XXVIII.

=Medley.=

FRAGMENT FROM THE GREEK OF ARISTOTLE.

If there were beings who lived in the depths of the earth, in dwellings adorned with statues and paintings, and every thing which is possessed in rich abundance by those whom we esteem fortunate; and if these beings could receive tidings of the power and might of the gods, and could then emerge from their hidden dwellings through the open fissures of the earth, to the places which we inhabit; if they could suddenly behold the earth, and the sea, and the vault of heaven; could recognize the expanse of the cloudy firmament, and the might of the winds of heaven, and admire the sun in its majesty, beauty, and radiant effulgence; and, lastly, when night vailed the earth in darkness, they could behold the starry heavens, the changing moon, and the stars rising and setting in the unvarying course ordained from eternity, they would surely exclaim, “There are gods, and such great things must be the work of their hands.”

_Translation from_ HUMBOLDT’S “_Cosmos_.”

THE CREATION OF THE EARTH.

God said, Be gather’d now, ye waters under heav’n, Into one place, and let dry land appear. Immediately the mountains huge appear Emergent, and their broad backs upheave Into the clouds, their tops ascend the sky. So high as heav’d the tumid hills, so low Down sunk a hollow bottom, broad and deep, Capacious bed of waters: thither they Hasted with glad precipitance, uproll’d As drops on dust conglobing from the dry: Part rise in crystal wall, or ridge direct, For haste; such flight the great command imprest On the swift floods; as armies at the call Of trumpet (for of armies thou hast heard) Troop to their standard, so the wat’ry throng, Wave rolling after wave, where way they found; If steep, with torrent rapture, if through plain, Soft-ebbing; nor withstood them rock or hill, But they, or under ground, or circuit wide With serpent error wand’ring, found their way, And on the washy ooze deep channels wore, Easy, ere God had bid the ground be dry, All but within those banks, where rivers now Stream, and perpetual draw their humid train. The dry land Earth, and the great receptacle Of congregated waters he call’d Seas; And saw that it was good, and said, Let th’ earth Put forth the verdant grass, herb yielding seed, And fruit-tree yielding fruit after her kind; Whose seed is in herself upon the earth. He scarce had said, when the bare earth, till then Desert and bare, unsightly, unadorn’d, Brought forth the tender grass, whose verdure clad Her universal face with pleasant green; Then herbs of every leaf, that sudden flower’d, Op’ning their various colors, and made gay Her bosom smelling sweet; and these scarce blown, Forth flourish’d thick the clust’ring vine, forth crept The swelling gourd, up stood the corny reed Embattl’d in her field; and th’ humble shrub,

And bush with frizzled hair implicit: last Rose, as in dance, the stately trees, and spread Their branches hung with copious fruit, or gemm’d Their blossoms: with high wood the hills were crown’d; With tufts the valleys and each fountain side, With borders 'long the rivers: that earth now Seem’d like to heav’n, a seat where Gods might dwell Or wander with delight, and love to haunt Her sacred shades. * * * * JOHN MILTON, 1608–1674.

EARTH.

Harp! lift thy voice on high, And run in rapid numbers o’er the face Of Nature’s scenery; and there were day And night, and rising suns, and setting suns; And clouds that seemed like chariots of saints, By fiery coursers drawn—as brightly head As if the glorious, lusty, golden locks Of thousand cherubims had been shorn off, And on the temples hung of morn and even; And there were moons, and stars, and darkness streaked With light; and voice of tempest heard secure. And there were seasons coming evermore, And going still—all fair and always new, With bloom, and fruit, and fields of hoary grain. And there were hills of flocks, and groves of song; And flowery streams, and garden walks embowered, Where side by side the rose and lily bloomed. And sacred founts, wild hills, and moonlight glens; And forests vast, fair lawns, and lovely oaks, And little willows sipping at the brook; Old wizard haunts, and dancing seats of mirth; Gay, festive bowers, and palaces in dust; Dark owlet nooks, and caves, and belted rocks; And winding valleys, roofed with pendent shade; And tall and perilous cliffs, that overlooked The breath of Ocean, sleeping on his waves. Sounds, sights, smells, tastes; the heaven and earth, profuse In endless sweets, above all praise of song: For not to use alone did Providence Abound, but large example gave to man

Of grace, and ornament, and splendor rich; Suited abundantly to every taste In bird, beast, fish, winged and creeping thing; In herb and flower; and in the restless change Which on the many-colored seasons made The annual circuit of the fruitful earth. ROBERT POLLOCK, 1799–1827.

THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES.

FROM THE “ILIAD.”

