Part 28

Ours and the French can at best but fall into blank verse, which is a fault in prose. The misfortune indeed is common to us both; but we deserve more compassion, because we are not vain of our barbarities. As age brings men back into the state and infirmities of childhood, upon the fall of their empire, the Romans doted into rhyme, as appears sufficiently by the hymns of the Latin church; and yet a great deal of the French poetry does hardly deserve that poor title. I shall give an instance out of a poem which had the good luck to gain the prize in 1685; for the subject deserved a nobler pen:

_Tous les jours ce grand roy, des autres roys l' exemple, S'ouvre un nouveau chemin au faîte de ton temple_, &c.

The judicious Malherbe exploded this sort of verse near eighty years ago. Nor can I forbear wondering at that passage of a famous academician, in which he, most compassionately, excuses the ancients for their not being so exact in their compositions as the modern French, because they wanted a dictionary, of which the French are at last happily provided. If Demosthenes and Cicero had been so lucky as to have had a dictionary, and such a patron as cardinal Richelieu, perhaps they might have aspired to the honour of Balzac's legacy of ten pounds, _Le prix de l'éloquence_.

On the contrary, I dare assert, that there are hardly ten lines in either of those great orators, or even in the catalogue of Homer's ships, which are not more harmonious, more truly rhythmical, than most of the French or English sonnets; and therefore they lose, at least, one half of their native beauty by translation.

I cannot but add one remark on this occasion,--that the French verse is oftentimes not so much as rhyme, in the lowest sense; for the childish repetition of the same note cannot be called music. Such instances are infinite, as in the forecited poem:

épris trophée caché mépris Orphée cherché.

M. Boileau himself has a great deal of this #monotonia#, not by his own neglect, but purely by the faultiness and poverty of the French tongue. M. Fontenelle at last goes into the excessive paradoxes of M. Perrault, and boasts of the vast number of their excellent songs, preferring them to the Greek and Latin. But an ancient writer, of as good credit, has assured us, that seven lives would hardly suffice to read over the Greek odes; but a few weeks would be sufficient, if a man were so very idle as to read over all the French. In the mean time, I should be very glad to see a catalogue of but fifty of theirs with

Exact propriety of word and thought.[294]

Notwithstanding all the high encomiums and mutual gratulations which they give one another, (for I am far from censuring the whole of that illustrious society, to which the learned world is much obliged,) after all those golden dreams at the Louvre, that their pieces will be as much valued, ten or twelve ages hence, as the ancient Greek or Roman, I can no more get it into my head that they will last so long, than I could believe the learned Dr H----k [of the Royal Society,] if he should pretend to show me a butterfly, that had lived a thousand winters.

When M. Fontenelle wrote his Eclogues, he was so far from equalling Virgil, or Theocritus, that he had some pains to take before he could understand in what the principal beauty and graces of their writings do consist.

_Cum mortuis non nisi larvæ luctantur._

FOOTNOTES:

[288] There is a great deal of cant in this; there was just the same distinction in manners and knowledge between the clowns of Mantua and the courtiers of Augustus, as there is between persons of the same rank in modern times.

[289] Hunting was as much an exercise of the Roman youths as of our own; and this might be easily proved from Virgil, were it not a well known fact. It was the sport with which Dido entertained the Trojans; and the wish of Ascanius upon the occasion, was worthy of a Frank, or any other German.

[290] This is indistinctly expressed; but if the critic means to say, that the terms of hunting were put into French as the most fashionable language, he is mistaken. The hunting phrases still in use, are handed down to us from the Anglo-Norman barons, in whose time French was the only language spoken among those who were entitled to participate in an amusement to which the nobility claimed an exclusive privilege.

[291] The Duke of Shrewsbury.

