While Norman Tancred in Salerno reigned,

The title of a gracious prince he gained;

Till turned a tyrant in his latter days,

He lost the lustre of his former praise,

And, from the bright meridian where he stood

Descending, dipped his hands in lovers' blood.

This prince, of fortune's favour long possessed,

Yet was with one fair daughter only blessed;

And blessed he might have been with her alone,

But oh! how much more happy had he none!

She was his care, his hope, and his delight,

Most in his thought, and ever in his sight:

Next, nay beyond his life, he held her dear;

She lived by him, and now he lived in her.

For this, when ripe for marriage, he delayed

Her nuptial bands, and kept her long a maid,

As envying any else should share a part

Of what was his, and claiming all her heart.

At length, as public decency required,

And all his vassals eagerly desired,

With mind averse, he rather underwent

His people's will, than gave his own consent.

So was she torn as from a lover's side,

And made, almost in his despite, a bride.

Short were her marriage-joys; for in the prime

Of youth, her lord expired before his time;

And to her father's court in little space }

Restored anew, she held a higher place; }

More loved, and more exalted into grace. }

This princess, fresh and young, and fair and wise,

The worshipped idol of her father's eyes,

Did all her sex in every grace exceed,

And had more wit beside than women need.

Youth, health, and ease, and most an amorous mind, }

To second nuptials had her thoughts inclined, }

And former joys had left a secret sting behind. }

But, prodigal in every other grant,

Her sire left unsupplied her only want;

And she, betwixt her modesty and pride,

Her wishes, which she could not help, would hide.

Resolved at last to lose no longer time,

And yet to please herself without a crime,

She cast her eyes around the court, to find

A worthy subject suiting to her mind,

To him in holy nuptials to be tied,

A seeming widow, and a secret bride.

Among the train of courtiers, one she found

With all the gifts of bounteous nature crowned;

Of gentle blood, but one whose niggard fate

Had set him far below her high estate:

Guiscard his name was called, of blooming age,

Now squire to Tancred, and before his page:

To him, the choice of all the shining crowd,

Her heart the noble Sigismonda vowed.

Yet hitherto she kept her love concealed,

And with close glances every day beheld

The graceful youth; and every day increased

The raging fire that burned within her breast:

Some secret charm did all his acts attend,

And what his fortune wanted, hers could mend;

Till, as the fire will force its outward way,

Or, in the prison pent, consume the prey,

So long her earnest eyes on his were set,

At length their twisted rays together met;

And he, surprised with humble joy, surveyed

One sweet regard, shot by the royal maid.

Not well assured, while doubtful hopes he nursed,

A second glance came gliding like the first;

And he, who saw the sharpness of the dart,

Without defence received it in his heart.

In public, though their passion wanted speech,

Yet mutual looks interpreted for each:

Time, ways, and means of meeting, were denied;

But all those wants ingenious love supplied.

The inventive God, who never fails his part,

Inspires the wit, when once he warms the heart.

When Guiscard next was in the circle seen,

Where Sigismonda held the place of queen,

A hollow cane within her hand she brought,

But in the concave had inclosed a note;

With this she seemed to play, and, as in sport,

Tossed to her love, in presence of the court:

Take it, she said; and when your needs require,

This little brand will serve to light your fire.--

He took it with a bow, and soon divined

The seeming toy was not for nought designed:

But when retired, so long with curious eyes

He viewed the present, that he found the prize.

Much was in little writ; and all conveyed }

With cautious care, for fear to be betrayed }

By some false confident, or favourite maid. }

The time, the place, the manner how to meet,

Were all in punctual order plainly writ:

But since a trust must be, she thought it best }

To put it out of laymen's power at least, }

And for their solemn vows prepared a priest. }

Guiscard (her secret purpose understood)

With joy prepared to meet the coming good;

Nor pains nor danger was resolved to spare,

But use the means appointed by the fair.

Near the proud palace of Salerno stood

A mount of rough ascent, and thick with wood;

Through this a cave was dug with vast expence,

The work it seemed of some suspicious prince,

Who, when abusing power with lawless might,

From public justice would secure his flight.

The passage made by many a winding way,

Reached even the room in which the tyrant lay.

Fit for his purpose, on a lower floor

He lodged, whose issue was an iron door;

From whence, by stairs descending to the ground,

In the blind grot a safe retreat he found.

Its outlet ended in a brake o'ergrown

With brambles, choked by time, and now unknown.

A rift there was, which from the mountain's height

Conveyed a glimmering and malignant light,

A breathing place to draw the damps away,

A twilight of an intercepted day.

The tyrant's den, whose use, though lost to fame,

Was now the apartment of the royal dame;

The cavern, only to her father known,

By him was to his darling daughter shewn.

Neglected long she let the secret rest,

Till love recalled it to her labouring breast,

And hinted as the way by heaven designed,

The teacher, by the means he taught, to blind.

What will not women do, when need inspires

Their wit, or love their inclination fires!

Though jealousy of state the invention found,

Yet love refined upon the former ground.

That way, the tyrant had reserved to fly

Pursuing hate, now served to bring two lovers nigh.

The dame, who long in vain had kept the key,

Bold by desire, explored the secret way;

Now tried the stairs, and wading through the night,

Searched all the deep recess, and issued into light.

All this her letter had so well explained,

The instructed youth might compass what remained;

The cavern mouth alone was hard to find,

Because the path, disused, was out of mind:

But in what quarter of the copse it lay,

His eye by certain level could survey:

Yet (for the wood perplexed with thorns he knew)

A frock of leather o'er his limbs he drew;[214]

And, thus provided, searched the brake around,

Till the choked entry of the cave he found.

Thus, all prepared, the promised hour arrived,

So long expected, and so well contrived:

With love to friend, the impatient lover went,

Fenced from the thorns, and trod the deep descent.

The conscious priest, who was suborned before,

Stood ready posted at the postern door;

The maids in distant rooms were sent to rest,

And nothing wanted but the invited guest.

He came, and, knocking thrice without delay,

The longing lady heard, and turned the key;

At once invaded him with all her charms,

And the first step he made was in her arms:

The leathern outside, boisterous as it was,

Gave way, and bent beneath her strict embrace:

On either side the kisses flew so thick,

That neither he nor she had breath to speak.

The holy man, amazed at what he saw,

Made haste to sanctify the bliss by law;

And muttered fast the matrimony o'er,

For fear committed sin should get before.

His work performed, he left the pair alone, }

Because he knew he could not go too soon; }

His presence odious, when his task was done. }

What thoughts he had beseems not me to say; }

Though some surmise he went to fast and pray, }

And needed both to drive the tempting thoughts away. }

The foe once gone, they took their full delight;

'Twas restless rage, and tempest all the night;

For greedy love each moment would employ,

And grudged the shortest pauses of their joy.

Thus were their loves auspiciously begun,

And thus with secret care were carried on.

The stealth itself did appetite restore,

And looked so like a sin, it pleased the more.

The cave was now become a common way,

The wicket, often opened, knew the key:

Love rioted secure, and, long enjoyed,

Was ever eager, and was never cloyed.

But as extremes are short, of ill and good,

And tides at highest mark regorge the flood;

So fate, that could no more improve their joy,

Took a malicious pleasure to destroy.

Tancred, who fondly loved, and whose delight

Was placed in his fair daughter's daily sight,

Of custom, when his state affairs were done,

Would pass his pleasing hours with her alone;

And, as a father's privilege allowed,

Without attendance of the officious crowd.

It happened once, that when in heat of day

He tried to sleep, as was his usual way,

The balmy slumber fled his wakeful eyes,

And forced him, in his own despite, to rise:

Of sleep forsaken, to relieve his care,

He sought the conversation of the fair;

But with her train of damsels she was gone,

In shady walks the scorching heat to shun:

He would not violate that sweet recess,

And found besides a welcome heaviness,

That seized his eyes; and slumber, which forgot

When called before to come, now came unsought.

From light retired, behind his daughter's bed,

He for approaching sleep composed his head;

A chair was ready, for that use designed,

So quilted, that he lay at ease reclined;

The curtains closely drawn, the light to skreen,

As if he had contrived to lie unseen:

Thus covered with an artificial night,

Sleep did his office soon, and sealed his sight.