* * * * *

He also graved on it a fallow field, Rich, spacious, and well tilled. Plowers not few, There driving to and fro their sturdy teams, Labor’d the land; and oft as in their course They came to the field’s bourn, so oft a man Met them, who in their hands a goblet placed, Charged with delicious wine. They, turning, wrought Each his own furrow, and impatient seem’d To reach the border of the tilth, which black Appear’d behind them as a glebe new-turn’d, Though golden, sight to be admired by all! There, too, he form’d the likeness of a field, Crowded with corn, in which the reapers toil’d Each with a sharp-tooth’d sickle in his hand. Along the furrow here the harvest fell In frequent handfuls, there they bound the sheaves. Three binders of the sheaves their sultry task All plied industrious, and behind them boys Attended, filling with the corn their arms, And offering still their bundles to be bound. Amid them, staff in hand, the master stood Silent exulting, while beneath an oak Apart, his heralds busily prepared The banquet, dressing a well-thriven ox, New slain, and the attendant maidens mix’d Large supper for the hinds of whitest flour. There, also, laden with its fruit, he form’d A vineyard all of gold; purple he made The clusters, and the vines supported, stood By poles of silver set in even rows. The trench he color’d sable, and around Fenced it with tin. One only path it show’d

By which the gatherers, when they stripp’d the vines, Pass’d and repass’d. There, youths and maidens blithe, In pails of wicker bore the luscious fruit, While in the midst a boy, on his shrill harp, Harmonious play’d; still as he struck the chord, Carolling to it with a slender voice, They smote the ground together, and with song And sprightly reed came dancing on behind. There, too, a herd he fashion’d of tall beeves, Part gold, part tin; they, lowing, from the stalls Rush’d forth to pasture by a river-side, Rapid, sonorous, fringed with whispering reeds. Four golden herdsmen drove the kine a-field, By nine swift dogs attended. Dreadful sprang Two lions forth, and of the foremost herd, Seized fast a bull. Him, bellowing, they dragg’d, While dogs and peasants all flew to his aid. The lions tore the hide of the huge prey, And lapp’d his entrails and his blood. Meantime The herdsmen, troubling them in vain, their hounds Encouraged; but no tooth for lion’s flesh Found they, and therefore stood aside and bark’d. There, also, the illustrious smith divine Amidst a pleasant grove a pasture found Spacious, and sprinkled o’er with silver sheep Numerous, and stalls, and huts, and shepherds’ tents. _Translation of_ WILLIAM COWPER. HOMER.

LINES.

FROM “CHILDE HAROLD.”

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwell in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring. His quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn Ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,

Mellow’d and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken’d Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and, drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more:

He is an evening reveler, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill; But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instill, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven, If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires—’tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: All heaven and earth are still: from the high host Of stars, and to the lull’d lake and mountain coast, All is concenter’d in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator, and defense.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone: A truth which through our being then doth melt, And purifies from self; it is a tone The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,

Binding all things with beauty; ’twould disarm The specter Death, had he substantial power to harm.

Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth o’ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwall’d temple, there to seek The spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, Unrear’d of human hands. Come and compare Columns, and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer.

The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night: most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight— A portion of the tempest, and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again ’tis black—and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage, Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed; Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters—war within themselves to rage.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand, For here not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,

The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’d His lightnings—as if he did understand That in such gaps as desolation work’d, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk’d.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt, and feeling, well may be, Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless—if I rest. But where, of ye, O tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? LORD BYRON, 1788–1824.

AN ITALIAN NOON.

LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS, OCTOBER, 1818.

* * * * *

Noon descends around me now; ’Tis the noon of autumn’s glow, When a soft and purple mist, Lake a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star, Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon’s bound, To the point of heaven’s profound, Fills the overflowing sky, And the plains that silent lie Underneath, the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellis’d lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dim and bladed grass no less Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandaled Apennine,

In the south dimly islanded; And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one; And my spirit, which so long Darken’d this swift stream of song, Interpenetrated lie By the glory of the sky; Be it love, light, harmony, Odor, or the soul of all Which from Heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse, Peopling the lone universe. P. B. SHELLEY.

ITALIAN SONG.

Dear is my little native vale; The ring-dove builds and warbles there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange grove and myrtle bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my lov’d lute’s romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd’s horn, at break of day, The ballet danc’d in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay, Sung in the silent greenwood shade; These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale. SAMUEL ROGERS.

A FARM SCENE IN PORTUGAL.

FROM A LETTER OF W. BECKFORD, ESQ.

