* * * * *
Next to those poets who have exerted an influence on thematter, should be ranked those who have improved themanner, of our song. So that thus the same list may include the names of a Chaucer and a Waller, of a Milton and a Denham—the more as we suspect none but a true poet can materially improve even a poeticalmode, can contrive even a new stirrup to Pegasus, or even to retune the awful organ of Pythia. Neither Denham nor Waller were great poets; but they have produced lines and verses so good, and have, besides, exerted an influence so considerable on modern versification, and the style of poetical utterance, that they are entitled to a highly respectable place amidst the sons of British song.
Sir John Denham, although thoroughly English both in descent and in complexion of mind, was born in Dublin in 1615. His father, whose name also was Sir John (of Little Horseley, in Essex), was, at the time of our poet's birth, the Chief Baron of Exchequer in Ireland. His mother was Eleanor More, daughter of Sir Garret More, Baron of Mellefont. Two years after the son's birth, the father, being made an English Baron of Exchequer, returned to his native country, and educated young John in London. Thence, at the age of sixteen, he went to study at Oxford, where he became celebrated rather for dissipation than diligence. He was, although a youth of imaginative temperament, excessively fond of gambling; and it was said of him, that he was more given to "dreams and dice than to study." His future eminence might be foreseen by some of his friends; but, in general, men looked on him rather as an idle and misled youth of fortune, than as a genius. Three years after, he removed to Lincoln's Inn, where he continued occasionally to gamble, and was sometimes punished for his pains, being plundered by more skilful or unscrupulous gamesters, but did not forget his studies. His conscience, on one occasion, aroused by a rebuke from a friend, awoke; and, to confirm the resolutions which it forced upon him, he wrote and published an "Essay on Gaming." In this respect he resembles Sir Richard Steele when a young soldier, who, in order to cure himself of his dissipations, wrote and published "The Christian Hero"—his object being, by drawing the picture of a character exactly opposite to his own, to commit himself irrevocably to virtue, and to break down all the bridges between him and a return to vice. It is, alas! notorious, that Steele's holiness turned out only to be a FIT, of not much longer duration than a morning headache, and that the "Christian Hero" remains not as a model to which its author's conduct was ever conformed, but as a severe, self-written satire on his whole career. And so with Denham. For some time he forsook the gambling-table, and applied his attention partly to law, and partly to poetry, translating, in 1636, the "Second Book of the Aeneid;" but when his father died, two years afterwards, and left him some thousands, he rushed again to the dice-box, and melted them as rapidly as the wind melts the snow of spring.
"In 1642 he broke out," as Waller remarks of him, "like the Irish Rebellion, threescore thousand strong, when nobody was aware, or in the least suspected it," in the play of "Sophy;" and, sooth to say, like that rebellion, his outbreak is lawless and irregular, as well as strong; as in that rebellion, too, there is a rather needless expenditure of blood. What Byron says of Dr. Polidori's tragedy, is nearly true of "Sophy"—
"All stab, and everybody dies."
Nothing can be more horrible and disgusting than many of the incidents. A father suspecting and plotting against a dear and noble son; a son deprived of sight by the command of a father, and meditating in his rage and revenge the murder of his own favourite daughter, because she is beloved by his father; and the deaths of both son and father by poison, administered through means of a courtier who has betrayed both. Such are the main hinges on which the plot of the piece turns. The versification, too, is exceedingly unequal; sometimes swelling into rather full and splendid blank verse, and anon shrinking up into lines stunted and shrivelled, like boughs either touched by frost, or lopped by the axe of the woodman. Still there are in "Sophy" a force of style, a maturity of mind, an energy of declamation, and, here and there, an appreciation of Shakspeare—shewn in a generous though hopeless rivalry of his manner— which account for the reception it at first met with, and seem to have excited in Denham's contemporaries expectations which were never fulfilled. This uprise, as well as that of the Irish (which took place the year before it), turned out, on the whole, abortive. And yet what fine lines and sentiments are the following, culled from "Sophy" almostad aperturam libri:—
"Fear and guiltAre the same thing, and when ouractions are not,Our fears are crimes.The east and westUpon the globe, amathematic pointOnly divides; thus happiness and misery,And all extremes, are still contiguous.
More gallant actions have been lost, for want of beingCompletely wicked, than have been performedBy being exactly virtuous. 'Tis hard to beExact in good, or excellent in ill;Our will wants power, or else our power wants skill.
When in the midst of fears we are surprised With unexpected happiness, the firstDegrees of joy are mere astonishment. Fear, the shadow Of danger, like the shadow of our bodies,Is greater, then, when that which is the cause Is farthest off."
The blinded prince's soliloquy, in the first scene of the fifth act, is worthy of Shakspeare. We must quote the following lines:—
"Reason, my soul's eye, still seesClearly, and clearer for the want of eyes,For gazing through the windows of the bodyIt met such several, such distracting objects;But now confined within itself it seesA strange and unknown world, and there discoversTorrents of anger, mountains of ambition,Gulfs of desire, and towers of hope, large giants,Monsters and savage beasts; to vanquish theseWill be a braver conquest, than the oldOr the new world."
Shortly after the appearance of "Sophy," he was admitted, by the form then usual, Sheriff of Surrey, and appointed governor of Farnham Castle for the king; this important post, however, he soon resigned, and retreated to Oxford, where, in 1643, he published his poem entitled "Cooper's Hill." This instantly became popular, and many who might have seen in "Sophy" greater powers than were disclosed in this new effort, envied its fame, and gave out that he had bought it of a vicar for forty pounds. For this there was, of course, no proof, and it is only worth mentioning because it is one of a large class of cases, in which envious mediocrity, or crushed dulness, or jealous rivalry, has sought to snatch hard-won laurels from the brow of genius. As if these laurels were so smooth, and so soothing, as always to invite ambition, or as if they were so flexible as to suit every brow! As if FIRE lurked not sometimes in their leaves, and as if there were not, besides, a nobler jealousy in the public mind ready to watch and to avenge their misappropriation. Certain it is that not only, as Johnson remarks, was the attempt made to rob Addison of "Cato," and Pope of the "Essay of Criticism," but it has a hundred times taken place in the history of poetry. Rolt, as we saw in our late life of Akenside, tried to snatch the honour of writing "The Pleasures of Imagination" from its author. Lauder accused Milton of plundering the Italians wholesale. Scott's early novels have only the other day been most absurdly claimed for his brother Thomas. And notwithstanding Shakspeare's well-known lines over his sepulchre at Stratford—
"Bless'd be the man who spares these stones,But curs'd be he who moves my bones"—
a worse outrage has been recently committed on his memory, than were his dust, like Wickliffe's, tossed out of his tomb into the Avon—his plays have been, with as much stupidity as malice, attributed to Lord Bacon! Homer, too, has been found out to be a myth; and we know not if even Dante's originality has altogether passed unquestioned in this age of disbelief and downpulling; although what brow, save that thunder-scathed pile, could wear those scorched laurels, and who but the "man who had been in hell" could have written the "Inferno?" Worst of all, a class of writers have of late sought to prove that there is no such thing as originality—that genius means just dexterous borrowing-that the "Appropriation Clause" is of divine right—and have certainly proved themselves true to their own principles.
