作者： deepoo

This is a terror that has not seen for 80 years

2022年3月16日，乌克兰总统Volodymyr Zelensky在美国国会发表视频演讲，演讲约18分钟。

非常感谢。议长女士（美国众议院议长佩洛西），国会议员，女士们、先生们，美国人们，朋友们，我自豪地在乌克兰、在我们的首都基辅向你们问好，这座城市每天都在遭受俄罗斯军队的导弹和空袭。但它没有放弃，我们甚至都没有想过这一点。
Thank you very much. Madam Speaker, members of the Congress, ladies and gentlemen, Americans, friends, I’m proud to greet you from Ukraine, from our capital city of Kyiv, a city that is under missile and airstrikes from Russian troops every day. But it doesn’t give up, and we have not even thought about it for a second.

就像我们美丽国家的许多其他城市和社区一样，我们发现自己陷入了二战以来最严重的战争。我很荣幸代表乌克兰人民向你们致意，他们是勇敢的、热爱自由的人民，八年来一直在抵抗俄罗斯的侵略，他们为阻止俄罗斯的全面入侵派出了最棒的儿女。

Just like many other cities and communities in our beautiful country which found themselves in the worst war since World War II. I have the honor to greet you on behalf of the Ukrainian people, brave and freedom-loving people who for eight years have been resisting the Russian aggression. Those who give their best sons and daughters to stop this full-scale Russian invasion.

现在，我们国家的命运正在被决定。我们人民的命运，乌克兰人是否会获得自由，他们是否能够维护他们的民主。俄罗斯不仅攻击了我们、攻击了我们的土地、我们的城市；它还对我们的价值观——人类的基本价值观进行了残酷的攻击。它用坦克和飞机反对我们的自由，反对我们在自己国家自由生活、选择自己未来的权利，反对我们对幸福的渴望，反对我们的民族梦想，就像你们美国人、像在美国的其他任何人拥有的梦想一样。

Right now the destiny of our country is being decided. The destiny of our people, whether Ukrainians will be free, whether they will be able to preserve their democracy. Russia has attacked not just us, not just our land, not just our cities; it went on a brutal offensive against our values, basic human values. It threw tanks and planes against our freedom, against our right to live freely in our own country choosing our own future. Against our desire for happiness, against our national dreams, just like the same dreams you have, you Americans. Just like anyone else in the United States.

我记得你们在拉什莫尔山的国家纪念碑，那些杰出总统的面庞，那些为今天的美利坚合众国奠定了基础，为民主、独立、自由和关怀每个勤奋工作、诚实生活、尊重法律的人奠定基础的总统。我们乌克兰人也希望我们的人民拥有这些。所有这些都是你们生活中正常的一部分。

I remember your national memorial in [Mount] Rushmore, the faces of your prominent presidents, those who laid the foundation of the United States of America as it is today — democracy, independence, freedom and care for everyone, for every person, for everyone who works diligently, who lives honestly, who respects the law. We in Ukraine want the same for our people. All that is a normal part of your own life.

女士们，先生们，朋友们，美国人们，在你们的伟大历史中，有几页可以让你们理解乌克兰人。现在，就是我们需要你们理解的时候。

Ladies and gentlemen, friends, Americans, in your great history, you have pages that would allow you to understand Ukrainians, understand us now when you need it right now. When we need you right now.

记得珍珠港事件。1941年12月7日那个可怕的早晨，你们的天空被飞机的袭击染成一片漆黑。请记住它。记得9月11日，2001年可怕的一天，恐怖分子企图把你们的城市、独立的领土变成战场。当无辜的人遭受空袭时，就像没人能预料到的那样，你们无法阻止它。

Remember Pearl Harbor. Terrible morning of December 7, 1941, when your sky was black from the planes attacking you. Just remember it. Remember September 11th, a terrible day in 2001 when evil tried to turn your cities, independent territories in battlefields. When innocent people were attacked from air. Just like nobody else expected it, you could not stop it.

我们的国家每天都在经历同样的事情。此时此刻，三个星期以来的每个夜晚，乌克兰的各个城市……俄罗斯已经把乌克兰的天空变成了成千上万人的死亡之源。俄罗斯军队已经向乌克兰发射了近一千枚导弹，无数的炸弹，他们使用无人机来精确地杀死我们。这是欧洲80年来从未见过的恐怖，我们要求全世界对这种恐怖做出回应。

Our country experienced the same every day. Right now, at this moment, every night for three weeks now, various Ukrainian cities……Russia has turned the Ukrainian sky into a source of death for thousands of people. Russian troops have already fired nearly 1,000 missiles at Ukraine, countless bombs, they use drones to kill us with precision. This is a terror that Europe has not seen, has not seen for 80 years and we are asking for a reply, for an answer to this terror from the whole world.

在乌克兰上空设立禁飞区以拯救民众，这个要求是否过高？这个要求是否太过分？建立人道主义禁飞区将使俄罗斯将无法恐吓我们的自由城市。

Is this a lot to ask for, to create a no-fly zone over Ukraine to save people? Is this too much to ask? Humanitary, no-fly zone, something that Russia will not be able to terrorize our free cities.

如果这要求太过分的话，我们提供一个替代方案。你们知道我们需要什么样的防御系统，S-300以及其他类似的系统。你们知道在战场的胜败有多取决于使用飞机的能力，强大的、有力的航空能保护我们的人民、我们的自由和土地，能够帮助乌克兰，帮助欧洲。你们知道有这样的飞机，你们也拥有这样的飞机，但它们在地面上，不在乌克兰的天空，它们没有保卫我们的人民。

If this is too much to ask, we offer an alternative. You know, what kind of defense systems we need, S-300 and other similar systems. You know, how much depends on the battlefield, on the ability to use aircrafts, powerful, strong aviation to protect our people, our freedom, our land. Aircraft that can help Ukraine, help Europe. And you know that they exist, and you have them, but they are on earth, not in the Ukrainian sky. They do not defend our people.

“我有一个梦想”，这句话今天你们每个人都知道。我可以说，“我有一个需要”。我需要保护我们的领空。我需要你们的决定，你们的帮助，这句话和你们听到”我有一个梦想”时的感受是一样的。

I have a dream, these words are known to each of you today. I can say, I have a need. I need to protect our sky. I need your decision, your help, which means exactly the same, the same you feel when you hear the words, “I have a dream.”

女士们，先生们，朋友们，乌克兰感谢美国的大力支持，感谢贵国政府和人民为我们所做的一切，为我们提供武器弹药，提供培训，提供资金，你们在自由世界发挥的领导作用，帮助我们在经济上向侵略者施压。

Ladies and gentlemen, friends, Ukraine is grateful to the United States for its overwhelming support for everything that your government and your people have done for us, for weapons and ammunition, for training, for finances, for leadership in the free world, which helps us to pressure the aggressor economically.

我感谢拜登总统的亲自参与，感谢他对保卫乌克兰和全世界民主的真诚承诺。我感谢你的决议，承认所有对乌克兰、对乌克兰人民犯下罪行的人是战犯。然而现在，确实是我国和整个欧洲最黑暗的时候，我呼吁你们做得更多，每周都出台新的一揽子制裁措施，直到俄罗斯的军事机器停止。

I’m grateful to President Biden for his personal involvement, for his sincere commitment to the defense of Ukraine and democracy all over the world. I am grateful to you for the resolution which recognizes all those who commit crimes against Ukraine, against the Ukrainian people as war criminals. However, now, it is true in the darkest time for our country, for the whole Europe, I call on you to do more. New packages of sanctions are needed, constantly, every week until the Russian military machine stops.

需要对这个不公正的政权所基于的个人进行限制。我们建议美国制裁俄罗斯联邦的所有政治家，从国家杜马成员到最后一个缺乏勇气去打破这种国家恐怖主义的官员。他们仍然坐在办公室里，不与那些对侵略乌克兰负有责任的人断绝联系。所有美国公司必须离开俄罗斯市场，立即离开，因为那里充斥着我们的血液。

Restrictions are needed for everyone on whom this unjust regime is based. We propose that the United States sanction all politicians in the Russian Federation, who remain in their offices and do not cut ties with those who are responsible for the aggression against Ukraine. From State Duma members to the last official who has lack of morale to break the state terror. All Americans company must leave Russia from their market, leave their market immediately because it is flooded with our blood.

女士们，先生们，国会议员们，请带头行动起来，如果你们所在的地区有资助俄罗斯军事机器的公司，你们应该施加压力要求他们停止在俄罗斯的业务。我要求确保俄罗斯人不会得到一分钱用来摧毁乌克兰人民，摧毁我们的国家，摧毁欧洲。所有美国港口都应该对俄罗斯货物关闭。和平比收入更重要，我们必须在全世界捍卫这一原则。

Ladies and gentlemen, members of Congress, please take the lead. If you have companies in your districts who finance the Russian military machine leaving business in Russia, you should put pressure. I am asking to make sure that the Russians do not receive a single penny that they use to destroy people in Ukraine. The destruction of our country, the destruction of Europe. All American ports should be closed for Russian goods. Peace is more important than income and we have to defend this principle in the whole world.

我们已经成为反战联盟的一部分，这是一个联合了几十个国家的庞大的反战联盟。这些国家在原则上对普京总统入侵我国的决定作出了反应。但我们需要继续推进，做得更多。我们需要创造新的工具，以迅速对这场始于2月24日的战争作出反应，阻止俄罗斯对乌克兰的全面入侵。如果它在一天内结束，在24小时内结束，那将是公平的，邪恶将立即受到惩罚。但如今的世界没有这样的工具。过去的战争促使我们的先辈们建立了保护我们免受战争伤害的机构，但不幸的是，这些机构并没有发挥作用。我们看到了，你们也看到了。因此，我们需要新的机构，新的联盟，而我们提供这些。

We already became part of the anti-war coalition, a big anti-war coalition that unites many countries, dozens of countries, those who reacted in principle to President Putin’s decision to invade our country, but we need to move on and do more. We need to create new tools to respond quickly and stop the war, the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine, which began on February 24th. And it would be fair if it ended in a day, that in 24 hours, that evil would be punished immediately. Today the world does not have such tools. The war of the past have prompted our predecessors to create institutions that should protect us from war, but they unfortunately don’t work. We see it, you see it, so we need new ones, new institutions, new alliances and we offer them.

我们提议创建一个为和平而联合起来的24国（U-24）联盟，一个由负责任的国家组成的联盟，这些国家有力量和意识来立即停止冲突，在24小时内提供所有必要的援助。如果有必要，甚至提供武器、制裁、人道主义支持、政治支持、财政支持，所有需要的一切来维持和平，迅速拯救世界，拯救生命。

We propose to create an association U-24 united for peace, a union of responsible countries that have the strength and consciousness to stop conflicts immediately, provide all the necessary assistance in 24 hours, if necessary, even weapons if necessary, sanctions, humanitarian support, political support, finances, everything you need to keep the peace and quickly save the world, save lives.

此外，这样的联盟还将向那些遭受自然灾害、人为灾难、成为人道主义危机或流行病受害者的人提供援助。你们记得吗，对世界来说，做最简单的事情是多么困难——只是提供针对新冠的疫苗以拯救生命，防止新的菌株，世界就花了几个月、乃至几年的时间。我们需要更迅速地采取行动，以确保没有人员损失，没有受害者。

In addition, such associations such a union could provide assistance to those who are experiencing natural disasters, man-made disasters who fell victim to humanitarian crisis or epidemics. Remember how difficult it was for the world to do the simplest thing just to give vaccines, vaccines against COVID to save lives to prevent new strains. The world spent months, years, doing things like that much faster to make sure there are no human losses, no victims.

女士们，先生们，美国人们，如果今天有这样的联盟，也就是U-24，我们将能够拯救我国数以万计的生命，拯救世界上许多国家那些需要和平、遭受非人道破坏的人的生命。

Ladies and gentlemen, Americans, if such alliance would exist today, that is U-24, we would be able to save thousands of lives in our country. In many countries of the world, those who need peace, those who suffer inhumane destruction.

我请你们看一段关于俄罗斯军队在我们国家、我们的土地上所做事情的视频。我们必须阻止它，我们必须阻止每一个试图征服其他国家的侵略者。请观看视频。

I ask you to watch one video, video of what the Russian troops did in our country, in our land. We have to stop it. We must prevent it, preventably destroy every single aggressor who seeks to subjugate other nations. Please watch the video.

最后，总结一下，今天，仅仅成为一个国家的领导人是不够的，还要成为世界的领导人。成为世界的领导人意味着要成为和平的领导人。你的国家的和平不再只取决于你和你的人民，还取决于你身边的国家和那些强国。强并不意味着“大”，而是指勇敢并准备好为本国公民和世界公民的生命而战，为自由，为人权，为体面地生活的权利而战，为可以在大限到来时赴死而非邻国想要你死的时候死去而战。

[IN ENGLISH] And in the end, to sum it up today, today, it’s not enough to be the leader of the nation they take to be the leader of the world. Being the leader of the world means to be the leader of peace. Peace in your country doesn’t depend any more only on you and your people. It depends on those next to you and those who are strong. Strong doesn’t mean big. Strong is brave and ready to fight for the life of his citizens and citizens of the world. Of human rights for freedom, for the right to live decently and to die when your time comes and not when it is wanted by someone else, by your neighbor.

今天，乌克兰人民不仅在捍卫家园，也在为欧洲和世界的价值观而战，以未来的名义牺牲我们自己的生命。这就是为什么今天美国人民不仅在帮助乌克兰，更是在帮助欧洲和世界，以保持地球的活力，让历史保持正义。如今，我快45岁了。今天，我的生命在一百多个孩子的心脏停止跳动时也一同停止了。

[IN ENGLISH] Today, the Ukrainian people are defending not only Ukraine, we are fighting for the values of Europe and the world, sacrificing our own lives in the name of the future. That’s why today, the American people are helping not just Ukraine, but Europe and the world to keep the planet alive, to keep justice in history. Now I’m almost 45 years old. Today, my age stopped when the hearts of more than one hundred children stopped beating.

我认为如果不能阻止死亡，生命就毫无意义。这是我作为伟大的乌克兰人民的领导人的主要使命。作为我国的领导人，我想对拜登总统说，你也是国家领导人，是你们伟大国家的领导人。我希望你能成为世界的领导人，这意味着成为和平的领导人。

I see no sense in life if it cannot stop the deaths. And this is my main mission as the leader of my people, great Ukrainians. And as the leader of my nation, I’m addressing the President Biden. You are the leader of the nation, of your great nation. I wish you to be the leader of the world. Being the leader of the world means to be the leader of peace.

Thank you.

[IN UKRAINIAN] Glory to Ukraine.

来源：CNN 编译：Schnappi

你们的钱不是慈善，是对世界和平与民主的投资

当地时间2022年12月21日晚，到访美国的乌克兰总统泽连斯基在美国国会发表演讲。

非常感谢你们，非常感谢，谢谢你们，这对我来说太重要了，这一切都是为了我们伟大的人民，再次感谢各位。

亲爱的美国人民，所有的州、城市和社区，所有珍视自由和正义的人们，像我们乌克兰每个城市和家庭里一样，珍惜自由和正义的人们。我希望，这些尊重和感激之词，能在每个美国人心中产生共鸣。副总统女士，我感谢你帮助乌克兰的努力，议长女士，您在全面战争期间勇敢地访问了乌克兰，非常感谢你，荣幸之致，谢谢你。

来到这里，我有幸与你们—亲爱的国会议员们，你们中间有访问过基辅的两党代表，我相信，更多尊敬的两党众议员和参议员们将来会访问乌克兰，亲爱的国外乌克兰人的代表们，他们也在这个会议厅里，并遍布全美各地，还有亲爱的记者们，我非常荣幸能够来到美国国会，向你们和所有美国人讲话。在困难和悲观之下，乌克兰没有倒下，仍然生机勃勃。这要感谢你们。这让我有充分的理由，与你们分享我们第一个联合取得的胜利，我们在思想的世界战场上打败了俄罗斯。乌克兰没有被吓倒，世界上的任何人也不应该被吓倒，乌克兰人赢得了这场胜利，这给了我们勇气，同时激励着整个世界。

现在战斗仍在继续，这场战斗不只是关乎领土，为了欧洲的这个或另一个某一个地方，这场战斗也不只是关乎乌克兰人，它将决定我们的孩子和孙子，还有他们的孩子和孙子，将生活在什么样的世界里，这将决定乌克兰人民的民主，这场战斗不能暂停或推迟，不能被忽视。

女士们，先生们，各位美国人，在来到华盛顿特区之前的一天，我在巴哈姆特前线。这是我们位于乌克兰东部顿巴斯的据点。俄罗斯军队和雇佣兵自5月以来一直在不停的试图占领巴赫穆特，日以继夜地想要夺取它，但巴赫穆特仍在乌克兰手中。去年有7万人住在巴赫穆特，住在这个城市里，现在只有少数平民。那里的每一寸土地都浸泡在血泊中，每小时都有轰鸣的炮声。在激烈的战斗中，顿巴斯的战壕经常每天易手数次，甚至徒手肉搏，但乌克兰的顿巴斯屹立不倒。俄罗斯人在弹药方面有优势，导弹和飞机比我们多得多，这是事实，但我们的国防军屹立不倒，而且足以让我们为他们感到骄傲。

我们有了大炮，是的，谢谢你们，我们终于有了。这够吗？说实话，并不尽然。巴赫穆特的战斗不应该只是为了挡住俄军前进，而应该是为了让俄军彻底离开，所以我们需要更多的大炮和炮弹。真能如此，就像萨拉托加战役一样，对巴赫穆特的争夺，将改变我们争取独立和自由的战争进程，你们的爱国者导弹能全力以赴地捍卫我们的自由。当大炮无法轰击我们的城市时，俄罗斯就试图用导弹攻击来摧毁这些城市，乌克兰从未要求美国士兵代替我们在我们的土地上作战。我向你们保证，乌克兰士兵完全可以自己操作美制的坦克和飞机。

财政援助也是至关重要的，我想感谢你们，非常感谢你们，感谢你们已经为我们提供的一揽子财政计划，以及你们愿意提供的其他援助。请相信，你们的钱不是慈善，是对世界和平与民主的投资，你们可以加速我们的胜利，我深知这一点。

我很高兴地说，拜登总统今天表态支持我们的和平倡议。女士们，先生们，你们每个人都可以提供帮助，两院和两党的领导们，谢谢你们，真的，你们有能力帮助我们。

女士们，先生们，美国人，两天后乌克兰也将庆祝圣诞节。也许只是烛光，并非为了浪漫。不是的，而是因为没有电。数百万人将既没有暖气，也没有自来水，但我相信，我们乌克兰人，也将带着尊严和成功，经历我们自己的独立和自由战争，我们会庆祝圣诞节。即使没有电，我们对自己的信仰之光也不会被扑灭，乌克兰人仍然会坐在节日的餐桌前，互相鼓励，我们不需要，也没有必要知道每个人的愿望，因为我们知道，我们所有人，数以百万计的乌克兰人，都有一个同样的愿望：胜利，只有胜利，现在，在这个特殊的圣诞节期间，我想感谢你们，感谢你们所有人。

我感谢每一个美国家庭，因为他们珍惜自己家的温暖，并希望其他人也能得到同样的温暖。我感谢拜登总统和参众两院两党，感谢你们的宝贵援助。我感谢你们的城市和你们的公民，一年来他们支持了乌克兰，接待我们的人民，挥舞我们的旗帜，采取行动帮助我们。感谢你们所有人，这些感谢也来自每一个在前线的人，来自每一个等待胜利的人。

昨天我在巴赫穆特的时候，我们的英雄们给了我一面旗帜，一面战旗，一面代表正在以生命为代价，捍卫乌克兰的旗帜，他们要求我把这面旗帜带给你们，带给美国国会，带给众议员和参议员们，女士们，先生们，让这面旗帜留在你们身边，这是我们在这场战争中胜利的象征，我们昂首，我们战斗，我们会赢，因为我们团结。

圣诞快乐，新年快乐，取得胜利。

荣耀归于乌克兰。

A TRANSLATION BY S. H. BUTCHER

[Transcriber’s Annotations and Conventions: the translator left intact some Greek words to illustrate a specific point of the original

discourse. In this transcription, in order to retain the accuracy of this text, those words are rendered by spelling out each Greek letter

individually, such as {alpha beta gamma delta …}. The reader can distinguish these words by the enclosing braces {}. Where multiple words

occur together, they are separated by the “/” symbol for clarity. Readers who do not speak or read the Greek language will usually neither gain nor

lose understanding by skipping over these passages. Those who understand Greek, however, may gain a deeper insight to the original meaning and distinctions expressed by Aristotle.]

Analysis of Contents

I ‘Imitation’ the common principle of the Arts of Poetry.

II The Objects of Imitation.

III The Manner of Imitation.

IV The Origin and Development of Poetry.

V Definition of the Ludicrous, and a brief sketch of the rise of Comedy.

VI Definition of Tragedy.

VII The Plot must be a Whole.

VIII The Plot must be a Unity.

IX (Plot continued.) Dramatic Unity.

X (Plot continued.) Definitions of Simple and Complex Plots.

XI (Plot continued.) Reversal of the Situation, Recognition, and

Tragic or disastrous Incident defined and explained.

XII The ‘quantitative parts’ of Tragedy defined.

XIII (Plot continued.) What constitutes Tragic Action.

XIV (Plot continued.) The tragic emotions of pity and fear should spring out of the Plot itself.

XV The element of Character in Tragedy.

XVI (Plot continued.) Recognition: its various kinds, with examples.

XVII Practical rules for the Tragic Poet.

XVIII Further rules for the Tragic Poet.

XIX Thought, or the Intellectual element, and Diction in Tragedy.

XX Diction, or Language in general.

XXI Poetic Diction.

XXII (Poetic Diction continued.) How Poetry combines elevation of language with perspicuity.

XXIII Epic Poetry.

XXIV (Epic Poetry continued.) Further points of agreement with Tragedy.

XXV Critical Objections brought against Poetry, and the principles on which they are to be answered.

XXVI A general estimate of the comparative worth of Epic Poetry and Tragedy.

I

I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting

the essential quality of each; to inquire into the structure of the plot

as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature of the parts of

which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever else falls within

the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of nature, let us begin with

the principles which come first.

Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic: poetry, and the

music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in

their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however, from

one: another in three respects,—the medium, the objects, the manner or

mode of imitation, being in each case distinct.

For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate and

represent various objects through the medium of colour and form, or again

by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the

imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or ‘harmony,’ either singly or

combined.

Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, ‘harmony’ and rhythm

alone are employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd’s

pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone is

used without ‘harmony’; for even dancing imitates character, emotion, and

action, by rhythmical movement.

There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and that

either in prose or verse—which, verse, again, may either combine

different metres or consist of but one kind—but this has hitherto been

without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to the mimes

of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the one hand; and,

on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any similar

metre. People do, indeed, add the word ‘maker’ or ‘poet’ to the name of

the metre, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is, hexameter)

poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the poet, but the verse

that entitles them all indiscriminately to the name. Even when a treatise

on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse, the name of poet

is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have

nothing in common but the metre, so that it would be right to call the

one poet, the other physicist rather than poet. On the same principle,

even if a writer in his poetic imitation were to combine all metres, as

Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a medley composed of metres of all

kinds, we should bring him too under the general term poet. So much then

for these distinctions.

There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned,

namely, rhythm, tune, and metre. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry,

and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them the difference is, that in

the first two cases these means are all employed in combination, in the

latter, now one means is employed, now another.

Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium of

imitation.

II

Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be

either of a higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly answers to

these divisions, goodness and badness being the distinguishing marks of

moral differences), it follows that we must represent men either as

better than in real life, or as worse, or as they are. It is the same in

painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler than they are, Pauson as less

noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.

Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned

will exhibit these differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating

objects that are thus distinct. Such diversities may be found even in

dancing,: flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language, whether

prose or verse unaccompanied by music. Homer, for example, makes men

better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the Thasian, the

inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the Deiliad, worse

than they are. The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs and Nomes; here

too one may portray different types, as Timotheus and Philoxenus differed

in representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction marks off Tragedy

from Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as

better than in actual life.

III

There is still a third difference—the manner in which each of these

objects may be imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects

the same, the poet may imitate by narration—in which case he can either

take another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own person,

unchanged—or he may present all his characters as living and moving

before us.

These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences which

distinguish artistic imitation,—the medium, the objects, and the manner.

So that from one point of view, Sophocles is an imitator of the same kind

as Homer—for both imitate higher types of character; from another point

of view, of the same kind as Aristophanes—for both imitate persons

acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of ‘drama’ is given to such

poems, as representing action. For the same reason the Dorians claim the

invention both of Tragedy and Comedy. The claim to Comedy is put forward

by the Megarians,—not only by those of Greece proper, who allege that it

originated under their democracy, but also by the Megarians of Sicily,

for the poet Epicharmus, who is much earlier than Chionides and Magnes,

belonged to that country. Tragedy too is claimed by certain Dorians of

the Peloponnese. In each case they appeal to the evidence of language.

The outlying villages, they say, are by them called {kappa omega mu alpha

iota}, by the Athenians {delta eta mu iota}: and they assume that

Comedians were so named not from {kappa omega mu ‘alpha zeta epsilon iota

nu}, ‘to revel,’ but because they wandered from village to village (kappa

alpha tau alpha / kappa omega mu alpha sigma), being excluded

contemptuously from the city. They add also that the Dorian word for

‘doing’ is {delta rho alpha nu}, and the Athenian, {pi rho alpha tau tau

epsilon iota nu}.

This may suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes of

imitation.

IV

Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them

lying deep in our nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted

in man from childhood, one difference between him and other animals being

that he is the most imitative of living creatures, and through imitation

learns his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the pleasure felt

in things imitated. We have evidence of this in the facts of experience.

Objects which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate

when reproduced with minute fidelity: such as the forms of the most

ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause of this again is, that to

learn gives the liveliest pleasure, not only to philosophers but to men

in general; whose capacity, however, of learning is more limited. Thus

the reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that in contemplating it

they find themselves learning or inferring, and saying perhaps, ‘Ah, that

is he.’ For if you happen not to have seen the original, the pleasure

will be due not to the imitation as such, but to the execution, the

colouring, or some such other cause.

Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the

instinct for ‘harmony’ and rhythm, metres being manifestly sections of

rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift developed by

degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations gave

birth to Poetry.

Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual

character of the writers. The graver spirits imitated noble actions, and

the actions of good men. The more trivial sort imitated the actions of

meaner persons, at first composing satires, as the former did hymns to

the gods and the praises of famous men. A poem of the satirical kind

cannot indeed be put down to any author earlier than Homer; though many

such writers probably there were. But from Homer onward, instances can be

cited,—his own Margites, for example, and other similar compositions.

The appropriate metre was also here introduced; hence the measure is

still called the iambic or lampooning measure, being that in which people

lampooned one another. Thus the older poets were distinguished as writers

of heroic or of lampooning verse.

As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he alone

combined dramatic form with excellence of imitation, so he too first laid

down the main lines of Comedy, by dramatising the ludicrous instead of

writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation to Comedy

that the Iliad and Odyssey do to Tragedy. But when Tragedy and Comedy

came to light, the two classes of poets still followed their natural

bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the Epic poets were

succeeded by Tragedians, since the drama was a larger and higher form of

art.

Whether Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and whether

it is to be judged in itself, or in relation also to the audience,—this

raises another question. Be that as it may, Tragedy—as also Comedy –

was at first mere improvisation. The one originated with the authors of

the Dithyramb, the other with those of the phallic songs, which are still

in use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by slow degrees; each new

element that showed itself was in turn developed. Having passed through

many changes, it found its natural form, and there it stopped.

Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance

of the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles

raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting. Moreover,

it was not till late that the short plot was discarded for one of greater

compass, and the grotesque diction of the earlier satyric form for the

stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced the trochaic

tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry was of the

Satyric order, and had greater affinities with dancing. Once dialogue had

come in, Nature herself discovered the appropriate measure. For the

iambic is, of all measures, the most colloquial: we see it in the fact

that conversational speech runs into iambic lines more frequently than

into any other kind of verse; rarely into hexameters, and only when we

drop the colloquial intonation. The additions to the number of ‘episodes’

or acts, and the other accessories of which tradition; tells, must be

taken as already described; for to discuss them in detail would,

doubtless, be a large undertaking.

V

Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type,

not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the Ludicrous being

merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness

which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious example, the

comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain.

The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors of

these changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history, because

it was not at first treated seriously. It was late before the Archon

granted a comic chorus to a poet; the performers were till then

voluntary. Comedy had already taken definite shape when comic poets,

distinctively so called, are heard of. Who furnished it with masks, or

prologues, or increased the number of actors,—these and other similar

details remain unknown. As for the plot, it came originally from Sicily;

but of Athenian writers Crates was the first who, abandoning the ‘iambic’

or lampooning form, generalised his themes and plots.

Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in verse

of characters of a higher type. They differ, in that Epic poetry admits

but one kind of metre, and is narrative in form. They differ, again, in

their length: for Tragedy endeavours, as far as possible, to confine

itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to exceed this

limit; whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This, then, is a

second point of difference; though at first the same freedom was admitted

in Tragedy as in Epic poetry.

Of their constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar to

Tragedy, whoever, therefore, knows what is good or bad Tragedy, knows

also about Epic poetry. All the elements of an Epic poem are found in

Tragedy, but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found in the Epic

poem.

VI

Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we will

speak hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal

definition, as resulting from what has been already said.

Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete,

and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of

artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the

play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear

effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By ‘language

embellished,’ I mean language into which rhythm, ‘harmony,’ and song

enter. By ‘the several kinds in separate parts,’ I mean, that some parts

are rendered through the medium of verse alone, others again with the aid

of song.

Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily follows,

in the first place, that Spectacular equipment will be a part of Tragedy.

Next, Song and Diction, for these are the medium of imitation. By

‘Diction’ I mean the mere metrical arrangement of the words: as for

‘Song,’ it is a term whose sense every one understands.

Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies

personal agents, who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities

both of character and thought; for it is by these that we qualify actions

themselves, and these—thought and character—are the two natural causes

from which actions spring, and on actions again all success or failure

depends. Hence, the Plot is the imitation of the action: for by plot I

here mean the arrangement of the incidents. By Character I mean that in

virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to the agents. Thought is

required wherever a statement is proved, or, it may be, a general truth

enunciated. Every Tragedy, therefore, must have six parts, which parts

determine its quality—namely, Plot, Character, Diction, Thought,

Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts constitute the medium of imitation, one

the manner, and three the objects of imitation. And these complete the

list. These elements have been employed, we may say, by the poets to a

man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular elements as well as

Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.

But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy

is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life

consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality. Now

character determines men’s qualities, but it is by their actions that

they are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is not with a

view to the representation of character: character comes in as subsidiary

to the actions. Hence the incidents and the plot are the end of a

tragedy; and the end is the chief thing of all. Again, without action

there cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character. The tragedies

of most of our modern poets fail in the rendering of character; and of

poets in general this is often true. It is the same in painting; and here

lies the difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus. Polygnotus delineates

character well: the style of Zeuxis is devoid of ethical quality. Again,

if you string together a set of speeches expressive of character, and

well finished in point of diction and thought, you will not produce the

essential tragic effect nearly so well as with a play which, however

deficient in these respects, yet has a plot and artistically constructed

incidents. Besides which, the most powerful elements of emotional:

interest in Tragedy Peripeteia or Reversal of the Situation, and

Recognition scenes—are parts of the plot. A further proof is, that

novices in the art attain to finish: of diction and precision of

portraiture before they can construct the plot. It is the same with

almost all the early poets.

The Plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul of a

tragedy: Character holds the second place. A similar fact is seen in

painting. The most beautiful colours, laid on confusedly, will not give

as much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait. Thus Tragedy is the

imitation of an action, and of the agents mainly with a view to the

action.

Third in order is Thought,—that is, the faculty of saying what is

possible and pertinent in given circumstances. In the case of oratory,

this is the function of the Political art and of the art of rhetoric: and

so indeed the older poets make their characters speak the language of

civic life; the poets of our time, the language of the rhetoricians.

Character is that which reveals moral purpose, showing what kind of

things a man chooses or avoids. Speeches, therefore, which do not make

this manifest, or in which the speaker does not choose or avoid anything

whatever, are not expressive of character. Thought, on the other hand, is

found where something is proved to be. or not to be, or a general maxim

is enunciated.

Fourth among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean, as

has been already said, the expression of the meaning in words; and its

essence is the same both in verse and prose.

Of the remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the

embellishments.

The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but, of

all the parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with the art

of poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even apart

from representation and actors. Besides, the production of spectacular

effects depends more on the art of the stage machinist than on that of

the poet.

VII

These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper

structure of the Plot, since this is the first and most important thing

in Tragedy.

Now, according to our definition, Tragedy is an imitation of an action

that is complete, and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there may be

a whole that is wanting in magnitude. A whole is that which has a

beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does not

itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something

naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which

itself naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a

rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is that which follows

something as some other thing follows it. A well constructed plot,

therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to these

principles.

Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any whole

composed of parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement of parts,

but must also be of a certain magnitude; for beauty depends on magnitude

and order. Hence a very small animal organism cannot be beautiful; for

the view of it is confused, the object being seen in an almost

imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can one of vast size be

beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once, the unity and

sense of the whole is lost for the spectator; as for instance if there

were one a thousand miles long. As, therefore, in the case of animate

bodies and organisms a certain magnitude is necessary, and a magnitude

which may be easily embraced in one view; so in the plot, a certain

length is necessary, and a length which can be easily embraced by the

memory. The limit of length in relation to dramatic competition and

sensuous presentment, is no part of artistic theory. For had it been the

rule for a hundred tragedies to compete together, the performance would

have been regulated by the water-clock,—as indeed we are told was

formerly done. But the limit as fixed by the nature of the drama itself

is this: the greater the length, the more beautiful will the piece be by

reason of its size, provided that the whole be perspicuous. And to define

the matter roughly, we may say that the proper magnitude is comprised

within such limits, that the sequence of events, according to the law of

probability or necessity, will admit of a change from bad fortune to

good, or from good fortune to bad.

VIII

Unity of plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the Unity of

the hero. For infinitely various are the incidents in one man’s life

which cannot be reduced to unity; and so, too, there are many actions of

one man out of which we cannot make one action. Hence, the error, as it

appears, of all poets who have composed a Heracleid, a Theseid, or other

poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the story

of Heracles must also be a unity. But Homer, as in all else he is of

surpassing merit, here too—whether from art or natural genius—seems to

have happily discerned the truth. In composing the Odyssey he did not

include all the adventures of Odysseus—such as his wound on Parnassus,

or his feigned madness at the mustering of the host—incidents between

which there was no necessary or probable connection: but he made the

Odyssey, and likewise the Iliad, to centre round an action that in our

sense of the word is one. As therefore, in the other imitative arts, the

imitation is one when the object imitated is one, so the plot, being an

imitation of an action, must imitate one action and that a whole, the

structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them is

displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed. For a

thing whose presence or absence makes no visible difference, is not an

organic part of the whole.

IX

It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the

function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen,—

what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity. The

poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The

work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a

species of history, with metre no less than without it. The true

difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may

happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing

than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the

particular. By the universal, I mean how a person of a certain type will

on occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or

necessity; and it is this universality at which poetry aims in the names

she attaches to the personages. The particular is—for example—what

Alcibiades did or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent: for here

the poet first constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and then

inserts characteristic names;—unlike the lampooners who write about

particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the

reason being that what is possible is credible: what has not happened we

do not at once feel sure to be possible: but what has happened is

manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have happened. Still there

are even some tragedies in which there are only one or two well known

names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known, as in

Agathon’s Antheus, where incidents and names alike are fictitious, and

yet they give none the less pleasure. We must not, therefore, at all

costs keep to the received legends, which are the usual subjects of

Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt it; for even subjects that

are known are known only to a few, and yet give pleasure to all. It

clearly follows that the poet or ‘maker’ should be the maker of plots

rather than of verses; since he is a poet because he imitates, and what

he imitates are actions. And even if he chances to take an historical

subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason why some

events that have actually happened should not conform to the law of the

probable and possible, and in virtue of that quality in them he is their

poet or maker.

Of all plots and actions the epeisodic are the worst. I call a plot

‘epeisodic’ in which the episodes or acts succeed one another without

probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their

own fault, good poets, to please the players; for, as they write show

pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity, and

are often forced to break the natural continuity.

But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but of

events inspiring fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced when the

events come on us by sunrise; and the effect is heightened when, at the

same time, they follow as cause and effect. The tragic wonder will thee

be greater than if they happened of themselves or by accident; for even

coincidences are most striking when they have an air of design. We may

instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which fell upon his murderer while

he was a spectator at a festival, and killed him. Such events seem not to

be due to mere chance. Plots, therefore, constructed on these principles

are necessarily the best.

X

Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of

which the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction.

An action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined, I call

Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal of the

Situation and without Recognition.

A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such

Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from the

internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be the

necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes all the

difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc or post hoc.

XI

Reversal of the Situation is a change by which the action veers round to

its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity.

Thus in the Oedipus, the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him

from his alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is, he produces

the opposite effect. Again in the Lynceus, Lynceus is being led away to

his death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning, to slay him; but the

outcome of the preceding incidents is that Danaus is killed and Lynceus

saved. Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to

knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the

poet for good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is coincident

with a Reversal of the Situation, as in the Oedipus. There are indeed

other forms. Even inanimate things of the most trivial kind may in a

sense be objects of recognition. Again, we may recognise or discover

whether a person has done a thing or not. But the recognition which is

most intimately connected with the plot and action is, as we have said,

the recognition of persons. This recognition, combined, with Reversal,

will produce either pity or fear; and actions producing these effects are

those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents. Moreover, it is upon

such situations that the issues of good or bad fortune will depend.

Recognition, then, being between persons, it may happen that one person

only is recognised by the other-when the latter is already known—or it

may be necessary that the recognition should be on both sides. Thus

Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by the sending of the letter; but

another act of recognition is required to make Orestes known to

Iphigenia.

Two parts, then, of the Plot—Reversal of the Situation and Recognition—

turn upon surprises. A third part is the Scene of Suffering. The Scene of

Suffering is a destructive or painful action, such as death on the stage,

bodily agony, wounds and the like.

XII

[The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole have

been already mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts, and the

separate parts into which Tragedy is divided, namely, Prologue, Episode,

Exode, Choric song; this last being divided into Parode and Stasimon.

These are common to all plays: peculiar to some are the songs of actors

from the stage and the Commoi.

The Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the Parode

of the Chorus. The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which is

between complete choric songs. The Exode is that entire part of a tragedy

which has no choric song after it. Of the Choric part the Parode is the

first undivided utterance of the Chorus: the Stasimon is a Choric ode

without anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos is a joint

lamentation of Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy which must be

treated as elements of the whole have been already mentioned. The

quantitative parts the separate parts into which it is divided—are here

enumerated.]

XIII

As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider

what the poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing

his plots; and by what means the specific effect of Tragedy will be

produced.

A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the simple

but on the complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions which

excite pity and fear, this being the distinctive mark of tragic

imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that the change, of

fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought

from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear; it

merely shocks us. Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to

prosperity: for nothing can be more alien to the spirit of Tragedy; it

possesses no single tragic quality; it neither satisfies the moral sense

nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the downfall of the

utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless, satisfy

the moral sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear; for pity is

aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man like

ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be neither pitiful nor

terrible. There remains, then, the character between these two extremes,-

-that of a man who is not eminently good and just,-yet whose misfortune

is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty.

