Part 16

FROM THE NINTH BOOK OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs, When the fair consort of her son replies: Since you a servant's ravished form bemoan, And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own, Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate 5 A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate. No nymph of all Oechalia could compare For beauteous form with Dryope the fair, Her tender mother's only hope and pride, (Myself the offspring of a second bride.) 10 This nymph compressed by him who rules the day, Whom Delphi and the Delian isle obey, Andræmon loved; and, blessed in all those charms That pleased a god, succeeded to her arms. A lake there was, with shelving banks around, 15 Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crowned. These shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought, And to the naiads flow'ry garlands brought; Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she pressed Within her arms, and nourished at her breast. 20 Nor distant far a wat'ry lotos grows, The spring was new, and all the verdant boughs, Adorned with blossoms, promised fruits that vie In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye: Of these she cropped to please her infant son, 25 And I myself the same rash act had done: But lo! I saw (as near her side I stood,) The violated blossoms drop with blood; Upon the tree I cast a frightful look; The trembling tree with sudden horror shook. 30 Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true) As from Priapus' lawless lust she flew, Forsook her form; and fixing here, became A flow'ry plant, which still preserves her name. This change unknown, astonished at the sight, 35 My trembling sister strove to urge her flight: And first the pardon of the nymphs implored, And those offended sylvan pow'rs adored: But when she backward would have fled, she found Her stiff'ning feet were rooted in the ground: 40 In vain to free her fastened feet she strove, And, as she struggles, only moves above; She feels th' encroaching bark around her grow By quick degrees, and cover all below: Surprized at this, her trembling hand she heaves 45 To rend her hair; her hand is filled with leaves: Where late was hair the shooting leaves are seen To rise, and shade her with a sudden green. The child Amphissus, to her bosom pressed, Perceived a colder and a harder breast, 50 And found the springs, that ne'er till then denied Their milky moisture, on a sudden dried. I saw, unhappy! what I now relate, And stood the helpless witness of thy fate, Embraced thy boughs, thy rising bark delayed, 55 There wished to grow, and mingle shade with shade. Behold Andræmon and th' unhappy sire Appear, and for their Dryope inquire: A springing tree for Dryope they find, And print warm kisses on the panting rind; 60 Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew, And close embrace, as to the roots they grew. The face was all that now remained of thee, No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree; Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear, 65 From ev'ry leaf distils a trickling tear, And straight a voice, while yet a voice remains, Thus through the trembling boughs in sighs complains. If to the wretched any faith be giv'n, I swear by all th' unpitying pow'rs of heav'n, 70 No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred; In mutual innocence our lives we led: If this be false, let these new greens decay, } Let sounding axes lop my limbs away, } And crackling flames on all my honours prey. } 75 But from my branching arms this infant bear, Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care: And to his mother let him oft be led, Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed; Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame 80 Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name, To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes, Within this plant my helpless parent lies; And when in youth he seeks the shady woods, Oh! let him fly the crystal lakes and floods, 85 Nor touch the fatal flow'rs; but, warned by me, Believe a goddess shrined in ev'ry tree. My sire, my sister, and my spouse, farewell! If in your breasts or love or pity dwell, Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel 90 The browzing cattle or the piercing steel. Farewell! and since I cannot bend to join My lips to yours, advance at least to mine. My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive, While yet thy mother has a kiss to give. 95 I can no more; the creeping rind invades My closing lips, and hides my head in shades; Remove your hands, the bark shall soon suffice Without their aid to seal these dying eyes. She ceased at once to speak, and ceased to be; 100 And all the nymph was lost within the tree; Yet latent life through her new branches reigned, And long the plant a human heat retained.

FOOTNOTES:

Of all the Oechalides For form few might with Dryope compare.]

The violated myrtle ran with gore.--WAKEFIELD.]

No more a woman, nor yet quite a stone.--WAKEFIELD.]

And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears.--WAKEFIELD.]

If credit to the wretched may be giv'n, I swear by all the pow'rs embowered in heav'n.]

Or if I lie, may my green branches fade; And felled with axes on the fire be laid.]

Dear husband, sister, father, all farewell.]

At once th' encroaching rinds their closing lips invade.--WAKEFIELD.]

VERTUMNUS AND POMONA.