In 1647, circumstances brought our poet more closely in connexion with the royal family, and on one occasion he carried a message from the Queen to King Charles, then in prison. He subsequently conducted, with great success, the King's correspondence; and in April 1648 he conveyed the young Duke of York (afterwards James II.) from London to France, and delivered him to the charge of the Queen and the Prince of Wales. He had, ere leaving Britain, written a translation of Cato-Major on Old Age. While in France, attending on the exiled prince, he wrote a number of poetical pieces at his master's desire; among others, a song in honour of an embassy to Poland, which he and Lord Crofts undertook for Charles II., and during which they are said to have collected £10,000 for the royal cause from the Scotchmen who then abounded in that country as travelling merchants or pedlars. Meanwhile his political misdemeanours were punished by the Parliament confiscating the remnant of his estate. In 1652, he returned to England penniless, and was supported by the Earl of Pembroke. After the Restoration, Charles, more mindful of him than of many of his friends and the partners of his exile, bestowed on Denham the Surveyorship of the King's Buildings and the Order of the Bath. The situation of Surveyor, even in his careless and improvident hands, turned out a lucrative one; for it is said that he cleared by it no less than £7000. Of his first wife, we hear little or nothing; but about this time, flushed as he was with prosperity, and the popularity of the writings he continued to produce, he contracted a second marriage, which was so far from happy that its consequences led to a fit of temporary derangement. Butler, then a disappointed and exacerbated man, was malignant enough to lampoon him for lunacy—an act which, Dr. Johnson well remarks, "no provocation could excuse." It was, in Fuller's fine old quaint language, "breaking one whom God had bowed before." Our readers will find Butler's squib in our edition of that poet, vol. ii. p. 200, under the title of "A Panegyrick on Sir John Denham's Recovery from his Madness." It is a piece quite unworthy of Butler's powers, and its sting lies principally in charging Denham with plagiarising "Cooper's Hill" and "Sophy," with gambling, and with overreaching the King as Surveyor of the Public Buildings, and with an overbearing and quarrelsome temper—but it contains no allusion to his domestic infelicity. Some have hinted that the cause of his insanity lay in jealousy—that Denham suspected his wife to be too intimate with the Duke of York—that he poisoned her, and maddened in remorse. Whatever the cause, the distemper was not of long continuance. He recovered in time to write some verses on the death of Cowley, which took place in 1667; but in the next year he himself expired, and was buried by the side of his friend in Westminster Abbey, not very far from Chaucer and Spencer. His funeral took place on the 19th of March 1668. He had attained the age of fifty-three.
This is all we can definitely state of the history of Sir John Denham, and certainly the light it casts on his character is neither very plentiful nor very pleasing. A gambler in his early days, he became a political intriguer, an unhappy husband, a maniac, and died in the prime of life. It need only further be recorded of him, that, according to some accounts, he first discovered the merits of Milton's "Paradise Lost," and went about with the book new from the press in his hands, shewing it to everybody, and exclaiming, "This beats us all, and the ancients too!" If this story be true, it says as much for his heart as his head for the generous disposition which made him praise a political adversary, as for the critical taste which discerned at a glance the value of the world's greatest poem. On the whole, however, Denham as a man stands on the same general level with the Cavalier wits in the days of Charles. If he did not rise so high as Cowley, he did not sink so low as Rochester, or even as Butler.
We may now regret, both that he did not live better, and that he did not write more. He had unquestionably in him greater powers than he ever expressed in his works. These are few, fragmentary, and unequal; but, nevertheless, must be reckoned productions of no ordinary merit. They discover a great deal of the body, and not a little of the soul, of poetry. In the passages we cited from "Sophy," and throughout the whole of that play, there is a vigorous and profound vein of reflection, as well as of imagination. Like Shakspeare, although on a scale very much inferior, he carries on a constant stream of subtle reflection amidst all the windings of his story; and even the most critical points of the drama are studded with pearls. Coleridge speaks of himself, or some one else, as wishing to live "collaterally, or aside, to the onward progress of society;" and thus, in the drama, there should ever be, as it were, a projection, oralias, of the author standing collaterally, or aside, to the bustling incidents and whirling passions, and calmly adding the commentary of wisdom, as they rush impetuously on. Such essentially was the chorus of the ancient Greek play; and a similar end is answered in Shakspeare by the subtle asides, the glancing bye-lights, which his wondrous intellect interposes amidst the rapid play of his fancy, the exuberance of his wit, and the crowded incident and interchange of passion created by his genius. Some have maintained that the philosophy of a drama should be chiefly confined to the conceptions of the characters, the development of the plot, and the management of the dialogue—that all the reflection should be molten into the mass of the play, and none of it embossed on the surface; but certainly neither Shakspeare's, nor Schiller's, nor Goethe's dramas answer to this ideal— all of them, besides the philosophy, so to speak, afoot in the progress of the story, contain a great deal standing still, quietly lurking in nooks and corners, and yet exerting a powerful influence on the ultimate effect and explanation of the whole. And so, according to its own proportions, it is with Denham's "Sophy." Indeed, as we have above hinted, its power lies more in these interesting individual beauties than in its general structure.
"Cooper's Hill," next to "Sophy," is undoubtedly his best production. Dr. Johnson calls it the first English specimen oflocalpoetry—i.e., of poetry in which a special scene is, through the embellishments of traditionary recollection, moral reflections, and the power of association generally, uplifted into a poetical light. This has been done afterwards by Garth, in his "Claremont;" Pope, in his "Windsor Forest;" Dyer, in his "Gronger-hill," and a hundred other instances. The great danger in this class of poems, is lest imported sentiment and historical reminiscence should overpower the living lineaments, and all but blot out the memory of the actual landscape. And so it is to some extent in "Cooper's Hill," the scene beheld from which is speedily lost in a torrent of political reflection and moralising. The well-known lines on the Thames are rhetorical and forcible, but not, we think, highly poetical:—
"Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy streamMy great example, as it is my theme!Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull,Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full."
