Volume IX of the WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS (see also Vol. IV, p. 275).

"The Mistakes of a Night, or She Stoops to Conquer," appeared at Covent Garden, in March, 1773. So convinced was George Colman that the public would endure nothing but sentiment, that he could hardly be induced to accept the play, and was extremely nervous about its success, almost until the fall of the curtain on the first night. Nevertheless, its success was immediate and decisive, and it became established as a stock piece. The play loses nothing by the suppression of sentimental passages between Hastings and Miss Neville, without which Colman would certainly have declined it altogether. Apart from the main argument--the wooing of Kate Hardcastle--the plot turns on the points that Tony Lumpkin is the son of Mrs. Hardcastle by her first marriage, and that Constance Neville is her niece and ward, not her husband's.

HEINRICH HEINE[E]

Atta Troll

_A Summer Night's Dream_

I

In the valley lies attractive Cauterets. The shining houses Gay with balconies, and on them Stand fair ladies loudly laughing.

Laughing as they look beneath them On the brightly swarming market, Where are dancing bear and she-bear To the droning of the bagpipes.

Atta Troll and his good lady, Whom the people call black Mumma, Are the dancers; the Biscayans Shout aloud in admiration.

Atta Troll, who once paraded Like a mighty lord of deserts, Free upon the mountain summit, Dances in the vale to rabble!

Both the music and the laughter Quickly cease, and shrieking loudly, From the market fly the people, And the ladies they are fainting.

Yes, the slavish chain that bound him Suddenly hath rent asunder Atta Troll. And, wildly springing, Up the rocks he nimbly clambers.

In the empty market standing, All alone are left black Mumma And the keeper. Wild with fury On the ground his hat he dashes.

On the wretched poor black Mumma Falls this much-enraged one's fury Doubly down at last; he beats her, Then he calls her Queen Christina.

II

In the vale of Ronceval Not far off from Roland's cleft, And by savage fir-trees hidden, Lies the cave of Atta Troll.

In the bosom of his family, There he rests from all his hardships. Tender meeting! All his young ones Found he in the well-loved cavern:

Well-licked, lady-like young bears, Blonde their hair, like parson's daughters; Brown the boys, the youngest only With the single ear is black.

Gladly now relates the old one What he's in the world experienced, Of the overwhelming plaudits Reaped by his great skill in dancing.

Overcome by self-laudation, Now he calls on deeds to witness That he is no wretched boaster, That he's really great at dancing.

III

In the caverns with his offspring, Sick at heart, upon his back lies Atta Troll; in meditation Licks his paws, and, licking, growls:

"Mumma, Mumma, pearl of blackness, Whom I fished from out life's ocean, Is it thus that in life's ocean I am forced again to lose thee!

"Might I only once more sniffle That sweet odour, the peculiar, Of my black, my darling Mumma, Fragrant as the scent of roses!

"But, alas! my Mumma pineth In the fetters of those rascals, Who, the name of Men assuming, Call themselves Creation's lords.

"Mankind, are ye any better Than we others, just because ye Boiled and baked devour your victuals? In a raw state we eat ours.

"Children," grumbles Atta Troll, "Children, we must seize the future! If each bear but thought as I do, We should soon subdue the tyrants.

"Let the boar but form alliance With the horse, the elephant Coil his trunk with love fraternal Round the valiant bullock's horn;

"Bear and wolf of every colour, Goat and monkey; even hares, too, Let them work awhile together, And the victory cannot fail us.

"Equal rights for all God's creatures, Be our fundamental maxim; Absolutely no distinction In belief, or skin, or smell.

"Strict equality! Ev'ry jackass Competent for highest office; On the other hand, the lion Trotting with the corn to grind."

IV

Many an honest, virtuous burgher Lives on earth in evil odour, Whilst your princely people reek of Lavender and ambergris.

Therefore do not make wry faces, Gentle reader, if the cave of Atta Troll should not remind you Of the spices of Arabia.

Tarry with me in the steamy Confines in the dismal odour, Where the hero to his youngest Speaks as if from out a cloud:

"Ever shun men's ways of thinking! Not a creature that is decent Can be found among these creatures. Even Germans, once much better,

"In primeval times our cousins, These alike are now degen'rate: Traitors to their creed and godless, Now they preach e'en atheism!

"Only be no atheist, Like a non-bear who respects not His great Maker--Yes, a Maker Hath this universe created.

"Yonder in the starred pavilion, On the golden throne of power, World-controlling and majestic, Sits a giant Polar bear.

"At his feet are sitting gentle Sainted bears, who in their life-time Uncomplaining suffered; in their Paws the palm of martyrdom.

"Shall I ever, drunk with heaven, Yonder in the starred pavilion, With the Glory, with the palm-branch, Dance before the throne of God?"

V

Figures twain, morose and baleful, And on all-fours slowly creeping, Break themselves a gloomy passage Through the underwood at midnight.

That is Atta Troll, the father, And his son, young Master One-Ear. "This old stone"--growls Atta Troll-- "Is the altar, where the Druids

"In the days of superstition Human sacrifices butchered. Oh, the overwhelming horror! Shedding blood to honour God!

"Now indeed far more enlightened Are these men--they only murder Now from selfishness and grasping. Each one plunders for himself!

"Nature never yet created Owners, no--for void of pockets, Not a pocket in our fur coats, We were born, the whole of us.

"Only man, that smooth-skinned being, Could in borrowed wool, so artful, Dress himself, or could, so artful, Thus provide himself with pockets.

"Be the mortal foe of all such Fierce oppressors, reconcileless, To the end of thy existence-- Swear it, swear it here, my son!"

And the youngest swore as once did Hannibal. The moon illumined With her yellow light the Blood-stone, And the pair of misanthropes.

VI

I was early one fine morning With Lascaro setting forward On the bear-hunt. And at mid-day We arrived at Pont-d'Espagne.

Evening shades were dark'ning round us When we reached the wretched hostel, Where the Ollea-Podrida Steamed up from the dirty soup-dish.

Corresponding to the kitchen Was the bed. It swarmed with insects, Just as if it had been peppered!-- Bugs are man's most mortal foe.

What a raving with these poets, E'en the tame ones! Why, they never Cease to sing and say, that Nature Is the Maker's mighty temple.

Well, so be it, charming people! But confess that in this temple All the stairs are slightly awkward. Miserably bad the stairs!

Close beside me strides Lascaro, Pale and long, just like a taper; Never speaking, never smiling, He, the dead son of a witch.

Yes, 'tis said, he is a dead one, Long defunct, although his mother, Old Uraka, by enchantments Keeps him living to appearance.

In the little fishing cottage, On the Lac-de-Gobe we met with Shelter and some trout for dinner; And they tasted quite delicious.

If the stuff I drank was really Wine, at this same Lac-de-Gobe, I know not. I think in Brunswick They would simply call it swipes.

VII

From the sunny golden background Smile the violet mountain peaks, On the ridge there clings a village, Like a boldly ventured birds'-nest.

Having climbed there, 'twas apparent That the old ones wing had taken, And behind were tarrying only All the young brood, not yet fledged.

Nearly all that day I lingered With the children, and we chatted Quite familiar. They were curious Who I was, what I was doing?

"Germany, dear friends"--so said I-- "Is the land where I was born; Bears live there in any number, And I took to hunting bears.

"There I drew the skin for many Over very bearish ears; And between them I was sometimes Roughly by their bear claws handled.

"But with merely unlicked blockheads Every day to be contending In my well-loved home, at last I Found to be too much for me.

"So at last have journeyed hither, Seeking out some better sport; I intend to try my prowess On the mighty Atta Troll."

VIII

Like a narrow street the valley, And its name is Spectre Hollow; Rugged crags rise up abruptly Either side of giddy heights.

On a dizzy, steep projection, Peeping downwards, like a watch-tower, Stands Uraka's daring cottage; Thither I Lascaro followed.

With his mother he took counsel, Using secret signs as language, How might Atta Troll be tempted, How he might be put to death.

For right well had we his traces Followed up. And now no longer Dare escape be thought of. Numbered Are thy days, O Atta Troll!

What Uraka as her lawful Business followed, that was honest; For she dealt in mountain simples And she also sold stuffed birds.

Full of all these natural wonders Was the hut. The smell was dreadful Of the henbane, cuckoo-flowers, Dandelion and deadmen's fingers.

Vultures, too, a large collection, Carefully arranged on all sides, With the wings at full extended And the most enormous beaks.

Was't the odour of the foolish Plants which stupefied my senses? Strange sensations crept about me At the sight of all these birds.

IX

Argonauts without a ship, Who on foot the mountain traverse, And instead of golden fleeces Only look to win a bear-skin

Ah, we are but sorry devils! Heroes of a modern pattern, And there's not a classic poet Would in song immortalise us!

And for all that we have suffered Mighty hardships! What a shower Overtook us on the summit, And no tree and no _fiacre_!

Tired to death, and out of humour, Like two well-drenched poodles, once more, Very late at night, we clambered To the witch's hut above.

Shivering, and with teeth a-chatter, Near the hearth I stood awhile; Then, as though the warmth o'ercame me, Sank at last upon the straw.