[292] Most readers will be of opinion, that Walsh has rendered this celebrated passage not only flatly, but erroneously. His translation seems to infer, that the gods were in danger of dying, had they not _meanly_ complied with the conqueror. At any rate, the real compliment to Cato, which consists in weighing his sense of justice against that of the gods themselves, totally evaporates. Perhaps the following lines may express Lucan's meaning, though without the concise force of the original:

The victor was the care of partial Heaven, But to the conquered cause was Cato's suffrage given.

[293] Livy.

[294] Essay of Poetry.

PASTORAL I.

OR,

_TITYRUS AND MELIBOEUS_.

ARGUMENT.

_The occasion of the First Pastoral was this: When Augustus had settled himself in the Roman empire, that he might reward his veteran troops for their past service, he distributed among them all the lands that lay about Cremona and Mantua; turning out the right owners for having sided with his enemies. Virgil was a sufferer among the rest, who afterwards recovered his estate by Mæcenas's intercession; and, as an instance of his gratitude, composed the following Pastoral, where he sets out his own good fortune in the person of Tityrus, and the calamities of his Mantuan neighbours in the character of Meliboeus._

MELIBOEUS.

Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse. Round the wide world in banishment we roam, Forced from our pleasing fields and native home; While, stretched at ease, you sing your happy loves, And Amaryllis fills the shady groves.

TITYRUS.

These blessings, friend, a deity bestowed; For never can I deem him less than God. The tender firstlings of my woolly breed Shall on his holy altar often bleed. He gave my kine to graze the flowery plain, And to my pipe renewed the rural strain.

MELIBOEUS.

I envy not your fortune, but admire, That, while the raging sword and wasteful fire Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around, No hostile arms approach your happy ground. Far different is my fate; my feeble goats With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes: And this, you see, I scarcely drag along, Who, yeaning, on the rocks has left her young, The hope and promise of my failing fold. My loss, by dire portents, the gods foretold; For, had I not been blind, I might have seen:-- Yon riven oak, the fairest of the green, And the hoarse raven, on the blasted bough, By croaking from the left, presaged the coming blow. But tell me, Tityrus, what heavenly power Preserved your fortunes in that fatal hour?

TITYRUS.

Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome } Like Mantua, where on market-days we come, } And thither drive our tender lambs from home. } So kids and whelps their sires and dams express, And so the great I measured by the less. But country towns, compared with her, appear Like shrubs, when lofty cypresses are near.

MELIBOEUS.

What great occasion called you hence to Rome?

TITYRUS.

Freedom, which came at length, though slow to come. Nor did my search of liberty begin, Till my black hairs were changed upon my chin; Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look, Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke. Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain, I sought not freedom, nor aspired to gain: Though many a victim from my folds was bought, And many a cheese to country markets brought, Yet all the little that I got, I spent, And still returned as empty as I went.

MELIBOEUS.

We stood amazed to see your mistress mourn, Unknowing that she pined for your return; We wondered why she kept her fruit so long, For whom so late the ungathered apples hung. But now the wonder ceases, since I see She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee; For thee the bubbling springs appeared to mourn, And whispering pines made vows for thy return.

TITYRUS.

What should I do?--While here I was enchained, No glimpse of godlike liberty remained; Nor could I hope, in any place but there, To find a god so present to my prayer. There first the youth of heavenly birth I viewed,[295] For whom our monthly victims are renewed. He heard my vows, and graciously decreed My grounds to be restored, my former flocks to feed.

MELIBOEUS.

O fortunate old man! whose farm remains-- } For you sufficient--and requites your pains; } Though rushes overspread the neighbouring plains, } Though here the marshy grounds approach your fields, And there the soil a stony harvest yields. Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, Nor fear a rot from tainted company. Behold! yon bordering fence of sallow trees Is fraught with flowers, the flowers are fraught with bees; The busy bees, with a soft murmuring strain, Invite to gentle sleep the labouring swain. While, from the neighbouring rock, with rural songs, The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs, Stock-doves and turtles tell their amorous pain, And, from the lofty elms, of love complain.

TITYRUS.