The poem closes with another river-picture, which some will admire:—
"When a calm river, raised with sudden rainsOr snows dissolved, o'erflows the adjoining plains,The husbandmen, with high-raised banks, secureTheir greedy hopes, and this he can endure;But, if with bays and dams they strive to forceHis channel to a new or narrow course,No longer then—within his banks he dwells,First to a torrent, then a deluge swells,Stronger and fiercer by restraint he roars,And knows no bound, but makes his power his shores."
Again, he says of Thames:—
"Thames, the most loved of all the ocean's sonsBy his old sire, to his embraces runs,Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,Like mortal life to meet eternity.Though with those streams he no resemblance holdWhose foam is amber and their gravel gold.His genuine and less guilty wealth t'explore,Search not his bottom, but survey his shore."
Yet, though fond of, and great in, describing rivers, he is not, after all, the "river-god" of poetry. Professor Wilson speaks with a far deeper voice:—
"Down falls the drawbridge with a thund'ring shock,And, in an instant, ere the eye can know,Binds the stern castle to the opposing rock,And hangs in calmness o'er the flood below;A raging flood, that, born among the hills,Flows dancing on through many a nameless glen,Till, join'd by all his tributary rillsFrom lake and tarn, from marsh and from fen,He leaves his empire with a kingly glee,And fiercely bids retire the billows of the sea!"
Different poets are made to write on different rivers as well as on different mountains. Denham paints well the calm majestic Thames; Wilson, the rapid Spey; Scott, the immemorial and historic Forth; Burns, the wild lonely Lugar and the Doon; and Thomas Aird (see his exquisitely beautiful "River"), the pastoral Cluden. But the poet of the St. Lawrence, with Niagara flinging itself over its crag like a mad ocean—of the Ganges or the Orellana—has yet to be born, or at least has yet to bring forth his conceptions of such a stupendous object in poetry.
In "Cooper's Hill" we find well, if not fully exhibited, what were Denham's leading qualities—not high imagination or a fertile fancy, although in neither of these was he conspicuously deficient, but manly strength of thought and clearness of language. There are in him no quaintnesses, no crotchets, no conceits, and no involutions or affectations—all is transparent, masculine, and energetic. It is in these respects that he became a model to Dryden and Pope, and may even still be read with advantage for at least his style, which is
"Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full."
His translations we have included, not for their surpassing merit, but because, in the first place, there is little of our author extant, and we are happy to reprint every scrap of him we can find, and because again he, according to Dr. Johnson, was "one of the first that understood the necessity of emancipating translation from the drudgery of counting lines and interpreting single words." There has, indeed, been recently a reaction, attended in some cases with brilliant success—as in Bulwer's "Ballads of Schiller"—in favour of the literal and lineal method; but since such popular pieces as Dryden's "Virgil" and Pope's "Homer" have been written on Denham's plan, it is interesting to preserve the model, however rude, which they avowedly had in their eye.
His smaller pieces are not remarkable, unless we except his vigorous lines "On the Earl of Stafford's Trial and Death," containing such noble sentiments as these—
"Such was his force of eloquence, to make The hearers more concern'd than he that spake, Each seem'd to act that part he came to see,And none was more a looker-on than he; So did he move our passions, some were knownTo wish for the defence, the crime their own. Now private pity strove with public hate,Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate."
Nor let us forget his verses on "Cowley's Death," which, although unequal, and in their praise exaggerated, yet are in parts exceedingly felicitous, as for instance, in the lines to which Macaulay, in his "Milton," refers:—
"To him no author was unknown,Yet what he wrote was all his own;He melted not the ancient gold,Nor with Ben Jonson did make boldTo plunder all the Roman storesOf poets and of orators;Horace's wit and Virgil's stateHe did not steal, but emulate!And when he would like them appear,Theirgarb, but not theirclothes, did wear."
Such is true criticism, which, in our judgment, means clear, sharp, discriminating judgment expressed in the language and with the feelings of poetry.
Sure there are poets which did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon; we therefore may supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those,And as courts make not kings, but kings the court,So where the Muses and their train resort,Parnassus stands; if I can be to theeA poet, thou Parnassus art to me.Nor wonder, if (advantaged in my flight,By taking wing from thy auspicious height) 10Through untraced ways and airy paths I fly,More boundless in my fancy than my eye:My eye which, swift as thought, contracts the spaceThat lies between, and first salutes the placeCrown'd with that sacred pile, so vast, so high,That, whether 'tis a part of earth or sky,Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proudAspiring mountain, or descending cloud.Paul's, the late theme of such a Muse,[1] whose flight 19Has bravely reach'd and soar'd above thy height:Now shalt thou stand, though sword, or time, or fire,Or zeal more fierce than they, thy fall conspire,Secure, whilst thee the best of poets sings,Preserved from ruin by the best of kings.Under his proud survey the city lies,And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise;Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd,Seems at this distance but a darker cloud:And is, to him who rightly things esteems,No other in effect than what it seems: 30Where, with like haste, though sev'ral ways, they run,Some to undo, and some to be undone;While luxury and wealth, like war and peace,Are each the other's ruin and increase;As rivers lost in seas some secret veinThence reconveys, there to be lost again.O happiness of sweet retired content!To be at once secure and innocent.Windsor the next (where Mars with Venus dwells,Beauty with strength) above the valley swells 40Into my eye, and doth itself presentWith such an easy and unforced ascent,That no stupendous precipice deniesAccess, no horror turns away our eyes:But such a rise as doth at once inviteA pleasure and a rev'rence from the sight:Thy mighty master's emblem, in whose faceSate meekness, heighten'd with majestic grace;Such seems thy gentle height, made only proudTo be the basis of that pompous load, 50Than which, a nobler weight no mountain bears,But Atlas only, which supports the spheres.When Nature's hand this ground did thus advance,'Twas guided by a wiser power than Chance;Mark'd out for such an use, as if 'twere meantT' invite the builder, and his choice prevent.Nor can we call it choice, when what we choose,Folly or blindness only could refuse.A crown of such majestic towers doth graceThe gods' great mother, when her heavenly race 60Do homage to her, yet she cannot boast,Among that num'rous and celestial host.More heroes than can Windsor; nor doth Fame'sImmortal book record more noble names.Not to look back so far, to whom this isleOwes the first glory of so brave a pile,Whether to Cæsar, Albanact, or Brute,The British Arthur, or the Danish Knute,(Though this of old no less contest did