Part 19

What art thou? What new device, Globe, chance-fashion'd in a trice, Into brief existence bounding, Perfectly thy circle rounding? As when Cypris, her breast smiting-- Virgin still, all love inviting-- Cypris in young loveliness Couch'd rosy where the white waves press Her to bear and her to bless; _So_ forth from thy native shell Gleamest thou ineffable! Springing up with graceful bound And describing dainty round; Thousand colours come and go As thou dost thy fair curves show, Swelling out--a whirling ball Meet for Fairy-Festival; Through whose sides of shifting hue, Through whose smooth-turn'd globe, we view Iris' gliding rainbow sitting, In a hundred forms soft-flitting: And semblance of a troop displaying, All around dominion swaying: And the Goddess volatile With witching step and luring smile Follows still with twinkling foot In link'd mazes involute: With many a sight-deceiving turn And flight which makes pursuers burn, And a graceful hesitation-- Only treacherous simulation: JUST SO, and no less deceiving, Our BUBBLE, all its colours weaving, Follows ever-varying courses, Or in air itself disperses: Here now, there now, coming, going, Wand'ring as if ebbing, flowing: Sporting Passion's colours all In ways that are bacchanal; And the GLOBES undisciplin'd As though driven by the wind, Borne along the fleeting plains Light as air; nor order reigns-- But the heaven-possess'd array Moving each in its own way, Hither now and thither flying, Glancing, wavering, and dying, Losing still their path and finding, In a random inter-winding: Rising, falling, on careering, Vis'ble now, now disappearing; Living wand'ring streams outgoing, Ev'n Confusion beauteous showing: Flowing not each in its course, But each to other joining force; Moving in pleasant pastime still In a mutual good-will: And a nearness that's so near You the contact almost fear, Yet so finely drawn to eye In its delicate subtlety That the procession, blossom-fair, Nowhere has direction clear: Nor with their own aspect glance, But in the sweet luxuriance Which skiey influences lend, As in new windings on they trend: Throwing off the stol'n sunlight In a flood of blossoms bright, Scatter'd on the fields of light; Such a brilliancy of bloom As all may share if all will come. Now golden Spring advances lightly, Spreading itself on all sides brightly, Out of its rich and full supply Open-handed, lavishly. Since all colours you discern, No one colour may you learn: All tints melted into one In a sweet confusion, You cannot tell 'tis that or this, So shifting is the loveliness: Gleams as of the peacock's crest, Or such as on dove's neck rest; Opal, edg'd with amethyst, Or the sunset's purpl'd mist, Or the splendour that there lies In a maiden's azure eyes, Kindling in a sweet surprise: Flower-tints, shell-tints, tender-dy'd, Save to curious unespied: Lo, one BUBBLE follows t'other, Differing still from its frail brother, Striking still from change to change With a quick and vivid range. There in the contiguous wave Torches palely-glist'ning lave; Here what delicate love-lights shine! Through them near flames bick'ring shine. Matching flushing of the rose, As the ruddy channel flows: Milky rivers in white tide Lucent, hush, still onwards glide: Purple rivers in high flood-- Red as is man's awful blood: Corn-fields smiling goldenly Meet the blue laugh of the sea: Mist-clouds sailing on their way Darken the changeful cheeks of Day: And beneath vine-clusters red Lilies are transfigured: Here you mark as 'twere the snows Folding o'er the neighb'ring rose; Snow into blown roses flushing, Roses wearied of their blushing, As the shifting tints embrace, And their course you scarce can trace; Now retiring, now advancing, Now in wanton mazes dancing; Now a flow'ry red appears, Now a purpl'd green careers. All the signs in heaven that burn Where the gliding wheel doth turn, Here in radiant courses go, As though 'twere a heaven below: The sky's mazes involute Circling onward with deft foot, Sphere on heavenly sphere attending, Coming, going, inter-blending: And the gold-fleec'd flocks of air Wand'ring inviolate and fair; Flocks that drink in chaste delight Dewy pastures of the Night, Leaving no trace of foot or bite. Whate'er of change above you note, As these clouds o'er heaven float, Lo, repeated here we see In a sportive mimicry. Here the tiny tender world Within its own brightness furl'd Wavers, as in fairy robe 'Twere a belted lined globe. Lights as of the breaking Day Tremble with iridescent play, But now swiftly upward going, Evanescent colours showing, In some nook their beams concealing, Nor their wantonness revealing. O, what store of wonders here In this short-liv'd slender SPHERE! For all wonders I have told Are within its GLOBE enroll'd: Not such globe as skilled he Fashion'd of old in Sicily: Brighter e'en than crystals are, And than crystal frailer far. 'I am Spirit of the Wind, For a flitting breath design'd; I am Blossom born of air; I'm of Ocean, guiding Star; I'm a golden sport of Nature, Frolic stamp'd on ev'ry feature: I'm a myth, an idle theme, The brief substance of a dream: Grace and grief of trifles, I Charm--a well-skill'd vanity; Begotten of the treacherous breeze, Parent of absurdities: Yet, a drop or mote, at best, Favour'd more than are the rest. I'm price of Hope that no more is, One of the Hesperides: Beauty's casket, doating eye Of lovers blinded wilfully: The light Spirit of Vanity. I am Fortune's looking-glass, The countersign which she doth pass To her troop of warriors: I'm the oath by which she swears, And wherewith she doth induce Men to trust a fragile truce. Charming, provoking, still astray, Fair and elegant and gay, Trim and fresh and blossom-hu'd; Interchangeably imbu'd With rosy-red and the snow's whiteness, Air and water and fire's brightness: Painted, gemm'd, of golden dye, NOTHING--after all--am I!' If now, O gentle Reader, it appear Irksome my BUBBLE'S chatterings to hear; If on it frowning, 'Words, words, words!' thou say, No more I'll chatter, but at once obey. So, turn thine eye, my Friend, no more give heed; My BUBBLE lives but if thou choose to read. Cease thou to read, and I resign my breath; Cease thou to read, and that will be my death. G.

