Three random poems from PoetryDB
"'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before."
Campbell, .
DEDICATION.
Lady! if for the cold and cloudy clime
Where I was born, but where I would not die,
Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy
I dare to build the imitative rhyme,
Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime,
Thou art the cause; and howsoever I
Fall short of his immortal harmony,
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime.
Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth,
Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obeyed
Are one; but only in the sunny South
Such sounds are uttered, and such charms displayed,
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth--
Ah! to what effort would it not persuade?
CANTO THE FIRST.
Once more in Man's frail world! which I had left
So long that 'twas forgotten; and I feel
The weight of clay again,--too soon bereft
Of the Immortal Vision which could heal
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies
Lift me from that deep Gulf without repeal,
Where late my ears rung with the damned cries
Of Souls in hopeless bale; and from that place
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise
Pure from the fire to join the Angelic race;
Midst whom my own bright Beatricē blessed
My spirit with her light; and to the base
Of the Eternal Triad! first, last, best,
Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God!
Soul universal! led the mortal guest,
Unblasted by the Glory, though he trod
From star to star to reach the almighty throne.
Oh Beatrice! whose sweet limbs the sod
So long hath pressed, and the cold marble stone,
Thou sole pure Seraph of my earliest love,
Love so ineffable, and so alone,
That nought on earth could more my bosom move,
And meeting thee in Heaven was but to meet
That without which my Soul, like the arkless dove,
Had wandered still in search of, nor her feet
Relieved her wing till found; without thy light
My Paradise had still been incomplete.
Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight
Thou wert my Life, the Essence of my thought,
Loved ere I knew the name of Love, and bright
Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought
With the World's war, and years, and banishment,
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught;
For mine is not a nature to be bent
By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd,
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent
In vain,--and never more, save when the cloud
Which overhangs the Apennine my mind's eye
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud
Of me, can I return, though but to die,
Unto my native soil,--they have not yet
Quenched the old exile's spirit, stern and high.
But the Sun, though not overcast, must set
And the night cometh; I am old in days,
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met
Destruction face to face in all his ways.
The World hath left me, what it found me, pure,
And if I have not gathered yet its praise,
I sought it not by any baser lure;
Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name
May form a monument not all obscure,
Though such was not my Ambition's end or aim,
To add to the vain-glorious list of those
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame,
And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows
Their sail, and deem it glory to be classed
With conquerors, and Virtue's other foes,
In bloody chronicles of ages past.
I would have had my Florence great and free;
Oh Florence! Florence! unto me thou wast
Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He
Wept over, "but thou wouldst not;" as the bird
Gathers its young, I would have gathered thee
Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard
My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce,
Against the breast that cherished thee was stirred
Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce,
And doom this body forfeit to the fire.
Alas! how bitter is his country's curse
To him who _for_ that country would expire,
But did not merit to expire _by_ her,
And loves her, loves her even in her ire.
The day may come when she will cease to err,
The day may come she would be proud to have
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer
Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave.
But this shall not be granted; let my dust
Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which gave
Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume
My indignant bones, because her angry gust
Forsooth is over, and repealed her doom;
No,--she denied me what was mine--my roof,
And shall not have what is not hers--my tomb.
Too long her arméd wrath hath kept aloof
The breast which would have bled for her, the heart
That beat, the mind that was temptation proof,
The man who fought, toiled, travelled, and each part
Of a true citizen fulfilled, and saw
For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art
Pass his destruction even into a law.
These things are not made for forgetfulness,
Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw
The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress
Of such endurance too prolonged to make
My pardon greater, her injustice less,
Though late repented; yet--yet for her sake
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine,
My own Beatricē, I would hardly take
Vengeance upon the land which once was mine,
And still is hallowed by thy dust's return,
Which would protect the murderess like a shrine,
And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn.
Though, like old Marius from Minturnæ's marsh
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn
At times with evil feelings hot and harsh,
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe
Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch
My brow with hopes of triumph,--let them go!
Such are the last infirmities of those
Who long have suffered more than mortal woe,
And yet being mortal still, have no repose
But on the pillow of Revenge--Revenge,
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows
With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change,
When we shall mount again, and they that trod
Be trampled on, while Death and Até range
O'er humbled heads and severed necks----Great God!
Take these thoughts from me--to thy hands I yield
My many wrongs, and thine Almighty rod
Will fall on those who smote me,--be my Shield!
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain,
In turbulent cities, and the tented field--
In toil, and many troubles borne in vain
For Florence,--I appeal from her to Thee!
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign,
Even in that glorious Vision, which to see
And live was never granted until now,
And yet thou hast permitted this to me.
Alas! with what a weight upon my brow
The sense of earth and earthly things come back,
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low,
The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack,
Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect
Of half a century bloody and black,
And the frail few years I may yet expect
Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear,
For I have been too long and deeply wrecked
On the lone rock of desolate Despair,
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare;
Nor raise my voice--for who would heed my wail?
I am not of this people, nor this age,
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale
Which shall preserve these times when not a page
Of their perturbéd annals could attract
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage,
Did not my verse embalm full many an act
Worthless as they who wrought it: 'tis the doom
Of spirits of my order to be racked
In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume
Their days in endless strife, and die alone;
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb,
And pilgrims come from climes where they have known
The name of him--who now is but a name,
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone,
Spread his--by him unheard, unheeded--fame;
And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die
Is nothing; but to wither thus--to tame
My mind down from its own infinity--
To live in narrow ways with little men,
A common sight to every common eye,
A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den,
Ripped from all kindred, from all home, all things
That make communion sweet, and soften pain--
To feel me in the solitude of kings
Without the power that makes them bear a crown--
To envy every dove his nest and wings
Which waft him where the Apennine looks down
On Arno, till he perches, it may be,
Within my all inexorable town,
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal She,
Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought
Destruction for a dowry--this to see
And feel, and know without repair, hath taught
A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free:
I have not vilely found, nor basely sought,
They made an Exile--not a Slave of me.
CANTO THE SECOND.
The Spirit of the fervent days of Old,
When words were things that came to pass, and Thought
Flashed o'er the future, bidding men behold
Their children's children's doom already brought
Forth from the abyss of Time which is to be,
The Chaos of events, where lie half-wrought
Shapes that must undergo mortality;
What the great Seers of Israel wore within,
That Spirit was on them, and is on me,
And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din
Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed
This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin
Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed,
The only guerdon I have ever known.
Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed,
Italia? Ah! to me such things, foreshown
With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget
In thine irreparable wrongs my own;
We can have but one Country, and even yet
Thou'rt mine--my bones shall be within thy breast,
My Soul within thy language, which once set
With our old Roman sway in the wide West;
But I will make another tongue arise
As lofty and more sweet, in which expressed
The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs,
Shall find alike such sounds for every theme
That every word, as brilliant as thy skies,
Shall realise a Poet's proudest dream,
And make thee Europe's Nightingale of Song;
So that all present speech to thine shall seem
The note of meaner birds, and every tongue
Confess its barbarism when compared with thine.
This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong,
Thy Tuscan bard, the banished Ghibelline.
Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries
Is rent,--a thousand years which yet supine
Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise,
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation,
Float from Eternity into these eyes;
The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station,
The unborn Earthquake yet is in the womb,
The bloody Chaos yet expects Creation,
But all things are disposing for thy doom;
The Elements await but for the Word,
"Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a tomb!
Yes! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword,
Thou, Italy! so fair that Paradise,
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored:
Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice?
Thou, Italy! whose ever golden fields,
Ploughed by the sunbeams solely, would suffice
For the world's granary; thou, whose sky Heaven gilds
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue;
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds
Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew,
And formed the Eternal City's ornaments
From spoils of Kings whom freemen overthrew;
Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of Saints,
Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made
Her home; thou, all which fondest Fancy paints,
And finds her prior vision but portrayed
In feeble colours, when the eye--from the Alp
Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade
Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp
Nods to the storm--dilates and dotes o'er thee,
And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help
To see thy sunny fields, my Italy,
Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still
The more approached, and dearest were they free,
Thou--Thou must wither to each tyrant's will:
The Goth hath been,--the German, Frank, and Hun
Are yet to come,--and on the imperial hill
Ruin, already proud of the deeds done
By the old barbarians, there awaits the new,
Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won
Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue,
And deepens into red the saffron water
Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest,
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter,
Vowed to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased
Their ministry: the nations take their prey,
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast
And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they
Are; these but gorge the flesh, and lap the gore
Of the departed, and then go their way;
But those, the human savages, explore
All paths of torture, and insatiate yet,
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more.
Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set;
The chiefless army of the dead, which late
Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met,
Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate;
Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance
Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate.
Oh! Rome, the Spoiler or the spoil of France,
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never
Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance,
But Tiber shall become a mournful river.
Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po,
Crush them, ye Rocks! Floods whelm them, and for ever!
Why sleep the idle Avalanches so,
To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head?
Why doth Eridanus but overflow
The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed?
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey?
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread
Her sandy ocean, and the Sea-waves' sway
Rolled over Pharaoh and his thousands,--why,
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they?
And you, ye Men! Romans, who dare not die,
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew
Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie
The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew,
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylæ?
Their passes more alluring to the view
Of an invader? is it they, or ye,
That to each host the mountain-gate unbar,
And leave the march in peace, the passage free?
Why, Nature's self detains the Victor's car,
And makes your land impregnable, if earth
Could be so; but alone she will not war,
Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth
In a soil where the mothers bring forth men:
Not so with those whose souls are little worth;
For them no fortress can avail,--the den
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting
Is more secure than walls of adamant, when
The hearts of those within are quivering.
Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring
Against Oppression; but how vain the toil,
While still Division sows the seeds of woe
And weakness, till the Stranger reaps the spoil.
Oh! my own beauteous land! so long laid low,
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes,
When there is but required a single blow
To break the chain, yet--yet the Avenger stops,
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee,
And join their strength to that which with thee copes;
What is there wanting then to set thee free,
And show thy beauty in its fullest light?
To make the Alps impassable; and we,
Her Sons, may do this with one deed--Unite.
CANTO THE THIRD.
From out the mass of never-dying ill,
The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword,
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill
And flow again, I cannot all record
That crowds on my prophetic eye: the Earth
And Ocean written o'er would not afford
Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth;
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven,
There where the farthest suns and stars have birth,
Spread like a banner at the gate of Heaven,
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven
Athwart the sound of archangelic songs,
And Italy, the martyred nation's gore,
Will not in vain arise to where belongs
Omnipotence and Mercy evermore:
Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind,
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er
The Seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind.
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of
Earth's dust by immortality refined
To Sense and Suffering, though the vain may scoff,
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow
Before the storm because its breath is rough,
To thee, my Country! whom before, as now,
I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre
And melancholy gift high Powers allow
To read the future: and if now my fire
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive!
I but foretell thy fortunes--then expire;
Think not that I would look on them and live.
A Spirit forces me to see and speak,
And for my guerdon grants _not_ to survive;
My Heart shall be poured over thee and break:
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume
Thy sable web of Sorrow, let me take
Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom
A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy night,
And many meteors, and above thy tomb
Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight:
And from thine ashes boundless Spirits rise
To give thee honour, and the earth delight;
Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise,
The gay, the learned, the generous, and the brave,
Native to thee as Summer to thy skies,
Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name;
For _thee_ alone they have no arm to save,
And all thy recompense is in their fame,
A noble one to them, but not to thee--
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same?
Oh! more than these illustrious far shall be
The Being--and even yet he may be born--
The mortal Saviour who shall set thee free,
And see thy diadem, so changed and worn
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced;
And the sweet Sun replenishing thy morn,
Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced,
And noxious vapours from Avernus risen,
Such as all they must breathe who are debased
By Servitude, and have the mind in prison.
Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe
Some voices shall be heard, and Earth shall listen;
Poets shall follow in the path I show,
And make it broader: the same brilliant sky
Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow,
And raise their notes as natural and high;
Tuneful shall be their numbers; they shall sing
Many of Love, and some of Liberty,
But few shall soar upon that Eagle's wing,
And look in the Sun's face, with Eagle's gaze,
All free and fearless as the feathered King,
But fly more near the earth; how many a phrase
Sublime shall lavished be on some small prince
In all the prodigality of Praise!
And language, eloquently false, evince
The harlotry of Genius, which, like Beauty,
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence,
And looks on prostitution as a duty.
He who once enters in a Tyrant's hall
As guest is slave--his thoughts become a booty,
And the first day which sees the chain enthral
A captive, sees his half of Manhood gone--
The Soul's emasculation saddens all
His spirit; thus the Bard too near the throne
Quails from his inspiration, bound to _please_,--
How servile is the task to please alone!
To smooth the verse to suit his Sovereign's ease
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize,
Or force, or forge fit argument of Song!
Thus trammelled, thus condemned to Flattery's trebles,
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong:
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels,
Should rise up in high treason to his brain,
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles
In's mouth, lest Truth should stammer through his strain.
But out of the long file of sonneteers
There shall be some who will not sing in vain,
And he, their Prince, shall rank among my peers,
And Love shall be his torment; but his grief
Shall make an immortality of tears,
And Italy shall hail him as the Chief
Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song
Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf.
But in a farther age shall rise along
The banks of Po two greater still than he;
The World which smiled on him shall do them wrong
Till they are ashes, and repose with me.
The first will make an epoch with his lyre,
And fill the earth with feats of Chivalry:
His Fancy like a rainbow, and his Fire,
Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his Thought
Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire;
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught,
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme,
And Art itself seem into Nature wrought
By the transparency of his bright dream.--
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood,
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem;
He, too, shall sing of Arms, and Christian blood
Shed where Christ bled for man; and his high harp
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood,
Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave
And pious, and the strife of Hell to warp
Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave
The red-cross banners where the first red Cross
Was crimsoned from His veins who died to save,
Shall be his sacred argument; the loss
Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss
Of Courts would slide o'er his forgotten name
And call Captivity a kindness--meant
To shield him from insanity or shame--
Such shall be his meek guerdon! who was sent
To be Christ's Laureate--they reward him well!
Florence dooms me but death or banishment,
Ferrara him a pittance and a cell,
Harder to bear and less deserved, for I
Had stung the factions which I strove to quell;
But this meek man who with a lover's eye
Will look on Earth and Heaven, and who will deign
To embalm with his celestial flattery,
As poor a thing as e'er was spawned to reign,
What will _he_ do to merit such a doom?
Perhaps he'll _love_,--and is not Love in vain
Torture enough without a living tomb?
Yet it will be so--he and his compeer,
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume
In penury and pain too many a year,
And, dying in despondency, bequeath
To the kind World, which scarce will yield a tear,
A heritage enriching all who breathe
With the wealth of a genuine Poet's soul,
And to their country a redoubled wreath,
Unmatched by time; not Hellas can unroll
Through her Olympiads two such names, though one
Of hers be mighty;--and is this the whole
Of such men's destiny beneath the Sun?
Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense,
The electric blood with which their arteries run,
Their body's self turned soul with the intense
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of
That which should be, to such a recompense
Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough
Storm be still scattered? Yes, and it must be;
For, formed of far too penetrable stuff,
These birds of Paradise but long to flee
Back to their native mansion, soon they find
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree,
And die or are degraded; for the mind
Succumbs to long infection, and despair,
And vulture Passions flying close behind,
Await the moment to assail and tear;
And when, at length, the wingéd wanderers stoop,
Then is the Prey-birds' triumph, then they share
The spoil, o'erpowered at length by one fell swoop.
Yet some have been untouched who learned to bear,
Some whom no Power could ever force to droop,
Who could resist themselves even, hardest care!
And task most hopeless; but some such have been,
And if my name amongst the number were,
That Destiny austere, and yet serene,
Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblessed;
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen
Than the Volcano's fierce eruptive crest,
Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung,
While the scorched mountain, from whose burning breast
A temporary torturing flame is wrung,
Shines for a night of terror, then repels
Its fire back to the Hell from whence it sprung,
The Hell which in its entrails ever dwells.
CANTO THE FOURTH.