moveThan when for Homer's birth seven cities strove) 70(Like him in birth, thou shouldst be like in fame,As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame),But whosoe'er it was, Nature design'dFirst a brave place, and then as brave a mind;Not to recount those sev'ral kings, to whomIt gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb;But thee, great Edward, and thy greater son[2](The lilies which his father wore, he won),And thy Bellona,[3] who the consort cameNot only to thy bed, but to thy fame, soShe to thy triumph led one captive king,[4]And brought that son, which did the second bring.Then didst thou found that Order (whether love 83Or victory thy royal thoughts did move),Each was a noble cause, and nothing lessThan the design, has been the great success:Which foreign kings, and emperors esteemThe second honour to their diadem.Had thy great destiny but given thee skillTo know, as well as power to act her will, 90That from those kings, who then thy captives were,In after times should spring a royal pairWho should possess all that thy mighty power,Or thy desires more mighty, did devour:To whom their better fate reserves whate'erThe victor hopes for, or the vanquish'd fear;That blood, which thou and thy great grandsire shed,And all that since these sister nations bled,Had been unspilt, had happy Edward known.That all the blood he spilt had been his own. 100When he that patron chose, in whom are join'dSoldier and martyr, and his arms confin'dWithin the azure circle, he did seemBut to foretell, and prophesy of him,Who to his realms that azure round hath join'd,Which Nature for their bound at first design'd;That bound, which to the world's extremest ends,Endless itself, its liquid arms extends.Nor doth he need those emblems which we paint,But is himself the soldier and the saint. 110Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise;But my fix'd thoughts my wand'ring eye betrays,Viewing a neighb'ring hill, whose top of lateA chapel crown'd, 'till in the common fateTh' adjoining abbey fell. (May no such stormFall on our times, when ruin must reform!)Tell me, my Muse! what monstrous dire offence, 117What crime could any Christian king incenseTo such a rage? Was't luxury, or lust?Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just?Were these their crimes? They were his own much more;But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor,Who having spent the treasures of his crown,Condemns their luxury to feed his own.And yet this act, to varnish o'er the shameOf sacrilege, must bear devotion's name.No crime so bold, but would be understoodA real, or at least a seeming good:Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the name,And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. 130Thus he the church at once protects, and spoils:But princes' swords are sharper than their styles;And thus to th'ages past he makes amends,Their charity destroys, their faith defends.Then did Religion in a lazy cell,In empty, airy contemplations dwell;And like the block, unmovèd lay; but ours,As much too active, like the stork devours.Is there no temp'rate region can be known,Betwixt their frigid, and our torrid zone? 140Could we not wake from that lethargic dream,But to be restless in a worse extreme?And for that lethargy was there no cure,But to be cast into a calenture?Can knowledge have no bound, but must advanceSo far, to make us wish for ignorance,And rather in the dark to grope our way,Than, led by a false guide, to err by day?Who sees these dismal heaps, but would demandWhat barbarous invader sack'd the land? 150But when he hears no Goth, no Turk did bringThis desolation, but a Christian king;When nothing but the name of zeal appears'Twixt our best actions and the worst of theirs,What does he think our sacrilege would spare,When such th'effects of our devotions are?Parting from thence 'twixt anger, shame and fear,Those for what's past, and this for what's too near,My eye descending from the hill, surveysWhere Thames among the wanton valleys strays. 160Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sonsBy his old sire, to his embraces runs;Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,Like mortal life to meet eternity.Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold,His genuine and less guilty wealth t'explore,Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,And hatches plenty for th'ensuing spring; 170Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,Like mothers which their infants overlay;Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.No unexpected inundations spoilThe mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil:But godlike his unwearied bounty flows;First loves to do, then loves the good he does.Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,But free and common as the sea or wind; 180When he, to boast or to disperse his stores,Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,Visits the world, and in his flying towersBrings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants;So that to us no thing, no place is strange,While his fair bosom is the world's exchange.Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy streamMy great example, as it is my theme! 190Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast,Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, 's lost;Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove's abodes,To shine among the stars,[5] and bathe the gods.Here Nature, whether more intent to pleaseUs or herself with strange varieties,(For things of wonder give no less delightTo the wise maker's, than beholder's sight; 200Though these delights from sev'ral causes move;For so our children, thus our friends, we love),Wisely she knew the harmony of things,As well as that of sounds, from discord springs.Such was the discord, which did first disperseForm, order, beauty, through the universe;While dryness moisture, coldness heat resists,All that we have, and that we are, subsists;While the steep, horrid roughness of the woodStrives with the gentle calmness of the flood, 210Such huge extremes when Nature doth unite,Wonder from thence results, from thence delight.The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear,That had the self-enamour'd youth[6] gazed here,So fatally deceived he had not been,While he the bottom, not his face had seen.But his proud head the airy mountain hides 217Among the clouds; his shoulders and his sidesA shady mantle clothes; his curlèd browsFrown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows,While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat:The common fate of all that's high or great.Low at his foot a spacious plain is placed,Between the mountain and the stream embraced,Which shade and shelter from the hill derives,While the kind river wealth and beauty gives,And in the mixture of all these appearsVariety, which all the rest endears.This scene had some bold Greek or British bardBeheld of old, what stories had we heard 230Of fairies, satyrs, and the nymphs their dames,Their feasts, their revels, and their am'rous flames?'Tis still the same, although their airy shapeAll but a quick poetic sight escape.There Faunus and Sylvanus keep their courts,And thither all the horned host resortsTo graze the ranker mead; that noble herdOn whose sublime and shady fronts is rear'dNature's great masterpiece; to show how soon,Great things are made, but sooner are undone. 