TRANQUILLITAS ANIMI:

SIMILITUDINE DUCTA AB AVE CAPTIVA, ET CANORA TAMEN.

Ut cum delicias leves, loquacem Convivam nemoris vagamque musam Observans, dubia viator arte Prendit desuper: horridusve ruris Eversor, male perfido paratu, 5 Heu durus! rapit, atque io triumphans Vadit: protinus et sagace nisu Evolvens digitos, opus tenellum Ducens pollice lenis erudito, Virgarum implicat ordinem severum, 10 Angustam meditans domum volucri. Illa autem, hospitium licet vetustum Mentem solicitet nimis nimisque, Et suetum nemus, hinc opaca mitis Umbrae frigora, et hinc aprica puri 15 Solis fulgura, patriaeque sylvae Nunquam muta quies; ubi illa dudum Totum per nemus, arborem per omnem, Hospes libera liberis querelis Cognatum bene provocabat agmen: 20 Quanquam ipsum nemus arboresque alumnam Implorant profugam, atque amata multum Quaerant murmura lubricumque carmen Blandi gutturis et melos serenum. Illa autem, tamen, illa jam relictae, 25 Simplex! haud meminit domus, nec ultra Sylvas cogitat; at brevi sub antro, Ah penna nimium brevis recisa, Ah ritu vidua sibique sola, Privata heu fidicen! canit, vagoque 30 Exercens querulam domum susurro Fallit vincula, carceremque mulcet; Nec pugnans placidae procax quieti Luctatur gravis, orbe sed reducto Discursu vaga saltitans tenello, 35 Metitur spatia invidae cavernae. Sic in se pia mens reposta, secum Alte tuta sedet, nec ardet extra, Aut ullo solet aestuare fato: Quamvis cuncta tumultuentur, atrae 40 Sortis turbine non movetur illa. Fortunae furias onusque triste Non tergo minus accipit quieto, Quam vectrix Veneris columba blando Admittat juga delicata collo. 45 Torvae si quid inhorruit procellae, Si quid saeviat et minetur, illa Spernit, nescit, et obviis furorem Fallit blanditiis, amatque et ambit Ipsum, quo male vulneratur, ictum. 50 Curas murmure non fatetur ullo; Non lambit lacrymas dolor, nec atrae Mentis nubila frons iniqua prodit. Quod si lacryma pervicax rebelli Erumpit tamen evolatque gutta, 55 Invitis lacrymis, negante luctu, Ludunt perspicui per ora risus.