With heaven averse in this ill-omened hour,

Was Guiscard summoned to the secret bower,

And the fair nymph, with expectation fired,

From her attending damsels was retired:

For, true to love, she measured time so right,

As not to miss one moment of delight.

The garden, seated on the level floor,

She left behind, and locking every door,

Thought all secure; but little did she know,

Blind to her fate, she had inclosed her foe.

Attending Guiscard, in his leathern frock,

Stood ready, with his thrice-repeated knock:

Thrice with a doleful sound the jarring grate

Rung deaf and hollow, and presaged their fate.

The door unlocked, to known delight they haste,

And, panting in each other's arms, embraced;

Rush to the conscious bed, a mutual freight,

And heedless press it with their wonted weight.

The sudden bound awaked the sleeping sire,

And shewed a sight no parent can desire;

His opening eyes at once with odious view

The love discovered, and the lover knew:

He would have cried; but hoping that he dreamt,

Amazement tied his tongue, and stopped the attempt.

The ensuing moment all the truth declared, }

But now he stood collected, and prepared; }

For malice and revenge had put him on his guard. }

So like a lion that unheeded lay, }

Dissembling sleep, and watchful to betray, }

With inward rage he meditates his prey. }

The thoughtless pair, indulging their desires,

Alternate kindled, and then quenched their fires;

Nor thinking in the shades of death they played, }

Full of themselves, themselves alone surveyed, }

And, too secure, were by themselves betrayed. }

Long time dissolved in pleasure thus they lay,

Till nature could no more suffice their play;

Then rose the youth, and, through the cave again

Returned, the princess mingled with her train.

Resolved his unripe vengeance to defer,

The royal spy, when now the coast was clear,

Sought not the garden, but retired unseen,

To brood in secret on his gathered spleen,

And methodize revenge: to death he grieved;

And, but he saw the crime, had scarce believed.

The appointment for the ensuing night he heard, }

And therefore in the cavern had prepared }

Two brawny yeomen of his trusty guard. }

Scarce had unwary Guiscard set his foot

Within the foremost entrance of the grot,

When these in secret ambush ready lay,

And rushing on the sudden seized the prey:

Encumbered with his frock, without defence, }

An easy prize, they led the prisoner thence, }

And, as commanded, brought before the prince. }

The gloomy sire, too sensible of wrong,

To vent his rage in words, restrained his tongue,

And only said,--Thus servants are preferred,

And, trusted, thus their sovereigns they reward.

Had I not seen, had not these eyes received

Too clear a proof, I could not have believed.--

He paused, and choked the rest. The youth, who saw

His forfeit life abandoned to the law,

The judge the accuser, and the offence to him

Who had both power and will to avenge the crime.

No vain defence prepared; but thus replied:--

The faults of love by love are justified:

With unresisted might the monarch reigns,

He levels mountains, and he raises plains;

And not regarding difference of degree,

Abased your daughter, and exalted me.--

This bold return with seeming patience heard,

The prisoner was remitted to the guard.

The sullen tyrant slept not all the night,

But lonely walking by a winking light,

Sobbed, wept, and groaned, and beat his withered breast,

But would not violate his daughter's rest;

Who long expecting lay, for bliss prepared,

Listning for noise, and grieved that none she heard;

Oft rose, and oft in vain employed the key, }

And oft accused her lover of delay, }

And passed the tedious hours in anxious thoughts away. }

The morrow came; and at his usual hour

Old Tancred visited his daughter's bower;

Her cheek (for such his custom was) he kissed,

Then blessed her kneeling, and her maids dismissed.

The royal dignity thus far maintained,

Now left in private, he no longer feigned;

But all at once his grief and rage appeared,

And floods of tears ran trickling down his beard.

O Sigismonda,--he began to say: }

Thrice he began, and thrice was forced to stay, }

Till words with often trying found their way:-- }

I thought, O Sigismonda, (but how blind

Are parents' eyes, their children's faults to find!)

Thy virtue, birth, and breeding, were above

A mean desire, and vulgar sense of love;

Nor less than sight and hearing could convince }

So fond a father, and so just a prince, }

Of such an unforeseen and unbelieved offence. }

Then what indignant sorrow must I have,

To see thee lie subjected to my slave!

A man so smelling of the people's lee,

The court received him first for charity;

And since with no degree of honour graced,

But only suffered, where he first was placed.

A grovelling insect still; and so designed

By nature's hand, nor born of noble kind:

A thing, by neither man nor woman prized,

And scarcely known enough to be despised.

To what has heaven reserved my age? Ah! why

Should man, when nature calls, not chuse to die,

Rather than stretch the span of life, to find

Such ills as fate has wisely cast behind,

For those to feel, whom fond desire to live

Makes covetous of more than life can give!

Each has his share of good; and when 'tis gone,

The guest, though hungry, cannot rise too soon.

But I, expecting more, in my own wrong

Protracting life, have lived a day too long.

If yesterday could be recalled again,

Even now would I conclude my happy reign;

But 'tis too late, my glorious race is run,

And a dark cloud o'ertakes my setting sun.

Had'st thou not loved, or, loving, saved the shame,

If not the sin, by some illustrious name,

This little comfort had relieved my mind,

'Twas frailty, not unusual to thy kind:

But thy low fall beneath thy royal blood,

Shews downward appetite to mix with mud.

Thus not the least excuse is left for thee,

Nor the least refuge for unhappy me.

For him I have resolved; whom by surprise

I took, and scarce can tell it, in disguise;

For such was his attire, as, with intent

Of nature, suited to his mean descent:

The harder question yet remains behind, }

What pains a parent and a prince can find }

To punish an offence of this degenerate kind. }

As I have loved, and yet I love thee more

Than ever father loved a child before,

So that indulgence draws me to forgive:

Nature, that gave thee life, would have thee live.

But, as a public parent of the state,

My justice, and thy crime, requires thy fate.

Fain would I choose a middle course to steer;

Nature's too kind, and justice too severe:

Speak for us both, and to the balance bring

On either side the father and the king.

Heaven knows, my heart is bent to favour thee;

Make it but scanty weight, and leave the rest to me.--

Here stopping with a sigh, he poured a flood

Of tears, to make his last expression good.

She, who had heard him speak, nor saw alone

The secret conduct of her love was known,

But he was taken who her soul possessed,

Felt all the pangs of sorrow in her breast:

And little wanted, but a woman's heart,

With cries and tears, had testified her smart:

But inborn worth, that fortune can controul,

New-strung, and stiffer bent her softer soul;

The heroine assumed the woman's place,

Confirmed her mind, and fortified her face:

Why should she beg, or what could she pretend,

When her stern father had condemned her friend!

Her life she might have had; but her despair

Of saving his, had put it past her care:

Resolved on fate, she would not lose her breath,

But, rather than not die, solicit death.

Fixed on this thought, she, not as women use,

Her fault by common frailty would excuse;

But boldly justified her innocence,

And while the fact was owned, denied the offence:

Then with dry eyes, and with an open look,

She met his glance mid-way, and thus undaunted spoke:--

Tancred, I neither am disposed to make

Request for life, nor offered life to take;

Much less deny the deed; but least of all

Beneath pretended justice weakly fall.

My words to sacred truth shall be confined,

My deeds shall shew the greatness of my mind.

That I have loved, I own; that still I love,

I call to witness all the powers above:

Yet more I own; to Guiscard's love I give

The small remaining time I have to live;

And if beyond this life desire can be,

Not fate itself shall set my passion free.

This first avowed; nor folly warped my mind,

Nor the frail texture of the female kind

Betrayed my virtue; for, too well I knew

What honour was, and honour had his due:

Before the holy priest my vows were tied,

So came I not a strumpet, but a bride.

This for my fame, and for the public voice;

Yet more, his merits justified my choice:

Which had they not, the first election thine,

That bond dissolved, the next is freely mine:

Or grant I erred, (which yet I must deny)

Had parents power even second vows to tie,

Thy little care to mend my widowed nights, }

Has forced me to recourse of marriage-rites, }

To fill an empty side, and follow known delights. }

What have I done in this, deserving blame?