240Here have I seen the King, when great affairsGave leave to slacken, and unbend his cares,Attended to the chase by all the flowerOf youth whose hopes a nobler prey devour:Pleasure with praise and danger they would buy,And wish a foe that would not only fly.The stag now conscious of his fatal growth,At once indulgent to his fear and sloth,To some dark covert his retreat had made,Where nor man's eye, nor heaven's should invade 250His soft repose; when th'unexpected soundOf dogs, and men, his wakeful ears does wound.Roused with the noise, he scarce believes his ear,Willing to think th'illusions of his fearHad given this false alarm, but straight his viewConfirms that more than all he fears is true.Betray'd in all his strengths, the wood beset;All instruments, all arts of ruin met;He calls to mind his strength and then his speed,His winged heels, and then his armed head; 260With these t'avoid, with that his fate to meet:But fear prevails, and bids him trust his feet.So fast he flies, that his reviewing eyeHas lost the chasers, and his ear the cry;Exulting, till he finds their nobler senseTheir disproportion'd speed doth recompense;Then curses his conspiring feet, whose scentBetrays that safety which their swiftness lent;Then tries his friends; among the baser herd,Where he so lately was obey'd and fear'd, 270His safety seeks; the herd, unkindly wise,Or chases him from thence, or from him flies;Like a declining statesman, left forlornTo his friends' pity, and pursuers' scorn,With shame remembers, while himself was oneOf the same herd, himself the same had done.Thence to the coverts and the conscious groves,The scenes of his past triumphs and his loves;Sadly surveying where he ranged alonePrince of the soil, and all the herd his own, 280And like a bold knight-errant did proclaim.Combat to all, and bore away the dame,And taught the woods to echo to the streamHis dreadful challenge, and his clashing beam;Yet faintly now declines the fatal strife;So much his love was dearer than his life.Now every leaf, and every moving breathPresents a foe, and every foe a death.Wearied, forsaken, and pursued, at lastAll safety in despair of safety placed, 290Courage he thence resumes, resolved to bearAll their assaults, since 'tis in vain to fear.And now, too late, he wishes for the fightThat strength he wasted in ignoble flight:But when he sees the eager chase renew'd,Himself by dogs, the dogs by men pursued,He straight revokes his bold resolve, and moreRepents his courage than his fear before;Finds that uncertain ways unsafest are,And doubt a greater mischief than despair. 300Then to the stream, when neither friends, nor force,Nor speed, nor art, avail, he shapes his course;Thinks not their rage so desperate to assayAn element more merciless than they.But fearless they pursue, nor can the floodQuench their dire thirst; alas! they thirst for blood.So t'wards a ship the oar-finn'd galleys ply,Which, wanting sea to ride, or wind to fly,Stands but to fall revenged on those that dareTempt the last fury of extreme despair. 310So fares the stag, among th'enraged hounds,Repels their force, and wounds returns for wounds;And as a hero, whom his baser foesIn troops surround, now these assails, now those,Though prodigal of life, disdains to dieBy common hands; but if he can descrySome nobler foe approach, to him he calls,And begs his fate, and then contented falls.So when the king a mortal shaft lets fly 319From his unerring hand, then glad to die,Proud of the wound, to it resigns his blood,And stains the crystal with a purple flood.This a more innocent, and happy chase,Than when of old, but in the selfsame place,Fair Liberty pursued,[7] and meant a preyTo lawless power, here turn'd, and stood at bay;When in that remedy all hope was placedWhich was, or should have been at least, the last.Here was that charter seal'd, wherein the crownAll marks of arbitrary power lays down: 330Tyrant and slave, those names of hate and fear,The happier style of king and subject bear:Happy, when both to the same centre move,When kings give liberty, and subjects love.Therefore not long in force this charter stood;Wanting that seal, it must be seal'd in blood.The subjects arm'd, the more their princes gave,Th' advantage only took the more to crave;Till kings by giving, give themselves away,And e'en that power, that should deny, betray. 340'Who gives constrain'd, but his own fear reviles,Not thank'd, but scorn'd; nor are they gifts, but spoils.'Thus kings, by grasping more than they could hold,First made their subjects, by oppression, bold:And popular sway, by forcing kings to giveMore than was fit for subjects to receive,Ran to the same extremes; and one excessMade both, by striving to be greater, less.When a calm river, raised with sudden rains,Or snows dissolved, o'erflows th'adjoining plains, 350The husbandmen with high raised banks secureTheir greedy hopes, and this he can endure;But if with bays and dams they strive to forceHis channel to a new, or narrow course;No longer then within his banks he dwells,First to a torrent, then a deluge, swells;Stronger and fiercer by restraint he roars,And knows no bound, but makes his power his shores.
[1] 'Such a Muse': Mr. Waller. [2] 'Great Edward, and thy greater son': Edward III. and the Black Prince. [3] 'Thy Bellona': Queen Phillippa. [4] 'Captive king': the kings of France and Scotland. [5] 'The stars': the Forest. [6] 'Self-enamour'd youth': Narcissus. [7] 'Liberty pursued': Runimede, where Magna Charta was first sealed.
The first book speaks of Aeneas's voyage by sea, and how, being cast by tempest upon the coast of Carthage, he was received by Queen Dido, who, after the feast, desires him to make the relation of the destruction of Troy; which is the argument of this book.
While all with silence and attention wait,Thus speaks Aeneas from the bed of state:—Madam, when you command us to reviewOur fate, you make our old wounds bleed anew,And all those sorrows to my sense restore,Whereof none saw so much, none suffer'd more.Not the most cruel of our conqu'ring foesSo unconcern'dly can relate our woes,As not to lend a tear; then how can IRepress the horror of my thoughts, which fly 10The sad remembrance? Now th'expiring nightAnd the declining stars to rest invite;Yet since 'tis your command, what you so wellAre pleased to hear, I cannot grieve to tell.By fate repell'd and with repulses tired,The Greeks, so many lives and years expired,A fabric like a moving mountain frame, 17Pretending vows for their return; this FameDivulges; then within the beast's vast wombThe choice and flower of all their troops entomb;In view the isle of Tenedos, once high,In fame and wealth, while Troy remain'd, doth lie;(Now but an unsecure and open bay)Thither by stealth the Greeks their fleet convey.We gave them gone,[1] and to Mycenæ sail'd,And Troy reviv'd, her mourning face unveil'd;All through th'unguarded gates with joy resortTo see the slighted camp, the vacant port;Here lay Ulysses, there Achilles; hereThe battles join'd; the Grecian fleet rode there; 30But the vast pile th'amazèd vulgar views,Till they their reason in their wonder lose.And first Thymoetes moves (urged by the powerOf fate, or fraud) to place it in the tower;But Capys and the graver sort thought fitThe Greeks' suspected present to commitTo seas or flames, at least to search and boreThe sides, and what that space contains, t'explore.Th' uncertain multitude with both engaged,Divided stands, till from the tower, enraged 40Laocoon ran, whom all the crowd attends,Crying, 'What desp'rate frenzy's this, O friends!To think them gone? Judge rather their retreatBut a design; their gifts but a deceit;For our destruction 'twas contrived no doubt,Or from within by fraud, or from withoutBy force. Yet know ye not Ulysses' shifts?Their swords less danger carry than their gifts.'