I.
Shestood at Greenwich, motionless amidThe ever-shifting crowd of passengers.I marked a big tear quivering on the lidOf her deep-lustrous eye, and knew that hersWere days of bitterness. But, “Oh! what stirs”I said “such storm within so fair a breast?”Even as I spoke, two apoplectic cursCame feebly up: with one wild cry she prestEach singly to her heart, and faltered, “Heaven be blest!”
Yet once again I saw her, from the deckOf a black ship that steamed towards Blackwall.She walked uponmy first. Her stately neckBent o’er an object shrouded in her shawl:I could not see the tears—the glad tears—fall,Yet knew they fell. And “Ah,” I said, “not puppies,Seen unexpectedly, could lift the pallFrom hearts whoknowwhat tasting misery’s cup is,As Niobe’s, or mine, or Mr. William Guppy’s.”
* * *
Spake John Grogblossom the coachman to Eliza Spinks the cook:“Mrs. Spinks,” says he, “I’ve foundered: ‘Liza dear, I’m overtook.Druv into a corner reglar, puzzled as a babe unborn;Speak the word, my blessed ‘Liza; speak, and John the coachman’s yourn.”
Then Eliza Spinks made answer, blushing, to the coachman John:“John, I’m born and bred a spinster: I’ve begun and I’ll go on.Endless cares and endless worrits, well I knows it, has a wife:Cooking for a genteel family, John, it’s a goluptious life!
“I gets £20 per annum—tea and things o’ course not reckoned,—There’s a cat that eats the butter, takes the coals, and breaksmy second:There’s soci’ty—James the footman;—(not that I look after him;But he’s aff’ble in his manners, with amazing length of limb;)—
“Never durst the missis enter here until I’ve said ‘Come in’:If I saw the master peeping, I’d catch up the rolling-pin.Christmas-boxes, that’s a something; perkisites, that’s something too;And I think, take all together, John, I won’t be on with you.”
John the coachman took his hat up, for he thought he’d had enough;Rubbed an elongated forehead with a meditative cuff;Paused before the stable doorway; said, when there, in accents mild,“She’s a fine young ’oman, cook is; but that’s where it is, she’s spiled.”
* * *
I have read in some not marvellous tale,(Or if I have not, I’ve dreamed)Of one who filled up the convivial cupTill the company round him seemed
To be vanished and gone, tho’ the lamps uponTheir face as aforetime gleamed:And his head sunk down, and a Lethe creptO’er his powerful brain, and the young man slept.
Then they laid him with care in his moonlit bed:But first—having thoughtfully fetched some tar—Adorned him with feathers, aware that the weather’sUncertainty brings on at nights catarrh.
They staid in his room till the sun was high:But still did the feathered one give no signOf opening a peeper—he might be a sleeperSuch as rests on the Northern or Midland line.
At last he woke, and with profoundBewilderment he gazed around;Dropped one, then both feet to the ground,But never spake a word:
Then to mywholehe made his way;Took one long lingering survey;And softly, as he stole away,Remarked, “By Jove, a bird!”
II.
Ifyou’ve seen a short man swagger tow’rds the footlights at Shoreditch,Sing out “Heave aho! my hearties,” and perpetually hitchUp, by an ingenious movement, trousers innocent of brace,Briskly flourishing a cudgel in his pleased companion’s face;
If he preluded with hornpipes each successive thing he did,From a sun-browned cheek extracting still an ostentatious quid;And expectorated freely, and occasionally cursed:—Then have you beheld, depicted by a master’s hand,my first.
O my countryman! if ever from thy arm the bolster sped,In thy school-days, with precision at a young companion’s head;If ’twas thine to lodge the marble in the centre of the ring,Or with well-directed pebble make the sitting hen take wing:
Then do thou—each fair May morning, when the blue lake is as glass,And the gossamers are twinkling star-like in the beaded grass;When the mountain-bee is sipping fragrance from the bluebell’s lip,And the bathing-woman tells you, Now’s your time to take a dip:
When along the misty valleys fieldward winds the lowing herd,And the early worm is being dropped on by the early bird;And Aurora hangs her jewels from the bending rose’s cup,And the myriad voice of Nature calls thee tomy secondup:—
Hie thee to the breezy common, where the melancholy gooseStalks, and the astonished donkey finds that he is really loose;There amid green fern and furze-bush shalt thou soonmy wholebehold,Rising ‘bull-eyed and majestic’—as Olympus queen of old:
Kneel,—at a respectful distance,—as they kneeled to her, and tryWith judicious hand to put a ball into that ball-less eye:Till a stiffness seize thy elbows, and the general public wake—Then return, and, clear of conscience, walk into thy well-earned steak.
III.
Ereyet “knowledge for the million”Came out “neatly bound in boards;”When like Care upon a pillionMatrons rode behind their lords:Rarely, save to hear the Rector,Forth did younger ladies roam;Making pies, and brewing nectarFrom the gooseberry-trees at home.
They’d not dreamed of Pan or Vevay;Ne’er should into blossom burstAt the ball or at the levée;Never come, in fact,my first:Nor illumine cards by dozensWith some labyrinthine text,Nor work smoking-caps for cousinsWho were pounding atmy next.
Now have skirts, and minds, grown ampler;Now not all they seek to doIs create upon a samplerBeasts which Buffon never knew:But their venturous muslins rustleO’er the cragstone and the snow,Or at home their biceps muscleGrows by practising the bow.