State-laws may alter; nature's are the same;

Those are usurped on helpless womankind,

Made without our consent, and wanting power to bind.

Thou, Tancred, better shouldst have understood,

That, as thy father gave thee flesh and blood,

So gavest thou me: not from the quarry hewed,

But of a softer mould, with sense endued;

Even softer than thy own, of suppler kind,

More exquisite of taste, and more than man refined.

Nor need'st thou by thy daughter to be told,

Though now thy spritely blood with age be cold,

Thou hast been young; and canst remember still,

That when thou hadst the power, thou hadst the will;

And from the past experience of thy fires, }

Canst tell with what a tide our strong desires }

Come rushing on in youth, and what their rage requires. }

And grant thy youth was exercised in arms,

When love no leisure found for softer charms,

My tender age in luxury was trained, }

With idle ease and pageants entertained; }

My hours my own, my pleasures unrestrained. }

So bred, no wonder if I took the bent

That seemed even warranted by thy consent;

For when the father is too fondly kind,

Such seed he sows, such harvest shall he find.

Blame then thyself, as reason's law requires,

(Since nature gave, and thou foment'st my fires;)

If still those appetites continue strong,

Thou may'st consider I am yet but young.

Consider too, that, having been a wife,

I must have tasted of a better life;

And am not to be blamed, if I renew,

By lawful means, the joys which then I knew.

Where was the crime, if pleasure I procured;

Young, and a woman, and to bliss inured?

That was my case, and this is my defence:-- }

I pleased myself, I shunned incontinence, }

And, urged by strong desires, indulged my sense. }

Left to myself, I must avow, I strove

From public shame to screen my secret love,

And, well acquainted with thy native pride, }

Endeavoured what I could not help, to hide; }

For which a woman's wit an easy way supplied. }

How this, so well contrived, so closely laid,

Was known to thee, or by what chance betrayed,

Is not my care; to please thy pride alone,

I could have wished it had been still unknown.

Nor took I Guiscard by blind fancy led,

Or hasty choice, as many women wed;

But with deliberate care, and ripened thought,

At leisure first designed, before I wrought.

On him I rested, after long debate,

And, not without considering, fixed my fate.

His flame was equal, though by mine inspired;

(For so the difference of our birth required:)

Had he been born like me, like me his love

Had first begun, what mine was forced to move:

But thus beginning, thus we persevere; }

Our passions yet continue what they were, }

Nor length of trial makes our joys the less sincere. }

At this my choice, though not by thine allowed,

(Thy judgment herding with the common crowd,)

Thou tak'st unjust offence; and, led by them,

Dost less the merit than the man esteem.

Too sharply, Tancred, by thy pride betrayed,

Hast thou against the laws of kind inveighed;

For all the offence is in opinion placed,

Which deems high birth by lowly choice debased.

This thought alone with fury fires thy breast,

(For holy marriage justifies the rest,)

That I have sunk the glories of the state,

And mixed my blood with a plebeian mate:

In which I wonder thou shouldst oversee }

Superior causes, or impute to me }

The fault of fortune, or the Fates' decree. }

Or call it heaven's imperial power alone,

Which moves on springs of justice, though unknown;

Yet this we see, though ordered for the best,

The bad exalted, and the good oppressed;

Permitted laurels grace the lawless brow;

The unworthy raised, the worthy cast below.

But leaving that: search we the secret springs,

And backward trace the principles of things;

There shall we find, that, when the world began,

One common mass composed the mould of man;

One paste of flesh on all degrees bestowed,

And kneaded up alike with moistening blood.

The same Almighty Power inspired the frame

With kindled life, and formed the souls the same:

The faculties of intellect and will }

Dispensed with equal hand, disposed with equal skill, }

Like liberty indulged, with choice of good or ill. }

Thus born alike, from virtue first began

The difference that distinguished man from man:

He claimed no title from descent of blood,

But that which made him noble made him good.

Warmed with more particles of heavenly flame, }

He winged his upward flight, and soared to fame; }

The rest remained below, a tribe without a name. }

This law, though custom now diverts the course,

As nature's institute, is yet in force;

Uncancelled, though disused: and he, whose mind

Is virtuous, is alone of noble kind;

Though poor in fortune, of celestial race;

And he commits the crime, who calls him base.

Now lay the line, and measure all thy court

By inward virtue, not external port,

And find whom justly to prefer above

The man on whom my judgment placed my love;

So shalt thou see his parts and person shine,

And, thus compared, the rest a base degenerate line.

Nor took I, when I first surveyed thy court,

His valour or his virtues on report;

But trusted what I ought to trust alone,

Relying on thy eyes, and not my own;

Thy praise (and thine was then the public voice)

First recommended Guiscard to my choice:

Directed thus by thee, I looked, and found

A man I thought deserving to be crowned;

First by my father pointed to my sight,

Nor less conspicuous by his native light;

His mind, his mien, the features of his face,

Excelling all the rest of human race:

These were thy thoughts, and thou couldst judge aright,

Till interest made a jaundice in thy sight.

Or should I grant thou didst not rightly see,

Then thou wert first deceived, and I deceived by thee.

But if thou shalt allege, through pride of mind,

Thy blood with one of base condition joined,

'Tis false; for 'tis not baseness to be poor:

His poverty augments thy crime the more;

Upbraids thy justice with the scant regard

Of worth; whom princes praise, they should reward.

Are these the kings entrusted by the crowd

With wealth, to be dispensed for common good?

The people sweat not for their king's delight,

To enrich a pimp, or raise a parasite;

Theirs is the toil; and he, who well has served

His country, has his country's wealth deserved.

Even mighty monarchs oft are meanly born,

And kings by birth to lowest rank return;

All subject to the power of giddy chance,

For fortune can depress, or can advance:

But true nobility is of the mind,

Not given by chance, and not to chance resigned.

For the remaining doubt of thy decree,

What to resolve, and how dispose of me;

Be warned to cast that useless care aside,

Myself alone will for myself provide.

If in thy doating and decrepit age,

Thy soul, a stranger in thy youth to rage,

Begins in cruel deeds to take delight,

Gorge with my blood thy barbarous appetite;

For I so little am disposed to pray

For life, I would not cast a wish away.

Such as it is, the offence is all my own;

And what to Guiscard is already done,

Or to be done is doomed by thy decree, }

That, if not executed first by thee, }

Shall on my person be performed by me. }

Away! with women weep, and leave me here,

Fixed, like a man, to die without a tear;

Or save, or slay us both this present hour,

'Tis all that fate has left within thy power.--

She said; nor did her father fail to find,

In all she spoke, the greatness of her mind;

Yet thought she was not obstinate to die,

Nor deemed the death she promised was so nigh.

Secure in this belief, he left the dame,

Resolved to spare her life, and save her shame;

But that detested object to remove,

To wreck his vengeance, and to cure her love.

Intent on this, a secret order signed

The death of Guiscard to his guards enjoined;

Strangling was chosen, and the night the time;

A mute revenge, and blind as was the crime.

His faithful heart, a bloody sacrifice,

Torn from his breast, to glut the tyrant's eyes,

Closed the severe command; for (slaves to pay)

What kings decree, the soldier must obey:

Waged against foes; and when the wars are o'er,

Fit only to maintain despotic power;

Dangerous to freedom, and desired alone

By kings, who seek an arbitrary throne.[215]

Such were these guards; as ready to have slain

The prince himself, allured with greater gain:

So was the charge performed with better will,

By men inured to blood, and exercised in ill.

Now, though the sullen sire had eased his mind, }

The pomp of his revenge was yet behind, }

A pomp prepared to grace the present he designed. }

A goblet rich with gems, and rough with gold,

Of depth and breadth the precious pledge to hold,

With cruel care he chose; the hollow part

Inclosed, the lid concealed the lover's heart.

Then of his trusted mischiefs one he sent,

And bade him, with these words, the gift present:--

"Thy father sends thee this to cheer thy breast,

And glad thy sight with what thou lov'st the best;

As thou hast pleased his eyes, and joyed his mind,

With what he loved the most of human kind."--

Ere this, the royal dame, who well had weighed

The consequence of what her sire had said,

Fixed on her fate, against the expected hour,

procured the means to have it in her power;

For this, she had distilled, with early care,

The juice of simples, friendly to despair,

A magazine of death; and thus prepared,

Secure to die, the fatal message heard:

Then smiled severe; nor with a troubled look,

Or trembling hand, the funeral present took;

Even kept her countenance, when the lid removed

Disclosed the heart, unfortunately loved.

