, the gentil man.And with that word his speech faillè began.For from his feet up to his brest was comeThe cold of death, which had him overnome.And yet moreover in his armès two,The vital strength is lost, and all ago.Only the intellect, withouten more,That dwelled in his hertè sike and sore,Gan faillen, whan the hertè feltè deth;Dusked his eyen two, and failled his breth.But on his ladie yet cast he his eye;His lastè word was: Mercy, Emilie!His spirit changed hous, and wentè ther,As I came never I cannot tellen wher.Therefore I stent, I am no divinistre;Of soulès find I not in this registre.Ne me lust not th' opinions to telleOf hem, though that they writen wher they dwelle.Arcite is cold, ther Mars his soulè gie.Now wol I speken forth of Emilie.Shright Emilie, and houleth Palamon,And Theseus his sister toke anonSwouning, and bare hire from the corps away.What helpeth it to tarien forth the day,To tellen how she wep both even and morwe?For in swiche cas wimmen haven swiche sorwe,Whan that hir housbondes ben fro hem ago,That for the morè part they sorwen so,Or ellès fallen in swiche maladie,That attè lastè certainly they die.Infinite ben the sorwes and the teresOf oldè folk, and folk of tendre yearsIn all the toun for deth of this Theban:For him, ther wepeth bothè child and man:So gret a weping was there non certain,When Hector was ybrought, all fresh yslainTo Troy: alas! the pitee that was there,Cratching of chekès, rending eke of here.Why woldest thou be ded? the women crie,And haddest gold enough, and Emilie.
Chaucer.
Nought may the woful spirit in myn herteDeclare o point of all my sorwès smerteTo you, my lady, that I lovè most;But I bequethe the service of my gostTo you aboven every creature,Sin that my lif ne may no longer dure.Alas the wo! alas the peinès strongeThat I for you have suffered, and so longe!Alas the deth! Alas min Emilie!Alas departing of our compagnie!Alas min hertès quene! alas my wif!My hertès ladie, ender of my lif!What is this world? what axen men to have?Now with his love, now in his coldè graveAlone withouten any compagnie.Farewel my swete, farewel min Emilie,And softè take me in your armès twey,For love of God, and herkeneth what I sey.
I have here with my cosin PalamonHad strif and rancour many a day agonFor love of you, and for my jealousie.And Jupiter so wis my soulè gie,To speken of a servant proprely,With allè circumstancè trewèly,That is to sayn, trouth, honour, and knighthede,Wisdom, humblesse, estat, and high kinrede,Fredom, and all that longeth to that art,So Jupiter have of my soulè part,As in this world right now ne know I nonSo worthy to be loved as Palamon,That serveth you, and wol don all his lif.And if that ever ye shal ben a wif,Foryete not Palamon, the gentil man.
And with that word his speech faillè began.For from his feet up to his brest was comeThe cold of death, which had him overnome.And yet moreover in his armès two,The vital strength is lost, and all ago.Only the intellect, withouten more,That dwelled in his hertè sike and sore,Gan faillen, whan the hertè feltè deth;Dusked his eyen two, and failled his breth.But on his ladie yet cast he his eye;His lastè word was: Mercy, Emilie!His spirit changed hous, and wentè ther,As I came never I cannot tellen wher.Therefore I stent, I am no divinistre;Of soulès find I not in this registre.Ne me lust not th' opinions to telleOf hem, though that they writen wher they dwelle.Arcite is cold, ther Mars his soulè gie.Now wol I speken forth of Emilie.
Shright Emilie, and houleth Palamon,And Theseus his sister toke anonSwouning, and bare hire from the corps away.What helpeth it to tarien forth the day,To tellen how she wep both even and morwe?For in swiche cas wimmen haven swiche sorwe,Whan that hir housbondes ben fro hem ago,That for the morè part they sorwen so,Or ellès fallen in swiche maladie,That attè lastè certainly they die.
Infinite ben the sorwes and the teresOf oldè folk, and folk of tendre yearsIn all the toun for deth of this Theban:For him, ther wepeth bothè child and man:So gret a weping was there non certain,When Hector was ybrought, all fresh yslainTo Troy: alas! the pitee that was there,Cratching of chekès, rending eke of here.Why woldest thou be ded? the women crie,And haddest gold enough, and Emilie.