Worthier they those dames who, fableSays, rode “palfreys” to the warWith gigantic Thanes, whose “sableDestriers caracoled” before;Smiled, as—springing from the war-horseAs men spring in modern ‘cirques’—They plunged, ponderous as a four-horseCoach, among the vanished Turks:—
In the good times when the jesterAsked the monarch how he was,And the landlady addrest herGuests as ‘gossip’ or as ‘coz’;When the Templar said, “Gramercy,”Or, “’Twas shrewdly thrust, i’ fegs,”To Sir Halbert or Sir PercyAs they knocked him off his legs:
And, by way of mild remindersThat he needed coin, the KnightDay by day extracted grindersFrom the howling Israelite:Andmy wholein merry SherwoodSent, with preterhuman luck,Missiles—not of steel but firwood—Thro’ the two-mile-distant buck.
IV.
Eveningthrew soberer hueOver the blue sky, and the fewPoplars that grew just in the viewOf the hall of Sir Hugo de Wynkle:“Answer me true,” pleaded Sir Hugh,(Striving to woo no matter who,)“What shall I do, Lady, for you?’Twill be done, ere your eye may twinkle.Shall I borrow the wand of a Moorish enchanter,And bid a decanter contain the Levant, orThe brass from the face of a Mormonite ranter?Shall I go for the mule of the Spanish Infantar—(Thatr, for the sake of the line, we must grant her,)—And race with the foul fiend, and beat in a canter,Like that first of equestrians Tam o’ Shanter?I talk not mere banter—say not that I can’t, orBy thismy first—(a Virginia planterSold it me to kill rats)—I will die instanter.”The Lady bended her ivory neck, andWhispered mournfully, “Go for—my second.”She said, and the red from Sir Hugh’s cheek fled,And “Nay,” did he say, as he stalked awayThe fiercest of injured men:“Twice have I humbled my haughty soul,And on bended knee I have pressedmy whole—But I never will press it again!”
V.
Onpinnacled St. Mary’sLingers the setting sun;Into the street the blackguardsAre skulking one by one:Butcher and Boots and BargemanLay pipe and pewter down;And with wild shout come tumbling outTo join the Town and Gown.
And now the undergraduatesCome forth by twos and threes,From the broad tower of Trinity,From the green gate of Caius:The wily bargeman marks them,And swears to do his worst;To turn to impotence their strength,And their beauty tomy first.
But before Corpus gatewayMy secondfirst arose,When Barnacles the freshmanWas pinned upon the nose:Pinned on the nose by Boxer,Who brought a hobnailed herdFrom Barnwell, where he kept a van,Being indeed a dogsmeat man,Vendor of terriers, blue or tan,And dealer inmy third.
’Twere long to tell how BoxerWas ‘countered’ on the cheek,And knocked into the middleOf the ensuing week:How Barnacles the FreshmanWas asked his name and college;And how he did the fatal factsReluctantly acknowledge.
He called upon the ProctorNext day at half-past ten;Men whispered that the Freshman cutA different figure then:—That the brass forsook his forehead,The iron fled his soul,As with blanched lip and visage wanBefore the stony-hearted DonHe kneeled uponmy whole.
VI.
Sikes, housebreaker, of Houndsditch,Habitually swore;But so surpassingly profaneHe never was before,As on a night in winter,When—softly as he stoleIn the dim light from stair to stair,Noiseless as boys who in her lairSeek to surprise a fat old hare—He barked his shinbone, unawareEncounteringmy whole.
As pours the Anio plainward,When rains have swollen the dykes,So, with such noise, poured downmy first,Stirred by the shins of Sikes.The Butler Bibulus heard it;And straightway ceased to snore,And sat up, like an egg on end,While men might count a score:Then spake he to Tigerius,A Buttons bold was he:“Buttons, I think there’s thieves about;Just strike a light and tumble out;If you can’t find one, go without,And see what you may see.”
But now was all the household,Almost, upon its legs,Each treading carefully aboutAs if they trod on eggs.With robe far-streaming issuedPaterfamilias forth;And close behind him,—stout and trueAnd tender as the North,—Came Mrs. P., supportingOn her broad arm her fourth.
Betsy the nurse, who neverFrom largest beetle ran,And—conscious p’raps of pleasing caps—The housemaids, formed the van:And Bibulus the Butler,His calm brows slightly arched;(No mortal wight had ere that nightSeen him with shirt unstarched;)And Bob, the shockhaired knifeboy,Wielding two Sheffield blades,And James Plush of the sinewy legs,The love of lady’s maids:And charwoman and chaplainStood mingled in a mass,And “Things,” thought he of Houndsditch,“Is come to a pretty pass.”
Beyond all things a BabyIs to the schoolgirl dear;Next to herself the nursemaid lovesHer dashing grenadier;Only with life the sailorParts from the British flag;While one hope lingers, the cracksman’s fingersDrop not his hard-earned ‘swag.’
But, as hares domy secondThro’ green Calabria’s copses,As females vanish at the sightOf short-horns and of wopses;So, dropping forks and teaspoons,The pride of Houndsditch fled,Dumbfoundered by the hue and cryHe’d raised up overhead.