Many are Poets who have never penned
Their inspiration, and perchance the best:
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend
Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compressed
The God within them, and rejoined the stars
Unlaurelled upon earth, but far more blessed
Than those who are degraded by the jars
Of Passion, and their frailties linked to fame,
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars.
Many are Poets but without the name;
For what is Poesy but to create
From overfeeling Good or Ill; and aim
At an external life beyond our fate,
And be the new Prometheus of new men,
Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,
Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain,
And vultures to the heart of the bestower,
Who, having lavished his high gift in vain,
Lies to his lone rock by the sea-shore?
So be it: we can bear.--But thus all they
Whose Intellect is an o'ermastering Power
Which still recoils from its encumbering clay
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er
The form which their creations may essay,
Are bards; the kindled Marble's bust may wear
More poesy upon its speaking brow
Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear;
One noble stroke with a whole life may glow,
Or deify the canvass till it shine
With beauty so surpassing all below,
That they who kneel to Idols so divine
Break no commandment, for high Heaven is there
Transfused, transfigurated: and the line
Of Poesy, which peoples but the air
With Thought and Beings of our thought reflected,
Can do no more: then let the artist share
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected
Faints o'er the labour unapproved--Alas!
Despair and Genius are too oft connected.
Within the ages which before me pass
Art shall resume and equal even the sway
Which with Apelles and old Phidias
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day.
Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive
The Grecian forms at least from their decay,
And Roman souls at last again shall live
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands,
And temples, loftier than the old temples, give
New wonders to the World; and while still stands
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar
A Dome, its image, while the base expands
Into a fane surpassing all before,
Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door
As this, to which all nations shall repair,
And lay their sins at this huge gate of Heaven.
And the bold Architect unto whose care
The daring charge to raise it shall be given,
Whom all Arts shall acknowledge as their Lord,
Whether into the marble chaos driven
His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose word
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone,
Or hues of Hell be by his pencil poured
Over the damned before the Judgement-throne,
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see,
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown--
The Stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms
Which form the Empire of Eternity.
Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms,
The age which I anticipate, no less
Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms
Calamity the nations with distress,
The Genius of my Country shall arise,
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness,
Lovely in all its branches to all eyes,
Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar,
Wafting its native incense through the skies.
Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war,
Weaned for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze
On canvass or on stone; and they who mar
All beauty upon earth, compelled to praise,
Shall feel the power of that which they destroy;
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise
To tyrants, who but take her for a toy,
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute
Her charms to Pontiffs proud, who but employ
The man of Genius as the meanest brute
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need,
To sell his labours, and his soul to boot.
Who toils for nations may be poor indeed,
But free; who sweats for Monarchs is no more
Than the gilt Chamberlain, who, clothed and feed,
Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door.
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power
Is likest thine in heaven in outward show,
Least like to thee in attributes divine,
Tread on the universal necks that bow,
And then assure us that their rights are thine?
And how is it that they, the Sons of Fame,
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine
From high, they whom the nations oftest name,
Must pass their days in penury or pain,
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame,
And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain?
Or if their Destiny be born aloof
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain,
In their own souls sustain a harder proof,
The inner war of Passions deep and fierce?
Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof,
I loved thee; but the vengeance of my verse,
The hate of injuries which every year
Makes greater, and accumulates my curse,
Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear--
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even _that_,
The most infernal of all evils here,
The sway of petty tyrants in a state;
For such sway is not limited to Kings,
And Demagogues yield to them but in date,
As swept off sooner; in all deadly things,
Which make men hate themselves, and one another,
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs
From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother,
In rank oppression in its rudest shape,
The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother,
And the worst Despot's far less human ape.
Florence! when this lone spirit, which so long
Yearned, as the captive toiling at escape,
To fly back to thee in despite of wrong,
An exile, saddest of all prisoners,
Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong,
Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars,
Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth
Where--whatsoe'er his fate--he still were hers,
His Country's, and might die where he had birth--
Florence! when this lone Spirit shall return
To kindred Spirits, thou wilt feel my worth,
And seek to honour with an empty urn
The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain--Alas!
"What have I done to thee, my People?" Stern
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass
The limits of Man's common malice, for
All that a citizen could be I was--
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war--
And for this thou hast warred with me.--'Tis done:
I may not overleap the eternal bar
Built up between us, and will die alone,
Beholding with the dark eye of a Seer
The evil days to gifted souls foreshown,
Foretelling them to those who will not hear;
As in the old time, till the hour be come
When Truth shall strike their eyes through many a tear,
And make them own the Prophet in his tomb.
The double sorwe of Troilus to tellen, That was the king Priamus sone of Troye, In lovinge, how his aventures fellen Fro wo to wele, and after out of Ioye, My purpos is, er that I parte fro ye. Thesiphone, thou help me for tendyte Thise woful vers, that wepen as I wryte! To thee clepe I, thou goddesse of torment, Thou cruel Furie, sorwing ever in peyne; Help me, that am the sorwful instrument That helpeth lovers, as I can, to pleyne! For wel sit it, the sothe for to seyne, A woful wight to han a drery fere, And, to a sorwful tale, a sory chere. For I, that god of Loves servaunts serve, Ne dar to Love, for myn unlyklinesse, Preyen for speed, al sholde I therfor sterve, So fer am I fro his help in derknesse; But nathelees, if this may doon gladnesse To any lover, and his cause avayle, Have he my thank, and myn be this travayle! But ye loveres, that bathen in gladnesse, If any drope of pitee in yow be, Remembreth yow on passed hevinesse That ye han felt, and on the adversitee Of othere folk, and thenketh how that ye Han felt that Love dorste yow displese; Or ye han wonne hym with to greet an ese. And preyeth for hem that ben in the cas Of Troilus, as ye may after here, That love hem bringe in hevene to solas, And eek for me preyeth to god so dere, That I have might to shewe, in som manere, Swich peyne and wo as Loves folk endure, In Troilus unsely aventure. And biddeth eek for hem that been despeyred In love, that never nil recovered be, And eek for hem that falsly been apeyred Thorugh wikked tonges, be it he or she; Thus biddeth god, for his benignitee, So graunte hem sone out of this world to