TRANSLATION. PEACE OF MIND:[98]

UNDER THE SIMILITUDE OF A CAPTIVE SONG-BIRD.

The time of the singing of birds is come; I will away i' the greenwood to roam; I will away; and thou azure-ey'd Muse Deign with thy gifts my mind to suffuse.-- So o'erheard I one say, as he withdrew To a fairy scene that well I knew, Light lac'd with shadow, shadow with light, Leaves playing bo-peep from morn unto night. But, ah, what is this? Alas, and alas, A sweet bird flutters upon the grass; Flutters and struggles with quivering wing! Tempted and snar'd--gentle, guileless thing. Vain, vain thy struggles; for, lo, a hand Hollow'd above, makes thee captive stand. Home hies the Captor, loud singing his joy; He has got a pet song-bird for his boy. Now twining and twisting, a cage he makes Wire-wrought and fast'n'd. Ah, my heart aches! It is a prison, for the poor bird prepar'd; Shut close and netted, netted and barr'd. Comes the flutter and gleam of forest-leaves Through the trellis'd window under the eaves; Comes the breath and stir of the vernal wind, Comes the goldening sunshine--to remind Of all that is lost; comes now and again Far off a song from the blading grain; Calling, still calling the Songster to come Back--once more back--to its woodland home. I mark eyelids rise; mark the lifting wing; Mark the swelling throat, as if it would sing; Mark the weary 'chirp, chirp,' like infant's cry, Yearning after the free and boundless sky; For the grand old woods; once more to sit On the swinging bough into blossom smit. Vain, vain, poor bird! thou'rt captive still; Thou must bend thee to thy Captor's will: Thy wing is cut; from thy mate thou'rt taken; All alone thou abidest, sad, forsaken. The days pass on; and I look in once more On the captive bird 'bove the ivied door. Sweetly it sings, as if all by itself, A short, quiet song. O thou silly elf, Hast forgot the greenwood, the forest hoar, The flash of the sky, the wind's soften'd roar? Hast forgot that thou still a captive art, Prison'd in wire-work? hast forgot thy smart? 'Tis even so: for now down, and now up, Now hopping on perch, now sipping from cup, I mark it sullen and pining no more, But keeping within, though open the door. List ye, now list--from its swelling throat, Of its woodland song you miss never a note. Alone, it is true, and in a wir'd cage; But kindness has melted the captive's rage. Behold a sweet meaning in this bird's story-- How the child of God is ripen'd for glory: For it is thus with the child of God, Smitten and bleeding 'neath His rod: Thus 'tis with him; for, tranquil and calm 'Mid dangers and insults, he singeth his psalm: Alone, all alone, deserted of man, Slander'd and trampl'd and plac'd under ban, He frets not, he pines not, he plains not still, But sees clear in all his dear Father's will: Come loss, come cross, come bereavement, come wrong, He sets all to music, turns all to song; Come terror, come trial, come dark day, come bright, Still upward he looks, and knows all is right: Wounded, he sees the Hand gives the stroke, Bending his neck to bear his Lord's yoke, And finds it grow light, by grace from Above, As love's slender collars o' the Queen of Love; Comes the starting tear, 'tis dried with a smile; Comes a cloud, as you look 'tis gone the while; Stirs the 'old Adam' to tempt and to dare, He thinks Who was tempted and knows what we are; Gentle and meek, murmurs not nor rebels, But serene as in heaven and tranquil dwells: And so the Believer has 'songs in the night,' And so every cloud has a lining of light. Thus, even thus, the captive bird's story Tells how a soul is ripen'd for glory. G.

DAMNO AFFICI SAEPE FIT LUCRUM.

Damna adsunt multis taciti compendia lucri, Felicique docent plus properare mora. Luxuriem annorum posita sic pelle redemit, Atque sagax serpens in nova saecla subit. Cernis ut ipsa sibi replicato suppetat aevo, Seque iteret multa morte perennis avis? Succrescit generosa sibi, facilesque per ignes Perque suos cineres, per sua fata ferax. Quae sollers jactura sui? quis funeris usus? Flammarumque fides ingeniumque rogi? Siccine fraude subis? pretiosaque funera ludis? Siccine tu mortem, ne moriaris, adis? Felix cui medicae tanta experientia mortis, Cui tam Parcarum est officiosa manus.