(This said) against the horse's side his spear 49He throws, which trembles with enclosèd fear,Whilst from the hollows of his womb proceedGroans, not his own; and had not Fate decreedOur ruin, we had fill'd with Grecian bloodThe place; then Troy and Priam's throne had stood.Meanwhile a fetter'd pris'ner to the kingWith joyful shouts the Dardan shepherds bring,Who to betray us did himself betray,At once the taker, and at once the prey;Firmly prepared, of one event secured,Or of his death or his design assured. 60The Trojan youth about the captive flock,To wonder, or to pity, or to mock.Now hear the Grecian fraud, and from this oneConjecture all the rest.Disarm'd, disorder'd, casting round his eyesOn all the troops that guarded him, he cries,'What land, what sea, for me what fate attends?Caught by my foes, condemned by my friends,Incensèd Troy a wretched captive seeksTo sacrifice; a fugitive the Greeks.'— 70To pity this complaint our former rageConverts; we now inquire his parentage;What of their counsels or affairs he knewThen fearless he replies, 'Great king! to youAll truth I shall relate: nor first can IMyself to be of Grecian birth deny;And though my outward state misfortune hathDepress'd thus low, it cannot reach my faith.You may by chance have heard the famous nameOf Palamede, who from old Belus came, 80Whom, but for voting peace, the Greeks pursue,Accus'd unjustly, then unjustly slew,Yet mourn'd his death. My father was his friend,And me to his commands did recommend,While laws and councils did his throne support;I but a youth, yet some esteem and portWe then did bear, till by Ulysses' craft(Things known I speak) he was of life bereft:Since, in dark sorrow I my days did spend, 90Till now, disdaining his unworthy end,I could not silence my complaints, but vow'dRevenge, if ever fate or chance allow'dMy wish'd return to Greece; from hence his hate,From thence my crimes, and all my ills bear date:Old guilt fresh malice gives; the people's earsHe fills with rumours, and their hearts with fears,And then the prophet to his party drew.But why do I those thankless truths pursue,Or why defer your rage? on me, for allThe Greeks, let your revenging fury fall. 100Ulysses this, th'Atridæ this desireAt any rate.'—We straight are set on fire(Unpractised in such myst'ries) to inquireThe manner and the cause: which thus he told,With gestures humble, as his tale was bold.'Oft have the Greeks (the siege detesting) tiredWith tedious war, a stolen retreat desired,And would to Heaven they'd gone! but still dismay'dBy seas or skies, unwillingly they stay'd.Chiefly when this stupendous pile was raised, 110Strange noises filled the air; we, all amazed,Despatch Eurypylus t'inquire our fates,Who thus the sentence of the gods relates:"A virgin's slaughter did the storm appease,When first t'wards Troy the Grecians took the seas;Their safe retreat another Grecian's blood 116Must purchase." All at this confounded stood;Each thinks himself the man, the fear on allOf what the mischief but on one can fall.Then Calchas (by Ulysses first inspired)Was urged to name whom th'angry god required;Yet was I warn'd (for many were as wellInspired as he) and did my fate foretell.Ten days the prophet in suspense remain'd,Would no man's fate pronounce; at last constrain'dBy Ithacus, he solemnly design'dMe for the sacrifice; the people join'dIn glad consent, and all their common fearDetermine in my fate. The day drew near,The sacred rites prepared, my temples crown'd 130With holy wreaths; then I confess I foundThe means to my escape; my bonds I brake,Fled from my guards, and in a muddy lakeAmongst the sedges all the night lay hid,Till they their sails had hoist (if so they did).And now, alas! no hope remains for meMy home, my father, and my sons to see,Whom they, enraged, will kill for my offence,And punish, for my guilt, their innocence.Those gods who know the truths I now relate, 140That faith which yet remains inviolateBy mortal men, by these I beg; redressMy causeless wrongs, and pity such distress.'—And now true pity in exchange he findsFor his false tears, his tongue his hands unbinds.Then spake the king, 'Be ours, whoe'er thou art;Forget the Greeks. But first the truth impart,Why did they raise, or to what use intendThis pile? to a warlike or religious end?'Skilful in fraud (his native art) his hands 150T'ward heaven he raised, deliver'd now from bands.'Ye pure ethereal flames! ye powers adoredBy mortal men! ye altars, and the swordI 'scaped! ye sacred fillets that involvedMy destined head! grant I may stand absolvedFrom all their laws and rights, renounce all nameOf faith or love, their secret thoughts proclaim;Only, O Troy! preserve thy faith to me,If what I shall relate preserveth thee.From Pallas' favour all our hopes, and all 160Counsels and actions took original,Till Diomed (for such attempts made fitBy dire conjunction with Ulysses' wit)Assails the sacred tower, the guards they slay,Defile with bloody hands, and thence conveyThe fatal image; straight with our successOur hopes fell back, whilst prodigies expressHer just disdain, her flaming eyes did throwFlashes of lightning, from each part did flowA briny sweat; thrice brandishing her spear, 170Her statue from the ground itself did rear;Then, that we should our sacrilege restore,And re-convey their gods from Argos' shore,Calchas persuades, till then we urge in vainThe fate of Troy. To measure back the mainThey all consent, but to return again,When reinforced with aids of gods and men.Thus Calchas; then instead of that, this pileTo Pallas was design'd; to reconcileTh' offended power, and expiate our guilt; 180To this vast height and monstrous stature built,Lest through your gates received, it might renewYour vows to her, and her defence to you.But if this sacred gift you disesteem,Then cruel plagues (which Heaven divert on them!)Shall fall on Priam's state: but if the horseYour walls ascend, assisted by your force,A league 'gainst Greece all Asia shall contract;Our sons then suff'ring what their sires would act.'
Thus by his fraud and our own faith o'ercome, 190A feigned tear destroys us, against whomTydides nor Achilles could prevail,Nor ten years' conflict, nor a thousand sail.This seconded by a most sad portent,Which credit to the first imposture lent;Laocoon, Neptune's priest, upon the dayDevoted to that god, a bull did slay;When two prodigious serpents were descried,Whose circling strokes the sea's smooth face divide;Above the deep they raise their scaly crests, 200And stem the flood with their erected breasts,Their winding tails advance and steer their course,And 'gainst the shore the breaking billows force.Now landing, from their brandish'd tongues there cameA dreadful hiss, and from their eyes a flame.Amazed we fly, directly in a lineLaocoon they pursue, and first entwine(Each preying upon one) his tender sons;Then him, who armed to their rescue runs,They seized, and with entangling folds embraced, 210His neck twice compassing, and twice his waist:Their pois'nous knots he strives to break and tear,While slime and blood his sacred wreaths besmear;Then loudly roars, as when th'enraged bullFrom th'altar flies, and from his wounded skullShakes the huge axe; the conqu'ring serpents flyTo cruel Pallas' altar, and there lieUnder her feet, within her shield's extent. 218We, in our fears, conclude this fate was sentJustly on him, who struck the sacred oakWith his accursed lance. Then to invokeThe goddess, and let in the fatal horse,We all consent.