The inhabitants of seas and skies shall change, And fish on shore, and stags in air, shall range, The banished Parthian dwell on Arar's brink, And the blue German shall the Tigris drink, Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth, Forget the figure of that godlike youth.

MELIBOEUS.

But we must beg our bread in climes unknown, Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone; And some to far Oaxis shall be sold, Or try the Libyan heat, or Scythian cold; The rest among the Britons be confined, A race of men from all the world disjoined. O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn, Nor, after length of rolling years, return? Are we condemned by fate's unjust decree, No more our houses and our homes to see? Or shall we mount again the rural throne, And rule the country kingdoms, once our own? Did we for these barbarians plant and sow? } On these, on these, our happy fields bestow? } Good heaven! what dire effects from civil discord flow! } Now let me graff my pears, and prune the vine; The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine. Farewell, my pastures, my paternal stock, My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock! No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb The steepy cliffs, or crop the flowery thyme! No more, extended in the grot below, Shall see you browzing on the mountain's brow The prickly shrubs; and after on the bare, Lean down the deep abyss, and hang in air. No more my sheep shall sip the morning dew; } No more my song shall please the rural crew: } Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world, adieu! }

TITYRUS.

This night, at least, with me forget your care; Chesnuts, and curds and cream, shall be your fare: The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'erspread, And boughs shall weave a covering for your head. For see yon sunny hill the shade extends, And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

FOOTNOTES:

[295] Virgil means Octavius Cæsar, heir to Julius, who perhaps had not arrived to his twentieth year, when Virgil saw him first. _Vide_ his Life. _Of heavenly birth_, or heavenly blood, because the Julian family was derived from Iülus, son to Æneas, and grandson to Venus.

PASTORAL II.

OR,

_ALEXIS_.

ARGUMENT.

_The commentators can by no means agree on the person of Alexis, but are all of opinion that some beautiful youth is meant by him, to whom Virgil here makes love, in Corydon's language and simplicity. His way of courtship is wholly pastoral: he complains of the boy's coyness; recommends himself for his beauty and skill in piping; invites the youth into the country, where he promises him the diversions of the place, with a suitable present of nuts and apples. But when he finds nothing will prevail, he resolves to quit his troublesome amour, and betake himself again to his former business._