FROM THE FOURTEENTH BOOK OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

The fair Pomona flourished in his reign; Of all the virgins of the sylvan train, None taught the trees a nobler race to bear, Or more improved the vegetable care. To her the shady grove, the flow'ry field, 5 The streams and fountains no delights could yield; 'Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend, And see the boughs with happy burthens bend. The hook she bore instead of Cynthia's spear, To lop the growth of the luxuriant year, 10 To decent form the lawless shoots to bring, And teach th' obedient branches where to spring. Now the cleft rind inserted graffs receives, And yields an offspring more than nature gives; Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew, 15 And feed their fibres with reviving dew. These cares alone her virgin breast employ, Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy. Her private orchards, walled on ev'ry side, To lawless sylvans all access denied. 20 How oft the satyrs and the wanton fauns, Who haunt the forests, or frequent the lawns, The god whose ensign scares the birds of prey, And old Silenus, youthful in decay, Employed their wiles, and unavailing care, 25 To pass the fences, and surprise the fair? Like these, Vertumnus owned his faithful flame, Like these, rejected by the scornful dame. To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears; And first a reaper from the field appears; 30 Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain O'ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain. Oft o'er his back a crooked scythe is laid, And wreaths of hay his sun-burnt temples shade: Oft in his hardened hand a goad he bears, 35 Like one who late unyoked the sweating steers. Sometimes his pruning-hook corrects the vines, And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines. Now gath'ring what the bounteous year allows, He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs. 40 A soldier now, he with his sword appears; A fisher next, his trembling angle bears; Each shape he varies, and each art he tries, On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes. A female form at last Vertumnus wears, } 45 With all the marks of rev'rend age appears, } His temples thinly spread with silver hairs; } Propped on his staff, and stooping as he goes, A painted mitre shades his furrowed brows. The god in this decrepid form arrayed, } 50 The gardens entered, and the fruit surveyed; } And "Happy you!" (he thus addressed the maid) } "Whose charms as far all other nymphs outshine, As other gardens are excelled by thine!" Then kissed the fair; (his kisses warmer grow 55 Than such as women on their sex bestow); Then placed beside her on the flow'ry ground, Beheld the trees with autumn's bounty crowned. An elm was near, to whose embraces led, The curling vine her swelling clusters spread: 60 He viewed her twining branches with delight, And praised the beauty of the pleasing sight. Yet this tall elm, but for his vine (he said) Had stood neglected, and a barren shade; And this fair vine, but that her arms surround 65 Her married elm, had crept along the ground. Ah! beauteous maid, let this example move Your mind, averse from all the joys of love. Deign to be loved, and ev'ry heart subdue! What nymph could e'er attract such crowds as you? 70 Not she whose beauty urged the Centaur's arms, Ulysses' queen, nor Helen's fatal charms. Ev'n now, when silent scorn is all they gain, A thousand court you, though they court in vain, A thousand sylvans, demigods, and gods, 75 That haunt our mountains and our Alban woods. But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise, Whom age and long experience render wise, And one whose tender care is far above All that these lovers ever felt of love, 80 (Far more than e'er can by yourself be guessed) Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest. For his firm faith I dare engage my own; Scarce to himself, himself is better known. To distant lands Vertumnus never roves; 85 Like you, contented with his native groves: Nor at first sight, like most, admires the fair; } For you he lives; and you alone shall share } His last affection, as his early care. } Besides, he's lovely far above the rest, 90 With youth immortal, and with beauty blest. Add, that he varies ev'ry shape with ease, And tries all forms that may Pomona please. But what should most excite a mutual flame, Your rural cares and pleasures are the same: 95 To him your orchards' early fruits are due, (A pleasing off'ring when 'tis made by you;) He values these; but yet, alas! complains, That still the best and dearest gift remains. Not the fair fruit that on yon branches glows 100 With that ripe red th' autumnal sun bestows; Nor tasteful herbs that in these gardens rise, Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies; You, only you, can move the god's desire: Oh crown so constant and so pure a fire! 105 Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind; Think, 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind! So may no frost, when early buds appear, Destroy the promise of the youthful year; Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows, 110 Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs! This, when the various god had urged in vain, He straight assumed his native form again; Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears, As when through clouds th' emerging sun appears, 115 And thence exerting his refulgent ray, Dispels the darkness and reveals the day. Force he prepared, but checked the rash design; For when, appearing in a form divine, The nymph surveys him, and beholds the grace 120 Of charming features, and a youthful face, In her soft breast consenting passions move, And the warm maid confessed a mutual love.

FOOTNOTES:

Pope borrowed it from the corresponding passage of Sandys--"Soft-sliding springs."]

--his kisses too intemperate grow, Not such as maids on maidens do bestow.]

JANUARY AND MAY:

OR,

THE MERCHANT'S TALE.