He must be one who is highly renowned and prosperous,—a personage like

Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such families.

A well constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue, rather

than double as some maintain. The change of fortune should be not from

bad to good, but, reversely, from good to bad. It should come about as

the result not of vice, but of some great error or frailty, in a

character either such as we have described, or better rather than worse.

The practice of the stage bears out our view. At first the poets

recounted any legend that came in their way. Now, the best tragedies are

founded on the story of a few houses, on the fortunes of Alcmaeon,

Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those others who have

done or suffered something terrible. A tragedy, then, to be perfect

according to the rules of art should be of this construction. Hence they

are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows this principle

in his plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the

right ending. The best proof is that on the stage and in dramatic

competition, such plays, if well worked out, are the most tragic in

effect; and Euripides, faulty though he may be in the general management

of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic of the poets.

In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first. Like

the Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite

catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is accounted the best

because of the weakness of the spectators; for the poet is guided in what

he writes by the wishes of his audience. The pleasure, however, thence

derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper rather to Comedy,

where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies–like Orestes

and Aegisthus—quit the stage as friends at the close, and no one slays

or is slain.

XIV

Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also

result from the inner structure of the piece, which is the better way,

and indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to be so constructed

that, even without the aid of the eye, he who hears the tale told will

thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes place. This is the

impression we should receive from hearing the story of the Oedipus. But

to produce this effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method,

and dependent on extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular means to

create a sense not of the terrible but only of the monstrous, are

strangers to the purpose of Tragedy; for we must not demand of Tragedy

any and every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper to it. And

since the pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from

pity and fear through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be

impressed upon the incidents.

Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as

terrible or pitiful.

Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either

friends or enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy kills an

enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the act or the

intention, —except so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful. So

again with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident occurs

between those who are near or dear to one another—if, for example, a

brother kills, or intends to kill, a brother, a son his father, a mother

her son, a son his mother, or any other deed of the kind is done–these

are the situations to be looked for by the poet. He may not indeed

destroy the framework of the received legends—the fact, for instance,

that Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon but he

ought to show invention of his own, and skilfully handle the traditional

material. Let us explain more clearly what is meant by skilful handling.

The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons, in

the manner of the older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes Medea

slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but done in

ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered afterwards.

The Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed, the incident is

outside the drama proper; but cases occur where it falls within the

action of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas, or Telegonus

in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a third case,—<to be about to

act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act. The fourth case

is> when some one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance,

and makes the discovery before it is done. These are the only possible

ways. For the deed must either be done or not done,—and that wittingly

or unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act knowing the

persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It is shocking without being

tragic, for no disaster follows. It is, therefore, never, or very rarely,

found in poetry. One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon

threatens to kill Creon. The next and better way is that the deed should

be perpetrated. Still better, that it should be perpetrated in ignorance,

and the discovery made afterwards. There is then nothing to shock us,

while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case is the

best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her son, but,

recognising who he is, spares his life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister

recognises the brother just in time. Again in the Helle, the son

recognises the mother when on the point of giving her up. This, then, is

why a few families only, as has been already observed, furnish the

subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance, that led the poets

in search of subjects to impress the tragic quality upon their plots.

They are compelled, therefore, to have recourse to those houses whose

history contains moving incidents like these.

Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents, and

the right kind of plot.

XV

In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First, and

most important, it must be good. Now any speech or action that manifests

moral purpose of any kind will be expressive of character: the character

will be good if the purpose is good. This rule is relative to each class.

Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though the woman may be said

to be an inferior being, and the slave quite worthless. The second thing

to aim at is propriety. There is a type of manly valour; but valour in a

woman, or unscrupulous cleverness, is inappropriate. Thirdly, character

must be true to life: for this is a distinct thing from goodness and

propriety, as here described. The fourth point is consistency: for though

the subject of the imitation, who suggested the type, be inconsistent,

still he must be consistently inconsistent. As an example of motiveless

degradation of character, we have Menelaus in the Orestes: of character

indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla, and

the speech of Melanippe: of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis,—for

Iphigenia the suppliant in no way resembles her later self.

As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character,

the poet should always aim either at the necessary or the probable. Thus

a person of a given character should speak or act in a given way, by the

rule either of necessity or of probability; just as this event should

follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It is therefore evident

that the unravelling of the plot, no less than the complication, must

arise out of the plot itself, it must not be brought about by the ‘Deus

ex Machina’—as in the Medea, or in the Return of the Greeks in the

Iliad. The ‘Deus ex Machina’ should be employed only for events external

to the drama,—for antecedent or subsequent events, which lie beyond the

range of human knowledge, and which require to be reported or foretold;

for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all things. Within the

action there must be nothing irrational. If the irrational cannot be

excluded, it should be outside the scope of the tragedy. Such is the

irrational element in the Oedipus of Sophocles.

Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the

common level, the example of good portrait-painters should be followed.

They, while reproducing the distinctive form of the original, make a

likeness which is true to life and yet more beautiful. So too the poet,

in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have other defects

of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it. In this way

Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer.

These then are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect those

appeals to the senses, which, though not among the essentials, are the

concomitants of poetry; for here too there is much room for error. But of

this enough has been said in our published treatises.

XVI

What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate its

kinds.

First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most

commonly employed recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital,—

such as ‘the spear which the earth-born race bear on their bodies,’ or

the stars introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired

after birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars; some external

tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the

discovery is effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful

treatment. Thus in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery

is made in one way by the nurse, in another by the swineherds. The use of

tokens for the express purpose of proof —and, indeed, any formal proof

with or without tokens —is a less artistic mode of recognition. A better

kind is that which comes about by a turn of incident, as in the Bath

Scene in the Odyssey.

Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that

account wanting in art. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals the

fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself known by the letter;

but he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not what the plot

requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault above

mentioned:—for Orestes might as well have brought tokens with him.

Another similar instance is the ‘voice of the shuttle’ in the Tereus of

Sophocles.

The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens a

feeling: as in the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks into

tears on seeing the picture; or again in the ‘Lay of Alcinous,’ where

Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls the past and weeps;

and hence the recognition.

The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori: ‘Some

one resembling me has come: no one resembles me but Orestes: therefore

Orestes has come.’ Such too is the discovery made by Iphigenia in the

play of Polyidus the Sophist. It was a natural reflection for Orestes to

make, ‘So I too must die at the altar like my sister.’ So, again, in the

Tydeus of Theodectes, the father says, ‘I came to find my son, and I lose

my own life.’ So too in the Phineidae: the women, on seeing the place,

inferred their fate:—‘Here we are doomed to die, for here we were cast

forth.’ Again, there is a composite kind of recognition involving false

inference on the part of one of the characters, as in the Odysseus

Disguised as a Messenger. A said <that no one else was able to bend the

bow; … hence B (the disguised Odysseus) imagined that A would>

recognise the bow which, in fact, he had not seen; and to bring about a

recognition by this means that the expectation A would recognise the bow

is false inference.

But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the

incidents themselves, where the startling discovery is made by natural

means. Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia;

for it was natural that Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter. These

recognitions alone dispense with the artificial aid of tokens or amulets.

Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning.

XVII

In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction, the

poet should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes. In this

way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a

spectator of the action, he will discover what is in keeping with it, and

be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The need of such a rule is

shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus was on his way from the

temple. This fact escaped the observation of one who did not see the

situation. On the stage, however, the piece failed, the audience being

offended at the oversight.

Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power, with

appropriate gestures; for those who feel emotion are most convincing

through natural sympathy with the characters they represent; and one who

is agitated storms, one who is angry rages, with the most life-like

reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy gift of nature or a strain

of madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any character; in

the other, he is lifted out of his proper self.

As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs it

for himself, he should first sketch its general outline, and then fill in

the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may be illustrated

by the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed; she disappears mysteriously

from the eyes of those who sacrificed her; She is transported to another

country, where the custom is to offer up all strangers to the goddess. To

this ministry she is appointed. Some time later her own brother chances

to arrive. The fact that the oracle for some reason ordered him to go

there, is outside the general plan of the play. The purpose, again, of

his coming is outside the action proper. However, he comes, he is seized,

and, when on the point of being sacrificed, reveals who he is. The mode

of recognition may be either that of Euripides or of Polyidus, in whose

play he exclaims very naturally:—‘So it was not my sister only, but I

too, who was doomed to be sacrificed’; and by that remark he is saved.

After this, the names being once given, it remains to fill in the

episodes. We must see that they are relevant to the action. In the case

of Orestes, for example, there is the madness which led to his capture,

and his deliverance by means of the purificatory rite. In the drama, the

episodes are short, but it is these that give extension to Epic poetry.

Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly. A certain man is

absent from home for many years; he is jealously watched by Poseidon, and

left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a wretched plight–suitors are

wasting his substance and plotting against his son. At length, tempest-tost, he himself arrives; he makes certain persons acquainted with him;

he attacks the suitors with his own hand, and is himself preserved while

he destroys them. This is the essence of the plot; the rest is episode.

XVIII

Every tragedy falls into two parts,—Complication and Unravelling or

Denouement. Incidents extraneous to the action are frequently combined

with a portion of the action proper, to form the Complication; the rest

is the Unravelling. By the Complication I mean all that extends from the

beginning of the action to the part which marks the turning-point to good

or bad fortune. The Unravelling is that which extends from the beginning

of the change to the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of Theodectes, the

Complication consists of the incidents presupposed in the drama, the

seizure of the child, and then again extends from

the accusation of murder to the end.

There are four kinds of Tragedy, the Complex, depending entirely on

Reversal of the Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where the motive

is passion),—such as the tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the Ethical (where

the motives are ethical),—such as the Phthiotides and the Peleus. The

fourth kind is the Simple <We here exclude the purely spectacular

element>, exemplified by the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and scenes laid

in Hades. The poet should endeavour, if possible, to combine all poetic

elements; or failing that, the greatest number and those the most

important; the more so, in face of the cavilling criticism of the day.

For whereas there have hitherto been good poets, each in his own branch,

the critics now expect one man to surpass all others in their several

lines of excellence.

In speaking of a tragedy as the same or different, the best test to take

is the plot. Identity exists where the Complication and Unravelling are

the same. Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel it ill. Both arts,

however, should always be mastered.

Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not make an

Epic structure into a Tragedy—by an Epic structure I mean one with a

multiplicity of plots—as if, for instance, you were to make a tragedy

out of the entire story of the Iliad. In the Epic poem, owing to its

length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the drama the result

is far from answering to the poet’s expectation. The proof is that the

poets who have dramatised the whole story of the Fall of Troy, instead of

selecting portions, like Euripides; or who have taken the whole tale of

Niobe, and not a part of her story, like Aeschylus, either fail utterly

or meet with poor success on the stage. Even Agathon has been known to

fail from this one defect. In his Reversals of the Situation, however, he

shows a marvellous skill in the effort to hit the popular taste,—to

produce a tragic effect that satisfies the moral sense. This effect is

produced when the clever rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or the brave

villain defeated. Such an event is probable in Agathon’s sense of the

word: ‘it is probable,’ he says, ‘that many things should happen contrary

to probability.’

The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be an

integral part of the whole, and share in the action, in the manner not of

Euripides but of Sophocles. As for the later poets, their choral songs

pertain as little to the subject of the piece as to that of any other

tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere interludes, a practice first

begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between introducing such

choral interludes, and transferring a speech, or even a whole act, from

one play to another?

XIX

It remains to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of Tragedy

having been already discussed. Concerning Thought, we may assume what is

said in the Rhetoric, to which inquiry the subject more strictly belongs.

Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced by

speech, the subdivisions being,— proof and refutation; the excitation of

the feelings, such as pity, fear, anger, and the like; the suggestion of

importance or its opposite. Now, it is evident that the dramatic

incidents must be treated from the same points of view as the dramatic

speeches, when the object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear,

importance, or probability. The only difference is, that the incidents

should speak for themselves without verbal exposition; while the effects

aimed at in speech should be produced by the speaker, and as a result of

the speech. For what were the business of a speaker, if the Thought were

revealed quite apart from what he says?

Next, as regards Diction. One branch of the inquiry treats of the Modes

of Utterance. But this province of knowledge belongs to the art of

Delivery and to the masters of that science. It includes, for instance,—

what is a command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a question, an

answer, and so forth. To know or not to know these things involves no

serious censure upon the poet’s art. For who can admit the fault imputed

to Homer by Protagoras,—that in the words, ‘Sing, goddess, of the

wrath,’ he gives a command under the idea that he utters a prayer? For to

tell some one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a command. We

may, therefore, pass this over as an inquiry that belongs to another art,

not to poetry.

XX

[Language in general includes the following parts:- Letter, Syllable,

Connecting word, Noun, Verb, Inflexion or Case, Sentence or Phrase.

A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only one

which can form part of a group of sounds. For even brutes utter

indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The sound I mean may

be either a vowel, a semi-vowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which without

impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound. A semi-vowel, that which

with such impact has an audible sound, as S and R. A mute, that which

with such impact has by itself no sound, but joined to a vowel sound

becomes audible, as G and D. These are distinguished according to the

form assumed by the mouth and the place where they are produced;

according as they are aspirated or smooth, long or short; as they are

acute, grave, or of an intermediate tone; which inquiry belongs in detail

to the writers on metre.

A Syllable is a non-significant sound, composed of a mute and a vowel:

for GR without A is a syllable, as also with A,—GRA. But the

investigation of these differences belongs also to metrical science.

A Connecting word is a non-significant sound, which neither causes nor

hinders the union of many sounds into one significant sound; it may be

placed at either end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a non-significant sound, which out of several sounds, each of them significant,

is capable of forming one significant sound,—as {alpha mu theta iota},

{pi epsilon rho iota}, and the like. Or, a non-significant sound, which

marks the beginning, end, or division of a sentence; such, however, that

it cannot correctly stand by itself at the beginning of a sentence, as

{mu epsilon nu}, {eta tau omicron iota}, {delta epsilon}.

A Noun is a composite significant sound, not marking time, of which no

part is in itself significant: for in double or compound words we do not

employ the separate parts as if each were in itself significant. Thus in

Theodorus, ‘god-given,’ the {delta omega rho omicron nu} or ‘gift’ is not

in itself significant.

A Verb is a composite significant sound, marking time, in which, as in

the noun, no part is in itself significant. For ‘man,’ or ‘white’ does

not express the idea of ‘when’; but ‘he walks,’ or ‘he has walked’ does

connote time, present or past.

Inflexion belongs both to the noun and verb, and expresses either the

relation ‘of,’ ‘to,’ or the like; or that of number, whether one or many,

as ‘man’ or ‘men ‘; or the modes or tones in actual delivery, e.g. a

question or a command. ‘Did he go?’ and ‘go’ are verbal inflexions of

this kind.

A Sentence or Phrase is a composite significant sound, some at least of

whose parts are in themselves significant; for not every such group of

words consists of verbs and nouns—‘the definition of man,’ for example –

-but it may dispense even with the verb. Still it will always have some

significant part, as ‘in walking,’ or ‘Cleon son of Cleon.’ A sentence or

phrase may form a unity in two ways,—either as signifying one thing, or

as consisting of several parts linked together. Thus the Iliad is one by

the linking together of parts, the definition of man by the unity of the

thing signified.]

XXI

Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those

composed of non-significant elements, such as {gamma eta}. By double or

compound, those composed either of a significant and non-significant

element (though within the whole word no element is significant), or of

elements that are both significant. A word may likewise be triple,

quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian expressions, e.g.

‘Hermo-caico-xanthus who prayed to Father Zeus>.’

Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or ornamental,

or newly-coined, or lengthened, or contracted, or altered.

By a current or proper word I mean one which is in general use among a

people; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country.

Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current, but

not in relation to the same people. The word {sigma iota gamma upsilon nu

omicron nu}, ‘lance,’ is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a

strange one.

Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either from

genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to species,

or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species, as: ‘There

lies my ship’; for lying at anchor is a species of lying. From species to

genus, as: ‘Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath Odysseus wrought’; for

ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here used for a large

number generally. From species to species, as: ‘With blade of bronze drew

away the life,’ and ‘Cleft the water with the vessel of unyielding

bronze.’ Here {alpha rho upsilon rho alpha iota}, ‘to draw away,’ is used

for {tau alpha mu epsilon iota nu}, ‘to cleave,’ and {tau alpha mu

epsilon iota nu} again for {alpha rho upsilon alpha iota},—each being a

species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is

to the first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for

the second, or the second for the fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the

metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word is relative. Thus

the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The cup may, therefore, be

called ‘the shield of Dionysus,’ and the shield ‘the cup of Ares.’ Or,

again, as old age is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may therefore

be called ‘the old age of the day,’ and old age, ‘the evening of life,’

or, in the phrase of Empedocles, ‘life’s setting sun.’ For some of the

terms of the proportion there is at times no word in existence; still the

metaphor may be used. For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but

the action of the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this

process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence

the expression of the poet ‘sowing the god-created light.’ There is

another way in which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply

an alien term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes;

as if we were to call the shield, not ‘the cup of Ares,’ but ‘the

wineless cup.’

A newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use, but is

adopted by the poet himself. Some such words there appear to be: as

{epsilon rho nu upsilon gamma epsilon sigma}, ‘sprouters,’ for {kappa

epsilon rho alpha tau alpha}, ‘horns,’ and {alpha rho eta tau eta rho},

‘supplicator,’ for {iota epsilon rho epsilon upsilon sigma}, ‘priest.’

A word is lengthened when its own vowel is exchanged for a longer one, or

when a syllable is inserted. A word is contracted when some part of it is

removed. Instances of lengthening are,—{pi omicron lambda eta omicron

sigma} for {pi omicron lambda epsilon omega sigma}, and {Pi eta lambda

eta iota alpha delta epsilon omega} for {Pi eta lambda epsilon iota delta

omicron upsilon}: of contraction,—{kappa rho iota}, {delta omega}, and

{omicron psi}, as in {mu iota alpha / gamma iota nu epsilon tau alpha

iota / alpha mu phi omicron tau episilon rho omega nu / omicron psi}.

An altered word is one in which part of the ordinary form is left

unchanged, and part is re-cast; as in {delta epsilon xi iota-tau epsilon

rho omicron nu / kappa alpha tau alpha / mu alpha zeta omicron nu},

{delta epsilon xi iota tau epsilon rho omicron nu} is for {delta epsilon

xi iota omicron nu}.

[Nouns in themselves are either masculine, feminine, or neuter. Masculine

are such as end in {nu}, {rho}, {sigma}, or in some letter compounded

with {sigma},—these being two, and {xi}. Feminine, such as end in vowels

that are always long, namely {eta} and {omega}, and—of vowels that admit

of lengthening—those in {alpha}. Thus the number of letters in which

nouns masculine and feminine end is the same; for {psi} and {xi} are

equivalent to endings in {sigma}. No noun ends in a mute or a vowel short

by nature. Three only end in {iota},—{mu eta lambda iota}, {kappa

omicron mu mu iota}, {pi epsilon pi epsilon rho iota}: five end in

{upsilon}. Neuter nouns end in these two latter vowels; also in {nu} and

{sigma}.]

XXII

The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The clearest

style is that which uses only current or proper words; at the same time

it is mean:—witness the poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus. That

diction, on the other hand, is lofty and raised above the commonplace

which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean strange (or rare) words,

metaphorical, lengthened,—anything, in short, that differs from the

normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is either a

riddle or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors; a jargon, if

it consists of strange (or rare) words. For the essence of a riddle is to

express true facts under impossible combinations. Now this cannot be done

by any arrangement of ordinary words, but by the use of metaphor it can.

Such is the riddle:—‘A man I saw who on another man had glued the bronze

by aid of fire,’ and others of the same kind. A diction that is made up

of strange (or rare) terms is a jargon. A certain infusion, therefore, of

these elements is necessary to style; for the strange (or rare) word, the

metaphorical, the ornamental, and the other kinds above mentioned, will

raise it above the commonplace and mean, while the use of proper words

will make it perspicuous. But nothing contributes more to produce a

clearness of diction that is remote from commonness than the lengthening,

contraction, and alteration of words. For by deviating in exceptional

cases from the normal idiom, the language will gain distinction; while,

at the same time, the partial conformity with usage will give

perspicuity. The critics, therefore, are in error who censure these

licenses of speech, and hold the author up to ridicule. Thus Eucleides,

the elder, declared that it would be an easy matter to be a poet if you

might lengthen syllables at will. He caricatured the practice in the very

form of his diction, as in the verse: ‘{Epsilon pi iota chi alpha rho eta

nu / epsilon iota delta omicron nu / Mu alpha rho alpha theta omega nu

alpha delta epsilon / Beta alpha delta iota zeta omicron nu tau alpha},

or, {omicron upsilon kappa alpha nu gamma / epsilon rho alpha mu

epsilon nu omicron sigma / tau omicron nu / epsilon kappa epsilon iota nu

omicron upsilon /epsilon lambda lambda epsilon beta omicron rho omicron

nu}. To employ such license at all obtrusively is, no doubt, grotesque;

but in any mode of poetic diction there must be moderation. Even

metaphors, strange (or rare) words, or any similar forms of speech, would

produce the like effect if used without propriety and with the express

purpose of being ludicrous. How great a difference is made by the

appropriate use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by the

insertion of ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a strange

(or rare) word, a metaphor, or any similar mode of expression, and

replace it by the current or proper term, the truth of our observation

will be manifest. For example Aeschylus and Euripides each composed the

same iambic line. But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who

employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse

appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes

says: {Phi alpha gamma epsilon delta alpha iota nu alpha eta

mu omicron upsilon sigma alpha rho kappa alpha sigma / epsilon rho

theta iota epsilon iota / pi omicron delta omicron sigma}.

Euripides substitutes {Theta omicron iota nu alpha tau alpha iota}

‘feasts on’ for {epsilon sigma theta iota epsilon iota} ‘feeds on.’

Again, in the line, {nu upsilon nu delta epsilon mu /epsilon omega nu

/ omicron lambda iota gamma iota gamma upsilon sigma tau epsilon

kappa alpha iota / omicron upsilon tau iota delta alpha nu omicron sigma

kappa alpha iota alpha epsilon iota kappa eta sigma, the difference

will be felt if we substitute the common words, {nu upsilon nu / delta

epsilon mu epsilon omega nu mu iota kappa rho omicron sigma tau

epsilon kappa alpha iota alpha rho theta epsilon nu iota kappa

omicron sigma kappa alpha iota alpha epsilon iota delta gamma sigma}.

Or, if for the line, {delta iota phi rho omicron nu / alpha epsilon iota

kappa epsilon lambda iota omicron nu / kappa alpha tau alpha theta

epsilon iota sigma / omicron lambda iota gamma eta nu tau epsilon tau

rho alpha pi epsilon iota sigma omicron lambda iota gamma eta nu tau

epsilon / tau rho alpha pi epsilon zeta alpha nu),} We read, {delta iota

phi rho omicron nu mu omicron chi theta eta rho omicron nu kappa

alpha tau alpha theta epsilon iota sigma mu iota kappa rho alpha nu

tau epsilon / tau rho alpha pi epsilon zeta alpha nu}.

Or, for {eta iota omicron nu epsilon sigma / beta omicron omicron omega

rho iota nu, eta iota omicron nu epsilon sigma kappa rho alpha zeta

omicron upsilon rho iota nu}

Again, Ariphrades ridiculed the tragedians for using phrases which no one

would employ in ordinary speech: for example, {delta omega mu alpha tau

omega nu alpha pi omicron} instead of {alpha pi omicron delta omega

mu alpha tau omega nu}, {rho epsilon theta epsilon nu}, {epsilon gamma

omega delta epsilon nu iota nu}, {Alpha chi iota lambda lambda

epsilon omega sigma / pi epsilon rho iota} instead of (pi epsilon rho

iota / ‘Alpha chi iota lambda lambda epsilon omega sigma}, and the like.

It is precisely because such phrases are not part of the current idiom

that they give distinction to the style. This, however, he failed to see.

It is a great matter to observe propriety in these several modes of

expression, as also in compound words, strange (or rare) words, and so

forth. But the greatest thing by far is to have a command of metaphor.

This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for

to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances.

Of the various kinds of words, the compound are best adapted to

Dithyrambs, rare words to heroic poetry, metaphors to iambic. In heroic

poetry, indeed, all these varieties are serviceable. But in iambic verse,

which reproduces, as far as may be, familiar speech, the most appropriate

words are those which are found even in prose. These are,—the current or

proper, the metaphorical, the ornamental.

Concerning Tragedy and imitation by means of action this may suffice.

XXIII

As to that poetic imitation which is narrative in form and employs a

single metre, the plot manifestly ought, as in a tragedy, to be

constructed on dramatic principles. It should have for its subject a

single action, whole and complete, with a beginning, a middle, and an

end. It will thus resemble a living organism in all its unity, and

produce the pleasure proper to it. It will differ in structure from

historical compositions, which of necessity present not a single action,

but a single period, and all that happened within that period to one

person or to many, little connected together as the events may be. For as

the sea-fight at Salamis and the battle with the Carthaginians in Sicily

took place at the same time, but did not tend to any one result, so in

the sequence of events, one thing sometimes follows another, and yet no

single result is thereby produced. Such is the practice, we may say, of

most poets. Here again, then, as has been already observed, the

transcendent excellence of Homer is manifest. He never attempts to make

the whole war of Troy the subject of his poem, though that war had a

beginning and an end. It would have been too vast a theme, and not easily

embraced in a single view. If, again, he had kept it within moderate

limits, it must have been over-complicated by the variety of the

incidents. As it is, he detaches a single portion, and admits as episodes

many events from the general story of the war—such as the Catalogue of

the ships and others—thus diversifying the poem. All other poets take a

single hero, a single period, or an action single indeed, but with a

multiplicity of parts. Thus did the author of the Cypria and of the

Little Iliad. For this reason the Iliad and the Odyssey each furnish the

subject of one tragedy, or, at most, of two; while the Cypria supplies

materials for many, and the Little Iliad for eight—the Award of the

Arms, the Philoctetes, the Neoptolemus, the Eurypylus, the Mendicant

Odysseus, the Laconian Women, the Fall of Ilium, the Departure of the

Fleet.

XXIV

Again, Epic poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be simple,

or complex, or ‘ethical,’ or ‘pathetic.’ The parts also, with the

exception of song and spectacle, are the same; for it requires Reversals

of the Situation, Recognitions, and Scenes of Suffering. Moreover, the

thoughts and the diction must be artistic. In all these respects Homer is

our earliest and sufficient model. Indeed each of his poems has a twofold

character. The Iliad is at once simple and ‘pathetic,’ and the Odyssey

complex (for Recognition scenes run through it), and at the same time

‘ethical.’ Moreover, in diction and thought they are supreme.

Epic poetry differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is constructed,

and in its metre. As regards scale or length, we have already laid down

an adequate limit:—the beginning and the end must be capable of being

brought within a single view. This condition will be satisfied by poems

on a smaller scale than the old epics, and answering in length to the

group of tragedies presented at a single sitting.

Epic poetry has, however, a great—a special—capacity for enlarging its

dimensions, and we can see the reason. In Tragedy we cannot imitate

several lines of actions carried on at one and the same time; we must

confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by the

players. But in Epic poetry, owing to the narrative form, many events

simultaneously transacted can be presented; and these, if relevant to the

subject, add mass and dignity to the poem. The Epic has here an

advantage, and one that conduces to grandeur of effect, to diverting the

mind of the hearer, and relieving the story with varying episodes. For

sameness of incident soon produces satiety, and makes tragedies fail on

the stage.

As for the metre, the heroic measure has proved its fitness by the test

of experience. If a narrative poem in any other metre or in many metres

were now composed, it would be found incongruous. For of all measures the

heroic is the stateliest and the most massive; and hence it most readily

admits rare words and metaphors, which is another point in which the

narrative form of imitation stands alone. On the other hand, the iambic

and the trochaic tetrameter are stirring measures, the latter being akin

to dancing, the former expressive of action. Still more absurd would it

be to mix together different metres, as was done by Chaeremon. Hence no

one has ever composed a poem on a great scale in any other than heroic

verse. Nature herself, as we have said, teaches the choice of the proper

measure.

Homer, admirable in all respects, has the special merit of being the only

poet who rightly appreciates the part he should take himself. The poet

should speak as little as possible in his own person, for it is not this

that makes him an imitator. Other poets appear themselves upon

the scene throughout, and imitate but little and rarely. Homer, after a

few prefatory words, at once brings in a man, or woman, or other

personage; none of them wanting in characteristic qualities, but each

with a character of his own.

The element of the wonderful is required in Tragedy. The irrational, on

which the wonderful depends for its chief effects, has wider scope in

Epic poetry, because there the person acting is not seen. Thus, the

pursuit of Hector would be ludicrous if placed upon the stage—the Greeks

standing still and not joining in the pursuit, and Achilles waving them

back. But in the Epic poem the absurdity passes unnoticed. Now the

wonderful is pleasing: as may be inferred from the fact that every one

tells a story with some addition of his own, knowing that his hearers

like it. It is Homer who has chiefly taught other poets the art of

telling lies skilfully. The secret of it lies in a fallacy, For, assuming

that if one thing is or becomes, a second is or becomes, men imagine

that, if the second is, the first likewise is or becomes. But this is a

false inference. Hence, where the first thing is untrue, it is quite

unnecessary, provided the second be true, to add that the first is or has

become. For the mind, knowing the second to be true, falsely infers the

truth of the first. There is an example of this in the Bath Scene of the

Odyssey.

Accordingly, the poet should prefer probable impossibilities to

improbable possibilities. The tragic plot must not be composed of

irrational parts. Everything irrational should, if possible, be excluded;

or, at all events, it should lie outside the action of the play (as, in

the Oedipus, the hero’s ignorance as to the manner of Laius’ death); not

within the drama,—as in the Electra, the messenger’s account of the

Pythian games; or, as in the Mysians, the man who has come from Tegea to

Mysia and is still speechless. The plea that otherwise the plot would

have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first

instance be constructed. But once the irrational has been introduced and

an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the

absurdity. Take even the irrational incidents in the Odyssey, where

Odysseus is left upon the shore of Ithaca. How intolerable even these

might have been would be apparent if an inferior poet were to treat the

subject. As it is, the absurdity is veiled by the poetic charm with which

the poet invests it.

The diction should be elaborated in the pauses of the action, where there

is no expression of character or thought. For, conversely, character and

thought are merely obscured by a diction that is over brilliant.

XXV

With respect to critical difficulties and their solutions, the number and

nature of the sources from which they may be drawn may be thus exhibited.

The poet being an imitator, like a painter or any other artist, must of

necessity imitate one of three objects,—things as they were or are,

things as they are said or thought to be, or things as they ought to be.

The vehicle of expression is language,—either current terms or, it may

be, rare words or metaphors. There are also many modifications of

language, which we concede to the poets. Add to this, that the standard

of correctness is not the same in poetry and politics, any more than in

poetry and any other art. Within the art of poetry itself there are two

kinds of faults, those which touch its essence, and those which are

accidental. If a poet has chosen to imitate something, <but has imitated

it incorrectly> through want of capacity, the error is inherent in the

poetry. But if the failure is due to a wrong choice if he has represented

a horse as throwing out both his off legs at once, or introduced

technical inaccuracies in medicine, for example, or in any other art the

error is not essential to the poetry. These are the points of view from

which we should consider and answer the objections raised by the critics.

First as to matters which concern the poet’s own art. If he describes the

impossible, he is guilty of an error; but the error may be justified, if

the end of the art be thereby attained (the end being that already

mentioned), if, that is, the effect of this or any other part of the poem

is thus rendered more striking. A case in point is the pursuit of Hector.

If, however, the end might have been as well, or better, attained without

violating the special rules of the poetic art, the error is not

justified: for every kind of error should, if possible, be avoided.

Again, does the error touch the essentials of the poetic art, or some

accident of it? For example,—not to know that a hind has no horns is a

less serious matter than to paint it inartistically.

Further, if it be objected that the description is not true to fact, the

poet may perhaps reply,—‘But the objects are as they ought to be’: just

as Sophocles said that he drew men as they ought to be; Euripides, as

they are. In this way the objection may be met. If, however, the

representation be of neither kind, the poet may answer,—This is how men

say the thing is.’ This applies to tales about the gods. It may well be

that these stories are not higher than fact nor yet true to fact: they

are, very possibly, what Xenophanes says of them. But anyhow, ‘this is

what is said.’ Again, a description may be no better than the fact:

‘still, it was the fact’; as in the passage about the arms: ‘Upright upon

their butt-ends stood the spears.’ This was the custom then, as it now is

among the Illyrians.

Again, in examining whether what has been said or done by some one is

poetically right or not, we must not look merely to the particular act or

saying, and ask whether it is poetically good or bad. We must also

consider by whom it is said or done, to whom, when, by what means, or for

what end; whether, for instance, it be to secure a greater good, or avert

a greater evil.

Other difficulties may be resolved by due regard to the usage of

language. We may note a rare word, as in {omicron upsilon rho eta alpha

sigma mu epsilon nu pi rho omega tau omicron nu}, where the poet

perhaps employs {omicron upsilon rho eta alpha sigma} not in the sense of

mules, but of sentinels. So, again, of Dolon: ‘ill-favoured indeed he was

to look upon.’ It is not meant that his body was ill-shaped, but that his

face was ugly; for the Cretans use the word {epsilon upsilon epsilon iota

delta epsilon sigma}, ‘well-favoured,’ to denote a fair face. Again,

{zeta omega rho omicron tau epsilon rho omicron nu delta epsilon

kappa epsilon rho alpha iota epsilon}, ‘mix the drink livelier,’ does not

mean `mix it stronger’ as for hard drinkers, but ‘mix it quicker.’

Sometimes an expression is metaphorical, as ‘Now all gods and men were

sleeping through the night,’—while at the same time the poet says:

‘Often indeed as he turned his gaze to the Trojan plain, he marvelled at

the sound of flutes and pipes.’ ‘All’ is here used metaphorically for

‘many,’ all being a species of many. So in the verse,—‘alone she hath no

part . . ,’ {omicron iota eta}, ‘alone,’ is metaphorical; for the best

known may be called the only one.

Again, the solution may depend upon accent or breathing. Thus Hippias of

Thasos solved the difficulties in the lines,—{delta iota delta omicron

mu epsilon nu (delta iota delta omicron mu epsilon nu) delta epsilon /

omicron iota,} and { tau omicron mu epsilon nu omicron upsilon

(omicron upsilon) kappa alpha tau alpha pi upsilon theta epsilon tau

alpha iota / omicron mu beta rho omega}.

Or again, the question may be solved by punctuation, as in Empedocles,—

‘Of a sudden things became mortal that before had learnt to be immortal,

and things unmixed before mixed.’

Or again, by ambiguity of meaning,—as {pi alpha rho omega chi eta kappa

epsilon nu delta epsilon pi lambda epsilon omega / nu upsilon xi},

where the word {pi lambda epsilon omega} is ambiguous.

Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed drink is called {omicron iota

nu omicron sigma}, ‘wine.’ Hence Ganymede is said ‘to pour the wine to

Zeus,’ though the gods do not drink wine. So too workers in iron are

called {chi alpha lambda kappa epsilon alpha sigma}, or workers in

bronze. This, however, may also be taken as a metaphor.

Again, when a word seems to involve some inconsistency of meaning, we

should consider how many senses it may bear in the particular passage.

For example: ‘there was stayed the spear of bronze’—we should ask in how

many ways we may take ‘being checked there.’ The true mode of

interpretation is the precise opposite of what Glaucon mentions. Critics,

he says, jump at certain groundless conclusions; they pass adverse

judgment and then proceed to reason on it; and, assuming that the poet

has said whatever they happen to think, find fault if a thing is

inconsistent with their own fancy. The question about Icarius has been

treated in this fashion. The critics imagine he was a Lacedaemonian. They

think it strange, therefore, that Telemachus should not have met him when

he went to Lacedaemon. But the Cephallenian story may perhaps be the true

one. They allege that Odysseus took a wife from among themselves, and

that her father was Icadius not Icarius. It is merely a mistake, then,

that gives plausibility to the objection.

In general, the impossible must be justified by reference to artistic

requirements, or to the higher reality, or to received opinion. With

respect to the requirements of art, a probable impossibility is to be

preferred to a thing improbable and yet possible. Again, it may be

impossible that there should be men such as Zeuxis painted. ‘Yes,’ we

say, ‘but the impossible is the higher thing; for the ideal type must

surpass the reality.’ To justify the irrational, we appeal to what is

commonly said to be. In addition to which, we urge that the irrational

sometimes does not violate reason; just as ‘it is probable that a thing

may happen contrary to probability.’

Things that sound contradictory should be examined by the same rules as

in dialectical refutation whether the same thing is meant, in the same

relation, and in the same sense. We should therefore solve the question

by reference to what the poet says himself, or to what is tacitly assumed

by a person of intelligence.

The element of the irrational, and, similarly, depravity of character,

are justly censured when there is no inner necessity for introducing

them. Such is the irrational element in the introduction of Aegeus by

Euripides and the badness of Menelaus in the Orestes.

Thus, there are five sources from which critical objections are drawn.

Things are censured either as impossible, or irrational, or morally

hurtful, or contradictory, or contrary to artistic correctness. The

answers should be sought under the twelve heads above mentioned.

XXVI

The question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of imitation

is the higher. If the more refined art is the higher, and the more

refined in every case is that which appeals to the better sort of

audience, the art which imitates anything and everything is manifestly

most unrefined. The audience is supposed to be too dull to comprehend

unless something of their own is thrown in by the performers, who

therefore indulge in restless movements. Bad flute-players twist and

twirl, if they have to represent ‘the quoit-throw,’ or hustle the

coryphaeus when they perform the ‘Scylla.’ Tragedy, it is said, has this

same defect. We may compare the opinion that the older actors entertained

of their successors. Mynniscus used to call Callippides ‘ape’ on account

of the extravagance of his action, and the same view was held of

Pindarus. Tragic art, then, as a whole, stands to Epic in the same

relation as the younger to the elder actors. So we are told that Epic

poetry is addressed to a cultivated audience, who do not need gesture;

Tragedy, to an inferior public. Being then unrefined, it is evidently the

lower of the two.

Now, in the first place, this censure attaches not to the poetic but to

the histrionic art; for gesticulation may be equally overdone in epic

recitation, as by Sosi-stratus, or in lyrical competition, as by

Mnasitheus the Opuntian. Next, all action is not to be condemned any more

than all dancing—but only that of bad performers. Such was the fault

found in Callippides, as also in others of our own day, who are censured

for representing degraded women. Again, Tragedy like Epic poetry produces

its effect even without action; it reveals its power by mere reading. If,

then, in all other respects it is superior, this fault, we say, is not

inherent in it.

And superior it is, because it has all the epic elements—it may even use

the epic metre—with the music and spectacular effects as important

accessories; and these produce the most vivid of pleasures. Further, it

has vividness of impression in reading as well as in representation.

Moreover, the art attains its end within narrower limits; for the

concentrated effect is more pleasurable than one which is spread over a

long time and so diluted. What, for example, would be the effect of the

Oedipus of Sophocles, if it were cast into a form as long as the Iliad?

Once more, the Epic imitation has less unity; as is shown by this, that

any Epic poem will furnish subjects for several tragedies. Thus if the

story adopted by the poet has a strict unity, it must either be concisely

told and appear truncated; or, if it conform to the Epic canon of length,

it must seem weak and watery.

if, I mean, the poem is constructed out of several actions, like the

Iliad and the Odyssey, which have many such parts, each with a certain

magnitude of its own. Yet these poems are as perfect as possible in

structure; each is, in the highest degree attainable, an imitation of a

single action.