_October 19, 1797._

* * * * *

The valley of Collares affords me a source of perpetual amusement. I have discovered a variety of paths which lead through chestnut copses and orchards to irregular green spots, where self-sown bays and citronbushes

hang wild over the rocky margin of a little river, and drop their fruit and blossoms into the stream. You may ride for miles along the banks of this delightful water, catching endless perspectives of flowery thickets, between the stems of poplar and walnut. The scenery is truly Elysian, and exactly such as poets assign for the resort of happy spirits. The mossy fragments of rocks, grotesque pollards, and rustic bridges you meet with at every step, recall Savoy and Switzerland to the imagination; but the exotic cast of the vegetation, the vivid green of the citron, the golden fruitage of the orange, the blossoming myrtle, and the rich fragrance of a turf embroidered with the brightest-colored and most aromatic flowers, allow me, without a stretch of fancy, to believe myself in the garden of the Hesperides, and to expect the dragon under every tree. I by no means like the thought of abandoning these smiling regions, and have been twenty times on the point, this very day, of revoking the orders I have given for my journey. Whatever objections I may have had to Portugal seem to vanish since I have determined to leave it; for such is the perversity of human nature, that objects appear the most estimable precisely at the moment when we are going to leave them.

There was this morning a mild radiance in the sunbeams, and a balsamic serenity in the air, which infused that voluptuous listlessness—that desire of remaining imparadised in one delightful spot, which, in classical fictions, was supposed to render those who had tasted of the lotus, forgetful of friends and of every tie. My feelings were not dissimilar; I loathed the idea of moving away.

Though I had entered these beautiful orchards soon after sunrise, the clocks of some distant conventual churches had chimed hour after hour, before I could prevail upon myself to quit the spreading odoriferous baytrees under which I had been lying. If shades so cool and fragrant invited to repose, I must observe, that never were paths better calculated to tempt the laziest of beings to a walk, than those that opened on all sides, and are formed of a smooth, dry sand, bound firmly together, composing a surface as hard as gravel. These level paths wind about among a labyrinth of light, elegant fruit-trees: almond, plum, and cherry, something like the groves of Tongo-Taboo, as represented in Cook’s voyages; and to increase the resemblance, neat, clean fences and low, open sheds, thatched with reeds, appear at intervals, breaking the horizontal line of the perspective. I had now lingered and loitered away pretty nearly the whole morning, and though, as far as scenery could authorize and climate inspire, I might fancy myself an inhabitant of Polynesia, I could not pretend to be sufficiently ethereal to exist without nourishment. In plain English, I was extremely hungry. The pears, quinces, and oranges, which dangled above my head, although fair to the eye, were neither so juicy nor so gratifying to the palate, as might have been expected from their promising appearance.

Being considerably

“More than a mile within the wood,”

and not recollecting by which clue of a path I could get out of it, I remained at least half an hour deliberating which way to turn myself. The sheds and inclosures I have mentioned were put together with care, and even nicety, it is true, but seemed to have no other inhabitants than flocks of bantams, strutting about and destroying the eggs and hopes of many an insect family. These glistening fowls, like their brethren described in Anson’s voyages, as ruminating the profound solitudes of the island of Tinian, appeared to have no master. At length, just as I was beginning to wish myself very heartily in a less romantic region, I heard the loud, though not unmusical tones of a powerful female voice, echoing through the arched green avenues; presently a stout, ruddy young peasant, very picturesquely attired in brown and scarlet, came hoydening along, driving a mule before her laden with two enormous panniers of grapes. To ask for a share of this luxurious load, and to compliment the fair driver, was instantaneous on my part—but to no purpose. I was answered by a sly wink: “We all belong to Senhor José Dias, whose coreal (farm-yard) is half a league distant. There, Senhor, if you follow that road and don’t puzzle yourself by a straying to the right or left, you will soon reach it, and the bailiff, I dare say, will be proud to give you as many grapes as you please. Good-morning; happy days to you! I must mind my business.”

Seating herself between the tantalizing panniers, she was gone in an instant, and I had the good luck to arrive at the wicket of a rude, dry well, winding up several bushy slopes in a wild, irregular manner. If the outside of this inclosure was rough and unpromising, the interior presented a most cheerful scene of rural opulence: droves of cows and goats milking; ovens, out of which huge savory cakes of bread had just been taken; ranges of bee-hives and long pillared sheds, entirely tapestried with purple and yellow muscadine grapes half candied, which were hung up to dry. A very good-natured, classical-looking _magister pecorum_, followed by two well-disciplined, though savage-eyed dogs, whom the least glance of their master prevented from barking, gave me a hearty welcome, and with genuine hospitality not only allowed me the free range of his domain, but set whatever it produced in the greatest perfection before me. A contest took place between two or three curly-haired, chubby-faced children, who should be first to bring me walnuts fresh from the shell, bowls of milk, and cream cheeses, made after the best of fashions, that of the province of Alemtejo.

* * * * *

WILLIAM BECKFORD.