How the roaring of the chimney Terrified me. Like the moaning Of poor, wretched, dried-up souls-- Quite familiar seemed the voices.

Sleep completely overcame me In the end, and then in place of Waking phantasm, rose before me Quite a wholesome, firm-set dream.

And I dreamed the little cottage Suddenly became a ballroom. Carried up aloft on pillars And by chandeliers illumined.

Then invisible musicians Struck up from "Robert le Diable" That ungodly dance of nuns; I was walking all alone there.

But at last the portals open Of themselves, and then come marching, Measured footsteps, slow and solemn, Most extraordinary guests.

Nothing now but bears and spectres, Walking upright, every he-bear On the arm a ghost conducted, Muffled in a long white shroud.

Sometimes in the dance's bustle, Tore a bear the burial garment Off the head of his companion; Lo! a death's-head came to view.

But at last sounds forth a joyous Crashing of the horns and cymbals; And the kettle-drums they thunder, And there came the galopade.

This I did not dream the end of-- For a most ill-mannered bruin Trod upon my favourite corn, So that, shrieking out, I woke.

X

In the cavern, with his offspring, Atta Troll lies, and he slumbers With the snoring of the righteous; But at last he wakes up yawning.

"Children!"--sighs he, whilst are trickling Tears from those large eyes unbidden-- "Children! Finished is my earthly Pilgrimage, and we must part.

"Just at mid-day whilst I slumbered Came a dream, which has its meaning. Then my spirit sweetly tasted Omens of my coming death.

"On the world and fate reflecting, Yawning I had fallen asleep, When I dreamed that I was lying Underneath a lofty tree.

"From the tree's o'erspreading branches Dribbled down transparent honey. Joyous blinking, up above me Seven little bears I noticed.

"Tender, graceful little creatures, Rosy coloured were their fur coats, As they clambered; from their shoulders Just like silk two wings were sprouting.

"And with soft and supernatural Flute-like voices they were singing! While thus singing, icy coldness Crept throughout my skin, and flame-like

"From my skin my soul departed; Soared in brightness up to heaven." Thus in tender words and falt'ring Grunted Atta Troll. His ears then

Pricked themselves and strangely worked, And from his repose he started, Trembling, and with rapture bellowing, "Children, do ye hear those sounds?

"Is it not the voice melodious Of your mother? Oh, I know it, 'Tis the growling of my Mumma! Mumma! Yes, my own black Mumma!"

Atta Troll, whilst these words utt'ring, Like a madman headlong bounded From the cavern to destruction! Ah! he rushed upon his doom!

In the vale of Ronceval, On the very spot where whilom Charlemagne's peerless nephew Gasped away his fleeting spirit,

There fell also Atta Troll, Fell through treason, like the other, Whom the traitor, knighthood's Judas, Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.

XI

Four gigantic men in triumph Brought along the slaughtered Bear. Upright sat he in an armchair, Like a patient at the hot-wells.

That same day soon after skinning Atta Troll, they up to auction Put the skin. For just a hundred Francs a furrier purchased it.

Elegantly then he trimmed it, And he edged it round with scarlet, And again he sold it quickly Just for double what it cost.

So, at last, third hand possessed it-- Julietta, and at Paris It reposes in her chamber, Serving as a bed-side carpet.

What of Mumma? Ah, the Mumma Is a poor weak woman! Frailty Is her name! Alas, the women Are as so much porcelain frail.

When the hand of Fate had parted Mumma from her noble husband, Neither did she die of sorrow, Nor succumb to melancholy.

And at last a fixed appointment, And for life a safe provision, Far away she found at Paris In the famed Jardin des Plantes.

Sunday last as I was walking In the gardens with Julietta, By the railing round the bear-pit-- Gracious Heavens! What saw we there!

'Twas a powerful desert bear From Siberia, snow-white coated, Playing there an over-tender, Amorous game with some black she-bear.

And, by Jupiter! 'twas Mumma! 'Twas the wife of Atta Troll! I remember her distinctly By the moist eye's tender glances.

XII

Where in heaven, Master Louis, Have you all this crazy nonsense Scraped together? Such the question Of the Cardinal of Este,

After having read the poem Of Rolando's frenzied doings, Which Ariosto with submission To his Eminence dedicated.

Yes, Varnhagen, worthy friend, Yes, I see the same words nearly On thy lips this moment hanging With the same sarcastic smile.

"Sounds this not like youthful visions, Which I once dreamt with Chamisso And Brentano and Fouqué, On those deep-blue moonlight evenings?"

Yes, my friend, it is the echo Of those long-forgotten dream-days; Only that a modern trilling Mingles with the ancient cadence.

Other seasons, other songsters! Other songsters, other ditties! What a cackling, as of geese, which Once preserved the Capitol!

Other seasons, other songsters! Other songsters, other ditties! I might take a pleasure also In them had I other ears!

FOOTNOTES:

[E] Heinrich Heine was born on December 13, 1797, at Düsseldorf, the son of Jewish parents. After quitting school he was sent to Frankfort to the banking establishment of an uncle, but a commercial career failed to appeal to him, and in 1819 he entered the University of Bonn, with a view of studying for law. His thoughts, however, were given to poetry; and 1822 saw the publication of his first volume of poems. Up to this time he was largely dependent upon the generosity of his uncle. Thus, in order to fulfil his obligations, he entered the University of Göttingen, where he obtained his degree of law, having previously qualified himself for practice by renouncing the Jewish faith for Christianity. A voluminous prose-writer, a wonderful satirist, and an ardent politician, Heine's present-day fame rests largely on his poetry, and especially the wonderful lyrical pieces. "Atta Troll" (1846), which has been described as the "Swan-song of Romanticism," was written in the hey-day of his activities, and admirably conveys something of the temper and genius of its many-sided author. Heine died on February 17. 1856.

HOMER[F]

The Iliad

_I.--Of the Wrath of Achilles; and of Hector_

Achilles' baneful wrath resound, O goddess, that impos'd Infinite sorrows on the Greeks, and many brave souls loos'd. From breasts heroic; sent them far to that invisible cave That no light comforts; and their limbs to dogs and vultures gave; To all which Jove's will gave effect; from whom strife first begun Betwixt Atrides, king of men, and Thetis' god-like son.

To appease Phoebus, Agamemnon restored the captive daughter of the sun-god's priest, allotted to him for spoil; but took Briseis from Achilles to replace her. Achilles vowed to render no more aid to the Greeks, telling his mother, the sea-nymph Thetis, what had befallen, calling on Jove to aid his vengeance.

So Peleus' son, swift-foot Achilles, at his swift ship sate, Burning in wrath, nor ever came to councils of estate That make men honour'd, never trod the fierce embattled field, But kept close, and his lov'd heart pined, what fight and cries could yield, Thirsting at all parts to the host.

To satisfy Thetis, Jupiter sent a false dream to Agamemnon, the king of men, persuading him that Troy should now fall to his attack. Beguiled by the dream, Agamemnon set forth in battle array the whole Greek host, save that Achilles and his followers were absent. And the whole host of Troy came forth to meet them. Then Menelaus challenged Paris to single combat; for the twain were the cause of the war, seeing that Paris had stolen away Helen, the wife of Menelaus. Truce was struck while the combat should take place. Paris hurled his javelin, but did not pierce his foe's shield; Menelaus, having called on Jove,

Shook and threw his lance; which struck through Paris' shield, And with the strength he gave to it, it made the curets yield, His coat of mail, his breast; yet he prevented sable death. This taint he followed with his sword, drawn from a silver sheath, Which lifting high, he struck his helm full where the plume did stand, On which it piecemeal brake, and fell from his unhappy hand ... "Lo, now my lance hath missed his end, my sword in shivers flew, And he 'scapes all." With this again he rushed upon his guest, And caught him by the horse-hair plume that dangled on his crest, With thought to drag him to the Greeks; which he had surely done, And so, besides the victory, had wondrous glory won. But Cyprian Venus brake the string; and so the victor's palm Was, for so full a man at arms, only an empty helm. That then he swung about his head, and cast among his friends, Who scrambled and took it up with shouts. Again then he intends To force the life-blood of his foe, and ran on him amain, With shaken jav'lin; when the queen that lovers love, again Attended and now ravish'd him from that encounter quite, With ease, and wondrous suddenly; for she, a goddess, might. She hid him in a cloud of gold, and never made him known Till in his chamber fresh and sweet she gently set him down.

Thereupon the truce was treacherously broken by Pandarus, who, incited by Minerva, wounded Menelaus with an arrow; and the armies closed with each other. Great deeds were done by Diomedes on the Greek side. But Hector had gone back to Troy to rouse Paris; on the walls his wife Andromache saw him.

