Damna adsunt multis taciti compendia lucri,Felicique docent plus properare mora.Luxuriem annorum posita sic pelle redemit,Atque sagax serpens in nova saecla subit.Cernis ut ipsa sibi replicato suppetat aevo,Seque iteret multa morte perennis avis?Succrescit generosa sibi, facilesque per ignesPerque suos cineres, per sua fata ferax.Quae sollers jactura sui? quis funeris usus?Flammarumque fides ingeniumque rogi?Siccine fraude subis? pretiosaque funera ludis?Siccine tu mortem, ne moriaris, adis?Felix cui medicae tanta experientia mortis,Cui tam Parcarum est officiosa manus.
Damna adsunt multis taciti compendia lucri,Felicique docent plus properare mora.Luxuriem annorum posita sic pelle redemit,Atque sagax serpens in nova saecla subit.Cernis ut ipsa sibi replicato suppetat aevo,Seque iteret multa morte perennis avis?Succrescit generosa sibi, facilesque per ignesPerque suos cineres, per sua fata ferax.Quae sollers jactura sui? quis funeris usus?Flammarumque fides ingeniumque rogi?Siccine fraude subis? pretiosaque funera ludis?Siccine tu mortem, ne moriaris, adis?Felix cui medicae tanta experientia mortis,Cui tam Parcarum est officiosa manus.
TRANSLATION.
GAIN OUT OF LOSS.
Losses are often source of secret gain,Delays good-speed, and ease the child of pain.The subtle snake, laying aside her fears,Casts off her slough, and heals the waste of years.The phœnix thus her waning pride supplies,And, to be ever-living, often dies;Bold for her good, she makes the fires her friend,And to begin anew, will plot her end.What skilful losing! what wise use of dying!What trust in flames! and what a craft in plyingThat trick of immolation! Canst thou soCompound with griefs? canst wisely undergoLife's losses, crosses? play with gainful doom?Canst, to be quicken'd, gladly seek the tomb?Thrice-happy he thus touch'd with healing sorrow,For whom night's strife plots but a gracious morrow.A.
Losses are often source of secret gain,Delays good-speed, and ease the child of pain.The subtle snake, laying aside her fears,Casts off her slough, and heals the waste of years.The phœnix thus her waning pride supplies,And, to be ever-living, often dies;Bold for her good, she makes the fires her friend,And to begin anew, will plot her end.What skilful losing! what wise use of dying!What trust in flames! and what a craft in plyingThat trick of immolation! Canst thou soCompound with griefs? canst wisely undergoLife's losses, crosses? play with gainful doom?Canst, to be quicken'd, gladly seek the tomb?Thrice-happy he thus touch'd with healing sorrow,For whom night's strife plots but a gracious morrow.A.
ANOTHER RENDERING (more freely).
Suff'ring is not always loss;Often underneath the cross—Heavy, crushing, wearing, slow,Causing us in dread to go—All unsuspected lieth gain,Like sunshine in vernal rain.Lo, the serpent's mottled skinCast, new lease of years doth win:Lo, the phœnix in the fireLeaps immortal from its pyre,The mystic plumage mewing,And life by death renewing.What a wise loss thus to lose!—Who will gainsay or abuse?What strange end to fun'ral pile,Thus in Death's gaunt face to smile!Faith still strong within the fire,Faith triumphant o'er its ire.How stands it, fellow-man, with thee?What meaning in this myth dost see?Happy thou, if when thou'rt lyingOn thy sick-bed slow a-dying,Cometh vision of the Eternal,Cometh strength for the supernal,Cometh triumph o'er the infernal;And thou canst the Last EnemyCalmly meet, serenely die;The hard Sisters life's web snipping,But thy spirit never gripping;Good, not evil, to thee bringing;Hushing not thy upward singing,To the Golden City winging.Even so to die is gain,Like the Harvest's tawnied grain:Suffering is not always loss;The Crown succeeds the Cross.G.
Suff'ring is not always loss;Often underneath the cross—Heavy, crushing, wearing, slow,Causing us in dread to go—All unsuspected lieth gain,Like sunshine in vernal rain.Lo, the serpent's mottled skinCast, new lease of years doth win:Lo, the phœnix in the fireLeaps immortal from its pyre,The mystic plumage mewing,And life by death renewing.What a wise loss thus to lose!—Who will gainsay or abuse?What strange end to fun'ral pile,Thus in Death's gaunt face to smile!Faith still strong within the fire,Faith triumphant o'er its ire.How stands it, fellow-man, with thee?What meaning in this myth dost see?Happy thou, if when thou'rt lyingOn thy sick-bed slow a-dying,Cometh vision of the Eternal,Cometh strength for the supernal,Cometh triumph o'er the infernal;And thou canst the Last EnemyCalmly meet, serenely die;The hard Sisters life's web snipping,But thy spirit never gripping;Good, not evil, to thee bringing;Hushing not thy upward singing,To the Golden City winging.Even so to die is gain,Like the Harvest's tawnied grain:Suffering is not always loss;The Crown succeeds the Cross.G.