She needed not be told, within whose breast

It lodged; the message had explained the rest.

Or not amazed, or hiding her surprise,

She sternly on the bearer fixed her eyes;

Then thus:--Tell Tancred, on his daughter's part,

The gold, though precious, equals not the heart:

But he did well to give his best; and I,

Who wished a worthier urn, forgive his poverty.--

At this she curbed a groan, that else had come,

And, pausing, viewed the present in the tomb;

Then to the heart, adored devoutly, glued

Her lips, and, raising it, her speech renewed:--

Even from my day of birth to this, the bound

Of my unhappy being, I have found

My father's care and tenderness expressed;

But this last act of love excels the rest:

For this so dear a present, bear him back

The best return that I can live to make.--

The messenger dispatched, again she viewed

The loved remains, and, sighing, thus pursued:--

Source of my life, and lord of my desires,

In whom I lived, with whom my soul expires!

Poor heart! no more the spring of vital heat;

Cursed be the hands that tore thee from thy seat!

The course is finished which thy fates decreed,

And thou from thy corporeal prison freed:

Soon hast thou reached the goal with mended pace;

A world of woes dispatched in little space.

Forced by thy worth, thy foe, in death become

Thy friend, has lodged thee in a costly tomb.

There yet remained thy funeral exequies,

The weeping tribute of thy widow's eyes;

And those indulgent heaven has found the way,

That I, before my death, have leave to pay.

My father even in cruelty is kind, }

Or heaven has turned the malice of his mind }

To better uses than his hate designed; }

And made the insult, which in his gift appears,

The means to mourn thee with my pious tears;

Which I will pay thee down before I go,

And save myself the pains to weep below,

If souls can weep. Though once I meant to meet

My fate with face unmoved, and eyes unwet,

Yet, since I have thee here in narrow room,

My tears shall set thee first afloat within thy tomb.

Then (as I know thy spirit hovers nigh)

Under thy friendly conduct will I fly

To regions unexplored, secure to share }

Thy state; nor hell shall punishment appear; }

And heaven is double heaven, if thou art there.-- }

She said: Her brimful eyes, that ready stood,

And only wanted will to weep a flood,

Released their watery store, and poured amain,

Like clouds low-hung, a sober shower of rain;

Mute solemn sorrow, free from female noise,

Such as the majesty of grief destroys;

For, bending o'er the cup, the tears she shed,

Seemed by the posture to discharge her head,

O'er-filled before; and (oft her mouth applied

To the cold heart) she kissed at once, and cried.

Her maids, who stood amazed, nor knew the cause

Of her complaining, nor whose heart it was,

Yet all due measures of her mourning kept,

Did office at the dirge, and by infection wept,

And oft enquired the occasion of her grief,

(Unanswered but by sighs) and offered vain relief.

At length, her stock of tears already shed,

She wiped her eyes, she raised her drooping head,

And thus pursued:--O ever faithful heart,

I have performed the ceremonial part,

The decencies of grief; it rests behind,

That, as our bodies were, our souls be joined;

To thy whate'er abode my shade convey,

And, as an elder ghost, direct the way!--

She said; and bade the vial to be brought,

Where she before had brewed the deadly draught;

First pouring out the med'cinable bane,

The heart, her tears had rinsed, she bathed again;

Then down her throat the death securely throws,

And quaffs a long oblivion of her woes.

This done, she mounts the genial bed, and there

(Her body first composed with honest care)

Attends the welcome rest; her hands yet hold,

Close to her heart, the monumental gold;

Nor farther word she spoke, but closed her sight,

And quiet sought the covert of the night.

The damsels, who the while in silence mourned,

Not knowing, nor suspecting death suborned,

Yet, as their duty was, to Tancred sent,

Who, conscious of the occasion, feared the event.

Alarmed, and with presaging heart, he came,

And drew the curtains, and exposed the dame

To loathsome light; then, with a late relief,

Made vain efforts to mitigate her grief.

She, what she could, excluding day, her eyes

Kept firmly sealed, and sternly thus replies:--

Tancred, restrain thy tears, unsought by me,

And sorrow unavailing now to thee:

Did ever man before afflict his mind,

To see the effect of what himself designed?

Yet if thou hast remaining in thy heart

Some sense of love, some unextinguished part

Of former kindness, largely once professed, }

Let me by that adjure thy hardened breast, }

Not to deny thy daughter's last request: }

The secret love which I so long enjoyed,

And still concealed, to gratify thy pride,

Thou hast disjoined; but, with my dying breath,

Seek not, I beg thee, to disjoin our death:

Where'er his corpse by thy command is laid,

Thither let mine in public be conveyed;

Exposed in open view, and side by side,

Acknowledged as a bridegroom and a bride.--

The prince's anguish hindered his reply;

And she, who felt her fate approaching nigh,

Seized the cold heart, and heaving to her breast,--

Here, precious pledge, she said, securely rest.--

These accents were her last; the creeping death

Benumbed her senses first, then stopped her breath.

Thus she for disobedience justly died;

The sire was justly punished for his pride;

The youth, least guilty, suffered for the offence,

Of duty violated to his prince;

Who, late repenting of his cruel deed,

One common sepulchre for both decreed;

Entombed the wretched pair in royal state,

And on their monument inscribed their fate.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 214: This minute circumstance, which is mentioned by Boccacio,

seems to argue, that the story had a real, at least a traditional

foundation; for there is no other reason why it should have been

introduced.]

[Footnote 215: The dispute between William and his Parliament about his

favourite Dutch guards, was obviously in Dryden's recollection.]

ORIGINAL, FROM THE DECAMERON.

THE FOURTH DAY.

NOVEL I.

_Tancred, prince of Salerno, puts his daughter's lover to death,

and sends his heart to her in a golden cup; she pours water upon

it, which she had poisoned, and so dies._

Our king has given us a most melancholy subject for this day's

discourse; considering that, as we came hither to be merry, we must now

recount other people's misfortunes, which cannot be related without

moving compassion, as well in those who tell, as in those who hear them.

Perhaps it is designed as an allay to the mirth of the preceding days.

But, whatever his reason may be for it, I have no business to make any

alteration with regard to his pleasure. I shall, therefore, mention an

unhappy story to you, worthy of your most tender compassion.

Tancred, prince of Salerno, was a most humane and generous lord, had he

not, in his old age, defiled his hands in a lover's blood. He, through

the whole course of his life, had one only daughter; and happy had he

been not to have possessed her. No child could be more dear to a parent

than she was, which made him loth to part with her in marriage: at

length, not till she was a little advanced in years, he married her to

the duke of Capoa, when she was soon left a widow, and came home again

to her father. She was a lady of great beauty and understanding, and

continuing thus in the court of her father, who took no care to marry

her again, and it seeming not so modest in her to ask it, she resolved

at last to have a lover privately. Accordingly, she made choice of a

person of low parentage, but noble qualities, whose name was Guiscard,

with whom she became violently in love; and by often seeing him, and

evermore commending his manner and behaviour, he soon became sensible of

it, and devoted himself entirely to the love of her. Affecting each

other thus in secret, and she desiring nothing so much as to be with

him, and not daring to trust any person with the affair, contrived a new

stratagem in order to apprise him of the means. She wrote a letter,

wherein she mentioned what she would have him do the next day for her;

this she put into a hollow cane, and giving it to him one day, she said,

pleasantly, "You may make a pair of bellows of this, for your servant to

blow the fire with this evening." He received it, supposing, very

justly, that it had some meaning, and, taking it home, found the letter;