She ran to Hector, and with her, tender of heart and hand, Her son borne in his nurse's arms; when, like a heavenly sign Compact of many golden stars, the princely child did shine. Hector, though grief bereft his speech, yet smiled upon his joy. Andromache cried out, mix'd hands, and to the strength of Troy Thus wept forth her affection: "O noblest in desire! Thy mind inflamed with other's good will set thyself on fire. Nor pitiest thou my son, nor wife, that must thy widow be If now thou issue; all the field will only run on thee." "Nay," answered he; "but in this fire must Hector's trial shine; Here must his country, father, friends, be made in him divine. Yet such a stormy day shall come (in mind and soul I know), When sacred Troy shall shed her towers for tears of overthrow; When Priam, all his birth and power, shall in those tears be drown'd. But neither Troy's posterity so much my soul doth wound, Priam nor Hecuba herself, nor all my brother's woes, (Who, though so many, and so good must all be food for foes), As thy sad state; when some rude Greek shall lead thee weeping hence, These free days clouded, and a night of captive violence Loading thy temples, out of which thine eyes must never see, But spin the Greek wives webs of task, and their fetch-water be." This said, he reached to take his son; who of his arms afraid, And then the horse-hair plume, with which he was so overlaid, Nodded so horribly, he cling'd back to his nurse and cried. Laughter affected his great sire, who doff'd and laid aside His fearful helm, that on the earth cast round about its light; Then took and kiss'd his loving son. "Afflict me not, dear wife, With these vain griefs. He doth not live that can disjoin my life And this firm bosom, but my fate; and fate whose wings can fly? Noble, ignoble, fate controls. Once born, the best must die."

II.--_Of the Battle by the Ships_

After this, Hector fought with Ajax, and neither had the better. And after that the Greeks set a rampart and a ditch about their ships. Also, Agamemnon would have bidden the Greeks depart altogether, but Diomedes withstood him. And in the fighting that followed, Agamemnon showed himself the best man among the Greeks, seeing that neither Achilles nor Diomedes joined the fray; and the Trojans had the better, driving the Greeks back to the rampart, and bursting through, so that they were like to have burnt the Greek ships where they lay, led on by Hector. To and fro swayed the tide of battle; for while Jove slept, Neptune and Juno gave force and courage to the Greeks, and the Trojans were borne back; Hector being sore hurt with a stone cast by Ajax. But Jove, awaking, restored Hector's strength, sending Apollo to him. Then Apollo and Hector led

The Trojan forces. The Greeks stood. A fervent clamour spread The air on both sides as they joined. Out flew the shafts and darts, Some falling short, but other some found butts in breasts and hearts. As long as Phoebus held but out his horrid shield, so long The darts flew raging either way, and death grew both ways strong. But when the Greeks had seen his face, and who it was that shook The bristled targe, known by his voice, then all their strength forsook Their nerves and minds. And then look how a goodly herd of neat, Or wealthy flock of sheep, being close, and dreadless at their meat, In some black midnight, suddenly, and not a keeper near, A brace of horrid bears rush in, and then fly here and there. The poor affrighted flocks or herds, so every way dispersed The heartless Grecians, so the Sun their headlong chase reversed To headlong flight, and that day rais'd with all grace Hector's head. ... When Hector saw his sister's son lie slaughtered in the sand, He called to all his friends, and prayed they would not in that strait Forsake his nephew, but maintain about his corse the fight, And save it from the spoil of Greece.

The archery of Teucer, brother of Ajax, was dealing destruction among the Trojans, when Jove broke the bow-string; and thereafter the god stirred

With such addition of his spirit the spirit Hector bore To burn the fleet, that of itself was hot enough before. But now he fared like Mars himself, so brandishing his lance As through the deep shades of a wood a raging fire should glance, Held up to all eyes by a hill; about his lips a foam Stood, as when th' ocean is enraged; his eyes were overcome With fervour, and resembled flames, set off by his dark brows, And from his temples his bright helm abhorred lightnings throws. He, girt in fire borne for the fleet, still rushed at every troop, And fell upon it like a wave, high raised, that then doth stoop Out from the clouds, grows as it stoops with storms, then down doth come And cuff a ship, when all her sides are hid in brackish foam, Strong gales still raging in her sails, her sailors' minds dismay'd, Death being but little from their lives; so Jovelike Hector fray'd And plied the Greeks, who knew not what would chance, for all their guards. And as the baneful king of beasts, leapt in to oxen herds Fed in the meadows of a fen exceeding great, the beasts In number infinite, 'mongst whom (their herdsmen wanting breasts To fight with lions for the price of a black ox's life) He here and there jumps first and last, in his bloodthirsty strife; Chased and assaulted, and at length down in the midst goes one, And all the rest 'sperst through the fen; so now all Greece was gone.

On the Grecian side Ajax

Stalked here and there, and in his hand a huge great bead-hook held, Twelve cubits long, and full of iron. And then again there grew A bitter conflict at the fleet. You would have said none drew A weary breath, nor ever did, they laid so freshly on.

It seemed that even Ajax would be overborne. But Patroclus, the loved friend of Achilles, saw this destruction coming upon the Greeks, and he earnestly besought Achilles, if he would not be moved to sally forth to the rescue himself, to suffer him to go out against the Trojans, bearing the arms of Achilles and leading his Myrmidons into the fray. Which leave Achilles granted him.

FOOTNOTES:

[F] Of the personality of Homer, the maker of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey," those great epic poems which were the common heritage of all Greeks, we have no knowledge. Tradition pictures him as blind and old. Seven cities claimed to be his birthplace. Probably he lived in the ninth century B.C., since the particular stages of social life which he portrays probably belong to that era. Beyond this, all is conjecture. The poems were not written down till a later date, when their authorship was already a matter of tradition; and when what we may call the canon of the text of the epics was laid down in the sixth century B.C., it may be readily supposed that they were not in the exact form which the master-poet himself had given them. Hence the ingenuity of the modern commentator has endeavoured to resolve Homer into an indefinite number of ballad-mongers, whose ballads were edited into their existing unity. On the whole, this view may be called Teutonic. Of the "Iliad," it suffices to say that it relates events immediately preceding the fall of Troy, at the close of the tenth year of the siege undertaken by the Greeks on account of the abduction of Helen from Menelaus by Paris. Of Chapman's translation we shall speak in the introduction to the "Odyssey."

_III_.--_Of Patroclus, and the Rousing of Achilles_

Bearing the armour of Achilles, save the spear which none other could wield, Patroclus sped forth, leading the Myrmidons.

And when ye see upon a mountain bred A den of wolves about whose hearts unmeasured strengths are fed, New come from currie of a stag, their jaws all blood-besmeared, And when from some black-water fount they all together herd, There having plentifully lapped with thin and thrust-out tongues The top and clearest of the spring, go, belching from their lungs The clottered gore, look dreadfully, and entertain no dread, Their bellies gaunt, all taken up with being so rawly fed; Then say that such in strength and look, were great Achilles' men Now ordered for the dreadful fight.

The Trojans, taking Patroclus for Achilles, were now driven before him and the other Grecian chiefs. Patroclus slew Sarpedon, king of Lycia, and the fight raged furiously about the corse. The Trojans fled, Patroclus pursued. At last Phoebus Apollo smote his armour from him; Euphorbus thrust him through from behind, and Hector slew him. Ajax and Menelaus came to rescue Patroclus' body; Hector fled, but had already stripped off the armour of Achilles, which he now put on in place of his own. Again the battle waxed furious about the dead Patroclus until Menelaus and Meriones bore the corpse while the two Ajaces stood guard.

Now, when the ill news was brought to Achilles, he fell into a great passion of grief; which lamentation Thetis, his mother, heard from the sea-deeps; and came to him, bidding him not go forth to the war till she had brought him new armour from Vulcan. Nevertheless, at the bidding of Iris, he arose:

And forth the wall he stepped and stood, and sent abroad his voice; Which Pallas far-off echoed, who did betwixt them noise Shrill tumult to a topless height. His brazen voice once heard, The minds of all were startled, so they yielded. Thrice he spake, And thrice, in heat of all the charge, the Trojans started back.

In this wise was the dead Patroclus brought back to Achilles. But Thetis went to Vulcan and besought him, and he wrought new armour for Achilles--a shield most marvellous, and a cuirass and helmet--which she bore to her son. And the wrath of Achilles against Agamemnon was assuaged; and they two were reconciled at a gathering of the chiefs. And when by the counsel of Ulysses they had all well broken their fast, the Greeks went forth to the battle, Achilles leading. Now, in this contest, by Jove's decree, all the Olympian gods were suffered to take part.

And thus the bless'd gods both sides urged; they all stood in the midst And brake contention to their hosts. And over all their heads The gods' king in abhorred claps his thunder rattled out. Beneath them, Neptune tossed the earth; the mountains round about Bowed with affright and shook their heads, Jove's hill the earthquake felt, Steep Ida trembling at her roots, and all her fountains spilt, With crannied brows; the infernal king, that all things frays, was fray'd When this black battle of the gods was joining. Thus array'd 'Gainst Neptune Phoebus with winged shafts, 'gainst Mars the blue-eyed maid, 'Gainst Juno Phoebe, whose white hands bore stinging darts of gold, Her side armed with a sheaf of shafts, and (by the birth two-fold Of bright Latona) sister-twin to him that shoots so far. Against Latona, Hermes stood, grave guard in peace and war Of human beings. Against the god whose empire is on fire, The wat'ry godhead, that great flood, to show whose pow'r entire In spoil as th' other, all his streams on lurking whirlpits trod, Xanthus by gods, by men Scamander called. Thus god 'gainst god Entered the field.