* * * *
They gave him—did the Judges—As much as was his due.And, Saxon, should’st thou e’er be ledTo deem this tale untrue;Then—any night in winter,When the cold north wind blows,And bairns are told to keep out coldBy tallowing the nose:When round the fire the eldersAre gathered in a bunch,And the girls are doing crochet,And the boys are reading Punch:—Go thou and look in Leech’s book;There haply shalt thou spyA stout man on a staircase stand,With aspect anything but bland,And rub his right shin with his hand,To witness if I lie.
Artthou beautiful, O my daughter, as the budding rose of April?Are all thy motions music, and is poetry throned in thine eye?Then hearken unto me; and I will make the bud a fair flower,I will plant it upon the bank of Elegance, and water it with the water of Cologne;And in the season it shall “come out,” yea bloom, the pride of the parterre;Ladies shall marvel at its beauty, and a Lord shall pluck it at the last.
Study first Propriety: for she is indeed the PolestarWhich shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair;Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society;The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Eros.Verily Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed being naked;Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice:And when she is drest, behold! she knoweth not herself again.—I walked in the Forest; and above me stood the Yew,Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade;Then I pass’d into the citizen’s garden, and marked a tree clipt into shape,(The giant’s locks had been shorn by the Dalilahshears of Decorum;)And I said, “Surely nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!”I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky,And my foolish heart went after him, and lo! I blessed him as he rose;Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bulfinch,Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up water:And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with thunder,Must yield to him that danceth and ‘moveth in the circles’ at Astley’s.For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade,And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another:A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upwards,And it needeth that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety:He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure,Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork.
Choose judiciously thy friends; for to discard them is undesirable,Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop thy ‘H’s’.Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of light?Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the Morning Post?If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and mind;Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding:So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be “formed,”And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great shall fly open:Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation,His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth remove:Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning’s papers,Side by side with rumours of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and sieges,Shall appear thy name, and the minutiæ of thy head-dress and petticoat,For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin.
Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life;Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet intelligible:Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth not:Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream, but do.Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old,Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful:Likewise study the “creations” of “the Prince of modern Romance;”Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy:Learn how “love is the dram-drinking of existence;”And how we “invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets,The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen.”Listen how Maltravers and the orphan “forgot all but love,”And how Devereux’s family chaplain “made and unmade kings:”How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer,Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind.So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and master-spirits;And if thou canst not realise the Ideal, thou shalt at least idealise the Real.
Yetonce more, O ye laurels! and once moreYe myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compels me to disturb your season due;For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin then, sisters, of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,So may some gentle museWith lucky words favour my destined urn,And, as he passes, turnAnd bid fair peace be to my sable shroud:For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high lawns appearedUnder the opening eyelids of the morn,We drove afield, and both together heardWhat time the gray fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright,Toward Heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Tempered to the oaten flute;Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long,And old Damætas loved to hear our song.But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert cavesWith wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,And all their echoes mourn.The willows, and the hazel copses green,Shall now no more be seen,Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s earWhere were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie;Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:Ay me! I fondly dream!Had ye been there, for what could that have done?What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,The muse herself for her enchanting son,Whom universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roar,His gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely slighted shepherd’s trade,And strictly meditate the thankless muse?Were it not better done as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious days,But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,”Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;“Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.”O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood:But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the seaThat came in Neptune’s plea;He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap had doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged wings,That blows from off each beaked promontory:They knew not of his story,And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed,The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panope with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious barkBuilt in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge,Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.