If, then, Tragedy is superior to Epic poetry in all these respects, and,

moreover, fulfils its specific function better as an art for each art

ought to produce, not any chance pleasure, but the pleasure proper to it,

as already stated it plainly follows that Tragedy is the higher art, as

attaining its end more perfectly.

Thus much may suffice concerning Tragic and Epic poetry in general;

their several kinds and parts, with the number of each and their

differences; the causes that make a poem good or bad; the objections of

the critics and the answers to these objections.

I

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl mak’st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

II

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter’d weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

III

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember’d not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.

IV

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th’ executor to be.

V

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer’s distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

VI

Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure ere it be self-kill’d.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That’s for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

VII

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
Unlook’d, on diest unless thou get a son.

VIII

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,
Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: ‘Thou single wilt prove none.’

IX

Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye,
That thou consum’st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children’s eyes, her husband’s shape in mind:
Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murd’rous shame commits.

X

For shame! deny that thou bear’st love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov’d of many,
But that thou none lov’st is most evident:
For thou art so possess’d with murderous hate,
That ’gainst thy self thou stick’st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodg’d than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

XI

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow’d, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

XII

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

XIII

O! that you were your self; but, love you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself’s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.

XIV

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars in them I read such art
As ‘Truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert’;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
‘Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.’

XV

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVI

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

XVII

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say ‘This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’
So should my papers, yellow’d with their age,
Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,–in it, and in my rhyme.

XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

XIX

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-liv’d phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

XX

A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all ‘hues’ in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.

XXI

So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare.
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

XXII

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time’s furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O! therefore love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
Thou gav’st me thine not to give back again.

XXIII

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharg’d with burthen of mine own love’s might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

XXIV

Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d,
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,
And perspective it is best painter’s art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur’d lies,
Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

XXV

Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars
Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil’d,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d:
Then happy I, that love and am belov’d,
Where I may not remove nor be remov’d.

XXVI

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter’d loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

XXVII

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tir’d;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
For then my thoughts–from far where I abide–
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

XXVIII

How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarre’d the benefit of rest?
When day’s oppression is not eas’d by night,
But day by night and night by day oppress’d,
And each, though enemies to either’s reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion’d night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild’st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.

XXIX

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,
Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,– and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

XXXI

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Love’s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov’d that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I lov’d, I view in thee,
And thou–all they–hast all the all of me.

XXXII

If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,
And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
‘Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love’.

XXXIII

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.

XXXIV

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
’Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence’s cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

XXXV

No more be griev’d at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,–
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,–
And ’gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

XXXVI

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love’s sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XXXVII

As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted, to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis’d,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am suffic’d,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!

XXXVIII

How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

XXXIX

O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone.
O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.

XL

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blam’d, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet, love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong, than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.

XLI

Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail’d;
And when a woman woos, what woman’s son
Will sourly leave her till he have prevail’d?
Ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:–
Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine by thy beauty being false to me.

XLII

That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
But here’s the joy; my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.

XLIII

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow’s form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

XLIV

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth remov’d from thee;
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time’s leisure with my moan;
Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.

XLV

The other two, slight air, and purging fire
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress’d with melancholy;
Until life’s composition be recur’d
By those swift messengers return’d from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assur’d,
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again, and straight grow sad.

XLVI

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,–
A closet never pierc’d with crystal eyes–
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To side this title is impannelled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part:
As thus; mine eye’s due is thy outward part,
And my heart’s right, thy inward love of heart.

XLVII

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish’d for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart’s guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thy self away, art present still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart, to heart’s and eye’s delight.

XLVIII

How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock’d up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol’n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

XLIX

Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call’d to that audit by advis’d respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand, against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love I can allege no cause.

L

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel’s end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
‘Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!’
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov’d not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

LI

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion shall I know,
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire, of perfect’st love being made,
Shall neigh–no dull flesh–in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,–
‘Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I’ll run, and give him leave to go.’

LII

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key,
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming in that long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprison’d pride.
Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph; being lacked, to hope.

LIII

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
And you but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

LIV

O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses.
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer’s breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo’d, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.

LV

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
’Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.

LVI

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay’d,
To-morrow sharpened in his former might:
So, love, be thou, although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
Or call it winter, which being full of care,
Makes summer’s welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.

LVII

Being your slave what should I do but tend,
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend;
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

LVIII

That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O! let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison’d absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilage your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.

LIX

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil’d,
Which labouring for invention bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child!
O! that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Wh’r we are mended, or wh’r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O! sure I am the wits of former days,
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

LX

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand.
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXI

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenure of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.

LXII

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed
Beated and chopp’d with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
’Tis thee,–myself,–that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

LXIII

Against my love shall be as I am now,
With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’erworn;
When hours have drain’d his blood and fill’d his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell’d on to age’s steepy night;
And all those beauties whereof now he’s king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age’s cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

LXIV

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defac’d
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz’d,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded, to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate–
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.

LXV

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o’ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O! how shall summer’s honey breath hold out,
Against the wrackful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O! none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

LXVI

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly–doctor-like–controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

LXVII

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steel dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar’d of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.

LXVIII

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another’s green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

LXIX

Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues–the voice of souls–give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown’d;
But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guess they measure by thy deeds;
Then–churls–their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.

LXX

That thou art blam’d shall not be thy defect,
For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater being woo’d of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present’st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days
Either not assail’d, or victor being charg’d;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg’d,
If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

LXXI

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O! if,–I say you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

LXXII

O! lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death,–dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O! lest your true love may seem false in this
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

LXXIII

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

LXXIV

But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXV

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better’d that the world may see my pleasure:
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had, or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

LXXVI

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O! know sweet love I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

LXXVII

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
These vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear,
And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know
Time’s thievish progress to eternity.
Look! what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver’d from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

LXXVIII

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned’s wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:
In others’ works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.

LXXIX

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay’d,
And my sick Muse doth give an other place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

LXXX

O! how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame!
But since your worth–wide as the ocean is,–
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wrack’d, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this,–my love was my decay.

LXXXI

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read;
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live,–such virtue hath my pen,–
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

LXXXII

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devis’d,
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz’d
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better us’d
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus’d.

LXXXIII

I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
That barren tender of a poet’s debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.

LXXXIV

Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise,–that you alone, are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

LXXXV

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compil’d,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil’d.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry ‘Amen’
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish’d form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ‘’tis so, ’tis true,’
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others, for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

LXXXVI

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill’d up his line,
Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

LXXXVIII

When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side, against myself I’ll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness, being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted;
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIX

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence:
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not love disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I’ll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against my self I’ll vow debate,
For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.

XC

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath ’scap’d this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer’d woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purpos’d overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compar’d with loss of thee, will not seem so.

XCI

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretchcd make.

XCII

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

XCIII

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love’s face
May still seem love to me, though alter’d new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many’s looks, the false heart’s history
Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange.
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate’er thy thoughts, or thy heart’s workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

XCIV

They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself, it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.

XCV

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose.
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
O! what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot
And all things turns to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-us’d doth lose his edge.

XCVI

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are lov’d of more and less:
Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem’d,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated, and for true things deem’d.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XCVII

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me
But hope of orphans, and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

XCVIII

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

XCIX

The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dy’d.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,
And to his robbery had annex’d thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet, or colour it had stol’n from thee.

C

Where art thou Muse that thou forget’st so long,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time’s spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife.

CI

O truant Muse what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy’d?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
‘Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix’d;
Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix’d’?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for’t lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be prais’d of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

CII

My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
That love is merchandiz’d, whose rich esteeming,
The owner’s tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue:
Because I would not dull you with my song.

CIII

Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O! blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

CIV

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv’d;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d:
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

CV

Let not my love be call’d idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confin’d,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
‘Fair, kind, and true,’ is all my argument,
‘Fair, kind, and true,’ varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv’d alone,
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.

CVI

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express’d
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CVII

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confin’d doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I’ll live in this poor rime,
While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

CVIII

What’s in the brain, that ink may character,
Which hath not figur’d to thee my true spirit?
What’s new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say o’er the very same;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow’d thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love’s fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page;
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead.

CIX

O! never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify,
As easy might I from my self depart
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have rang’d,
Like him that travels, I return again;
Just to the time, not with the time exchang’d,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe though in my nature reign’d,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain’d,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.

CX

Alas! ’tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made my self a motley to the view,
Gor’d mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new;
Most true it is, that I have look’d on truth
Askance and strangely; but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov’d thee my best of love.
Now all is done, save what shall have no end:
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin’d.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

CXI

O! for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdu’d
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand:
Pity me, then, and wish I were renew’d;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink,
Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

CXII

Your love and pity doth the impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all-the-world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel’d sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world besides methinks are dead.

CXIII

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night:
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.

CXIV

Or whether doth my mind, being crown’d with you,
Drink up the monarch’s plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchemy,
To make of monsters and things indigest
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
O! ’tis the first, ’tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
If it be poison’d, ’tis the lesser sin
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

CXV

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning Time, whose million’d accidents
Creep in ’twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas! why fearing of Time’s tyranny,
Might I not then say, ‘Now I love you best,’
When I was certain o’er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

CXVII

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchas’d right;
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your waken’d hate;
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.

CXVIII

Like as, to make our appetite more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge;
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge;
Even so, being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseas’d, ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assur’d,
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur’d;
But thence I learn and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

CXIX

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill’d from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is, by evil still made better;
And ruin’d love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuk’d to my content,
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

CXX

That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer’d steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, you’ve pass’d a hell of time;
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffer’d in your crime.
O! that our night of woe might have remember’d
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender’d
The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

CXXI

’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d,
When not to be receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem’d
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing:
For why should others’ false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own:
I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad and in their badness reign.

CXXII

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character’d with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date; even to eternity:
Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to raz’d oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss’d.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.

CXXIII

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.

CXXIV

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfather’d,
As subject to Time’s love or to Time’s hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather’d.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th’ inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number’d hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

CXXV

Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all and more by paying too much rent
For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No; let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix’d with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborned informer! a true soul
When most impeach’d, stands least in thy control.

CXXVI

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time’s fickle glass, his fickle hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st.
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.

CXXVII

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;
But now is black beauty’s successive heir,
And beauty slander’d with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on Nature’s power,
Fairing the foul with Art’s false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profan’d, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Sland’ring creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXVIII

How oft when thou, my music, music play’st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action: and till action, lust
Is perjur’d, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme;
A bliss in proof,– and prov’d, a very woe;
Before, a joy propos’d; behind a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,–
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXI

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another’s neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXXIII

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is’t not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross’d:
Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross’d:
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,
But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV

So, now I have confess’d that he is thine,
And I my self am mortgag’d to thy will,
Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
He learn’d but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that putt’st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

CXXXV

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ‘Will,’
And ‘Will’ to boot, and ‘Will’ in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vex’d thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in ‘Will,’ add to thy ‘Will’
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind ‘No’ fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one ‘Will.’

CXXXVI

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy ‘Will’,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
‘Will’, will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon’d none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store’s account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov’st me for my name is ‘Will.’

CXXXVII

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchor’d in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place?
Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have err’d,
And to this false plague are they now transferr’d.

CXXXVIII

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor’d youth,
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be.

CXXXIX

O! call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:
Use power with power, and slay me not by art,
Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What need’st thou wound with cunning, when thy might
Is more than my o’erpress’d defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

CXL

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so;–
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;–
For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee;
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

CXLI

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

CXLII

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profan’d their scarlet ornaments
And seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov’st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!

CXLIII

Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather’d creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent;
So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind;
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy ‘Will,’
If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

CXLIV

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour’d ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil,
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell:
Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLV

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make,
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’,
To me that languish’d for her sake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was us’d in giving gentle doom;
And taught it thus anew to greet;
‘I hate’ she alter’d with an end,
That followed it as gentle day,
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away.
‘I hate’, from hate away she threw,
And sav’d my life, saying ‘not you’.

CXLVI

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

CXLVII

My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly express’d;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CXLVIII

O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight;
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no,
How can it? O! how can Love’s eye be true,
That is so vexed with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

CXLIX

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,
On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon,
Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.

CL

O! from what power hast thou this powerful might,
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantise of skill,
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O! though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
If thy unworthiness rais’d love in me,
More worthy I to be belov’d of thee.

CLI

Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,
But rising at thy name doth point out thee,
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her ‘love,’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.

CLII

In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;
In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing:
But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjur’d most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,
And all my honest faith in thee is lost:
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur’d I,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

CLIII

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love,
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seeting bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest,
But found no cure, the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress’ eyes.

CLIV

The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm’d;
And so the general of hot desire
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm’d.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy,
For men diseas’d; but I, my mistress’ thrall,
Came there for cure and this by that I prove,
Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.

Contents
To Ianthe
Canto the First
Canto the Second
Canto the Third
Canto the Fourth

TO IANTHE. {1}
Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed: Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beamed –

To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?

Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love’s image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope’s imagining!

And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.

Young Peri of the West!—‘tis well for me My years already doubly number thine; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine: Happy, I ne’er shall see them in decline; Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love’s even loveliest hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle’s, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, Glance o’er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold’s page, Ianthe’s here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once numbered, should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth, Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will!

Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted shrine Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine To grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.

II.

Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth, Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight; But spent his days in riot most uncouth, And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.

Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

Childe Harold was he hight: —but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: But one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time;

Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.

Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly, Nor deemed before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his passed by, Worse than adversity the Childe befell; He felt the fulness of satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than eremite’s sad cell.

V.

For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sighed to many, though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas, could ne’er be his.

Ah, happy she! to ‘scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; ‘Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, But pride congealed the drop within his e’e: Apart he stalked in joyless reverie, And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe, And e’en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

VII.

The Childe departed from his father’s hall; It was a vast and venerable pile;

So old, it seemed only not to fall,

Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.

Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!

Where superstition once had made her den, Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.

Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold’s brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurked below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow; Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate’er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

IX.

And none did love him: though to hall and bower He gathered revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour; The heartless parasites of present cheer.

Yea, none did love him—not his lemans dear –

But pomp and power alone are woman’s care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

X.

Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not Before his weary pilgrimage begun:

If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.

Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; Ye, who have known what ‘tis to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

XI.

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight, Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed his youthful appetite; His goblets brimmed with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite,

Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth’s central line.

XII.

The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam; And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept

The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII.

But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp, which he at times could string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deemed he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o’er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight, While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he poured his last ‘Good Night.’

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o’er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My Native Land—Good Night!

A few short hours, and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,

My dog howls at the gate.

‘Come hither, hither, my little page:

Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billow’s rage,

Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,

Our ship is swift and strong;

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along.’

‘Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,

But thee—and One above.

‘My father blessed me fervently,

Yet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come back again.’ –

‘Enough, enough, my little lad!

Such tears become thine eye;

If I thy guileless bosom had,

Mine own would not be dry.

‘Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman,

Or shiver at the gale?’ –

‘Deem’st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I’m not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

‘My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake;

And when they on their father call,

What answer shall she make?’ –

‘Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.’

For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o’er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear.

And now I’m in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea;

But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain

Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again

He’d tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,

So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

My Native Land—Good Night!

XIV.

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay.

Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, New shores descried make every bosom gay; And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way, And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, His fabled golden tribute bent to pay; And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, And steer ‘twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.

XV.

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!

What goodly prospects o’er the hills expand!

But man would mar them with an impious hand: And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge ‘Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul’s locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.

XVI.

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!

Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford A nation swoll’n with ignorance and pride, Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword.

To save them from the wrath of Gaul’s unsparing lord.

XVII.

But whoso entereth within this town, That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, Disconsolate will wander up and down, Mid many things unsightly to strange e’e; For hut and palace show like filthily; The dingy denizens are reared in dirt; No personage of high or mean degree

Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, Though shent with Egypt’s plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt.

XVIII.

Poor, paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest scenes –

Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?

Lo! Cintra’s glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen.

Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium’s gates?

XIX.

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned, The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned, The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, The tender azure of the unruffled deep, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.

XX.

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And frequent turn to linger as you go, From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, And rest ye at ‘Our Lady’s House of Woe;’

Where frugal monks their little relics show, And sundry legends to the stranger tell: Here impious men have punished been; and lo, Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

XXI.

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path; Yet deem not these devotion’s offering –

These are memorials frail of murderous wrath; For wheresoe’er the shrieking victim hath Poured forth his blood beneath the assassin’s knife, Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life!

XXII.

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilom kings did make repair; But now the wild flowers round them only breathe: Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there.

And yonder towers the prince’s palace fair: There thou, too, Vathek! England’s wealthiest son, Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.

XXIII.

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan.

Beneath yon mountain’s ever beauteous brow; But now, as if a thing unblest by man, Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!

Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow To halls deserted, portals gaping wide; Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied; Swept into wrecks anon by Time’s ungentle tide.

XXIV.

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!

Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!

With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend, A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry, And sundry signatures adorn the roll, Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his soul.

XXV.

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled That foiled the knights in Marialva’s dome: Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turned a nation’s shallow joy to gloom.

Here Folly dashed to earth the victor’s plume, And Policy regained what Arms had lost: For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!

Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania’s coast.

XXVI.

And ever since that martial synod met, Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name; And folks in office at the mention fret, And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.

How will posterity the deed proclaim!

Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their fame, By foes in fight o’erthrown, yet victors here, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?

XXVII.

So deemed the Childe, as o’er the mountains he Did take his way in solitary guise:

Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, More restless than the swallow in the skies: Though here awhile he learned to moralise, For Meditation fixed at times on him, And conscious Reason whispered to despise His early youth misspent in maddest whim; But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim.

XXVIII.

To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul: Again he rouses from his moping fits, But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.

Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage; And o’er him many changing scenes must roll, Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.

XXIX.

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, Where dwelt of yore the Lusians’ luckless queen; And church and court did mingle their array, And mass and revel were alternate seen; Lordlings and freres—ill-sorted fry, I ween!

But here the Babylonian whore had built A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish guilt.

XXX.

O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh that such hills upheld a freeborn race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.

Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace.

Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.

XXXI.

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!

Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, Spain’s realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows –

Now must the pastor’s arm his lambs defend: For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection’s woes.

XXXII.

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?

Or e’er the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?

Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride?

Or fence of art, like China’s vasty wall? –

Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall Rise like the rocks that part Hispania’s land from Gaul XXXIII.

But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.

Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still ‘twixt bitterest foemen flow: For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know ‘Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.

XXXIV.

But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed, Dark Guadiana rolls his power along

In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, So noted ancient roundelays among.

Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest; Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed.

XXXV.

Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land!

Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, When Cava’s traitor-sire first called the band That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore?

Where are those bloody banners which of yore Waved o’er thy sons, victorious to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?

Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale, While Afric’s echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons’ wail.

XXXVI.

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?

Ah! such, alas, the hero’s amplest fate!

When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant’s plaint prolongs his dubious date.

Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, See how the mighty shrink into a song!

Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great?

Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?

XXXVII.

Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine’s roar!

In every peal she calls—‘Awake! arise!’

Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia’s shore?

XXXVIII.

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?

Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?

Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote; Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants’ slaves?—the fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high: —from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe: Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

XXXIX.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

XL.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air!

What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!

All join the chase, but few the triumph share: The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array.

XLI.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.

The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!

The foe, the victim, and the fond ally That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, Are met—as if at home they could not die –

To feed the crow on Talavera’s plain, And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.

XLII.

There shall they rot—Ambition’s honoured fools!

Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!

Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts—to what?—a dream alone.

Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?

Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

XLIII.

O Albuera, glorious field of grief!

As o’er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.

Peace to the perished! may the warrior’s meed And tears of triumph their reward prolong!

Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.

XLIV.

Enough of Battle’s minions! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name.

In sooth, ‘twere sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country’s good, And die, that living might have proved her shame; Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine’s path pursued.

XLV.

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: Yet is she free—the spoiler’s wished-for prey!

Soon, soon shall Conquest’s fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.

Inevitable hour! ‘Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famished brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.

XLVI.

But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with their country’s wounds; Nor here War’s clarion, but Love’s rebeck sounds; Here Folly still his votaries enthralls, And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls.

XLVII.

Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.

No more beneath soft Eve’s consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund castanet: Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.

XLVIII.

How carols now the lusty muleteer?

Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?

No! as he speeds, he chants ‘Viva el Rey!’

And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain’s queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.

XLIX.

On yon long level plain, at distance crowned With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground; And, scathed by fire, the greensward’s darkened vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia’s guest: Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon’s nest; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.

L.

And whomsoe’er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true:

Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, Could blunt the sabre’s edge, or clear the cannon’s smoke.

LI.

At every turn Morena’s dusky height

Sustains aloft the battery’s iron load; And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, The bristling palisade, the fosse o’erflowed, The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch, The magazine in rocky durance stowed, The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, LII.

Portend the deeds to come: —but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; A little moment deigneth to delay:

Soon will his legions sweep through these the way; The West must own the Scourger of the world.

Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day, When soars Gaul’s Vulture, with his wings unfurled, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.

LIII.

And must they fall—the young, the proud, the brave –

To swell one bloated chief’s unwholesome reign?

No step between submission and a grave?

The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?

And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant’s appeal?

Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?

And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, The veteran’s skill, youth’s fire, and manhood’s heart of steel?

LIV.

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?

And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appalled, an owlet’s larum chilled with dread, Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar, The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva’s step where Mars might quake to tread.

LV.

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in lady’s bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza’s tower Beheld her smile in Danger’s Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.

LVI.

Her lover sinks—she sheds no ill-timed tear; Her chief is slain—she fills his fatal post; Her fellows flee—she checks their base career; The foe retires—she heads the sallying host: Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?

Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?

What maid retrieve when man’s flushed hope is lost?

Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foiled by a woman’s hand, before a battered wall?

LVII.

Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons, But formed for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, ‘Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o’er her mate: In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.

LVIII.

The seal Love’s dimpling finger hath impressed Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!

Who round the North for paler dames would seek?

How poor their forms appear? how languid, wan, and weak!

LIX.

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harems! of the land where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that even a cynic must avow!

Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters—deign to know, There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.

LX.

O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy of a dreamer’s eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!

What marvel if I thus essay to sing?

The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing.

LXI.

Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man’s divinest lore: And now I view thee, ‘tis, alas, with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore.

When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!

LXII.

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not?

Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou, the Muses’ seat, art now their grave, Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, And glides with glassy foot o’er yon melodious wave.

LXIII.

Of thee hereafter.—Even amidst my strain I turned aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear; And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.

Now to my theme—but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear; Yield me one leaf of Daphne’s deathless plant, Nor let thy votary’s hope be deemed an idle vaunt.

LXIV.

But ne’er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir; Nor e’er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love than Andalusia’s maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire: Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.

LXV.

Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days, But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.

Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!

While boyish blood is mantling, who can ‘scape The fascination of thy magic gaze?

A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

LXVI.

When Paphos fell by Time—accursed Time!

The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee –

The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee, And fixed her shrine within these walls of white; Though not to one dome circumscribeth she Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.

LXVII.

From morn till night, from night till startled morn Peeps blushing on the revel’s laughing crew, The song is heard, the rosy garland worn; Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, Tread on each other’s kibes. A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.

LXVIII.

The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore?

Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast:

Hark! heard you not the forest monarch’s roar?

Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o’erthrown beneath his horn: The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more; Yells the mad crowd o’er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e’en affects to mourn.

LXIX.

The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.

London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer: Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl; To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.

LXX.

Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair, Others along the safer turnpike fly; Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie.

Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why?

‘Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn.

LXXI.

All have their fooleries; not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o’er the dark blue sea!

Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, Thy saint adorers count the rosary:

Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free (Well do I ween the only virgin there) From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.

LXXII.

The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared, Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard, No vacant space for lated wight is found: Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; None through their cold disdain are doomed to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery.

LXXIII.

Hushed is the din of tongues—on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly bending to the lists advance; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowd’s loud shout, and ladies’ lovely glance, Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e’er gain their toils repay.

LXXIV.

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed, But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o’er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steed –

Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.

LXXV.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls.

Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.

LXXVI.

Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away, Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear; Now is thy time to perish, or display The skill that yet may check his mad career.

With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes: Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.

LXXVII.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Though man and man’s avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.

One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears, His gory chest unveils life’s panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.

LXXVIII.

Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And foes disabled in the brutal fray: And now the matadores around him play, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: Once more through all he bursts his thundering way –

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye—‘tis past—he sinks upon the sand.

LXXIX.

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.

He stops—he starts—disdaining to decline: Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, Without a groan, without a struggle dies.

The decorated car appears on high:

The corse is piled—sweet sight for vulgar eyes; Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.

LXXX.

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain: Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights In vengeance, gloating on another’s pain.

What private feuds the troubled village stain!

Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe, Enough, alas, in humble homes remain, To meditate ‘gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life’s warm stream must flow.

LXXXI.

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, His withered sentinel, duenna sage!

And all whereat the generous soul revolts, Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage, Have passed to darkness with the vanished age.

Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage), With braided tresses bounding o’er the green, While on the gay dance shone Night’s lover-loving Queen?

LXXXII.

Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved, Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream; But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream: And lately had he learned with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem, Full from the fount of joy’s delicious springs Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

LXXXIII.

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; Not that Philosophy on such a mind

E’er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes: But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies; And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: Pleasure’s palled victim! life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom.

LXXXIV.

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; But viewed them not with misanthropic hate; Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song, But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?

Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: Yet once he struggled ‘gainst the demon’s sway, And as in Beauty’s bower he pensive sate, Poured forth this unpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.

TO INEZ.

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,

Alas! I cannot smile again:

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

And dost thou ask what secret woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth?

And wilt thou vainly seek to know

A pang even thou must fail to soothe?

It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambition’s honours lost,

That bids me loathe my present state,

And fly from all I prized the most:

It is that weariness which springs

From all I meet, or hear, or see:

To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,

That will not look beyond the tomb,

But cannot hope for rest before.

What exile from himself can flee?

To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where’er I be,

The blight of life—the demon Thought.

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake:

Oh! may they still of transport dream,

And ne’er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime ‘tis mine to go,

With many a retrospection curst;

And all my solace is to know,

Whate’er betides, I’ve known the worst.

What is that worst? Nay, do not ask –

In pity from the search forbear:

Smile on—nor venture to unmask

Man’s heart, and view the hell that’s there.

LXXXV.

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?

When all were changing, thou alone wert true, First to be free, and last to be subdued.

And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye, A traitor only fell beneath the feud: Here all were noble, save nobility;

None hugged a conqueror’s chain save fallen Chivalry!

LXXXVI.

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!

They fight for freedom, who were never free; A kingless people for a nerveless state, Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest slaves of Treachery; Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to liberty; Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, ‘War even to the knife!’

LXXXVII.

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Go, read whate’er is writ of bloodiest strife: Whate’er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe Can act, is acting there against man’s life: From flashing scimitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need –

So may he guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!

LXXXVIII.

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?

Look o’er the ravage of the reeking plain: Look on the hands with female slaughter red; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Then to the vulture let each corse remain; Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird’s maw, Let their bleached bones, and blood’s unbleaching stain, Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!

LXXXIX.

Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.

Fall’n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchained.

Strange retribution! now Columbia’s ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito’s sons sustained, While o’er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained.

XC.

Not all the blood at Talavera shed,

Not all the marvels of Barossa’s fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead,

Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?

When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?

How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And Freedom’s stranger-tree grow native of the soil?

XCI.

And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain –

Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid e’en Friendship to complain: But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While glory crowns so many a meaner crest!

What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest?

XCII.

Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most!

Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!

Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, In dreams deny me not to see thee here!

And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, And Fancy hover o’er thy bloodless bier, Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourned and mourner lie united in repose.

XCIII.

Here is one fytte of Harold’s pilgrimage.

Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.

Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doomed to go: Lands that contain the monuments of eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled.

CANTO THE SECOND.

I.

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!—but thou, alas, Didst never yet one mortal song inspire –

Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, And is, despite of war and wasting fire, And years, that bade thy worship to expire: But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow.

II.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul?

Gone—glimmering through the dream of things that were: First in the race that led to Glory’s goal, They won, and passed away—is this the whole?

A schoolboy’s tale, the wonder of an hour!

The warrior’s weapon and the sophist’s stole Are sought in vain, and o’er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power.

III.

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!

Come—but molest not yon defenceless urn!

Look on this spot—a nation’s sepulchre!

Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.

E’en gods must yield—religions take their turn: ‘Twas Jove’s—‘tis Mahomet’s; and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.

IV.

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven –

Is’t not enough, unhappy thing, to know Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know’st not, reck’st not to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies!

Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?

Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

V.

Or burst the vanished hero’s lofty mound; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps; He fell, and falling nations mourned around; But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appeared, as records tell.

Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps: Is that a temple where a God may dwell?

Why, e’en the worm at last disdains her shattered cell!

VI.

Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: Yes, this was once Ambition’s airy hall, The dome of Thought, the Palace of the Soul.

Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And Passion’s host, that never brooked control: Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?

VII.

Well didst thou speak, Athena’s wisest son!

‘All that we know is, nothing can be known.’

Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun?

Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own.

Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.

VIII.

Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labours light!

To hear each voice we feared to hear no more!

Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!

IX.

There, thou!—whose love and life together fled, Have left me here to love and live in vain –

Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, When busy memory flashes on my brain?

Well—I will dream that we may meet again, And woo the vision to my vacant breast: If aught of young Remembrance then remain, Be as it may Futurity’s behest,

For me ‘twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest!

X.

Here let me sit upon this mossy stone, The marble column’s yet unshaken base!

Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne!

Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place.

It may not be: nor even can Fancy’s eye Restore what time hath laboured to deface.

Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.

XI.

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee The latest relic of her ancient reign –

The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?

Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be!

England! I joy no child he was of thine: Thy freeborn men should spare what once was free; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o’er the long reluctant brine.

XII.

But most the modern Pict’s ignoble boast, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared: Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Aught to displace Athena’s poor remains: Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother’s pains, And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot’s chains.

XIII.

What! shall it e’er be said by British tongue Albion was happy in Athena’s tears?

Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, Tell not the deed to blushing Europe’s ears; The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a harpy’s hand.

Which envious eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.

XIV.

Where was thine aegis, Pallas, that appalled Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?

Where Peleus’ son? whom Hell in vain enthralled, His shade from Hades upon that dread day Bursting to light in terrible array!

What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, To scare a second robber from his prey?

Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.

XV.

Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o’er the dust they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To guard those relics ne’er to be restored.

Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatched thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred!

XVI.

But where is Harold? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o’er the wave?

Little recked he of all that men regret; No loved one now in feigned lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes.

Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes.

XVII.

He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea, Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight; When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight, Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, The glorious main expanding o’er the bow, The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.

XVIII.

And oh, the little warlike world within!

The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, The hoarse command, the busy humming din, When, at a word, the tops are manned on high: Hark to the boatswain’s call, the cheering cry, While through the seaman’s hand the tackle glides Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

XIX.

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and feared by all: not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever baulks Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve.

XX.

Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale, Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make their lazy way.

Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!

What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sails hauled down to halt for logs like these!

XXI.

The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!

Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand!

Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe: Such be our fate when we return to land!

Meantime some rude Arion’s restless hand Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love: A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.

XXII.

Through Calpe’s straits survey the steepy shore; Europe and Afric, on each other gaze!

Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor, Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate’s blaze: How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase: But Mauritania’s giant-shadows frown, From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.

XXIII.

‘Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end: The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.

Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?

Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, Death hath but little left him to destroy!

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

XXIV.

Thus bending o’er the vessel’s laving side, To gaze on Dian’s wave-reflected sphere, The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, And flies unconscious o’er each backward year.

None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; A flashing pang! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.

XXV.

To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene, Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean: This is not solitude; ‘tis but to hold Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unrolled.

XXVI.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world’s tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued: This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

XXVII.

More blest the life of godly eremite, Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, Watching at eve upon the giant height, Which looks o’er waves so blue, skies so serene, That he who there at such an hour hath been, Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot; Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.

XXVIII.

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, And each well-known caprice of wave and wind; Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel; The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell, Till on some jocund morn—lo, land! and all is well.

XXIX.

But not in silence pass Calypso’s isles, The sister tenants of the middle deep; There for the weary still a haven smiles, Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep, And o’er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sighed.

XXX.

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: But trust not this; too easy youth, beware!

A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, And thou mayst find a new Calypso there.

Sweet Florence! could another ever share This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine: But checked by every tie, I may not dare To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.

XXXI.

Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady’s eye He looked, and met its beam without a thought, Save Admiration glancing harmless by: Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, Who knew his votary often lost and caught, But knew him as his worshipper no more, And ne’er again the boy his bosom sought: Since now he vainly urged him to adore, Well deemed the little god his ancient sway was o’er.

XXXII.

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, ‘twas said, still sighed to all he saw, Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hailed with real or mimic awe, Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law: All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: And much she marvelled that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.

XXXIII.

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, Now masked by silence or withheld by pride, Was not unskilful in the spoiler’s art, And spread its snares licentious far and wide; Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside, As long as aught was worthy to pursue: But Harold on such arts no more relied; And had he doted on those eyes so blue, Yet never would he join the lover’s whining crew.

XXXIV.

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman’s breast, Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; What careth she for hearts when once possessed?

Do proper homage to thine idol’s eyes, But not too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes; Disguise e’en tenderness, if thou art wise; Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes; Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.

XXXV.

‘Tis an old lesson: Time approves it true, And those who know it best deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!

If, kindly cruel, early hope is crossed, Still to the last it rankles, a disease, Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.

XXXVI.

Away! nor let me loiter in my song,

For we have many a mountain path to tread, And many a varied shore to sail along, By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led –

Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head Imagined in its little schemes of thought; Or e’er in new Utopias were read:

To teach man what he might be, or he ought; If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.

XXXVII.

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still; Though always changing, in her aspect mild: From her bare bosom let me take my fill, Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child.

Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, Where nothing polished dares pollute her path: To me by day or night she ever smiled, Though I have marked her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.

XXXVIII.

Land of Albania! where Iskander rose; Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes, Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise: Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!

The cross descends, thy minarets arise, And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, Through many a cypress grove within each city’s ken.

XXXIX.

Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot Where sad Penelope o’erlooked the wave; And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot, The lover’s refuge, and the Lesbian’s grave.

Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save That breast imbued with such immortal fire?

Could she not live who life eternal gave?

If life eternal may await the lyre,

That only Heaven to which Earth’s children may aspire.

XL.

‘Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eve, Childe Harold hailed Leucadia’s cape afar; A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave: Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar:

Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loathed the bravo’s trade, and laughed at martial wight.

XLI.

But when he saw the evening star above Leucadia’s far-projecting rock of woe, And hailed the last resort of fruitless love, He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow: And as the stately vessel glided slow Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watched the billows’ melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid front.

XLII.

Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania’s hills, Dark Suli’s rocks, and Pindus’ inland peak, Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills, Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak, Arise; and, as the clouds along them break, Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, And gathering storms around convulse the closing year.

XLIII.

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu: Now he adventured on a shore unknown, Which all admire, but many dread to view: His breast was armed ‘gainst fate, his wants were few: Peril he sought not, but ne’er shrank to meet: The scene was savage, but the scene was new; This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, Beat back keen winter’s blast; and welcomed summer’s heat.

XLIV.

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised, Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear; Churchman and votary alike despised.

Foul Superstition! howsoe’er disguised, Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!

Who from true worship’s gold can separate thy dross.

XLV.

Ambracia’s gulf behold, where once was lost A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing!

In yonder rippling bay, their naval host Did many a Roman chief and Asian king To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring Look where the second Caesar’s trophies rose, Now, like the hands that reared them, withering; Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes!

God! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose?

XLVI.

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, E’en to the centre of Illyria’s vales, Childe Harold passed o’er many a mount sublime, Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales: Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails, Though classic ground, and consecrated most, To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.

XLVII.

He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia’s lake, And left the primal city of the land, And onwards did his further journey take To greet Albania’s chief, whose dread command Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: Yet here and there some daring mountain-band Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.

XLVIII.

Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow, Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground!

Where’er we gaze, around, above, below, What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!

Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, And bluest skies that harmonise the whole: Beneath, the distant torrent’s rushing sound Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.

XLIX.

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, Might well itself be deemed of dignity, The convent’s white walls glisten fair on high; Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he, Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee From hence, if he delight kind Nature’s sheen to see.

L.

Here in the sultriest season let him rest, Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: The plain is far beneath—oh! let him seize Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away.

LI.

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, Nature’s volcanic amphitheatre,

Chimera’s alps extend from left to right: Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir Nodding above; behold black Acheron!

Once consecrated to the sepulchre.

Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,

Close shamed Elysium’s gates, my shade shall seek for none.

LII.

No city’s towers pollute the lovely view; Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, Veiled by the screen of hills: here men are few, Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; But, peering down each precipice, the goat Browseth: and, pensive o’er his scattered flock, The little shepherd in his white capote Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, Or in his cave awaits the tempest’s short-lived shock.

LIII.

Oh! where, Dodona, is thine aged grove, Prophetic fount, and oracle divine?

What valley echoed the response of Jove?

What trace remaineth of the Thunderer’s shrine?

All, all forgotten—and shall man repine That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke?

Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine: Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak, When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke?

LIV.

Epirus’ bounds recede, and mountains fail; Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale

As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye:

E’en on a plain no humble beauties lie, Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, And woods along the banks are waving high, Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight’s solemn trance.

LV.

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, When, down the steep banks winding wearily Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, The glittering minarets of Tepalen,

Whose walls o’erlook the stream; and drawing nigh, He heard the busy hum of warrior-men Swelling the breeze that sighed along the lengthening glen.

LVI.

He passed the sacred harem’s silent tower, And underneath the wide o’erarching gate Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power Where all around proclaimed his high estate.

Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, While busy preparation shook the court; Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait; Within, a palace, and without a fort, Here men of every clime appear to make resort.

LVII.

Richly caparisoned, a ready row

Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, Circled the wide-extending court below; Above, strange groups adorned the corridor; And ofttimes through the area’s echoing door, Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away; The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, Here mingled in their many-hued array, While the deep war-drum’s sound announced the close of day.

LVIII.

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see: The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon;

The Delhi with his cap of terror on, And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek; And swarthy Nubia’s mutilated son;

The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, Master of all around, too potent to be meek, LIX.

Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups, Scanning the motley scene that varies round; There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, And some that smoke, and some that play are found; Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, The muezzin’s call doth shake the minaret, ‘There is no god but God!—to prayer—lo! God is great!’

LX.

Just at this season Ramazani’s fast

Through the long day its penance did maintain.

But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assumed the rule again: Now all was bustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, As page and slave anon were passing out and in.

LXI.

Here woman’s voice is never heard: apart And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move, She yields to one her person and her heart, Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove; For, not unhappy in her master’s love, And joyful in a mother’s gentlest cares, Blest cares! all other feelings far above!

Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares.

LXII.

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, Ali reclined, a man of war and woes: Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While Gentleness her milder radiance throws Along that aged venerable face,

The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.

LXIII.

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard Ill suits the passions which belong to youth: Love conquers age—so Hafiz hath averred, So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth –

But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth, Beseeming all men ill, but most the man In years, have marked him with a tiger’s tooth: Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span, In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.

LXIV.

Mid many things most new to ear and eye, The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, And gazed around on Moslem luxury,

Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat Of sated Grandeur from the city’s noise: And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet; But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys.

LXV.

Fierce are Albania’s children, yet they lack Not virtues, were those virtues more mature.

Where is the foe that ever saw their back?

Who can so well the toil of war endure?

Their native fastnesses not more secure Than they in doubtful time of troublous need: Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure, When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, Unshaken rushing on where’er their chief may lead.

LXVI.