which, when he had thoroughly considered, and knew what he had to do, he

was the most overjoyed man that could be; and he applied himself

accordingly to answer her assignation, in the manner she had directed

him. On one side of the palace, and under a mountain, was a grotto,

which had been made time out of mind, and into which no light could come

but through a little opening dug in the mountain, and which, as the

grotto had been long in disuse, was now grown over with briers and

thorns. Into this grotto was a passage, by a private stair-case, out of

one of the rooms of the palace, which belonged to the lady's apartment,

and was secured by a very strong door. This passage was so far out of

every one's thoughts, having been disused for so long a time, that

nobody remembered any thing about it; but love, whose notice nothing can

escape, brought it fresh into the mind of the enamoured lady; who, to

keep this thing entirely private, laboured some days before she could

get the door open; when having gone down into the cave, and observed the

opening, and how high it might be from thence to the bottom, she

acquainted him with the fact. Guiscard then provided a ladder of cords;

and casing himself well with leather, to be defended from the thorns,

fixing one end of the ladder to the stump of a tree which was near, he

slid down by the help of it to the bottom, where he stayed expecting the

lady. The following day, therefore, having sent her maids out of the

way, under pretence that she was going to lie down, and locking herself

up alone in her chamber, she opened the door, and descended into the

grotto, where they met to their mutual satisfaction. From thence she

shewed him the way to her chamber, where they were together the greatest

part of the day, and taking proper measures for the time to come, he

went away through the cave, and she returned to her maids. The same he

did the next night; and he followed this course for a considerable time,

when fortune, as if she envied them their happiness, thought fit to

change their mirth into mourning. Tancred used sometimes to come into

his daughter's chamber, to pass a little time away with her; and going

thither one day after dinner, whilst the lady, whose name was Ghismond,

was with her maids in the garden; and being perceived by no one, nor yet

willing to take her from her diversion, finding also the windows shut,

and the curtains drawn to the feet of the bed, he threw himself down in

a great chair, which stood in a corner of the room, leaning his head

upon the bed, and drawing the curtain before him, as if he concealed

himself on purpose, when he chanced to fall asleep. In the mean time,

Ghismond having made an appointment with her lover, left the maids in

the garden, and came into her chamber, which she secured, not thinking

of any person being there, and went to meet Guiscard, who was in the

cave waiting for her, and brought him into her chamber; when her father

awoke, and was a witness to all that passed between them. This was the

utmost affliction to him, and he was about to cry out; but, upon second

thoughts, he resolved to keep it private, if possible, that he might be

able to do more securely, and with less disgrace, what he had resolved

upon. The lovers stayed together their usual time, without perceiving

any thing of Tancred, who, after they were departed, got out of the

window into the garden, old as he was, and went, without being seen by

any one, very sorrowful to his chamber. The next night, according to his

orders, Guiscard was seized by two men as he was coming out of the cave,

and carried by them, in his leathern doublet, to Tancred, who, as soon

as he saw him, said, with tears in his eyes: "Guiscard, you have ill

requited my kindness towards you, by this outrage and shame which you

have brought upon me, and of which this very day I have been an

eye-witness." When he made no other answer but this: "Sir, love hath

greater power than either you or I." Tancred then ordered a guard to be

set over him. And the next day he went to his daughter's apartment as

usual, she knowing nothing of what had happened, and shutting the door,

that they might be private together, he said to her, weeping, "Daughter,

I had such an opinion of your modesty and virtue, that I could never

have believed, had I not seen it with my own eyes, that you would have

violated either, even so much as in thought. My reflecting on this will

make the small pittance of life that is left very grievous to me. As you

were determined to act in that manner, would to heaven you had made

choice of a person more suitable to your own quality; but for this

Guiscard, he is one of the very meanest persons about my court. This

gives me such concern, that I scarcely know what to do. As for him, he

was secured by my order last night, and his fate is determined. But,

with regard to yourself, I am influenced by two different motives; on

one side, the tenderest regard that a father can have for a child; and

on the other, the justest vengeance for the great folly you have

committed. One pleads strongly in your behalf; and the other would

excite me to do an act contrary to my nature. But before I come to a

resolution, I would hear what you have to say for yourself." And when he

said this, he hung down his head, and wept like a child. She hearing

this from her father, and perceiving that their amour was not only

discovered, but her lover in prison, was under the greatest concern

imaginable, and was going to break out into loud and grievous

lamentations, as is the way of women in distress; but getting the better

of this weakness, and putting on a settled countenance, as supposing

Guiscard was dead, and being resolved firmly in her own mind not to

outlive him, she spoke therefore with all the composure in the world to

this purpose: "Sir, to deny what I have done, or to entreat any favour

of you, is no part of my design at present; for as the one can avail me

nothing, so I intend the other shall be of little service. I will take

no advantage of your love and tenderness towards me; but shall first, by

an open confession, endeavour to vindicate myself, and then do what the

greatness of my soul prompts me to. 'Tis most true that I have loved,

and do still love, Guiscard; and while I live, which will not be long,

shall continue to love him: and if such a thing as love be after death,

even that shall not dissolve it. To this I was induced by no frailty, so

much as his superior virtue, and the little care you took to marry me

again. I preferred him before all the world; and as to the meanness of

his station, to which you so much object, that is more the fault of

fortune, who often raises the most unworthy to an high estate,

neglecting those of greater merit. We are all formed of the same

materials, and by the same hand. The first difference amongst mankind

was made by virtue; they who were virtuous were deemed noble, and the

rest were all accounted otherwise. Though this law therefore may have

been obscured by contrary custom, yet is it discarded neither by nature,

nor good manners. If you then alone regard the worth and virtue of your

courtiers, and consider that of Guiscard, you will find him the only

noble person, and the others a set of poltroons. With regard to his

worth and valour, I appeal to yourself. Who ever commended man more for

every thing that was praise-worthy, than you have commended him? and

deservedly in my judgement; but if I was deceived, it was by following

your opinion. If you say then, that I have had an affair with a person

base and ignoble, I deny it; if with a poor one, it is to your shame, to

let such merit go unrewarded. Now concerning your last doubt, namely,

how you are to deal with me; use your pleasure. If you are disposed to

commit an act of cruelty, I shall say nothing to prevent such a

resolution. But this I must apprise you of, that unless you do the same

to me, which you either have done, or mean to do to Guiscard, my own

hands shall do it for you. Reserve your tears then for women; and if you

mean to act with severity, cut us off both together, if it appears to

you that we have deserved it." The prince knew full well the greatness

of her soul; but yet he could by no means persuade himself, that she

would have resolution enough to do what her words seemed to threaten.

Leaving her then, with a design of being favourable to her, and

intending to wean her affection from her lover by taking him off, he

gave orders to the two men, who guarded him, to strangle him privately

in the night, and to take his heart out of his body, and bring it to

him. Accordingly they executed his commands, and the next day he called

for a golden cup, and putting the heart into it, he had it conveyed by a

trusty servant to his daughter, with this message: "Your father sends

this present to comfort you, with what was most dear to you; even as he

was comforted by you, in what was most dear to him." She had departed

from her father, not at all moved as to her resolution, and therefore

had prepared the juices of some poisonous plants, which she had mixed

with water to be at hand, if what she feared should come to pass. When

the servant had delivered the present, and reported the message

according to his order, she took the cup, without changing countenance,

and seeing the heart therein, and knowing by the words that it must be

Guiscard's, she looked stedfastly at the servant, and said: "My father

has done very wisely; such a heart as this requires no worse a sepulchre

than that of gold." And upon this she lifted it to her mouth and kissed

it, thus continuing; "All my life long, even to this last period of it,

have I found my father's love most abundant towards me; but now more

than ever: therefore return him, in my name, the last thanks that I

shall ever be able to give him for such a present." Looking then towards

the cup, which she held fast in her hand, she said: "Alas! the dearest

end and centre of all my wishes! Cursed be the cruelty of him, by whom

these eyes now see you; although my soul had long viewed and known you.