O vita, tantum lubricus quidam furorSpoliumque vitae! scilicet longi brevisErroris hospes! Error ô mortalium!O certus error! qui sub incerto vagumSuspendit aevum, mille per dolos viae5Fugacis, et proterva per voluminaFluidi laboris, ebrios lactat gradus;Et irretitos ducit in nihilum dies.O fata! quantum perfidae vitae fugitUmbris quod imputemus atque auris, ibi10Et umbra et aura serias partes aguntMiscentque scenam, volvimur ludibrioProcacis aestus, ut per incertum mareFragilis protervo cymba cum nutat freto;Et ipsa vitae fila, queis nentes Deae15Aevi severa texta producunt manu,Haec ipsa nobis implicant vestigia,Retrahunt trahuntque, donec everso graduRuina lassos alta deducat pedes.Felix, fugaces quisquis excipiens dies20Gressus serenos fixit, insidiis suiNec servit aevi, vita inoffensis huicFeretur auris, atque clauda rariusTitubabit hora: vortices anni vagiHic extricabit, sanus assertor sui.25
O vita, tantum lubricus quidam furorSpoliumque vitae! scilicet longi brevisErroris hospes! Error ô mortalium!O certus error! qui sub incerto vagumSuspendit aevum, mille per dolos viae5Fugacis, et proterva per voluminaFluidi laboris, ebrios lactat gradus;Et irretitos ducit in nihilum dies.O fata! quantum perfidae vitae fugitUmbris quod imputemus atque auris, ibi10Et umbra et aura serias partes aguntMiscentque scenam, volvimur ludibrioProcacis aestus, ut per incertum mareFragilis protervo cymba cum nutat freto;Et ipsa vitae fila, queis nentes Deae15Aevi severa texta producunt manu,Haec ipsa nobis implicant vestigia,Retrahunt trahuntque, donec everso graduRuina lassos alta deducat pedes.Felix, fugaces quisquis excipiens dies20Gressus serenos fixit, insidiis suiNec servit aevi, vita inoffensis huicFeretur auris, atque clauda rariusTitubabit hora: vortices anni vagiHic extricabit, sanus assertor sui.25
TRANSLATION.
DESCRIPTION OF HUMAN LIFE.
O Life, or but some evanescent madnessAnd glittering spoil of life snatch'd with blind gladness!Of endless Error, transitory guest;Sad human Error, which would fain find rest.O certain Error, 'neath uncertain skySuspending here our frail mortality;Leading us through a thousand devious waysAnd intricacies of a treacherous maze!Our staggering footsteps how dost thou beguileThrough wanton rounds of unavailing toil,And our entangl'd days to nothing bring!O fates, how much of our poor life takes wing,Wasted on winds and shadows! On life's stageShadows and winds a serious part engage,The scene confusing. On life's billow tost,The sport of changeful tide, we're well-nigh lost,And, like a frail boat on a stormy sea,We waver up and down uncertainly.Nay, e'en the threads spun by the Fates on high,As with stern fingers they divinely plyThe web of life, twine round us as we go,And draw us backwards, forwards, to and fro;Till Ruin trips us up, and we are foundHelpless and weary, stretched along the ground.Happy the man who, welcoming each dayWith smiles that answer to its fleeting ray,Pursues with step serene his purpos'd way;The alluring snares peculiar to the ageHissoul enslave not, nor his mind engage;His life with peaceful tenor glides along,By fav'ring breezes fann'd, and sooth'd with song;Inspir'd by Heaven with soul-sustaining force,Seldom he falls, or falters in his course;But ever, as the eddying years roll round,Bursting through all the perils that abound,A wise assertor of himself is found.R. Wi.
O Life, or but some evanescent madnessAnd glittering spoil of life snatch'd with blind gladness!Of endless Error, transitory guest;Sad human Error, which would fain find rest.O certain Error, 'neath uncertain skySuspending here our frail mortality;Leading us through a thousand devious waysAnd intricacies of a treacherous maze!Our staggering footsteps how dost thou beguileThrough wanton rounds of unavailing toil,And our entangl'd days to nothing bring!O fates, how much of our poor life takes wing,Wasted on winds and shadows! On life's stageShadows and winds a serious part engage,The scene confusing. On life's billow tost,The sport of changeful tide, we're well-nigh lost,And, like a frail boat on a stormy sea,We waver up and down uncertainly.Nay, e'en the threads spun by the Fates on high,As with stern fingers they divinely plyThe web of life, twine round us as we go,And draw us backwards, forwards, to and fro;Till Ruin trips us up, and we are foundHelpless and weary, stretched along the ground.Happy the man who, welcoming each dayWith smiles that answer to its fleeting ray,Pursues with step serene his purpos'd way;The alluring snares peculiar to the ageHissoul enslave not, nor his mind engage;His life with peaceful tenor glides along,By fav'ring breezes fann'd, and sooth'd with song;Inspir'd by Heaven with soul-sustaining force,Seldom he falls, or falters in his course;But ever, as the eddying years roll round,Bursting through all the perils that abound,A wise assertor of himself is found.R. Wi.
Poenitet artisPygmaliona suae,Quod felix opus esset,Infelix erat artifex;Sentit vulnera, nec videt ictum.Quis credit? gelido veniunt de marmore flammae:Marmor ingratum nimisIncendit autorem suum.Concepit hic vanos furores,Opus suum miratur atque adorat.Prius creavit, ecce nunc colit manus;Tentantes digitos molliter applicat;Decipit molles caro dura tactus.An virgo vera est, an sit eburnea;Reddat an oscula quae dabantur,Nescit; sed dubitat, sed metuit, munere supplicat,Blanditiasque miscet.Te, miser, poenas dare vult, hos Venus, hos triumphosCapit a te, quod amorem fugis omnem.Cur fugis heu vivos? mortua te necat puella.Non erit innocua haec, quamvis tua fingas manu;Ipsa heu nocens erit nimis, cujus imago nocet.
Poenitet artisPygmaliona suae,Quod felix opus esset,Infelix erat artifex;Sentit vulnera, nec videt ictum.Quis credit? gelido veniunt de marmore flammae:Marmor ingratum nimisIncendit autorem suum.Concepit hic vanos furores,Opus suum miratur atque adorat.Prius creavit, ecce nunc colit manus;Tentantes digitos molliter applicat;Decipit molles caro dura tactus.An virgo vera est, an sit eburnea;Reddat an oscula quae dabantur,Nescit; sed dubitat, sed metuit, munere supplicat,Blanditiasque miscet.Te, miser, poenas dare vult, hos Venus, hos triumphosCapit a te, quod amorem fugis omnem.Cur fugis heu vivos? mortua te necat puella.Non erit innocua haec, quamvis tua fingas manu;Ipsa heu nocens erit nimis, cujus imago nocet.
TRANSLATION.