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain’s tower, Thronging to war in splendour and success; And after viewed them, when, within their power, Himself awhile the victim of distress; That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press: But these did shelter him beneath their roof, When less barbarians would have cheered him less, And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof –

In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof!

LXVII.

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark Full on the coast of Suli’s shaggy shore, When all around was desolate and dark; To land was perilous, to sojourn more; Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work.

LXVIII.

Vain fear! the Suliotes stretched the welcome hand, Led them o’er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, Kinder than polished slaves, though not so bland, And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, And filled the bowl, and trimmed the cheerful lamp, And spread their fare: though homely, all they had: Such conduct bears Philanthropy’s rare stamp –

To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad.

LXIX.

It came to pass, that when he did address Himself to quit at length this mountain land, Combined marauders half-way barred egress, And wasted far and near with glaive and brand; And therefore did he take a trusty band To traverse Acarnania forest wide,

In war well-seasoned, and with labours tanned, Till he did greet white Achelous’ tide, And from his farther bank AEtolia’s wolds espied.

LXX.

Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, How brown the foliage of the green hill’s grove, Nodding at midnight o’er the calm bay’s breast, As winds come whispering lightly from the west, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep’s serene: Here Harold was received a welcome guest; Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, For many a joy could he from night’s soft presence glean.

LXXI.

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, And he that unawares had there ygazed With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; For ere night’s midmost, stillest hour was past, The native revels of the troop began; Each palikar his sabre from him cast, And bounding hand in hand, man linked to man, Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan.

LXXII.

Childe Harold at a little distance stood, And viewed, but not displeased, the revelrie, Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee: And as the flames along their faces gleamed, Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, The long wild locks that to their girdles streamed, While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half screamed: Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy larum afar

Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote!

Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, To his snowy camese and his shaggy capote?

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock.

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live?

Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego?

What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe?

Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: But those scarves of blood-red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o’er.

Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore.

I ask not the pleasure that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy: Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear.

I love the fair face of the maid in her youth; Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe: Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre, And sing us a song on the fall of her sire.

Remember the moment when Previsa fell,

The shrieks of the conquered, the conqueror’s yell; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we spared.

I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the Vizier; Since the days of our prophet, the crescent ne’er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasha.

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-haired Giaours view his horsetail with dread; When his Delhis come dashing in blood o’er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks!

Selictar! unsheath then our chief’s scimitar: Tambourgi! thy larum gives promise of war.

Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!

LXXIII.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!

Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!

Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, And long accustomed bondage uncreate?

Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae’s sepulchral strait –

Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas’ banks, and call thee from the tomb?

LXXIV.

Spirit of Freedom! when on Phyle’s brow Thou sat’st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?

Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o’er thy land; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned.

LXXV.

In all save form alone, how changed! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who would but deem their bosom burned anew With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty!

And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers’ heritage: For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defiled from Slavery’s mournful page.

LXXVI.

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?

By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No!

True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, But not for you will Freedom’s altars flame.

Shades of the Helots! triumph o’er your foe: Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; Thy glorious day is o’er, but not thy years of shame.

LXXVII.

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman’s race again may wrest; And the Serai’s impenetrable tower

Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; Or Wahab’s rebel brood, who dared divest The Prophet’s tomb of all its pious spoil, May wind their path of blood along the West; But ne’er will Freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil.

LXXVIII.

Yet mark their mirth—ere lenten days begin, That penance which their holy rites prepare To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, In motley robe to dance at masking ball, And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.

LXXIX.

And whose more rife with merriment than thine, O Stamboul! once the empress of their reign?

Though turbans now pollute Sophia’s shrine And Greece her very altars eyes in vain: (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, All felt the common joy they now must feign; Nor oft I’ve seen such sight, nor heard such song, As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along.

LXXX.

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore; Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, And timely echoed back the measured oar, And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: The Queen of tides on high consenting shone; And when a transient breeze swept o’er the wave, ‘Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave, Till sparkling billows seemed to light the banks they lave.

LXXXI.

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, No thought had man or maid of rest or home, While many a languid eye and thrilling hand Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still: Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band, Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, These hours, and only these, redeemed Life’s years of ill!

LXXXII.

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, E’en through the closest searment half-betrayed?

To such the gentle murmurs of the main Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!

LXXXIII.

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, If Greece one true-born patriot can boast: Not such as prate of war but skulk in peace, The bondsman’s peace, who sighs for all he lost, Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most –

Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!

LXXXIV.

When riseth Lacedaemon’s hardihood,

When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, When Athens’ children are with hearts endued, When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, Then mayst thou be restored; but not till then.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust: and when Can man its shattered splendour renovate, Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate?

LXXXV.

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou!

Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, Proclaim thee Nature’s varied favourite now; Thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough: So perish monuments of mortal birth, So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth; LXXXVI.

Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; Save where Tritonia’s airy shrine adorns Colonna’s cliff, and gleams along the wave; Save o’er some warrior’s half-forgotten grave, Where the grey stones and unmolested grass Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, While strangers only not regardless pass, Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh ‘Alas!’

LXXXVII.

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild: Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olives ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields; There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air; Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, Still in his beam Mendeli’s marbles glare; Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.

LXXXVIII.

Where’er we tread, ‘tis haunted, holy ground; No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse’s tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena’s tower, but spares gray Marathon.

LXXXIX.

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; Unchanged in all except its foreign lord –

Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame; The battle-field, where Persia’s victim horde First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas’ sword, As on the morn to distant Glory dear, When Marathon became a magic word;

Which uttered, to the hearer’s eye appear The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror’s career.

XC.

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; Mountains above, Earth’s, Ocean’s plain below; Death in the front, Destruction in the rear!

Such was the scene—what now remaineth here?

What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground, Recording Freedom’s smile and Asia’s tear?

The rifled urn, the violated mound,

The dust thy courser’s hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.

XCI.

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng: Long shall the voyager, with th’ Ionian blast, Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore: Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!

Which sages venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.

XCII.

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that’s kindred cheer the welcome hearth; He that is lonely, hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth.

Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi’s sacred side, Or gazing o’er the plains where Greek and Persian died.

XCIII.

Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste: But spare its relics—let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced!

Not for such purpose were these altars placed.

Revere the remnants nations once revered; So may our country’s name be undisgraced, So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was reared, By every honest joy of love and life endeared!

XCIV.

For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading bays –

Ill may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please where none are left to love.

XCV.

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!

Whom youth and youth’s affections bound to me; Who did for me what none beside have done, Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee.

What is my being? thou hast ceased to be!

Nor stayed to welcome here thy wanderer home, Who mourns o’er hours which we no more shall see –

Would they had never been, or were to come!

Would he had ne’er returned to find fresh cause to roam!

XCVI.

Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved!

How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed!

But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last.

All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, thou hast: The parent, friend, and now the more than friend; Ne’er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatched the little joy that life had yet to lend.

XCVII.

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that Peace disdains to seek?

Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak!

Still o’er the features, which perforce they cheer, To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique; Smiles form the channel of a future tear, Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer.

XCVIII.

What is the worst of woes that wait on age?

What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?

To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.

Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, O’er hearts divided and o’er hopes destroyed: Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow, Since Time hath reft whate’er my soul enjoyed, And with the ills of eld mine earlier years alloyed.

CANTO THE THIRD.

I.

Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?

When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, And then we parted,—not as now we part, But with a hope. –

Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by, When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

II.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more!

And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!

Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!

Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam, to sail Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.

III.

In my youth’s summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O’er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life—where not a flower appears.

IV.

Since my young days of passion—joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing.

Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness—so it fling Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.

V.

He who, grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul’s haunted cell.

VI.

‘Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow

With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now.

What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow

Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings’ dearth.

VII.

Yet must I think less wildly: I HAVE thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o’erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poisoned. ‘Tis too late!

Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate.

VIII.

Something too much of this: but now ‘tis past, And the spell closes with its silent seal.

Long-absent Harold reappears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne’er heal; Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

IX.

His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!

Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step he took through many a scene.

X.

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed Again in fancied safety with his kind, And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind; And he, as one, might midst the many stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find Fit speculation; such as in strange land He found in wonder-works of God and Nature’s hand.

XI.

But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s cheek, Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?

Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o’er her steep, nor climb?

Harold, once more within the vortex rolled On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth’s fond prime.

XII.

But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled, In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled, He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebelled; Proud though in desolation; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.

XIII.

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake For nature’s pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.

XIV.

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, And human frailties, were forgotten quite: Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, He had been happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.

XV.

But in Man’s dwellings he became a thing Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing, To whom the boundless air alone were home: Then came his fit again, which to o’ercome, As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat His breast and beak against his wiry dome Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.

XVI.

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom; The very knowledge that he lived in vain, That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume, Which, though ‘twere wild—as on the plundered wreck When mariners would madly meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck –

Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.

XVII.

Stop! for thy tread is on an empire’s dust!

An earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below!

Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?

Nor column trophied for triumphal show?

None; but the moral’s truth tells simpler so, As the ground was before, thus let it be; –

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!

And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?

XVIII.

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!

How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!

In ‘pride of place’ here last the eagle flew, Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through: Ambition’s life and labours all were vain; He wears the shattered links of the world’s broken chain.

XIX.

Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit, And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free?

Did nations combat to make ONE submit; Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?

What! shall reviving thraldom again be The patched-up idol of enlightened days?

Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze And servile knees to thrones? No; PROVE before ye praise!

XX.

If not, o’er one fall’n despot boast no more!

In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears For Europe’s flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions: all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens’ tyrant lord.

XXI.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

XXII.

Did ye not hear it?—No; ‘twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.

But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!

XXIII.

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

XXIV.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

XXV.

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips—‘The foe! They come! they come!’

XXVI.

And wild and high the ‘Cameron’s gathering’ rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.

XXVII.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturniug brave,—alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

XXVIII.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day Battle’s magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

XXIX.

Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song; And his was of the bravest, and when showered The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, Even where the thickest of war’s tempest lowered, They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!

XXX.

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wild field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.

XXXI.

I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The Archangel’s trump, not Glory’s, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

XXXII.

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: The tree will wither long before it fall: The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruined wall

Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthral; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: XXXIII.

E’en as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies; and makes A thousand images of one that was,

The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.

XXXIV.

There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison,—a quick root

Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were As nothing did we die; but life will suit Itself to Sorrow’s most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore, All ashes to the taste: Did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o’er Such hours ‘gainst years of life,—say, would he name threescore?

XXXV.

The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: They are enough: and if thy tale be TRUE, Thou, who didst grudge him e’en that fleeting span, More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!

Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children’s lips shall echo them, and say, ‘Here, where the sword united nations drew, Our countrymen were warring on that day!’

And this is much, and all which will not pass away.

XXXVI.

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit anithetically mixed

One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixed; Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek’st Even now to reassume the imperial mien, And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!

XXXVII.

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!

She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deemed thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert.

XXXVIII.

Oh, more or less than man—in high or low, Battling with nations, flying from the field; Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield: An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, However deeply in men’s spirits skilled, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.

XXXIX.

Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.

When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye;

When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child, He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.

XL.

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them Ambition steeled thee on to far too show That just habitual scorn, which could contemn Men and their thoughts; ‘twas wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turned unto thine overthrow: ‘Tis but a worthless world to win or lose; So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.

XLI.

If, like a tower upon a headland rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock; But men’s thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, THEIR admiration thy best weapon shone; The part of Philip’s son was thine, not then (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;

For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.

XLII.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And THERE hath been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul, which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire

Beyond the fitting medium of desire; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

XLIII.

This makes the madmen who have made men mad By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things Which stir too strongly the soul’s secret springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool; Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule: XLIV.

Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, That should their days, surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast With sorrow and supineness, and so die; Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

XLV.

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below.

Though high ABOVE the sun of glory glow, And far BENEATH the earth and ocean spread, ROUND him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

XLVI.

Away with these; true Wisdom’s world will be Within its own creation, or in thine, Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?

There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.

XLVII.

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, Or holding dark communion with the cloud.

There was a day when they were young and proud, Banners on high, and battles passed below; But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.

XLVIII.

Beneath these battlements, within those walls, Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate

Than mightier heroes of a longer date.

What want these outlaws conquerors should have But History’s purchased page to call them great?

A wider space, an ornamented grave?

Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.

XLIX.

In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died!

And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run.

L.

But thou, exulting and abounding river!

Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, Could man but leave thy bright creation so, Nor its fair promise from the surface mow With the sharp scythe of conflict,—then to see Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me Even now what wants thy stream?—that it should Lethe be.

LI.

A thousand battles have assailed thy banks, But these and half their fame have passed away, And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks: Their very graves are gone, and what are they?

Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday, And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray; But o’er the blackened memory’s blighting dream Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.

LII.

Thus Harold inly said, and passed along, Yet not insensible to all which here Awoke the jocund birds to early song In glens which might have made e’en exile dear: Though on his brow were graven lines austere, And tranquil sternness which had ta’en the place Of feelings fierier far but less severe, Joy was not always absent from his face, But o’er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace.

LIII.

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days Of passion had consumed themselves to dust.

It is in vain that we would coldly gaze On such as smile upon us; the heart must Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt, For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.

LIV.

And he had learned to love,—I know not why, For this in such as him seems strange of mood, –

The helpless looks of blooming infancy, Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, To change like this, a mind so far imbued With scorn of man, it little boots to know; But thus it was; and though in solitude Small power the nipped affections have to grow, In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.

LV.

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, Which unto his was bound by stronger ties Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, THAT love was pure, and, far above disguise, Had stood the test of mortal enmities Still undivided, and cemented more

By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!

The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine.

Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert THOU with me!

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o’er this paradise;

Above, the frequent feudal towers

Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, And many a rock which steeply lours, And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o’er this vale of vintage bowers: But one thing want these banks of Rhine, –

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;

Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must withered be,

But yet reject them not as such;

For I have cherished them as dear,

Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine e’en here, When thou behold’st them drooping nigh, And know’st them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,

And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round;

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found

To Nature and to me so dear,

Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

LVI.

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, There is a small and simple pyramid, Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; Beneath its base are heroes’ ashes hid, Our enemy’s,—but let not that forbid Honour to Marceau! o’er whose early tomb Tears, big tears, gushed from the rough soldier’s lid, Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.

LVI.

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, –

His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; And fitly may the stranger lingering here Pray for his gallant spirit’s bright repose; For he was Freedom’s champion, one of those, The few in number, who had not o’erstept The charter to chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons; he had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept.

LVIII.

Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall Black with the miner’s blast, upon her height Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball Rebounding idly on her strength did light; A tower of victory! from whence the flight Of baffled foes was watched along the plain; But Peace destroyed what War could never blight, And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer’s rain –

On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain.

LIX.

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long, delighted, The stranger fain would linger on his way; Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.

LX.

Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!

There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The mind is coloured by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign

Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!

‘Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; More mighty spots may rise—more glaring shine, But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft;—the glories of old days.

LXI.

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city’s sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice’s gloom, The forest’s growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man’s art; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene,

Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o’er thy banks, though empires near them fall.

LXII.

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls

Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow!

All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gathers around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.

LXIII.

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be passed in vain, –

Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain; Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument;—the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost.

LXIV.

While Waterloo with Cannae’s carnage vies, Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; They were true Glory’s stainless victories, Won by the unambitious heart and hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making king’s rights divine, by some Draconic clause.

LXV.

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days ‘Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze,

Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands, Making a marvel that it not decays,

When the coeval pride of human hands, Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.

LXVI.

And there—oh! sweet and sacred be the name! –

Julia—the daughter, the devoted—gave Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven’s, broke o’er a father’s grave.

Justice is sworn ‘gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save.

Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.

LXVII.

But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; The high, the mountain-majesty of worth, Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, And from its immortality look forth

In the sun’s face, like yonder Alpine snow, Imperishably pure beyond all things below.

LXVIII.

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue: There is too much of man here, to look through With a fit mind the might which I behold; But soon in me shall Loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.

LXIX.

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In one hot throng, where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.

LXX.

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But there are wanderers o’er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne’er shall be.

LXXI.

Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake?

By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, Kissing its cries away as these awake; –

Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear?

LXXII.

I live not in myself, but I become

Portion of that around me; and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture: I can see

Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.

LXXIII.

And thus I am absorbed, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desert Past, As on a place of agony and strife,

Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.

LXXIV.

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm, –

When elements to elements conform,

And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?

The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot?

Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?

LXXV.

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them?

Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these? and stem A tide of suffering, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turned below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?

LXXVI.

But this is not my theme; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for awhile—a passing guest, Where he became a being,—whose desire Was to be glorious; ‘twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest.

LXXVII.

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O’er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o’er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

LXXVIII.

His love was passion’s essence—as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same.

But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of Ideal beauty, which became

In him existence, and o’erflowing teems Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.

LXXIX.

THIS breathed itself to life in Julie, THIS

Invested her with all that’s wild and sweet; This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fevered lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet: But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flashed the thrilled spirit’s love-devouring heat; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.

LXXX.

His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind Had grown Suspicion’s sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, ‘Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.

But he was frenzied,—wherefore, who may know?

Since cause might be which skill could never find; But he was frenzied by disease or woe To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.

LXXXI.

For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian’s mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: Did he not this for France, which lay before Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years?

Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o’ergrown fears?

LXXXII.

They made themselves a fearful monument!

The wreck of old opinions—things which grew, Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.

But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew

Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled, As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed.

LXXXIII.

But this will not endure, nor be endured!

Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.

They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; Pity ceased to melt

With her once natural charities. But they, Who in Oppression’s darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourished with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?

LXXXIV.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

The heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear Silence, but not submission: in his lair Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair: It came, it cometh, and will come,—the power To punish or forgive—in ONE we shall be slower.

LXXXV.

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring.

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved.

LXXXVI.

It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen.

Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; LXXXVII.

He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still.

There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues.

LXXXVIII.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven, If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires,—‘tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create

In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

LXXXIX.

All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: –

All heaven and earth are still: from the high host Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, All is concentered in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

XC.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are LEAST alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt, And purifies from self: it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,

Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,

Binding all things with beauty;—‘twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

XCI.

Nor vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth-o’ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!

XCII.

The sky is changed!—and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue; And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

XCIII.

And this is in the night: —Most glorious night!

Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight –

A portion of the tempest and of thee!

How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!

And now again ‘tis black,—and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.

XCIV.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed: Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters—war within themselves to wage.

XCV.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand; For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath forked His lightnings, as if he did understand That in such gaps as desolation worked, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.

XCVI.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye, With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest.

But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?

Are ye like those within the human breast?

Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?

XCVII.

Could I embody and unbosom now

That which is most within me,—could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe—into one word, And that one word were lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

XCVIII.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb, –

And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.

XCIX.

Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love!

Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in love; the snows above The very glaciers have his colours caught, And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

C.

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, –

Undying Love’s, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains; where the god Is a pervading life and light,—so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest; o’er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.

CI.

All things are here of HIM; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.

CII.

A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-formed and many coloured things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.

CIII.

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit: he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more, For this is Love’s recess, where vain men’s woes, And the world’s waste, have driven him far from those, For ‘tis his nature to advance or die; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

CIV.

‘Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections; but he found It was the scene which passion must allot To the mind’s purified beings; ‘twas the ground Where early Love his Psyche’s zone unbound, And hallowed it with loveliness: ‘tis lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne.

CV.

Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes Of names which unto you bequeathed a name; Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame:

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the while On man and man’s research could deign do more than smile.

CVI.

The one was fire and fickleness, a child Most mutable in wishes, but in mind

A wit as various,—gay, grave, sage, or wild, –

Historian, bard, philosopher combined: He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents: But his own Breathed most in ridicule,—which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, –

Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.

CVII.

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony,—that master spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, And doomed him to the zealot’s ready hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

CVIII.

Yet, peace be with their ashes,—for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid;

It is not ours to judge, far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all,—or hope and dread allayed By slumber on one pillow, in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, ‘Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.

CIX.

But let me quit man’s works, again to read His Maker’s spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end.

The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate’er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.

CX.

Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages;

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome’s imperial hill.

CXI.

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renewed with no kind auspices: —to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught, –

Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, –

Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul: —No matter,—it is taught.

CXII.

And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile, –

The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while.

Fame is the thirst of youth,—but I am not So young as to regard men’s frown or smile As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; I stood and stand alone,—remembered or forgot.

CXIII.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, –

Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd

They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.

CXIV.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, –

But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things,—hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the falling: I would also deem O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, –

That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

CXV.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun –

My daughter! with thy name this much shall end –

I see thee not, I hear thee not,—but none Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, –

A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould.

CXVI.

To aid thy mind’s development,—to watch Thy dawn of little joys,—to sit and see Almost thy very growth,—to view thee catch Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee!

To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss, –

This, it should seem, was not reserved for me Yet this was in my nature: —As it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

CXVII.

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation, and a broken claim: Though the grave closed between us,—‘twere the same, I know that thou wilt love me: though to drain MY blood from out thy being were an aim, And an attainment,—all would be in vain, –

Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.

CXVIII.

The child of love,—though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, and thine no less.

As yet such are around thee; but thy fire Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher.

Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O’er the sea, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!

CANTO THE FOURTH.

I.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand:

I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying glory smiles

O’er the far times when many a subject land Looked to the winged Lion’s marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

II.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.

In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

III.

In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone—but beauty still is here.

States fall, arts fade—but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

IV.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond

Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away –

The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

V.

The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create

And multiply in us a brighter ray

And more beloved existence: that which Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, First exiles, then replaces what we hate; Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.

VI.

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky, And the strange constellations which the Muse O’er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: VII.

I saw or dreamed of such,—but let them go –

They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams; And whatsoe’er they were—are now but so; I could replace them if I would: still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Let these too go—for waking reason deems Such overweening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround.

VIII.

I’ve taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with—ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, Not without cause; and should I leave behind The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, IX.

Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay My ashes in a soil which is not mine, My spirit shall resume it—if we may Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine My hopes of being remembered in my line With my land’s language: if too fond and far These aspirations in their scope incline, –

If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar.

X.

My name from out the temple where the dead Are honoured by the nations—let it be –

And light the laurels on a loftier head!

And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me –

‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’

Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted,—they have torn me, and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

XI.

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renewed, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood!

St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, Over the proud place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.

XII.

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns –

An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt From power’s high pinnacle, when they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward go Like lauwine loosened from the mountain’s belt: Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo!

The octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe.

XIII.

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria’s menace come to pass?

Are they not BRIDLED?—Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!

Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, Even in Destruction’s depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.

XIV.

In youth she was all glory,—a new Tyre, –

Her very byword sprung from victory, The ‘Planter of the Lion,’ which through fire And blood she bore o’er subject earth and sea; Though making many slaves, herself still free And Europe’s bulwark ‘gainst the Ottomite: Witness Troy’s rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto’s fight!

For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight.

XV.

Statues of glass—all shivered—the long file Of her dead doges are declined to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Have flung a desolate cloud o’er Venice’ lovely walls.

XVI.

When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse, And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, Her voice their only ransom from afar: See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the o’ermastered victor stops, the reins Fall from his hands—his idle scimitar Starts from its belt—he rends his captive’s chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains.

XVII.

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the bard divine, Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations,—most of all, Albion! to thee: the Ocean Queen should not Abandon Ocean’s children; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall.

XVIII.

I loved her from my boyhood: she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart,

Rising like water-columns from the sea, Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare’s art, Had stamped her image in me, and e’en so, Although I found her thus, we did not part, Perchance e’en dearer in her day of woe, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.

XIX.

I can repeople with the past—and of The present there is still for eye and thought, And meditation chastened down, enough; And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; And of the happiest moments which were wrought Within the web of my existence, some From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.

XX.

But from their nature will the tannen grow Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, Rooted in barrenness, where nought below Of soil supports them ‘gainst the Alpine shocks Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks The howling tempest, till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came, And grew a giant tree;—the mind may grow the same.

XXI.

Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance make its firm abode In bare and desolate bosoms: mute

The camel labours with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestowed In vain should such examples be; if they, Things of ignoble or of savage mood, Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear,—it is but for a day.

XXII.

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed, Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, Ends: —Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed, Return to whence they came—with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent, Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were formed to sink or climb.

XXIII.

But ever and anon of griefs subdued

There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever: it may be a sound –

A tone of music—summer’s eve—or spring –

A flower—the wind—the ocean—which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.

XXIV.

And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesigned, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, –

The cold—the changed—perchance the dead—anew, The mourned, the loved, the lost—too many!—yet how few!

XXV.

But my soul wanders; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins; there to track

Fall’n states and buried greatness, o’er a land Which WAS the mightiest in its old command, And IS the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of Nature’s heavenly hand, Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, The beautiful, the brave—the lords of earth and sea.

XXVI.

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome!

And even since, and now, fair Italy!

Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?

Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes’ fertility; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.

XXVII.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night –

Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli’s mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be –

Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the day joins the past eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian’s crest Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest!

XXVIII.

A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o’er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Rolled o’er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaimed her order: —gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows, XXIX.

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse:

And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o’er the mountains; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest, till—‘tis gone—and all is grey.

XXX.

There is a tomb in Arqua;—reared in air, Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura’s lover: here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes, The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

XXXI.

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and ‘tis their pride –

An honest pride—and let it be their praise, To offer to the passing stranger’s gaze His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain And venerably simple, such as raise

A feeling more accordant with his strain, Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane.

XXXII.

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality have felt, And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed In the deep umbrage of a green hill’s shade, Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, For they can lure no further; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday.

XXXIII.

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality,

If from society we learn to live,

‘Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone—man with his God must strive: XXXIV.

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were

Of moody texture from their earliest day, And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pass away; Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom.

XXXV.

Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, Whose symmetry was not for solitude, There seems as ‘twere a curse upon the seat’s Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood Of Este, which for many an age made good Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood Of petty power impelled, of those who wore The wreath which Dante’s brow alone had worn before.

XXXVI.

And Tasso is their glory and their shame.

Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell!

And see how dearly earned Torquato’s fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell.

The miserable despot could not quell The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scattered the clouds away—and on that name attend XXXVII.

The tears and praises of all time, while thine Would rot in its oblivion—in the sink Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line Is shaken into nothing; but the link Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn –

Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad’st to mourn: XXXVIII.

THOU! formed to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty: HE! with a glory round his furrowed brow, Which emanated then, and dazzles now In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow No strain which shamed his country’s creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth—monotony in wire!

XXXIX.

Peace to Torquato’s injured shade! ‘twas his In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Aimed with their poisoned arrows—but to miss.

Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song!

Each year brings forth its millions; but how long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun.

XL.

Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, The bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose The Tuscan father’s comedy divine;

Then, not unequal to the Florentine, The Southern Scott, the minstrel who called forth A new creation with his magic line,

And, like the Ariosto of the North,

Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth.

XLI.

The lightning rent from Ariosto’s bust The iron crown of laurel’s mimicked leaves; Nor was the ominous element unjust,

For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, Know that the lightning sanctifies below Whate’er it strikes;—yon head is doubly sacred now.

XLII.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast

The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame, And annals graved in characters of flame.

Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; XLIII.

Then mightst thou more appal; or, less desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, Would not be seen the armed torrents poured Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger’s sword Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe.

XLIV.

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, The Roman friend of Rome’s least mortal mind, The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, Came Megara before me, and behind

AEgina lay, Piraeus on the right,

And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined Along the prow, and saw all these unite In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; XLV.

For time hath not rebuilt them, but upreared Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site, Which only make more mourned and more endeared The few last rays of their far-scattered light, And the crushed relics of their vanished might.

The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage.

XLVI.

That page is now before me, and on mine HIS country’s ruin added to the mass Of perished states he mourned in their decline, And I in desolation: all that WAS

Of then destruction IS; and now, alas!

Rome—Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, In the same dust and blackness, and we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form,

Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm.

XLVII.

Yet, Italy! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand Was then our Guardian, and is still our guide; Parent of our religion! whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven!

Europe, repentant of her parricide,

Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.

XLVIII.

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls.

Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn.

Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, Was modern Luxury of Commerce born,

And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.

XLIX.

There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills The air around with beauty; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality; the veil

Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What Mind can make, when Nature’s self would fail; And to the fond idolaters of old

Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: L.

We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Reels with its fulness; there—for ever there –

Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art, We stand as captives, and would not depart.

Away!—there need no words, nor terms precise, The paltry jargon of the marble mart, Where Pedantry gulls Folly—we have eyes: Blood, pulse, and breast, confirm the Dardan Shepherd’s prize.

LI.

Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise?

Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War?

And gazing in thy face as toward a star, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn!

LII.

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, Their full divinity inadequate

That feeling to express, or to improve, The gods become as mortals, and man’s fate Has moments like their brightest! but the weight Of earth recoils upon us;—let it go!

We can recall such visions, and create From what has been, or might be, things which grow, Into thy statue’s form, and look like gods below.

LIII.

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, The artist and his ape, to teach and tell How well his connoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: Let these describe the undescribable: I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.

LIV.

In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lie

Ashes which make it holier, dust which is E’en in itself an immortality,

Though there were nothing save the past, and this The particle of those sublimities

Which have relapsed to chaos: —here repose Angelo’s, Alfieri’s bones, and his,

The starry Galileo, with his woes;

Here Machiavelli’s earth returned to whence it rose.

LV.

These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation: —Italy!

Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin: —thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity,

Which gilds it with revivifying ray; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day.

LVI.

But where repose the all Etruscan three –

Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he Of the Hundred Tales of love—where did they lay Their bones, distinguished from our common clay In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, And have their country’s marbles nought to say?

Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust?

Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust?

LVII.

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children’s children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages; and the crown Which Petrarch’s laureate brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled—not thine own.

LVIII.

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed His dust,—and lies it not her great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O’er him who formed the Tuscan’s siren tongue?

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech? No;—even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigots’ wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for WHOM?

LIX.

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Caesar’s pageant, shorn of Brutus’ bust, Did but of Rome’s best son remind her more: Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire! honoured sleeps The immortal exile;—Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps.

LX.

What is her pyramid of precious stones?

Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head.

LXI.

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arno’s dome of Art’s most princely shrine, Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; There be more marvels yet—but not for mine; For I have been accustomed to entwine My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields Than Art in galleries: though a work divine Calls for my spirit’s homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII.

Is of another temper, and I roam

By Thrasimene’s lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian’s warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoll’n to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o’er, LXIII.

Like to a forest felled by mountain winds; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, An earthquake reeled unheededly away!

None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet.

LXIV.

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to Eternity; they saw The Ocean round, but had no time to mark The motions of their vessel: Nature’s law, In them suspended, recked not of the awe Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds Stumble o’er heaving plains, and man’s dread hath no words.

LXV.

Far other scene is Thrasimene now;

Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta’en –

A little rill of scanty stream and bed –

A name of blood from that day’s sanguine rain; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.

LXVI.

But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e’er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters!

And most serene of aspect, and most clear: Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, A mirror and a bath for Beauty’s youngest daughters!

LXVII.

And on thy happy shore a temple still, Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, Upon a mild declivity of hill,

Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps Thy current’s calmness; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales, Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales.

LXVIII.

Pass not unblest the genius of the place!

If through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow, ‘tis his; and if ye trace Along his margin a more eloquent green, If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust Of weary life a moment lave it clean With Nature’s baptism,—‘tis to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.

LXIX.

The roar of waters!—from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; The fall of waters! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, LXX.

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground,

Making it all one emerald. How profound The gulf! and how the giant element

From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent LXXI.

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, With many windings through the vale: —Look back!

Lo! where it comes like an eternity, As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract, LXXII.

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: Resembling, mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.

LXXIII.

Once more upon the woody Apennine,

The infant Alps, which—had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar The thundering lauwine—might be worshipped more; But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, LXXIV.

The Acroceraunian mountains of old name; And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot, as ‘twere for fame, For still they soared unutterably high: I’ve looked on Ida with a Trojan’s eye; Athos, Olympus, AEtna, Atlas, made

These hills seem things of lesser dignity, All, save the lone Soracte’s height displayed, Not NOW in snow, which asks the lyric Roman’s aid LXXV.

For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain May he who will his recollections rake, And quote in classic raptures, and awake The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorred Too much, to conquer for the poet’s sake, The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record LXXVI.

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught My mind to meditate what then it learned, Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought, That, with the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought, If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor.

LXXVII.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse To understand, not feel, thy lyric flow, To comprehend, but never love thy verse, Although no deeper moralist rehearse Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art, Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce, Awakening without wounding the touched heart, Yet fare thee well—upon Soracte’s ridge we part.

LXXVIII.

O Rome! my country! city of the soul!

The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery.

What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O’er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!

Whose agonies are evils of a day—

A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

LXXIX.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless

Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?

Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!

LXXX.

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dwelt upon the seven-hilled city’s pride: She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site; –

Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O’er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, ‘Here was, or is,’ where all is doubly night?

LXXXI.

The double night of ages, and of her, Night’s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err: The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map; And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o’er recollections: now we clap Our hands, and cry, ‘Eureka!’ it is clear –

When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.

LXXXII.

Alas, the lofty city! and alas

The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day When Brutus made the dagger’s edge surpass The conqueror’s sword in bearing fame away!

Alas for Tully’s voice, and Virgil’s lay, And Livy’s pictured page! But these shall be Her resurrection; all beside—decay.

Alas for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!

LXXXIII.

O thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune’s wheel, Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue Thy country’s foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O’er prostrate Asia;—thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates—Roman, too,

With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown –

LXXXIV.

The dictatorial wreath,—couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made Thee more than mortal? and that so supine By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid?

She who was named eternal, and arrayed Her warriors but to conquer—she who veiled Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed Until the o’er-canopied horizon failed, Her rushing wings—Oh! she who was almighty hailed!

LXXXV.

Sylla was first of victors; but our own, The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell!—he Too swept off senates while he hewed the throne Down to a block—immortal rebel! See What crimes it costs to be a moment free And famous through all ages! But beneath His fate the moral lurks of destiny; His day of double victory and death

Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath.

LXXXVI.

The third of the same moon whose former course Had all but crowned him, on the self-same day Deposed him gently from his throne of force, And laid him with the earth’s preceding clay.

And showed not Fortune thus how fame and sway, And all we deem delightful, and consume Our souls to compass through each arduous way, Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb?

Were they but so in man’s, how different were his doom!

LXXXVII.

And thou, dread statue! yet existent in The austerest form of naked majesty, Thou who beheldest, mid the assassins’ din, At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, Folding his robe in dying dignity,

An offering to thine altar from the queen Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die, And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?

LXXXVIII.

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!

She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, Thou standest: —Mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat, Scorched by the Roman Jove’s ethereal dart, And thy limbs blacked with lightning—dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget?

LXXXIX.

Thou dost;—but all thy foster-babes are dead –

The men of iron; and the world hath reared Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled In imitation of the things they feared, And fought and conquered, and the same course steered, At apish distance; but as yet none have, Nor could, the same supremacy have neared, Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave, XC.

The fool of false dominion—and a kind Of bastard Caesar, following him of old With steps unequal; for the Roman’s mind Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould, With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, And an immortal instinct which redeemed The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold.

Alcides with the distaff now he seemed At Cleopatra’s feet, and now himself he beamed.

XCI.

And came, and saw, and conquered. But the man Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, With a deaf heart which never seemed to be A listener to itself, was strangely framed; With but one weakest weakness—vanity: Coquettish in ambition, still he aimed At what? Can he avouch, or answer what he claimed?

XCII.

And would be all or nothing—nor could wait For the sure grave to level him; few years Had fixed him with the Caesars in his fate, On whom we tread: For THIS the conqueror rears The arch of triumph! and for this the tears And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed, An universal deluge, which appears

Without an ark for wretched man’s abode, And ebbs but to reflow!—Renew thy rainbow, God!

XCIII.

What from this barren being do we reap?

Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, And all things weighed in custom’s falsest scale; Opinion an omnipotence, whose veil

Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.

XCIV.

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage

To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than be free, Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.

XCV.

I speak not of men’s creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker—but of things allowed, Averred, and known,—and daily, hourly seen –

The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed, And the intent of tyranny avowed,

The edict of Earth’s rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.

XCVI.

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she

Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?

Or must such minds be nourished in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled On infant Washington? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?

XCVII.

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been

To Freedom’s cause, in every age and clime; Because the deadly days which we have seen, And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips Life’s tree, and dooms man’s worst—his second fall.

XCVIII.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm AGAINST the wind; Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts,—and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.

XCIX.

There is a stern round tower of other days, Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army’s baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave

The green leaves over all by time o’erthrown: What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so locked, so hid?—A woman’s grave.

C.

But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?

Worthy a king’s—or more—a Roman’s bed?

What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?

What daughter of her beauties was the heir?

How lived—how loved—how died she? Was she not So honoured—and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?

CI.

Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others? such have been Even in the olden time, Rome’s annals say.

Was she a matron of Cornelia’s mien, Or the light air of Egypt’s graceful queen, Profuse of joy; or ‘gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean

To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?—for such the affections are.

CII.

Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o’er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favourites—early death; yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.

CIII.

Perchance she died in age—surviving all, Charms, kindred, children—with the silver grey On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome—But whither would Conjecture stray?

Thus much alone we know—Metella died, The wealthiest Roman’s wife: Behold his love or pride!

CIV.

I know not why—but standing thus by thee It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind; Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind, Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind; CV.

And from the planks, far shattered o’er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore

Where all lies foundered that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer?

There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.

CVI.

Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlet’s cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o’er the bird of darkness’ native site, Answer each other on the Palatine,

With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, And sailing pinions.—Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs?—let me not number mine.

CVII.

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped, Deeming it midnight: —Temples, baths, or halls?

Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped From her research hath been, that these are walls –

Behold the Imperial Mount! ‘tis thus the mighty falls.

CVIII.

There is the moral of all human tales: ‘Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory—when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption—barbarism at last.

And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but ONE page,—‘tis better written here, Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask—Away with words! draw near, CIX.

Admire, exult—despise—laugh, weep—for here There is such matter for all feeling: —Man!

Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, Ages and realms are crowded in this span, This mountain, whose obliterated plan The pyramid of empires pinnacled,

Of Glory’s gewgaws shining in the van Till the sun’s rays with added flame were filled!

Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?

CX.

Tully was not so eloquent as thou,

Thou nameless column with the buried base!

What are the laurels of the Caesar’s brow?

Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.

Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, Titus or Trajan’s? No; ‘tis that of Time: Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace, Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, CXI.

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, And looking to the stars; they had contained A spirit which with these would find a home, The last of those who o’er the whole earth reigned, The Roman globe, for after none sustained But yielded back his conquests: —he was more Than a mere Alexander, and unstained With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues—still we Trajan’s name adore.

CXII.

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep Tarpeian—fittest goal of Treason’s race, The promontory whence the traitor’s leap Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors heap Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep –

The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes—burns with Cicero!

CXIII.

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: Here a proud people’s passions were exhaled, From the first hour of empire in the bud To that when further worlds to conquer failed; But long before had Freedom’s face been veiled, And Anarchy assumed her attributes:

Till every lawless soldier who assailed Trod on the trembling Senate’s slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.

CXIV.

Then turn we to our latest tribune’s name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame –

The friend of Petrarch—hope of Italy –

Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree Of freedom’s withered trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it be—

The forum’s champion, and the people’s chief –

Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! too brief.

CXV.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast; whate’er thou art Or wert,—a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe’er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

CXVI.

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water-drops; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, Whose green wild margin now no more erase Art’s works; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, CXVII.

Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass; Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes, Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies.

CXVIII.

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befell?

This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love—the earliest oracle!

CXIX.

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Blend a celestial with a human heart; And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports? could thine art Make them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, Expel the venom and not blunt the dart –

The dull satiety which all destroys—

And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?

CXX.

Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert: whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies O’er the world’s wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants.

CXXI.