_IV_.--_Of Achilles and Hector_

Now Achilles fell upon the Trojan host, slaying one after another of their mighty men; but Æneas and Hector the gods shielded from him. Twelve he took captive, to sacrifice at the funeral of Patroclus. And he would have stormed into Troy itself but that Phoebus deceived him, and all the Trojans fled within the walls save Hector. But when he saw Achilles coming, cold fear shook Hector from his stand.

No more stay now, all posts we've left, he fled in fear the hand Of that Fear-Master, who, hawk-like, air's swiftest passenger, That holds a timorous dove in chase, and with command doth bear His fiery onset, the dove hastes, the hawk comes whizzing on. This way and that he turns and winds and cuffs the pigeon: So urged Achilles Hector's flight.

They ran thrice about the walls, until Hector, beguiled by Athene in the form of his brother Deiphobus, stayed to fight Achilles. Having cast his lance in vain,

Then forth his sword flew, sharp and broad, and bore a deadly weight, With which he rushed in. And look how an eagle from her height Stoops to the rapture of a lamb, or cuffs a timorous hare; So fell in Hector; and at him Achilles.

Achilles smote Hector through with his javelin, and thus death closed his eyes. Then, in his wrath for the death of Patroclus, Achilles bound the dead Hector by his feet to his chariot,

And scourged on his horse that freely flew; A whirlwind made of startled dust drave with them as they drew, With which were all his black-brown curls knotted in heaps and fill'd.

Which piteous sight was seen from the walls by Priam and Hecuba; but Andromache did not know that Hector had stayed without, until the clamour flew

Up to her turret; then she shook; her work fell from her hand, And up she started, called her maids; she needs must understand That ominous outcry. "Come," said she; then fury-like she went, Two women, as she willed, at hand, and made her quick ascent Up to the tower and press of men, her spirit in uproar. Round She cast her greedy eye, and saw her Hector slain, and bound T'Achilles' chariot, manlessly dragged to the Grecian fleet. Black night struck through her, under her trance took away her feet.

Thus all Troy mourned; but Achilles dragged the slain Hector to the slain Patroclus, and did despite to his body in his wrath; and made ready to hold high obsequies for his friend. And on the morrow

They raised a huge pile, and to arms went every Myrmidon, Charged by Achilles; chariots and horse were harnessed, Fighters and charioteers got up, and they the sad march led, A cloud of infinite foot behind. In midst of all was borne Patroclus' person by his peers.

Fit feastings were held, and games with rich prizes, racings and wrestlings, wherein the might of Ajax could not overcome the skill of Ulysses, nor his skill the might of Ajax. Then Thetis by the will of the gods bade Achilles cease from his wrath against Hector; and suffer the Trojans to redeem his body for a ransom. And Iris came to Priam where the old king sate: the princesses his seed, the princesses his sons' fair wives, all mourning by. She bade him offer ransom to Achilles; and then, guided by Hermes, Priam came to the tent of Achilles, bearing rich gifts, and he kneeled before him, clasping his knees, and besought him, saying:

"Pity an old man like thy sire, different in only this, That I am wretcheder, and bear that weight of miseries That never man did, my cursed lips enforced to kiss that hand That slew my children." At his feet he laid his reverend head. Achilles' thoughts now with his sire, now with his friend were fed.

Moved by compassion, and by the message which Thetis had brought him, Achilles accepted the ransom, and suffered Priam to bear away the body, granting a twelve days' truce. And Troy mourned for him, Andromache lamenting and Hecuba, his mother. And on this wise spake Helen herself.

"O Hector, all my brothers more were not so loved of me As thy most virtues. Not my lord I held so dear as thee,

That brought me hither; before which I would I had been brought To ruin; for what breeds that wish, which is the mischief wrought By my access, yet never found one harsh taunt, one word's ill From thy sweet carriage. Twenty years do now their circles fill Since my arrival; all which time thou didst not only bear Thyself without check, but all else that my lord's brothers were. Their sisters' lords, sisters themselves, the queen, my mother-in-law (The king being never but most mild) when thy man's spirit saw Sour and reproachful, it would still reprove their bitterness With sweet words and thy gentle soul."

So the body of Hector was laid upon the fire, and was burnt; and his ashes were gathered into an urn of gold and laid in a grave.

The Odyssey[G]

_I_.--_How Ulysses Came to Phæacia, and of Nausicaa_

Years had passed since the fall of Troy, yet alone Ulysses came not to his home in Ithaca. Therefore many suitors came to woo his wife Penelope, devouring his substance with riotous living, sorely grieving her heart, and that of her young son, Telemachus. But Ulysses the nymph Calypso had held for seven years an unwilling guest in the island of Ogygia. And now the gods were minded to bring home the man--

That wandered wondrous far, when he the town Of sacred Troy had sacked and shivered down; The cities of a world of nations With all their manners, minds, and fashions He was and knew; at sea felt many woes, Much care sustained to save from overthrows Himself and friends in their retreat for home; But so their fates he could not overcome.

Then came Pallas Athene to Telemachus, and bade him take ship that he might get tidings of his sire. And he spake words of reproach to the company of suitors. To whom

Antinous only in this sort replied: "High-spoken, and of spirit unpacified, How have you shamed us in this speech of yours! Will you brand us for an offence not ours? Your mother, first in craft, is first in cause. Three years are past, and near the fourth now draws, Since first she mocked the peers Achaian; All she made hope, and promised every man."

The suitors suffered Telemachus to depart, though they repented after; and he came with Athene, in disguise of Mentor, to Nestor at Pylos, and thence to Menelaus at Sparta, who told him how he had laid hold on Proteus, the seer, and learnt from him first of the slaying of his own brother Agamemnon; and, secondly, concerning Ulysses,

Laertes' son; whom I beheld In nymph Calypso's palace, who compell'd His stay with her, and since he could not see His country earth, he mourned incessantly.

Laden with rich gifts, Telemachus set out on his return home, while the suitors sought to way-lay him. And, meantime. Calypso, warned by Hermes, let Ulysses depart from Ogygia on a raft. Which, being overwhelmed by storms, he yet made shore on the isle of Phæacia; where, finding shelter, he fell asleep. But Pallas visited the Princess Nausicaa in a dream.

Straight rose the lovely morn, that up did raise Fair-veiled Nausicaa, whose dream her praise To admiration took.

She went with her maidens, with raiment for cleansing, to the river, where, having washed the garments,

They bathed themselves, and all with glittering oil Smoothed their white skins, refreshing then their toil With pleasant dinner. Then Nausicaa, With other virgins did at stool-ball play, Their shoulder-reaching head-tires laying by. Nausicaa, with wrists of ivory, The liking stroke struck, singing first a song, As custom ordered, and, amidst the throng, Nausicaa, whom never husband tamed, Above them all in all the beauties flamed. The queen now for the upstroke, struck the ball Quite wide off th' other maids, and made it fall Amidst the whirlpools. At which, out-shrieked all, And with the shriek did wise Ulysses wake; Who, hearing maidish voices, from the brake Put hasty head out; and his sight did press The eyes of soft-haired virgins ... Horrid was His rough appearance to them; the hard pass He had at sea stuck by him. All in flight The virgins scattered, frighted with this sight. All but Nausicaa fled; but she stood fast; Pallas had put a boldness in her breast, And in her fair limbs tender fear compress'd. And still she stood him, as resolved to know What man he was, or out of what should grow His strange repair to them. Then thus spake he; "Let me beseech, O queen, this truth of thee, Are you of mortal or the deified race? If of the gods that th' ample heavens embrace, I can resemble you to none alive So near as Cynthia, chaste-born birth of Jove. If sprung of humans that inhabit earth, Thrice blest are both the authors of your birth; But most blest he that hath the gift to engage Your bright neck in the yoke of marriage."

He prayed her then for some garment, and that she would show him the town. Then she, calling her maidens, they brought for him food and oil and raiment, and went apart while he should cleanse and array himself.

And Pallas wrought in him a grace full great From head to shoulders, and as sure did seat His goodly presence. As he sat apart, Nausicaa's eyes struck wonder through her heart; He showed to her till now not worth the note; But now he seemed as he had godhead got.

Then, fearing the gossip of the market-place, she bade him follow afoot with her maidens, giving him directions how he should find her father's palace, which entering,

"Address suit to my mother, that her mean May make the day of your redition seen. For if she once be won to wish you well, Your hope may instantly your passport seal, And thenceforth sure abide to see your friends, Fair house, and all to which your heart contends."

Nausicaa and her maidens went forward, Ulysses following after a time; whom Pallas met, and told him of the King Alcinous and the Queen Arete. Then he, being wrapped in a cloud which she had set about him, entered unmarked; and, the cloud vanishing, embraced the knees of Arete in supplication, as one distressed by many labours. And they all received him graciously. Now, as they sat at meat, a bard sang of the fall of Troy; and Alcinous, the king, marked how Ulysses wept at the tale; and then Ulysses told them who he was, and of his adventures, on this wise.