ON PYGMALION.
Grief for work his hands have doneHarroweth Pygmalion;Happy reach of art! yet heThe artificer, unhappily,He feels the wounds: what deals the blow?Can it be true? can flames from gelid marble flow?Marble, treacherous and to blameTo burn your Sculptor with such flame!What madness in his heart is hid?He wonders at, he adores the work he did.First he made, and next his handWith wandering fingers softly triesThe mystery to understand.Ah, surely now the hard flesh lies!Is it a living maiden, see!O treacherous blisses!Is it no marble? can it frail flesh be?Does it return his kisses?He knows not, he.He doubts, he fears, he prays; what meanAll these sweet blandishments between?Venus, wretched Sculptor, willsYou should suffer these sad ills;This is her triumph over you,Because at love your lips would curl;Your will not living overthrows yet this dead girl.Weep, ah, weep, Pygmalion!Though you shap'd her with your hands,With your chisel, out of stone,Not innocuous here she stands.O image of a maiden!If you so strangely baneful prove,With what despair will you come laden,Coming alive to claim his love!A.
Grief for work his hands have doneHarroweth Pygmalion;Happy reach of art! yet heThe artificer, unhappily,He feels the wounds: what deals the blow?Can it be true? can flames from gelid marble flow?
Marble, treacherous and to blameTo burn your Sculptor with such flame!What madness in his heart is hid?He wonders at, he adores the work he did.First he made, and next his handWith wandering fingers softly triesThe mystery to understand.Ah, surely now the hard flesh lies!Is it a living maiden, see!O treacherous blisses!Is it no marble? can it frail flesh be?Does it return his kisses?He knows not, he.
He doubts, he fears, he prays; what meanAll these sweet blandishments between?Venus, wretched Sculptor, willsYou should suffer these sad ills;This is her triumph over you,Because at love your lips would curl;Your will not living overthrows yet this dead girl.
Weep, ah, weep, Pygmalion!Though you shap'd her with your hands,With your chisel, out of stone,Not innocuous here she stands.O image of a maiden!If you so strangely baneful prove,With what despair will you come laden,Coming alive to claim his love!A.
ANOTHER VERSION (more freely).
Pygmalion mourns his own success;Was ever such strange wretchedness?His work itself, a work of Art,Perfect in its every part;But himself? Alas, artist heOf his own utmost misery.He feels his wounds, but who shall tellWhence come the drops that downward steal?Flames leap out from the marble, coldAs ice itself by storm-wind roll'd:And he, contriver of that fire,Burns self-immolate on his own pyre;Furies of his own genius bornCast him, adoring and forlorn,Into a strange captivityBefore his own hands' work; and heClings to the shapely form, until,In ecstasy of love a-thrill,He burning lips to cold lips sets,And wild with passion her cheek wets;Strains to his breast insensate stone,As 'twere a breathing thing; with moan,With clasp and grasp and tingling touch,As though he ne'er could grip too much;And wilder'd cry of agony,That she respond would; by him lieA virgin pure as drifted snow,Or lilies that i' the meadows blow.Is it ivory? is it stone?Lives it? or is it clay alone?O that to flesh the stone would melt,And show a soul within it dwelt!He looks, he yearns, he sighs, he sobs,Convulsive his whole body throbs;He doubts, he fears, he supplicatesWith wistful gaze; he on her waits;Gifts lavish he lays at her feet,And, stung to passion, will entreat,As though the image he has madeWere thing of life he might persuade—Persuade and woo, and on her stakeHis future, all. O sad mistake!For thee, Pygmalion, Venus sendsThese triumphs which thy chisel lends,To punish thee, for that no loveErewhile thy obstinate heart might move.Why flee'st thou the living, say,When this image thee doth slay?Thee doth—ay, slay! Why dost thou standEntranc'd before the work o' thy hand,None the less hurtful that it isThine own genius yields the bliss?Venus must thee still deny;The sculptured maid must breathless lie.G.
Pygmalion mourns his own success;Was ever such strange wretchedness?His work itself, a work of Art,Perfect in its every part;But himself? Alas, artist heOf his own utmost misery.He feels his wounds, but who shall tellWhence come the drops that downward steal?Flames leap out from the marble, coldAs ice itself by storm-wind roll'd:And he, contriver of that fire,Burns self-immolate on his own pyre;Furies of his own genius bornCast him, adoring and forlorn,Into a strange captivityBefore his own hands' work; and heClings to the shapely form, until,In ecstasy of love a-thrill,He burning lips to cold lips sets,And wild with passion her cheek wets;Strains to his breast insensate stone,As 'twere a breathing thing; with moan,With clasp and grasp and tingling touch,As though he ne'er could grip too much;And wilder'd cry of agony,That she respond would; by him lieA virgin pure as drifted snow,Or lilies that i' the meadows blow.Is it ivory? is it stone?Lives it? or is it clay alone?O that to flesh the stone would melt,And show a soul within it dwelt!He looks, he yearns, he sighs, he sobs,Convulsive his whole body throbs;He doubts, he fears, he supplicatesWith wistful gaze; he on her waits;Gifts lavish he lays at her feet,And, stung to passion, will entreat,As though the image he has madeWere thing of life he might persuade—Persuade and woo, and on her stakeHis future, all. O sad mistake!For thee, Pygmalion, Venus sendsThese triumphs which thy chisel lends,To punish thee, for that no loveErewhile thy obstinate heart might move.Why flee'st thou the living, say,When this image thee doth slay?Thee doth—ay, slay! Why dost thou standEntranc'd before the work o' thy hand,None the less hurtful that it isThine own genius yields the bliss?Venus must thee still deny;The sculptured maid must breathless lie.G.