“Ah! who hath reft,” quoth he, “my dearest pledge?”Last came, and last did go,The pilot of the Galilean lake,Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:“How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such as for their bellies’ sakeCreep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning make,Than how to scramble at the shearer’s feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest;Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdsman’s art belongs!What reeks it them? What need they? They are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said.But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.”Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,To strow the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.For so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away, where ere thy bones are hurled,Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tideVisit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded mountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;Look homeward, angel now, and melt with ruth:And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of him that walked the waves,Where other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet societies,That sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals gray,He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,And now was dropped into the western bay;At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue,Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
En! iterum laurus, iterum salvete myricæPallentes, nullique hederæ quæ ceditis ævo.Has venio baccas, quanquam sapor asper acerbis,Decerptum, quassumque manu folia ipsa proterva,Maturescentem prævortens improbus annum.Causa gravis, pia cansa, subest, et amara deûm lex;Nec jam sponte mea vobis rata tempora turbo.Nam periit Lycidas, periit superante juventaImberbis Lycidas, quo non præstantior alter.Quis cantare super Lycida neget? Ipse quoque artemNôrat Apollineam, versumque imponere versuNon nullo vitreum fas innatet ille feretrumFlente, voluteturque arentes corpus ad auras,Indotatum adeo et lacrymæ vocalis egenum.Quare agite, o sacri fontis queis cura, sorores,Cui sub inaccessi sella Jovis exit origo:Incipite, et sonitu graviore impellite chordas.Lingua procul male prompta loqui, suasorque morarumSit pudor: alloquiis ut mollior una secundisPieridum faveat, cui mox ego destiner, urnæ:Et gressus prætergrediens convertat, et “Esto”Dicat “amoena quies atra tibi veste latenti:”Uno namque jugo duo nutribamur: eosdemPavit uterque greges ad fontem et rivulum et umbram.Tempore nos illo, nemorum convexa priusquam,Aurora reserante oculos, cæpere videri,Urgebamus equos ad pascua: novimus horamAridus audiri solitus qua clangor asili;Rore recentes greges passi pinguescere noctisSæpius, albuerat donec quod vespere sidusHesperios axes prono inclinasset Olympo.At pastorales non cessavere camœnæ,Fistula disparibus quas temperat apta cicutis:Saltabant Satyri informes, nec murmure lætoCapripedes potuere diu se avertere Fauni;Damætasque modos nostros longævus amabat.Jamque, relicta tibi, quantum mutata videnturRura—relicta tibi, cui non spes ulla regressûs!Te sylvæ, teque antra, puer, deserta ferarum,Incultis obducta thymis ac vite sequaci,Decessisse gemunt; gemitusque reverberat Echo.Non salices, non glauca ergo coryleta videboMolles ad numeros lætum motare cacumen:—Quale rosis scabies; quam formidabile vermisDepulso jam lacte gregi, dum tondet agellos;Sive quod, indutis verna jam veste, pruinæFloribus, albet ubi primum paliurus in agris:Tale fuit nostris, Lycidam periisse, bubulcis.Qua, Nymphæ, latuistis, ubi crudele profundumDelicias Lycidam vestras sub vortice torsit?Nam neque vos scopulis tum ludebatis in illisQuos veteres, Druidæ, Vates, illustria servantNomina; nec celsæ setoso in culmine Monæ,Nec, quos Deva locos magicis amplectitur undis.Væ mihi! delusos exercent somnia sensus:Venissetis enim; numquid venisse juvaret?Numquid Pieris ipsa parens interfuit Orphei,Pieris ipsa suæ sobolis, qui carmine rexitCorda virum, quem terra olim, quam magna, dolebat,Tempore quo, dirum auditu strepitante caterva,Ora secundo amni missa, ac foedata cruore,Lesbia præcipitans ad litora detulit Hebrus?Eheu quid prodest noctes instare diesquePastorum curas spretas humilesque tuendo,Nilque relaturam meditari rite Camoenam?Nonne fuit satius lusus agitare sub umbra,(Ut mos est aliis,) Amaryllida sive NeæramSectanti, ac tortis digitum impediisse capillis?Scilcet ingenuum cor Fama, novissimus errorIlla animi majoris, uti calcaribus urgetSpernere delicias ac dedi rebus agendis.Quanquam—exoptatam jam spes attingere dotem;Jam nec opinata remur splendescere flamma:—Cæca sed invisa cum forfice venit Erinnys,Quæ resecet tenui hærentem subtemine vitam.“At Famam non illa,” refert, tangitque trementesPhœbus Apollo aures. “Fama haud, vulgaris ad instarFloris, amat terrestre solum, fictosque nitoresQueis inhiat populus, nec cum Rumore patescit.Vivere dant illi, dant increbrescere latePuri oculi ac vox summa Jovis, cui sola Potestas.Fecerit ille semel de facto quoque virorumArbitrium: tantum famæ manet æthera nactis.”Fons Arethusa! sacro placidus qui laberis alveo,Frontem vocali prætextus arundine, Minci!Sensi equidem gravius carmen. Nunc cetera pastorExsequor. Adstat enim missus pro rege marino,Seque rogâsse refert fluctus, ventosque rapaces,Quæ sors dura nimis tenerum rapuisset agrestem.Compellasse refert alarum quicquid ab omniSpirat, acerba sonans, scopulo, qui cuspidis instarProminet in pelagus; fama haud pervenerat illuc.Hæc ultro pater Hippotades responsa ferebat:“Nulli sunt nostro palati carcere venti.Straverat æquor aquas, et sub Jove compta serenoLusum exercebat Panope nymphæque sorores.Quam Furiæ struxere per interlunia, letoFetam ac fraude ratem,—malos velarat Erinnys,—Credas in mala tanta caput mersisse sacratum.”Proximus huic tardum senior se Camus agebat;Cui setosa chlamys, cui pileus ulva: figurisIdem intertextus dubiis erat, utque cruentosQuos perhibent flores, inscriptus margine luctum.