pace, That been despeyred out of Loves grace. And biddeth eek for hem that been at ese, That god hem graunte ay good perseveraunce, And sende hem might hir ladies so to plese, That it to Love be worship and plesaunce. For so hope I my soule best avaunce, To preye for hem that Loves servaunts be, And wryte hir wo, and live in charitee. And for to have of hem compassioun As though I were hir owene brother dere. Now herkeneth with a gode entencioun, For now wol I gon streight to my matere, In whiche ye may the double sorwes here Of Troilus, in loving of Criseyde, And how that she forsook him er she deyde. It is wel wist, how that the Grekes stronge In armes with a thousand shippes wente To Troyewardes, and the citee longe Assegeden neigh ten yeer er they stente, And, in diverse wyse and oon entente, The ravisshing to wreken of Eleyne, By Paris doon, they wroughten al hir peyne. Now fil it so, that in the toun ther was Dwellinge a lord of greet auctoritee, A gret devyn that cleped was Calkas, That in science so expert was, that he Knew wel that Troye sholde destroyed be, By answere of his god, that highte thus, Daun Phebus or Apollo Delphicus. So whan this Calkas knew by calculinge, And eek by answere of this Appollo, That Grekes sholden swich a peple bringe, Thorugh which that Troye moste been for-do, He caste anoon out of the toun to go; For wel wiste he, by sort, that Troye sholde Destroyed ben, ye, wolde who-so nolde. For which, for to departen softely Took purpos ful this forknowinge wyse, And to the Grekes ost ful prively He stal anoon; and they, in curteys wyse, Hym deden bothe worship and servyse, In trust that he hath conning hem to rede In every peril which that is to drede. The noyse up roos, whan it was first aspyed, Thorugh al the toun, and generally was spoken, That Calkas traytor fled was, and allyed With hem of Grece; and casten to ben wroken On him that falsly hadde his feith so broken; And seyden, he and al his kin at ones Ben worthy for to brennen, fel and bones. Now hadde Calkas left, in this meschaunce, Al unwist of this false and wikked dede, His doughter, which that was in gret penaunce, For of hir lyf she was ful sore in drede, As she that niste what was best to rede; For bothe a widowe was she, and allone Of any freend to whom she dorste hir mone. Criseyde was this lady name a-right; As to my dome, in al Troyes citee Nas noon so fair, for passing every wight So aungellyk was hir natyf beautee, That lyk a thing immortal semed she, As doth an hevenish parfit creature, That doun were sent in scorning of nature. This lady, which that al-day herde at ere Hir fadres shame, his falsnesse and tresoun, Wel nigh out of hir wit for sorwe and fere, In widewes habit large of samit broun, On knees she fil biforn Ector a-doun; With pitous voys, and tendrely wepinge, His mercy bad, hir-selven excusinge. Now was this Ector pitous of nature, And saw that she was sorwfully bigoon, And that she was so fair a creature; Of his goodnesse he gladed hir anoon, And seyde, `Lat your fadres treson goon Forth with mischaunce, and ye your-self, in Ioye, Dwelleth with us, whyl you good list, in Troye. `And al thonour that men may doon yow have, As ferforth as your fader dwelled here, Ye shul han, and your body shal men save, As fer as I may ought enquere or here.' And she him thonked with ful humble chere, And ofter wolde, and it hadde ben his wille, And took hir leve, and hoom, and held hir stille. And in hir hous she abood with swich meynee As to hir honour nede was to holde; And whyl she was dwellinge in that citee, Kepte hir estat, and bothe of yonge and olde Ful wel beloved, and wel men of hir tolde. But whether that she children hadde or noon, I rede it naught; therfore I late it goon. The thinges fellen, as they doon of werre, Bitwixen hem of Troye and Grekes ofte; For som day boughten they of Troye it derre, And eft the Grekes founden no thing softe The folk of Troye; and thus fortune on-lofte, And under eft, gan hem to wheelen bothe After hir cours, ay whyl they were wrothe. But how this toun com to destruccioun Ne falleth nought to purpos me to telle; For it were a long digressioun Fro my matere, and yow to longe dwelle. But the Troyane gestes, as they felle, In Omer, or in Dares, or in Dyte, Who-so that can, may rede hem as they wryte. But though that Grekes hem of Troye shetten, And hir citee bisegede al a-boute, Hir olde usage wolde they not letten, As for to honoure hir goddes ful devoute; But aldermost in honour, out of doute, They hadde a relik hight Palladion, That was hir trist a-boven everichon. And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede With newe grene, of lusty Ver the pryme, And swote smellen floures whyte and rede, In sondry wyses shewed, as I rede, The folk of Troye hir observaunces olde, Palladiones feste for to holde. And to the temple, in al hir beste wyse, In general, ther wente many a wight, To herknen of Palladion servyse; And namely, so many a lusty knight, So many a lady fresh and mayden bright, Ful wel arayed, bothe moste and leste, Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste. Among thise othere folk was Criseyda, In widewes habite blak; but nathelees, Right as our firste lettre is now an A, In beautee first so stood she, makelees; Hir godly looking gladede al the prees. Nas never seyn thing to ben preysed derre, Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichoon That hir behelden in hir blake wede; And yet she stood ful lowe and stille alloon, Bihinden othere folk, in litel brede, And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede, Simple of a-tyr, and debonaire of chere, With ful assured loking and manere. This Troilus, as he was wont to gyde His yonge knightes, ladde hem up and doun In thilke large temple on every syde, Biholding ay the ladyes of the toun, Now here, now there, for no devocioun Hadde he to noon, to reven him his reste, But gan to preyse and lakken whom him leste. And in his walk ful fast he gan to wayten If knight or squyer of his companye Gan for to syke, or lete his eyen bayten On any woman that he coude aspye; He wolde smyle, and holden it folye, And seye him thus, `god wot, she slepeth softe For love of thee, whan thou tornest ful ofte! `I have herd told, pardieux, of your livinge, Ye lovers, and your lewede observaunces, And which a labour folk han in winninge Of love, and, in the keping, which doutaunces; And whan your preye is lost, wo and penaunces; O verrey foles! nyce and blinde be ye; Ther nis not oon can war by other be.' And with that word he gan cast up the browe, Ascaunces, `Lo! is this nought wysly spoken?' At which the god of love gan loken rowe Right for despyt, and shoop for to ben wroken; He kidde anoon his bowe nas not broken; For sodeynly he hit him at the fulle; And yet as proud a pekok can he pulle. O blinde world, O blinde entencioun! How ofte falleth al theffect contraire Of surquidrye and foul presumpcioun; For caught is proud, and caught is debonaire. This Troilus is clomben on the staire, And litel weneth that he moot descenden. But al-day falleth thing that foles ne wenden. As proude Bayard ginneth for to skippe Out of the wey, so priketh him his corn, Til he a lash have of the longe whippe, Than thenketh he, `Though I praunce al biforn First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn, Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe I moot endure, and with my feres drawe.' So ferde it by this fers and proude knight; Though he a worthy kinges sone were, And wende nothing hadde had swiche might Ayens his wil that sholde his herte stere, Yet with a look his herte wex a-fere, That he, that now was most in pryde above, Wex sodeynly most subget un-to love. For-thy ensample taketh of this man, Ye wyse, proude, and worthy folkes alle, To scornen Love, which that so sone can The freedom of your hertes to him thralle; For ever it was, and ever it shal bifalle, That Love is he that alle thing may binde; For may no man for-do the lawe of kinde. That this be sooth, hath preved and doth yet; For this trowe I ye knowen, alle or some, Men reden not that folk han gretter wit Than they that han be most with love y-nome; And strengest folk ben therwith overcome, The worthiest and grettest of degree: This was, and is, and yet men shal it see. And trewelich it sit wel to be so; For alderwysest han ther-with ben plesed; And they that han ben aldermost in wo, With love han ben conforted most and esed; And ofte it hath the cruel herte apesed, And worthy folk maad worthier of name, And causeth most to dreden vyce and shame. Now sith it may not goodly be withstonde, And is a thing so vertuous in kinde, Refuseth not to Love for to be bonde, Sin, as