Squammea vivaeLubrica terga ratisJam conscendet Arion.Merces tam nova solviturNavis quam nova scanditur. IllaAërea est merces, haec est et aquatica navis.Perdidere illum viriMercede magna, servat hicMercede nulla piscis: et sicSalute plus ruina constat illi;Minoris et servatur hinc quam perditur.Hic dum findit aquas, findit hic aëra:Cursibus, piscis; digitis, Arion:Et sternit undas, sternit et aëra:Carminis hoc placido TridenteAbjurat sua jam murmura, ventusque modestiorAuribus ora mutat:Ora dediscit, minimos et metuit susurros;Sonus alter restat, ut fit sonus illisAura strepens circum muta sit lateri adjacente penna,Ambit et ora viri, nec vela ventis hic egent;Attendit hanc ventus ratem: non trahit, at trahitur.
Squammea vivaeLubrica terga ratisJam conscendet Arion.Merces tam nova solviturNavis quam nova scanditur. IllaAërea est merces, haec est et aquatica navis.Perdidere illum viriMercede magna, servat hicMercede nulla piscis: et sicSalute plus ruina constat illi;Minoris et servatur hinc quam perditur.Hic dum findit aquas, findit hic aëra:Cursibus, piscis; digitis, Arion:Et sternit undas, sternit et aëra:Carminis hoc placido TridenteAbjurat sua jam murmura, ventusque modestiorAuribus ora mutat:Ora dediscit, minimos et metuit susurros;Sonus alter restat, ut fit sonus illisAura strepens circum muta sit lateri adjacente penna,Ambit et ora viri, nec vela ventis hic egent;Attendit hanc ventus ratem: non trahit, at trahitur.
TRANSLATION (full).
ARION.
Never since ship was set a-floatHave men seen so strange a boat:Alive it is from deck to keel,Having the gray gleam of steel;Slippery as wave-wash'd wreck,Or as a war-ship's bloody deck.A Dolphin, lo, its huge back bending,Safety to Arion lendingFrom the sailors of Sicily,Covetous of his golden monie;Money that as prize he had wonBefore all Singers aneath the sun;Playing and singing so famouslie,Singing and playing so wondrouslie,That there went up from ev'ry throatThe verdict, 'for Arion I vote:'Vote the prize; and gifts as well,Crowns of gold and of asphodel;Lyres all a-glow with gems,Robes bejewell'd to their hems;A thousand golden pieces and oneFor the gifted son of Poseidon:And, hark, as 'twere the bellowing thunder,In clang'rous shouts men tell their wonder.Arion now homeward takes his wayIn a fair ship steer'd for Corinth Bay;Proud of his prizes, proud of his skill,Proud that soon Periander willWelcome him fondly, and call him friend,With words such as no money can send.Alas and alas, such crime to tell!The ship-captain and sailors fellCovet his gold, and have it must,Though Arion they murder by blow or thrust.But Apollo at midnight hourSendeth a dream in mystic power;It showeth the men, it showeth their crime.Arion awakes with the morning's chime;Awakes, and planneth how to escape.Vain, vain all; on him they gape,Thirsting alike for gold and life,Murder and covetousness at strife.'Suffer me, then,' Arion said,'That I may play as I have play'd;Here is my poor Lyre, and, ere I die,Let me prove its minstrelsy.'He has donn'd him now in gay attire,Festal robes; in his hand his Lyre.List ye, list ye; above, below,Sounds such as only the angels know;Sounds that are born of rapture and bliss,Of the throbbing heart and the burning love-kiss.Now it is soft, pathetic, low,Then 'gins to change to cry of woe;Now it comes rushing as if the thunderCame booming from the deep earth under;Pulsing along each quivering stringAs though the Lyre were a living thing,And Arion's hand had so cunning a spellAs should win all heaven—ay and hell.O, came there never such melodieFrom mortal earth or mortal sky.He mounted to the good ship's prow,And mingling with his song a vowTo the gods, he himself threwOut 'mid the waves from that damnable crew.Up through the waves the Dolphins bound,A hundred bended backs are found,Each one more eager than the restTo upbear the sweet Player on Ocean's breast.Arion ascends; and, lo, he stands,His Lyre unwet within his hands:Onward and onward careering they go;O soft and true the notes that flow!Rising, falling, swelling, dying,Near and nearer, far-off flying;Pulsing along each quivering stringAs though the Lyre were a living thing.New is the ship, as new the freight;The Dolphin feels never the weight;New is the ship, and new the fare,That of the water, this of the air:The sailors in their greed him lost,The Dolphin bears him withouten cost.Away and away with a shim'ring trackArion goes on the Dolphin's back;Away and away, still softly playing,Each string his lightest touch obeying.Under the spell the Sea grows calm,Listing attent his witching psalm;Under the spell the air grows mild,Breathing soft as sleeping child.But who may seek all the tale to tell?It is a tale unspeakable.Onward and onward careering they go,Silence above and silence below:The Storm-gale shuts its mouth and lists,The Wind folds its pinions and desists,Following, not blowing, drawing not, but drawn,From early ev'ning to breaking dawn.Tenarus at last Arion beheld;Tenarus, his own dear home that held;And as together they swiftly come,He claps hands loud and thinks of home.The Dolphin seeks a quiet cove;The Dolphin arching its back aboveThe azure waters, leaves him there,A-list'ning still his Lyre to hear.Homeward to Corinth Arion proceeds:Periander a tale of suff'ring readsIn the thinnèd cheek and the dreamy eye,In the tremulous words and the laden sigh.The story is told. O story of wrong!The ship returns; and it is not longEre captain and crew, at bar arraign'd,Must tell where Arion they detain'd.'He tarries,' quoth they, 'in Sicily,Winning all men by his minstrelsie.'Lies were proven in their throat.Periander his hands together smote,Swearing a solemn oath that they—One, all—should drown'd be in the Bay.Tied hand and foot, pallor'd and grim,'Tis done as they would ha' done to him.A plunge as of a plunging stone,A few bubbles—Vengeance is done!G.