You have finished your course; such a one indeed as fortune has thought

fit to allot you; you are arrived at the goal to which we all tend; you

have left the miseries of this world far behind, and have obtained such

a sepulchre from your very enemy, as your merit required. Nothing

remained to make your obsequies complete, but the tears of her who was

so dear to you whilst you were living; and which, that you should not

now want, heaven put it into the mind of my relentless father to send

you to me. And you shall have them, though I had purposed to die

unmoved, and without shedding a tear; and when I have done, I will

instantly join my soul to yours: for in what other company can I go

better and safer to those unknown regions? as I make no doubt your soul

is hovering here, expecting mine." When she had done speaking, she shed

a flood of tears, kissing the heart a thousand times; whilst the

damsels who were about her knew neither what heart it was, nor what

those her words imported; but being moved with pity, they joined with

her, begging to know the cause of her grief, and endeavouring all they

could to comfort her. After she had lamented as much as she thought

proper, she raised up her head, and wiping her eyes, said, "Thou heart,

most dearly beloved! all my duty is now performed towards thee; nothing

more remains, but for my soul to accompany thine." Upon this she bade

them reach the vessel of water, which she had prepared the day before,

and pouring it into the cup with the heart, which she had sufficiently

washed with her tears, she drank it all off without the least dread or

apprehension; and then threw herself upon the bed with the cup in her

hand, composing her body as decently as she could, and pressing her

lover's heart to her's, she lay without uttering a word more, expecting

death. The maids, when they saw this, though they knew not what it was

she had drunk, sent to acquaint Tancred; who fearing what had really

happened, came into the room soon after she had laid herself down, and

finding it was too late, began to lament most grievously. She then said

to him, "Sir, save those tears against worse fortune that may happen,

for I want them not. Who but yourself would mourn for a thing of your

own doing? But if any part of that love now remains in you, which you

once had for me, the last request I shall make is, that as you would not

suffer us to be happy together whilst living, that our two bodies

(wherever you have disposed of his) may be publicly interred together

when dead." Extreme grief would suffer him to make no reply; when,

finding herself drawing near her end, she strained the heart strongly to

her breast, saying, "Receive us, heaven; I die!" Then closing her eyes,

all sense forsook her, and she departed this miserable life. Such an end

had the amours of Guiscard and Ghismond, as you have now heard; whilst

the prince, repenting of his cruelty when it was too late, had them

buried in one grave, in the most public manner, to the general grief of

all the people of Salerno.

THEODORE AND HONORIA.

Boccacio, who, according to Benvenuto da Imola, was a curious

investigator of all delectable histories, is said to have taken this

goblin tale from the Chronicle of Helinandus, a French monk, who

flourished in the reign of Philip Augustus,[216] and composed a history

of the world from its creation, as was the fashion of monkish

historians. The Florentine novelist, however, altered the place of

action, and disguised the names of the persons, whom he calls Nastagio

and Traversari, the designations of two noble families in Ravenna. So

good a subject for a ballad did not escape our English makers, by one of

whom the novel of Boccacio was turned into the ballad stanza[217].

Dryden, however, converted that into a poem, which, in the hands of the

old rhymer, was only a tale, and has given us a proof how exquisitely

his powers were adapted for the management of the machinery, or

supernatural agency of an epic poem, had his situation suffered him to

undertake the task he so long meditated. Nothing can be more highly

painted than the circumstances preliminary of the apparition;--the

deepening gloom, the falling wind, the commencement of an earthquake;

above all, the indescribable sensation of horror with which Theodore is

affected, even ere he sees the actors in the supernatural tragedy. The

appearance of the female, of the gaunt mastiffs by which she is pursued,

and of the infernal huntsman, are all in the highest tone of poetry, and

could only be imitated by the pencil of Salvator. There is also a

masterly description of Theodore's struggles between his native courage,

prompted by chivalrous education, and that terror which the presence of

supernatural beings imposes upon the living. It is by the account of the

impression, which such a sight makes upon the supposed spectator, more

even than by a laboured description of the vision itself, that the

narrator of such a tale must hope to excite the sympathetic awe of his

audience. Thus, in the vision so sublimely described in the book of Job,

chap. iv. no external cause of terror is even sketched in outline, and

our feelings of dread are only excited by the fear which came upon the

spectator, and the trembling which made all his bones to shake. But the

fable of Dryden combines a most impressive description of the vision,

with a detailed account of its effect upon Theodore, and both united

make the most admirable poem of the kind that ever was written. It is

somewhat derogatory from the dignity of the apparition, that Theodore,

having once witnessed its terrors, should coolly lay a scheme for

converting them to his own advantage; but this is an original fault in

the story, for which Dryden is not answerable. The second apparition of

the infernal hunter to the assembled guests, is as striking as the

first; a circumstance well worthy of notice, when we consider the

difficulty and hazard of telling such a story twice. But in the second

narration, the poet artfully hurries over the particulars of the lady's

punishment, which were formerly given in detail, and turns the reader's

attention upon the novel effect produced by it, upon the assembled

guests, which is admirably described, as "a mute scene of sorrow mixed

with fear." The interrupted banquet, the appalled gallants, and the

terrified women, grouped with the felon knight, his meagre mastiffs, and

mangled victim, displays the hand of the master poet. The conclusion of

the story is defective from the cause already hinted at. The machinery

is too powerful for the effect produced by it; a lady's hard heart might

have been melted without so terrible an example of the punishment of

obduracy.

It is scarcely worth while to mention, that Dryden has changed the

Italian names into others better adapted to English heroic verse.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 216: _Manni Della Illustrazione del Boccario_, p. 355.]

[Footnote 217: There is a copy in the late Duke John of Roxburghe's

library, under the title of "Nastagio and Traversari."]

THEODORE AND HONORIA.

Of all the cities in Romanian lands,

The chief, and most renowned, Ravenna stands;

Adorned in ancient times with arms and arts,

And rich inhabitants, with generous hearts.

But Theodore the brave, above the rest,

With gifts of fortune and of nature blessed,

The foremost place for wealth and honour held,

And all in feats of chivalry excelled.

This noble youth to madness loved a dame,

Of high degree, Honoria was her name;

Fair as the fairest, but of haughty mind,

And fiercer than became so soft a kind:

Proud of her birth, (for equal she had none;)

The rest she scorned, but hated him alone.

His gifts, his constant courtship, nothing gained;

For she, the more he loved, the more disdained.

He lived with all the pomp he could devise, }

At tilts and tournaments obtained the prize, }

But found no favour in his lady's eyes: }

Relentless as a rock, the lofty maid

Turned all to poison that he did or said:

Nor prayers, nor tears, nor offered vows, could move. }

The work went backward; and the more he strove }

To advance his suit, the farther from her love. }

Wearied at length, and wanting remedy,

He doubted oft, and oft resolved to die.

But pride stood ready to prevent the blow,

For who would die to gratify a foe?

His generous mind disdained so mean a fate;

That passed, his next endeavour was to hate.

But vainer that relief than all the rest; }

The less he hoped, with more desire possessed; }

Love stood the siege, and would not yield his breast. }

Change was the next, but change deceived his care;

He sought a fairer, but found none so fair.

He would have worn her out by slow degrees, }

As men by fasting starve the untamed disease; }

But present love required a present ease. }

Looking, he feeds alone his famished eyes,

Feeds lingering death; but, looking not, he dies.

Yet still he chose the longest way to fate,

Wasting at once his life, and his estate.

His friends beheld, and pitied him in vain,

For what advice can ease a lover's pain!

Absence, the best expedient they could find,

Might save the fortune, if not cure the mind:

This means they long proposed, but little gained,

Yet after much pursuit, at length obtained.

Hard you may think it was to give consent,

But, struggling with his own desires, he went;

With large expence, and with a pompous train, }

Provided as to visit France or Spain, }

Or for some distant voyage o'er the main. }

But love had clipped his wings, and cut him short,

Confined within the purlieus of his court.

Three miles he went, nor farther could retreat;

His travels ended at his country-seat:

To Chassis' pleasing plains he took his way,

There pitched his tents, and there resolved to stay.

The spring was in the prime; the neighbouring grove

Supplied by birds, the choristers of love;

Music unbought, that ministered delight

To morning walks, and lulled his cares by night:

There he discharged his friends; but not the expence

Of frequent treats, and proud magnificence.

He lived as kings retire, though more at large

From public business, yet with equal charge;

With house and heart still open to receive;

As well content as love would give him leave:

He would have lived more free; but many a guest,

Who could forsake the friend, pursued the feast.