The death of Arcite is one of the scenes for which the admirers of Chaucer feel themselves entitled to claim, that it shall be judged in comparison with analogous passages of the poets that stand highest in the renown of natural and pathetic delineation. The dying words of the hero are asproperas if either great classical master of epic propriety—the Chian or the Mantuan—had left them to us. They are thoroughly sad, thoroughly loving, and supremely magnanimous. They have a perfect simplicity of purpose. They take the last leave of his Emelie; and they find for her, if ever she shall choose to put off her approaching estate of unwedded widowhood, a fit husband. They have answerable simplicity of sentiment and of language. He is unable to utter any particle of the pain which he feels in quitting her; but since the service which living he pays her, draws to an end, he pledges to her in the world whither he is going, the constant love-fealty of his disembodied spirit. He recalls to her, with a word only, the long love-torments he has endured for her, exchanged, in the hour when they should have been crowned with possession, for the pains of death. He heaps endearing names upon her. He glances at the vanity of human wishes imaged in himself, and he bids her farewell. That is his first heart-offering towards herself. Can a death-severed heart's elocution be imitated more aptly, more touchingly? He then turns to praising his rival. The jealousy, which had so long been the madness of both, filling the two kindred, brotherly, once-affectionate bosoms with hate, has, in his, melted away with life, thence melting away; and Arcite, with his last intelligible breath, describes Palamon briefly, point by point, as he knew him when he best loved him. He does not implore Emelie to remain for his sake single. He does not pretend, if she shall marry, to govern her choice; but he simply requests her, if the season shall ever arrive of such a choice, that she will not "forget Palamon." But the death-frost creeps on—his eyes darken—and the suspiration which finally wafts the soul from the body, beseeches the favour of her, only to earn whose favour he lived, and with earning whose favour he dies. Her name leaves his lips last. Could Shakspeare have helped Chaucer? The whole speech is admirably direct and short. We shall presently have to deal with one from the same poem, which wants that virtue.
The clamorous outbreak that follows, first of the private, and, supervening upon that, of the public grief, if not altogether couched in Homeric phraseology or numbers, has an air, however, of the Homeric painting. But, indeed, neither is the language deficient in fanciful significancy, nor the measure in good old melody.
Dryden.No language can express the smallest partOf what I feel, and suffer in my heart,For you, whom best I love and value most:But to your service I bequeath my ghost;Which, from this mortal body when untied,Unseen, unheard, shall hover at your side;Nor fright you waking, nor your sleep offend,But wait officious, and your steps attend.How I have loved—excuse my faltering tongue!My spirit's feeble and my pains are strong:This I may say I only grieve to die,Because I lose my charming Emily.To die when heaven had put you in my power!Fate could not choose a more malicious hour.What greater curse could envious fortune give,Than just to die when I began to live?Vain men, how vanishing a bliss we crave,Now warm in love, now withering in the grave!Never, O never more to see the sun!Still dark, in a damp vault, and still alone!This fate is common; but I lose my breathNear bliss, and yet not bless'd, before my death.Farewell! but take me dying in your arms,'Tis all I can enjoy of all your charms:This hand I cannot but in death resign;Ah, could I live! but while I live 'tis mine.I feel my end approach, and thus embraced,Am pleased to die; but hear me speak my last.Ah, my sweet foe! for you, and you alone,I broke my faith with injured Palamon:But love the sense of right and wrong confounds;Strong love and proud ambition have no bounds.And much I doubt, should Heaven my life prolong,I should return to justify my wrong;For, while my former flames remain within,Repentance is but want of power to sin.With mortal hatred I pursued his life,Nor he, nor you, were guilty of the strife;Nor I, but as I loved; yet all combined,Your beauty, and my impotence of mind;And his concurrent flame that blew my fire;For still our kindred souls had one desire.He had a moment's right, in point of time;Had I seen first, then his had been the crime.Fate made it mine, and justified his right;Nor holds this earth a more deserving knight,For virtue, valour, and for noble blood,Truth, honour, all that is comprised in good;So help me Heaven, in all the world is noneSo worthy to be loved as Palamon.He loves you, too, with such a holy fire,As will not, cannot, but with life expire;Our vow'd affections both have often tried,Nor any love but yours could ours divide.Then, by my love's inviolable band,By