“Nam quis,” ait, “prædulce meum me pignus ademit?”Post hos, qui Galilæa regit per stagna carinas,Post hos venit iturus: habet manus utraque clavim,(Queis aperit clauditque) auro ferrove gravatam.Mitra tegit crines; quassis quibus, acriter infit:“Scilicet optassem pro te dare corpora letoSat multa, o juvenis: quot serpunt ventribus acti,Vi quot iter faciunt spretis in ovilia muris.Hic labor, hoc opus est, pecus ut tondente magistroPræripiant epulas, trudatur dignior hospes.Capti oculis, non ore! pedum tractare nec ipsiNorunt; quotve bonis sunt upilionibus artes.Sed quid enim refert, quove eat opus, omnia nactis?Fert ubi mens, tenue ac deductum carmen avenamRadit stridentem stipulis. Pastore negatoSuspicit ægra pecus: vento gravis ac lue tractaTabescit; mox foeda capit contagia vulgus.Quid dicam, stabulis ut clandestinus oberransExpleat ingluviem tristis lupus, indice nullo?Illa tamen bimanus custodit machina portam,Stricta, paratque malis plagam non amplius unam.”En, Alphee, redi! Quibus ima cohorruit undaVoces præteriere: redux quoque Sicelis omnesMusa voca valles; huc pendentes hyacinthosFac jaciant, teneros huc flores mille colorum.O nemorum depressa, sonant ubi crebra susurriUmbrarum, et salientis aquæ, Zephyrique protervi;Queisque virens gremium penetrare Canicula parcit:Picturata modis jacite huc mihi lumina miris,Mellitos imbres queis per viridantia ruraMos haurire, novo quo tellus vere rubescat.Huc ranunculus, ipse arbos, pallorque ligustri,Quæque relicta perit, vixdum matura feraturPnimula: quique ebeno distinctus, cætera flavetFlos, et qui specie nomen detrectat eburna.Ardenti violæ rosa proxima fundat odores;Serpyllumque placens, et acerbo flexile vultuVerbascum, ac tristem si quid sibi legit amictum.Quicquid habes pulcri fundas, amarante: coronentNarcissi lacrymis calices, sternantque feretrumTectus ubi lauro Lycidas jacet: adsit ut otiSaltem aliquid, ficta ludantur imagine mentes.Me miserum! Tua nam litus, pelagusque sonorumOssa ferunt, queiscunque procul jacteris in oris;Sive procellosas ultra Symplegadas ingensJam subter mare visis, alit quæ monstra profundum;Sive (negavit enim precibus te Jupiter udis)Cum sene Bellero, veterum qui fabula, dormis,Qua custoditi montis prægrandis imagoNamancum atque arces longe prospectat Iberas.Verte retro te, verte deum, mollire precando:Et vos infaustum juvenem delphines agatis.Ponite jam lacrymas, sat enim flevistis, agrestes.Non periit Lycidas, vestri moeroris origo,Marmorei quanquam fluctus hausere cadentem.Sic et in æquoreum se condere sæpe cubileLuciferum videas; nec longum tempus, et effertDemissum caput, igne novo vestitus; et, aurumCeu rutilans, in fronte poli splendescit Eoi.Sic obiit Lycidas, sic assurrexit in altum;Illo, quem peditem mare sustulit, usus amico.Nunc campos alios, alia errans stagna secundum,Rorantesque lavans integro nectare crines,Audit inauditos nobis cantari Hymenæos,Fortunatorum sedes ubi mitis amoremLætitiamque affert. Hic illum, quotquot OlympumPrædulces habitant turbæ, venerabilis ordo,Circumstant: aliæque canunt, interque canendumMajestate sua veniunt abeuntque catervæ,Omnes ex oculis lacrymas arcere paratæ.Ergo non Lycidam jam lamentantur agrestes.Divus eris ripæ, puer, hoc ex tempore nobis,Grande, nec immerito, veniens in munus; opemquePoscent usque tuam, dubiis quot in æstubus errant.Hæc incultus aquis puer ilicibusque canebat;Processit dum mane silens talaribus albis.Multa manu teneris discrimina tentat avenis,Dorica non studio modulatus carmina segni:Et jam sol abiens colles extenderat omnes,Jamque sub Hesperium se præcipitaverat alveum.Surrexit tandem, glaucumque retraxit amictum;Cras lucos, reor, ille novos, nova pascua quæret.
Thetime admits not flowers or leavesTo deck the banquet. Fiercely fliesThe blast of North and East, and iceMakes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves,
And bristles all the brakes and thornsTo yon hard crescent, as she hangsAbove the wood which grides and clangsIts leafless ribs and iron horns
Together, in the drifts that pass,To darken on the rolling brineThat breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,Arrange the board and brim the glass;
Bring in great logs and let them lie,To make a solid core of heat;Be cheerful-minded, talk and treatOf all things ev’n as he were by:
We keep the day with festal cheer,With books and music. Surely weWill drink to him whate’er he be,And sing the songs he loved to hear.
Nonhora myrto, non violis sinitNitere mensas. Trux Aquilo forasBacchatur, ac passim pruinaTigna sagittifera coruscant;
Horretque saltus spinifer, algidæSub falce lunæ, dum nemori imminet,Quod stridet illiditque costisCornua, jam vacuis honorum,
Ferrata; nimbis prætereuntibus,Ut incubent tandem implacido saliQui curvat oras. Tu FalernumProme, dapes strue, dic coronent
Crateras: ignis cor solidum, gravesRepone truncos. Jamque doloribusLoquare securus fugatisQuæ socio loquereris illo;
Hunc dedicamus lætitiæ diemLyræque musisque. Illius, illiusDa, quicquid audit: nec silebuntQui numeri placuere vivo.
From‘Rejected Addresses.’
BalmyZephyrs, lightly flitting,Shade me with your azure wing;On Parnassus’ summit sitting,Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
Softly slept the dome of DruryO’er the empyreal crest,When Alecto’s sister-furySoftly slumb’ring sunk to rest.
Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,Cytherea yielding tamelyTo the Cyclops dark and dire.
Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,Dulcet joys and sports of youth,Soon must yield to haughty sadness;Mercy holds the veil to Truth.
See Erostratas the secondFires again Diana’s fane;By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d,Clouds envelop Drury Lane.
Where is Cupid’s crimson motion?Billowy ecstasy of woe,Bear me straight, meandering ocean,Where the stagnant torrents flow.
Blood in every vein is gushing,Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!Never, never let us part.