O Love! no habitant of earth thou art –

An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,—

A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, But never yet hath seen, nor e’er shall see, The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquenched soul—parched—wearied—wrung—and riven.

CXXII.

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation;—where, Where are the forms the sculptor’s soul hath seized?

In him alone. Can Nature show so fair?

Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreached Paradise of our despair, Which o’er-informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again.

CXXIII.

Who loves, raves—‘tis youth’s frenzy—but the cure Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind’s Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize—wealthiest when most undone.

CXXIV.

We wither from our youth, we gasp away –

Sick—sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first –

But all too late,—so are we doubly curst.

Love, fame, ambition, avarice—‘tis the same –

Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst –

For all are meteors with a different name, And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.

CXXV.

Few—none—find what they love or could have loved: Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed

Antipathies—but to recur, ere long, Envenomed with irrevocable wrong;

And Circumstance, that unspiritual god And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, Whose touch turns hope to dust—the dust we all have trod.

CXXVI.

Our life is a false nature—‘tis not in The harmony of things,—this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of sin,

This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew –

Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we see—

And worse, the woes we see not—which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.

CXXVII.

Yet let us ponder boldly—‘tis a base Abandonment of reason to resign

Our right of thought—our last and only place Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: Though from our birth the faculty divine Is chained and tortured—cabined, cribbed, confined, And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine Too brightly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind.

CXXVIII.

Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine As ‘twere its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX.

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, Floats o’er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit’s feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement,

For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.

CXXX.

O Time! the beautifier of the dead,

Adorner of the ruin, comforter

And only healer when the heart hath bled –

Time! the corrector where our judgments err, The test of truth, love,—sole philosopher, For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, Which never loses though it doth defer –

Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift

My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: CXXXI.

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate,

Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Ruins of years—though few, yet full of fate: If thou hast ever seen me too elate, Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain—shall THEY not mourn?

CXXXII.

And thou, who never yet of human wrong Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!

Here, where the ancients paid thee homage long –

Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution—just, Had it but been from hands less near—in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!

Dost thou not hear my heart?—Awake! thou shalt, and must.

CXXXIII.

It is not that I may not have incurred For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and had it been conferred With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound.

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; To thee I do devote it—THOU shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, Which if I have not taken for the sake –

But let that pass—I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake.

CXXXIV.

And if my voice break forth, ‘tis not that now I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, Or seen my mind’s convulsion leave it weak; But in this page a record will I seek.

Not in the air shall these my words disperse, Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse!

CXXXV.

That curse shall be forgiveness.—Have I not –

Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven! –

Have I not had to wrestle with my lot?

Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?

Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life’s life lied away?

And only not to desperation driven,

Because not altogether of such clay

As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.

CXXXVI.

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy

Have I not seen what human things could do?

From the loud roar of foaming calumny To the small whisper of the as paltry few And subtler venom of the reptile crew, The Janus glance of whose significant eye, Learning to lie with silence, would SEEM true, And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.

CXXXVII.

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, And my frame perish even in conquering pain, But there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire: Something unearthly, which they deem not of, Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre, Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.

CXXXVIII.

The seal is set.—Now welcome, thou dread Power Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here Walk’st in the shadow of the midnight hour With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear: Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen.

CXXXIX.

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man.

And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody circus’ genial laws, And the imperial pleasure.—Wherefore not?

What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms—on battle-plains or listed spot?

Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.

CXL.

I see before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand—his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low –

And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him: he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

CXLI.

He heard it, but he heeded not—his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, THERE were his young barbarians all at play, THERE was their Dacian mother—he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday –

All this rushed with his blood—Shall he expire, And unavenged?—Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

CXLII.

But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam; And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; Here, where the Roman million’s blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, My voice sounds much—and fall the stars’ faint rays On the arena void—seats crushed, walls bowed, And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.

CXLIII.

A ruin—yet what ruin! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared; Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, And marvel where the spoil could have appeared.

Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared?

Alas! developed, opens the decay,

When the colossal fabric’s form is neared: It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all, years, man, have reft away.

CXLIV.

But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, And the low night-breeze waves along the air, The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear, Like laurels on the bald first Caesar’s head; When the light shines serene, but doth not glare, Then in this magic circle raise the dead: Heroes have trod this spot—‘tis on their dust ye tread.

CXLV.

‘While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls—the World.’ From our own land Thus spake the pilgrims o’er this mighty wall In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient; and these three mortal things are still On their foundations, and unaltered all; Rome and her Ruin past Redemption’s skill, The World, the same wide den—of thieves, or what ye will.

CXLVI.

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime –

Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus—spared and blest by time; Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods His way through thorns to ashes—glorious dome!

Shalt thou not last?—Time’s scythe and tyrants’ rods Shiver upon thee—sanctuary and home Of art and piety—Pantheon!—pride of Rome!

CXLVII.

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts!

Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts—

To art a model; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds Her light through thy sole aperture; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close.

CXLVIII.

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again!

Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight –

Two insulated phantoms of the brain: It is not so: I see them full and plain –

An old man, and a female young and fair, Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar: —but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?

CXLIX.

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where ON the heart and FROM the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves –

What may the fruit be yet?—I know not—Cain was Eve’s.

CL.

But here youth offers to old age the food, The milk of his own gift: —it is her sire To whom she renders back the debt of blood Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great Nature’s Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt’s river: —from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man! heaven’s realm holds no such tide.

CLI.

The starry fable of the milky way

Has not thy story’s purity; it is

A constellation of a sweeter ray,

And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds: —Oh, holiest nurse!

No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire’s heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.

CLII.

Turn to the mole which Hadrian reared on high, Imperial mimic of old Egypt’s piles, Colossal copyist of deformity,

Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile’s Enormous model, doomed the artist’s toils To build for giants, and for his vain earth, His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles The gazer’s eye with philosophic mirth, To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth!

CLIII.

But lo! the dome—the vast and wondrous dome, To which Diana’s marvel was a cell—

Christ’s mighty shrine above his martyr’s tomb!

I have beheld the Ephesian’s miracle—

Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell The hyaena and the jackal in their shade; I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i’ the sun, and have surveyed Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed; CLIV.

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone—with nothing like to thee –

Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, Since Zion’s desolation, when that he Forsook his former city, what could be, Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,

Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.

CLV.

Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot,

Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou

Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.

CLVI.

Thou movest—but increasing with th’ advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Deceived by its gigantic elegance;

Vastness which grows—but grows to harmonise –

All musical in its immensities;

Rich marbles—richer painting—shrines where flame The lamps of gold—and haughty dome which vies In air with Earth’s chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-set ground—and this the clouds must claim.

CLVII.

Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break To separate contemplation, the great whole; And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye—so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart.

CLVIII.

Not by its fault—but thine: Our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp—and as it is That what we have of feeling most intense Outstrips our faint expression; e’en so this Outshining and o’erwhelming edifice

Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great Defies at first our nature’s littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate.

CLIX.

Then pause and be enlightened; there is more In such a survey than the sating gaze Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore The worship of the place, or the mere praise Of art and its great masters, who could raise What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan; The fountain of sublimity displays

Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can.

CLX.

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see

Laocoon’s torture dignifying pain –

A father’s love and mortal’s agony

With an immortal’s patience blending: —Vain The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon’s grasp, The old man’s clench; the long envenomed chain Rivets the living links,—the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.

CLXI.

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and light –

The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shaft hath just been shot—the arrow bright With an immortal’s vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity.

CLXII.

But in his delicate form—a dream of Love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Longed for a deathless lover from above, And maddened in that vision—are expressed All that ideal beauty ever blessed

The mind within its most unearthly mood, When each conception was a heavenly guest –

A ray of immortality—and stood

Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god?

CLXIII.

And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given

Which this poetic marble hath arrayed With an eternal glory—which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust—nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which ‘twas wrought.

CLXIV.

But where is he, the pilgrim of my song, The being who upheld it through the past?

Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.

He is no more—these breathings are his last; His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, And he himself as nothing: —if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed With forms which live and suffer—let that pass –

His shadow fades away into Destruction’s mass, CLXV.

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inherit in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Thro’ which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks and all which ever glowed, Till Glory’s self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo scarce allowed

To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXVI.

And send us prying into the abyss,

To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolved to something less than this Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, And wipe the dust from off the idle name We never more shall hear,—but never more, Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: It is enough, in sooth, that ONCE we bore These fardels of the heart—the heart whose sweat was gore.

CLXVII.

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long, low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds

With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground.

The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

CLXVIII.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?

Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?

Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, The mother of a moment, o’er thy boy, Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.

CLXIX.

Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored!

Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom’s heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for One; for she had poured Her orisons for thee, and o’er thy head Beheld her Iris.—Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort—vainly wert thou wed!

The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

CLXX.

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made: Thy bridal’s fruit is ashes; in the dust The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid, The love of millions! How we did entrust Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed Our children should obey her child, and blessed Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed Like star to shepherd’s eyes; ‘twas but a meteor beamed.

CLXXI.

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o’erstrung Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, –

CLXXII.

These might have been her destiny; but no, Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, Good without effort, great without a foe; But now a bride and mother—and now THERE!

How many ties did that stern moment tear!

From thy Sire’s to his humblest subject’s breast Is linked the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake’s, and oppressed The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee best.

CLXXIII.

Lo, Nemi! navelled in the woody hills So far, that the uprooting wind which tears The oak from his foundation, and which spills The ocean o’er its boundary, and bears Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake;

And, calm as cherished hate, its surface wears A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake.

CLXXIV.

And near Albano’s scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley;—and afar The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, ‘Arms and the Man,’ whose reascending star Rose o’er an empire,—but beneath thy right Tully reposed from Rome;—and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard’s delight.

CLXXV.

But I forget.—My pilgrim’s shrine is won, And he and I must part,—so let it be, –

His task and mine alike are nearly done; Yet once more let us look upon the sea: The midland ocean breaks on him and me, And from the Alban mount we now behold Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we Beheld it last by Calpe’s rock unfold Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolled CLXXVI.

Upon the blue Symplegades: long years –

Long, though not very many—since have done Their work on both; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun: Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, We have had our reward—and it is here; That we can yet feel gladdened by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear.

CLXXVII.

Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her!

Ye Elements!—in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted—can ye not

Accord me such a being? Do I err

In deeming such inhabit many a spot?

Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.

CLXXVIII.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

CLXXIX.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin—his control Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

CLXXX.

His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.

CLXXXI.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals.

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

CLXXXII.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee –

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?

Thy waters washed them power while they were free And many a tyrant since: their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play –

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow –

Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

CLXXXIII.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;—boundless, endless, and sublime –

The image of Eternity—the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

CLXXXIV.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror—‘twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

CLXXXV.

My task is done—my song hath ceased—my theme Has died into an echo; it is fit

The spell should break of this protracted dream.

The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit My midnight lamp—and what is writ, is writ –

Would it were worthier! but I am not now That which I have been—and my visions flit Less palpably before me—and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.

CLXXXVI.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been –

A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell!

Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain

He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop shell; Farewell! with HIM alone may rest the pain, If such there were—with YOU, the moral of his strain.

Footnotes:

{1} Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford.

CONTENTS

 INTRODUCTION
 FIRST BOOK
 SECOND BOOK
 THIRD BOOK
 FOURTH BOOK
 FIFTH BOOK
 SIXTH BOOK
 SEVENTH BOOK
 EIGHTH BOOK
 NINTH BOOK
 TENTH BOOK
 ELEVENTH BOOK
 TWELFTH BOOK
 APPENDIX
 GLOSSARY

INTRODUCTION

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS was born on April 26, A.D. 121. His real name was M. Annius Verus, and he was sprung of a noble family which claimed descent from Numa, second King of Rome. Thus the most religious of emperors came of the blood of the most pious of early kings. His father, Annius Verus, had held high office in Rome, and his grandfather, of the same name, had been thrice Consul. Both his parents died young, but Marcus held them in loving remembrance. On his father’s death Marcus was adopted by his grandfather, the consular Annius Verus, and there was deep love between these two. On the very first page of his book Marcus
gratefully declares how of his grandfather he had learned to be gentle and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. The Emperor Hadrian divined the fine character of the lad, whom he used to call not Verus but Verissimus, more Truthful than his own name. He advanced Marcus to equestrian rank when six years of age, and at the age of eight made him a member of the ancient Salian priesthood. The boy’s aunt, Annia Galeria Faustina, was married to Antoninus Pius, afterwards emperor. Hence it came about that Antoninus, having no son, adopted Marcus, changing his
name to that which he is known by, and betrothed him to his daughter Faustina. His education was conducted with all care. The ablest teachers were engaged for him, and he was trained in the strict doctrine of the Stoic philosophy, which was his great delight. He was taught to dress plainly and to live simply, to avoid all softness and luxury. His body was trained to hardihood by wrestling, hunting, and outdoor games; and though his constitution was weak, he showed great personal courage to encounter the fiercest boars. At the same time he was kept from the extravagancies of his day. The great excitement in Rome was the strife of the Factions, as they were called, in the circus. The racing drivers used to adopt one of four colours–red, blue, white, or green–and their partisans showed an eagerness in supporting them which nothing could surpass. Riot and corruption went in the train of the racing chariots; and from all these things Marcus held severely aloof.

In 140 Marcus was raised to the consulship, and in 145 his betrothal
was consummated by marriage. Two years later Faustina brought him a daughter; and soon after the tribunate and other imperial honours were conferred upon him.

Antoninus Pius died in 161, and Marcus assumed the imperial state. He at once associated with himself L. Ceionius Commodus, whom Antoninus had adopted as a younger son at the same time with Marcus, giving him the name of Lucius Aurelius Verus. Henceforth the two are colleagues in the empire, the junior being trained as it were to succeed. No sooner was
Marcus settled upon the throne than wars broke out on all sides. In
the east, Vologeses III. of Parthia began a long-meditated revolt by
destroying a whole Roman Legion and invading Syria (162). Verus was sent
off in hot haste to quell this rising; and he fulfilled his trust by
plunging into drunkenness and debauchery, while the war was left to his
officers. Soon after Marcus had to face a more serious danger at home in
the coalition of several powerful tribes on the northern frontier. Chief
among those were the Marcomanni or Marchmen, the Quadi (mentioned in
this book), the Sarmatians, the Catti, the Jazyges. In Rome itself there
was pestilence and starvation, the one brought from the east by Verus’s
legions, the other caused by floods which had destroyed vast quantities
of grain. After all had been done possible to allay famine and to supply
pressing needs–Marcus being forced even to sell the imperial jewels to
find money–both emperors set forth to a struggle which was to continue
more or less during the rest of Marcus’s reign. During these wars, in
169, Verus died. We have no means of following the campaigns in detail;
but thus much is certain, that in the end the Romans succeeded in
crushing the barbarian tribes, and effecting a settlement which made the
empire more secure. Marcus was himself commander-in-chief, and victory
was due no less to his own ability than to his wisdom in choice of
lieutenants, shown conspicuously in the case of Pertinax. There were
several important battles fought in these campaigns; and one of them has
become celebrated for the legend of the Thundering Legion. In a battle
against the Quadi in 174, the day seemed to be going in favour of
the foe, when on a sudden arose a great storm of thunder and rain the
lightning struck the barbarians with terror, and they turned to rout.
In later days this storm was said to have been sent in answer to the
prayers of a legion which contained many Christians, and the name
Thundering Legion should be given to it on this account. The title of
Thundering Legion is known at an earlier date, so this part of the story at least cannot be true; but the aid of the storm is acknowledged by one of the scenes carved on Antonine’s Column at Rome, which commemorates these wars.

The settlement made after these troubles might have been more
satisfactory but for an unexpected rising in the east. Avidius Cassius,
an able captain who had won renown in the Parthian wars, was at this
time chief governor of the eastern provinces. By whatever means induced,
he had conceived the project of proclaiming himself emperor as soon as
Marcus, who was then in feeble health, should die; and a report having
been conveyed to him that Marcus was dead, Cassius did as he had
planned. Marcus, on hearing the news, immediately patched up a peace and
returned home to meet this new peril. The emperors great grief was that
he must needs engage in the horrors of civil strife. He praised the
qualities of Cassius, and expressed a heartfelt wish that Cassius might
not be driven to do himself a hurt before he should have the opportunity
to grant a free pardon. But before he could come to the east news had
come to Cassius that the emperor still lived; his followers fell away
from him, and he was assassinated. Marcus now went to the east, and
while there the murderers brought the head of Cassius to him; but the
emperor indignantly refused their gift, nor would he admit the men to his presence.

On this journey his wife, Faustina, died. At his return the emperor
celebrated a triumph (176). Immediately afterwards he repaired to
Germany, and took up once more the burden of war. His operations were followed by complete success; but the troubles of late years had been too much for his constitution, at no time robust, and on March 17, 180, he died in Pannonia.

The good emperor was not spared domestic troubles. Faustina had borne
him several children, of whom he was passionately fond. Their innocent
faces may still be seen in many a sculpture gallery, recalling with odd
effect the dreamy countenance of their father. But they died one by
one, and when Marcus came to his own end only one of his sons still
lived–the weak and worthless Commodus. On his father’s death Commodus,
who succeeded him, undid the work of many campaigns by a hasty and
unwise peace; and his reign of twelve years proved him to be a ferocious
and bloodthirsty tyrant. Scandal has made free with the name of Faustina
herself, who is accused not only of unfaithfulness, but of intriguing
with Cassius and egging him on to his fatal rebellion, it must be
admitted that these charges rest on no sure evidence; and the emperor,
at all events, loved her dearly, nor ever felt the slightest qualm of suspicion.

As a soldier we have seen that Marcus was both capable and successful;
as an administrator he was prudent and conscientious. Although steeped
in the teachings of philosophy, he did not attempt to remodel the world
on any preconceived plan. He trod the path beaten by his predecessors,
seeking only to do his duty as well as he could, and to keep out
corruption. He did some unwise things, it is true. To create a compeer
in empire, as he did with Verus, was a dangerous innovation which could
only succeed if one of the two effaced himself; and under Diocletian
this very precedent caused the Roman Empire to split into halves. He
erred in his civil administration by too much centralising. But the
strong point of his reign was the administration of justice. Marcus
sought by-laws to protect the weak, to make the lot of the slaves
less hard, to stand in place of father to the fatherless. Charitable
foundations were endowed for rearing and educating poor children. The
provinces were protected against oppression, and public help was given
to cities or districts which might be visited by calamity. The great
blot on his name, and one hard indeed to explain, is his treatment
of the Christians. In his reign Justin at Rome became a martyr to
his faith, and Polycarp at Smyrna, and we know of many outbreaks of
fanaticism in the provinces which caused the death of the faithful. It
is no excuse to plead that he knew nothing about the atrocities done in
his name: it was his duty to know, and if he did not he would have been
the first to confess that he had failed in his duty. But from his own
tone in speaking of the Christians it is clear he knew them only from
calumny; and we hear of no measures taken even to secure that they
should have a fair hearing. In this respect Trajan was better than he.

To a thoughtful mind such a religion as that of Rome would give small satisfaction. Its legends were often childish or impossible; its
teaching had little to do with morality. The Roman religion was in fact of the nature of a bargain: men paid certain sacrifices and rites, and the gods granted their favour, irrespective of right or wrong. In this case all devout souls were thrown back upon philosophy, as they had been, though to a less extent, in Greece. There were under the early empire two rival schools which practically divided the field between them, Stoicism and Epicureanism. The ideal set before each was nominally much the same. The Stoics aspired to the repression of all emotion, and the Epicureans to freedom from all disturbance; yet in the upshot the one has become a synonym of stubborn endurance, the other for unbridled licence. With Epicureanism we have nothing to do now; but it will be worth while to sketch the history and tenets of the Stoic sect. Zeno,
the founder of Stoicism, was born in Cyprus at some date unknown, but
his life may be said roughly to be between the years 350 and 250 B.C.
Cyprus has been from time immemorial a meeting-place of the East and
West, and although we cannot grant any importance to a possible strain
of Phoenician blood in him (for the Phoenicians were no philosophers), yet it is quite likely that through Asia Minor he may have come in touch with the Far East. He studied under the cynic Crates, but he did not neglect other philosophical systems. After many years’ study he opened his own school in a colonnade in Athens called the Painted Porch, or Stoa, which gave the Stoics their name. Next to Zeno, the School of the Porch owes most to Chrysippus (280–207 b.c.), who organised Stoicism into a system. Of him it was said, ‘But for Chrysippus, there had been
no Porch.’

The Stoics regarded speculation as a means to an end and that end was, as Zeno put it, to live consistently omologonuenws zhn or as it was later explained, to live in conformity with nature. This conforming of the life to nature oralogoumenwz th fusei zhn. was the Stoic idea of Virtue.

This dictum might easily be taken to mean that virtue consists in
yielding to each natural impulse; but that was very far from the Stoic
meaning. In order to live in accord with nature, it is necessary to know what nature is; and to this end a threefold division of philosophy is made–into Physics, dealing with the universe and its laws, the problems of divine government and teleology; Logic, which trains the mind to discern true from false; and Ethics, which applies the knowledge thus gained and tested to practical life. The Stoic system of physics was materialism with an infusion of pantheism. In contradiction to Plato’s view that the Ideas, or Prototypes, of phenomena alone really exist, the Stoics held that material objects alone existed; but immanent in the material universe was a spiritual force which acted through them, manifesting itself under many forms, as fire, aether, spirit, soul, reason, the ruling principle.

The universe, then, is God, of whom the popular gods are manifestations; while legends and myths are allegorical. The soul of man is thus an emanation from the godhead, into whom it will eventually be re-absorbed. The divine ruling principle makes all things work together for good, but for the good of the whole. The highest good of man is consciously to work with God for the common good, and this is the sense in which the Stoic tried to live in accord with nature. In the individual it is virtue alone which enables him to do this; as Providence rules the universe, so virtue in the soul must rule man.

In Logic, the Stoic system is noteworthy for their theory as to the test
of truth, the Criterion. They compared the new-born soul to a sheet of paper ready for writing. Upon this the senses write their impressions,
fantasias and by experience of a number of these the soul unconsciously
conceives general notions koinai eunoiai or anticipations. prolhyeis
When the impression was such as to be irresistible it was called
(katalnptikh fantasia) one that holds fast, or as they explained it,
one proceeding from truth. Ideas and inferences artificially produced by
deduction or the like were tested by this ‘holding perception.’ Of the
Ethical application I have already spoken. The highest good was the
virtuous life. Virtue alone is happiness, and vice is unhappiness.
Carrying this theory to its extreme, the Stoic said that there could
be no gradations between virtue and vice, though of course each has
its special manifestations. Moreover, nothing is good but virtue, and
nothing but vice is bad. Those outside things which are commonly called
good or bad, such as health and sickness, wealth and poverty, pleasure
and pain, are to him indifferent adiofora. All these things are merely
the sphere in which virtue may act. The ideal Wise Man is sufficient
unto himself in all things, autarkhs and knowing these truths, he will
be happy even when stretched upon the rack. It is probable that no Stoic
claimed for himself that he was this Wise Man, but that each strove
after it as an ideal much as the Christian strives after a likeness to
Christ. The exaggeration in this statement was, however, so obvious,
that the later Stoics were driven to make a further subdivision of
things indifferent into what is preferable (prohgmena) and what is
undesirable. They also held that for him who had not attained to the
perfect wisdom, certain actions were proper. (kaqhkonta) These were
neither virtuous nor vicious, but, like the indifferent things, held a
middle place. Two points in the Stoic system deserve special mention.
One is a careful distinction between things which are in our power and
things which are not. Desire and dislike, opinion and affection, are
within the power of the will; whereas health, wealth, honour, and other
such are generally not so. The Stoic was called upon to control his
desires and affections, and to guide his opinion; to bring his whole
being under the sway of the will or leading principle, just as the
universe is guided and governed by divine Providence. This is a special
application of the favourite Greek virtue of moderation, (swfrosuum) and
has also its parallel in Christian ethics. The second point is a strong
insistence on the unity of the universe, and on man’s duty as part of a great whole. Public spirit was the most splendid political virtue of the ancient world, and it is here made cosmopolitan. It is again instructive to note that Christian sages insisted on the same thing. Christians are taught that they are members of a worldwide brotherhood, where is neither Greek nor Hebrew, bond nor free and that they live their lives as fellow-workers with God.

Such is the system which underlies the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Some knowledge of it is necessary to the right understanding of the book, but for us the chief interest lies elsewhere. We do not come to Marcus Aurelius for a treatise on Stoicism. He is no head of a school to lay down a body of doctrine for students; he does not even contemplate that others should read what he writes. His philosophy is not an eager intellectual inquiry, but more what we should call religious feeling. The uncompromising stiffness of Zeno or Chrysippus is softened and transformed by passing through a nature reverent and tolerant, gentle and free from guile; the grim resignation which made life possible to the Stoic sage becomes in him almost a mood of aspiration. His book records the innermost thoughts of his heart, set down to ease it, with such moral maxims and reflections as may help him to bear the burden of duty and the countless annoyances of a busy life.

It is instructive to compare the Meditations with another famous book,
the Imitation of Christ. There is the same ideal of self-control in
both. It should be a man’s task, says the Imitation, ‘to overcome
himself, and every day to be stronger than himself.’ ‘In withstanding of
the passions standeth very peace of heart.’ ‘Let us set the axe to the
root, that we being purged of our passions may have a peaceable mind.’
To this end there must be continual self-examination. ‘If thou may not
continually gather thyself together, namely sometimes do it, at least
once a day, the morning or the evening. In the morning purpose, in the
evening discuss the manner, what thou hast been this day, in word, work,
and thought.’ But while the Roman’s temper is a modest self-reliance,
the Christian aims at a more passive mood, humbleness and meekness,
and reliance on the presence and personal friendship of God. The Roman
scrutinises his faults with severity, but without the self-contempt
which makes the Christian ‘vile in his own sight.’ The Christian, like
the Roman, bids ‘study to withdraw thine heart from the love of things
visible’; but it is not the busy life of duty he has in mind so much as
the contempt of all worldly things, and the ‘cutting away of all
lower delectations.’ Both rate men’s praise or blame at their real
worthlessness; ‘Let not thy peace,’ says the Christian, ‘be in the
mouths of men.’ But it is to God’s censure the Christian appeals, the
Roman to his own soul. The petty annoyances of injustice or unkindness
are looked on by each with the same magnanimity. ‘Why doth a little
thing said or done against thee make thee sorry? It is no new thing; it is not the first, nor shall it be the last, if thou live long. At best
suffer patiently, if thou canst not suffer joyously.’ The Christian
should sorrow more for other men’s malice than for our own wrongs; but the Roman is inclined to wash his hands of the offender. ‘Study to be patient in suffering and bearing other men’s defaults and all manner infirmities,’ says the Christian; but the Roman would never have thought
to add, ‘If all men were perfect, what had we then to suffer of other
men for God?’ The virtue of suffering in itself is an idea which does
not meet us in the Meditations. Both alike realise that man is one of a great community. ‘No man is sufficient to himself,’ says the Christian;
‘we must bear together, help together, comfort together.’ But while
he sees a chief importance in zeal, in exalted emotion that is, and
avoidance of lukewarmness, the Roman thought mainly of the duty to be done as well as might be, and less of the feeling which should go with the doing of it. To the saint as to the emperor, the world is a poor thing at best. ‘Verily it is a misery to live upon the earth,’ says the Christian; few and evil are the days of man’s life, which passeth away suddenly as a shadow.

But there is one great difference between the two books we are
considering. The Imitation is addressed to others, the Meditations
by the writer to himself. We learn nothing from the Imitation of
the author’s own life, except in so far as he may be assumed to have
practised his own preachings; the Meditations reflect mood by mood the mind of him who wrote them. In their intimacy and frankness lies their great charm. These notes are not sermons; they are not even confessions. There is always an air of self-consciousness in confessions; in such revelations there is always a danger of unctuousness or of vulgarity for the best of men. St. Augus-tine is not always clear of offence, and John Bunyan himself exaggerates venial peccadilloes into heinous sins. But Marcus Aurelius is neither vulgar nor unctuous; he extenuates nothing, but nothing sets down in malice. He never poses before an audience; he may not be profound, he is always sincere. And it is a lofty and serene
soul which is here disclosed before us. Vulgar vices seem to have no
temptation for him; this is not one tied and bound with chains which
he strives to break. The faults he detects in himself are often such as
most men would have no eyes to see. To serve the divine spirit which
is implanted within him, a man must ‘keep himself pure from all violent passion and evil affection, from all rashness and vanity, and from all manner of discontent, either in regard of the gods or men’: or, as he says elsewhere, ‘unspotted by pleasure, undaunted by pain.’ Unwavering courtesy and consideration are his aims. ‘Whatsoever any man either doth or saith, thou must be good;’ ‘doth any man offend? It is against himself that he doth offend: why should it trouble thee?’ The offender needs pity, not wrath; those who must needs be corrected, should be treated with tact and gentleness; and one must be always ready to learn better. ‘The best kind of revenge is, not to become like unto them.’ There are so many hints of offence forgiven, that we may believe the notes followed sharp on the facts. Perhaps he has fallen short of his aim, and thus seeks to call his principles to mind, and to strengthen himself for the future. That these sayings are not mere talk is plain from the story of Avidius Cassius, who would have usurped his imperial throne. Thus the emperor faithfully carries out his own principle, that evil must be overcome with good. For each fault in others, Nature (says he) has given us a counteracting virtue; ‘as, for example, against the unthankful, it hath given goodness and meekness, as an antidote.’

One so gentle towards a foe was sure to be a good friend; and indeed his pages are full of generous gratitude to those who had served him. In his First Book he sets down to account all the debts due to his kinsfolk and teachers. To his grandfather he owed his own gentle spirit, to his father shame fastness and courage; he learnt of his mother to be religious and bountiful and single-minded. Rusticus did not work in vain, if he showed his pupil that his life needed amending. Apollonius taught him simplicity, reasonableness, gratitude, a love of true liberty. So the list runs on; every one he had dealings with seems to have given him something good, a sure proof of the goodness of his nature, which thought no evil.

If his was that honest and true heart which is the Christian ideal, this
is the more wonderful in that he lacked the faith which makes Christians
strong. He could say, it is true, ‘either there is a God, and then all
is well; or if all things go by chance and fortune, yet mayest thou use
thine own providence in those things that concern thee properly; and
then art thou well.’ Or again, ‘We must needs grant that there is a
nature that doth govern the universe.’ But his own part in the scheme
of things is so small, that he does not hope for any personal happiness
beyond what a serene soul may win in this mortal life. ‘O my soul, the
time I trust will be, when thou shalt be good, simple, more open and
visible, than that body by which it is enclosed;’ but this is said of
the calm contentment with human lot which he hopes to attain, not of a
time when the trammels of the body shall be cast off. For the rest, the
world and its fame and wealth, ‘all is vanity.’ The gods may perhaps
have a particular care for him, but their especial care is for the
universe at large: thus much should suffice. His gods are better than
the Stoic gods, who sit aloof from all human things, untroubled and
uncaring, but his personal hope is hardly stronger. On this point he
says little, though there are many allusions to death as the natural
end; doubtless he expected his soul one day to be absorbed into the
universal soul, since nothing comes out of nothing, and nothing can be
annihilated. His mood is one of strenuous weariness; he does his duty as
a good soldier, waiting for the sound of the trumpet which shall sound
the retreat; he has not that cheerful confidence which led Socrates
through a life no less noble, to a death which was to bring him into the
company of gods he had worshipped and men whom he had revered.

But although Marcus Aurelius may have held intellectually that his soul
was destined to be absorbed, and to lose consciousness of itself, there
were times when he felt, as all who hold it must sometimes feel, how
unsatisfying is such a creed. Then he gropes blindly after something
less empty and vain. ‘Thou hast taken ship,’ he says, ‘thou hast sailed,
thou art come to land, go out, if to another life, there also shalt
thou find gods, who are everywhere.’ There is more in this than the
assumption of a rival theory for argument’s sake. If worldly things
‘be but as a dream, the thought is not far off that there may be an
awakening to what is real. When he speaks of death as a necessary
change, and points out that nothing useful and profitable can be brought
about without change, did he perhaps think of the change in a corn of
wheat, which is not quickened except it die? Nature’s marvellous power
of recreating out of Corruption is surely not confined to bodily things.
Many of his thoughts sound like far-off echoes of St. Paul; and it is
strange indeed that this most Christian of emperors has nothing good
to say of the Christians. To him they are only sectaries ‘violently and
passionately set upon opposition.

Profound as philosophy these Meditations certainly are not; but Marcus
Aurelius was too sincere not to see the essence of such things as
came within his experience. Ancient religions were for the most
part concerned with outward things. Do the necessary rites, and you
propitiate the gods; and these rites were often trivial, sometimes
violated right feeling or even morality. Even when the gods stood on the
side of righteousness, they were concerned with the act more than with
the intent. But Marcus Aurelius knows that what the heart is full of,
the man will do. ‘Such as thy thoughts and ordinary cogitations are,’ he
says, ‘such will thy mind be in time.’ And every page of the book shows
us that he knew thought was sure to issue in act. He drills his soul, as
it were, in right principles, that when the time comes, it may be guided
by them. To wait until the emergency is to be too late. He sees also the
true essence of happiness. ‘If happiness did consist in pleasure,
how came notorious robbers, impure abominable livers, parricides, and
tyrants, in so large a measure to have their part of pleasures?’ He who
had all the world’s pleasures at command can write thus ‘A happy lot and
portion is, good inclinations of the soul, good desires, good actions.’

By the irony of fate this man, so gentle and good, so desirous of quiet
joys and a mind free from care, was set at the head of the Roman Empire
when great dangers threatened from east and west. For several years he himself commanded his armies in chief. In camp before the Quadi he dates the first book of his Meditations, and shows how he could retire within himself amid the coarse clangour of arms. The pomps and glories which
he despised were all his; what to most men is an ambition or a dream, to
him was a round of weary tasks which nothing but the stern sense of duty
could carry him through. And he did his work well. His wars were slow and tedious, but successful. With a statesman’s wisdom he foresaw the danger to Rome of the barbarian hordes from the north, and took measures to meet it. As it was, his settlement gave two centuries of respite to the Roman Empire; had he fulfilled the plan of pushing the imperial frontiers to the Elbe, which seems to have been in his mind, much more might have been accomplished. But death cut short his designs.

Truly a rare opportunity was given to Marcus Aurelius of showing what the mind can do in despite of circumstances. Most peaceful of warriors, a magnificent monarch whose ideal was quiet happiness in home life, bent to obscurity yet born to greatness, the loving father of children who died young or turned out hateful, his life was one paradox. That nothing might lack, it was in camp before the face of the enemy that he passed away and went to his own place.

Translations THE following is a list of the chief English translations
of Marcus Aurelius: (1) By Meric Casaubon, 1634; (2) Jeremy Collier,
1701; (3) James Thomson, 1747; (4) R. Graves, 1792; (5) H. McCormac,
1844; (6) George Long, 1862; (7) G. H. Rendall, 1898; and (8) J.
Jackson, 1906. Renan’s “Marc-Aurèle”–in his “History of the Origins of Christianity,” which appeared in 1882–is the most vital and original book to be had relating to the time of Marcus Aurelius. Pater’s “Marius the Epicurean” forms another outside commentary, which is of service in the imaginative attempt to create again the period.

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS THE ROMAN EMPEROR

HIS FIRST BOOK

concerning HIMSELF:

Wherein Antoninus recordeth, What and of whom, whether Parents, Friends, or Masters; by their good examples, or good advice and counsel, he had learned:

Divided into Numbers or Sections.

ANTONINUS Book vi. Num. xlviii. Whensoever thou wilt rejoice thyself, think and meditate upon those good parts and especial gifts, which thou hast observed in any of them that live with thee: as industry in one, in another modesty, in another bountifulness, in
another some other thing. For nothing can so much rejoice thee, as
the resemblances and parallels of several virtues, eminent in the
dispositions of them that live with thee, especially when all at once,
as it were, they represent themselves unto thee. See therefore, that
thou have them always in a readiness.

THE FIRST BOOK

I. Of my grandfather Verus I have learned to be gentle and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. From the fame and memory of him that begot me I have learned both shame fastness and manlike behavior. Of my mother I have learned to be religious, and bountiful; and to forbear, not only to do, but to intend any evil; to content myself with a spare diet, and to fly all such excess as is incidental to great wealth. Of my great-grandfather, both to frequent public schools and auditories, and to get me good and able teachers at home; and that I ought not to think much, if upon such occasions, I were at excessive charges.

II. Of him that brought me up, not to be fondly addicted to either of
the two great factions of the coursers in the circus, called Prasini,
and Veneti: nor in the amphitheatre partially to favour any of the
gladiators, or fencers, as either the Parmularii, or the Secutores.
Moreover, to endure labour; nor to need many things; when I have
anything to do, to do it myself rather than by others; not to meddle
with many businesses; and not easily to admit of any slander.

III. Of Diognetus, not to busy myself about vain things, and not easily
to believe those things, which are commonly spoken, by such as take upon them to work wonders, and by sorcerers, or prestidigitators, and impostors; concerning the power of charms, and their driving out of demons, or evil spirits; and the like. Not to keep quails for the game; nor to be mad after such things. Not to be offended with other men’s liberty of speech, and to apply myself unto philosophy. Him also I must thank, that ever I heard first Bacchius, then Tandasis and Marcianus, and that I did write dialogues in my youth; and that I took liking to the philosophers’ little couch and skins, and such other things, which by the Grecian discipline are proper to those who profess philosophy.

IV. To Rusticus I am beholding, that I first entered into the conceit
that my life wanted some redress and cure. And then, that I did not
fall into the ambition of ordinary sophists, either to write tracts
concerning the common theorems, or to exhort men unto virtue and the
study of philosophy by public orations; as also that I never by way of
ostentation did affect to show myself an active able man, for any kind
of bodily exercises. And that I gave over the study of rhetoric and
poetry, and of elegant neat language. That I did not use to walk about
the house in my long robe, nor to do any such things. Moreover I learned
of him to write letters without any affectation, or curiosity; such as
that was, which by him was written to my mother from Sinuessa: and to be easy and ready to be reconciled, and well pleased again with them that had offended me, as soon as any of them would be content to seek unto me again. To read with diligence; not to rest satisfied with a light and superficial knowledge, nor quickly to assent to things commonly spoken of: whom also I must thank that ever I lighted upon Epictetus his Hypomnemata, or moral commentaries and common-factions: which also he gave me of his own.

V. From Apollonius, true liberty, and unvariable steadfastness, and not to regard anything at all, though never so little, but right and reason: and always, whether in the sharpest pains, or after the loss of a child, or in long diseases, to be still the same man; who also was a present and visible example unto me, that it was possible for the same man to be both vehement and remiss: a man not subject to be vexed, and offended with the incapacity of his scholars and auditors in his lectures and expositions; and a true pattern of a man who of all his good gifts and faculties, least esteemed in himself, that his excellent skill and ability to teach and persuade others the common theorems and maxims of the Stoic philosophy. Of him also I learned how to receive favors and kindnesses (as commonly they are accounted:) from friends, so that I might not become obnoxious unto them, for them, nor more yielding upon occasion, than in right I ought; and yet so that I should not pass them neither, as an unsensible and unthankful man.

VI. Of Sextus, mildness and the pattern of a family governed with
paternal affection; and a purpose to live according to nature: to be
grave without affectation: to observe carefully the several dispositions
of my friends, not to be offended with idiots, nor unseasonably to set
upon those that are carried with the vulgar opinions, with the theorems,
and tenets of philosophers: his conversation being an example how a man
might accommodate himself to all men and companies; so that though his
company were sweeter and more pleasing than any flatterer’s cogging and
fawning; yet was it at the same time most respected and reverenced: who
also had a proper happiness and faculty, rationally and methodically to
find out, and set in order all necessary determinations and instructions
for a man’s life. A man without ever the least appearance of anger, or
any other passion; able at the same time most exactly to observe the
Stoic Apathia, or unpassionateness, and yet to be most tender-hearted: ever of good credit; and yet almost without any noise, or rumor: very learned, and yet making little show.

