Part 40

After this the hospitable Queensberrys seem to have adopted him. He produced a musical drama, 'Acis and Galatea,' written long before and set to Handel's music; a few more 'Fables'; a thin opera called 'Achilles'; and then his work was done. He died in London of a swift fever, in December 1732, before his kind Kitty and her husband could reach him, or his other great friend, the Countess of Suffolk. Arbuthnot watched over him; Pope was with him to the last; Swift indorsed on the letter that brought him the tidings, "On my dear friend Mr. Gay's death; received on December 15th, but not read till the 20th, by an impulse foreboding some misfortune." So faithfully did the "giants," as Thackeray calls them, cherish this gentle, friendly, affectionate, humorous comrade. He seems indeed to have been almost the only companion with whom Swift did not at some time fall out, and of his steadfastness the gloomy great man in his 'Verses on my Own Death' could write:--

"Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day."

The 'Trivia' and the 'Shepherd's Week,' the 'Acis and Galatea' and even the 'Beggar's Opera,' gradually faded into the realm of "old, forgotten, far-off things"; while the 'Fables' passed through many editions, found their place in school reading-books, were committed to memory by three generations of admiring pupils, and included in the most orthodox libraries. Yet criticism now reverts to the earlier standard; approves the songs, and the minute observation, the nice phrasing, and the humorous swing of the pastorals and operas, and finds the fables dull, commonplace, and monotonous. Pope said in his affectionate epitaph that the poet had been laid in Westminster Abbey, not for ambition, but--

"That the worthy and the good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms, '_Here_ lies Gay.'"

If to-day the worthy and the good do not know even where he lies, not the less is he to be gratefully remembered whom the best and greatest of his own time so much admired, and of whom Pope and Johnson and Thackeray and Dobson have written with the warmth of friendship.

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS

From the 'Fables'

Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendships: who depend On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who in a civil way Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood or graze the plain. Her care was, never to offend, And ev'ry creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunters' cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear, she gasping lay.

What transport in her bosom grew, When first the horse appeared in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight; To friendship every burden's light."

The Horse replied:--"Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus: Be comforted, relief is near; For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately Bull implored; And thus replied the mighty lord:-- "Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offense, pretend To take the freedom of a friend.

Love calls me hence; a favorite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow: And when a lady's in the case, You know all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the Goat is just behind."

The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye; "My back," says he, "may do you harm: The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."

The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears; For hounds eat Sheep, as well as Hares!

She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those! how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offense. Excuse me then. You know my heart: But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu! For see, the hounds are just in view."

THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL

From the 'Fables'

Is there no hope? the Sick Man said. The silent doctor shook his head, And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow. When thus the Man with gasping breath:-- I feel the chilling wound of death; Since I must bid the world adieu, Let me my former life review. I grant, my bargains well were made, But all men overreach in trade; 'Tis self-defense in each profession; Sure, self-defense is no transgression. The little portion in my hands, By good security on lands, Is well increased. If unawares, My justice to myself and heirs Hath let my debtor rot in jail, For want of good sufficient bail; If I by writ, or bond, or deed, Reduced a family to need,-- My will hath made the world amends; My hope on charity depends. When I am numbered with the dead, And all my pious gifts are read, By heaven and earth 'twill then be known, My charities were amply shown. An Angel came. Ah, friend! he cried, No more in flattering hope confide. Can thy good deeds in former times Outweigh the balance of thy crimes? What widow or what orphan prays To crown thy life with length of days? A pious action's in thy power; Embrace with joy the happy hour. Now, while you draw the vital air, Prove your intention is sincere: This instant give a hundred pound; Your neighbors want, and you abound. But why such haste? the Sick Man whines: Who knows as yet what Heaven designs? Perhaps I may recover still; That sum and more are in my will. Fool, says the Vision, now 'tis plain, Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain; From every side, with all your might, You scraped, and scraped beyond your right; And after death would fain atone, By giving what is not your own. Where there is life there's hope, he cried; Then why such haste?--so groaned and died.

THE JUGGLER

From the 'Fables'