Young Corydon, the unhappy shepherd swain, The fair Alexis loved, but loved in vain; And underneath the beechen shade, alone, Thus to the woods and mountains made his moan:-- Is this, unkind Alexis, my reward? And must I die unpitied, and unheard? Now the green lizard in the grove is laid, The sheep enjoy the coolness of the shade, And Thestylis wild thyme and garlic beats For harvest hinds, o'erspent with toil and heats; While in the scorching sun I trace in vain Thy flying footsteps o'er the burning plain. The creaking locusts with my voice conspire, They fried with heat, and I with fierce desire. How much more easy was it to sustain Proud Amaryllis, and her haughty reign, The scorns of young Menalcas, once my care, Though he was black, and thou art heavenly fair. Trust not too much to that enchanting face; Beauty's a charm, but soon the charm will pass. White lilies lie neglected on the plain, While dusky hyacinths for use remain. My passion is thy scorn; nor wilt thou know What wealth I have, what gifts I can bestow; What stores my dairies and my folds contain-- A thousand lambs, that wander on the plain; New milk, that all the winter never fails, And all the summer overflows the pails. Amphion sung not sweeter to his herd, When summoned stones the Theban turrets reared. Nor am I so deformed; for late I stood Upon the margin of the briny flood: The winds were still; and, if the glass be true, With Daphnis I may vie, though judged by you. O leave the noisy town! O come and see Our country cots, and live content with me! To wound the flying deer, and from their cotes With me to drive a-field the browzing goats; To pipe and sing, and, in our country strain, To copy, or perhaps contend with Pan. Pan taught to join with wax unequal reeds; Pan loves the shepherds, and their flocks he feeds. Nor scorn the pipe: Amyntas, to be taught, With all his kisses would my skill have bought. Of seven smooth joints a mellow pipe I have, Which with his dying breath Damoetas gave, And said,--"This, Corydon, I leave to thee; For only thou deserv'st it after me." His eyes Amyntas durst not upward lift; For much he grudged the praise, but more the gift. Besides, two kids, that in the valley strayed, I found by chance, and to my fold conveyed: They drain two bagging udders every day; And these shall be companions of thy play; Both fleck'd with white, the true Arcadian strain, Which Thestylis had often begged in vain: And she shall have them, if again she sues, Since you the giver and the gift refuse. Come to my longing arms, my lovely care! And take the presents which the nymphs prepare. White lilies in full canisters they bring, With all the glories of the purple spring. The daughters of the flood have searched the mead For violets pale, and cropp'd the poppy's head, The short narcissus[296] and fair daffodil, Pancies to please the sight, and cassia sweet to smell; And set soft hyacinths with iron blue, To shade marsh marigolds of shining hue; Some bound in order, others loosely strowed, To dress thy bower, and trim thy new abode. Myself will search our planted grounds at home, For downy peaches and the glossy plum; And thrash the chesnuts in the neighbouring grove, Such as my Amaryllis used to love. The laurel and the myrtle sweets agree, And both in nosegays shall be bound for thee. Ah, Corydon! ah, poor unhappy swain! Alexis will thy homely gifts disdain: Nor, should'st thou offer all thy little store, Will rich Iolas yield, but offer more. What have I done, to name that wealthy swain? So powerful are his presents, mine so mean! The boar, amidst my crystal streams, I bring; And southern winds to blast my flowery spring. Ah, cruel creature! whom dost thou despise? The gods, to live in woods, have left the skies; And godlike Paris, in the Idæan grove, To Priam's wealth preferred OEnone's love. In cities, which she built, let Pallas reign; Towers are for gods, but forests for the swain. The greedy lioness the wolf pursues, The wolf the kid, the wanton kid the browze; Alexis, thou art chased by Corydon: All follow several games, and each his own. See, from afar, the fields no longer smoke; The sweating steers, unharnessed from the yoke, Bring, as in triumph, back the crooked plough; The shadows lengthen as the sun goes low; Cool breezes now the raging heats remove: Ah, cruel heaven, that made no cure for love! I wish for balmy sleep, but wish in vain; Love has no bounds in pleasure, or in pain. What frenzy, shepherd, has thy soul possessed? Thy vineyard lies half pruned, and half undressed. Quench, Corydon, thy long unanswered fire! Mind what the common wants of life require; On willow twigs employ thy weaving care, And find an easier love, though not so fair.

FOOTNOTES:

[296] That is, of short continuance.

PASTORAL III.

OR,

_PALÆMON_.

MENALCAS, DAMOETAS, PALÆMON.

ARGUMENT.

_Damoetas and Menalcas, after some smart strokes of country raillery, resolve to try who has the most skill at song; and accordingly make their neighbour, Palæmon, judge of their performances; who, after a full hearing of both parties, declares himself unfit for the decision of so weighty a controversy, and leaves the victory undetermined._

MENALCAS.

Ho, swain! what shepherd owns those ragged sheep?

DAMOETAS.

Ægon's they are: he gave them me to keep.

MENALCAS.

Unhappy sheep, of an unhappy swain! } While he Neæra courts, but courts in vain, } And fears that I the damsel shall obtain. } Thou, varlet, dost thy master's gains devour; Thou milk'st his ewes, and often twice an hour; Of grass and fodder thou defraud'st the dams, And of their mothers' dugs the starving lambs.

DAMOETAS.

Good words, young catamite, at least to men. We know who did your business, how, and when; And in what chapel too you played your prize, } And what the goats observed with leering eyes: } The nymphs were kind, and laughed; and there your safety lies. }

MENALCAS.