VII. From Alexander the Grammarian, to be un-reprovable myself, and not reproachfully to reprehend any man for a barbarism, or a solecism, or any false pronunciation, but dextrously by way of answer, or testimony, or confirmation of the same matter (taking no notice of the word) to utter it as it should have been spoken; or by some other such close and indirect admonition, handsomely and civilly to tell him of it.

VIII. Of Fronto, to how much envy and fraud and hypocrisy the state of a tyrannous king is subject unto, and how they who are commonly called [Eupatridas Gk.], i.e. nobly born, are in some sort incapable, or void of natural affection.

IX. Of Alexander the Platonic, not often nor without great necessity to say, or to write to any man in a letter, ‘I am not at leisure’; nor in
this manner still to put off those duties, which we owe to our friends
and acquaintances (to every one in his kind) under pretence of urgent affairs.

X. Of Catulus, not to contemn any friend’s expostulation, though unjust, but to strive to reduce him to his former disposition: freely and heartily to speak well of all my masters upon any occasion, as it is reported of Domitius, and Athenodotus: and to love my children with true affection.

XI. From my brother Severus, to be kind and loving to all them of my
house and family; by whom also I came to the knowledge of Thrasea and Helvidius, and Cato, and Dio, and Brutus. He it was also that did put me in the first conceit and desire of an equal commonwealth, administered by justice and equality; and of a kingdom wherein should be regarded nothing more than the good and welfare of the subjects. Of him also, to observe a constant tenor, (not interrupted, with any other cares and distractions,) in the study and esteem of philosophy: to be bountiful and liberal in the largest measure; always to hope the best; and to be confident that my friends love me. In whom I moreover observed open dealing towards those whom he reproved at any time, and that his friends might without all doubt or much observation know what he would, or would not, so open and plain was he.

XII. From Claudius Maximus, in all things to endeavour to have power
of myself, and in nothing to be carried about; to be cheerful and
courageous in all sudden chances and accidents, as in sicknesses: to
love mildness, and moderation, and gravity: and to do my business,
whatsoever it be, thoroughly, and without querulousness. Whatsoever he said, all men believed him that as he spake, so he thought, and whatsoever he did, that he did it with a good intent. His manner was, never to wonder at anything; never to be in haste, and yet never slow: nor to be perplexed, or dejected, or at any time unseemly, or
excessively to laugh: nor to be angry, or suspicious, but ever ready to
do good, and to forgive, and to speak truth; and all this, as one that
seemed rather of himself to have been straight and right, than ever to have been rectified or redressed; neither was there any man that ever thought himself undervalued by him, or that could find in his heart, to think himself a better man than he. He would also be very pleasant and gracious.

XIII. In my father, I observed his meekness; his constancy without
wavering in those things, which after a due examination and
deliberation, he had determined. How free from all vanity he carried
himself in matter of honour and dignity, (as they are esteemed:) his
laboriousness and assiduity, his readiness to hear any man, that had
aught to say tending to any common good: how generally and impartially
he would give every man his due; his skill and knowledge, when rigour
or extremity, or when remissness or moderation was in season; how he did
abstain from all unchaste love of youths; his moderate condescending to
other men’s occasions as an ordinary man, neither absolutely requiring
of his friends, that they should wait upon him at his ordinary meals,
nor that they should of necessity accompany him in his journeys; and
that whensoever any business upon some necessary occasions was to be put
off and omitted before it could be ended, he was ever found when he
went about it again, the same man that he was before. His accurate
examination of things in consultations, and patient hearing of others.
He would not hastily give over the search of the matter, as one easy to
be satisfied with sudden notions and apprehensions. His care to preserve
his friends; how neither at any time he would carry himself towards them
with disdainful neglect, and grow weary of them; nor yet at any time
be madly fond of them. His contented mind in all things, his cheerful
countenance, his care to foresee things afar off, and to take order for
the least, without any noise or clamour. Moreover how all acclamations
and flattery were repressed by him: how carefully he observed all things
necessary to the government, and kept an account of the common expenses,
and how patiently he did abide that he was reprehended by some for this
his strict and rigid kind of dealing. How he was neither a superstitious
worshipper of the gods, nor an ambitious pleaser of men, or studious of
popular applause; but sober in all things, and everywhere observant of
that which was fitting; no affecter of novelties: in those things which
conduced to his ease and convenience, (plenty whereof his fortune
did afford him,) without pride and bragging, yet with all freedom and
liberty: so that as he did freely enjoy them without any anxiety or
affectation when they were present; so when absent, he found no want
of them. Moreover, that he was never commended by any man, as either a
learned acute man, or an obsequious officious man, or a fine orator; but
as a ripe mature man, a perfect sound man; one that could not endure to
be flattered; able to govern both himself and others. Moreover, how much
he did honour all true philosophers, without upbraiding those that were
not so; his sociableness, his gracious and delightful conversation, but
never unto satiety; his care of his body within bounds and measure,
not as one that desired to live long, or over-studious of neatness, and
elegancy; and yet not as one that did not regard it: so that through his
own care and providence, he seldom needed any inward physic, or outward
applications: but especially how ingeniously he would yield to any that
had obtained any peculiar faculty, as either eloquence, or the knowledge
of the laws, or of ancient customs, or the like; and how he concurred
with them, in his best care and endeavour that every one of them might
in his kind, for that wherein he excelled, be regarded and esteemed: and
although he did all things carefully after the ancient customs of his
forefathers, yet even of this was he not desirous that men should take
notice, that he did imitate ancient customs. Again, how he was not
easily moved and tossed up and down, but loved to be constant, both in
the same places and businesses; and how after his great fits of headache
he would return fresh and vigorous to his wonted affairs. Again, that
secrets he neither had many, nor often, and such only as concerned
public matters: his discretion and moderation, in exhibiting of the
public sights and shows for the pleasure and pastime of the people: in
public buildings. congiaries, and the like. In all these things,
having a respect unto men only as men, and to the equity of the things
themselves, and not unto the glory that might follow. Never wont to
use the baths at unseasonable hours; no builder; never curious, or
solicitous, either about his meat, or about the workmanship, or colour
of his clothes, or about anything that belonged to external beauty.
In all his conversation, far from all inhumanity, all boldness, and
incivility, all greediness and impetuosity; never doing anything with
such earnestness, and intention, that a man could say of him, that
he did sweat about it: but contrariwise, all things distinctly, as at
leisure; without trouble; orderly, soundly, and agreeably. A man might
have applied that to him, which is recorded of Socrates, that he knew
how to want, and to enjoy those things, in the want whereof, most men
show themselves weak; and in the fruition, intemperate: but to hold out
firm and constant, and to keep within the compass of true moderation and
sobriety in either estate, is proper to a man, who hath a perfect and
invincible soul; such as he showed himself in the sickness of Maximus.

XIV. From the gods I received that I had good grandfathers, and parents,
a good sister, good masters, good domestics, loving kinsmen, almost all
that I have; and that I never through haste and rashness transgressed
against any of them, notwithstanding that my disposition was such,
as that such a thing (if occasion had been) might very well have been
committed by me, but that It was the mercy of the gods, to prevent such
a concurring of matters and occasions, as might make me to incur this
blame. That I was not long brought up by the concubine of my father;
that I preserved the flower of my youth. That I took not upon me to be
a man before my time, but rather put it off longer than I needed. That
I lived under the government of my lord and father, who would take
away from me all pride and vainglory, and reduce me to that conceit and
opinion that it was not impossible for a prince to live in the court
without a troop of guards and followers, extraordinary apparel, such
and such torches and statues, and other like particulars of state and
magnificence; but that a man may reduce and contract himself almost to
the state of a private man, and yet for all that not to become the more
base and remiss in those public matters and affairs, wherein power and
authority is requisite. That I have had such a brother, who by his own
example might stir me up to think of myself; and by his respect and
love, delight and please me. That I have got ingenuous children, and
that they were not born distorted, nor with any other natural deformity.
That I was no great proficient in the study of rhetoric and poetry, and
of other faculties, which perchance I might have dwelt upon, if I had
found myself to go on in them with success. That I did by times prefer
those, by whom I was brought up, to such places and dignities, which
they seemed unto me most to desire; and that I did not put them off with
hope and expectation, that (since that they were yet but young) I would
do the same hereafter. That I ever knew Apollonius and Rusticus, and
Maximus. That I have had occasion often and effectually to consider and
meditate with myself, concerning that life which is according to nature,
what the nature and manner of it is: so that as for the gods and such
suggestions, helps and inspirations, as might be expected from them,
nothing did hinder, but that I might have begun long before to live
according to nature; or that even now that I was not yet partaker and
in present possession of that life, that I myself (in that I did not
observe those inward motions, and suggestions, yea and almost plain and
apparent instructions and admonitions of the gods,) was the only cause
of it. That my body in such a life, hath been able to hold out so long.
That I never had to do with Benedicta and Theodotus, yea and afterwards
when I fell into some fits of love, I was soon cured. That having been
often displeased with Rusticus, I never did him anything for which
afterwards I had occasion to repent. That it being so that my mother was
to die young, yet she lived with me all her latter years. That as often
as I had a purpose to help and succour any that either were poor, or
fallen into some present necessity, I never was answered by my officers
that there was not ready money enough to do it; and that I myself never
had occasion to require the like succour from any other. That I have
such a wife, so obedient, so loving, so ingenuous. That I had choice of
fit and able men, to whom I might commit the bringing up of my children.
That by dreams I have received help, as for other things, so in
particular, how I might stay my casting of blood, and cure my dizziness,
as that also that happened to thee in Cajeta, as unto Chryses when he
prayed by the seashore. And when I did first apply myself to philosophy,
that I did not fall into the hands of some sophists, or spent my time
either in reading the manifold volumes of ordinary philosophers, nor in
practising myself in the solution of arguments and fallacies, nor dwelt
upon the studies of the meteors, and other natural curiosities. All
these things without the assistance of the gods, and fortune, could not
have been.

XV. In the country of the Quadi at Granua, these. Betimes in the morning
say to thyself, This day I shalt have to do with an idle curious man,
with an unthankful man, a railer, a crafty, false, or an envious man; an
unsociable uncharitable man. All these ill qualities have happened unto
them, through ignorance of that which is truly good and truly bad. But I
that understand the nature of that which is good, that it only is to
be desired, and of that which is bad, that it only is truly odious and
shameful: who know moreover, that this transgressor, whosoever he be, is
my kinsman, not by the same blood and seed, but by participation of the
same reason, and of the same divine particle; How can I either be
hurt by any of those, since it is not in their power to make me incur
anything that is truly reproachful? or angry, and ill affected towards
him, who by nature is so near unto me? for we are all born to be
fellow-workers, as the feet, the hands, and the eyelids; as the rows of
the upper and under teeth: for such therefore to be in opposition, is
against nature; and what is it to chafe at, and to be averse from, but
to be in opposition?

XVI. Whatsoever I am, is either flesh, or life, or that which we
commonly call the mistress and overruling part of man; reason. Away with
thy books, suffer not thy mind any more to be distracted, and carried to
and fro; for it will not be; but as even now ready to die, think little
of thy flesh: blood, bones, and a skin; a pretty piece of knit and
twisted work, consisting of nerves, veins and arteries; think no more of
it, than so. And as for thy life, consider what it is; a wind; not one
constant wind neither, but every moment of an hour let out, and sucked
in again. The third, is thy ruling part; and here consider; Thou art an
old man; suffer not that excellent part to be brought in subjection, and
to become slavish: suffer it not to be drawn up and down with
unreasonable and unsociable lusts and motions, as it were with wires and
nerves; suffer it not any more, either to repine at anything now
present, or to fear and fly anything to come, which the destiny hath
appointed thee.

XVII. Whatsoever proceeds from the gods immediately, that any man will
grant totally depends from their divine providence. As for those
things that are commonly said to happen by fortune, even those must be
conceived to have dependence from nature, or from that first and general
connection, and concatenation of all those things, which more apparently
by the divine providence are administered and brought to pass.
All things flow from thence: and whatsoever it is that is, is both
necessary, and conducing to the whole (part of which thou art), and
whatsoever it is that is requisite and necessary for the preservation of
the general, must of necessity for every particular nature, be good and
behoveful. And as for the whole, it is preserved, as by the perpetual
mutation and conversion of the simple elements one into another, so
also by the mutation, and alteration of things mixed and compounded. Let
these things suffice thee; let them be always unto thee, as thy general
rules and precepts. As for thy thirst after books, away with it with all
speed, that thou die not murmuring and complaining, but truly meek and
well satisfied, and from thy heart thankful unto the gods.

THE SECOND BOOK

I. Remember how long thou hast already put off these things, and how often a certain day and hour as it were, having been set unto thee by the gods, thou hast neglected it. It is high time for thee to understand the true nature both of the world, whereof thou art a part; and of that Lord and Governor of the world, from whom, as a channel from the spring, thou thyself didst flow: and that there is but a certain limit of time appointed unto thee, which if thou shalt not make use of to calm and allay the many distempers of thy soul, it will pass away and thou with it, and never after return.

II. Let it be thy earnest and incessant care as a Roman and a man to
perform whatsoever it is that thou art about, with true and unfeigned
gravity, natural affection, freedom and justice: and as for all other
cares, and imaginations, how thou mayest ease thy mind of them. Which
thou shalt do; if thou shalt go about every action as thy last action,
free from all vanity, all passionate and wilful aberration from reason,
and from all hypocrisy, and self-love, and dislike of those things,
which by the fates or appointment of God have happened unto thee. Thou
seest that those things, which for a man to hold on in a prosperous
course, and to live a divine life, are requisite and necessary, are not
many, for the gods will require no more of any man, that shall but keep
and observe these things.

III. Do, soul, do; abuse and contemn thyself; yet a while and the time
for thee to respect thyself, will be at an end. Every man’s happiness
depends from himself, but behold thy life is almost at an end, whiles
affording thyself no respect, thou dost make thy happiness to consist in the souls, and conceits of other men.

IV. Why should any of these things that happen externally, so much
distract thee? Give thyself leisure to learn some good thing, and cease
roving and wandering to and fro. Thou must also take heed of another
kind of wandering, for they are idle in their actions, who toil and
labour in this life, and have no certain scope to which to direct all
their motions, and desires. V. For not observing the state of another
man’s soul, scarce was ever any man known to be unhappy. Tell whosoever
they be that intend not, and guide not by reason and discretion the
motions of their own souls, they must of necessity be unhappy.

VI. These things thou must always have in mind: What is the nature
of the universe, and what is mine–in particular: This unto that what
relation it hath: what kind of part, of what kind of universe it is: And
that there is nobody that can hinder thee, but that thou mayest always
both do and speak those things which are agreeable to that nature,
whereof thou art a part.

VII. Theophrastus, where he compares sin with sin (as after a vulgar
sense such things I grant may be compared:) says well and like a
philosopher, that those sins are greater which are committed through lust, than those which are committed through anger. For he that is angry seems with a kind of grief and close contraction of himself, to turn away from reason; but he that sins through lust, being overcome by pleasure, doth in his very sin bewray a more impotent, and unmanlike disposition. Well then and like a philosopher doth he say, that he of the two is the more to be condemned, that sins with pleasure, than he that sins with grief. For indeed this latter may seem first to have been wronged, and so in some manner through grief thereof to have been forced to be angry, whereas he who through lust doth commit anything, did of himself merely resolve upon that action.

VIII. Whatsoever thou dost affect, whatsoever thou dost project, so do, and so project all, as one who, for aught thou knowest, may at this very present depart out of this life. And as for death, if there be any gods, it is no grievous thing to leave the society of men. The gods will do thee no hurt, thou mayest be sure. But if it be so that there be no gods, or that they take no care of the world, why should I desire to live in a world void of gods, and of all divine providence? But gods there be certainly, and they take care for the world; and as for those things which be truly evil, as vice and wickedness, such things they have put in a man’s own power, that he might avoid them if he would: and
had there been anything besides that had been truly bad and evil, they
would have had a care of that also, that a man might have avoided it.
But why should that be thought to hurt and prejudice a man’s life in
this world, which cannot any ways make man himself the better, or the
worse in his own person? Neither must we think that the nature of the
universe did either through ignorance pass these things, or if not as
ignorant of them, yet as unable either to prevent, or better to order
and dispose them. It cannot be that she through want either of power or
skill, should have committed such a thing, so as to suffer all things
both good and bad, equally and promiscuously, to happen unto all both
good and bad. As for life therefore, and death, honour and dishonour,
labour and pleasure, riches and poverty, all these things happen
unto men indeed, both good and bad, equally; but as things which of
themselves are neither good nor bad; because of themselves, neither
shameful nor praiseworthy.

IX. Consider how quickly all things are dissolved and resolved: the
bodies and substances themselves, into the matter and substance of the world: and their memories into the general age and time of the world. Consider the nature of all worldly sensible things; of those especially, which either ensnare by pleasure, or for their irksomeness are dreadful, or for their outward lustre and show are in great esteem and request, how vile and contemptible, how base and corruptible, how destitute of all true life and being they are.

X. It is the part of a man endowed with a good understanding faculty, to
consider what they themselves are in very deed, from whose bare conceits
and voices, honour and credit do proceed: as also what it is to die, and
how if a man shall consider this by itself alone, to die, and separate
from it in his mind all those things which with it usually represent
themselves unto us, he can conceive of it no otherwise, than as of a
work of nature, and he that fears any work of nature, is a very child.
Now death, it is not only a work of nature, but also conducing to
nature.

XI. Consider with thyself how man, and by what part of his, is joined
unto God, and how that part of man is affected, when it is said to be
diffused. There is nothing more wretched than that soul, which in a kind
of circuit compasseth all things, searching (as he saith) even the very
depths of the earth; and by all signs and conjectures prying into the
very thoughts of other men’s souls; and yet of this, is not sensible,
that it is sufficient for a man to apply himself wholly, and to confine
all his thoughts and cares to the tendance of that spirit which is
within him, and truly and really to serve him. His service doth consist
in this, that a man keep himself pure from all violent passion and
evil affection, from all rashness and vanity, and from all manner of
discontent, either in regard of the gods or men. For indeed whatsoever
proceeds from the gods, deserves respect for their worth and excellency;
and whatsoever proceeds from men, as they are our kinsmen, should by us
be entertained, with love, always; sometimes, as proceeding from their
ignorance, of that which is truly good and bad, (a blindness no less,
than that by which we are not able to discern between white and black:)
with a kind of pity and compassion also.

XII. If thou shouldst live three thousand, or as many as ten thousands
of years, yet remember this, that man can part with no life properly,
save with that little part of life, which he now lives: and that which
he lives, is no other, than that which at every instant he parts with.
That then which is longest of duration, and that which is shortest, come
both to one effect. For although in regard of that which is already past
there may be some inequality, yet that time which is now present and
in being, is equal unto all men. And that being it which we part with
whensoever we die, it doth manifestly appear, that it can be but a
moment of time, that we then part with. For as for that which is either
past or to come, a man cannot be said properly to part with it. For
how should a man part with that which he hath not? These two things
therefore thou must remember. First, that all things in the world from
all eternity, by a perpetual revolution of the same times and things
ever continued and renewed, are of one kind and nature; so that whether
for a hundred or two hundred years only, or for an infinite space of
time, a man see those things which are still the same, it can be no
matter of great moment. And secondly, that that life which any the
longest liver, or the shortest liver parts with, is for length and
duration the very same, for that only which is present, is that, which
either of them can lose, as being that only which they have; for that
which he hath not, no man can truly be said to lose.

XIII. Remember that all is but opinion and conceit, for those things
are plain and apparent, which were spoken unto Monimus the Cynic; and as
plain and apparent is the use that may be made of those things, if that
which is true and serious in them, be received as well as that which is
sweet and pleasing.

XIV. A man’s soul doth wrong and disrespect itself first and especially,
when as much as in itself lies it becomes an aposteme, and as it were an
excrescency of the world, for to be grieved and displeased with anything
that happens in the world, is direct apostacy from the nature of the
universe; part of which, all particular natures of the world, are.
Secondly, when she either is averse from any man, or led by contrary
desires or affections, tending to his hurt and prejudice; such as are
the souls of them that are angry. Thirdly, when she is overcome by any
pleasure or pain. Fourthly, when she doth dissemble, and covertly and
falsely either doth or saith anything. Fifthly, when she doth either
affect or endeavour anything to no certain end, but rashly and without
due ratiocination and consideration, how consequent or inconsequent it
is to the common end. For even the least things ought not to be done,
without relation unto the end; and the end of the reasonable creatures
is, to follow and obey him, who is the reason as it were, and the law of
this great city, and ancient commonwealth.

XV. The time of a man’s life is as a point; the substance of it ever
flowing, the sense obscure; and the whole composition of the body
tending to corruption. His soul is restless, fortune uncertain, and fame
doubtful; to be brief, as a stream so are all things belonging to the
body; as a dream, or as a smoke, so are all that belong unto the soul.
Our life is a warfare, and a mere pilgrimage. Fame after life is no
better than oblivion. What is it then that will adhere and follow? Only
one thing, philosophy. And philosophy doth consist in this, for a man to
preserve that spirit which is within him, from all manner of contumelies
and injuries, and above all pains or pleasures; never to do anything
either rashly, or feignedly, or hypocritically: wholly to depend from
himself and his own proper actions: all things that happen unto him to
embrace contentedly, as coming from Him from whom he himself also came;
and above all things, with all meekness and a calm cheerfulness, to
expect death, as being nothing else but the resolution of those
elements, of which every creature is composed. And if the elements
themselves suffer nothing by this their perpetual conversion of one into
another, that dissolution, and alteration, which is so common unto all,
why should it be feared by any? Is not this according to nature? But
nothing that is according to nature can be evil, whilst I was at
Carnuntzim.

THE THIRD BOOK

I. A man must not only consider how daily his life wasteth and
decreaseth, but this also, that if he live long, he cannot be certain,
whether his understanding shall continue so able and sufficient,
for either discreet consideration, in matter of businesses; or for
contemplation: it being the thing, whereon true knowledge of things both
divine and human, doth depend. For if once he shall begin to dote,
his respiration, nutrition, his imaginative, and appetitive, and other
natural faculties, may still continue the same: he shall find no want of
them. But how to make that right use of himself that he should, how
to observe exactly in all things that which is right and just, how to
redress and rectify all wrong, or sudden apprehensions and imaginations,
and even of this particular, whether he should live any longer or no, to
consider duly; for all such things, wherein the best strength and vigour
of the mind is most requisite; his power and ability will be past and
gone. Thou must hasten therefore; not only because thou art every day
nearer unto death than other, but also because that intellective faculty
in thee, whereby thou art enabled to know the true nature of things, and
to order all thy actions by that knowledge, doth daily waste and decay:
or, may fail thee before thou die.

II. This also thou must observe, that whatsoever it is that naturally
doth happen to things natural, hath somewhat in itself that is pleasing
and delightful: as a great loaf when it is baked, some parts of it
cleave as it were, and part asunder, and make the crust of it rugged and
unequal, and yet those parts of it, though in some sort it be against
the art and intention of baking itself, that they are thus cleft and
parted, which should have been and were first made all even and uniform,
they become it well nevertheless, and have a certain peculiar property,
to stir the appetite. So figs are accounted fairest and ripest then,
when they begin to shrink, and wither as it were. So ripe olives, when
they are next to putrefaction, then are they in their proper beauty. The
hanging down of grapes–the brow of a lion, the froth of a foaming wild
boar, and many other like things, though by themselves considered, they
are far from any beauty, yet because they happen naturally, they both
are comely, and delightful; so that if a man shall with a profound mind
and apprehension, consider all things in the world, even among all those
things which are but mere accessories and natural appendices as it were,
there will scarce appear anything unto him, wherein he will not find
matter of pleasure and delight. So will he behold with as much pleasure
the true rictus of wild beasts, as those which by skilful painters and
other artificers are imitated. So will he be able to perceive the proper
ripeness and beauty of old age, whether in man or woman: and whatsoever
else it is that is beautiful and alluring in whatsoever is, with chaste
and continent eyes he will soon find out and discern. Those and many
other things will he discern, not credible unto every one, but unto them
only who are truly and familiarly acquainted, both with nature itself,
and all natural things.

III. Hippocrates having cured many sicknesses, fell sick himself and
died. The Chaldeans and Astrologians having foretold the deaths of
divers, were afterwards themselves surprised by the fates. Alexander and
Pompeius, and Caius Caesar, having destroyed so many towns, and cut
off in the field so many thousands both of horse and foot, yet they
themselves at last were fain to part with their own lives. Heraclitus
having written so many natural tracts concerning the last and general
conflagration of the world, died afterwards all filled with water
within, and all bedaubed with dirt and dung without. Lice killed
Democritus; and Socrates, another sort of vermin, wicked ungodly men.
How then stands the case? Thou hast taken ship, thou hast sailed, thou
art come to land, go out, if to another life, there also shalt thou find
gods, who are everywhere. If all life and sense shall cease, then shalt
thou cease also to be subject to either pains or pleasures; and to serve and tend this vile cottage; so much the viler, by how much that which ministers unto it doth excel; the one being a rational substance, and a spirit, the other nothing but earth and blood.

IV. Spend not the remnant of thy days in thoughts and fancies concerning other men, when it is not in relation to some common good, when by it thou art hindered from some other better work. That is, spend not thy time in thinking, what such a man doth, and to what end: what he saith, and what he thinks, and what he is about, and such other things or curiosities, which make a man to rove and wander from the care and observation of that part of himself, which is rational, and overruling. See therefore in the whole series and connection of thy thoughts, that thou be careful to prevent whatsoever is idle and impertinent: but especially, whatsoever is curious and malicious: and thou must use thyself to think only of such things, of which if a man upon a sudden should ask thee, what it is that thou art now thinking, thou mayest answer This, and That, freely and boldly, that so by thy thoughts it may presently appear that in all thee is sincere, and peaceable; as becometh one that is made for society, and regards not pleasures, nor gives way to any voluptuous imaginations at all: free from all contentiousness, envy, and suspicion, and from whatsoever else thou wouldest blush to confess thy thoughts were set upon. He that is such, is he surely that doth not put off to lay hold on that which is best indeed, a very priest
and minister of the gods, well acquainted and in good correspondence
with him especially that is seated and placed within himself, as in
a temple and sacrary: to whom also he keeps and preserves himself
unspotted by pleasure, undaunted by pain; free from any manner of wrong,
or contumely, by himself offered unto himself: not capable of any evil
from others: a wrestler of the best sort, and for the highest prize,
that he may not be cast down by any passion or affection of his own;
deeply dyed and drenched in righteousness, embracing and accepting with
his whole heart whatsoever either happeneth or is allotted unto him. One
who not often, nor without some great necessity tending to some public
good, mindeth what any other, either speaks, or doth, or purposeth: for those things only that are in his own power, or that are truly his own,
are the objects of his employments, and his thoughts are ever taken
up with those things, which of the whole universe are by the fates or
Providence destinated and appropriated unto himself. Those things that are his own, and in his own power, he himself takes order, for that they
be good: and as for those that happen unto him, he believes them to be so. For that lot and portion which is assigned to every one, as it is
unavoidable and necessary, so is it always profitable. He remembers
besides that whatsoever partakes of reason, is akin unto him, and that
to care for all men generally, is agreeing to the nature of a man: but
as for honour and praise, that they ought not generally to be admitted
and accepted of from all, but from such only, who live according to
nature. As for them that do not, what manner of men they be at home, or abroad; day or night, how conditioned themselves with what manner of conditions, or with men of what conditions they moil and pass away the time together, he knoweth, and remembers right well, he therefore regards not such praise and approbation, as proceeding from them, who cannot like and approve themselves.

V. Do nothing against thy will, nor contrary to the community, nor
without due examination, nor with reluctancy. Affect not to set out thy thoughts with curious neat language. Be neither a great talker, nor a great undertaker. Moreover, let thy God that is in thee to rule over thee, find by thee, that he hath to do with a man; an aged man; a sociable man; a Roman; a prince; one that hath ordered his life, as
one that expecteth, as it were, nothing but the sound of the trumpet,
sounding a retreat to depart out of this life with all expedition. One
who for his word or actions neither needs an oath, nor any man to be a witness.

VI. To be cheerful, and to stand in no need, either of other men’s help or attendance, or of that rest and tranquility, which thou must be beholding to others for. Rather like one that is straight of himself, or has ever been straight, than one that hath been rectified.

VII. If thou shalt find anything in this mortal life better than
righteousness, than truth, temperance, fortitude, and in general better than a mind contented both with those things which according to right and reason she doth, and in those, which without her will and knowledge happen unto thee by the providence; if I say, thou canst find out anything better than this, apply thyself unto it with thy whole heart, and that which is best wheresoever thou dost find it, enjoy freely. But if nothing thou shalt find worthy to be preferred to that spirit which is within thee; if nothing better than to subject unto thee thine own lusts and desires, and not to give way to any fancies or imaginations before thou hast duly considered of them, nothing better than to withdraw thyself (to use Socrates his words) from all sensuality, and submit thyself unto the gods, and to have care of all men in general: if thou shalt find that all other things in comparison of this, are but vile, and of little moment; then give not way to any other thing, which being once though but affected and inclined unto, it will no more be in thy power without all distraction as thou oughtest to prefer and to
pursue after that good, which is thine own and thy proper good. For it is not lawful, that anything that is of another and inferior kind and
nature, be it what it will, as either popular applause, or honour, or
riches, or pleasures; should be suffered to confront and contest as it
were, with that which is rational, and operatively good. For all these
things, if once though but for a while, they begin to please, they
presently prevail, and pervert a man’s mind, or turn a man from the
right way. Do thou therefore I say absolutely and freely make choice of that which is best, and stick unto it. Now, that they say is best, which is most profitable. If they mean profitable to man as he is a rational man, stand thou to it, and maintain it; but if they mean profitable, as
he is a creature, only reject it; and from this thy tenet and conclusion
keep off carefully all plausible shows and colours of external
appearance, that thou mayest be able to discern things rightly.

VIII. Never esteem of anything as profitable, which shall ever constrain
thee either to break thy faith, or to lose thy modesty; to hate any man,
to suspect, to curse, to dissemble, to lust after anything, that
requireth the secret of walls or veils. But he that preferreth before
all things his rational part and spirit, and the sacred mysteries of
virtue which issueth from it, he shall never lament and exclaim, never
sigh; he shall never want either solitude or company: and which is
chiefest of all, he shall live without either desire or fear. And as for
life, whether for a long or short time he shall enjoy his soul thus
compassed about with a body, he is altogether indifferent. For if even
now he were to depart, he is as ready for it, as for any other action,
which may be performed with modesty and decency. For all his life long,
this is his only care, that his mind may always be occupied in such
intentions and objects, as are proper to a rational sociable creature.

IX. In the mind that is once truly disciplined and purged, thou canst
not find anything, either foul or impure, or as it were festered:
nothing that is either servile, or affected: no partial tie; no
malicious averseness; nothing obnoxious; nothing concealed. The life of
such an one, death can never surprise as imperfect; as of an actor, that
should die before he had ended, or the play itself were at an end, a man
might speak.

X. Use thine opinative faculty with all honour and respect, for in
her indeed is all: that thy opinion do not beget in thy understanding
anything contrary to either nature, or the proper constitution of a
rational creature. The end and object of a rational constitution is, to
do nothing rashly, to be kindly affected towards men, and in all things
willingly to submit unto the gods. Casting therefore all other things
aside, keep thyself to these few, and remember withal that no man
properly can be said to live more than that which is now present, which
is but a moment of time. Whatsoever is besides either is already past,
or uncertain. The time therefore that any man doth live, is but a
little, and the place where he liveth, is but a very little corner of
the earth, and the greatest fame that can remain of a man after his
death, even that is but little, and that too, such as it is whilst it
is, is by the succession of silly mortal men preserved, who likewise
shall shortly die, and even whiles they live know not what in very deed
they themselves are: and much less can know one, who long before is dead
and gone.

XI. To these ever-present helps and mementoes, let one more be added,
ever to make a particular description and delineation as it were of
every object that presents itself to thy mind, that thou mayest wholly
and throughly contemplate it, in its own proper nature, bare and naked;
wholly, and severally; divided into its several parts and quarters: and
then by thyself in thy mind, to call both it, and those things of which
it doth consist, and in which it shall be resolved, by their own proper
true names, and appellations. For there is nothing so effectual to beget
true magnanimity, as to be able truly and methodically to examine and
consider all things that happen in this life, and so to penetrate
into their natures, that at the same time, this also may concur in our
apprehensions: what is the true use of it? and what is the true nature
of this universe, to which it is useful? how much in regard of the
universe may it be esteemed? how much in regard of man, a citizen of the
supreme city, of which all other cities in the world are as it were but
houses and families?

XII. What is this, that now my fancy is set upon? of what things doth
it consist? how long can it last? which of all the virtues is the proper
virtue for this present use? as whether meekness, fortitude, truth,
faith, sincerity, contentation, or any of the rest? Of everything
therefore thou must use thyself to say, This immediately comes from God,
this by that fatal connection, and concatenation of things, or (which
almost comes to one) by some coincidental casualty. And as for this, it
proceeds from my neighbour, my kinsman, my fellow: through his ignorance
indeed, because he knows not what is truly natural unto him: but I know
it, and therefore carry myself towards him according to the natural law
of fellowship; that is kindly, and justly. As for those things that of
themselves are altogether indifferent, as in my best judgment I conceive
everything to deserve more or less, so I carry myself towards it.

XIII. If thou shalt intend that which is present, following the rule of
right and reason carefully, solidly, meekly, and shalt not intermix
any other businesses, but shall study this only to preserve thy spirit
unpolluted, and pure, and shall cleave unto him without either hope
or fear of anything, in all things that thou shalt either do or speak,
contenting thyself with heroical truth, thou shalt live happily; and
from this, there is no man that can hinder thee.

XIV. As physicians and chirurgeons have always their instruments ready
at hand for all sudden cures; so have thou always thy dogmata in a
readiness for the knowledge of things, both divine and human: and
whatsoever thou dost, even in the smallest things that thou dost, thou
must ever remember that mutual relation, and connection that is between
these two things divine, and things human. For without relation unto
God, thou shalt never speed in any worldly actions; nor on the other
side in any divine, without some respect had to things human.

XV. Be not deceived; for thou shalt never live to read thy moral
commentaries, nor the acts of the famous Romans and Grecians; nor those
excerpta from several books; all which thou hadst provided and laid
up for thyself against thine old age. Hasten therefore to an end, and
giving over all vain hopes, help thyself in time if thou carest for
thyself, as thou oughtest to do.

XVI. To steal, to sow, to buy, to be at rest, to see what is to be done
(which is not seen by the eyes, but by another kind of sight:) what
these words mean, and how many ways to be understood, they do not
understand. The body, the soul, the understanding. As the senses
naturally belong to the body, and the desires and affections to the
soul, so do the dogmata to the understanding.

XVII. To be capable of fancies and imaginations, is common to man and
beast. To be violently drawn and moved by the lusts and desires of the
soul, is proper to wild beasts and monsters, such as Phalaris and Nero
were. To follow reason for ordinary duties and actions is common to them
also, who believe not that there be any gods, and for their advantage
would make no conscience to betray their own country; and who when once
the doors be shut upon them, dare do anything. If therefore all things
else be common to these likewise, it follows, that for a man to like and
embrace all things that happen and are destinated unto him, and not to
trouble and molest that spirit which is seated in the temple of his own
breast, with a multitude of vain fancies and imaginations, but to keep
him propitious and to obey him as a god, never either speaking anything
contrary to truth, or doing anything contrary to justice, is the only
true property of a good man. And such a one, though no man should
believe that he liveth as he doth, either sincerely and conscionably,
or cheerful and contentedly; yet is he neither with any man at all angry
for it, nor diverted by it from the way that leadeth to the end of his
life, through which a man must pass pure, ever ready to depart, and
willing of himself without any compulsion to fit and accommodate himself
to his proper lot and portion.

THE FOURTH BOOK

I. That inward mistress part of man if it be in its own true natural
temper, is towards all worldly chances and events ever so disposed and
affected, that it will easily turn and apply itself to that which may
be, and is within its own power to compass, when that cannot be which at
first it intended. For it never doth absolutely addict and apply itself
to any one object, but whatsoever it is that it doth now intend and
prosecute, it doth prosecute it with exception and reservation; so that
whatsoever it is that falls out contrary to its first intentions, even
that afterwards it makes its proper object. Even as the fire when it
prevails upon those things that are in his way; by which things indeed a
little fire would have been quenched, but a great fire doth soon turn to
its own nature, and so consume whatsoever comes in his way: yea by those
very things it is made greater and greater.

II. Let nothing be done rashly, and at random, but all things according
to the most exact and perfect rules of art.

III. They seek for themselves private retiring
places, as country villages, the sea-shore, mountains; yea thou thyself
art wont to long much after such places. But all this thou must know
proceeds from simplicity in the highest degree. At what time soever thou
wilt, it is in thy power to retire into thyself, and to be at rest, and
free from all businesses. A man cannot any whither retire better than
to his own soul; he especially who is beforehand provided of such
things within, which whensoever he doth withdraw himself to look in, may
presently afford unto him perfect ease and tranquillity. By tranquillity
I understand a decent orderly disposition and carriage, free from
all confusion and tumultuousness. Afford then thyself this retiring
continually, and thereby refresh and renew thyself. Let these precepts
be brief and fundamental, which as soon as thou dost call them to mind,
may suffice thee to purge thy soul throughly, and to send thee away well
pleased with those things whatsoever they be, which now again after this
short withdrawing of thy soul into herself thou dost return unto. For
what is it that thou art offended at? Can it be at the wickedness of
men, when thou dost call to mind this conclusion, that all reasonable
creatures are made one for another? and that it is part of justice to
bear with them? and that it is against their wills that they offend?
and how many already, who once likewise prosecuted their enmities,
suspected, hated, and fiercely contended, are now long ago stretched
out, and reduced unto ashes? It is time for thee to make an end. As for
those things which among the common chances of the world happen unto
thee as thy particular lot and portion, canst thou be displeased with
any of them, when thou dost call that our ordinary dilemma to mind,
either a providence, or Democritus his atoms; and with it, whatsoever we
brought to prove that the whole world is as it were one city? And as for
thy body, what canst thou fear, if thou dost consider that thy mind and
understanding, when once it hath recollected itself, and knows its own
power, hath in this life and breath (whether it run smoothly and gently,
or whether harshly and rudely), no interest at all, but is altogether
indifferent: and whatsoever else thou hast heard and assented unto
concerning either pain or pleasure? But the care of thine honour and
reputation will perchance distract thee? How can that be, if thou
dost look back, and consider both how quickly all things that are, are
forgotten, and what an immense chaos of eternity was before, and will
follow after all things: and the vanity of praise, and the inconstancy
and variableness of human judgments and opinions, and the narrowness of
the place, wherein it is limited and circumscribed? For the whole earth
is but as one point; and of it, this inhabited part of it, is but a very
little part; and of this part, how many in number, and what manner of
men are they, that will commend thee? What remains then, but that thou
often put in practice this kind of retiring of thyself, to this little
part of thyself; and above all things, keep thyself from distraction,
and intend not anything vehemently, but be free and consider all things,
as a man whose proper object is Virtue, as a man whose true nature is
to be kind and sociable, as a citizen, as a mortal creature. Among
other things, which to consider, and look into thou must use to withdraw
thyself, let those two be among the most obvious and at hand. One, that
the things or objects themselves reach not unto the soul, but stand
without still and quiet, and that it is from the opinion only which is
within, that all the tumult and all the trouble doth proceed. The next,
that all these things, which now thou seest, shall within a very little
while be changed, and be no more: and ever call to mind, how many
changes and alterations in the world thou thyself hast already been an
eyewitness of in thy time. This world is mere change, and this life,
opinion.