FROM CHAUCER.

This translation was done at sixteen or seventeen years of age.--POPE.

The story of January and May now before us is of the comic kind; and the character of a fond old dotard betrayed into disgrace by an unsuitable match is supported in a lively manner. Pope has nowhere copied the free and easy versification, and the narrative style of Dryden's Fables, so happily as in this pleasant tale. He has endeavoured suitably to familiarise the stateliness of our heroic measure; but, after all his pains, this measure is not adapted to such subjects so well as the lines of four feet, or the French numbers of Fontaine. Fontaine is, in truth, the capital and unrivalled writer of comic tales. He generally took his subjects from Boccacio, Poggius, and Ariosto; but adorned them with so many natural strokes, with such quaintness in his reflections, and such a dryness and archness of humour, as cannot fail to excite laughter. Our Prior has happily caught his manner in many of his lighter tales, particularly in Hans Carvel. Of the tale before us, Mr. Tyrwhitt gives the following account:--"The scene of the Merchant's Tale is laid in Italy; but none of the names, except Damian and Justin, seem to be Italian, but rather made at pleasure; so that I doubt whether the story be really of Italian growth. The adventure of the pear-tree I find in a small collection of Latin fables, written by one Adolphus, in elegiac verses of his fashion, in the year 1315. This fable has never been printed but once, and in a book not commonly to be met with. Whatever was the real original of this tale, the machinery of the fairies, which Chaucer has used so happily, was probably added by himself; and indeed I cannot help thinking that his Pluto and Proserpine were the true progenitors of Oberon and Titania, or rather that they themselves have, once at least, deigned to revisit our poetical system under the latter names. In the History of English Poetry, this is said to be an old Lombard story. But many passages in it are evidently taken from the Polycraticon of John of Salisbury: De molestiis et oneribus conjugiorum secundum Hieronymum et alios philosophos--Et de pernicie libidinis--Et de mulieris Ephesinæ et similium fide. And, by the way, about forty verses belonging to this argument are translated from the same chapter of the Polycraticon, in the Wife of Bath's prologue. In the meantime, it is not improbable that this tale might have originally been oriental. A Persian tale is just published which it extremely resembles; and it has much of the allegory of an eastern apologue."--WARTON.

In the art of telling a story in verse, Pope is peculiarly happy; we almost forget the grossness of the subject of this tale, while we are struck by the uncommon ease and readiness of the verse, the suitableness of the expressions, and the spirit and happiness of the whole. I think Dr. Warton injudiciously censures the verse, which appears to me to be very suitably employed. Pope has introduced triplets in many places, no doubt for greater effect, which they certainly have. There is generally two together, ended with an Alexandrine. This is common in Dryden's fables, on which Pope evidently formed his style in these narrative pieces. When I say that Dr. Warton injudiciously objects to the verse, it should be remembered that there is a mock-elevation in the speeches, descriptions, &c., of this story, and even poetry in the fairy revels, for which the versification Pope has chosen is more proper, than it would be for Prior's burlesque, and less poetical, ribaldry. The mixture of classical and gothic imagery, such as Chaucer uses, in making Pluto and Proserpine, instead of spirits, like Oberon and Titania, the king and queen of the "yellow-skirted fays," is very common in our early poets, who derived the combination from the old romances, and Ovid.--BOWLES.