It happ'd one morning, as his fancy led,

Before his usual hour he left his bed,

To walk within a lonely lawn, that stood

On every side surrounded by the wood:

Alone he walked, to please his pensive mind,

And sought the deepest solitude to find:

'Twas in a grove of spreading pines he strayed; }

The winds within the quivering branches played, }

And dancing trees a mournful music made. }

The place itself was suiting to his care,

Uncouth and savage, as the cruel fair.

He wandered on, unknowing where he went,

Lost in the wood, and all on love intent:

The day already half his race had run, }

And summoned him to due repast at noon, }

But love could feel no hunger but his own. }

While listening to the murmuring leaves he stood,

More than a mile immersed within the wood,

At once the wind was laid; the whispering sound

Was dumb; a rising earthquake rocked the ground;

With deeper brown the grove was overspread, }

A sudden horror seized his giddy head, }

And his ears tinkled, and his colour fled. }

Nature was in alarm; some danger nigh

Seemed threatened, though unseen to mortal eye.

Unused to fear, he summoned all his soul,

And stood collected in himself, and whole:

Not long; for soon a whirlwind rose around,

And from afar he heard a screaming sound,

As of a dame distressed, who cried for aid,

And filled with loud laments the secret shade.

A thicket close beside the grove there stood,

With briers and brambles choked, and dwarfish wood:

From thence the noise, which now approaching near,

With more distinguished notes invades his ear;

He raised his head, and saw a beauteous maid,

With hair dishevelled, issuing through the shade;

Stripped of her clothes, and even those parts revealed,

Which modest nature keeps from sight concealed.

Her face, her hands, her naked limbs, were torn,

With passing through the brakes and prickly thorn;

Two mastiffs gaunt and grim her flight pursued,

And oft their fastened fangs in blood embrued:

Oft they came up, and pinched her tender side,--

Mercy, O mercy! heaven, she ran, and cried;

When heaven was named, they loosed their hold again;

Then sprung she forth, they followed her amain.

Not far behind, a knight of swarthy face,

High on a coal-black steed pursued the chace;

With flashing flames his ardent eyes were filled,

And in his hand a naked sword he held:

He cheered the dogs to follow her who fled,

And vowed revenge on her devoted head.

As Theodore was born of noble kind,

The brutal action roused his manly mind;

Moved with th' unworthy usage of the maid,

He, though unarmed, resolved to give her aid.

A saplin pine he wrenched from out the ground,

The readiest weapon that his fury found.

Thus furnished for offence, he crossed the way

Betwixt the graceless villain and his prey.

The knight came thundering on, but, from afar,

Thus in imperious tone forbade the war:--

Cease, Theodore, to proffer vain relief,

Nor stop the vengeance of so just a grief;

But give me leave to seize my destined prey,

And let eternal justice take the way:

I but revenge my fate, disdained, betrayed,

And suffering death for this ungrateful maid.--

He said, at once dismounting from the steed;

For now the hell-hounds with superior speed

Had reached the dame, and fastening on her side,

The ground with issuing streams of purple dyed.

Stood Theodore surprised in deadly fright,

With chattering teeth, and bristling hair upright;

Yet armed with inborn worth,--Whate'er, said he,

Thou art, who know'st me better than I thee,

Or prove thy rightful cause, or be defied.--

The spectre, fiercely staring, thus replied:

Know, Theodore, thy ancestry I claim,

And Guido Cavalcanti was my name.

One common sire our fathers did beget,

My name and story some remember yet:

Thee, then a boy, within my arms I laid,

When for my sins I loved this haughty maid;

Not less adored in life, nor served by me,

Than proud Honoria now is loved by thee.

What did I not, her stubborn heart to gain? }

But all my vows were answered with disdain; }

She scorned my sorrows, and despised my pain. }

Long time I dragged my days in fruitless care;

Then loathing life, and plunged in deep despair,

To finish my unhappy life, I fell

On this sharp sword, and now am damned in hell.

Short was her joy; for soon the insulting maid

By heaven's decree in the cold grave was laid;

And as in unrepented sin she died,

Doomed to the same bad place, is punished for her pride,

Because she deemed I well deserved to die,

And made a merit of her cruelty.

There, then, we met; both tried, and both were cast,

And this irrevocable sentence passed;

That she, whom I so long pursued in vain,

Should suffer from my hands a lingering pain:

Renewed to life, that she might daily die,

I daily doomed to follow, she to fly;

No more a lover, but a mortal foe,

I seek her life (for love is none below;)

As often as my dogs with better speed

Arrest her flight, is she to death decreed:

Then with this fatal sword, on which I died,

I pierce her open back, or tender side,

And tear that hardened heart from out her breast,

Which, with her entrails, makes my hungry hounds a feast.

Nor lies she long, but as her fates ordain, }

Springs up to life, and, fresh to second pain, }

Is saved to-day, to-morrow to be slain-- }

This, versed in death, the infernal knight relates,

And then for proof fulfilled their common fates;

Her heart and bowels through her back he drew,

And fed the hounds that helped him to pursue.

Stern looked the fiend, as frustrate of his will,

Not half sufficed, and greedy yet to kill.

And now the soul expiring through the wound,

Had left the body breathless on the ground,

When thus the grisly spectre spoke again:--

Behold the fruit of ill-rewarded pain!

As many months as I sustained her hate,

So many years is she condemned by fate

To daily death; and every several place,

Conscious of her disdain, and my disgrace,

Must witness her just punishment; and be

A scene of triumph and revenge to me.

As in this grove I took my last farewell,

As on this very spot of earth I fell,

As Friday saw me die, so she my prey

Becomes even here, on this revolving day.--

Thus while he spoke, the virgin from the ground

Upstarted fresh, already closed the wound,

And, unconcerned for all she felt before,

Precipitates her flight along the shore:

The hell-hounds, as ungorged with flesh and blood,

Pursue their prey, and seek their wonted food:

The fiend remounts his courser, mends his pace,

And all the vision vanished from the place.

Long stood the noble youth oppressed with awe, }

And stupid at the wondrous things he saw, }

Surpassing common faith, transgressing nature's law: }

He would have been asleep, and wished to wake,

But dreams, he knew, no long impression make,

Though strong at first; if vision, to what end, }

But such as must his future state portend? }

His love the damsel, and himself the fiend. }

But yet reflecting that it could not be

From heaven, which cannot impious acts decree,

Resolved within himself to shun the snare,

Which hell for his destruction did prepare;

And as his better genius should direct,

From an ill cause to draw a good effect.

Inspired from heaven, he homeward took his way,

Nor palled his new design with long delay;

But of his train a trusty servant sent,

To call his friends together at his tent.

They came, and usual salutations paid,

With words premeditated thus he said:--

What you have often counselled, to remove

My vain pursuit of unregarded love,

By thrift my sinking fortune to repair,

Though late, yet is at last become my care:

My heart shall be my own; my vast expence

Reduced to bounds, by timely providence:

This only I require; invite for me

Honoria, with her father's family,

Her friends, and mine, (the cause I shall display,)

On Friday next; for that's the appointed day.--

Well pleased were all his friends; the task was light,

The father, mother, daughter, they invite;

Hardly the dame was drawn to this repast,

But yet resolved, because it was the last.

The day was come, the guests invited came,

And, with the rest, the inexorable dame:

A feast prepared with riotous expence,

Much cost, more care, and more magnificence.

The place ordained was in that haunted grove,

Where the revenging ghost pursued his love:

The tables in a proud pavilion spread,

With flowers below, and tissue overhead:

The rest in rank, Honoria, chief in place, }

Was artfully contrived to set her face }

To front the thicket, and behold the chace. }

The feast was served, the time so well forecast,

That just when the desert and fruits were placed,

The fiend's alarm began; the hollow sound }

Sung in the leaves, the forest shook around, }

Air blackened, rolled the thunder, groaned the ground. }

Nor long before the loud laments arise,

Of one distressed, and mastiffs' mingled cries;

And first the dame came rushing through the wood, }

And next the famished hounds that sought their food, }

And griped her flanks, and oft essayed their jaws in blood. }

Last came the felon, on the sable steed,

Armed with his naked sword, and urged his dogs to speed.