IV. If to understand and to be reasonable be common unto all men, then
is that reason, for which we are termed reasonable, common unto all. If
reason is general, then is that reason also, which prescribeth what is
to be done and what not, common unto all. If that, then law. If law,
then are we fellow-citizens. If so, then are we partners in some one
commonweal. If so, then the world is as it were a city. For which other
commonweal is it, that all men can be said to be members of? From this
common city it is, that understanding, reason, and law is derived unto
us, for from whence else? For as that which in me is earthly I have from
some common earth; and that which is moist from some other element is
imparted; as my breath and life hath its proper fountain; and that
likewise which is dry and fiery in me: (for there is nothing which doth
not proceed from something; as also there is nothing that can be reduced
unto mere nothing:) so also is there some common beginning from whence
my understanding hath proceeded.

V. As generation is, so also death, a secret of nature’s wisdom: a
mixture of elements, resolved into the same elements again, a thing
surely which no man ought to be ashamed of: in a series of other fatal
events and consequences, which a rational creature is subject unto,
not improper or incongruous, nor contrary to the natural and proper
constitution of man himself.

VI. Such and such things, from such and such causes, must of necessity
proceed. He that would not have such things to happen, is as he that
would have the fig-tree grow without any sap or moisture. In sum,
remember this, that within a very little while, both thou and he shall
both be dead, and after a little while more, not so much as your names
and memories shall be remaining.

VII. Let opinion be taken away, and no man will think himself wronged.
If no man shall think himself wronged, then is there no more any such
thing as wrong. That which makes not man himself the worse, cannot
make his life the worse, neither can it hurt him either inwardly
or outwardly. It was expedient in nature that it should be so, and
therefore necessary.

VIII. Whatsoever doth happen in the world, doth happen justly, and so if
thou dost well take heed, thou shalt find it. I say not only in right
order by a series of inevitable consequences, but according to justice
and as it were by way of equal distribution, according to the true worth
of everything. Continue then to take notice of it, as thou hast begun,
and whatsoever thou dost, do it not without this proviso, that it be a
thing of that nature that a good man (as the word good is properly
taken) may do it. This observe carefully in every action.

IX. Conceit no such things, as he that wrongeth thee conceiveth,
or would have thee to conceive, but look into the matter itself, and see
what it is in very truth.

X. These two rules, thou must have always in a readiness. First, do
nothing at all, but what reason proceeding from that regal and supreme
part, shall for the good and benefit of men, suggest unto thee. And
secondly, if any man that is present shall be able to rectify thee or to
turn thee from some erroneous persuasion, that thou be always ready to
change thy mind, and this change to proceed, not from any respect of any
pleasure or credit thereon depending, but always from some probable
apparent ground of justice, or of some public good thereby to be
furthered; or from some other such inducement.

XI. Hast thou reason? I have. Why then makest thou not use of it? For if
thy reason do her part, what more canst thou require?

XII. As a part hitherto thou hast had a particular subsistence: and now
shalt thou vanish away into the common substance of Him, who first begot
thee, or rather thou shalt be resumed again into that original rational
substance, out of which all others have issued, and are propagated.
Many small pieces of frankincense are set upon the same altar, one drops
first and is consumed, another after; and it comes all to one.

XIII. Within ten days, if so happen, thou shalt be esteemed a god of
them, who now if thou shalt return to the dogmata and to the honouring
of reason, will esteem of thee no better than of a mere brute, and of an
ape.

XIV. Not as though thou hadst thousands of years to live. Death hangs
over thee: whilst yet thou livest, whilst thou mayest, be good.

XV. Now much time and leisure doth he gain, who is not curious to know
what his neighbour hath said, or hath done, or hath attempted, but only
what he doth himself, that it may be just and holy? or to express it in
Agathos’ words, Not to look about upon the evil conditions of others,
but to run on straight in the line, without any loose and extravagant
agitation.

XVI. He who is greedy of credit and reputation after his death, doth
not consider, that they themselves by whom he is remembered, shall soon
after every one of them be dead; and they likewise that succeed those;
until at last all memory, which hitherto by the succession of men
admiring and soon after dying hath had its course, be quite extinct.
But suppose that both they that shall remember thee, and thy memory with
them should be immortal, what is that to thee? I will not say to thee
after thou art dead; but even to thee living, what is thy praise? But
only for a secret and politic consideration, which we call oikonomian or
dispensation. For as for that, that it is the gift of nature, whatsoever
is commended in thee, what might be objected from thence, let that now
that we are upon another consideration be omitted as unseasonable. That
which is fair and goodly, whatsoever it be, and in what respect soever
it be, that it is fair and goodly, it is so of itself, and terminates in
itself, not admitting praise as a part or member: that therefore
which is praised, is not thereby made either better or worse. This I
understand even of those things, that are commonly called fair and
good, as those which are commended either for the matter itself, or for
curious workmanship. As for that which is truly good, what can it
stand in need of more than either justice or truth; or more than either
kindness and modesty? Which of all those, either becomes good or fair,
because commended; or dispraised suffers any damage? Doth the emerald
become worse in itself, or more vile if it be not commended? Doth gold,
or ivory, or purple? Is there anything that doth though never so common,
as a knife, a flower, or a tree?

XVII. If so be that the souls remain after death (say they that will not
believe it); how is the air from all eternity able to contain them? How
is the earth (say I) ever from that time able to Contain the bodies
of them that are buried? For as here the change and resolution of dead
bodies into another kind of subsistence (whatsoever it be;) makes place
for other dead bodies: so the souls after death transferred into the
air, after they have conversed there a while, are either by way of
transmutation, or transfusion, or conflagration, received again into
that original rational substance, from which all others do proceed:
and so give way to those souls, who before coupled and associated unto
bodies, now begin to subsist single. This, upon a supposition that the
souls after death do for a while subsist single, may be answered. And
here, (besides the number of bodies, so buried and contained by the
earth), we may further consider the number of several beasts, eaten
by us men, and by other creatures. For notwithstanding that such a
multitude of them is daily consumed, and as it were buried in the bodies
of the eaters, yet is the same place and body able to contain them, by
reason of their conversion, partly into blood, partly into air and fire.
What in these things is the speculation of truth? to divide things into
that which is passive and material; and that which is active and formal.

XVIII. Not to wander out of the way, but upon every motion and desire,
to perform that which is just: and ever to be careful to attain to the
true natural apprehension of every fancy, that presents itself.

XIX. Whatsoever is expedient unto thee, O World, is expedient unto me;
nothing can either be ‘unseasonable unto me, or out of date, which unto
thee is seasonable. Whatsoever thy seasons bear, shall ever by me be
esteemed as happy fruit, and increase. O Nature! from thee are all
things, in thee all things subsist, and to thee all tend. Could he say
of Athens, Thou lovely city of Cecrops; and shalt not thou say of the
world, Thou lovely city of God?

XX. They will say commonly, Meddle not with many things, if thou wilt
live cheerfully. Certainly there is nothing better, than for a man
to confine himself to necessary actions; to such and so many only, as
reason in a creature that knows itself born for society, will command
and enjoin. This will not only procure that cheerfulness, which from the
goodness, but that also, which from the paucity of actions doth usually
proceed. For since it is so, that most of those things, which we either
speak or do, are unnecessary; if a man shall cut them off, it must needs
follow that he shall thereby gain much leisure, and save much trouble,
and therefore at every action a man must privately by way of admonition
suggest unto himself, What? may not this that now I go about, be of the
number of unnecessary actions? Neither must he use himself to cut off
actions only, but thoughts and imaginations also, that are unnecessary
for so will unnecessary consequent actions the better be prevented and
cut off.

XXI. Try also how a good man’s life; (of one, who is well pleased with
those things whatsoever, which among the common changes and chances of
this world fall to his own lot and share; and can live well contented
and fully satisfied in the justice of his own proper present action,
and in the goodness of his disposition for the future:) will agree with
thee. Thou hast had experience of that other kind of life: make now
trial of this also. Trouble not thyself any more henceforth, reduce
thyself unto perfect simplicity. Doth any man offend? It is against
himself that he doth offend: why should it trouble thee? Hath anything
happened unto thee? It is well, whatsoever it be, it is that which
of all the common chances of the world from the very beginning in the
series of all other things that have, or shall happen, was destinated
and appointed unto thee. To comprehend all in a few words, our life is
short; we must endeavour to gain the present time with best discretion
and justice. Use recreation with sobriety.

XXII. Either this world is a kosmoz or comely piece, because all
disposed and governed by certain order: or if it be a mixture, though
confused, yet still it is a comely piece. For is it possible that in
thee there should be any beauty at all, and that in the whole world
there should be nothing but disorder and confusion? and all things in it
too, by natural different properties one from another differenced and
distinguished; and yet all through diffused, and by natural sympathy,
one to another united, as they are?

XXIII. A black or malign disposition, an effeminate disposition; an
hard inexorable disposition, a wild inhuman disposition, a sheepish
disposition, a childish disposition; a blockish, a false, a scurril, a
fraudulent, a tyrannical: what then? If he be a stranger in the world,
that knows not the things that are in it; why not be a stranger as well,
that wonders at the things that are done in it?

XXIV. He is a true fugitive, that flies from reason, by which men are
sociable. He blind, who cannot see with the eyes of his understanding.
He poor, that stands in need of another, and hath not in himself all
things needful for this life. He an aposteme of the world, who by being
discontented with those things that happen unto him in the world,
doth as it were apostatise, and separate himself from common nature’s
rational administration. For the same nature it is that brings this
unto thee, whatsoever it be, that first brought thee into the world. He
raises sedition in the city, who by irrational actions withdraws his own
soul from that one and common soul of all rational creatures.

XXV. There is, who without so much as a coat; and there is, who without
so much as a book, doth put philosophy in practice. I am half naked,
neither have I bread to eat, and yet I depart not from reason, saith
one. But I say; I want the food of good teaching, and instructions, and
yet I depart not from reason.

XXVI. What art and profession soever thou hast learned, endeavour to
affect it, and comfort thyself in it; and pass the remainder of thy life
as one who from his whole heart commits himself and whatsoever belongs
unto him, unto the gods: and as for men, carry not thyself either
tyrannically or servilely towards any.

XXVII. Consider in my mind, for example’s sake, the times of Vespasian:
thou shalt see but the same things: some marrying, some bringing up
children, some sick, some dying, some fighting, some feasting, some
merchandising, some tilling, some flattering, some boasting, some
suspecting, some undermining, some wishing to die, some fretting and
murmuring at their present estate, some wooing, some hoarding, some
seeking after magistracies, and some after kingdoms. And is not that
their age quite over, and ended? Again, consider now the times of
Trajan. There likewise thou seest the very self-same things, and that
age also is now over and ended. In the like manner consider other
periods, both of times and of whole nations, and see how many men, after
they had with all their might and main intended and prosecuted some one
worldly thing or other did soon after drop away, and were resolved into
the elements. But especially thou must call to mind them, whom thou
thyself in thy lifetime hast known much distracted about vain things,
and in the meantime neglecting to do that, and closely and unseparably
(as fully satisfied with it) to adhere unto it, which their own proper
constitution did require. And here thou must remember, that thy carriage
in every business must be according to the worth and due proportion of
it, for so shalt thou not easily be tired out and vexed, if thou shalt
not dwell upon small matters longer than is fitting.

XXVIII. Those words which once were common and ordinary, are now become
obscure and obsolete; and so the names of men once commonly known and
famous, are now become in a manner obscure and obsolete names. Camillus,
Cieso, Volesius, Leonnatus; not long after, Scipio, Cato, then Augustus,
then Adrianus, then Antoninus Pius: all these in a short time will
be out of date, and, as things of another world as it were, become
fabulous. And this I say of them, who once shined as the wonders of
their ages, for as for the rest, no sooner are they expired, than with
them all their fame and memory. And what is it then that shall always be
remembered? all is vanity. What is it that we must bestow our care and
diligence upon? even upon this only: that our minds and wills be just;
that our actions be charitable; that our speech be never deceitful, or
that our understanding be not subject to error; that our inclination be
always set to embrace whatsoever shall happen unto us, as necessary,
as usual, as ordinary, as flowing from such a beginning, and such a
fountain, from which both thou thyself and all things are.
Willingly therefore, and wholly surrender up thyself unto that fatal
concatenation, yielding up thyself unto the fates, to be disposed of at
their pleasure.

XXIX. Whatsoever is now present, and from day to day hath its existence;
all objects of memories, and the minds and memories themselves,
incessantly consider, all things that are, have their being by change
and alteration. Use thyself therefore often to meditate upon this, that
the nature of the universe delights in nothing more, than in altering
those things that are, and in making others like unto them. So that we
may say, that whatsoever is, is but as it were the seed of that which
shall be. For if thou think that that only is seed, which either the
earth or the womb receiveth, thou art very simple.

XXX. Thou art now ready to die, and yet hast thou not attained to
that perfect simplicity: thou art yet subject to many troubles and
perturbations; not yet free from all fear and suspicion of external
accidents; nor yet either so meekly disposed towards all men, as thou
shouldest; or so affected as one, whose only study and only wisdom is,
to be just in all his actions.

XXXI. Behold and observe, what is the state of their rational part; and
those that the world doth account wise, see what things they fly and are
afraid of; and what things they hunt after.

XXXII. In another man’s mind and understanding thy evil Cannot subsist,
nor in any proper temper or distemper of the natural constitution of thy
body, which is but as it were the coat or cottage of thy soul. Wherein
then, but in that part of thee, wherein the conceit, and apprehension
of any misery can subsist? Let not that part therefore admit any such
conceit, and then all is well. Though thy body which is so near it
should either be cut or burnt, or suffer any corruption or putrefaction,
yet let that part to which it belongs to judge of these, be still at
rest; that is, let her judge this, that whatsoever it is, that equally
may happen to a wicked man, and to a good man, is neither good nor evil.
For that which happens equally to him that lives according to nature,
and to him that doth not, is neither according to nature, nor against
it; and by consequent, neither good nor bad.

XXXIII. Ever consider and think upon the world as being but one living
substance, and having but one soul, and how all things in the world, are
terminated into one sensitive power; and are done by one general motion
as it were, and deliberation of that one soul; and how all things that
are, concur in the cause of one another’s being, and by what manner of
connection and concatenation all things happen.

XXXIV. What art thou, that better and divine part excepted, but as
Epictetus said well, a wretched soul, appointed to carry a carcass up
and down?

XXXV. To suffer change can be no hurt; as no benefit it is, by change to
attain to being. The age and time of the world is as it were a flood and
swift current, consisting of the things that are brought to pass in
the world. For as soon as anything hath appeared, and is passed away,
another succeeds, and that also will presently out of sight.

XXXVI. Whatsoever doth happen in the world, is, in the course of nature,
as usual and ordinary as a rose in the spring, and fruit in summer. Of
the same nature is sickness and death; slander, and lying in wait, and
whatsoever else ordinarily doth unto fools use to be occasion either
of joy or sorrow. That, whatsoever it is, that comes after, doth always
very naturally, and as it were familiarly, follow upon that which was
before. For thou must consider the things of the world, not as a loose
independent number, consisting merely of necessary events; but as a
discreet connection of things orderly and harmoniously disposed. There
is then to be seen in the things of the world, not a bare succession,
but an admirable correspondence and affinity.

XXXVII. Let that of Heraclitus never be out of thy mind, that the death
of earth, is water, and the death of water, is air; and the death of
air, is fire; and so on the contrary. Remember him also who was ignorant
whither the way did lead, and how that reason being the thing by which
all things in the world are administered, and which men are continually
and most inwardly conversant with: yet is the thing, which ordinarily
they are most in opposition with, and how those things which daily
happen among them, cease not daily to be strange unto them, and that
we should not either speak, or do anything as men in their sleep, by
opinion and bare imagination: for then we think we speak and do, and
that we must not be as children, who follow their father’s example;
for best reason alleging their bare successive tradition from our
forefathers we have received it.

XXXVIII. Even as if any of the gods should tell thee, Thou shalt
certainly die to-morrow, or next day, thou wouldst not, except thou wert
extremely base and pusillanimous, take it for a great benefit, rather
to die the next day after, than to-morrow; (for alas, what is the
difference!) so, for the same reason, think it no great matter to die
rather many years after, than the very next day.

XXXIX. Let it be thy perpetual meditation, how many physicians who
once looked so grim, and so theatrically shrunk their brows upon their
patients, are dead and gone themselves. How many astrologers, after that
in great ostentation they had foretold the death of some others, how
many philosophers after so many elaborate tracts and volumes concerning
either mortality or immortality; how many brave captains and commanders,
after the death and slaughter of so many; how many kings and tyrants,
after they had with such horror and insolency abused their power upon
men’s lives, as though themselves had been immortal; how many, that
I may so speak, whole cities both men and towns: Helice, Pompeii,
Herculaneum, and others innumerable are dead and gone. Run them over
also, whom thou thyself, one after another, hast known in thy time
to drop away. Such and such a one took care of such and such a one’s
burial, and soon after was buried himself. So one, so another: and all
things in a short time. For herein lieth all indeed, ever to look upon
all worldly things, as things for their continuance, that are but for a
day: and for their worth, most vile, and contemptible, as for example,
What is man? That which but the other day when he was conceived was vile
snivel; and within few days shall be either an embalmed carcass, or mere
ashes. Thus must thou according to truth and nature, throughly consider
how man’s life is but for a very moment of time, and so depart meek and
contented: even as if a ripe olive falling should praise the ground that
bare her, and give thanks to the tree that begat her.

XL. Thou must be like a promontory of the sea, against which though
the waves beat continually, yet it both itself stands, and about it are
those swelling waves stilled and quieted.

XLI. Oh, wretched I, to whom this mischance is happened! nay, happy I,
to whom this thing being happened, I can continue without grief; neither
wounded by that which is present, nor in fear of that which is to come.
For as for this, it might have happened unto any man, but any man having
such a thing befallen him, could not have continued without grief. Why
then should that rather be an unhappiness, than this a happiness? But
however, canst thou, O man! term that unhappiness, which is no mischance
to the nature of man I Canst thou think that a mischance to the nature
of man, which is not contrary to the end and will of his nature? What
then hast thou learned is the will of man’s nature? Doth that then which
hath happened unto thee, hinder thee from being just? or magnanimous? or
temperate? or wise? or circumspect? or true? or modest? or free? or from
anything else of all those things in the present enjoying and possession
whereof the nature of man, (as then enjoying all that is proper unto
her,) is fully satisfied? Now to conclude; upon all occasion of sorrow
remember henceforth to make use of this dogma, that whatsoever it is
that hath happened unto thee, is in very deed no such thing of itself,
as a misfortune; but that to bear it generously, is certainly great
happiness.

XLII. It is but an ordinary coarse one, yet it is a good effectual
remedy against the fear of death, for a man to consider in his mind the
examples of such, who greedily and covetously (as it were) did for a
long time enjoy their lives. What have they got more, than they whose
deaths have been untimely? Are not they themselves dead at the last?
as Cadiciant’s, Fabius, Julianus Lepidus, or any other who in their
lifetime having buried many, were at the last buried themselves. The
whole space of any man’s life, is but little; and as little as it is,
with what troubles, with what manner of dispositions, and in the society
of how wretched a body must it be passed! Let it be therefore unto thee
altogether as a matter of indifferency. For if thou shalt look backward;
behold, what an infinite chaos of time doth present itself unto thee;
and as infinite a chaos, if thou shalt look forward. In that which is
so infinite, what difference can there be between that which liveth but
three days, and that which liveth three ages?

XLIII. Let thy course ever be the most compendious way. The most
compendious, is that which is according to nature: that is, in all both
words and deeds, ever to follow that which is most sound and perfect.
For such a resolution will free a man from all trouble, strife,
dissembling, and ostentation.

THE FIFTH BOOK

I. In the morning when thou findest thyself unwilling to rise, consider
with thyself presently, it is to go about a man’s work that I am stirred
up. Am I then yet unwilling to go about that, for which I myself was
born and brought forth into this world? Or was I made for this, to
lay me down, and make much of myself in a warm bed? ‘O but this is
pleasing.’ And was it then for this that thou wert born, that thou
mightest enjoy pleasure? Was it not in very truth for this, that thou
mightest always be busy and in action? Seest thou not how all things
in the world besides, how every tree md plant, how sparrows and ants,
spiders and bees: how all in their kind are intent as it were orderly to
perform whatsoever (towards the preservation of this orderly universe)
naturally doth become and belong unto thin? And wilt not thou do that,
which belongs unto a man to do? Wilt not thou run to do that, which thy
nature doth require? ‘But thou must have some rest.’ Yes, thou must.
Nature hath of that also, as well as of eating and drinking, allowed
thee a certain stint. But thou guest beyond thy stint, and beyond that
which would suffice, and in matter of action, there thou comest short of
that which thou mayest. It must needs be therefore, that thou dost not
love thyself, for if thou didst, thou wouldst also love thy nature, and
that which thy nature doth propose unto herself as her end. Others,
as many as take pleasure in their trade and profession, can even pine
themselves at their works, and neglect their bodies and their food for
it; and doest thou less honour thy nature, than an ordinary mechanic
his trade; or a good dancer his art? than a covetous man his silver, and
vainglorious man applause? These to whatsoever they take an affection,
can be content to want their meat and sleep, to further that every one
which he affects: and shall actions tending to the common good of
human society, seem more vile unto thee, or worthy of less respect and
intention?

II. How easy a thing is it for a man to put off from him all turbulent
adventitious imaginations, and presently to be in perfect rest and
tranquillity!

III. Think thyself fit and worthy to speak, or to do anything that is
according to nature, and let not the reproach, or report of some that
may ensue upon it, ever deter thee. If it be right and honest to be
spoken or done, undervalue not thyself so much, as to be discouraged
from it. As for them, they have their own rational over-ruling part, and
their own proper inclination: which thou must not stand and look
about to take notice of, but go on straight, whither both thine own
particular, and the common nature do lead thee; and the way of both
these, is but one.

IV. I continue my course by actions according to nature, until I
fall and cease, breathing out my last breath into that air, by which
continually breathed in I did live; and falling upon that earth, out of
whose gifts and fruits my father gathered his seed, my mother her
blood, and my nurse her milk, out of which for so many years I have
been provided, both of meat and drink. And lastly, which beareth me that
tread upon it, and beareth with me that so many ways do abuse it, or
so freely make use of it, so many ways to so many ends.

V. No man can admire thee for thy sharp acute language, such is thy
natural disability that way. Be it so: yet there be many other good
things, for the want of which thou canst not plead the want or natural
ability. Let them be seen in thee, which depend wholly from thee;
sincerity, gravity, laboriousness, contempt of pleasures; be not
querulous, be Content with little, be kind, be free; avoid all
superfluity, all vain prattling; be magnanimous. Doest not thou
perceive, how many things there be, which notwithstanding any pretence
of natural indisposition and unfitness, thou mightest have performed and
exhibited, and yet still thou doest voluntarily continue drooping
downwards? Or wilt thou say that it is through defect of thy natural
constitution, that thou art constrained to murmur, to be base and
wretched to flatter; now to accuse, and now to please, and pacify thy
body: to be vainglorious, to be so giddy-headed., and unsettled in thy
thoughts? nay (witnesses be the Gods) of all these thou mightest have
been rid long ago: only, this thou must have been contented with, to
have borne the blame of one that is somewhat slow and dull, wherein thou
must so exercise thyself, as one who neither doth much take to heart
this his natural defect, nor yet pleaseth himself in it.

VI. Such there be, who when they have done a good turn to any, are ready
to set them on the score for it, and to require retaliation. Others
there be, who though they stand not upon retaliation, to require any,
yet they think with themselves nevertheless, that such a one is their
debtor, and they know as their word is what they have done. Others again
there be, who when they have done any such thing, do not so much as
know what they have done; but are like unto the vine, which beareth her
grapes, and when once she hath borne her own proper fruit, is contented
and seeks for no further recompense. As a horse after a race, and a
hunting dog when he hath hunted, and a bee when she hath made her honey,
look not for applause and commendation; so neither doth that man that
rightly doth understand his own nature when he hath done a good turn:
but from one doth proceed to do another, even as the vine after she hath
once borne fruit in her own proper season, is ready for another time.
Thou therefore must be one of them, who what they do, barely do it
without any further thought, and are in a manner insensible of what they
do. ‘Nay but,’ will some reply perchance, ‘this very thing a rational
man is bound unto, to understand what it is, that he doeth.’ For it
is the property, say they, of one that is naturally sociable, to be
sensible, that he doth operate sociably: nay, and to desire, that the
party him self that is sociably dealt with, should be sensible of it
too. I answer, That which thou sayest is true indeed, but the true
meaning of that which is said, thou dost not understand. And therefore
art thou one of those first, whom I mentioned. For they also are led by
a probable appearance of reason. But if thou dost desire to understand
truly what it is that is said, fear not that thou shalt therefore give
over any sociable action.

VII. The form of the Athenians’ prayer did run thus: ‘O rain, rain, good
Jupiter, upon all the grounds and fields that belong to the Athenians.’
Either we should not pray at all, or thus absolutely and freely; and not
every one for himself in particular alone.

VIII. As we say commonly, The physician hath prescribed unto this man,
riding; unto another, cold baths; unto a third, to go barefoot: so it is
alike to say, The nature of the universe hath prescribed unto this man
sickness, or blindness, or some loss, or damage or some such thing. For
as there, when we say of a physician, that he hath prescribed anything,
our meaning is, that he hath appointed this for that, as subordinate
and conducing to health: so here, whatsoever doth happen unto any, is
ordained unto him as a thing subordinate unto the fates, and therefore
do we say of such things, that they do happen, or fall together; as of
square stones, when either in walls, or pyramids in a certain position
they fit one another, and agree as it were in an harmony, the masons
say, that they do (sumbainein) as if thou shouldest say, fall together:
so that in the general, though the things be divers that make it, yet
the consent or harmony itself is but one. And as the whole world is made
up of all the particular bodies of the world, one perfect and complete
body, of the same nature that particular bodies; so is the destiny of
particular causes and events one general one, of the same nature that
particular causes are. What I now say, even they that are mere idiots
are not ignorant of: for they say commonly (touto eferen autw) that is,
This his destiny hath brought upon him. This therefore is by the fates
properly and particularly brought upon this, as that unto this in
particular is by the physician prescribed. These therefore let us
accept of in like manner, as we do those that are prescribed unto us our
physicians. For them also in themselves shall We find to contain many
harsh things, but we nevertheless, in hope of health, and recovery,
accept of them. Let the fulfilling and accomplishment of those things
which the common nature hath determined, be unto thee as thy health.
Accept then, and be pleased with whatsoever doth happen, though
otherwise harsh and un-pleasing, as tending to that end, to the health
and welfare of the universe, and to Jove’s happiness and prosperity.
For this whatsoever it be, should not have been produced, had it not
conduced to the good of the universe. For neither doth any ordinary
particular nature bring anything to pass, that is not to whatsoever
is within the sphere of its own proper administration and government
agreeable and subordinate. For these two considerations then thou must
be well pleased with anything that doth happen unto thee. First, because
that for thee properly it was brought to pass, and unto thee it
was prescribed; and that from the very beginning by the series and
connection of the first causes, it hath ever had a reference unto thee.
And secondly, because the good success and perfect welfare, and indeed
the very continuance of Him, that is the Administrator of the whole,
doth in a manner depend on it. For the whole (because whole, therefore
entire and perfect) is maimed, and mutilated, if thou shalt cut off
anything at all, whereby the coherence, and contiguity as of parts, so
of causes, is maintained and preserved. Of which certain it is,
that thou doest (as much as lieth in thee) cut off, and in some sort
violently take somewhat away, as often as thou art displeased with
anything that happeneth.

IX. Be not discontented, be not disheartened, be not out of hope, if
often it succeed not so well with thee punctually and precisely to do
all things according to the right dogmata, but being once cast off,
return unto them again: and as for those many and more frequent
occurrences, either of worldly distractions, or human infirmities, which
as a man thou canst not but in some measure be subject unto, be not thou
discontented with them; but however, love and affect that only which
thou dust return unto: a philosopher’s life, and proper occupation after
the most exact manner. And when thou dust return to thy philosophy,
return not unto it as the manner of some is, after play and liberty as
it were, to their schoolmasters and pedagogues; but as they that have
sore eyes to their sponge and egg: or as another to his cataplasm; or
as others to their fomentations: so shalt not thou make it a matter of
ostentation at all to obey reason but of ease and comfort. And
remember that philosophy requireth nothing of thee, but what thy
nature requireth, and wouldest thou thyself desire anything that is
not according to nature? for which of these sayest thou; that which is
according to nature or against it, is of itself more kind and pleasing?
Is it not for that respect especially, that pleasure itself is to so
many men’s hurt and overthrow, most prevalent, because esteemed commonly
most kind, and natural? But consider well whether magnanimity rather,
and true liberty, and true simplicity, and equanimity, and holiness;
whether these be not most kind and natural? And prudency itself, what
more kind and amiable than it, when thou shalt truly consider with
thyself, what it is through all the proper objects of thy rational
intellectual faculty currently to go on without any fall or stumble?
As for the things of the world, their true nature is in a manner so
involved with obscurity, that unto many philosophers, and those no
mean ones, they seemed altogether incomprehensible, and the Stoics
themselves, though they judge them not altogether incomprehensible,
yet scarce and not without much difficulty, comprehensible, so that
all assent of ours is fallible, for who is he that is infallible in his
conclusions? From the nature of things, pass now unto their subjects
and matter: how temporary, how vile are they I such as may be in the
power and possession of some abominable loose liver, of some common
strumpet, of some notorious oppressor and extortioner. Pass from thence
to the dispositions of them that thou doest ordinarily converse with,
how hardly do we bear, even with the most loving and amiable! that I may
not say, how hard it is for us to bear even with our own selves, in such
obscurity, and impurity of things: in such and so continual a flux both
of the substances and time; both of the motions themselves, and things
moved; what it is that we can fasten upon; either to honour, and respect
especially; or seriously, and studiously to seek after; I cannot so much
as conceive For indeed they are things contrary.

X. Thou must comfort thyself in the expectation of thy natural
dissolution, and in the meantime not grieve at the delay; but rest
contented in those two things. First, that nothing shall happen unto
thee, which is not according to the nature of the universe. Secondly,
that it is in thy power, to do nothing against thine own proper God, and
inward spirit. For it is not in any man’s power to constrain thee to
transgress against him.

XI. What is the use that now at this present I make of my soul? Thus
from time to time and upon all occasions thou must put this question to
thyself; what is now that part of mine which they call the rational
mistress part, employed about? Whose soul do I now properly possess? a
child’s? or a youth’s? a woman’s? or a tyrant’s? some brute, or some
wild beast’s soul?

XII. What those things are in themselves, which by the greatest part are
esteemed good, thou mayest gather even from this. For if a man shall
hear things mentioned as good, which are really good indeed, such as are
prudence, temperance, justice, fortitude, after so much heard and
conceived, he cannot endure to hear of any more, for the word good is
properly spoken of them. But as for those which by the vulgar are
esteemed good, if he shall hear them mentioned as good, he doth hearken
for more. He is well contented to hear, that what is spoken by the
comedian, is but familiarly and popularly spoken, so that even the
vulgar apprehend the difference. For why is it else, that this offends
not and needs not to be excused, when virtues are styled good: but that
which is spoken in commendation of wealth, pleasure, or honour, we
entertain it only as merrily and pleasantly spoken? Proceed therefore,
and inquire further, whether it may not be that those things also which
being mentioned upon the stage were merrily, and with great applause of
the multitude, scoffed at with this jest, that they that possessed them
had not in all the world of their own, (such was their affluence and
plenty) so much as a place where to avoid their excrements. Whether, I
say, those ought not also in very deed to be much respected, and
esteemed of, as the only things that are truly good.

XIII. All that I consist of, is either form or matter. No corruption can
reduce either of these unto nothing: for neither did I of nothing become
a subsistent creature. Every part of mine then will by mutation be
disposed into a certain part of the whole world, and that in time into
another part; and so in infinitum; by which kind of mutation, I also
became what I am, and so did they that begot me, and they before them,
and so upwards in infinitum. For so we may be allowed to speak, though
the age and government of the world, be to some certain periods of time
limited, and confined.

XIV. Reason, and rational power, are faculties which content themselves
with themselves, and their own proper operations. And as for their first
inclination and motion, that they take from themselves. But their
progress is right to the end and object, which is in their way, as it
were, and lieth just before them: that is, which is feasible and
possible, whether it be that which at the first they proposed to
themselves, or no. For which reason also such actions are termed
katorqwseiz to intimate the directness of the way, by which they are
achieved. Nothing must be thought to belong to a man, which doth not
belong unto him as he is a man. These, the event of purposes, are not
things required in a man. The nature of man doth not profess any such
things. The final ends and consummations of actions are nothing at all
to a man’s nature. The end therefore of a man, or the summum bonum
whereby that end is fulfilled, cannot consist in the consummation of
actions purposed and intended. Again, concerning these outward worldly
things, were it so that any of them did properly belong unto man, then
would it not belong unto man, to condemn them and to stand in opposition
with them. Neither would he be praiseworthy that can live without them;
or he good, (if these were good indeed) who of his own accord doth
deprive himself of any of them. But we see contrariwise, that the more a
man doth withdraw himself from these wherein external pomp and greatness
doth consist, or any other like these; or the better he doth bear with
the loss of these, the better he is accounted.

XV. Such as thy thoughts and ordinary cogitations are, such will thy
mind be in time. For the soul doth as it were receive its tincture from
the fancies, and imaginations. Dye it therefore and thoroughly soak it
with the assiduity of these cogitations. As for example. Wheresoever
thou mayest live, there it is in thy power to live well and happy. But
thou mayest live at the Court, there then also mayest thou live well and
happy. Again, that which everything is made for, he is also made unto
that, and cannot but naturally incline unto it. That which anything
doth naturally incline unto, therein is his end. Wherein the end of
everything doth consist, therein also doth his good and benefit consist.
Society therefore is the proper good of a rational creature. For that we
are made for society, it hath long since been demonstrated. Or can any
man make any question of this, that whatsoever is naturally worse and
inferior, is ordinarily subordinated to that which is better? and that
those things that are best, are made one for another? And those things
that have souls, are better than those that have none? and of those that
have, those best that have rational souls?

XVI. To desire things impossible is the part of a mad man. But it is a
thing impossible, that wicked man should not commit some such things.
Neither doth anything happen to any man, which in the ordinary course
of nature as natural unto him doth not happen. Again, the same things
happen unto others also. And truly, if either he that is ignorant that
such a thing hath happened unto him, or he that is ambitious to be
commended for his magnanimity, can be patient, and is not grieved: is it
not a grievous thing, that either ignorance, or a vain desire to please
and to be commended, should be more powerful and effectual than true
prudence? As for the things themselves, they touch not the soul, neither
can they have any access unto it: neither can they of themselves any
ways either affect it, or move it. For she herself alone can affect and
move herself, and according as the dogmata and opinions are, which she
doth vouchsafe herself; so are those things which, as accessories, have
any co-existence with her.

XVII. After one consideration, man is nearest unto us; as we are bound
to do them good, and to bear with them. But as he may oppose any of our
true proper actions, so man is unto me but as a thing indifferent: even
as the sun, or the wind, or some wild beast. By some of these it may be,
that some operation or other of mine, may be hindered; however, of my
mind and resolution itself, there can be no let or impediment, by reason
of that ordinary constant both exception (or reservation wherewith it
inclineth) and ready conversion of objects; from that which may not be,
to that which may be, which in the prosecution of its inclinations, as
occasion serves, it doth observe. For by these the mind doth turn and
convert any impediment whatsoever, to be her aim and purpose. So that
what before was the impediment, is now the principal object of her
working; and that which before was in her way, is now her readiest way.

XVIII. Honour that which is chiefest and most powerful in the world, and
that is it, which makes use of all things, and governs all things. So
also in thyself; honour that which is chiefest, and most powerful; and
is of one kind and nature with that which we now spake of. For it is the
very same, which being in thee, turneth all other things to its own use,
and by whom also thy life is governed.

XIX. That which doth not hurt the city itself; cannot hurt any citizen.
This rule thou must remember to apply and make use of upon every conceit
and apprehension of wrong. If the whole city be not hurt by this,
neither am I certainly. And if the whole be not, why should I make it
my private grievance? consider rather what it is wherein he is overseen
that is thought to have done the wrong. Again, often meditate how
swiftly all things that subsist, and all things that are done in the
world, are carried away, and as it were conveyed out of sight: for both
the substance themselves, we see as a flood, are in a continual flux;
and all actions in a perpetual change; and the causes themselves,
subject to a thousand alterations, neither is there anything almost,
that may ever be said to be now settled and constant. Next unto this,
and which follows upon it, consider both the infiniteness of the time
already past, and the immense vastness of that which is to come, wherein
all things are to be resolved and annihilated. Art not thou then a
very fool, who for these things, art either puffed up with pride, or
distracted with cares, or canst find in thy heart to make such moans as
for a thing that would trouble thee for a very long time? Consider the
whole universe whereof thou art but a very little part, and the whole
age of the world together, whereof but a short and very momentary
portion is allotted unto thee, and all the fates and destinies together,
of which how much is it that comes to thy part and share! Again: another
doth trespass against me. Let him look to that. He is master of his own
disposition, and of his own operation. I for my part am in the meantime
in possession of as much, as the common nature would have me to possess:
and that which mine own nature would have me do, I do.

XX. Let not that chief commanding part of thy soul be ever subject to
any variation through any corporal either pain or pleasure, neither
suffer it to be mixed with these, but let it both circumscribe itself,
and confine those affections to their own proper parts and members.
But if at any time they do reflect and rebound upon the mind and
understanding (as in an united and compacted body it must needs;) then
must thou not go about to resist sense and feeling, it being natural.
However let not thy understanding to this natural sense and feeling,
which whether unto our flesh pleasant or painful, is unto us nothing
properly, add an opinion of either good or bad and all is well.

XXI. To live with the Gods. He liveth with the Gods, who at all times
affords unto them the spectacle of a soul, both contented and well
pleased with whatsoever is afforded, or allotted unto her; and
performing whatsoever is pleasing to that Spirit, whom (being part of
himself) Jove hath appointed to every man as his overseer and governor.

XXII. Be not angry neither with him whose breath, neither with him whose
arm holes, are offensive. What can he do? such is his breath naturally,
and such are his arm holes; and from such, such an effect, and such
a smell must of necessity proceed. ‘O, but the man (sayest thou) hath
understanding in him, and might of himself know, that he by standing
near, cannot choose but offend.’ And thou also (God bless thee!) hast
understanding. Let thy reasonable faculty, work upon his reasonable
faculty; show him his fault, admonish him. If he hearken unto thee, thou
hast cured him, and there will be no more occasion of anger.

XXIII. ‘Where there shall neither roarer be, nor harlot.’ Why so? As
thou dost purpose to live, when thou hast retired thyself to some such
place, where neither roarer nor harlot is: so mayest thou here. And if
they will not suffer thee, then mayest thou leave thy life rather than
thy calling, but so as one that doth not think himself anyways wronged.
Only as one would say, Here is a smoke; I will out of it. And what a
great matter is this! Now till some such thing force me out, I will
continue free; neither shall any man hinder me to do what I will, and
my will shall ever be by the proper nature of a reasonable and sociable
creature, regulated and directed.