_II_.--_Ulysses Tells of his Wanderings_

After many wanderings, we came to the isle of the Cyclops, and I, with twelve of my men, to his cave. He coming home bespake us.

"Ho! guests! What are ye? Whence sail ye these seas? Traffic or rove ye, and, like thieves, oppress Poor strange adventurers, exposing so Your souls to danger, and your lives to woe?" "Reverence the gods, thou greatest of all that live, We suppliants are." "O thou fool," answered he, "To come so far, and to importune me With any god's fear or observed love! We Cyclops care not for your goat-fed Jove Nor other blest ones; we are better far. To Jove himself dare I bid open war." The Cyclop devoured two sailors, and slept. I slew him not sleeping-- For there we all had perished, since it past Our powers to lift aside a log so vast As barred all our escape.

At morn, he drove forth the flocks, but barred the entry again, having devoured two more of my comrades. But we made ready a great stake for thrusting out his one eye. And when he came home at night, driving in all his sheep,

Two of my soldiers more At once he snatched up, and to supper went. Then dared I words to him, and did present A bowl of wine with these words: "Cyclop! take A bowl of wine." "Thy name, that I may make A hospitable gift; for this rich wine Fell from the river, that is more divine, Of nectar and ambrosia." "Cyclop, see, My name is No-Man." Cruel answered he. "No-Man! I'll eat thee last of all thy friends." He slept; we took the spar, made keen before, And plunged it in his eye. Then did he roar In claps like thunder.

Other Cyclops gathered, to inquire who had harmed him; but he--

"by craft, not might, No-Man hath given me death." They then said right, "If no man hurt thee, and thyself alone, That which is done to thee by Jove is done." Then groaning up and down, he groping tried To find the stone, which found, he put aside, But in the door sat, feeling if he could, As the sheep issued, on some man lay hold.

But we, ranging the sheep three abreast, were borne out under their bellies, and drove them in haste down to our ship; and having put out, I cried aloud:

"Cyclop! if any ask thee who imposed Th' unsightly blemish that thine eye enclosed, Say that Ulysses, old Laertes' son, Whose seat is Ithaca, who hath won Surname of city-razer, bored it out." At this he brayed so loud that round about He drove affrighted echoes through the air In burning fury; and the top he tare From off a huge rock, and so right a throw Made at our ship that just before the prow It overflew and fell, missed mast and all Exceeding little; but about the fall So fierce a wave it raised that back it bore Our ship, so far it almost touched the shore.

So we escaped; but the Cyclop stirred up against us the wrath of his father Neptune. Thereafter we came to the caves of Æolus, lord of the winds, and then to the land of the giants called Laestrygones, whence there escaped but one ship of all our company.

Then to the isle of Ææa we attained, Where fair-haired, dreadful, eloquent Circe reigned. Then I sent a company, led by Eurylochus, to search the land. These in a dale did Circe's house descry; Before her gates hill-wolves and lions lie; Which, with her virtuous drugs, so tame she made That wolf nor lion would no man invade With any violence, but all arose, Their huge, long tails wagged, and in fawns would close, As loving dogs. Amaz'd they stay'd at gate, And heard within the goddess elevate A voice divine, as at her web she wrought, Subtle and glorious and past earthly thought.

She called them in, but Eurylochus, abiding without, saw her feast them, and then turn them with her wand into swine. From him hearing these things I hastened thither. But Hermes met me, and gave me of the herb Moly, to be a protection against her spells, and wise counsel withal. So when she had feasted me she touched me with her wand.

I drew my sword, and charged her, as I meant To take her life. When out she cried, and bent Beneath my sword her knees, embracing mine, And full of tears, said, "Who, of what high line Art thou? Deep-souled Ulysses must thou be." Then I, "O Circe, I indeed am he. Dissolve the charms my friends' forced forms enchain, And show me here those honoured friends like men."

Now she restored them, and knowing the will of the gods, made good cheer for us all, so that we abode with her for one year. Nor might we depart thence till I had made journey to the abode of Hades to get speech of Tiresias the Seer. Whereby I saw made shades of famous folk, past recounting. Thence returning, Circe suffered us to be gone; with warning of perils before us, and of how we should avoid them.

First to the Sirens. Whoso hears the call Of any Siren, he will so despise Both wife and children, for their sorceries, That never home turns his affection's stream, Nor they take joy in him nor he in them. Next monstrous Scylla. Six long necks look out Of her rank shoulders; every neck doth let A ghastly head out; every head, three set, Thick thrust together, of abhorred teeth, And every tooth stuck with a sable death; Charybdis, too, whose horrid throat did draw The brackish sea up. These we saw

And escaped only in part. Then came they to the island where are fed the Oxen of the Sun; and because his comrades would slay them, destruction came upon them, and Ulysses alone came alive to the isle of Calypso.

_III_.--_How Ulysses Came Back to Ithaca_

Now, when Ulysses had made an end, it pleased Alcinous and all the Phæacians that they should speed him home with many rich gifts. So they set him in a ship, and bore him to Ithaca, and laid him on the shore, yet sleeping, with all the goodly gifts about him, and departed. But he, waking, wist not where he was till Pallas came to him. Who counselled him how he should deal with the Wooers, and disguised him as a man ancient and worn.

Then Ulysses sought and found the faithful swine-herd Eumæus, who made him welcome, not knowing who he was, and told him of the ill-doing of the suitors. But Pallas went and brought back Telemachus from Sparata, evading the Wooers' ambush.

Out rushed amazed Eumæus, and let go The cup to earth, that he had laboured so, Cleansed for the neat wine, did the prince surprise, Kissed his fair forehead, both his lovely eyes, And wept for joy. Then entering, from his seat His father rose to him; who would not let The old man remove, but drew him back, and prest With earnest terms his sitting, saying, "Guest, Take here your seat again."

Eumæus departing, Pallas restored Ulysses to his own likeness, and he made himself known to Telemachus, and instructed him.

"Go them for home, and troop up with the Wooers, Thy will with theirs joined, power with their rude powers; And after shall the herdsmen guide to town My steps, my person wholly overgrown With all appearance of a poor old swain, Heavy and wretched. If their high disdain Of my vile presence made them my desert Affect with contumelies, let thy loved heart Beat in fixed confines of thy bosom still, And see me suffer, patient of their ill. But when I give the sign, all th' arms that are Aloft thy roof in some near room prepare-- Two swords, two darts, two shields, left for us twain. But let none know Ulysses near again." But when air's rosy birth, the morn, arose, Telemachus did for the turn dispose His early steps; went on with spritely pace, And to the Wooers studied little grace ... And now the king and herdsman from the field Drew nigh the town; when in the yard there lay A dog called Argus, which, before his way Assumed for Ilion, Ulysses bred, Yet stood his pleasure then in little stead, As being too young, but, growing to his grace, Young men made choice of him for every chase, Or of their wild goats, of their hares, or harts; But, his king gone, and he, now past his parts, Lay all abjectly on the stable's store Before the ox-stall, and mules' stable-door, To keep the clothes cast from the peasants' hands While they laid compass on Ulysses' lands, The dog, with ticks (unlook'd to) overgrown. But by this dog no sooner seen but known Was wise Ulysses; who now enter'd there. Up went his dog's laid ears, coming near, Up he himself rose, fawned, and wagged his stern, Couch'd close his ears, and lay so; nor discern Could ever more his dear-loved lord again. Ulysses saw it, nor had power t'abstain From shedding tears; but (far-off seeing his swain) His grief dissembled.... Then they entered in And left poor Argus dead; his lord's first sight Since that time twenty years bereft his sight.

Telemachus welcomed the wayworn suppliant; the feasting Wooers, too, sent him portions of meat, save Antinous, who

Rapt up a stool, with which he smit The king's right shoulder, 'twixt his neck and it. He stood him like a rock. Antinous' dart Stirred not Ulysses, who in his great heart Deep ills projected.

The very Wooers were wroth. Which clamour Penelope hearing, she sent for Eumæus, and bade him summon the stranger to her; but he would not come till evening, by reason of the suitors, from whom he had discourteous treatment.

Now Ulysses coming to Penelope, did not discover himself, but told her made-up tales of his doings; as, how he had seen Ulysses, and of a robe he had worn which Penelope knew for one she had given him; so that she gave credence to his words. Then she bade call the ancient nurse Euryclea, that she might wash the stranger's feet. But by a scar he came to be discovered by the aged dame. Her he charged with silence and to let no ear in all the court more know his being there. As for Penelope, she told him of her intent to promise herself to the man who could wield Ulysses' bow, knowing well that none had the strength and skill.

_IV.--Of the Doom of the Suitors_

On the morrow came Penelope to the Wooers, bearing the bow of her lord.

Her maids on both sides stood; and thus she spake: "Hear me, ye Wooers, that a pleasure take To do me sorrow, and my house invade To eat and drink, as if 'twere only made To serve your rapines, striving who shall frame Me for his wife. And since 'tis made a game, I here propose divine Ulysses' bow For that great master-piece, to which ye row. He that can draw it with least show to strive, And through these twelve axe-heads an arrow drive, Him will I follow, and this house forego." Whereat the herd Eumæus wept for woe.