my long-suffering, and my short command,If e'er you plight your vows when I am gone,Have pity on the faithful Palamon.This was his last; for Death came on amain,And exercised below his iron reign.Then upward to the seat of life he goes;Sense fled before him, what he touch'd he froze:Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw,Though less and less of Emily he saw;So, speechless for a little space he lay;Then grasp'd the hand he held, and sigh'd his soul away.But whither went his soul, let such relateWho search the secrets of the future state:Divines can say but what themselves believe;Strong proofs they have, but not demonstrative;For, were all plain, then all sides must agree,And faith itself be lost in certainty.To live uprightly, then, is sure the best;To save ourselves, and not to damn the rest.The soul of Arcite went where heathens go,Who better live than we, though less they know.In Palamon a manly grief appears;Silent he wept, ashamed to show his tears.Emilia shriek'd but once; and then, oppress'dWith sorrow, sunk upon her lover's breast:Till Theseus in his arms convey'd, with care,Far from so sad a sight the swooning fair.'Twere loss of time her sorrow to relate;Ill bears the sex a youthful lover's fate,When just approaching to the nuptial state:But, like a low-hung cloud, it rains so fast,That all at once it falls, and cannot last.The face of things is changed, and Athens now,That laugh'd so late, becomes the scene of woe:Matrons and maids, both sexes, every state,With tears lament the knight's untimely fate.Nor greater grief in falling Troy was seenFor Hector's death, but Hector was not then.Old men with dust deform'd their hoary hair;The women beat their breasts, their cheeks they tear:Why wouldst thou go, (with one consent they cry,)When thou hadst gold enough, and Emily?
Dryden.
No language can express the smallest partOf what I feel, and suffer in my heart,For you, whom best I love and value most:But to your service I bequeath my ghost;Which, from this mortal body when untied,Unseen, unheard, shall hover at your side;Nor fright you waking, nor your sleep offend,But wait officious, and your steps attend.How I have loved—excuse my faltering tongue!My spirit's feeble and my pains are strong:This I may say I only grieve to die,Because I lose my charming Emily.To die when heaven had put you in my power!Fate could not choose a more malicious hour.What greater curse could envious fortune give,Than just to die when I began to live?Vain men, how vanishing a bliss we crave,Now warm in love, now withering in the grave!Never, O never more to see the sun!Still dark, in a damp vault, and still alone!This fate is common; but I lose my breathNear bliss, and yet not bless'd, before my death.Farewell! but take me dying in your arms,'Tis all I can enjoy of all your charms:This hand I cannot but in death resign;Ah, could I live! but while I live 'tis mine.I feel my end approach, and thus embraced,Am pleased to die; but hear me speak my last.Ah, my sweet foe! for you, and you alone,I broke my faith with injured Palamon:But love the sense of right and wrong confounds;Strong love and proud ambition have no bounds.And much I doubt, should Heaven my life prolong,I should return to justify my wrong;For, while my former flames remain within,Repentance is but want of power to sin.With mortal hatred I pursued his life,Nor he, nor you, were guilty of the strife;Nor I, but as I loved; yet all combined,Your beauty, and my impotence of mind;And his concurrent flame that blew my fire;For still our kindred souls had one desire.He had a moment's right, in point of time;Had I seen first, then his had been the crime.Fate made it mine, and justified his right;Nor holds this earth a more deserving knight,For virtue, valour, and for noble blood,Truth, honour, all that is comprised in good;So help me Heaven, in all the world is noneSo worthy to be loved as Palamon.He loves you, too, with such a holy fire,As will not, cannot, but with life expire;Our vow'd affections both have often tried,Nor any love but yours could ours divide.Then, by my love's inviolable band,By my long-suffering, and my short command,If e'er you plight your vows when I am gone,Have pity on the faithful Palamon.
This was his last; for Death came on amain,And exercised below his iron reign.Then upward to the seat of life he goes;Sense fled before him, what he touch'd he froze:Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw,Though less and less of Emily he saw;So, speechless for a little space he lay;Then grasp'd the hand he held, and sigh'd his soul away.But whither went his soul, let such relateWho search the secrets of the future state:Divines can say but what themselves believe;Strong proofs they have, but not demonstrative;For, were all plain, then all sides must agree,And faith itself be lost in certainty.To live uprightly, then, is sure the best;To save ourselves, and not to damn the rest.The soul of Arcite went where heathens go,Who better live than we, though less they know.