A spacious breach we make, and Troy's proud wallBuilt by the gods, by our own hands doth fall;Thus, all their help to their own ruin give,Some draw with cords, and some the monster driveWith rolls and levers: thus our works it climbsBig with our fate; the youth with songs and rhymes,Some dance, some hale the rope; at last let down 230It enters with a thund'ring noise the town.Oh Troy! the seat of gods, in war renown'd!Three times it struck; as oft the clashing soundOf arms was heard; yet blinded by the powerOf Fate, we place it in the sacred tower.Cassandra then foretells th'event, but sheFinds no belief (such was the gods' decree).The altars with fresh flowers we crown, and wasteIn feasts that day, which was (alas!) our last.Now by the revolution of the skies 240Night's sable shadows from the ocean rise,Which heaven and earth, and the Greek frauds involved,The city in secure repose dissolved,When from the admiral's high poop appearsA light, by which the Argive squadron steersTheir silent course to Ilium's well-known shore,When Sinon (saved by the gods' partial power)Opens the horse, and through the unlock'd doorsTo the free air the armed freight restores:Ulysses, Stheneleus, Tisander slide 250Down by a rope, Machaon was their guide;Atrides, Pyrrhus, Thoas, Athamas,And Epeus who the fraud's contriver was.The gates they seize; the guards, with sleep and wineOppress'd, surprise, and then their forces join.'Twas then, when the first sweets of sleep repairOur bodies spent with toil, our minds with care,(The gods' best gift), when, bathed in tears and blood,Before my face lamenting Hector stood,His aspect such when, soil'd with bloody dust, 260Dragg'd by the cords which through his feet were thrustBy his insulting foe; oh, how transform'd,How much unlike that Hector, who return'dClad in Achilles' spoils! when he, amongA thousand ships (like Jove) his lightning flung!His horrid beard and knotted tresses stoodStiff with his gore, and all his wounds ran blood:Entranced I lay, then (weeping) said, 'The joy,The hope and stay of thy declining Troy!What region held thee? whence, so much desired, 270Art thou restored to us, consumed and tiredWith toils and deaths? But what sad cause confoundsThy once fair looks, or why appear those wounds?'Regardless of my words, he no replyReturns, but with a dreadful groan doth cry,'Fly from the flame, O goddess-born! our wallsThe Greeks possess, and Troy confounded fallsFrom all her glories; if it might have stoodBy any power, by this right hand it should.What man could do, by me for Troy was done. 280Take here her relics and her gods, to runWith them thy fate, with them new walls expect,Which, toss'd on seas, thou shalt at last erect;'—Then brings old Vesta from her sacred choir,Her holy wreaths, and her eternal fire.Meanwhile the walls with doubtful cries resoundFrom far (for shady coverts did surroundMy father's house); approaching still more near,The clash of arms, and voice of men we hear:Roused from my bed, I speedily ascend 290The houses' tops, and listening there attend.As flames roll'd by the winds' conspiring force,O'er full-ear'd corn, or torrent's raging courseBears down th'opposing oaks, the fields destroys,And mocks the ploughman's toil, th'unlook'd for noiseFrom neighb'ring hills th'amazed shepherd hears;Such my surprise, and such their rage appears.First fell thy house, Ucalegon! then thineDeïphobus! Sigæan seas did shineBright with Troy's flames; the trumpets' dreadful soundThe louder groans of dying men confound. 301Give me my arms, I cried, resolved to throwMyself 'mong any that opposed the foe:Rage, anger, and despair at once suggest,That of all deaths, to die in arms was best.The first I met was Pantheus, Phoebus' priest,Who, 'scaping with his gods and relics, fled,And t'wards the shore his little grandchild led;'Pantheus, what hope remains? what force, what placeMade good? But, sighing, he replies, 'Alas! 310Trojans we were, and mighty Ilium was;But the last period and the fatal hourOf Troy is come: our glory and our powerIncensèd Jove transfers to Grecian hands;The foe within the burning town commands;And (like a smother'd fire) an unseen forceBreaks from the bowels of the fatal horse:Insulting Sinon flings about the flame,And thousands more than e'er from Argos camePossess the gates, the passes, and the streets, 320And these the sword o'ertakes, and those it meets.The guard nor fights nor flies; their fate so nearAt once suspends their courage and their fear.'—Thus by the gods, and by Atrides' wordsInspir'd, I make my way through fire, through swords,Where noises, tumults, outcries, and alarmsI heard; first Iphitus, renown'd for arms,We meet, who knew us (for the moon did shine)Then Ripheus, Hypanis, and Dymas joinTheir force, and young Choroebus, Mygdon's son, 330Who, by the love of fair Cassandra won,Arrived but lately in her father's aid;Unhappy, whom the threats could not dissuadeOf his prophetic spouse;Whom when I saw, yet daring to maintainThe fight, I said, 'Brave spirits! (but in vain)Are you resolv'd to follow one who daresTempt all extremes? The state of our affairsYou see: the gods have left us, by whose aidOur empire stood; nor can the flame be stay'd: 340Then let us fall amidst our foes; this oneRelief the vanquish'd have, to hope for none.'Then reinforced, as in a stormy nightWolves urgèd by their raging appetiteForage for prey, which their neglected youngWith greedy jaws expect, even so amongFoes, fire, and swords, t'assured death we pass;Darkness our guide, Despair our leader was.Who can relate that evening's woes and spoils,Or can his tears proportion to our toils? 350The city, which so long had flourish'd, falls;Death triumphs o'er the houses, temples, walls.Nor only on the Trojans fell this doom,Their hearts at last the vanquish'd reassume;And now the victors fall: on all sides fears,Groans, and pale Death in all her shapes appears!Androgeus first with his whole troop was castUpon us, with civility misplacedThus greeting us, 'You lose, by your delay,Your share, both of the honour and the prey; 360Others the spoils of burning Troy conveyBack to those ships which you but now forsake.'We making no return, his sad mistakeToo late he finds; as when an unseen snakeA traveller's unwary foot hath press'd,Who trembling starts, when the snake's azure crest,Swoll'n with his rising anger, he espies,So from our view surprised Androgeus flies.But here an easy victory we meet:Fear binds their hands and ignorance their feet. 370Whilst fortune our first enterprise did aid,Encouraged with success, Choroebus said,'O friends! we now by better fates are led,And the fair path they lead us, let us tread.First change your arms, and their distinctions bear;The same, in foes, deceit and virtue are.'Then of his arms Androgeus he divests,His sword, his shield he takes, and plumèd crests;Then Ripheus, Dymas, and the rest, all gladOf the occasion, in fresh spoils are clad. 380Thus mix'd with Greeks, as if their fortune stillFollow'd their swords, we fight, pursue, and kill.Some re-ascend the horse, and he whose sidesLet forth the valiant, now the coward hides.Some to their safer