Never since ship was set a-floatHave men seen so strange a boat:Alive it is from deck to keel,Having the gray gleam of steel;Slippery as wave-wash'd wreck,Or as a war-ship's bloody deck.A Dolphin, lo, its huge back bending,Safety to Arion lendingFrom the sailors of Sicily,Covetous of his golden monie;Money that as prize he had wonBefore all Singers aneath the sun;Playing and singing so famouslie,Singing and playing so wondrouslie,That there went up from ev'ry throatThe verdict, 'for Arion I vote:'Vote the prize; and gifts as well,Crowns of gold and of asphodel;Lyres all a-glow with gems,Robes bejewell'd to their hems;A thousand golden pieces and oneFor the gifted son of Poseidon:And, hark, as 'twere the bellowing thunder,In clang'rous shouts men tell their wonder.Arion now homeward takes his wayIn a fair ship steer'd for Corinth Bay;Proud of his prizes, proud of his skill,Proud that soon Periander willWelcome him fondly, and call him friend,With words such as no money can send.Alas and alas, such crime to tell!The ship-captain and sailors fellCovet his gold, and have it must,Though Arion they murder by blow or thrust.But Apollo at midnight hourSendeth a dream in mystic power;It showeth the men, it showeth their crime.Arion awakes with the morning's chime;Awakes, and planneth how to escape.Vain, vain all; on him they gape,Thirsting alike for gold and life,Murder and covetousness at strife.'Suffer me, then,' Arion said,'That I may play as I have play'd;Here is my poor Lyre, and, ere I die,Let me prove its minstrelsy.'He has donn'd him now in gay attire,Festal robes; in his hand his Lyre.List ye, list ye; above, below,Sounds such as only the angels know;Sounds that are born of rapture and bliss,Of the throbbing heart and the burning love-kiss.Now it is soft, pathetic, low,Then 'gins to change to cry of woe;Now it comes rushing as if the thunderCame booming from the deep earth under;Pulsing along each quivering stringAs though the Lyre were a living thing,And Arion's hand had so cunning a spellAs should win all heaven—ay and hell.O, came there never such melodieFrom mortal earth or mortal sky.He mounted to the good ship's prow,And mingling with his song a vowTo the gods, he himself threwOut 'mid the waves from that damnable crew.Up through the waves the Dolphins bound,A hundred bended backs are found,Each one more eager than the restTo upbear the sweet Player on Ocean's breast.Arion ascends; and, lo, he stands,His Lyre unwet within his hands:Onward and onward careering they go;O soft and true the notes that flow!Rising, falling, swelling, dying,Near and nearer, far-off flying;Pulsing along each quivering stringAs though the Lyre were a living thing.New is the ship, as new the freight;The Dolphin feels never the weight;New is the ship, and new the fare,That of the water, this of the air:The sailors in their greed him lost,The Dolphin bears him withouten cost.Away and away with a shim'ring trackArion goes on the Dolphin's back;Away and away, still softly playing,Each string his lightest touch obeying.Under the spell the Sea grows calm,Listing attent his witching psalm;Under the spell the air grows mild,Breathing soft as sleeping child.But who may seek all the tale to tell?It is a tale unspeakable.Onward and onward careering they go,Silence above and silence below:The Storm-gale shuts its mouth and lists,The Wind folds its pinions and desists,Following, not blowing, drawing not, but drawn,From early ev'ning to breaking dawn.Tenarus at last Arion beheld;Tenarus, his own dear home that held;And as together they swiftly come,He claps hands loud and thinks of home.The Dolphin seeks a quiet cove;The Dolphin arching its back aboveThe azure waters, leaves him there,A-list'ning still his Lyre to hear.Homeward to Corinth Arion proceeds:Periander a tale of suff'ring readsIn the thinnèd cheek and the dreamy eye,In the tremulous words and the laden sigh.The story is told. O story of wrong!The ship returns; and it is not longEre captain and crew, at bar arraign'd,Must tell where Arion they detain'd.'He tarries,' quoth they, 'in Sicily,Winning all men by his minstrelsie.'Lies were proven in their throat.Periander his hands together smote,Swearing a solemn oath that they—One, all—should drown'd be in the Bay.Tied hand and foot, pallor'd and grim,'Tis done as they would ha' done to him.A plunge as of a plunging stone,A few bubbles—Vengeance is done!G.
Decoration D
Decoration G
APOLLINEA DEPEREUNTEM DAPHNEN.
Stulte Cupido,Quid tua flamma parat?Annos sole sub ipsoAccensae pereunt faces?Sed fax nostra potentior istis,Flammas inflammare potest, ipse uritur ignis,Ecce flammarum potensMajore sub flamma gemit.Eheu, quid hoc est? En ApolloLyra tacente, ni sonet dolores,Coma jacente squallet aeternus decorOris, en, dominae quo placeat magis,Languido tardum jubar igne promit.Pallente vultu territat aethera.Mundi oculus lacrymis senescit,Et solvit pelago debita, quodque hauserat ignibus,His lacrymis rependit.Noctis adventu properans se latebris recondit,Et opacas tenebrarum colit umbras,Namque suos odit damnans radios nocensque lumen.An lateat tenebris dubitat, an educat diem,Hinc suadet hoc luctus furens, inde repugnat amor.
Stulte Cupido,Quid tua flamma parat?Annos sole sub ipsoAccensae pereunt faces?Sed fax nostra potentior istis,Flammas inflammare potest, ipse uritur ignis,Ecce flammarum potensMajore sub flamma gemit.Eheu, quid hoc est? En ApolloLyra tacente, ni sonet dolores,Coma jacente squallet aeternus decorOris, en, dominae quo placeat magis,Languido tardum jubar igne promit.Pallente vultu territat aethera.Mundi oculus lacrymis senescit,Et solvit pelago debita, quodque hauserat ignibus,His lacrymis rependit.Noctis adventu properans se latebris recondit,Et opacas tenebrarum colit umbras,Namque suos odit damnans radios nocensque lumen.An lateat tenebris dubitat, an educat diem,Hinc suadet hoc luctus furens, inde repugnat amor.