In Palamon a manly grief appears;Silent he wept, ashamed to show his tears.Emilia shriek'd but once; and then, oppress'dWith sorrow, sunk upon her lover's breast:Till Theseus in his arms convey'd, with care,Far from so sad a sight the swooning fair.'Twere loss of time her sorrow to relate;Ill bears the sex a youthful lover's fate,When just approaching to the nuptial state:But, like a low-hung cloud, it rains so fast,That all at once it falls, and cannot last.The face of things is changed, and Athens now,That laugh'd so late, becomes the scene of woe:Matrons and maids, both sexes, every state,With tears lament the knight's untimely fate.Nor greater grief in falling Troy was seenFor Hector's death, but Hector was not then.Old men with dust deform'd their hoary hair;The women beat their breasts, their cheeks they tear:Why wouldst thou go, (with one consent they cry,)When thou hadst gold enough, and Emily?
Dryden, you observe, exhibits various changes. Are they for the better or the worse? In the first place, he introduces a new motive into the conduct of Arcite—remorse of conscience. When fate has declared against him, and he finds that he cannot enjoy the possession of the prize which he has wrongfully won, his eyes open upon his own injustice, and he acknowledges the prior right of Palamon, who first had seen Emilie.
Does this innovation make good an ethical want in the rough and unschooled original? Or does it perplex the old heroic simplicity with a modern and needless refinement? By right of arms, by gift of the king, with her own gentle consent, Emelie was Arcite's. Death unsinews the hand that held her against the world. Let a few winged moments fleet, and she is his no more. He bows, conquered by all-conquering, alone unconquerable necessity. His love, which had victoriously expelled his cousin's from the field of debate, he carries with him to the melancholy Plutonic kingdom, and leaves the field of debate still—Palamon victor, and Emelie free. Really there seems to be something not only simpler in art, but more pathetic, and even morally greater, in the humble submission of the fierce and giant-like spirit to inevitable decree—in the spontaneous return of the pristine fraternal appreciation when death withdraws the disturbing force of rivalry—and in his voluntarily appointing, so far as he ventures to appoint, his brother in arms and his bride to each other's happiness—than in the inventive display of a compunction for which, as the world goes, there appears to be positively no use, and hardly clear room. Loftily viewing the case, a wrong has been intended by Arcite to Palamon, but no wrong done. He has been twice hacked and hewed a little—that is all; and it cannot be said that he has been robbed of her who would not have been his. Indeed, the current of destiny has so run, that the quarrel of the two noble kinsmen has brought, as apparently it alone could bring, the survivor to wedlock with his beloved. We suspect, then, that the attribution of the motive is equally modern with the style of the not ill-contrived witticism which accompanies the first mention of it—
"Conscience, that of all physick works the last,Caused him to send for Emily in haste."
"Conscience, that of all physick works the last,Caused him to send for Emily in haste."
But that which, upon the general comparison of the two speeches, principally strikes us, is the great expansion, by the multiplying of the thoughts to which expression is given, by Dryden. With old Geoffrey, the weight of death seems actually to lie upon the tongue that speaks in few interrupted accents. Dryden's Moribund runs on, quite at his ease, in eloquent disquisition. Another unsatisfactory difference is the disappearing of that distinct, commanding purpose or plan, and the due proportion observed upon in the original. That mere cleaving desire to Emelie, feltthrough the first half in word after word gushing up from a heart in which life, but not love, ebbs, gets bewildered in the modern version among explications of the befallen unhappiness, and lost in a sort of argumentative lamentation. And do but just look how that "in his coldè grave," the only word, one may say, in the whole allocution which does not expressly appertain to Emelie, and yet half belongs to her by contrast—is extended, in Dryden, as if upon recollection of Claudio's complaint in "Measure for Measure," until, like that complaint, it becomes selfish.
But there is small pleasure in picking out the poetical misses of John Dryden. It was to be foreseen that he would be worsted in this place of the competition; for the pathetic was not hisforte, and was Chaucer's. So, too, instead of the summary and concise commendation of his happier cousin to the future regard of the bereaved bride, so touching in Chaucer, there comes in, provoked by that unlucky repentance, an expatiating and arguing review of the now extinct quarrel, showing a liberty and vigour of thought that agree ill with the threatening cloud of dissolution, and somewhat overlay and encumber the proper business to which the dying man has now turned himself—made imperative by the occasion—the formal and energetic eulogy on Palamon. The praise, however, is bestowed at last, and handsomely.
Have we, think ye, gentle lovers of Chaucer, rightly understood the possibly somewhat obscure intention of the two verses at the beginning of our extract—
"But I bequethe the service of my gostTo you?"
"But I bequethe the service of my gostTo you?"