TRANSLATION.

GAIN OUT OF LOSS.

Losses are often source of secret gain, Delays good-speed, and ease the child of pain. The subtle snake, laying aside her fears, Casts off her slough, and heals the waste of years. The phoenix thus her waning pride supplies, And, to be ever-living, often dies; Bold for her good, she makes the fires her friend, And to begin anew, will plot her end. What skilful losing! what wise use of dying! What trust in flames! and what a craft in plying That trick of immolation! Canst thou so Compound with griefs? canst wisely undergo Life's losses, crosses? play with gainful doom? Canst, to be quicken'd, gladly seek the tomb? Thrice-happy he thus touch'd with healing sorrow, For whom night's strife plots but a gracious morrow. A.

ANOTHER RENDERING (_more freely_).

Suff'ring is not always loss; Often underneath the cross-- Heavy, crushing, wearing, slow, Causing us in dread to go-- All unsuspected lieth gain, Like sunshine in vernal rain. Lo, the serpent's mottled skin Cast, new lease of years doth win: Lo, the phoenix in the fire Leaps immortal from its pyre, The mystic plumage mewing, And life by death renewing. What a wise loss thus to lose!-- Who will gainsay or abuse? What strange end to fun'ral pile, Thus in Death's gaunt face to smile! Faith still strong within the fire, Faith triumphant o'er its ire. How stands it, fellow-man, with thee? What meaning in this myth dost see? Happy thou, if when thou'rt lying On thy sick-bed slow a-dying, Cometh vision of the Eternal, Cometh strength for the supernal, Cometh triumph o'er the infernal; And thou canst the Last Enemy Calmly meet, serenely die; The hard Sisters life's web snipping, But thy spirit never gripping; Good, not evil, to thee bringing; Hushing not thy upward singing, To the Golden City winging. Even so to die is gain, Like the Harvest's tawnied grain: Suffering is not always loss; The Crown succeeds the Cross. G.

HUMANAE VITAE DESCRIPTIO.

O vita, tantum lubricus quidam furor Spoliumque vitae! scilicet longi brevis Erroris hospes! Error o mortalium! O certus error! qui sub incerto vagum Suspendit aevum, mille per dolos viae 5 Fugacis, et proterva per volumina Fluidi laboris, ebrios lactat gradus; Et irretitos ducit in nihilum dies. O fata! quantum perfidae vitae fugit Umbris quod imputemus atque auris, ibi 10 Et umbra et aura serias partes agunt Miscentque scenam, volvimur ludibrio Procacis aestus, ut per incertum mare Fragilis protervo cymba cum nutat freto; Et ipsa vitae fila, queis nentes Deae 15 Aevi severa texta producunt manu, Haec ipsa nobis implicant vestigia, Retrahunt trahuntque, donec everso gradu Ruina lassos alta deducat pedes. Felix, fugaces quisquis excipiens dies 20 Gressus serenos fixit, insidiis sui Nec servit aevi, vita inoffensis huic Feretur auris, atque clauda rarius Titubabit hora: vortices anni vagi Hic extricabit, sanus assertor sui. 25

TRANSLATION.

DESCRIPTION OF HUMAN LIFE.

O Life, or but some evanescent madness And glittering spoil of life snatch'd with blind gladness! Of endless Error, transitory guest; Sad human Error, which would fain find rest. O certain Error, 'neath uncertain sky Suspending here our frail mortality; Leading us through a thousand devious ways And intricacies of a treacherous maze! Our staggering footsteps how dost thou beguile Through wanton rounds of unavailing toil, And our entangl'd days to nothing bring! O fates, how much of our poor life takes wing, Wasted on winds and shadows! On life's stage Shadows and winds a serious part engage, The scene confusing. On life's billow tost, The sport of changeful tide, we're well-nigh lost, And, like a frail boat on a stormy sea, We waver up and down uncertainly. Nay, e'en the threads spun by the Fates on high, As with stern fingers they divinely ply The web of life, twine round us as we go, And draw us backwards, forwards, to and fro; Till Ruin trips us up, and we are found Helpless and weary, stretched along the ground. Happy the man who, welcoming each day With smiles that answer to its fleeting ray, Pursues with step serene his purpos'd way; The alluring snares peculiar to the age _His_ soul enslave not, nor his mind engage; His life with peaceful tenor glides along, By fav'ring breezes fann'd, and sooth'd with song; Inspir'd by Heaven with soul-sustaining force, Seldom he falls, or falters in his course; But ever, as the eddying years roll round, Bursting through all the perils that abound, A wise assertor of himself is found. R. WI.