A juggler long through all the town Had raised his fortune and renown; You'd think (so far his art transcends) The Devil at his fingers' ends. Vice heard his fame; she read his bill; Convinced of his inferior skill, She sought his booth, and from the crowd Defied the man of art aloud. Is this, then, he so famed for sleight? Can this slow bungler cheat your sight? Dares he with me dispute the prize? I leave it to impartial eyes. Provoked, the Juggler cried, 'Tis done. In science I submit to none. Thus said, the cups and balls he played; By turns, this here, that there, conveyed. The cards, obedient to his words, Are by a fillip turned to birds. His little boxes change the grain; Trick after trick deludes the train. He shakes his bag, he shows all fair; His fingers spreads,--and nothing there; Then bids it rain with showers of gold, And now his ivory eggs are told. But when from thence the hen he draws, Amazed spectators hum applause. Vice now stept forth, and took the place With all the forms of his grimace. This magic looking-glass, she cries (There, hand it round), will charm your eyes. Each eager eye the sight desired, And ev'ry man himself admired. Next to a senator addressing: See this bank-note; observe the blessing, Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! 'Tis gone; Upon his lips a padlock shone. A second puff the magic broke, The padlock vanished, and he spoke. Twelve bottles ranged upon the board, All full, with heady liquor stored, By clean conveyance disappear, And now two bloody swords are there. A purse she to a thief exposed, At once his ready fingers closed: He opes his fist, the treasure's fled: He sees a halter in its stead. She bids ambition hold a wand; He grasps a hatchet in his hand. A box of charity she shows: Blow here; and a churchwarden blows. 'Tis vanished with conveyance neat, And on the table smokes a treat. She shakes the dice, the board she knocks, And from her pockets fills her box.

* * * * *

A counter in a miser's hand Grew twenty guineas at command. She bids his heir the sum retain, And 'tis a counter now again. A guinea with her touch you see Take ev'ry shape but Charity; And not one thing you saw, or drew, But changed from what was first in view. The Juggler now, in grief of heart, With this submission owned her art. Can I such matchless sleight withstand? How practice hath improved your hand! But now and then I cheat the throng; You every day, and all day long.

SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN

A BALLAD

All in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard: Oh, where shall I my true love find! Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, If my sweet William sails among the crew.

William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sighed and cast his eyes below; The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast (If, chance, his mate's shrill call he hear), And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They'll tell thee, sailors when away In every port a mistress find. Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

If to far India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view, Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms, William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.

The boatswain gave the dreadful word; The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard: They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head: Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land: Adieu! she cries; and waved her lily hand.

FROM 'WHAT D'YE CALL IT?'

A BALLAD

T'was when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wistful look; Her head was crowned with willows, That tremble o'er the brook.

"Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou, venturous lover, Why didst thou trust the seas? Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest: Ah! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breast?

"The merchant robbed of pleasure Sees tempests in despair; But what's the loss of treasure, To losing of my dear? Should you some coast be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow, You'll find a richer maiden, But none that loves you so.

"How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain; Why then, beneath the water, Should hideous rocks remain? No eyes the rocks discover That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep."

All melancholy lying, Thus wailed she for her dear! Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear. When o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she spied,-- Then, like a lily drooping, She bowed her head and died.

EMANUEL VON GEIBEL

(1815-1884)

The chief note in Geibel's nature was reverence. A spirit of reverent piety, using the phrase in its widest as well as in its strictly religious sense, characterizes all his poetical utterances. He intended to devote himself to theology, but the humanistic tendencies of the age, combined with his own peculiar endowments, led him to abandon the Church for pure literature. The reverent attitude of mind, however, remained, and has left its impress even upon his most impassioned love lyrics. It appears too in his first literary venture, a volume of 'Classical Studies' undertaken in collaboration with his friend Ernst Curtius, in which is displayed his loving reverence for the great monuments of Greek antiquity. He felt himself an exile from Greece, and like Goethe's Iphigenia, his soul was seeking ever for the land of Hellas. And through the influence of Bettina von Arnim this longing was satisfied; he secured the post of tutor in the household of the Russian ambassador to Athens.

Geibel was only twenty-three years of age when this good fortune fell to his lot. He was born at Luebeck on October 18th, 1815. His poetic gifts, early manifested, secured him a welcome in the literary circles of Berlin. During the two years that he spent in Greece he was enabled to travel over a large part of the Grecian Archipelago in the inspiring company of Curtius; and it was upon their return to Germany in 1840 that the 'Classical Studies' appeared, and were dedicated to the Queen of Greece. Then Geibel eagerly took up the study of French and Spanish, with the result that many valuable volumes were published in collaboration with Paul Heyse, Count von Schack, and Leuthold, which introduced to the German public a vast treasury of song from the literatures of France, Spain, and Portugal. The first collection of Geibel's own poems in 1843 secured for the poet a modest pension from the King of Prussia.

Geibel also made several essays at dramatic composition. He wrote for Mendelssohn the text of a 'Lorelei,' but the composer died before the music was completed. A comedy called 'Master Andrew' was successful in a number of cities; and of his more ambitious tragedies, 'Brunhild' and 'Sophonisba,' the latter won the famous Schiller prize in 1869.