We have accepted "service" in the sense which, agreeably to our erudition, it eminently holds the old love-vocabulary—homage, devotion,Love; the pure and entire dedication by the lover of his whole being to his lady. In this meaning, the heart continuallyserves, if there should be no opportunity of rendering any useful offices. You will see that Dryden has taken the word in what strikes us as an inferior sense—namely, available service; but then his verses are exquisite. And why, gentle lovers of Chaucer, why think ye does the expiring Arcite, at that particular juncture of his address, crave of his heart's queen softly to take him in her arms? Is it not that he is then about pouring out into her ear his dying design for her happiness? Received so, the movement has great originality and an infinite beauty. His heart yearns the more towards her as he is on the point of giving utterance to his generous proposal. He will, by that act of love upon her part, and that mutual attitude of love, deepen the solemnity, truth, power, impression of his unexpected request. Will he perchance, too, approach her ear to his voice, that grows weaker and weaker?
The two verses appear by their wording to intimate something like all this.
"And softè take me in your armès twey,For love of God,and herkeneth what I sey."
"And softè take me in your armès twey,For love of God,and herkeneth what I sey."
If Chaucer had any such meaning, it vanishes wholly in Dryden's version.
On re-surveying the matter at last, we feel the more that the passing over of Emelie from the dead Arcite to the living Palamon, in Chaucer, is by much more poetical when viewed as the voluntary concession and gift of the now fully heroic Arcite, than as, in Dryden, the recovered right of the fortunate survivor. However, the speech, as Dryden has it, is vigorous, numerous, spirited, eloquent, touched with poetry, and might please you very well, did you not compare it with the singular truth, feeling, fitness of Chaucer's—that unparalleled picture of a manly, sorely-wrung, lovingly-provident spirit upon its bed of untimely death.
The process of dying has been considerately delineated by Chaucer. Death creeps from the feet upwards to the breast—it creeps up and possesses the arms. But the intellect which dwelled in the heart 'gan fail only when the very heart felt death. Then dimness fell upon the eyes, and the breath faltered. One more look—one more word—and the spirit has forsaken its tenement. Dryden generalizes all this particularity—and therein greatly errs. But the lastfour flowing verses of the death-scene are in his more inspired manner, and must be held good for redeeming a multitude of peccadilloes and some graver transgressions. Read them over again—
"Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw,Though less and less of Emily he saw;So, speechless for a little space he lay;Then grasp'd the hand he held, and sigh'd his soul away."
"Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw,Though less and less of Emily he saw;So, speechless for a little space he lay;Then grasp'd the hand he held, and sigh'd his soul away."
When years rolling have in a manner exhausted the tears due to the remembrance of the heroic Arcite, a parliament, held upon matters of public interest, gives occasion to Theseus of requiring the attendance of Palamon from Thebes to Athens. The benign monarch, however, is revolving affairs of nearer and more private concern. The national council is assembled; Palamon is in his place, and Emelie has been called into presence. His majesty puts on a very serious countenance, fixes his eyes, heaves a sigh, and begins unburthening his bosom of its concealed purposes. He "begins from the beginning" in this fashion:—
"When the First Mover established the great chain of love, in which he bound the four elements, the mighty ordering proceeded of high wisdom. The same author, himself inaccessible to alteration, has appointed to all natural things the law of transiency and succession. The kinds endure; the individuals pass away. Nature examples us with decay. Trees, rivers, mighty towns, wax and wane—much more we. All must die—the great and the small: and the wish to live is an impiety. Better it is to fall in the pride of strength and in the splendour of renown, than to droop through long years into the grave; and the friend who survives should rejoice in his friend's happy and honourable departure. Wherefore, then, shall we longer mourn for Arcite?" This is the copious preamble. The conclusion is more briefly dispatched. Emelie must accept the hand of her faithful servant Palamon. He wants no persuasion; and the knot of matrimony happily ties up at last their destinies, wishes, and expectations, which the Tale in its progress has spun.