him-selven list, he may yow binde. The yerde is bet that bowen wole and winde Than that that brest; and therfor I yow rede To folwen him that so wel can yow lede. But for to tellen forth in special As of this kinges sone of which I tolde, And leten other thing collateral, Of him thenke I my tale for to holde, Both of his Ioye, and of his cares colde; And al his werk, as touching this matere, For I it gan, I wol ther-to refere. With-inne the temple he wente him forth pleyinge, This Troilus, of every wight aboute, On this lady and now on that lokinge, Wher-so she were of toune, or of with-oute: And up-on cas bifel, that thorugh a route His eye perced, and so depe it wente, Til on Criseyde it smoot, and ther it stente. And sodeynly he wax ther-with astoned, And gan hire bet biholde in thrifty wyse: `O mercy, god!' thoughte he, `wher hastow woned, That art so fair and goodly to devyse?' Ther-with his herte gan to sprede and ryse, And softe sighed, lest men mighte him here, And caughte a-yein his firste pleyinge chere. She nas nat with the leste of hir stature, But alle hir limes so wel answeringe Weren to womanhode, that creature Was neuer lasse mannish in seminge. And eek the pure wyse of here meninge Shewede wel, that men might in hir gesse Honour, estat, and wommanly noblesse. To Troilus right wonder wel with-alle Gan for to lyke hir meninge and hir chere, Which somdel deynous was, for she leet falle Hir look a lite a-side, in swich manere, Ascaunces, `What! May I not stonden here?' And after that hir loking gan she lighte, That never thoughte him seen so good a sighte. And of hir look in him ther gan to quiken So greet desir, and swich affeccioun, That in his herte botme gan to stiken Of hir his fixe and depe impressioun: And though he erst hadde poured up and doun, He was tho glad his hornes in to shrinke; Unnethes wiste he how to loke or winke. Lo, he that leet him-selven so konninge, And scorned hem that loves peynes dryen, Was ful unwar that love hadde his dwellinge With-inne the subtile stremes of hir yen; That sodeynly him thoughte he felte dyen, Right with hir look, the spirit in his herte; Blissed be love, that thus can folk converte! She, this in blak, likinge to Troylus, Over alle thyng, he stood for to biholde; Ne his desir, ne wherfor he stood thus, He neither chere made, ne worde tolde; But from a-fer, his maner for to holde, On other thing his look som-tyme he caste, And eft on hir, whyl that servyse laste. And after this, not fulliche al awhaped, Out of the temple al esiliche he wente, Repentinge him that he hadde ever y-iaped Of loves folk, lest fully the descente Of scorn fille on him-self; but, what he mente, Lest it were wist on any maner syde, His wo he gan dissimulen and hyde. Whan he was fro the temple thus departed, He streyght anoon un-to his paleys torneth, Right with hir look thurgh-shoten and thurgh-darted, 325 Al feyneth he in lust that he soiorneth; And al his chere and speche also he borneth; And ay, of loves servants every whyle, Him-self to wrye, at hem he gan to smyle. And seyde, `Lord, so ye live al in lest, Ye loveres! For the conningest of yow, That serveth most ententiflich and best, Him tit as often harm ther-of as prow; Your hyre is quit ayein, ye, god wot how! Nought wel for wel, but scorn for good servyse; In feith, your ordre is ruled in good wyse! `In noun-certeyn ben alle your observaunces, But it a sely fewe poyntes be; Ne no-thing asketh so grete attendaunces As doth youre lay, and that knowe alle ye; But that is not the worste, as mote I thee; But, tolde I yow the worste poynt, I leve, Al seyde I sooth, ye wolden at me greve! `But tak this, that ye loveres ofte eschuwe, Or elles doon of good entencioun, Ful ofte thy lady wole it misconstrue, And deme it harm in hir opinioun; And yet if she, for other enchesoun, Be wrooth, than shalt thou han a groyn anoon: Lord! wel is him that may be of yow oon!' But for al this, whan that he say his tyme, He held his pees, non other bote him gayned; For love bigan his fetheres so to lyme, That wel unnethe un-to his folk he fayned That othere besye nedes him destrayned; For wo was him, that what to doon he niste, But bad his folk to goon wher that hem liste. And whan that he in chaumbre was allone, He doun up-on his beddes feet him sette, And first be gan to syke, and eft to grone, And thoughte ay on hir so, with-outen lette, That, as he sat and wook, his spirit mette That he hir saw a temple, and al the wyse Right of hir loke, and gan it newe avyse. Thus gan he make a mirour of his minde, In which he saugh al hoolly hir figure; And that he wel coude in his herte finde, It was to him a right good aventure To love swich oon, and if he dide his cure To serven hir, yet mighte he falle in grace, Or elles, for oon of hir servaunts pace. Imagininge that travaille nor grame Ne mighte, for so goodly oon, be lorn As she, ne him for his desir ne shame, Al were it wist, but in prys and up-born Of alle lovers wel more than biforn; Thus argumented he in his ginninge, Ful unavysed of his wo cominge. Thus took he purpos loves craft to suwe, And thoughte he wolde werken prively, First, to hyden his desir in muwe From every wight y-born, al-outrely, But he mighte ought recovered be therby; Remembring him, that love to wyde y-blowe Yelt bittre fruyt, though swete seed be sowe. And over al this, yet muchel more he thoughte What for to speke, and what to holden inne, And what to arten hir to love he soughte, And on a song anoon-right to biginne, And gan loude on his sorwe for to winne; For with good hope he gan fully assente Criseyde for to love, and nought repente. And of his song nought only the sentence, As writ myn autour called Lollius, But pleynly, save our tonges difference, I dar wel sayn, in al that Troilus Seyde in his song, lo! every word right thus As I shal seyn; and who-so list it here, Lo! next this vers, he may it finden here. Cantus Troili. `If no love is, O god, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and whiche is he! If love be good, from whennes comth my wo? If it be wikke, a wonder thinketh me, Whenne every torment and adversitee That cometh of him, may to me savory thinke; For ay thurst I, the more that I it drinke. `And if that at myn owene lust I brenne, Fro whennes cometh my wailing and my pleynte? If harme agree me, wher-to pleyne I thenne? I noot, ne why unwery that I feynte. O quike deeth, O swete harm so queynte, How may of thee in me swich quantitee, But-if that I consente that it be? `And if that I consente, I wrongfully Compleyne, y-wis; thus possed to and fro, Al sterelees with inne a boot am I A-mid the see, by-twixen windes two, That in contrarie stonden ever-mo. Allas! what is this wonder maladye? For hete of cold, for cold of hete, I deye.' And to the god of love thus seyde he With pitous voys, `O lord, now youres is My spirit, which that oughte youres be. Yow thanke I, lord, that han me brought to this; But whether goddesse or womman, y-wis, She be, I noot, which that ye do me serve; But as hir man I wole ay live and sterve. `Ye stonden in hire eyen mightily, As in a place un-to youre vertu digne; Wherfore, lord, if my servyse or I May lyke yow, so beth to me benigne; For myn estat royal here I resigne In-to hir hond, and with ful humble chere Bicome hir man, as to my lady dere.' In him ne deyned sparen blood royal The fyr of love, wher-fro god me blesse, Ne him forbar in no degree, for al His vertu or his excellent prowesse; But held him as his thral lowe in distresse, And brende him so in sondry wyse ay newe, That sixty tyme a day he loste his hewe. So muche, day by day, his owene thought, For lust to hir, gan quiken and encrese, That every other charge he sette at nought; For-thy ful ofte, his hote fyr to cese, To seen hir goodly look he gan to prese; For ther-by to ben esed wel he wende, And ay the ner he was, the more he brende. For ay the ner the fyr, the hotter is, This, trowe I, knoweth al this companye. But were he fer or neer, I dar seye this, By night or day, for wisdom or folye, His herte, which that is his brestes ye, Was ay on hir, that fairer was to sene Than ever were Eleyne or Polixene. Eek of the day ther passed nought an houre That to him-self a thousand tyme he seyde, `Good goodly, to whom serve I and laboure, As I best can, now wolde god, Criseyde, Ye wolden on me rewe er that I deyde! My dere herte, allas! myn hele and hewe And lyf is lost, but ye wole on me rewe.' Alle othere dredes weren from him fledde, Both of the assege and his savacioun; Ne in him desyr noon othere fownes bredde But argumentes to his conclusioun, That she on him wolde han compassioun, And he to be hir man, whyl he may dure; Lo, here his