TRANSLATION (full).
ON APOLLO PINING FOR DAPHNE.
Cupid, foolishest of pets,What woe thy swift-sent flame begets!Surely before the flashing SunTorches pale to extinction?But our torch is mightier far;It able is 'gainst fire to war,Yea, fire itself to burn and char.The igni-potent in amaze,Lo, groans, his huge heart all a-blazeWith keener flame than his own rays.Ah, what is this? Apollo burns,And as distraught in anguish mourns.Lo, see his lyre mute and unstrung,Or only grief-notes from it wrung:Lo, his golden locks neglected,And his radiant face dejected;Beauty eterne distain'd, rejected.The great Sun-god is in love,And seeks in vain his Fair to move:Hence his weird pallor, and those criesThat the sky shudd'ring terrifies;Hence the world's day-bringing eyeTears dim, such as in mortals' lie;Hence those showers often falling,The Sea her erst gifts recalling;Hence welcome the approaching night,That mourning he may veil his light—Veil his light, and in shadows deepHis great anguish in secret weep.Nor, when vermeil-drapèd Morning,With her smile the East adorning,Touches with her rosy fingerEyes that 'neath their lashes linger,Seeking to wake the God of Day,That round the world his beams may play,Does he haste at all to riseTo his 'fulgent throne i' the skies;But rather would abide withinThe clouds whereon he rests his chin;Hating his own beams' splendour now,Since Daphne scorns to list his vow:Thus he lingers, and still weighsWhether Day or Night to raise.Raging grief he cannot smother,Says the one; and Love the other.Cupid, tricksiest of pets,What woe thy swift-sent flame begets![99]G.
Cupid, foolishest of pets,What woe thy swift-sent flame begets!Surely before the flashing SunTorches pale to extinction?But our torch is mightier far;It able is 'gainst fire to war,Yea, fire itself to burn and char.The igni-potent in amaze,Lo, groans, his huge heart all a-blazeWith keener flame than his own rays.Ah, what is this? Apollo burns,And as distraught in anguish mourns.Lo, see his lyre mute and unstrung,Or only grief-notes from it wrung:Lo, his golden locks neglected,And his radiant face dejected;Beauty eterne distain'd, rejected.The great Sun-god is in love,And seeks in vain his Fair to move:Hence his weird pallor, and those criesThat the sky shudd'ring terrifies;Hence the world's day-bringing eyeTears dim, such as in mortals' lie;Hence those showers often falling,The Sea her erst gifts recalling;Hence welcome the approaching night,That mourning he may veil his light—Veil his light, and in shadows deepHis great anguish in secret weep.Nor, when vermeil-drapèd Morning,With her smile the East adorning,Touches with her rosy fingerEyes that 'neath their lashes linger,Seeking to wake the God of Day,That round the world his beams may play,Does he haste at all to riseTo his 'fulgent throne i' the skies;But rather would abide withinThe clouds whereon he rests his chin;Hating his own beams' splendour now,Since Daphne scorns to list his vow:Thus he lingers, and still weighsWhether Day or Night to raise.Raging grief he cannot smother,Says the one; and Love the other.Cupid, tricksiest of pets,What woe thy swift-sent flame begets![99]G.
Decoration B
Decoration C
Moenia Trojae, hostis et ignis,Hostes inter et ignes, Aeneas spolium piumAtque humeris venerabile pondusExcipit, et 'Saevae nunc ô nunc parcite flammae;Parcite haud, clamat, mihi;Sacrae favete sarcinae:Quod si negatis, nec licebitVitam juvare, sed juvabo funusRogusque fiam patris ac bustum mei.'His dictis, acies pervolat hostium,Gestit, et partis veluti trophaeisDucit triumphos. Nam furor hostiumJam stupet, et pietate tantaVictor vincitur; imo et moriturTroja libenter, funeribusque gaudet,Ac faces admittit ovans, ne lateat tenebrasPer opacas opus ingens pietatis.Debita sic patri solvis tua, sic pari rependisOfficio. Dederat vitam tibi, tu reddis huic:Felix, parentis qui pater diceris esse tui.
Moenia Trojae, hostis et ignis,Hostes inter et ignes, Aeneas spolium piumAtque humeris venerabile pondusExcipit, et 'Saevae nunc ô nunc parcite flammae;Parcite haud, clamat, mihi;Sacrae favete sarcinae:Quod si negatis, nec licebitVitam juvare, sed juvabo funusRogusque fiam patris ac bustum mei.'His dictis, acies pervolat hostium,Gestit, et partis veluti trophaeisDucit triumphos. Nam furor hostiumJam stupet, et pietate tantaVictor vincitur; imo et moriturTroja libenter, funeribusque gaudet,Ac faces admittit ovans, ne lateat tenebrasPer opacas opus ingens pietatis.Debita sic patri solvis tua, sic pari rependisOfficio. Dederat vitam tibi, tu reddis huic:Felix, parentis qui pater diceris esse tui.
TRANSLATION (full).
ÆNEAS THE BEARER OF HIS FATHER.
The walls of Troy—the walls of Troy!'Tis an old tale you will enjoy:A foe is there amid the fire,A foe 'twixt foemen in their ire.Aeneas takes a pious loadWith upward prayer to his god;E'en his old father, whose gray headLay 'mong the dying and the dead:O venerable spoil in truth,Fit from the demons to fetch ruth.Fierce roar the flames, and fiercer stillRages the fight on plain and hill.'Spare the old man,' Aeneas cries;'Spare the white hairs; or if he dies,Be mine the privilege of his pyre;Be mine with him at once t'expire.'Scarcely are the true words spoken,When through line of battle brokenSwift he passes; and this brave sonHis father bears in triumph on;Reck'ning that he a trophy hasThat the conquerors' doth surpass.He safely goes: for, lo, amaz'd,The foe upon them wistful gaz'd:The conquerors the conquer'd areBy filial love so strong, so fair.The flames Troy willingly receives,Jubilant that the old man lives;Welcomes the torches, that the nightMay not conceal this deed of light.All praise to thee, high-hearted son!Thou an undying name hast won:The debt of love thou hast repaidUnto thy father, who is madeThy debtor now; for life he gave,And thou in turn his life dost save.Happy the son whom thus we seeFather of his own sire to be.G.