The royal harangue is long; and marked, doubtless, with a sort of artificial solemnity. However, it has a deliberative stateliness and a certain monarchal tone.Wedo not now, in the Speeches from the Throne, begin regularly from the Creation—but that is a refinement. There has been eloquence of which Chaucer's deep display of philosophy and high deduction of argument is no ill-conceived representation. There is a grandeur in the earthly king's grounding his counsels in those of the heavenly King; and in his blending his own particular act of exerted kingly sway into the general system of things in the universe. The turn from the somewhat magniloquent dissertation to the parties immediately interested—the gentle disposing, between injunction and persuasion, of Emelie's will, and the frank call upon Palamon to come forward and take possession of his happiness, are natural, princely, and full of dramatic grace. Thus,—
Chaucer.Lo the oke that hath so long a norishingFro the time that it ginneth first to spring,And hath so long a lif, as ye may see,Yet at the lastè wasted is the tree.Considereth eke, how that the hardè stoneUnder our feet, on which we trede and gon,It wasteth as it lieth by the way;The brodè river some time waxeth dry;The gretè tounès see we wane and wende;Then may ye see that all things hath an end.Of man and woman see we wel also,That nedès in on of the termès two,That is to sayn, in youth or ellès age,He mote be ded, the king as shall a page;Som on his bed, some on the depè see,Som in the largè field, as ye may see;Ther helpeth nought, all goth that ilkè wey;Than may I say that allè things mote dey.What maketh this but Jupiter the king?The which is prince, and cause of allè thing,Converting allè unto his propre will,From which it is derived, soth to telle.And herè againes no creature on liveOf no degree availeth for to strive.Then is it wisdom, as it thinketh me,To maken virtue of necessite,And take it wel, that we may not eschewe,And namèly that to us all is dewe.And who so grutcheth ought, he doth folie,And rebel is to him that all may gie.And certainly a man hath most honourTo dien in his excellence and flour,Whan he is siker of his goodè name.Than hath he don his friend, ne him, no shame;And glader ought his friend been of his dethWhan with honour is yelden up his breath,Than whan his name appalled is for age;For all foryetten is his vassalagèThan is it best, as for a worthy fame,To dien when a man is best of name.The contrary of all this is wilfulnesse.Why grutchen we? Why have we heavinesse,That good Arcite, of chivalry the flour,Departed is, with dutee and honour,Out of this foulè prison of this lif?Why grutchen here his cosin and his wifOf his welfare, that loven him so wel?Can he hem thank? Nay, God wot, never a del,That both his soulè, and eke himself offend,And yet they mow hir lustres not amend.What may I conclude of this longè serie,But after sorwe I rede us to be merie,And thanken Jupiter of all his grace,And er that we departen from this place,I redè that we make of sorwes twoO parfit joyè lasting evermo;And loketh now wher most sorwe is herein,Ther wol I firste amenden and begin.Sister (quod he) this is my full assent,With all the avis here of my parlement,That gentil Palamon, your owen knight,That serveth you with will, and herte and might,And ever hath done, sin ye first him knew,That ye shall of your grace upon him vew,And taken him for husbond and for lord:Lene me your hand, for this is oure accord.Let see now of your womanly pitee.He is a kingè's brother's sone pardee,And though he were a pourè bachelere,Sin he hath served you so many a yere,And had for you so gret adversitie,It mostè ben considered, leveth me.For gentil mercy oweth to passen right.Then sayd he thus to Palamon the knight:I trow ther nedeth little sermoningTo maken you assenten to this thing.Cometh ner, and take your lady by the hond.Betwixen hem was maked anon the bond,That highte matrimoine or mariage,By all the conseil of the baronage.And thus with allè blisse and melodieHath Palamon ywedded Emilie.And God, that all this widè world hath wrought,Send him his love, that hath it dere ybought.For now is Palamon in allè wele,Living in blisse, in richisse, and in hele,And Emelie him loveth so tendrely,And he hire serveth all so gentilly,That never was ther no word hem betweneOf jalousie, ne of non other tene.Thus endeth Palamon and EmilieAnd God save all this fayrè compagnie.
Chaucer.