Then Telemachus set up the axe-heads, and himself made vain essay, the more to tempt the Wooers. And while they after him strove all vainly, Ulysses went out and bespake Eumæus and another herd, Philoetius.

"I am your lord; through many a sufferance tried Arrived now here, whom twenty years have held Forth from my home. Of all the company Now serving here besides, not one but you Mine ear hath witnessed willing to bestow Their wishes of my life, so long held dead. The curious Wooers will by no means give The offer of the bow and arrow leave To come at me; spite then their pride, do thou, My good Eumæus, bring both shaft and bow To my hands' proof; and charge the maids before That instantly they shut the door. Do thou, Philoetius, keep their closure fast."

Then Ulysses claiming to make trial of the bow, the Wooers would have denied him; but Penelope would not; whereas Telemachus made a vow that it was for himself and none other to decide, and the guest should make trial. But he, handling it while they mocked, with ease

Drew the bow round. Then twanged he up the string, That as a swallow in the air doth sing, So sharp the string sung when he gave it touch, Once having bent and drawn it. Which so much Amazed the Wooers, that their colours went And came most grievously. And then Jove rent The air with thunder; which at heart did cheer The now-enough-sustaining traveller.

Then through the axes at the first hole flew The steel-charged arrow. Straightway to him drew His son in complete arms.... "Now for us There rests another mark more hard to hit, And such as never man before hath smit; Whose full point likewise my hands shall assay, And try if Phoebus will give me his day." He said, and off his bitter arrow thrust Right at Antinous, that struck him just As he was lifting up the bowl, to show That 'twixt the cup and lip much ill may grow.

Then the rest cried out upon him with threats, while they made vain search for weapons in the hall.

He, frowning, said, "Dogs, see in me the man Ye all held dead at Troy. My house it is That thus ye spoil, and thus your luxuries Fill with my women's rapes; in which ye woo The wife of one that lives, and no thought show Of man's fit fear, or gods', your present fame, Or any fair sense of your future name; And, therefore, present and eternal death Shall end your base life."

Then the Wooers made at Ulysses and Telemachus, who smote down first Eurymachus and then Amphinomus. But a way to the armoury having been left, the Wooers got arms by aid of a traitor; whom Eumæus and Philoetius smote, and then came to Ulysses and his son. Moreover, Pallas also came to their help; so that the Wooers, being routed--

Ulysses and his son the flyers chased As when, with crooked beaks and seres, a cast Of hill-bred eagles, cast off at some game, That yet their strengths keep, but, put up, in flame The eagle stoops; from which, along the field The poor fowls make wing this and that way yield Their hard-flown pinions, then the clouds assay For 'scape or shelter, their forlorn dismay All spirit exhaling, all wings strength to carry Their bodies forth, and, truss'd up, to the quarry Their falconers ride in, and rejoice to see Their hawks perform a flight so fervently; So in their flight Ulysses with his heir Did stoop and cuff the Wooers, that the air Broke in vast sighs, whose heads they shot and cleft, The pavement boiling with the souls they reft.

Now all the Wooers were slain, and they of the household that were their accomplices; and the chamber was purified.

Then first did tears ensue Her rapt assurance; when she ran and spread Her arms about his neck, kiss'd oft his head. He wept for joy, t'enjoy a wife so fit For his grave mind, that knew his depth of wit.

But as for the Wooers, Hermes gathered the souls of them together, and, as bats gibbering in a cavern rise, so came they forth gibbering and went down to the House of Hades.

FOOTNOTES:

[G] Of the "Odyssey" it may be said with certainty that its composition was later than that of the "Iliad," but it cannot be affirmed that both poems were not composed within the life-time of one man. It may be claimed that the best criticism declines to reject the identity of authorship of the poet of the "Iliad" and the poet of the "Odyssey," while admitting the probability that the work of other poets was incorporated in his. We have given our readers the translation by George Chapman, Shakespeare's contemporary, with which may be compared the fine modern prose translation by Professor Butcher and Mr. Andrew Lang. On the other hand, Alexander Pope's verse rendering has nothing Homeric about it. It may be regretted that Chapman did not in the "Odyssey" retain the swinging metre which he used in the "Iliad." The poem relates the adventures of Odysseus (latinised into Ulysses) on his homeward voyages, after the fall of Troy.

HORACE[H]

Poems

_Satires_

HUMAN DISCONTENT

Whence is it, sir, that none contented lives With the fair lot which prudent reason gives, Or chance presents, yet all with envy view The schemes that others variously pursue? Broken with toils, with ponderous arms oppressed, The soldier thinks the merchant solely blest. In opposite extreme, when tempests rise, "War is a better choice," the merchant cries. When early clients thunder at his gate, Te barrister applauds the rustic's fate; While, by _sub-poenas_ dragged from home, the clown Thinks the supremely happy dwell in town! Not to be tedious, mark the moral aim Of these examples. Should some god proclaim, "Your prayers are heard: you, soldier, to your seas; You, lawyer, take that envied rustic's ease,-- Each to his several part--What! Ha! not move Even to the bliss you wished!" And shall not Jove, With cheeks inflamed and angry brow, forswear A weak indulgence to their future prayer?

AVARICE

Some, self-deceived, who think their lust of gold Is but a love of fame, this maxim hold, "No fortune is enough, since others rate Our worth proportioned to a large estate." Say, for their cure what arts would you employ? Let them be wretched, and their choice enjoy. Would you the real use of riches know? Bread, herbs, and wine are all they can bestow. Or add, what nature's deepest wants supplies; These and no more thy mass of money buys. But with continual watching almost dead, Housebreaking thieves, and midnight fires to dread, Or the suspected slave's untimely flight With the dear pelf--if this be thy delight, Be it my fate, so heaven in bounty please, Still to be poor of blessings such as these!

A PARAGON OF INCONSISTENCY

Nothing was of a piece in the whole man: Sometimes he like a frightened coward ran, Whose foes are at his heels; now soft and slow He moved, like folks who in procession go. Now with two hundred slaves he crowds his train; Now walks with ten. In high and haughty strain, At morn, of kings and governors he prates; At night, "A frugal table, O ye Fates, A little shell the sacred salt to hold, And clothes, though coarse, to keep from me the cold." Yet give this wight, so frugally content, A thousand pounds, 'tis every penny spent Within the week! He drank the night away Till rising dawn, then snored out all the day. Sure, such a various creature ne'er was known. But have you, sir, no vices of your own?

ON JUDGING FRIENDS

A kindly friend, who balances my good And bad together, as in truth he should, If haply my good qualities prevail, Inclines indulgent to the sinking scale: For like indulgence let his friendship plead, His merits be with equal measure weighed; For he who hopes his wen shall not offend Should overlook the pimples of his friend.

ON LOYALTY TO ABSENT FRIENDS

He who, malignant, tears an absent friend, Or fails, when others blame him, to defend, Who trivial bursts of laughter strives to raise And courts for witty cynicism praise, Who can, what he has never seen, reveal, And friendship's secrets knows not to conceal-- Romans beware--that man is black of soul.

HORACE'S DEBT TO HIS FATHER

If some few trivial faults deform my soul (Like a fair face, when spotted with a mole), If none with avarice justly brand my fame, With sordidness, or deeds too vile to name; If pure and innocent; if dear (forgive These little praises) to my friends I live, My father was the cause, who, though maintained By a lean farm but poorly, yet disdained The country schoolmaster, to whose low care The mighty captain sent his high-born heir, With satchel, copy-book, and pelf to pay The wretched teacher on the appointed day. To Rome by this bold father was I brought, To learn those arts which well-born youths are taught, So dressed, and so attended, you would swear I was some wealthy lord's expensive heir. Himself my guardian, of unblemished truth, Among my tutors would attend my youth, And thus preserved my chastity of mind-- That prime of virtue in its highest kind.

HORACE'S HABITS IN THE CITY

Alone I saunter, as by fancy led, I cheapen herbs, or ask the price of bread, I watch while fortune-tellers fate reveal, Then homeward hasten to my frugal meal, Herbs, pulse, and pancakes (each a separate plate), While three domestics at my supper wait. A bowl on a white marble table stands, Two goblets, and a ewer to wash my hands, And hallowed cup of true Campanian clay My pure libation to the gods to pay. I then retire to rest, nor anxious fear Before dread Marsyas early to appear. I lie till ten; then take a walk, or choose A book, perhaps, or trifle with the muse. For cheerful exercise and manly toil Anoint my body with the pliant oil-- Yet not with such as Natta's, when he vamps His filthy limbs and robs the public lamps. But when the sun pours down his fiercer fire, And bids me from the toilsome sport retire, I haste to bathe, and in a temperate mood Regale my craving appetite with food (Enough to nourish nature for a day); Then trifle my domestic hours away. Such is the life from bad ambition free; Such comfort has one humble born like me: With which I feel myself more truly blest, Than if my sires the quæstor's power possessed.