Oquotodoriferi voitatis in aëre venti,Cæruleum tegmen vestra sit ala mihi:Tuque sedens Parnassus ubi caput erigit ingens,Dextra veni, Clio: teque docente canam.
Jam suaves somnos Tholus affectare TheatriCœperat, igniflui trans laqueare poli:Alectûs consanguineam quo tempore Erinnyn,Suave soporatam, coepit adire quies.
Lustra sed ecce labans claudo pede Lemnia linquitLuridus (at lente lugubriterque) Deus:Amisit veteres, amisit inultus, amores;Teter habet Venerem terribilisque Cyclops.
Electri nebulas, potioraque somnia vero;Quotque placent pueris gaudia, quotque joci;Omnia tristiæ fas concessisse superbæ:Admissum Pietas scitque premitque nefas.
Respice! Nonne vides ut Erostratus alter ad ædemRursus agat flammas, spreta Diana, tuam?Mox, Acheronteis quas Parca eduxit ab antris,Druriacam nubes corripuere domum.
O ubi purpurei motus pueri alitis? o quiMe mihi turbineis surripis, angor, aquis!Duc, labyrintheum, duc me, mare, tramite rectoQuo rapidi fontes, pigra caterva, ruunt!
Jamque—soporat enim pectus Vindicta Virago;Omnibus a venis sanguinis unda salit;Gorgoneique greges præceps (adverte!) feruntur—Sim, precor, o! semper sim tibi junctus ego.
Felicia Hemans.
Leaveshave their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the North-wind’s breath,And stars to set: but all,Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Day is for mortal care,Eve for glad meetings at the joyous hearth,Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!
The banquet has its hour,The feverish hour of mirth and song and wine:There comes a day for grief’s overwhelming shower,A time for softer tears: but all are thine.
Youth and the opening roseMay look like things too glorious for decay,And smile at thee!—but thou art not of thoseThat wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey!
Frondesest ubi decidant,Marcescantque rosæ flatu Aquilonio:Horis astra cadunt suis;Sed, Mors, cuncta tibi tempera vindicas.
Curis nata virûm dies;Vesper colloquiis dulcibus ad focum;Somnis nox magis, et preci:Sed nil, Terrigenum maxima, non tibi.
Festis hora epulis datur,(Fervens hora jocis, carminibus, mero;)Fusis altera lacrymisAut fletu tacito: quæque tamen tua.
Virgo, seu rosa pullulans,Tantum quippe nitent ut nequeant mori?Rident te? Neque enim solesPrædæ parcere, dum flos adoleverit.
R. C.Trench.
“Letus turn hitherward our bark,” they cried,“And, ’mid the blisses of this happy isle,Past toil forgetting and to come, abideIn joyfulness awhile.
And then, refreshed, our tasks resume again,If other tasks we yet are bound unto,Combing the hoary tresses of the mainWith sharp swift keel anew.”
O heroes, that had once a nobler aim,O heroes, sprung from many a godlike line,What will ye do, unmindful of your fame,And of your race divine?
But they, by these prevailing voices nowLured, evermore draw nearer to the land,Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow,That strewed that fatal strand;
Or seeing, feared not—warning taking noneFrom the plain doom of all who went before,Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun,And whitened all the shore.
“Quinhuc,” fremebant, “dirigimus ratem:Hic, dote læti divitis insulæ,Paullisper hæremus, futuriNec memores operis, nec acti:
“Curas refecti cras iterabimus,Si qua supersunt emeritis novæPexisse pernices acutaCanitiem pelagi carina.”
O rebus olim nobilioribusPares: origo Dî quibus ac DeæHeroës! oblitine famiæHæc struitis, generisque summi?
Atqui propinquant jam magis ac magis,Ducti magistra voce, solum: nequeVidere prorarum nefandasFragmina nobilium per oras;
Vidisse seu non poenitet—ominisIncuriosos tot præëuntium,Quorum ossa sol siccantque venti,Candet adhuc quibus omnis ora.
MDCCCLIII.
“Quicquid agunt homines, nostri est farrago libelli.”
“Quicquid agunt homines, nostri est farrago libelli.”