guard, their ships, retire;But vain's that hope 'gainst which the gods conspire;Behold the royal virgin, the divineCassandra, from Minerva's fatal shrineDragg'd by the hair, casting t'wards heaven, in vain,Her eyes; for cords her tender hands did strain; 390Choroebus at the spectacle enraged,Flies in amidst the foes: we thus engaged,To second him, among the thickest ran;Here first our ruin from our friends began,Who from the temple's battlements a showerOf darts and arrows on our heads did pour:They us for Greeks, and now the Greeks (who knewCassandra's rescue) us for Trojans slew.Then from all parts Ulysses, Ajax then,And then th'Atridæ rally all their men; 400As winds, that meet from sev'ral coasts, contest,Their prisons being broke, the south and west,And Eurus on his winged coursers borne,Triumphing in their speed, the woods are torn,And chasing Nereus with his trident throwsThe billows from their bottom; then all thoseWho in the dark our fury did escape,Returning, know our borrow'd arms and shape,And diff'ring dialect: then their numbers swellAnd grow upon us; first Choroebus fell 410Before Minerva's altar, next did bleedJust Ripheus, whom no Trojan did exceedIn virtue, yet the gods his fate decreed.Then Hypanis and Dymas, wounded byTheir friends; nor thee, Pantheus! thy piety,Nor consecrated mitre, from the sameIll fate could save. My country's fun'ral flameAnd Troy's cold ashes I attest, and callTo witness for myself, that in their fallNo foes, no death, nor danger I declin'd, 420Did, and deserv'd no less, my fate to find.Now Iphitus with me, and PeliasSlowly retire; the one retarded wasBy feeble age, the other by a wound;To court the cry directs us, where we foundTh' assault so hot, as if 'twere only there,And all the rest secure from foes or fear:The Greeks the gates approach'd, their targets castOver their heads; some scaling ladders placedAgainst the walls, the rest the steps ascend, 430And with their shields on their left arms defendArrows and darts, and with their right hold fastThe battlement; on them the Trojans castStones, rafters, pillars, beams; such arms as these,Now hopeless, for their last defence they seize.The gilded roofs, the marks of ancient state,They tumble down; and now against the gateOf th'inner court their growing force they bring;Now was our last effort to save the king,Relieve the fainting, and succeed the dead. 440A private gallery 'twixt th'apartments led,Not to the foe yet known, or not observed,(The way for Hector's hapless wife reserved,When to the aged king her little sonShe would present); through this we pass, and runUp to the highest battlement, from whenceThe Trojans threw their darts without offence,A tower so high, it seem'd to reach the sky,Stood on the roof, from whence we could descry,All Ilium—both the camps, the Grecian fleet; 450This, where the beams upon the columns meet,We loosen, which like thunder from the cloudBreaks on their heads, as sudden and as loud.But others still succeed: meantime, nor stonesNor any kind of weapons cease.Before the gate in gilded armour shoneYoung Pyrrhus, like a snake, his skin new grown,Who, fed on pois'nous herbs, all winter layUnder the ground, and now reviews the day,Fresh in his new apparel, proud and young, 460Rolls up his back, and brandishes his tongue,And lifts his scaly breast against the sun;With him his father's squire, Automedon,And Peripas who drove his winged steeds,Enter the court; whom all the youth succeedsOf Scyros' isle, who naming firebrands flungUp to the roof; Pyrrhus himself amongThe foremost with an axe an entrance hewsThrough beams of solid oak, then freely viewsThe chambers, galleries, and rooms of state, 470Where Priam and the ancient monarchs sate.At the first gate an armed guard appears;But th'inner court with horror, noise and tears,Confus'dly fill'd, the women's shrieks and criesThe arched vaults re-echo to the skies;Sad matrons wand'ring through the spacious roomsEmbrace and kiss the posts; then Pyrrhus comes;Full of his father, neither men nor wallsHis force sustain; the torn portcullis falls;Then from the hinge their strokes the gates divorce, 480And where the way they cannot find, they force.Not with such rage a swelling torrent flowsAbove his banks, th'opposing dams o'erthrows,Depopulates the fields, the cattle, sheep,Shepherds and folds, the foaming surges sweep.And now between two sad extremes I stood,Here Pyrrhus and th'Atridæ drunk with blood,There th'hapless queen amongst an hundred dames, 488And Priam quenching from his wounds those flamesWhich his own hands had on the altar laid;Then they the secret cabinets invade,Where stood the fifty nuptial beds, the hopesOf that great race; the golden posts, whose topsOld hostile spoils adorn'd, demolished lay,Or to the foe, or to the fire a prey.Now Priam's fate perhaps you may inquire:Seeing his empire lost, his Troy on fire,And his own palace by the Greeks possess'd,Arms long disused his trembling limbs invest;Thus on his foes he throws himself alone, 500Not for their fate, but to provoke his own:There stood an altar open to the viewOf heaven, near which an aged laurel grew,Whose shady arms the household gods embraced,Before whose feet the queen herself had castWith all her daughters, and the Trojan wives,As doves whom an approaching tempest drivesAnd frights into one flock; but having spiedOld Priam clad in youthful arms, she cried,'Alas! my wretched husband! what pretence 510To bear those arms? and in them what defence?Such aid such times require not, when againIf Hector were alive, he lived in vain;Or here we shall a sanctuary find,Or as in life, we shall in death be join'd.'Then, weeping, with kind force held and embraced,And on the secret seat the king she placed.Meanwhile Polites, one of Priam's sons,Flying the rage of bloody Pyrrhus, runsThrough foes and swords, and ranges all the court 520And empty galleries, amazed and hurt;Pyrrhus pursues him, now o'ertakes, now kills,And his last blood in Priam's presence spills.The king (though him so many deaths enclose)Nor fear, nor grief, but indignation shows;'The gods requite thee (if within the careOf those above th'affairs of mortals are),Whose fury on the son but lost had been,Had not his parents' eyes his murder seen:Not that Achilles (whom thou feign'st to be 530Thy father) so inhuman was to me;He blush'd, when I the rights of arms implored;To me my Hector, me to Troy, restored.'This said, his feeble arm a jav'lin flung,Which on the sounding shield, scarce ent'ring, rung.Then Pyrrhus; 'Go a messenger to hellOf my black deeds, and to my father tellThe acts of his degen'rate race.' So throughHis son's warm blood the trembling king he drewTo th'altar; in his hair one hand he wreathes; 540His sword the other in his bosom sheaths.Thus fell the king, who yet surviv'd the state,With such a signal and peculiar fate,Under so vast a ruin, not a grave,Nor in such flames a fun'ral fire to have:He whom such titles swell'd, such power made proud,To whom the sceptres of all Asia bow'd,On the cold earth lies th'unregarded king,A headless carcase, and a nameless thing.
[1] 'Gave them gone': i.e., gave them up for gone.