[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]

FROM “THE LUSIAD.”

With graceful pride three hills of softest green Rear their fair bosoms o’er the sylvan scene; Their sides embroider’d boast the rich array Of flowery shrubs in all the pride of May; The purple lotus and the snowy thorn, And yellow pod-flowers every slope adorn. From the green summits of the leafy hills Descend with murmuring lapse three limpid rills; Beneath the rose-trees loitering slow they glide, Now tumbles o’er some rock their crystal pride; Sonorous now they roll adown the glade, Now plaintive tinkle in the secret shade; Now from the darkling grove, beneath the beam Of ruddy morn, like melted silver stream, Edging the painted margins of the bowers, And breathing liquid freshness on the flowers. Here bright reflected in the pool below The vermil apples tremble on the bough; Where o’er the yellow sands the waters sleep, The primrosed banks inverted, dew-drops weep; Where murmuring o’er the pebbles purls the stream, The silver trouts in playful curvings gleam. Long thus and various every riv’let strays, Till closing now their long meand’ring maze, Where in a sinking vale the mountains end, Form’d in a crystal lake the waters blend; Fring’d was the border with a woodland shade, In every leaf of various green array’d, Each yellow-ting’d, each mingling tint between The dark ash verdure and the silvery green. The trees now bending forward, slowly shake Their lofty honors o’er the crystal lake; Now from the flood the graceful boughs retire, With coy reserve, and now again admire Their various liveries by the summer dress’d, Smooth-gloss’d and soften’d in the mirror’s breast. So by her glass the wishful virgin strays, And oft retiring steals the lingering gaze.

* * * * *

Wild forest-trees the mountain sides array’d: With curling foliage and romantic shade;

Here spreads the poplar, to Alcides dear; And dear to Phœbus, ever verdant here, The laurel joins the bowers for ever green, The myrtle bowers belov’d of beauty’s queen. To Jove the oak his wide-spread branches rears; And high to heaven the fragrant cedar bears; Where through the glades appear the cavern’d rocks, The lofty pine-tree waves her sable locks; Sacred to Cybele, the whispering pine Loves the wild grottoes where the white cliffs shine; Here towers the cypress, preacher to the wise, Less’ning, from earth, her spiral honors rise, Till, as a spear-point rear’d, the topmost spray Points to the Eden of eternal day. _Translation of_ W. J. MICKLE. LUIS DE CAMOENS, 1517–1579.

PARADISE.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE.

Longing already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, Withouten more delay I left the bank, Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. A gently breathing air, that no mutation Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead— No heavier blow than of a pleasant breeze; Whereat the tremulous branches readily Did all of them bow downward toward that side Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain; Yet not from their upright direction bent, So that the little birds upon their tops Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime Singing received they in the midst of foliage, That made monotonous burden to their rhymes; Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi When Æolus unlooses the sirocco. Already my slow steps had led me on Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could see no more the place where I had entered;

And, lo! my farther course cut off a river, Which, toward the left hand, with its little waves, Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang. All waters that on earth most limpid are, Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves with a brown, brown current, Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of sun let in, nor of the moon. _Translation of_ H. W. LONGFELLOW. DANTE ALIGHIERI, 1265–1321.

NATURE TEACHING IMMORTALITY.

Nature, thy daughter, ever-changing birth Of thee, the great Immutable, to man Speaks wisdom; is his oracle supreme; And he who most consults her is most wise. Look nature through, ’tis revolution all. All change, no death. Day follows night, and night The dying day; stars rise, and set, and rise; Earth takes th’ example. See the summer gay, With her green chaplet, and ambrosial flow’rs, Droops into pallid autumn; winter gray, Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm, Blows autumn and his golden fruits away, Then melts into the spring; soft spring, with breath Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, Recalls the first. All to re-flourish fades, As in a wheel all sinks to reascend; Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. With this minute distinction, emblems just, Nature revolves, but man advances; both Eternal, that a circle, this a line; That gravitates, this soars. Th’ aspiring soul, Ardent and tremulous, like flame ascends, Zeal and humility her wings, to heaven. The world of matter, with its various forms, All dies into new life. Life, born from death, Rolls the vast mass, and shall for ever roll. No single atom, once in being lost, With change of counsel charges the Most High. Matter immortal, and shall spirit die? Above the nobler shall less noble rise? Shall man alone, for whom all else revives,

Now resurrection know! shall man alone, Imperial man! be sown in barren ground, Less privileg’d than grain on which he feeds? Is man, in whom alone is power to prize The bliss of being, or with previous pain Deplore its period, by the spleen of fate, Severely doom’d, death’s single unredeem’d? EDWARD YOUNG, 1681–1765.

[Illustration: Evening]