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus), who was born near Venusia, in Apulia, in 65 B.C., and died in 8 B.C., was a southern Italian. When twenty, Horace was a student of philosophy at Athens. A period of poverty-stricken Bohemianism followed his return to Rome, till acquaintance with Virgil opened a path into the circle of Mæcenas and of the emperor. His literary career falls into three divisions--that of his "Epodes" and "Satires," down to 30 B.C.; that of his lyrics, down to 23 B.C., when the first three books of the "Odes" appeared; and that of the reflective and literary "Epistles," which include the famous "Art of Poetry," and, with sundry official odes, belong to his later years. Horatian "satire," it should be observed, does not imply ferocious personal onslaughts, but a miscellany containing good-humoured ridicule of types, and lively sketches of character and incident. So varied a performance as satirist, lyrist, moralist and critic, coupled with his vivid interest in mankind, help to account for the appeal which Horace has made to all epochs, countries, and ranks. Of the translations of Horace here given, some are by Prof. Wight Duff, and have been specially made for this selection, whilst a few are by Milton, Dryden, Cowper, and Francis.

_Horace and the Bore_

SCENE.--_Rome, on the Sacred Way. The poet is walking down the street, composing some trifle, in a brown study, when a person, known to him only by name, rushes up and seises his hand_.

BORE (_effusively_): How d'ye do, my dear fellow?

HORACE (_politely_): Nicely at present. I'm at your service, sir. (HORACE _walks on, and as the_ BORE _keeps following, tries to choke him off_.) You don't want anything, do you?

BORE: You must make my acquaintance, I'm a savant.

HORACE: Then I'll think the more of you. (HORACE, _anxious to get away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over. Then, quietly to himself_) Lucky Bolanus, with your hot temper!

BORE (_whose chatter on things in general, and about the streets of Rome in particular, has been received with dead silence_): You're frightfully keen to be off. I've noticed it all along. But it's no good. I'm going to stick to you right through. I'll escort you from here to your destination.

HORACE (_deprecatingly_): No need for you to make such a detour. (_Inventing fibs as he goes along_) There's someone I want to look up--a person you don't know, on the other side of the river--yes, far away--he's confined to bed--near Cæsar's Park.

BORE: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll follow you right there. (HORACE _is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The_ BORE _continues_) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!

HORACE (_seizing the chance of interrupting_): Have you a mother--any relatives to whom your health is of moment?

BORE: Not one left. I've laid them all to rest.

HORACE: Lucky people! Now I'm the sole survivor. Do for _me_! The melancholy fate draws near which a fortune-telling Sabellian crone once prophesied in my boyhood: "This lad neither dread poison nor hostile sword shall take off, nor pleurisy, nor cough, nor crippling gout. A chatterbox will one day be his death!"

BORE (_realising that, as it is the hour for opening the law course, he must answer to his recognisances, or lose a suit to which he is a party_): Oblige me with your assistance in court for a little.

HORACE: Deuce take me if I've strength to hang about so long, or know any law. Besides, I'm hurrying, you know where.

BORE: I'm in a fix what to do--whether to give you up or my case.

HORACE: Me, please.

BORE: Shan't! (_Starts ahead of_ HORACE, _who, beaten at every point, has to follow. The other opens conversation again_.) On what footing do you and Mæcenas stand?

HORACE (_haughtily_): He has a select circle, and thoroughly sound judgment.

BORE (_unimpressed_): Ah! No one ever made a smarter use of his chances. You'd have a powerful supporter, a capable understudy, if you'd agree to introduce your humble servant. Deuce take me if you wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.

HORACE (_disgusted_): We don't live on the terms _you_ fancy. No establishment is more honest than his, or more foreign to such intrigues. It does me no harm, I tell you, because this one has more money or learning than I. Everybody has his own place.

BORE: A tall story--hardly believable.

HORACE: A fact, nevertheless.

BORE: You fire my anxiety all the more to be one of his intimate friends.

HORACE (_sarcastically_): You've only got to wish. Such are _your_ qualities, you'll carry him by storm.

BORE (_on whom the irony is lost_): I'll not fail myself. I'll bribe his slaves. If I find the door shut in my face I'll not give up. I'll watch for lucky moments. I'll meet him at street corners. I'll see him home. Life grants man nothing without hard work.

[_Enter_ FUSCUS, _a friend of_ HORACE. _Knowing the_ BORE'S _ways, he reads the situation_. HORACE _furtively tugs at_ FUSCUS'S _gown, pinches him, nods and winks to_ FUSCUS _to rescue him_. FUSCUS _smiles, and with a mischievous fondness for a joke, pretends he does not understand_.

HORACE (_angry with_ Fuscus): Of course, you _did_ say you wanted to talk over something with me in private.

FUSCUS: Ah, yes, I remember; but I'll tell you at a more convenient season. (_Inventing an excuse with mock solemnity_.) To-day is the "Thirtieth Sabbath." You wouldn't affront the circumcised Jews, would you?

HORACE: I have no scruples.

FUSCUS: But _I_ have. I'm a slightly weaker brother--one, of many. Pardon, I'll talk about it another time.

[_Exit, leaving_ HORACE _like a victim under the knife_.

HORACE (_to himself_): To think this day should have dawned so black for me!

[_Suddenly enter the_ PLAINTIFF _in the suit against the_ BORE.

PLAINTIFF (_loudly to the_ BORE): Where are you off to, you scoundrel? (_To_ HORACE) May I call you as a witness to his contempt of court?

[HORACE _lets his ear be touched, according to legal form. The_ BORE _is hauled away to court, he and the_ PLAINTIFF _bawling at each other. The arrest attracts a large crowd_.

HORACE (_quietly disappearing_): What an escape! Thank Apollo!

_The Art of Poetry_

UNITY AND SIMPLICITY ARE REQUISITE

Suppose a painter to a human head Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread The various plumage of the feather'd kind O'er limbs of different beasts, absurdly joined. Or if he gave to view of beauteous maid Above the waist with every charm arrayed, But ending, fish-like, in a mermaid tail, Could you to laugh at such a picture fail? Such is the book that, like a sick man's dreams, Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes. "Painters and poets our indulgence claim, Their daring equal, and their art the same." I own the indulgence, such I give and take; But not through nature's sacred rules to break. Your opening promises some grand design, And purple patches with broad lustre shine Sewed on the poem; here in laboured strain A sacred grove, or fair Diana's fane Rises to view; there through delightful meads A murmuring stream its winding water leads. Why will you thus a mighty vase intend, If in a worthless bowl your labours end? Then learn this wandering humour to control, And keep one equal tenour through the whole.

THE FALSEHOOD OF EXTREMES IN STYLE

But oft our greatest errors take their rise From our best views. I strive to be concise, And prove obscure. My strength, or passion, flees, When I would write with elegance and ease. Aiming at greatness, some to fustian soar: Some, bent on safety, creep along the shore. Thus injudicious, while one fault we shun, Into its opposite extreme we run.

CHOICE OF THEME

Examine well, ye writers, weigh with care, What suits your genius, what your strength can bear; For when a well-proportioned theme you choose, Nor words, nor method shall their aid refuse.

WORDS OLD AND NEW

The author of a promised work must be Subtle and careful in word-harmony. To choose and to reject. You merit praise If by deft linking of known words a phrase Strikes one as new. Should unfamiliar theme Need fresh-invented terms, proper will seem Diction unknown of old. This licence used With fair discretion never is refused. As when the forest, with the bending year, First sheds the leaves, which earliest appear, So an old race of words maturely dies, And some, new born, in youth and vigour rise.

Many shall rise which now forgotten lie; Others, in present credit, soon shall die, If custom will, whose arbitrary sway Words and the forms of language must obey.

WORDS MUST SUIT CHARACTER

'Tis not enough, ye writers, that ye charm With pretty elegance; a play should warm With soft concernment--should possess the soul, And, as it wills, the listeners control. With those who laugh, our social joy appears; With those who mourn, we sympathise in tears; If you would have me weep, begin the strain, Then I shall feel your sorrow, feel your pain; But if your heroes act not what they say, I sleep or laugh the lifeless scene away.

ON LITERARY BORROWING

If you would make a common theme your own, Dwell not on incidents already known; Nor word for word translate with painful care, Nor be confined in such a narrow sphere.

ON BEGINNING A HEROIC POEM

Begin your work with modest grace and plain, Not in the cyclic bard's bombastic strain: "I chant the glorious war and Priam's fate----" How will the boaster keep this ranting rate? The mountains laboured with prodigious throes, And lo! a mouse ridiculous arose. Far better Homer, who tries naught in vain, Opens his poem in a humbler strain: "Muse, tell the many who after Troy subdued, Manners and towns of various nations viewed." Right to the great event he speeds his course, And bears his readers, with impetuous force, Into the midst of things, while every line Opens by just degrees his whole design.

ACTION AND NARRATION IN PLAYS

The business of the drama must appear In action or description. What we hear, With slower passion to the heart proceeds Than when an audience views the very deeds. But let not such upon the stage be brought Which better should behind the scenes be wrought; Nor force the unwilling audience to behold What may with vivid elegance be told. Let not Medea with unnatural rage Murder her little children on the stage.