lyf, and from the deeth his cure! The sharpe shoures felle of armes preve, That Ector or his othere bretheren diden, Ne made him only ther-fore ones meve; And yet was he, wher-so men wente or riden, Founde oon the beste, and lengest tyme abiden Ther peril was, and dide eek such travayle In armes, that to thenke it was mervayle. But for non hate he to the Grekes hadde, Ne also for the rescous of the toun, Ne made him thus in armes for to madde, But only, lo, for this conclusioun, To lyken hir the bet for his renoun; Fro day to day in armes so he spedde, That alle the Grekes as the deeth him dredde. And fro this forth tho refte him love his sleep, And made his mete his foo; and eek his sorwe Gan multiplye, that, who-so toke keep, It shewed in his hewe, bothe eve and morwe; Therfor a title he gan him for to borwe Of other syknesse, lest of him men wende That the hote fyr of love him brende, And seyde, he hadde a fever and ferde amis; But how it was, certayn, can I not seye, If that his lady understood not this, Or feyned hir she niste, oon of the tweye; But wel I rede that, by no maner weye, Ne semed it as that she of him roughte, Nor of his peyne, or what-so-ever he thoughte. But than fel to this Troylus such wo, That he was wel neigh wood; for ay his drede Was this, that she som wight had loved so, That never of him she wolde have taken hede; For whiche him thoughte he felte his herte blede. Ne of his wo ne dorste he not biginne To tellen it, for al this world to winne. But whanne he hadde a space fro his care, Thus to him-self ful ofte he gan to pleyne; He sayde, `O fool, now art thou in the snare, That whilom Iapedest at loves peyne; Now artow hent, now gnaw thyn owene cheyne; Thou were ay wont eche lovere reprehende Of thing fro which thou canst thee nat defende. `What wol now every lover seyn of thee, If this be wist, but ever in thyn absence Laughen in scorn, and seyn, `Lo, ther gooth he, That is the man of so gret sapience, That held us lovers leest in reverence! Now, thonked be god, he may goon in the daunce Of hem that Love list febly for to avaunce!' `But, O thou woful Troilus, god wolde, Sin thou most loven thurgh thi destinee, That thow beset were on swich oon that sholde Knowe al thy wo, al lakkede hir pitee: But al so cold in love, towardes thee, Thy lady is, as frost in winter mone, And thou fordoon, as snow in fyr is sone.' `God wolde I were aryved in the port Of deth, to which my sorwe wil me lede! A, lord, to me it were a gret comfort; Than were I quit of languisshing in drede. For by myn hidde sorwe y-blowe on brede I shal bi-Iaped been a thousand tyme More than that fool of whos folye men ryme. `But now help god, and ye, swete, for whom I pleyne, y-caught, ye, never wight so faste! O mercy, dere herte, and help me from The deeth, for I, whyl that my lyf may laste, More than my-self wol love yow to my laste. And with som freendly look gladeth me, swete, Though never more thing ye me bi-hete!' This wordes and ful manye an-other to He spak, and called ever in his compleynte Hir name, for to tellen hir his wo, Til neigh that he in salte teres dreynte. Al was for nought, she herde nought his pleynte; And whan that he bithoughte on that folye, A thousand fold his wo gan multiplye. Bi-wayling in his chambre thus allone, A freend of his, that called was Pandare, Com ones in unwar, and herde him grone, And say his freend in swich distresse and care: `Allas!' quod he, `who causeth al this fare? O mercy, god! What unhap may this mene? Han now thus sone Grekes maad yow lene? `Or hastow som remors of conscience, And art now falle in som devocioun, And waylest for thy sinne and thyn offence, And hast for ferde caught attricioun? God save hem that bi-seged han our toun, And so can leye our Iolyte on presse, And bring our lusty folk to holinesse!' These wordes seyde he for the nones alle, That with swich thing he mighte him angry maken, And with an angre don his sorwe falle, As for the tyme, and his corage awaken; But wel he wist, as fer as tonges spaken, Ther nas a man of gretter hardinesse Than he, ne more desired worthinesse. `What cas,' quod Troilus, `or what aventure Hath gyded thee to see my languisshinge, That am refus of euery creature? But for the love of god, at my preyinge, Go henne a-way, for certes, my deyinge Wol thee disese, and I mot nedes deye; Ther-for go wey, ther is no more to seye. `But if thou wene I be thus sik for drede, It is not so, and ther-for scorne nought; Ther is a-nother thing I take of hede Wel more than ought the Grekes han y-wrought, Which cause is of my deeth, for sorwe and thought. But though that I now telle thee it ne leste, Be thou nought wrooth; I hyde it for the beste.' This Pandare, that neigh malt for wo and routhe, Ful often seyde, `Allas! what may this be? Now freend,' quod he, `if ever love or trouthe Hath been, or is, bi-twixen thee and me, Ne do thou never swiche a crueltee To hyde fro thy freend so greet a care; Wostow nought wel that it am I, Pandare? `I wole parten with thee al thy peyne, If it be so I do thee no comfort, As it is freendes right, sooth for to seyne, To entreparten wo, as glad desport. I have, and shal, for trewe or fals report, In wrong and right y-loved thee al my lyve; Hyd not thy wo fro me, but telle it blyve.' Than gan this sorwful Troilus to syke, And seyde him thus, "God leve it be my beste To telle it thee; for sith it may thee lyke, Yet wole I telle it, though myn herte breste; And wel wot I thou mayst do me no reste. But lest thow deme I truste not to thee, Now herkne, freend, for thus it stant with me. `Love, a-yeins the which who-so defendeth Him-selven most, him alder-lest avayleth, With disespeir so sorwfully me offendeth, That streyght un-to the deeth myn herte sayleth. Ther-to desyr so brenningly me assaylleth, That to ben slayn it were a gretter Ioye To me than king of Grece been and Troye! `Suffiseth this, my fulle freend Pandare, That I have seyd, for now wostow my wo; And for the love of god, my colde care So hyd it wel, I telle it never to mo; For harmes mighte folwen, mo than two, If it were wist; but be thou in gladnesse, And lat me sterve, unknowe, of my distresse.' `How hastow thus unkindely and longe Hid this fro me, thou fool?' quod Pandarus; `Paraunter thou might after swich oon longe, That myn avys anoon may helpen us.' `This were a wonder thing,' quod Troylus, `Thou coudest never in love thy-selven wisse; How devel maystow bringen me to blisse?' `Ye, Troilus, now herke,' quod Pandare, `Though I be nyce; it happeth ofte so, That oon that exces doth ful yvele fare, By good counseyl can kepe his freend ther-fro. I have my-self eek seyn a blind man go Ther-as he fel that coude loke wyde; A fool may eek a wys man ofte gyde. `A whetston is no kerving instrument, And yet it maketh sharpe kerving-tolis. And ther thou woost that I have ought miswent, Eschewe thou that, for swich thing to thee scole is; Thus ofte wyse men ben war by folis. If thou do so, thy wit is wel biwared; By his contrarie is every thing declared. `For how might ever sweetnesse have be knowe To him that never tasted bitternesse? Ne no man may be inly glad, I trowe, That never was in sorwe or som distresse; Eek whyt by blak, by shame eek worthinesse, Ech set by other, more for other semeth; As men may see; and so the wyse it demeth. `Sith thus of two contraries is a lore, I, that have in love so ofte assayed Grevaunces, oughte conne, and wel the more Counsayllen thee of that thou art amayed. Eek thee ne oughte nat ben yvel apayed, Though I desyre with thee for to bere Thyn hevy charge; it shal the lasse dere. `I woot wel that it fareth thus by me As to thy brother Parys an herdesse, Which that y-cleped was Oenone, Wrot in a compleynte of hir hevinesse: Ye say the lettre that she wroot, y gesse?' `Nay, never yet, y-wis,' quod Troilus. `Now,' quod Pandare, `herkneth, it was thus. -- "Phebus, that first fond art of medicyne,' Quod she, `and coude in every wightes care Remede and reed, by herbes he knew fyne, Yet to him-self his conning was ful bare; For love hadde him so bounden in a snare, Al for the doughter of the kinge Admete, That al his craft ne coude his sorwe bete." -- `Right so fare I, unhappily for me; I love oon best, and that me smerteth sore; And yet, paraunter, can I rede thee, And not my-self; repreve me no more. I have no cause, I woot wel, for to sore As doth an hauk that listeth for to pleye, But to thyn help yet somwhat can I seye. `And of o thing right siker maystow be, That certayn, for to deyen in the peyne, That I shal never-mo discoveren thee; Ne, by my trouthe, I kepe nat restreyne Thee fro thy love, thogh that it were Eleyne, That is thy brotheres wif, if ich it