In 1852 Geibel received an appointment as royal reader to Maximilian II., and was made professor at the University of Munich. It was also from the King of Bavaria that he procured his patent of nobility. In the same year that he took up his residence in Munich he married; but the death of his wife terminated his happy family relations three years later, and the death of the King severed his connection with the Bavarian court. Moreover, his sympathy with the revolutionary poets, such as his intimate friend Freiligrath, his own enthusiasm for the popular movement, and the faith which he placed in the King of Prussia, led to bitter attacks upon him in the Bavarian press, and eventually to his resignation from the faculty of the university. He returned to his native city of Luebeck. The Prussian King trebled his annual income, and the poet was raised above pecuniary cares. The last years of his life were saddened, without being embittered, by feeble health. He died on April 6th, 1884.

There was sometimes a touch of effeminate sentimentality in Geibel's work, but he did not lack force and virility, as his famous 'Twelve Sonnets' and his political poems, entitled 'Zeitgedichte,' show. He could speak strong words for right and justice, and in all his poems there is a musical beauty of language and a perfection of form that render his songs contributions of permanent value to the lyric treasury of German literature.

SEE'ST THOU THE SEA?

See'st thou the sea? The sun gleams on its wave With splendor bright; But where the pearl lies buried in its cave Is deepest night. The sea am I. My soul, in billows bold, Rolls fierce and strong; And over all, like to the sunlight's gold, There streams my song. It throbs with love and pain as though possessed Of magic art, And yet in silence bleeds, within my breast, My gloomy heart.

Translation of Frances Hellman. Copyright 1892.

AS IT WILL HAPPEN

"He loves thee not! He trifles but with thee!" They said to her, and then she bowed her head, And pearly tears, like roses' dew, wept she. Oh, that she ever trusted what they said! For when he came and found his bride in doubt, Then, from sheer spite, he would not show his sorrow; He played and laughed and drank, day in, day out,-- To weep from night until the morrow!

'Tis true, an angel whispered in her heart, "He's faithful still; oh lay thy hand in his!" And he too felt, 'midst grief and bitter smart, "She loves thee! After all, thy love she is; Let but a gentle word pass on each side, The spell that parts you now will then be broken!" They came--each looked on each--oh, evil pride!-- That single word remained unspoken!

They parted then. As in a church one oft Extinguished sees the altar lamps' red fires, Their light grows dim, then once more flares aloft In radiance bright,--and thereupon expires,-- So died their love; at first lamented o'er, Then yearned for ardently, and then--forgotten, Until the thought that they had loved before Of mere delusion seemed begotten!

But sometimes when the moon shone out at night, Each started from his couch! Ah, was it not Bedewed with tears? And tears, too, dimmed their sight, Because these two had dreamed--I know not what! And then the dear old times woke in their heart, Their foolish doubts, their parting, that had driven Their souls so far, so very far apart,-- Oh God! let both now be forgiven!

Translation of Frances Hellman. Copyright 1892.

GONDOLIERA

Oh, come to me when through the night The starry legions ride! Then o'er the sea, in the moonshine bright, Our gondola will glide. The air is soft as a lover's jest, And gently gleams the light; The zither sounds, and thy soul is blest To join in this delight. Oh, come to me when through the night The starry legions ride! Then o'er the sea, in the moonshine bright, Our gondola will glide.

This is the hour for lovers true, Darling, like thee and me; Serenely smile the heavens blue And calmly sleeps the sea. And as it sleeps, a glance will say What speech in vain has tried; The lips then do not shrink away, Nor is a kiss denied. Oh, come to me when through the night The starry legions ride! Then o'er the sea, in the moonshine bright, Our gondola will glide.

Translation of Frances Hellman. Copyright 1892.

THE WOODLAND

The wood grows denser at each stride; No path more, no trail! Only murm'ring waters glide Through tangled ferns and woodland flowers pale. Ah, and under the great oaks teeming How soft the moss, the grass, how high! And the heavenly depth of cloudless sky, How blue through the leaves it seems to me! Here I'll sit, resting and dreaming, Dreaming of thee.

Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.

ONWARD

Cease thy dreaming! Cease thy quailing! Wander on untiringly. Though thy strength may all seem failing, Onward! must thy watchword be.

Durst not tarry, though life's roses Round about thy footsteps throng, Though the ocean's depth discloses Sirens with their witching song.

Onward! onward! ever calling On thy Muse, in life's stern fray, Till thy fevered brow feels, falling From above, a golden ray.

Till the verdant wreath victorious Crown with soothing shade thy brow; Till the spirit's flames rise glorious Over thee, with sacred glow.

Onward then, through hostile fire, Onward through death's agony! Who to heaven would aspire Must a valiant warrior be.

Translation of Frances Hellman. Copyright 1892.

AT LAST THE DAYLIGHT FADETH

At last the daylight fadeth, With all its noise and glare; Refreshing peace pervadeth The darkness everywhere.

On the fields deep silence hovers; The woods now wake alone; What daylight ne'er discovers, Their songs to the night make known.

And what when the sun is shining I ne'er can tell to thee, To whisper it now I am pining,-- Oh, come and hearken to me!

Translation of Frances Hellman. Copyright 1892.