The walls of Troy—the walls of Troy!'Tis an old tale you will enjoy:A foe is there amid the fire,A foe 'twixt foemen in their ire.Aeneas takes a pious loadWith upward prayer to his god;E'en his old father, whose gray headLay 'mong the dying and the dead:O venerable spoil in truth,Fit from the demons to fetch ruth.Fierce roar the flames, and fiercer stillRages the fight on plain and hill.'Spare the old man,' Aeneas cries;'Spare the white hairs; or if he dies,Be mine the privilege of his pyre;Be mine with him at once t'expire.'Scarcely are the true words spoken,When through line of battle brokenSwift he passes; and this brave sonHis father bears in triumph on;Reck'ning that he a trophy hasThat the conquerors' doth surpass.He safely goes: for, lo, amaz'd,The foe upon them wistful gaz'd:The conquerors the conquer'd areBy filial love so strong, so fair.The flames Troy willingly receives,Jubilant that the old man lives;Welcomes the torches, that the nightMay not conceal this deed of light.All praise to thee, high-hearted son!Thou an undying name hast won:The debt of love thou hast repaidUnto thy father, who is madeThy debtor now; for life he gave,And thou in turn his life dost save.Happy the son whom thus we seeFather of his own sire to be.G.
Phoenix alumna mortis,Quam mira tua puerpera!Tu scandis haud nidos, sed ignes.Non parere sed perire ceu parata:Mors obstetrix; atque ipsa tu teipsam paris,Tu tuique mater ipsa es,Tu tuique filia.Tu sic odora messisSurgis tuorum funerum;Tibique per tuam ruinamReparata, te succedis ipsa. Mors ôFaecunda; sancta ô lucra pretiosae necis!Vive, monstrum dulce, vive,Tu tibique suffice.
Phoenix alumna mortis,Quam mira tua puerpera!Tu scandis haud nidos, sed ignes.Non parere sed perire ceu parata:Mors obstetrix; atque ipsa tu teipsam paris,Tu tuique mater ipsa es,Tu tuique filia.Tu sic odora messisSurgis tuorum funerum;Tibique per tuam ruinamReparata, te succedis ipsa. Mors ôFaecunda; sancta ô lucra pretiosae necis!Vive, monstrum dulce, vive,Tu tibique suffice.
TRANSLATION.
OF THE GENERATION AND REGENERATION OF THE PHŒNIX.
Phœnix, nursling of Death,How wondrous is thy birth!Thou gainest not thy breathI' nest, like birds of Earth:'Mid fire all flaming hotThou strangely art begot;The leaping flames thee cherishWhen thou seem'st to perish.Lo, Death thy midwife is;Lo, thyself thou bearest.O tell me how is this,That mystery thou preparest?Thou mother of thyself!Thou daughter of thyself!When thy 'pointed hour is done,Thou an od'rous nest entwinest;And, as for thy destruction,Thou 'midst its fires reclinest.Most surely thou'rt consum'd;Most surely thou'rt relum'd.O fruitful Death!O gainful Death!Live then, self-containèd bird;Most pleasing wonder.The old legend is absurd;But truth lies under.G.
Phœnix, nursling of Death,How wondrous is thy birth!Thou gainest not thy breathI' nest, like birds of Earth:'Mid fire all flaming hotThou strangely art begot;The leaping flames thee cherishWhen thou seem'st to perish.Lo, Death thy midwife is;Lo, thyself thou bearest.O tell me how is this,That mystery thou preparest?Thou mother of thyself!Thou daughter of thyself!When thy 'pointed hour is done,Thou an od'rous nest entwinest;And, as for thy destruction,Thou 'midst its fires reclinest.Most surely thou'rt consum'd;Most surely thou'rt relum'd.O fruitful Death!O gainful Death!Live then, self-containèd bird;Most pleasing wonder.The old legend is absurd;But truth lies under.G.
Quisquis nectareo serenus aevoEt spe lucidus aureae juventae,Nescis purpureos abire soles,Nescis vincula ferreamque noctemImi careris horridumque Ditem,5Et spectas tremulam procul senectam,Hinc disces lacrymas, et huc repones.Hic, ô scilicet hic brevi sub antroSpes et gaudia mille, mille, longam,Heu longam nimis! induere noctem.10Flammantem nitidae facem juventaeSubmersit Stygiae paludis unda.Ergo, si lacrymas neges doloris,Huc certo lacrymas feres timoris.
Quisquis nectareo serenus aevoEt spe lucidus aureae juventae,Nescis purpureos abire soles,Nescis vincula ferreamque noctemImi careris horridumque Ditem,5Et spectas tremulam procul senectam,Hinc disces lacrymas, et huc repones.Hic, ô scilicet hic brevi sub antroSpes et gaudia mille, mille, longam,Heu longam nimis! induere noctem.10Flammantem nitidae facem juventaeSubmersit Stygiae paludis unda.Ergo, si lacrymas neges doloris,Huc certo lacrymas feres timoris.
NOTE.
I correct, in l. 6, 'tremulam' for 'tremulum;' l. 7, 'disces' for 'discas,' and 'huc' for 'hinc.' G.
I correct, in l. 6, 'tremulam' for 'tremulum;' l. 7, 'disces' for 'discas,' and 'huc' for 'hinc.' G.
TRANSLATION.
EPITAPH.