Yes, when I cropt the hedges of the leys, Cut Micon's tender vines, and stole the stays!

DAMOETAS.

Or rather, when, beneath yon ancient oak, The bow of Daphnis, and the shafts, you broke, When the fair boy received the gift of right; And, but for mischief, you had died for spite.

MENALCAS.

What nonsense would the fool, thy master, prate, When thou, his knave, canst talk at such a rate! Did I not see you, rascal, did I not, When you lay snug to snap young Damon's goat? His mongrel barked; I ran to his relief, And cried,--"There, there he goes! stop, stop the thief!" Discovered, and defeated of your prey, You skulked behind the fence, and sneaked away.

DAMOETAS.

An honest man may freely take his own: The goat was mine, by singing fairly won. A solemn match was made; he lost the prize. } Ask Damon, ask, if he the debt denies. } I think he dares not; if he does, he lies. }

MENALCAS.

Thou sing with him? thou booby!--Never pipe Was so profaned to touch that blubbered lip. Dunce at the best! in streets but scarce allowed To tickle, on thy straw, the stupid crowd.

DAMOETAS.

To bring it to the trial, will you dare Our pipes, our skill, our voices, to compare? My brinded heifer to the stake I lay; Two thriving calves she suckles twice a day, And twice besides her beestings never fail To store the dairy with a brimming pail. Now back your singing with an equal stake.

MENALCAS.

That should be seen, if I had one to make. You know too well, I feed my father's flock; What can I wager from the common stock? A stepdame too I have, a cursed she, Who rules my hen-peck'd sire, and orders me. Both number twice a day the milky dams; And once she takes the tale of all the lambs. But, since you will be mad, and since you may Suspect my courage, if I should not lay, The pawn I proffer shall be full as good: Two bowls I have, well turned, of beechen wood; Both by divine Alcimedon were made; To neither of them yet the lip is laid. The lids are ivy; grapes in clusters lurk Beneath the carving of the curious work. Two figures on the sides embossed appear-- } Conon, and what's his name who made the sphere, } And shewed the seasons of the sliding year, } Instructed in his trade the labouring swain, And when to reap, and when to sow the grain?

DAMOETAS.

And I have two, to match your pair, at home; The wood the same; from the same hand they come, (The kimbo handles seem with bear's foot carved,) And never yet to table have been served; Where Orpheus on his lyre laments his love, With beasts encompassed, and a dancing grove. But these, nor all the proffers you can make, Are worth the heifer which I set to stake.

MENALCAS.

No more delays, vain boaster, but begin! I prophesy before-hand, I shall win. Palæmon shall be judge how ill you rhyme: I'll teach you how to brag another time.

DAMOETAS.

Rhymer, come on! and do the worst you can; I fear not you, nor yet a better man. With silence, neighbour, and attention, wait; For 'tis a business of a high debate.

PALÆMON.

Sing then; the shade affords a proper place, The trees are clothed with leaves, the fields with grass, The blossoms blow, the birds on bushes sing, And Nature has accomplished all the spring. The challenge to Damoetas shall belong; Menalcas shall sustain his under-song; Each in his turn your tuneful numbers bring, By turns the tuneful Muses love to sing.

DAMOETAS.

From the great father of the gods above My Muse begins; for all is full of Jove: To Jove the care of heaven and earth belongs; My flocks he blesses, and he loves my songs.

MENALCAS.

Me Phoebus loves; for he my Muse inspires, And in her songs the warmth he gave requires. For him, the god of shepherds and their sheep,[297] My blushing hyacinths and my bays I keep.

DAMOETAS.

My Phyllis me with pelted apples plies; } Then tripping to the woods the wanton hies, } And wishes to be seen before she flies. }

MENALCAS.

But fair Amyntas comes unasked to me, } And offers love, and sits upon my knee. } Not Delia to my dogs is known so well as he. }

DAMOETAS.