XXIV. That rational essence by which the universe is governed, is for
community and society; and therefore hath it both made the things that
are worse, for the best, and hath allied and knit together those
which are best, as it were in an harmony. Seest thou not how it hath
sub-ordinated, and co-ordinated? and how it hath distributed unto
everything according to its worth? and those which have the pre-eminency
and superiority above all, hath it united together, into a mutual
consent and agreement.

XXV. How hast thou carried thyself hitherto towards the Gods? towards
thy parents? towards thy brethren? towards thy wife? towards thy
children? towards thy masters? thy foster-fathers? thy friends? thy
domestics? thy servants? Is it so with thee, that hitherto thou hast
neither by word or deed wronged any of them? Remember withal through how
many things thou hast already passed, and how many thou hast been able
to endure; so that now the legend of thy life is full, and thy charge is
accomplished. Again, how many truly good things have certainly by thee
been discerned? how many pleasures, how many pains hast thou passed over
with contempt? how many things eternally glorious hast thou despised?
towards how many perverse unreasonable men hast thou carried thyself
kindly, and discreetly?

XXVI. Why should imprudent unlearned souls trouble that which is
both learned, and prudent? And which is that that is so? she that
understandeth the beginning and the end, and hath the true knowledge of
that rational essence, that passeth through all things subsisting, and
through all ages being ever the same, disposing and dispensing as it
were this universe by certain periods of time.

XXVII. Within a very little while, thou wilt be either ashes, or a
sceletum; and a name perchance; and perchance, not so much as a name.
And what is that but an empty sound, and a rebounding echo? Those things
which in this life are dearest unto us, and of most account, they are in
themselves but vain, putrid, contemptible. The most weighty and serious,
if rightly esteemed, but as puppies, biting one another: or untoward
children, now laughing and then crying. As for faith, and modesty, and
justice, and truth, they long since, as one of the poets hath it, have
abandoned this spacious earth, and retired themselves unto heaven. What
is it then that doth keep thee here, if things sensible be so mutable
and unsettled? and the senses so obscure, and so fallible? and our souls
nothing but an exhalation of blood? and to be in credit among such,
be but vanity? What is it that thou dost stay for? an extinction, or a
translation; either of them with a propitious and contented mind. But
still that time come, what will content thee? what else, but to worship
and praise the Gods; and to do good unto men. To bear with them, and
to forbear to do them any wrong. And for all external things belonging
either to this thy wretched body, or life, to remember that they are
neither thine, nor in thy power.

XXVIII. Thou mayest always speed, if thou wilt but make choice of the
right way; if in the course both of thine opinions and actions, thou
wilt observe a true method. These two things be common to the souls, as
of God, so of men, and of every reasonable creature, first that in their
own proper work they cannot be hindered by anything: and secondly, that
their happiness doth consist in a disposition to, and in the practice of
righteousness; and that in these their desire is terminated.

XXIX. If this neither be my wicked act, nor an act anyways depending
from any wickedness of mine, and that by it the public is not hurt; what
doth it concern me? And wherein can the public be hurt? For thou must
not altogether be carried by conceit and common opinion: as for help
thou must afford that unto them after thy best ability, and as occasion
shall require, though they sustain damage, but in these middle or
worldly things; but however do not thou conceive that they are truly
hurt thereby: for that is not right. But as that old foster-father
in the comedy, being now to take his leave doth with a great deal of
ceremony, require his foster-child’s rhombus, or rattle-top, remembering
nevertheless that it is but a rhombus; so here also do thou likewise.
For indeed what is all this pleading and public bawling for at the
courts? O man, hast thou forgotten what those things are! yea but they
are things that others much care for, and highly esteem of. Wilt thou
therefore be a fool too? Once I was; let that suffice.

XXX. Let death surprise rue when it will, and where it will, I may be a
happy man, nevertheless.

For he is a happy man, who in his lifetime dealeth unto himself a happy
lot and portion. A happy lot and portion is, good inclinations of the
soul, good desires, good actions.

THE SIXTH BOOK

I. The matter itself, of which the universe doth consist, is of itself
very tractable and pliable. That rational essence that doth govern it,
hath in itself no cause to do evil. It hath no evil in itself; neither
can it do anything that is evil: neither can anything be hurt by it. And
all things are done and determined according to its will and prescript.

II. Be it all one unto thee, whether half frozen or well warm; whether
only slumbering, or after a full sleep; whether discommended or
commended thou do thy duty: or whether dying or doing somewhat else; for
that also ‘to die,’ must among the rest be reckoned as one of the duties
and actions of our lives.

III. Look in, let not either the proper quality, or the true worth of
anything pass thee, before thou hast fully apprehended it.

IV. All substances come soon to their change, and either they shall
be resolved by way of exhalation (if so be that all things shall be
reunited into one substance), or as others maintain, they shall be
scattered and dispersed. As for that Rational Essence by which all
things are governed, as it best understandeth itself, both its own
disposition, and what it doth, and what matter it hath to do with and
accordingly doth all things; so we that do not, no wonder, if we wonder
at many things, the reasons whereof we cannot comprehend.

V. The best kind of revenge is, not to become like unto them.

VI. Let this be thy only joy, and thy only comfort, from one sociable
kind action without intermission to pass unto another, God being ever in
thy mind.

VII. The rational commanding part, as it alone can stir up and turn
itself; so it maketh both itself to be, and everything that happeneth,
to appear unto itself, as it will itself.

VIII. According to the nature of the universe all things particular are
determined, not according to any other nature, either about compassing
and containing; or within, dispersed and contained; or without,
depending. Either this universe is a mere confused mass, and an
intricate context of things, which shall in time be scattered and
dispersed again: or it is an union consisting of order, and administered
by Providence. If the first, why should I desire to continue any longer
in this fortuit confusion and commixtion? or why should I take care for
anything else, but that as soon as may be I may be earth again? And
why should I trouble myself any more whilst I seek to please the Gods?
Whatsoever I do, dispersion is my end, and will come upon me whether I
will or no. But if the latter be, then am not I religious in vain;
then will I be quiet and patient, and put my trust in Him, who is the
Governor of all.

IX. Whensoever by some present hard occurrences thou art constrained to
be in some sort troubled and vexed, return unto thyself as soon as may
be, and be not out of tune longer than thou must needs. For so shalt
thou be the better able to keep thy part another time, and to maintain
the harmony, if thou dost use thyself to this continually; once out,
presently to have recourse unto it, and to begin again.

X. If it were that thou hadst at one time both a stepmother, and
a natural mother living, thou wouldst honour and respect her also;
nevertheless to thine own natural mother would thy refuge, and recourse
be continually. So let the court and thy philosophy be unto thee. Have
recourse unto it often, and comfort thyself in her, by whom it is that
those other things are made tolerable unto thee, and thou also in those
things not intolerable unto others.

XI. How marvellous useful it is for a man to represent unto himself
meats, and all such things that are for the mouth, under a right
apprehension and imagination! as for example: This is the carcass of a
fish; this of a bird; and this of a hog. And again more generally; This
phalernum, this excellent highly commended wine, is but the bare juice
of an ordinary grape. This purple robe, but sheep’s hairs, dyed with
the blood of a shellfish. So for coitus, it is but the attrition of an
ordinary base entrail, and the excretion of a little vile snivel, with
a certain kind of convulsion: according to Hippocrates his opinion. How
excellent useful are these lively fancies and representations of things,
thus penetrating and passing through the objects, to make their true
nature known and apparent! This must thou use all thy life long, and
upon all occasions: and then especially, when matters are apprehended
as of great worth and respect, thy art and care must be to uncover
them, and to behold their vileness, and to take away from them all those
serious circumstances and expressions, under which they made so grave
a show. For outward pomp and appearance is a great juggler; and then
especially art thou most in danger to be beguiled by it, when (to
a man’s thinking) thou most seemest to be employed about matters of
moment.

XII. See what Crates pronounceth concerning Xenocrates himself.

XIII. Those things which the common sort of people do admire, are most
of them such things as are very general, and may be comprehended under
things merely natural, or naturally affected and qualified: as stones,
wood, figs, vines, olives. Those that be admired by them that are more
moderate and restrained, are comprehended under things animated: as
flocks and herds. Those that are yet more gentle and curious, their
admiration is commonly confined to reasonable creatures only; not in
general as they are reasonable, but as they are capable of art, or of
some craft and subtile invention: or perchance barely to reasonable
creatures; as they that delight in the possession of many slaves. But
he that honours a reasonable soul in general, as it is reasonable and
naturally sociable, doth little regard anything else: and above all
things is careful to preserve his own, in the continual habit and
exercise both of reason and sociableness: and thereby doth co-operate
with him, of whose nature he doth also participate; God.

XIV. Some things hasten to be, and others to be no more. And even
whatsoever now is, some part thereof hath already perished. Perpetual
fluxes and alterations renew the world, as the perpetual course of time
doth make the age of the world (of itself infinite) to appear always
fresh and new. In such a flux and course of all things, what of these
things that hasten so fast away should any man regard, since among all
there is not any that a man may fasten and fix upon? as if a man would
settle his affection upon some ordinary sparrow living by him, who is no
sooner seen, than out of sight. For we must not think otherwise of our
lives, than as a mere exhalation of blood, or of an ordinary respiration
of air. For what in our common apprehension is, to breathe in the air
and to breathe it out again, which we do daily: so much is it and no
more, at once to breathe out all thy respirative faculty into that
common air from whence but lately (as being but from yesterday, and
to-day), thou didst first breathe it in, and with it, life.

XV. Not vegetative spiration, it is not surely (which plants have) that
in this life should be so dear unto us; nor sensitive respiration, the
proper life of beasts, both tame and wild; nor this our imaginative
faculty; nor that we are subject to be led and carried up and down by
the strength of our sensual appetites; or that we can gather, and live
together; or that we can feed: for that in effect is no better, than
that we can void the excrements of our food. What is it then that should
be dear unto us? to hear a clattering noise? if not that, then neither
to be applauded by the tongues of men. For the praises of many tongues,
is in effect no better than the clattering of so many tongues. If then
neither applause, what is there remaining that should be dear unto thee?
This I think: that in all thy motions and actions thou be moved,
and restrained according to thine own true natural constitution and
Construction only. And to this even ordinary arts and professions do
lead us. For it is that which every art doth aim at, that whatsoever it
is, that is by art effected and prepared, may be fit for that work that
it is prepared for. This is the end that he that dresseth the vine, and
he that takes upon him either to tame colts, or to train up dogs,
doth aim at. What else doth the education of children, and all learned
professions tend unto? Certainly then it is that, which should be dear
unto us also. If in this particular it go well with thee, care not for
the obtaining of other things. But is it so, that thou canst not but
respect other things also? Then canst not thou truly be free? then canst
thou not have self-content: then wilt thou ever be subject to passions.
For it is not possible, but that thou must be envious, and jealous, and
suspicious of them whom thou knowest can bereave thee of such things;
and again, a secret underminer of them, whom thou seest in present
possession of that which is dear unto thee. To be short, he must of
necessity be full of confusion within himself, and often accuse the
Gods, whosoever stands in need of these things. But if thou shalt
honour and respect thy mind only, that will make thee acceptable
towards thyself, towards thy friends very tractable; and conformable
and concordant with the Gods; that is, accepting with praises whatsoever
they shall think good to appoint and allot unto thee.

XVI. Under, above, and about, are the motions of the elements; but
the motion of virtue, is none of those motions, but is somewhat more
excellent and divine. Whose way (to speed and prosper in it) must be
through a way, that is not easily comprehended.

XVII. Who can choose but wonder at them? They will not speak well of
them that are at the same time with them, and live with them; yet they
themselves are very ambitious, that they that shall follow, whom they
have never seen, nor shall ever see, should speak well of them. As if
a man should grieve that he hath not been commended by them, that lived
before him.

XVIII. Do not ever conceive anything impossible to man, which by thee
cannot, or not without much difficulty be effected; but whatsoever in
general thou canst Conceive possible and proper unto any man, think that
very possible unto thee also.

XIX. Suppose that at the palestra somebody hath all to-torn thee with
his nails, and hath broken thy head. Well, thou art wounded. Yet thou
dost not exclaim; thou art not offended with him. Thou dost not suspect
him for it afterwards, as one that watcheth to do thee a mischief. Yea
even then, though thou dost thy best to save thyself from him, yet not
from him as an enemy. It is not by way of any suspicious indignation,
but by way of gentle and friendly declination. Keep the same mind and
disposition in other parts of thy life also. For many things there be,
which we must conceit and apprehend, as though we had had to do with an
antagonist at the palestra. For as I said, it is very possible for us to
avoid and decline, though we neither suspect, nor hate.

XX. If anybody shall reprove me, and shall make it apparent unto me,
that in any either opinion or action of mine I do err, I will most
gladly retract. For it is the truth that I seek after, by which I am
sure that never any man was hurt; and as sure, that he is hurt that
continueth in any error, or ignorance whatsoever.

XXI. I for my part will do what belongs unto me; as for other things,
whether things unsensible or things irrational; or if rational, yet
deceived and ignorant of the true way, they shall not trouble or
distract me. For as for those creatures which are not endued with reason
and all other things and-matters of the world whatsoever I freely, and
generously, as one endued with reason, of things that have none, make
use of them. And as for men, towards them as naturally partakers of the
same reason, my care is to carry myself sociably. But whatsoever it is
that thou art about, remember to call upon the Gods. And as for the time
how long thou shalt live to do these things, let it be altogether
indifferent unto thee, for even three such hours are sufficient.

XXII. Alexander of Macedon, and he that dressed his mules, when once
dead both came to one. For either they were both resumed into those
original rational essences from whence all things in the world are
propagated; or both after one fashion were scattered into atoms.

XXIII Consider how many different things, whether they concern our
bodies, or our souls, in a moment of time come to pass in every one of
us, and so thou wilt not wonder if many more things or rather all things
that are done, can at one time subsist, and coexist in that both one and
general, which we call the world.

XXIV. if any should put this question unto thee, how this word Antoninus
is written, wouldst thou not presently fix thine intention upon it, and
utter out in order every letter of it? And if any shall begin to gainsay
thee, and quarrel with thee about it; wilt thou quarrel with him again,
or rather go on meekly as thou hast begun, until thou hast numbered out
every letter? Here then likewise remember, that every duty that belongs
unto a man doth consist of some certain letters or numbers as it were,
to which without any noise or tumult keeping thyself thou must orderly
proceed to thy proposed end, forbearing to quarrel with him that would
quarrel and fall out with thee.

XXV. Is it not a cruel thing to forbid men to affect those things, which
they conceive to agree best with their own natures, and to tend most
to their own proper good and behoof? But thou after a sort deniest them
this liberty, as often as thou art angry with them for their sins. For
surely they are led unto those sins whatsoever they be, as to
their proper good and commodity. But it is not so (thou wilt object
perchance). Thou therefore teach them better, and make it appear unto
them: but be not thou angry with them.

XXVI. Death is a cessation from the impression of the senses, the
tyranny of the passions, the errors of the mind, and the servitude of
the body.

XXVII. If in this kind of life thy body be able to hold out, it is a
shame that thy soul should faint first, and give over, take heed, lest
of a philosopher thou become a mere Caesar in time, and receive a new
tincture from the court. For it may happen if thou dost not take heed.
Keep thyself therefore, truly simple, good, sincere, grave, free
from all ostentation, a lover of that which is just, religious, kind,
tender-hearted, strong and vigorous to undergo anything that becomes
thee. Endeavour to continue such, as philosophy (hadst thou wholly and
constantly applied thyself unto it) would have made, and secured thee.
Worship the Gods, procure the welfare of men, this life is short.
Charitable actions, and a holy disposition, is the only fruit of this
earthly life.

XXVIII. Do all things as becometh the disciple of Antoninus Pius.
Remember his resolute constancy in things that were done by him
according to reason, his equability in all things, his sanctity; the
cheerfulness of his countenance, his sweetness, and how free he was from
all vainglory; how careful to come to the true and exact knowledge of
matters in hand, and how he would by no means give over till he did
fully, and plainly understand the whole state of the business; and how
patiently, and without any contestation he would bear with them, that
did unjustly condemn him: how he would never be over-hasty in anything,
nor give ear to slanders and false accusations, but examine and observe
with best diligence the several actions and dispositions of men. Again,
how he was no backbiter, nor easily frightened, nor suspicious, and in
his language free from all affectation and curiosity: and how easily he
would content himself with few things, as lodging, bedding, clothing,
and ordinary nourishment, and attendance. How able to endure labour, how
patient; able through his spare diet to continue from morning to evening
without any necessity of withdrawing before his accustomed hours to
the necessities of nature: his uniformity and constancy in matter of
friendship. How he would bear with them that with all boldness and
liberty opposed his opinions; and even rejoice if any man could better
advise him: and lastly, how religious he was without superstition. All
these things of him remember, that whensoever thy last hour shall
come upon thee, it may find thee, as it did him, ready for it in the
possession of a good conscience.

XXIX. Stir up thy mind, and recall thy wits again from thy natural
dreams, and visions, and when thou art perfectly awoken, and canst
perceive that they were but dreams that troubled thee, as one newly
awakened out of another kind of sleep look upon these worldly things
with the same mind as thou didst upon those, that thou sawest in thy
sleep.

XXX. I consist of body and soul. Unto my body all things are
indifferent, for of itself it cannot affect one thing more than another
with apprehension of any difference; as for my mind, all things which
are not within the verge of her own operation, are indifferent unto her,
and for her own operations, those altogether depend of her; neither
does she busy herself about any, but those that are present; for as
for future and past operations, those also are now at this present
indifferent unto her.

XXXI. As long as the foot doth that which belongeth unto it to do, and
the hand that which belongs unto it, their labour, whatsoever it be, is
not unnatural. So a man as long as he doth that which is proper unto
a man, his labour cannot be against nature; and if it be not against
nature, then neither is it hurtful unto him. But if it were so that
happiness did consist in pleasure: how came notorious robbers, impure
abominable livers, parricides, and tyrants, in so large a measure to
have their part of pleasures?

XXXII. Dost thou not see, how even those that profess mechanic arts,
though in some respect they be no better than mere idiots, yet they
stick close to the course of their trade, neither can they find in
their heart to decline from it: and is it not a grievous thing that
an architect, or a physician shall respect the course and mysteries of
their profession, more than a man the proper course and condition of his
own nature, reason, which is common to him and to the Gods?

XXXIII. Asia, Europe; what are they, but as corners of the whole world;
of which the whole sea, is but as one drop; and the great Mount Athos,
but as a clod, as all present time is but as one point of eternity. All,
petty things; all things that are soon altered, soon perished. And all
things come from one beginning; either all severally and particularly
deliberated and resolved upon, by the general ruler and governor of all;
or all by necessary consequence. So that the dreadful hiatus of a gaping
lion, and all poison, and all hurtful things, are but (as the thorn and
the mire) the necessary consequences of goodly fair things. Think not
of these therefore, as things contrary to those which thou dost much
honour, and respect; but consider in thy mind the true fountain of all.

XXXIV He that seeth the things that are now, hath Seen all that either
was ever, or ever shall be, for all things are of one kind; and all like
one unto another. Meditate often upon the connection of all things in
the world; and upon the mutual relation that they have one unto another.
For all things are after a sort folded and involved one within another,
and by these means all agree well together. For one thing is consequent
unto another, by local motion, by natural conspiration and agreement,
and by substantial union, or, reduction of all substances into one.

XXXV. Fit and accommodate thyself to that estate and to those
occurrences, which by the destinies have been annexed unto thee; and
love those men whom thy fate it is to live with; but love them truly. An
instrument, a tool, an utensil, whatsoever it be, if it be fit for the
purpose it was made for, it is as it should be though he perchance that
made and fitted it, be out of sight and gone. But in things natural,
that power which hath framed and fitted them, is and abideth within them
still: for which reason she ought also the more to be respected, and we
are the more obliged (if we may live and pass our time according to her
purpose and intention) to think that all is well with us, and according
to our own minds. After this manner also, and in this respect it is,
that he that is all in all doth enjoy his happiness.

XXXVI. What things soever are not within the proper power and
jurisdiction of thine own will either to compass or avoid, if thou shalt
propose unto thyself any of those things as either good, or evil; it
must needs be that according as thou shalt either fall into that which
thou dost think evil, or miss of that which thou dost think good, so
wilt thou be ready both to complain of the Gods, and to hate those men,
who either shall be so indeed, or shall by thee be suspected as the
cause either of thy missing of the one, or falling into the other. And
indeed we must needs commit many evils, if we incline to any of these
things, more or less, with an opinion of any difference. But if we mind
and fancy those things only, as good and bad, which wholly depend of our
own wills, there is no more occasion why we should either murmur against
the Gods, or be at enmity with any man.

XXXVII. We all work to one effect, some willingly, and with a rational
apprehension of what we do: others without any such knowledge. As I
think Heraclitus in a place speaketh of them that sleep, that even they
do work in their kind, and do confer to the general operations of the
world. One man therefore doth co-operate after one sort, and another
after another sort; but even he that doth murmur, and to his power doth
resist and hinder; even he as much as any doth co-operate. For of such
also did the world stand in need. Now do thou consider among which of
these thou wilt rank thyself. For as for him who is the Administrator
of all, he will make good use of thee whether thou wilt or no, and make
thee (as a part and member of the whole) so to co-operate with him,
that whatsoever thou doest, shall turn to the furtherance of his own
counsels, and resolutions. But be not thou for shame such a part of the
whole, as that vile and ridiculous verse (which Chrysippus in a place
doth mention) is a part of the comedy. XXXVIII. Doth either the sun take
upon him to do that which belongs to the rain? or his son Aesculapius
that, which unto the earth doth properly belong? How is it with every
one of the stars in particular? Though they all differ one from another,
and have their several charges and functions by themselves, do they not
all nevertheless concur and co-operate to one end?

XXXIX. If so be that the Gods have deliberated in particular of those
things that should happen unto me, I must stand to their deliberation,
as discrete and wise. For that a God should be an imprudent God, is a
thing hard even to conceive: and why should they resolve to do me hurt?
for what profit either unto them or the universe (which they specially
take care for) could arise from it? But if so be that they have not
deliberated of me in particular, certainly they have of the whole in
general, and those things which in consequence and coherence of this
general deliberation happen unto me in particular, I am bound to embrace
and accept of. But if so be that they have not deliberated at all (which
indeed is very irreligious for any man to believe: for then let us
neither sacrifice, nor pray, nor respect our oaths, neither let us any
more use any of those things, which we persuaded of the presence and
secret conversation of the Gods among us, daily use and practise:)
but, I say, if so be that they have not indeed either in general, or
particular deliberated of any of those things, that happen unto us
in this world; yet God be thanked, that of those things that
concern myself, it is lawful for me to deliberate myself, and all my
deliberation is but concerning that which may be to me most profitable.
Now that unto every one is most profitable, which is according to his
own constitution and nature. And my nature is, to be rational in all my
actions and as a good, and natural member of a city and commonwealth,
towards my fellow members ever to be sociably and kindly disposed and
affected. My city and country as I am Antoninus, is Rome; as a man, the
whole world. Those things therefore that are expedient and profitable to
those cities, are the only things that are good and expedient for me.

XL. Whatsoever in any kind doth happen to any one, is expedient to the
whole. And thus much to content us might suffice, that it is expedient
for the whole in general. But yet this also shalt thou generally
perceive, if thou dost diligently take heed, that whatsoever doth happen
to any one man or men…. And now I am content that the word expedient,
should more generally be understood of those things which we otherwise
call middle things, or things indifferent; as health, wealth, and the
like.

XLI. As the ordinary shows of the theatre and of other such places,
when thou art presented with them, affect thee; as the same things still
seen, and in the same fashion, make the sight ingrateful and tedious;
so must all the things that we see all our life long affect us. For all
things, above and below, are still the same, and from the same causes.
When then will there be an end?

XLII. Let the several deaths of men of all sorts, and of all sorts of
professions, and of all sort of nations, be a perpetual object of thy
thoughts,… so that thou mayst even come down to Philistio, Phoebus,
and Origanion. Pass now to other generations. Thither shall we after
many changes, where so many brave orators are; where so many grave
philosophers; Heraclitus, Pythagoras, Socrates. Where so many heroes of
the old times; and then so many brave captains of the latter times; and
so many kings. After all these, where Eudoxus, Hipparchus, Archimedes;
where so many other sharp, generous, industrious, subtile, peremptory
dispositions; and among others, even they, that have been the greatest
scoffers and deriders of the frailty and brevity of this our human life;
as Menippus, and others, as many as there have been such as he. Of all
these consider, that they long since are all dead, and gone. And what do
they suffer by it! Nay they that have not so much as a name remaining,
what are they the worse for it? One thing there is, and that only, which
is worth our while in this world, and ought by us much to be esteemed;
and that is, according to truth and righteousness, meekly and lovingly
to converse with false, and unrighteous men.

XLIII. When thou wilt comfort and cheer thyself, call to mind the
several gifts and virtues of them, whom thou dost daily converse with;
as for example, the industry of the one; the modesty of another; the
liberality of a third; of another some other thing. For nothing can so
much rejoice thee, as the resemblances and parallels of several virtues,
visible and eminent in the dispositions of those who live with thee;
especially when, all at once, as near as may be, they represent
themselves unto thee. And therefore thou must have them always in a
readiness.

XLIV. Dost thou grieve that thou dost weigh but so many pounds, and not
three hundred rather? Just as much reason hast thou to grieve that
thou must live but so many years, and not longer. For as for bulk and
substance thou dost content thyself with that proportion of it that is
allotted unto thee, so shouldst thou for time.

XLV. Let us do our best endeavours to persuade them; but however, if
reason and justice lead thee to it, do it, though they be never so much
against it. But if any shall by force withstand thee, and hinder thee in
it, convert thy virtuous inclination from one object unto another, from
justice to contented equanimity, and cheerful patience: so that what in
the one is thy hindrance, thou mayst make use of it for the exercise of
another virtue: and remember that it was with due exception, and
reservation, that thou didst at first incline and desire. For thou didst
not set thy mind upon things impossible. Upon what then? that all thy
desires might ever be moderated with this due kind of reservation. And
this thou hast, and mayst always obtain, whether the thing desired be in
thy power or no. And what do I care for more, if that for which I was
born and brought forth into the world (to rule all my desires with
reason and discretion) may be?

XLVI. The ambitious supposeth another man’s act, praise and applause, to
be his own happiness; the voluptuous his own sense and feeling; but he
that is wise, his own action.

XLVII. It is in thy power absolutely to exclude all manner of conceit
and opinion, as concerning this matter; and by the same means, to
exclude all grief and sorrow from thy soul. For as for the things and
objects themselves, they of themselves have no such power, whereby to
beget and force upon us any opinion at all.

XLVIII. Use thyself when any man speaks unto thee, so to hearken unto
him, as that in the interim thou give not way to any other thoughts;
that so thou mayst (as far as is possible) seem fixed and fastened to
his very soul, whosoever he be that speaks unto thee.

XLIX. That which is not good for the bee-hive, cannot be good for the
bee.

L. Will either passengers, or patients, find fault and complain, either
the one if they be well carried, or the others if well cured? Do they
take care for any more than this; the one, that their shipmaster may
bring them safe to land, and the other, that their physician may effect
their recovery?

LI. How many of them who came into the world at the same time when I
did, are already gone out of it?

LII. To them that are sick of the jaundice, honey seems bitter; and to
them that are bitten by a mad dog, the water terrible; and to children,
a little ball seems a fine thing. And why then should I be angry? or
do I think that error and false opinion is less powerful to make men
transgress, than either choler, being immoderate and excessive, to cause
the jaundice; or poison, to cause rage?

LIII. No man can hinder thee to live as thy nature doth require. Nothing
can happen unto thee, but what the common good of nature doth require.

LIV. What manner of men they be whom they seek to please, and what to
get, and by what actions: how soon time will cover and bury all things,
and how many it hath already buried!

THE SEVENTH BOOK

I. What is wickedness? It is that which many time and often thou hast
already seen and known in the world. And so oft as anything doth happen
that might otherwise trouble thee, let this memento presently come to
thy mind, that it is that which thou hast already often Seen and known.
Generally, above and below, thou shalt find but the same things. The
very same things whereof ancient stories, middle age stories, and fresh
stories are full whereof towns are full, and houses full. There is
nothing that is new. All things that are, are both usual and of little
continuance.

II. What fear is there that thy dogmata, or philosophical resolutions
and conclusions, should become dead in thee, and lose their proper
power and efficacy to make thee live happy, as long as those proper
and correlative fancies, and representations of things on which they
mutually depend (which continually to stir up and revive is in thy
power,) are still kept fresh and alive? It is in my power concerning
this thing that is happened, what soever it be, to conceit that which is
right and true. If it be, why then am I troubled? Those things that are
without my understanding, are nothing to it at all: and that is it only,
which doth properly concern me. Be always in this mind, and thou wilt be
right.

III. That which most men would think themselves most happy for, and
would prefer before all things, if the Gods would grant it unto them
after their deaths, thou mayst whilst thou livest grant unto thyself; to
live again. See the things of the world again, as thou hast already seen
them. For what is it else to live again? Public shows and solemnities
with much pomp and vanity, stage plays, flocks and herds; conflicts
and contentions: a bone thrown to a company of hungry curs; a bait for
greedy fishes; the painfulness, and continual burden-bearing of wretched
ants, the running to and fro of terrified mice: little puppets drawn up
and down with wires and nerves: these be the objects of the world among
all these thou must stand steadfast, meekly affected, and free from all
manner of indignation; with this right ratiocination and apprehension;
that as the worth is of those things which a man doth affect, so is in
very deed every man’s worth more or less.

IV. Word after word, every one by itself, must the things that are
spoken be conceived and understood; and so the things that are done,
purpose after purpose, every one by itself likewise. And as in matter of
purposes and actions, we must presently see what is the proper use and
relation of every one; so of words must we be as ready, to consider of
every one what is the true meaning, and signification of it according to
truth and nature, however it be taken in common use.

V. Is my reason, and understanding sufficient for this, or no? If it be
sufficient, without any private applause, or public ostentation as of an
instrument, which by nature I am provided of, I will make use of it for
the work in hand, as of an instrument, which by nature I am provided of.
if it be not, and that otherwise it belong not unto me particularly as
a private duty, I will either give it over, and leave it to some other
that can better effect it: or I will endeavour it; but with the help
of some other, who with the joint help of my reason, is able to bring
somewhat to pass, that will now be seasonable and useful for the common
good. For whatsoever I do either by myself, or with some other, the
only thing that I must intend, is, that it be good and expedient for
the public. For as for praise, consider how many who once were much
commended, are now already quite forgotten, yea they that commended
them, how even they themselves are long since dead and gone. Be not
therefore ashamed, whensoever thou must use the help of others. For
whatsoever it be that lieth upon thee to effect, thou must propose it
unto thyself, as the scaling of walls is unto a soldier. And what if
thou through either lameness or some other impediment art not able to
reach unto the top of the battlements alone, which with the help of
another thou mayst; wilt thou therefore give it over, or go about it
with less courage and alacrity, because thou canst not effect it all
alone?

VI. Let not things future trouble thee. For if necessity so require that
they come to pass, thou shalt (whensoever that is) be provided for them
with the same reason, by which whatsoever is now present, is made both
tolerable and acceptable unto thee. All things are linked and knitted
together, and the knot is sacred, neither is there anything in the
world, that is not kind and natural in regard of any other thing, or,
that hath not some kind of reference and natural correspondence with
whatsoever is in the world besides. For all things are ranked together,
and by that decency of its due place and order that each particular
doth observe, they all concur together to the making of one and the same
[“Kosmos” ed] or world: as if you said, a comely piece, or an orderly
composition. For all things throughout, there is but one and the same
order; and through all things, one and the same God, the same substance
and the same law. There is one common reason, and one common truth, that
belongs unto all reasonable creatures, for neither is there save one
perfection of all creatures that are of the same kind, and partakers of
the same reason.

VII. Whatsoever is material, doth soon vanish away into the common
substance of the whole; and whatsoever is formal, or, whatsoever doth
animate that which is material, is soon resumed into the common reason
of the whole; and the fame and memory of anything, is soon swallowed up
by the general age and duration of the whole.

VIII. To a reasonable creature, the same action is both according
to nature, and according to reason.

IX. Straight of itself, not made straight.

X. As several members in one body united, so are reasonable creatures
in a body divided and dispersed, all made and prepared for one common
operation. And this thou shalt apprehend the better, if thou shalt use
thyself often to say to thyself, I am meloz, or a member of the mass and
body of reasonable substances. But if thou shalt say I am meroz, or
a part, thou dost not yet love men from thy heart. The joy that thou
takest in the exercise of bounty, is not yet grounded upon a due
ratiocination and right apprehension of the nature of things. Thou dost
exercise it as yet upon this ground barely, as a thing convenient and
fitting; not, as doing good to thyself, when thou dost good unto others.

XI. Of things that are external, happen what will to that which can
suffer by external accidents. Those things that suffer let them complain
themselves, if they will; as for me, as long as I conceive no such
thing, that that which is happened is evil, I have no hurt; and it is in
my power not to conceive any such thing.

XII. Whatsoever any man either doth or saith, thou must be good; not for
any man’s sake, but for thine own nature’s sake; as if either gold, or
the emerald, or purple, should ever be saying to themselves, Whatsoever
any man either doth or saith, I must still be an emerald, and I must
keep my colour.

XIII. This may ever be my comfort and security: my understanding, that
ruleth over all, will not of itself bring trouble and vexation upon
itself. This I say; it will not put itself in any fear, it will not lead
itself into any concupiscence. If it be in the power of any other to
compel it to fear, or to grieve, it is free for him to use his power.
But sure if itself do not of itself, through some false opinion or
supposition incline itself to any such disposition; there is no fear.
For as for the body, why should I make the grief of my body, to be the
grief of my mind? If that itself can either fear or complain, let it.
But as for the soul, which indeed, can only be truly sensible of either
fear or grief; to which only it belongs according to its different
imaginations and opinions, to admit of either of these, or of their
contraries; thou mayst look to that thyself, that it suffer nothing.
Induce her not to any such opinion or persuasion. The understanding
is of itself sufficient unto itself, and needs not (if itself doth not
bring itself to need) any other thing besides itself, and by consequent
as it needs nothing, so neither can it be troubled or hindered by
anything, if itself doth not trouble and hinder itself.

XIV. What is rv&nfLovia, or happiness: but a7~o~ &d~wv, or, a good
da~rnon, or spirit? What then dost thou do here, O opinion? By the Gods
I adjure thee, that thou get thee gone, as thou earnest: for I need thee
not. Thou earnest indeed unto me according to thy ancient wonted manner.
It is that, that all men have ever been subject unto. That thou camest
therefore I am not angry with thee, only begone, now that I have found
thee what thou art.

XV. Is any man so foolish as to fear change, to which all things that
once were not owe their being? And what is it, that is more pleasing and
more familiar to the nature of the universe? How couldst thou thyself
use thy ordinary hot baths, should not the wood that heateth them first
be changed? How couldst thou receive any nourishment from those things
that thou hast eaten, if they should not be changed? Can anything
else almost (that is useful and profitable) be brought to pass without
change? How then dost not thou perceive, that for thee also, by death,
to come to change, is a thing of the very same nature, and as necessary
for the nature of the universe?

XVI. Through the substance of the universe, as through a torrent pass
all particular bodies, being all of the same nature, and all joint
workers with the universe itself as in one of our bodies so many
members among themselves. How many such as Chrysippus, how many such
as Socrates, how many such as Epictetus, hath the age of the world
long since swallowed up and devoured? Let this, be it either men or
businesses, that thou hast occasion to think of, to the end that thy
thoughts be not distracted and thy mind too earnestly set upon anything,
upon every such occasion presently come to thy mind. Of all my thoughts
and cares, one only thing shall be the object, that I myself do nothing
which to the proper constitution of man, (either in regard of the
thing itself, or in regard of the manner, or of the time of doing,)
is contrary. The time when thou shalt have forgotten all things, is
at hand. And that time also is at hand, when thou thyself shalt be
forgotten by all. Whilst thou art, apply thyself to that especially
which unto man as he is a mart, is most proper and agreeable, and that
is, for a man even to love them that transgress against him. This shall
be, if at the same time that any such thing doth happen, thou call
to mind, that they are thy kinsmen; that it is through ignorance and
against their wills that they sin; and that within a very short while
after, both thou and he shall be no more. But above all things, that he
hath not done thee any hurt; for that by him thy mind and understanding
is not made worse or more vile than it was before.

XVII. The nature of the universe, of the common substance of all things
as it were of so much wax hath now perchance formed a horse; and then,
destroying that figure, hath new tempered and fashioned the matter of it
into the form and substance of a tree: then that again into the form and
substance of a man: and then that again into some other. Now every one
of these doth subsist but for a very little while. As for dissolution,
if it be no grievous thing to the chest or trunk, to be joined together;
why should it be more grievous to be put asunder?

XVIII. An angry countenance is much against nature, and it is oftentimes
the proper countenance of them that are at the point of death. But were
it so, that all anger and passion were so thoroughly quenched in thee,
that it were altogether impossible to kindle it any more, yet herein
must not thou rest satisfied, but further endeavour by good consequence
of true ratiocination, perfectly to conceive and understand, that all
anger and passion is against reason. For if thou shalt not be sensible
of thine innocence; if that also shall be gone from thee, the comfort of
a good conscience, that thou doest all things according to reason: what
shouldest thou live any longer for? All things that now thou seest,
are but for a moment. That nature, by which all things in the world are
administered, will soon bring change and alteration upon them, and then
of their substances make other things like unto them: and then soon
after others again of the matter and substance of these: that so by
these means, the world may still appear fresh and new.

XIX. Whensoever any man doth trespass against other, presently consider
with thyself what it was that he did suppose to be good, what to be
evil, when he did trespass. For this when thou knowest, thou wilt pity
him thou wilt have no occasion either to wonder, or to be angry. For
either thou thyself dust yet live in that error and ignorance, as that
thou dust suppose either that very thing that he doth, or some other
like worldly thing, to be good; and so thou art bound to pardon him if
he have done that which thou in the like case wouldst have done thyself.
Or if so be that thou dost not any more suppose the same things to be
good or evil, that he doth; how canst thou but be gentle unto him that
is in an error?

XX. Fancy not to thyself things future, as though they were present
but of those that are present, take some aside, that thou takest most
benefit of, and consider of them particularly, how wonderfully thou
wouldst want them, if they were not present. But take heed withal, lest
that whilst thou dust settle thy contentment in things present, thou
grow in time so to overprize them, as that the want of them (whensoever
it shall so fall out) should be a trouble and a vexation unto thee. Wind
up thyself into thyself. Such is the nature of thy reasonable
commanding part, as that if it exercise justice, and have by that means
tranquillity within itself, it doth rest fully satisfied with itself
without any other thing.

XXI. Wipe off all opinion stay the force and violence of unreasonable
lusts and affections: circumscribe the present time examine whatsoever
it be that is happened, either to thyself or to another: divide all
present objects, either in that which is formal or material think of the
last hour. That which thy neighbour hath committed, where the guilt of
it lieth, there let it rest. Examine in order whatsoever is spoken. Let
thy mind penetrate both into the effects, and into the causes. Rejoice
thyself with true simplicity, and modesty; and that all middle things
between virtue and vice are indifferent unto thee. Finally, love
mankind; obey God.