When Dryden published his version of some of Chaucer's Tales he gave, in his preface, an excellent account of the characteristics of the original. "As Chaucer," he said, "is the father of English poetry, so I hold him in the same degree of veneration as the Grecians held Homer, or the Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual fountain of good sense,--learned in all sciences, and therefore speaks properly on all subjects. He must have been a man of a most wonderful comprehensive nature, because, as it has been truly observed of him, he has taken into the compass of his Canterbury Tales the various manners, and humours, as we now call them, of the whole English nation in his age. Not a single character has escaped him. All his pilgrims are severally distinguished from each other, and not only in their inclinations, but in their very physiognomies and persons. I see them as perfectly before me,--their humours, their features, and their very dress--as distinctly as if I had supped with them at the Tabard in Southwark. The matter and manner of their tales, and of their telling, are so suited to their different educations, humours, and callings, that each of them would be improper in any other mouth. Even the grave and serious characters are distinguished by their several sorts of gravity. Their discourses are such as belong to their age, their calling, and their breeding,--such as are becoming of them, and of them only. Some of his persons are vicious, and some virtuous; some are unlearned, or, as Chaucer calls them, lewd, and some are learned. Even the ribaldry of the low characters is different. The reeve, the miller, and the cook are several men, and distinguished from each other as much as the mincing lady prioress, and the broad-speaking, gap-toothed wife of Bath. We have our forefathers, and great grand-dames all before us, as they were in Chaucer's days. Their general characters are still remaining in mankind, and even in England, though they are called by other names than those of monks and friars, and canons, and lady abesses, and nuns: for mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out of nature, though everything is altered." There were two classes of readers who exclaimed against the attempt to renovate the original,--those who held that it was too bad to be reproduced, and those who considered it too excellent to be remodelled without being spoiled. "I find," writes Dryden, "some people are offended that I have turned these tales into modern English, because they think them unworthy of my pains, and look on Chaucer as a dry, old-fashioned wit, not worth reviving. I have often heard the late Earl of Leicester say that Mr. Cowley himself was of that opinion, who having read him over at my lord's request, declared he had no taste of him. Being shocked perhaps with his old style, he never examined into the depth of his good sense. Chaucer, I confess, is a rough diamond, and must first be polished ere he shines. But there are other judges who think I ought not to have translated him into English out of a quite contrary notion. They suppose there is a certain veneration due to his old language, and that it is little less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it. They are further of opinion that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in the transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will infallibly be lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit. Of this opinion was the Earl of Leicester, who valued Chaucer as much as Mr. Cowley despised him." Dryden replied that his version was only intended for those to whom the original was unintelligible, and while allowing that the original was superior to the copy, he contended that the copy was to be preferred to a blank. If he had confined himself simply to modernising his author there would have been little force in his plea. The phraseology of Chaucer is readily mastered, and any departure from his words destroys a large part of the charm. There is a native simplicity in the mediæval works of genius which pleases like the artless manners of children, but which would be as ridiculous in a modern dress as the manners of the child in a grown-up person. Nor must we overlook the superior interest which attaches to the notions, usages, and characters of our ancestors when the picture is painted by themselves. A copy in which costumes and colouring have been completely changed is but an adulterate representation. The antique peculiarities and primitive freshness are gone. The real justification of Dryden's undertaking was not that his version was a substitute for the original, but that it was a glorious supplement. Little as he scrupled to assert his own merits he could not press this argument to its full extent, though he was evidently conscious of the truth. He states that as the old poet was occasionally diffuse, and more often undignified, he had curtailed the redundancies, and rejected the trivialities. He did not stop at the easy office of omission. "I dare," he says, "to add that what beauties I lose in some places I give to others which had them not originally. If I have altered Chaucer anywhere for the better I must at the same time acknowledge that I could have done nothing without him. Facile est inventis addere, is no great commendation, and I am not so vain to think I have deserved a greater." In dramatic power and pathos, which are Chaucer's strongest points, Dryden has not improved upon him; but upon the whole he has narrated the tales in a higher strain of poetry, in richer and more felicitous language, and with the addition of many new and happy ideas. A few short examples will show the nature of the changes he introduced into numerous passages in the process of recasting them. The Wife of Bath's Tale commences with these lines:

In olde dayes of the King Arthour Of which that Britains speken great honour, All was this land fulfillèd of fairie; The elf-queen with her jolly company, Dancèd full oft in many a greene mead; This was the old opinion, as I read; I speak of many hundred year ago; But now can no man see none elves mo. For now the greate charity and prayers Of limitours, and other holy freres, That seeken every land, and every stream, As thick as motes in the sunne-beam, Blessing halls, chambers, kitchenes, and bowers, Cities, and boroughs, castles high, and towers, Thorpes and barnes, sheepnes, and daieries, That maketh that there be no faieries.

This is one of the prettiest pieces of verse in the Canterbury Tales. Dryden has expanded and excelled it.

In days of old when Arthur filled the throne, Whose acts and fame to foreign lands were blown, The king of elfs, and little fairy queen, Gambolled on heaths, and danced on every green, And where the jolly troop had led the round The grass unbidden rose, and marked the ground: Nor darkling did they dance; the silver light } Of Phoebe served to guide their steps aright, } And, with their tripping pleased, prolonged the night. } Her beams they followed where at full she played, } Nor longer than she shed her horns they stayed, } From thence with airy flight to foreign lands conveyed. } Above the rest our Britain held they dear, } More solemnly they kept their sabbaths here, } And made more spacious rings, and revelled half the year. } I speak of ancient times, for now the swain, } Returning late, may pass the woods in vain, } And never hope to see the nightly train. }