Acrishyems jam venit: hyems genus omne perosaFoemineum, et senibus glacies non æqua rotundis:Apparent rari stantes in tramite glauco;Radit iter, cogitque nives, sua tela, juventus.Trux matrona ruit, multos dominata per annos,Digna indigna minans, glomeratque volumina crurum;Illa parte senex, amisso forte galero,Per plateas bacchatur; eum chorus omnis agrestumRidet anhelantem frustra, et jam jamque tenentemQuod petit; illud agunt venti prensumque resorbent.Post, ubi compositus tandem votique potitusSedit humi; flet crura tuens nive candida lenta,Et vestem laceram, et venturas conjugis iras:Itque domum tendens duplices ad sidera palmas,Corda miser, desiderio perfixa galeri.At juvenis (sed cruda viro viridisque juventus)Quærit bacciferas, tunica pendente,[145a]tabernas:Pervigil ecce Baco furva depromit ab arcaSplendidius quiddam solito, plenumque saporemLaudat, et antiqua jurat de stripe Jamaicæ.O fumose puer, nimium ne crede Baconi:Manillas vocat; hoc prætexit nomine caules.Te vero, cui forte dedit maturior ætasScire potestates herbarum, te quoque quantiCircumstent casus, paucis (adverte) docebo.Præcipue, seu raptat amor te simplicis herbæ,[145b]Seu potius tenui Musam meditaris avena,Procuratorem fugito, nam ferreus idem est.Vita semiboves catulos, redimicula vitaCandida: de coelo descendit σῶζε σεαυτόν.Nube vaporis item conspergere præter euntesJura vetant, notumque furens quid femina possit:Odit enim dulces succos anus, odit odorem;Odit Lethæi diffusa volumina fumi.Mille modis reliqui fugiuntque feruntque laborem.Hic vir ad Eleos, pedibus talaria gestans,Fervidus it latices, nec quidquam acquirit eundo:[146a]Ille petit virides (sed non e gramine) mensas,Pollicitus meliora patri, tormentaque[146b]flexusPer labyrintheos plus quam mortalia tentat,Acre tuens, loculisque pilas immittit et aufert.Sunt alii, quos frigus aquæ, tenuisque phaselusCaptat, et æquali surgentes ordine remi.His edura cutis, nec ligno rasile tergum;Par saxi sinus: esca boves cum robore Bassi.Tollunt in numerum fera brachia, vique ferunturPer fluctus: sonuere viæ clamore secundo:Et piceâ de puppe fremens immane bubulcusInvocat exitium cunctis, et verbera raptoStipite defessis onerat graviora caballis.Nil humoris egent alii. Labor arva vagari,Flectere ludus equos, et amantem devia[147a]currum.Nosco purpureas vestes, clangentia noscoSigna tubæ, et caudas inter virgulta caninas.Stat venator equus, tactoque ferocior armoSurgit in arrectum, vix auditurus habenam;Et jam prata fuga superat, jam flumina saltu.Aspicias alios ab iniqua sepe rotariIn caput, ut scrobibus quæ sint fastigia quærant;Eque rubis aut amne pigro trahere humida crura,Et fœdam faciem, defloccatumque galerum.Sanctius his animal, cui quadravisse rotundum[148a]Musæ suadet amor, Camique ardentis imago,Inspicat calamos contracta fronte malignos,Perque Mathematicum pelagus, loca turbida, anhelat.Circum dirus “Hymers,” nec pondus inutile, “Lignum,”“Salmoque,” et pueris tu detestate, “Colenso,”Horribiles visu formæ; livente notatæUngue omnes, omnes insignes aure canina.[148b]Fervet opus; tacitum pertentant gaudia pectusTutorum; “pulchrumque mori,” dixere, “legendo.”Nec vero juvenes facere omnes omnia possunt.Atque unum memini ipse, deus qui dictus amicis,Et multum referens de rixatore[148c]secundo,Nocte terens ulnas ac scrinia, solus in altoDegebat tripode; arcta viro vilisque supellex;Et sic torva tuens, pedibus per mutua nexis,Sedit, lacte mero mentem mulcente tenellam.Et fors ad summos tandem venisset honores;Sed rapidi juvenes, queis gratior usus equorum,Subveniunt, siccoque vetant inolescere libro.Improbus hos Lector pueros, mentumque viriliLævius, et duræ gravat inclementia Mortis:[149a]Agmen iners; queis mos alienâ vivere quadrâ,[149b]Et lituo vexare viros, calcare caballos.Tales mane novo sæpe admiramur euntesTorquibus in rigidis et pelle Libystidis ursæ;Admiramur opus[149c]tunicæ, vestemque[149d]sororemIridis, et crurum non enarrabile tegmen.Hos inter comites implebat pocula sorbisInfelix puer, et sese reereabat ad ignem,“Evœ,[150a]Basse,” fremens: dum velox præterit ætas;Venit summa dies; et Junior Optimus exit.Saucius at juvenis nota intra tecta refugit,Horrendum ridens, lucemque miserrimus odit:Informem famulus laqueum pendentiaque ossaMane videt, refugitque feri meminisse magistri.Di nobis meliora! Modum re servat in omniQui sapit: haud ilium semper recubare sub umbra,Haud semper madidis juvat impallescere chartis.Nos numerus sumus, et libros consumere nati;Sed requies sit rebus; amant alterna Camenæ.Nocte dieque legas, cum tertius advenit annus:Tum libros cape; claude fores, et prandia defer.Quartus venit: ini,[150b]rebus jam rite paratis,Exultans, et coge gradum conferre magistros.His animadversis, fugies immane Barathrum.His, operose puer, si qua fata aspera rumpas,Tu rixator eris. Saltem non crebra revisesAd stabulum,[151a]et tota moerens carpere juventa;Classe nec amisso nil profectura dolentemTradet ludibriis te plena leporisHirudo.[151b]
Yeton fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav’n, and thereRest thee: for lo! thy sideIs oarless all and bare,
And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,Yield must thy keel at lastOn pitiless sea-waves tossed
Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine,Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:—Though thou—a Pontic pine,Child of a stately forest,—
Boastest high name and empty pedigree,Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail:Stay, unless doomed to beThe plaything of the gale.
Flee—what of late sore burden was to me,Now a sad memory and a bitter pain,—Those shining Cyclads fleeThat stud the far-off main.
Unshamed, unchecked, for one so dearWe sorrow. Lead the mournful choir,Melpomene, to whom thy sireGave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear!
Sleeps He the sleep that knows no morn?Oh Honour, oh twin-born with Right,Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light,When shall again his like be born?