IN PYGMALIONA.

Poenitet artis Pygmaliona suae, Quod felix opus esset, Infelix erat artifex; Sentit vulnera, nec videt ictum. Quis credit? gelido veniunt de marmore flammae: Marmor ingratum nimis Incendit autorem suum. Concepit hic vanos furores, Opus suum miratur atque adorat. Prius creavit, ecce nunc colit manus; Tentantes digitos molliter applicat; Decipit molles caro dura tactus. An virgo vera est, an sit eburnea; Reddat an oscula quae dabantur, Nescit; sed dubitat, sed metuit, munere supplicat, Blanditiasque miscet. Te, miser, poenas dare vult, hos Venus, hos triumphos Capit a te, quod amorem fugis omnem. Cur fugis heu vivos? mortua te necat puella. Non erit innocua haec, quamvis tua fingas manu; Ipsa heu nocens erit nimis, cujus imago nocet.

TRANSLATION.

ON PYGMALION.

Grief for work his hands have done Harroweth Pygmalion; Happy reach of art! yet he The artificer, unhappily, He feels the wounds: what deals the blow? Can it be true? can flames from gelid marble flow?

Marble, treacherous and to blame To burn your Sculptor with such flame! What madness in his heart is hid? He wonders at, he adores the work he did. First he made, and next his hand With wandering fingers softly tries The mystery to understand. Ah, surely now the hard flesh lies! Is it a living maiden, see! O treacherous blisses! Is it no marble? can it frail flesh be? Does it return his kisses? He knows not, he.

He doubts, he fears, he prays; what mean All these sweet blandishments between? Venus, wretched Sculptor, wills You should suffer these sad ills; This is her triumph over you, Because at love your lips would curl; Your will not living overthrows yet this dead girl.

Weep, ah, weep, Pygmalion! Though you shap'd her with your hands, With your chisel, out of stone, Not innocuous here she stands. O image of a maiden! If you so strangely baneful prove, With what despair will you come laden, Coming alive to claim his love! A.

ANOTHER VERSION (_more freely_).

Pygmalion mourns his own success; Was ever such strange wretchedness? His work itself, a work of Art, Perfect in its every part; But himself? Alas, artist he Of his own utmost misery. He feels his wounds, but who shall tell Whence come the drops that downward steal? Flames leap out from the marble, cold As ice itself by storm-wind roll'd: And he, contriver of that fire, Burns self-immolate on his own pyre; Furies of his own genius born Cast him, adoring and forlorn, Into a strange captivity Before his own hands' work; and he Clings to the shapely form, until, In ecstasy of love a-thrill, He burning lips to cold lips sets, And wild with passion her cheek wets; Strains to his breast insensate stone, As 'twere a breathing thing; with moan, With clasp and grasp and tingling touch, As though he ne'er could grip too much; And wilder'd cry of agony, That she respond would; by him lie A virgin pure as drifted snow, Or lilies that i' the meadows blow. Is it ivory? is it stone? Lives it? or is it clay alone? O that to flesh the stone would melt, And show a soul within it dwelt! He looks, he yearns, he sighs, he sobs, Convulsive his whole body throbs; He doubts, he fears, he supplicates With wistful gaze; he on her waits; Gifts lavish he lays at her feet, And, stung to passion, will entreat, As though the image he has made Were thing of life he might persuade-- Persuade and woo, and on her stake His future, all. O sad mistake! For thee, Pygmalion, Venus sends These triumphs which thy chisel lends, To punish thee, for that no love Erewhile thy obstinate heart might move. Why flee'st thou the living, say, When this image thee doth slay? Thee doth--ay, slay! Why dost thou stand Entranc'd before the work o' thy hand, None the less hurtful that it is Thine own genius yields the bliss? Venus must thee still deny; The sculptured maid must breathless lie. G.

ARION.