GOOD SENSE A WELL-SPRING OF POETRY

Good sense, the fountain of the muse's art, Let the strong page of Socrates impart; For if the mind with clear conceptions glow, The willing words in just expressions flow. The poet who with nice discernment knows What to his country and his friends he owes; How various nature warms the human breast, To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest; What the high duties of our judges are, Of senator or general sent to war; He surely knows, with nice self-judging art, The strokes peculiar to each different part. Keep nature's great original in view, And thence the living images pursue. For when the sentiments and manners please, And all the characters are wrought with ease, Your play, though weak in beauty, force, and art, More strongly shall delight, and warm the heart, Than where a lifeless pomp of verse appears, And with sonorous trifles charms our ears.

PERFECTION CANNOT BE EXPECTED

Where beauties in a poem faults outshine, I am not angry if a casual line (That with some trivial blot unequal flows) A careless hand or human frailty shows. Then shall I angrily see no excuse If honest Homer slumber o'er his muse? Yet surely sometimes an indulgent sleep O'er works of length allowably may creep!

A HIGH STANDARD MUST BE EXACTED

In certain subjects, Piso, be assured, Tame mediocrity may be endured. But god, and man, and booksellers deny A poet's right to mediocrity!

ARE POETS BORN OR MADE?

'Tis long disputed whether poems claim From art or nature their best right to fame; But art, if un-enriched by nature's vein, And a rude genius of uncultured strain, Are useless both: they must be fast combined And mutual succour in each other find.

_Odes_

A DEDICATION

Mæcenas, sprung from regal line, Bulwark and dearest glory mine! Some love to stir Olympic dust With glowing chariot-wheels which just Avoid the goal, and win a prize Fit for the rulers of the skies. One joys in triple civic fame Conferred by fickle Rome's acclaim; Another likes from Libya's plain To store his private barns with grain; A third who, with unceasing toil, Hoes cheerful the paternal soil, No promised wealth of Attalus Shall tempt to venture timorous Sailing in Cyprian bark to brave The terrors of Myrtoan wave. Others in tented fields rejoice, Trumpets and answering clarion-voice. Be mine the ivy, fair reward, Which blissful crowns the immortal bard; Be mine amid the breezy grove, In sacred solitude to rove-- To see the nymphs and satyrs bound, Light dancing in the mazy round, While all the tuneful muses join Their various harmony divine. Count me but in the lyric choir-- My crest shall to the stars aspire.

TO PYRRHA

What slender youth bedewed with liquid odours Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, Pyrrha? For whom bind'st thou In wreaths thy golden hair, Plain in thy neatness? Oh, how oft shall he On faith and changed gods complain, and seas Rough with black winds, and storms Unwonted shall admire! Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold, Who always vacant, always amiable Hopes thee, of flattering gales Unmindful. Hapless they To whom thou untried seem'st fair. Me, in my vowed Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung My dank and dropping weeds To the stern god of sea.

WINTER CHEER

Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow The groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow, The streams congealed, forget to flow? Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile Of fuel on the hearth; Broach the best cask and make old winter smile With seasonable mirth.

This be our part--let Heaven dispose the rest; If Jove commands, the winds shall sleep That now wage war upon the foamy deep, And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may: When to-morrow's passed away, We at least shall have to say, We have lived another day; Your auburn locks will soon be silvered o'er, Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.

"GATHER YE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY"

Secure those golden early joys, That youth unsoured with sorrow bears, Ere withering time the taste destroys With sickness and unwieldy years. For active sports, for pleasing rest, This is the time to be possessed; The best is but in season best.

The appointed tryst of promised bliss, The pleasing whisper in the dark, The half-unwilling willing kiss, The laugh that guides thee to the mark, When the kind nymph would coyness feign, And hides but to be found again-- These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain.

GOD AND EMPEROR

Saturnian Jove, parent and guardian god Of human kind, to thee the Fates award The care of Cæsar's reign; to thine alone Inferior, let his empire rise. Whether the Parthian's formidable power Or Indians or the Seres of the East, With humbled pride beneath his triumph fall, Wide o'er a willing world shall he Contented rule, and to thy throne shall bend Submissive. Thou in thy tremendous car Shalt shake Olympus' head, and at our groves Polluted hurl thy dreadful bolts.

THE STRENGTH OF INNOCENCE

The man of life, unstained and free from craft, Ne'er needs, my Fuscus, Moorish darts to throw; He needs no quiver filled with venomed shaft, Nor e'er a bow.

Whether he fare thro' Afric's boiling shoals, Or o'er the Caucasus inhospitable, Or where the great Hydaspes river rolls, Renowned in fable.

Once in a Sabine forest as I strayed Beyond my boundary, by fancy charmed, Singing my Lalage, a wolf, afraid, Shunned me unarmed.

The broad oak-woods of hardy Daunia, Rear no such monster mid their fiercest scions, Nor Juba's arid Mauretania, The nurse of lions.

Set me where, in the heart of frozen plains, No tree is freshened by a summer wind, A quarter of the globe enthralled by rains, And Jove unkind;

Or set me 'neath the chariot of the Sun, Where, overnear his fires, no homes may be; I'll love, for her sweet smile and voice, but one-- My Lalage.

TRANQUILLITY

Should fortune frown, live thou serene; Nor let thy spirit rise too high, Though kinder grown she change the scene; Bethink thee, Delius, thou must die.

Whether thy slow days mournful pass, Or swiftly joyous fleet away, While thou reclining on the grass Dost bless with wine the festal day.

Where poplar white and giant pine Ward off the inhospitable beam; Where their luxuriant branches twine, Where bickers down its course the stream,

Here bid them perfumes bring, and wine, And the fair rose's short-lived flower, While youth and fortune and the twine Spun by the Sisters, grant an hour.

We all must tread the path of Fate, And ever shakes the fateful urn, Whose lot embarks us, soon or late, On Charon's boat--beyond return.

TO A FAIR DECEIVER

Did any punishment attend Thy former perjuries, I should believe a second time, Thy charming flatteries: Did but one wrinkle mark thy face Or hadst thou lost one single grace.

No sooner hast thou, with false vows, Provoked the powers above, But thou art fairer than before, And we are more in love. Thus Heaven and Earth seem to declare They pardon falsehood in the fair.

The nymphs, and cruel Cupid too, Sharpening his pointed dart On an old home besmeared with blood, Forbear thy perjured heart. Fresh youth grows up to wear thy chains, And the old slave no freedom gains.

THE GOLDEN MEAN

The man who follows Wisdom's voice, And makes the Golden Mean his choice, Nor plunged in squalid gloomy cells Midst hoary desolation dwells; Nor to allure the envious eye Rears a proud palace to the sky; The man whose steadfast soul can bear Fortune indulgent or severe, Hopes when she frowns, and when she smiles With cautious fear eludes her wiles.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA

Bandusia's Well, that crystal dost outshine, Worthy art thou of festal wine and wreath! An offered kid to-morrow shall be thine, Whose swelling brows his earliest horns unsheath. And mark him for the feats of love and strife. In vain: for this same youngling from the fold Of playful goats shall with his crimson life Incarnadine thy waters fresh and cold. The blazing Dog-star's unrelenting hour Can touch thee not: to roaming herd or bulls O'erwrought by plough, thou giv'st a shady bower, Thou shalt be one of Earth's renowned pools! For I shall sing thy grotto ilex-crowned, Whence fall thy waters of the babbling sound.

TO THE GOD FAUNUS

O Faun-god, wooer of each nymph that flees, Come, cross my land! Across those sunny leas, Tread thou benign, and all my flock's increase Bless ere thou go.

In each full year a tender kid be slain, If Venus' mate, the bowl, be charged amain With wine, and incense thick the altar stain Of long ago.

The herds disport upon the grassy ground, When in thy name December's Nones come round; Idling on meads the thorpe, with steers unbound, Its joys doth show.

Amid emboldened lambs the wolf roams free; The forest sheds its leafage wild for thee; And thrice the delver stamps his foot in glee On earth, his foe.

AN ENVOI

Now have I reared memorial to last More durable than brass, and to o'ertop The pile of royal pyramids. No waste Of rain or ravening Boreas hath power To ruin it, nor lapse of time to come In the innumerable round of years. I shall not wholly die; great part of me Shall 'scape the Funeral Goddess. Evermore Fresh shall my honours grow, while pontiffs still Do climb the Capitol with silent maid. It shall be told where brawls the Aufidus In fury, and where Daunus poor in streams Once reigned o'er rural tribes, it shall be told That Horace rose from lowliness to fame And first adapted to Italian strains The Æolian lay. Assume the eminence, My own Melpomene, which merit won, And deign to wreath my hair in Delphic bays.

VICTOR HUGO[I]

Hernani

_Persons in the Drama_

HERNANI A MOUNTAINEER CHARLES V. OF SPAIN A PAGE DON RICARDO SOLDIERS DON RUY GOMEZ CONSPIRATORS DOÑA SOL RETAINERS

Date of action, 1519.