Ye that still, serene in peace,Lying in the lap of ease,Believe the hopes of golden youth,And have not heard the bitter truth,How shining suns fade at a breath;Ye, with little dread of death,Or fear of chains and iron nightOf man's last prison, or the sightOf gloomy Dis; that think to keepOld age away,—look here, and weep.Here, to this one narrow room,A thousand joys and hopes have come;Here bright minutes many a oneHave a lasting night put on:Youth's torch, that flash'd such light about,Is in the Stygian wave put out.Then, if you grudge poor grief a tear,Heave, at least, a sigh for fear.A.
Ye that still, serene in peace,Lying in the lap of ease,Believe the hopes of golden youth,And have not heard the bitter truth,How shining suns fade at a breath;Ye, with little dread of death,Or fear of chains and iron nightOf man's last prison, or the sightOf gloomy Dis; that think to keepOld age away,—look here, and weep.Here, to this one narrow room,A thousand joys and hopes have come;Here bright minutes many a oneHave a lasting night put on:Youth's torch, that flash'd such light about,Is in the Stygian wave put out.Then, if you grudge poor grief a tear,Heave, at least, a sigh for fear.A.
ANOTHER RENDERING (more freely).
Whoe'er ye be, upgazing here,Calm, unruffl'd, without tear;Joyous in your golden prime,And unwitting of the timeWhen shall pale Life's glowing sun,And the web of years be spun;Thinking not o' the iron nightWhere grim Pluto reigns in might;Thinking not of the nether world,With its clanking chains;Whither damnèd souls are hurl'dWhen the Judge arraigns;Seeing old age far away;Making Life one holiday;—Here perceive that Grief shall yetYour ruddy cheeks with sorrow wet;Here musing upon this poor stone,Ye may learn prevention.This Earth, what is it but a homeFugitive as sea-wave's foam?Mark where breaks the whit'n'd wave'Mid the cliffs—an archèd cave;Light and shadow play within,Flick'ring o'er its walls;In the gloom—with Hell akin—A dull stream slowly crawls.E'en such is Life, how bright soe'er,Hope and Joy lure to Despair;And Life's stream goes plunging downInto dark drear Acheron;Youth's bright torch extinguish'd quite;Golden Day exchang'd for Night:To long night of changeless woeSwift the Christless souls shall go.Shun not therefore in thy prime,Shun not whilst thou art in Time,Tears of penitence over sin;Or bitterly shalt thou rue,When Death shall fling his javelin,And Hell's prison thee immew.Bethink thee in thy golden prime;Bethink thee whilst thou'rt yet in Time.G.
Whoe'er ye be, upgazing here,Calm, unruffl'd, without tear;Joyous in your golden prime,And unwitting of the timeWhen shall pale Life's glowing sun,And the web of years be spun;Thinking not o' the iron nightWhere grim Pluto reigns in might;Thinking not of the nether world,With its clanking chains;Whither damnèd souls are hurl'dWhen the Judge arraigns;Seeing old age far away;Making Life one holiday;—Here perceive that Grief shall yetYour ruddy cheeks with sorrow wet;Here musing upon this poor stone,Ye may learn prevention.This Earth, what is it but a homeFugitive as sea-wave's foam?Mark where breaks the whit'n'd wave'Mid the cliffs—an archèd cave;Light and shadow play within,Flick'ring o'er its walls;In the gloom—with Hell akin—A dull stream slowly crawls.E'en such is Life, how bright soe'er,Hope and Joy lure to Despair;And Life's stream goes plunging downInto dark drear Acheron;Youth's bright torch extinguish'd quite;Golden Day exchang'd for Night:To long night of changeless woeSwift the Christless souls shall go.Shun not therefore in thy prime,Shun not whilst thou art in Time,Tears of penitence over sin;Or bitterly shalt thou rue,When Death shall fling his javelin,And Hell's prison thee immew.Bethink thee in thy golden prime;Bethink thee whilst thou'rt yet in Time.G.
Ite, meae lacrymae, nec enim moror, ite; sed oroTantum ne miserae claudite vocis iter.O liceat querulos verbis animare dolores,Et saltem 'Ah periit!' dicere noster amor.Ecce negant tamen; ecce negant, lacrymaeque rebellesPergunt indomita praecipitantque via.Visne, ô care, igitur te nostra silentia dicant?Vis fleat assiduo murmure mutus amor?Flebit, et urna suos semper bibet humida rores,Et fidas semper semper habebit aquas.Interea, quicunque estis, ne credite mirumSi verae lacrymae non didicere loqui.
Ite, meae lacrymae, nec enim moror, ite; sed oroTantum ne miserae claudite vocis iter.O liceat querulos verbis animare dolores,Et saltem 'Ah periit!' dicere noster amor.Ecce negant tamen; ecce negant, lacrymaeque rebellesPergunt indomita praecipitantque via.Visne, ô care, igitur te nostra silentia dicant?Vis fleat assiduo murmure mutus amor?Flebit, et urna suos semper bibet humida rores,Et fidas semper semper habebit aquas.Interea, quicunque estis, ne credite mirumSi verae lacrymae non didicere loqui.
TRANSLATION.
ELEGY.
Flow, flow, my tears; I stay you not; but prayTo my unhappy voice close not the way.My plaintive griefs with words, O let me move;To say, 'Alas, he died!' allow my love.Lo, they say, no—the rebel tears say, no!And with unconquer'd headlong torrent flow.Wouldst thou, O dear one, that our silence speak?Mute love with ceaseless sob moisten our cheek?It shall; and still thine urn drink its own dews,And never its own faithful waters lose.Meanwhile let no one think a wonder wrought,If real tears to speak could not be taught.R. Wi.
Flow, flow, my tears; I stay you not; but prayTo my unhappy voice close not the way.My plaintive griefs with words, O let me move;To say, 'Alas, he died!' allow my love.Lo, they say, no—the rebel tears say, no!And with unconquer'd headlong torrent flow.Wouldst thou, O dear one, that our silence speak?Mute love with ceaseless sob moisten our cheek?It shall; and still thine urn drink its own dews,And never its own faithful waters lose.Meanwhile let no one think a wonder wrought,If real tears to speak could not be taught.R. Wi.