wiste; Be what she be, and love hir as thee liste. `Therfore, as freend fullich in me assure, And tel me plat what is thyn enchesoun, And final cause of wo that ye endure; For douteth no-thing, myn entencioun Nis nought to yow of reprehencioun, To speke as now, for no wight may bireve A man to love, til that him list to leve. `And witeth wel, that bothe two ben vyces, Mistrusten alle, or elles alle leve; But wel I woot, the mene of it no vyce is, For to trusten sum wight is a preve Of trouthe, and for-thy wolde I fayn remeve Thy wrong conseyte, and do thee som wight triste, Thy wo to telle; and tel me, if thee liste. `The wyse seyth, "Wo him that is allone, For, and he falle, he hath noon help to ryse;" And sith thou hast a felawe, tel thy mone; For this nis not, certeyn, the nexte wyse To winnen love, as techen us the wyse, To walwe and wepe as Niobe the quene, Whos teres yet in marbel been y-sene. `Lat be thy weping and thi drerinesse, And lat us lissen wo with other speche; So may thy woful tyme seme lesse. Delyte not in wo thy wo to seche, As doon thise foles that hir sorwes eche With sorwe, whan they han misaventure, And listen nought to seche hem other cure. `Men seyn, "To wrecche is consolacioun To have an-other felawe in his peyne;" That oughte wel ben our opinioun, For, bothe thou and I, of love we pleyne; So ful of sorwe am I, soth for to seyne, That certeynly no more harde grace May sitte on me, for-why ther is no space. `If god wole thou art not agast of me, Lest I wolde of thy lady thee bigyle, Thow wost thy-self whom that I love, pardee, As I best can, gon sithen longe whyle. And sith thou wost I do it for no wyle, And sith I am he that thou tristest most, Tel me sumwhat, sin al my wo thou wost.' Yet Troilus, for al this, no word seyde, But longe he ley as stille as he ded were; And after this with sykinge he abreyde, And to Pandarus voys he lente his ere, And up his eyen caste he, that in fere Was Pandarus, lest that in frenesye He sholde falle, or elles sone dye; And cryde `A-wake' ful wonderly and sharpe; `What? Slombrestow as in a lytargye? Or artow lyk an asse to the harpe, That hereth soun, whan men the strenges plye, But in his minde of that no melodye May sinken, him to glade, for that he So dul is of his bestialitee?' And with that, Pandare of his wordes stente; And Troilus yet him no word answerde, For-why to telle nas not his entente To never no man, for whom that he so ferde. For it is seyd, `Man maketh ofte a yerde With which the maker is him-self y-beten In sondry maner,' as thise wyse treten, And namely, in his counseyl tellinge That toucheth love that oughte be secree; For of him-self it wolde y-nough out-springe, But-if that it the bet governed be. Eek som-tyme it is craft to seme flee Fro thing which in effect men hunte faste; Al this gan Troilus in his herte caste. But nathelees, whan he had herd him crye `Awake!' he gan to syke wonder sore, And seyde, `Freend, though that I stille lye, I am not deef; now pees, and cry no more; For I have herd thy wordes and thy lore; But suffre me my mischef to biwayle, For thy proverbes may me nought avayle. `Nor other cure canstow noon for me. Eek I nil not be cured, I wol deye; What knowe I of the quene Niobe? Lat be thyne olde ensaumples, I thee preye.' `No,' quod tho Pandarus, `therfore I seye, Swich is delyt of foles to biwepe Hir wo, but seken bote they ne kepe. `Now knowe I that ther reson in the fayleth. But tel me, if I wiste what she were For whom that thee al this misaunter ayleth? Dorstestow that I tolde hir in hir ere Thy wo, sith thou darst not thy-self for fere, And hir bisoughte on thee to han som routhe?' `Why, nay,' quod he, `by god and by my trouthe!' `What, Not as bisily,' quod Pandarus, `As though myn owene lyf lay on this nede?' `No, certes, brother,' quod this Troilus, `And why?' -- `For that thou sholdest never spede.' `Wostow that wel?' -- `Ye, that is out of drede,' Quod Troilus, `for al that ever ye conne, She nil to noon swich wrecche as I be wonne.' Quod Pandarus, `Allas! What may this be, That thou dispeyred art thus causelees? What? Liveth not thy lady? Benedicite! How wostow so that thou art gracelees? Swich yvel is nat alwey botelees. Why, put not impossible thus thy cure, Sin thing to come is ofte in aventure. `I graunte wel that thou endurest wo As sharp as doth he, Ticius, in helle, Whos stomak foules tyren ever-mo That highte volturis, as bokes telle. But I may not endure that thou dwelle In so unskilful an opinioun That of thy wo is no curacioun. `But ones niltow, for thy coward herte, And for thyn ire and folish wilfulnesse, For wantrust, tellen of thy sorwes smerte, Ne to thyn owene help do bisinesse As muche as speke a resoun more or lesse, But lyest as he that list of no-thing recche. What womman coude love swich a wrecche? `What may she demen other of thy deeth, If thou thus deye, and she not why it is, But that for fere is yolden up thy breeth, For Grekes han biseged us, y-wis? Lord, which a thank than shaltow han of this! Thus wol she seyn, and al the toun at ones, "The wrecche is deed, the devel have his bones!" `Thou mayst allone here wepe and crye and knele; But, love a woman that she woot it nought, And she wol quyte that thou shalt not fele; Unknowe, unkist, and lost that is un-sought. What! Many a man hath love ful dere y-bought Twenty winter that his lady wiste, That never yet his lady mouth he kiste. `What? Shulde be therfor fallen in despeyr, Or be recreaunt for his owene tene, Or sleen him-self, al be his lady fayr? Nay, nay, but ever in oon be fresh and grene To serve and love his dere hertes quene, And thenke it is a guerdoun hir to serve A thousand-fold more than he can deserve.' Of that word took hede Troilus, And thoughte anoon what folye he was inne, And how that sooth him seyde Pandarus, That for to sleen him-self mighte he not winne, But bothe doon unmanhod and a sinne, And of his deeth his lady nought to wyte; For of his wo, god woot, she knew ful lyte. And with that thought he gan ful sore syke, And seyde, `Allas! What is me best to do?' To whom Pandare answered, `If thee lyke, The best is that thou telle me thy wo; And have my trouthe, but thou it finde so, I be thy bote, or that it be ful longe, To peces do me drawe, and sithen honge!' `Ye, so thou seyst,' quod Troilus tho, `allas! But, god wot, it is not the rather so; Ful hard were it to helpen in this cas, For wel finde I that Fortune is my fo, Ne alle the men that ryden conne or go May of hir cruel wheel the harm withstonde; For, as hir list, she pleyeth with free and bonde.' Quod Pandarus, `Than blamestow Fortune For thou art wrooth, ye, now at erst I see; Wostow nat wel that Fortune is commune To every maner wight in som degree? And yet thou hast this comfort, lo, pardee! That, as hir Ioyes moten over-goon, So mote hir sorwes passen everichoon. `For if hir wheel stinte any-thing to torne, Than cessed she Fortune anoon to be: Now, sith hir wheel by no wey may soiorne, What wostow if hir mutabilitee Right as thy-selven list, wol doon by thee, Or that she be not fer fro thyn helpinge? Paraunter, thou hast cause for to singe! `And therfor wostow what I thee beseche? Lat be thy wo and turning to the grounde; For who-so list have helping of his leche, To him bihoveth first unwrye his wounde. To Cerberus in helle ay be I bounde, Were it for my suster, al thy sorwe, By my wil, she sholde al be thyn to-morwe. `Loke up, I seye, and tel me what she is Anoon, that I may goon aboute thy nede; Knowe ich hir ought? For my love, tel me this; Than wolde I hopen rather for to spede.' Tho gan the veyne of Troilus to blede, For he was hit, and wex al reed for shame; `A ha!' quod Pandare, `Here biginneth game!' And with that word he gan him for to shake, And seyde, `Theef, thou shalt hir name telle.' But tho gan sely Troilus for to quake As though men sholde han led him in-to helle, And seyde, `Allas! Of al my wo the welle, Than is my swete fo called Criseyde!' And wel nigh with the word for fere he deyde. And whan that Pandare herde hir name nevene, Lord, he was glad, and seyde, `Freend so dere, Now fare a-right, for Ioves name in hevene, Love hath biset the wel, be of good chere; For of good name and wysdom and manere She hath y-nough, and eek of gentilesse; If she be fayr, thou wost thy-self, I gesse, `Ne I never saw a more bountevous Of hir estat, ne a gladder, ne of speche A freendlier, ne a more gracious For to do wel, ne lasse hadde nede to seche What for to doon; and al this bet to eche, In honour, to as fer as she may strecche, A kinges herte semeth by hirs a wrecche. `And for-thy loke of good comfort thou be; For certeinly, the firste poynt is this Of noble corage and wel