Lo the oke that hath so long a norishingFro the time that it ginneth first to spring,And hath so long a lif, as ye may see,Yet at the lastè wasted is the tree.Considereth eke, how that the hardè stoneUnder our feet, on which we trede and gon,It wasteth as it lieth by the way;The brodè river some time waxeth dry;The gretè tounès see we wane and wende;Then may ye see that all things hath an end.Of man and woman see we wel also,That nedès in on of the termès two,That is to sayn, in youth or ellès age,He mote be ded, the king as shall a page;Som on his bed, some on the depè see,Som in the largè field, as ye may see;Ther helpeth nought, all goth that ilkè wey;Than may I say that allè things mote dey.What maketh this but Jupiter the king?The which is prince, and cause of allè thing,Converting allè unto his propre will,From which it is derived, soth to telle.And herè againes no creature on liveOf no degree availeth for to strive.Then is it wisdom, as it thinketh me,To maken virtue of necessite,And take it wel, that we may not eschewe,And namèly that to us all is dewe.And who so grutcheth ought, he doth folie,And rebel is to him that all may gie.And certainly a man hath most honourTo dien in his excellence and flour,Whan he is siker of his goodè name.Than hath he don his friend, ne him, no shame;And glader ought his friend been of his dethWhan with honour is yelden up his breath,Than whan his name appalled is for age;For all foryetten is his vassalagèThan is it best, as for a worthy fame,To dien when a man is best of name.The contrary of all this is wilfulnesse.Why grutchen we? Why have we heavinesse,That good Arcite, of chivalry the flour,Departed is, with dutee and honour,Out of this foulè prison of this lif?Why grutchen here his cosin and his wifOf his welfare, that loven him so wel?Can he hem thank? Nay, God wot, never a del,That both his soulè, and eke himself offend,And yet they mow hir lustres not amend.
What may I conclude of this longè serie,But after sorwe I rede us to be merie,And thanken Jupiter of all his grace,And er that we departen from this place,I redè that we make of sorwes twoO parfit joyè lasting evermo;And loketh now wher most sorwe is herein,Ther wol I firste amenden and begin.
Sister (quod he) this is my full assent,With all the avis here of my parlement,That gentil Palamon, your owen knight,That serveth you with will, and herte and might,And ever hath done, sin ye first him knew,That ye shall of your grace upon him vew,And taken him for husbond and for lord:Lene me your hand, for this is oure accord.
Let see now of your womanly pitee.He is a kingè's brother's sone pardee,And though he were a pourè bachelere,Sin he hath served you so many a yere,And had for you so gret adversitie,It mostè ben considered, leveth me.For gentil mercy oweth to passen right.
Then sayd he thus to Palamon the knight:I trow ther nedeth little sermoningTo maken you assenten to this thing.Cometh ner, and take your lady by the hond.
Betwixen hem was maked anon the bond,That highte matrimoine or mariage,By all the conseil of the baronage.And thus with allè blisse and melodieHath Palamon ywedded Emilie.And God, that all this widè world hath wrought,Send him his love, that hath it dere ybought.For now is Palamon in allè wele,Living in blisse, in richisse, and in hele,And Emelie him loveth so tendrely,And he hire serveth all so gentilly,That never was ther no word hem betweneOf jalousie, ne of non other tene.
Thus endeth Palamon and EmilieAnd God save all this fayrè compagnie.
The whole oration is rendered by Dryden with zealous diligence in bringing out the sense into further effect, and with a magnificent sweep of composition. If there is in the fine original any thing felt as a little too stiffly formal, this impression is wholly obliterated or lost in the streaming poetry of the translator. Dryden may not, on his own score, have been much of a philosopher; but he handles a philosophical thought in verse with a dexterity that is entirely his own. The sharpness and swiftness of intellectual power concurring in him, join so much ease with so much brevity, that the poetical vein flows on unhindered, even when involved with metaphysical notions and with scholastic recollections. The comparison of the following noble strain with the original now quoted, decisively and successfully shows the character of an embellishing transformation, which we have all along attributed to Dryden's treatment of Chaucer. The full thought of the original is often but as the seed of thought to the version, or at least the ungrown plant of the one throws out the luxuriance and majesty of leaves, blossoms, and branches in the other. The growth and decay of the oak in the two, and still more of the human being, are marked instances. Dryden does not himself acknowledge the bold license which he has used in regenerating; he does himself less than justice. The worth of his work is not the giving to modern England her ancient poet, without the trouble of acquiring his language, or of learning to sympathize with his manner. It would almost seem as if that were an enterprise which there is no accomplishing. Rightly to speak, it was not Dryden's. He really undertook, from a great old poem lying before him, to write a great modern poem, which he has done; and in the new Knight's Tale, we see Dryden, the great poet—we do not see Chaucer, the greater poet. But we see in it presumptive proof that the old poem worked from was great and interesting; and we must be lazy and unprofitable students if we do not, from the proud and splendid modernization, derive a yearning and a craving towards the unknown simple antique. Unknown to us, in our first studies, as we read upward from our own day into the past glories of our vernacular literature; but which, when, with gradually mounting courage, endeavour, and acquirement, we have made our way up so far, we find