Many a kind heart for Him makes moan;Thine, Virgil, first. But ah! in vainThy love bids heaven restore againThat which it took not as a loan:
Were sweeter lute than Orpheus givenTo thee, did trees thy voice obey;The blood revisits not the clayWhich He, with lifted wand, hath driven
Into his dark assemblage, whoUnlocks not fate to mortal’s prayer.Hard lot! Yet light their griefs whoBEARThe ills which they may not undo.
Bandusia, stainless mirror of the sky!Thine is the flower-crown’d bowl, for thee shall die,When dawns again yon sun, the kid;Whose budding horns, half-seen, half-hid,
Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain!Soon must the hope of the wild herd be slain,And those cold springs of thineWith blood incarnadine.
Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beamToucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool streamTo labour-wearied ox,Or wanderer from the flocks:
And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain,Topt by the brown oak-tree,Thou breakest babblingly.
Spouseof penniless Ibycus,Thus late, bring to a close all thy delinquencies,All thy studious infamy:—Nearing swiftly the grave—(that not an early one)—Cease girls’ sport to participate,Blurring stars which were else cloudlessly brilliant.What suits her who is beautifulSuits not equally thee: rightly devastatesThy fair daughter the homes of men,Wild as Thyad, who wakes stirred by the kettle-drums.Nothus’ beauty constraining her,Like some kid at his play, holds she her revelry:Thy years stately Luceria’sWools more fitly become—not din of harpsichords,Not pink-petallèd roseblossoms,Not casks drained by an old lip to the sediment.
Onedazzling mass of solid snowSoracte stands; the bent woods fretBeneath their load; and, sharpest-setWith frost, the streams have ceased to flow.
Pile on great faggots and break upThe ice: let influence more benignEnter with four-years-treasured wine,Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup:
Leave to the Gods all else. When theyHave once bid rest the winds that warOver the passionate seas, no moreGrey ash and cypress rock and sway.
Ask not what future suns shall bring,Count to-day gain, whate’er it chanceTo be: nor, young man, scorn the dance,Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,
Ere Time thy April youth hath changedTo sourness. Park and public walkAttract thee now, and whispered talkAt twilight meetings pre-arranged;
Hear now the pretty laugh that tellsIn what dim corner lurks thy love;And snatch a bracelet or a gloveFrom wrist or hand that scarce rebels.
Seeknot, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;Ask not of Chaldæa’s science what God wills, Leuconöe:Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry blastWaits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last,Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone-reef.Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is brief,Hopes that reach into the future. While I speak, hath stol’n awayJealous Time. Mistrust To-morrow, catch the blossom of To-day.
Thejust man’s single-purposed mindNot furious mobs that prompt to illMay move, nor kings’ frowns shake his willWhich is as rock; not warrior-winds
That keep the seas in wild unrest;Nor bolt by Jove’s own finger hurled:The fragments of a shivered worldWould crash round him still self-possest.
Jove’s wandering son reached, thus endowed,The fiery bastions of the skies;Thus Pollux; with them Cæsar liesBeside his nectar, radiant-browed.
For this rewarded, tiger-drawnRode Bacchus, reining necks beforeUntamed; for this War’s horses boreQuirinus up from Acheron,
When in heav’n’s conclave Juno said,Thrice welcomed: “Troy is in the dust;Troy, by a judge accursed, unjust,And that strange woman prostrated.
“The day Laomedon ignoredHis god-pledged word, resigned to meAnd Pallas ever-pure, was she,Her people, and their traitor lord.
“No more the Greek girl’s guilty guestSits splendour-girt: Priam’s perjured sonsFind not against the mighty onesOf Greece a shield in Hector’s breast:
“And, long drawn out by private jars,The war sleeps. Lo! my wrath is o’er:And him the Trojan vestal bore(Sprung of that hated line) to Mars,
“To Mars restore I. His be restIn halls of light: by him be drainedThe nectar-bowl, his place obtainedIn the calm companies of the blest.
“While betwixt Rome and Ilion ravesA length of ocean, where they willRise empires for the exiles still:While Paris’s and Priam’s graves
“Are hoof-trod, and the she-wolf breedsSecurely there, unharmed shall standRome’s lustrous Capitol, her handImpose proud laws on trampled Medes.
“Wide-feared, to far-off climes be borneHer story; where the central mainEurope and Libya parts in twain,Where full Nile laves a land of corn:
“The buried secret of the mine,(Best left there) resolute to spurn,And not to man’s base uses turnWith hand that spares not things divine.
“Earth’s utmost end, where’er it be,May her hosts reach; careering proudO’er lands where watery rain and cloud,Or where wild suns hold revelry.
“But, to the soldier-sons of Rome,Tied by this law, such fates are willed;That they seek never to rebuild,Too fond, too bold, their grandsires’ home.
“With darkest omens, deadliest strife,Shall Troy, raised up again, repeatHer history; I the victor-fleetShall lead, Jove’s sister and his wife.
“Thrice let Apollo rear the wallOf brass; and thrice my Greeks shall hewThe fabric down; thrice matrons rueIn chains their sons’, their husbands’ fall.”
Ill my light lyre such notes beseem.Stay, Muse; nor, wayward still, rehearseGod-utterances in puny verseThat may but mar a mighty theme.