ordeyne, A man to have pees with him-self, y-wis; So oughtest thou, for nought but good it is To loven wel, and in a worthy place; Thee oghte not to clepe it hap, but grace. `And also thenk, and ther-with glade thee, That sith thy lady vertuous is al, So folweth it that ther is som pitee Amonges alle thise othere in general; And for-thy see that thou, in special, Requere nought that is ayein hir name; For vertue streccheth not him-self to shame. `But wel is me that ever that I was born, That thou biset art in so good a place; For by my trouthe, in love I dorste have sworn, Thee sholde never han tid thus fayr a grace; And wostow why? For thou were wont to chace At Love in scorn, and for despyt him calle "Seynt Idiot, lord of thise foles alle." `How often hastow maad thy nyce Iapes, And seyd, that loves servants everichone Of nycetee been verray goddes apes; And some wolde monche hir mete alone, Ligging a-bedde, and make hem for to grone; And som, thou seydest, hadde a blaunche fevere, And preydest god he sholde never kevere. `And som of hem tok on hem, for the colde, More than y-nough, so seydestow ful ofte; And som han feyned ofte tyme, and tolde How that they wake, whan they slepen softe; And thus they wolde han brought hem-self a-lofte, And nathelees were under at the laste; Thus seydestow, and Iapedest ful faste. `Yet seydestow, that, for the more part, These loveres wolden speke in general, And thoughten that it was a siker art, For fayling, for to assayen over-al. Now may I iape of thee, if that I shal! But nathelees, though that I sholde deye, That thou art noon of tho, that dorste I seye. `Now beet thy brest, and sey to god of love, "Thy grace, lord! For now I me repente If I mis spak, for now my-self I love:" Thus sey with al thyn herte in good entente.' Quod Troilus, `A! Lord! I me consente, And prey to thee my Iapes thou foryive, And I shal never-more whyl I live.' `Thou seyst wel,' quod Pandare, `and now I hope That thou the goddes wraththe hast al apesed; And sithen thou hast wepen many a drope, And seyd swich thing wher-with thy god is plesed, Now wolde never god but thou were esed; And think wel, she of whom rist al thy wo Here-after may thy comfort been al-so. `For thilke ground, that bereth the wedes wikke, Bereth eek thise holsom herbes, as ful ofte Next the foule netle, rough and thikke, The rose waxeth swote and smothe and softe; And next the valey is the hil a-lofte; And next the derke night the glade morwe; And also Ioye is next the fyn of sorwe. `Now loke that atempre be thy brydel, And, for the beste, ay suffre to the tyde, Or elles al our labour is on ydel; He hasteth wel that wysly can abyde; Be diligent, and trewe, and ay wel hyde. Be lusty, free, persevere in thy servyse, And al is wel, if thou werke in this wyse. `But he that parted is in every place Is no-wher hool, as writen clerkes wyse; What wonder is, though swich oon have no grace? Eek wostow how it fareth of som servyse? As plaunte a tre or herbe, in sondry wyse, And on the morwe pulle it up as blyve, No wonder is, though it may never thryve. `And sith that god of love hath thee bistowed In place digne un-to thy worthinesse, Stond faste, for to good port hastow rowed; And of thy-self, for any hevinesse, Hope alwey wel; for, but-if drerinesse Or over-haste our bothe labour shende, I hope of this to maken a good ende. `And wostow why I am the lasse a-fered Of this matere with my nece trete? For this have I herd seyd of wyse y-lered, "Was never man ne woman yet bigete That was unapt to suffren loves hete, Celestial, or elles love of kinde;" For-thy som grace I hope in hir to finde. `And for to speke of hir in special, Hir beautee to bithinken and hir youthe, It sit hir nought to be celestial As yet, though that hir liste bothe and couthe; But trewely, it sete hir wel right nouthe A worthy knight to loven and cheryce, And but she do, I holde it for a vyce. `Wherfore I am, and wol be, ay redy To peyne me to do yow this servyse; For bothe yow to plese thus hope I Her-afterward; for ye beth bothe wyse, And conne it counseyl kepe in swich a wyse That no man shal the wyser of it be; And so we may be gladed alle three. `And, by my trouthe, I have right now of thee A good conceyt in my wit, as I gesse, And what it is, I wol now that thou see. I thenke, sith that love, of his goodnesse, Hath thee converted out of wikkednesse, That thou shalt be the beste post, I leve, Of al his lay, and most his foos to-greve. `Ensample why, see now these wyse clerkes, That erren aldermost a-yein a lawe, And ben converted from hir wikked werkes Thorugh grace of god, that list hem to him drawe, Than arn they folk that han most god in awe, And strengest-feythed been, I understonde, And conne an errour alder-best withstonde.' Whan Troilus had herd Pandare assented To been his help in loving of Criseyde, Wex of his wo, as who seyth, untormented, But hotter wex his love, and thus he seyde, With sobre chere, al-though his herte pleyde, `Now blisful Venus helpe, er that I sterve, Of thee, Pandare, I may som thank deserve. `But, dere frend, how shal myn wo ben lesse Til this be doon? And goode, eek tel me this, How wiltow seyn of me and my destresse? Lest she be wrooth, this drede I most, y-wys, Or nil not here or trowen how it is. Al this drede I, and eek for the manere Of thee, hir eem, she nil no swich thing here.' Quod Pandarus, `Thou hast a ful gret care Lest that the cherl may falle out of the mone! Why, lord! I hate of the thy nyce fare! Why, entremete of that thou hast to done! For goddes love, I bidde thee a bone, So lat me alone, and it shal be thy beste.' -- `Why, freend,' quod he, `now do right as the leste. `But herke, Pandare, o word, for I nolde That thou in me wendest so greet folye, That to my lady I desiren sholde That toucheth harm or any vilenye; For dredelees, me were lever dye Than she of me ought elles understode But that, that mighte sounen in-to gode.' Tho lough this Pandare, and anoon answerde, `And I thy borw? Fy! No wight dooth but so; I roughte nought though that she stode and herde How that thou seyst; but fare-wel, I wol go. A-dieu! Be glad! God spede us bothe two! Yif me this labour and this besinesse, And of my speed be thyn al that swetnesse.' Tho Troilus gan doun on knees to falle, And Pandare in his armes hente faste, And seyde, `Now, fy on the Grekes alle! Yet, pardee, god shal helpe us at the laste; And dredelees, if that my lyf may laste, And god to-forn, lo, som of hem shal smerte; And yet me athinketh that this avaunt me asterte! `Now, Pandare, I can no more seye, But thou wys, thou wost, thou mayst, thou art al! My lyf, my deeth, hool in thyn bonde I leye; Help now,' Quod he, `Yis, by my trouthe, I shal.' `God yelde thee, freend, and this in special,' Quod Troilus, `that thou me recomaunde To hir that to the deeth me may comaunde.' This Pandarus tho, desirous to serve His fulle freend, than seyde in this manere, `Far-wel, and thenk I wol thy thank deserve; Have here my trouthe, and that thou shalt wel here.' -- And wente his wey, thenking on this matere, And how he best mighte hir beseche of grace, And finde a tyme ther-to, and a place. For every wight that hath an hous to founde Ne renneth nought the werk for to biginne With rakel hond, but he wol byde a stounde, And sende his hertes lyne out fro with-inne Alderfirst his purpos for to winne. Al this Pandare in his herte thoughte, And caste his werk ful wysly, or he wroughte. But Troilus lay tho no lenger doun, But up anoon up-on his stede bay, And in the feld he pleyde tho leoun; Wo was that Greek that with him mette that day. And in the toun his maner tho forth ay So goodly was, and gat him so in grace, That ech him lovede that loked on his face. For he bicom the frendlyeste wight, The gentileste, and eek the moste free, The thriftieste and oon the beste knight, That in his tyme was, or mighte be. Dede were his Iapes and his crueltee, His heighe port and his manere estraunge, And ech of tho gan for a vertu chaunge. Now lat us stinte of Troilus a stounde, That fareth lyk a man that hurt is sore, And is somdel of akinge of his wounde Y-lissed wel, but heled no del more: And, as an esy pacient, the lore Abit of him that gooth aboute his cure; And thus he dryveth forth his aventure.
Serene in his unconquerable might Endued[,] the Almighty King, his steadfast throne Encompassed unapproachably with power And darkness and deep solitude an awe Stood like a black cloud on some aery cliff Embosoming its lightning--in his sight Unnumbered glorious spirits trembling stood Like slaves before their Lord--prostrate around Heaven's multitudes hymned everlasting praise.
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