She ran, and cried, her flight directly bent, }

(A guest unbidden) to the fatal tent, }

The scene of death, and place ordained for punishment. }

Loud was the noise, aghast was every guest,

The women shrieked, the men forsook the feast;

The hounds at nearer distance hoarsely bayed; }

The hunter close pursued the visionary maid, }

She rent the heaven with loud laments, imploring aid. }

The gallants to protect the lady's right, }

Their faulchions brandished at the grisly sprite; }

High on his stirrups he provoked the fight. }

Then on the crowd he cast a furious look,

And withered all their strength before he strook:--[218]

Back, on your lives! let be, said he, my prey,

And let my vengeance take the destined way:

Vain are your arms, and vainer your defence,

Against the eternal doom of Providence:

Mine is the ungrateful maid by heaven designed;

Mercy she would not give, nor mercy shall she find.--

At this the former tale again he told

With thundering tone, and dreadful to behold:

Sunk were their hearts with horror of the crime,

Nor needed to be warned a second time,

But bore each other back; some knew the face, }

And all had heard the much-lamented case }

Of him who fell for love, and this the fatal place. }

And now the infernal minister advanced,

Seized the due victim, and with fury lanced

Her back, and piercing through her inmost heart,

Drew backward, as before, the offending part.

The reeking entrails next he tore away,

And to his meagre mastiffs made a prey.

The pale assistants on each other stared,

With gaping mouths for issuing words prepared;

The still-born sounds upon the palate hung,

And died imperfect on the faultering tongue.

The fright was general; but the female band

(A helpless train) in more confusion stand:

With horror shuddering, on a heap they run, }

Sick at the sight of hateful justice done; }

For conscience rung the alarm, and made the case their own. }

So, spread upon a lake, with upward eye,

A plump of fowl behold their foe on high;

They close their trembling troop; and all attend

On whom the sowsing eagle will descend.

But most the proud Honoria feared the event,

And thought to her alone the vision sent.

Her guilt presents to her distracted mind }

Heaven's justice, Theodore's revengeful kind, }

And the same fate to the same sin assigned; }

Already sees herself the monster's prey,

And feels her heart and entrails torn away.

'Twas a mute scene of sorrow, mixed with fear;

Still on the table lay the unfinished cheer:

The knight and hungry mastiffs stood around,

The mangled dame lay breathless on the ground;

When on a sudden, re-inspired with breath,

Again she rose, again to suffer death;

Nor stayed the hell-hounds, nor the hunter stayed,

But followed, as before, the flying maid:

The avenger took from earth the avenging sword,

And mounting, light as air, his sable steed he spurred;

The clouds dispelled, the sky resumed her light,

And nature stood recovered of her fright.

But fear, the last of ills, remained behind,

And horror heavy sat on every mind.

Nor Theodore encouraged more his feast,

But sternly looked, as hatching in his breast

Some deep design; which when Honoria viewed,

The fresh impulse her former fright renewed:

She thought herself the trembling dame who fled,

And him the grisly ghost that spurred the infernal steed:

The more dismayed, for when the guests withdrew, }

Their courteous host, saluting all the crew, }

Regardless passed her o'er, nor graced with kind adieu. }

That sting infixed within her haughty mind, }

The downfal of her empire she divined; }

And her proud heart with secret sorrow pined. }

Home as they went, the sad discourse renewed, }

Of the relentless dame to death pursued, }

And of the sight obscene so lately viewed. }

None durst arraign the righteous doom she bore;

Even they, who pitied most, yet blamed her more:

The parallel they needed not to name,

But in the dead they damned the living dame.

At every little noise she looked behind,

For still the knight was present to her mind:

And anxious oft she started on the way,

And thought the horseman-ghost came thundering for his prey.

Returned, she took her bed, with little rest,

But in short slumbers dreamt the funeral feast:

Awaked, she turned her side, and slept again; }

The same black vapours mounted in her brain, }

And the same dreams returned with double pain. }

Now forced to wake, because afraid to sleep,

Her blood all fevered, with a furious leap

She sprung from bed, distracted in her mind,

And feared, at every step, a twitching sprite behind.

Darkling and desperate with a staggering pace,

Of death afraid, and conscious of disgrace;

Fear, pride, remorse, at once her heart assailed,

Pride put remorse to flight, but fear prevailed.

Friday, the fatal day, when next it came,

Her soul forethought the fiend would change his game,

And her pursue, or Theodore be slain,

And two ghosts join their packs to hunt her o'er the plain.

This dreadful image so possessed her mind,

That desperate any succour else to find,

She ceased all farther hope; and now began

To make reflection on the unhappy man.

Rich, brave, and young, who past expression loved,

Proof to disdain, and not to be removed:

Of all the men respected and admired,

Of all the dames, except herself, desired:

Why not of her? preferred above the rest }

By him, with knightly deeds, and open love, professed? }

So had another been, where he his vows addressed. }

This quelled her pride, yet other doubts remained,

That, once disdaining, she might be disdained.

The fear was just, but greater fear prevailed,

Fear of her life by hellish hounds assailed:

He took a lowering leave; but who can tell,

What outward hate might inward love conceal?

Her sex's arts she knew, and why not, then,

Might deep dissembling have a place in men?

Here hope began to dawn; resolved to try, }

She fixed on this her utmost remedy; }

Death was behind, but hard it was to die. }

'Twas time enough at last on death to call, }

The precipice in sight: a shrub was all, }

That kindly stood betwixt to break the fatal fall. }

One maid she had, beloved above the rest;

Secure of her, the secret she confessed;

And now the cheerful light her fears dispelled, }

She with no winding turns the truth concealed, }

But put the woman off, and stood revealed: }

With faults confessed commissioned her to go,

If pity yet had place, and reconcile her foe.

The welcome message made, was soon received;

'Twas what he wished, and hoped, but scarce believed;

Fate seemed a fair occasion to present, }

He knew the sex, and feared she might repent, }

Should he delay the moment of consent. }

There yet remained to gain her friends, (a care

The modesty of maidens well might spare;)

But she with such a zeal the cause embraced,

(As women, where they will, are all in haste,)

That father, mother, and the kin beside,

Were overborne by fury of the tide:

With full consent of all she changed her state;

Resistless in her love, as in her hate.

By her example warned, the rest beware;

More easy, less imperious, were the fair;

And that one hunting, which the devil designed

For one fair female, lost him half the kind.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 218: Derrick, _spoke_. The reading of the folio, besides

furnishing an accurate rhyme, is in itself far more picturesque. The

spectre is described in the very attitude of assault.]

ORIGINAL, FROM THE DECAMERON.

THE FIFTH DAY.

NOVEL VIII.

_Anastasio being in love with a young lady, spent a good part of

his fortune without being able to gain her affections. At the

request of his relations he retires to Chiassi, where he sees a

lady pursued and slain by a gentleman, and then given to the dogs

to be devoured. He invites his friends, along with his mistress,

to come and dine with him, when they see the same thing, and she,

fearing the like punishment, takes him for her husband._

When Lauretta had made an end, Philomena began, by the queen's command,

thus: Most gracious lady, as pity is a commendable quality in us, in

like manner do we find cruelty most severely punished by divine justice;

which, that I may make plain to you all, and afford means to drive it

from your hearts, I mean to relate a novel as full of compassion as it

is agreeable.

In Ravenna, an ancient city of Romagna, dwelt formerly many persons of

quality; amongst the rest was a young gentleman named Anastasio de gli

Honesti, who, by the deaths of his father and uncle, was left immensely

rich; and, being a bachelor, fell in love with one of the daughters of

Signor Paolo Traversaro (of a family much superior to his own) and was

in hopes, by his constant application, to gain her affection: but though

his endeavours were generous, noble, and praise-worthy, so far were they

from succeeding, that, on the contrary, they rather turned out to his

disadvantage; and so cruel, and even savage, was the beloved fair one,

(either her singular beauty, or noble descent, having made her thus

haughty and scornful,) that neither he, nor any thing that he did, could

ever please her. This so afflicted Anastasio, that he was going to lay

violent hands upon himself; but, thinking better of it, he frequently

thought to leave her entirely; or else to hate her, if he could, as much

as she had hated him. But this proved a vain design; for he constantly

found that the less his hope, the greater always his love. Persevering

then in his love and extravagant way of life, his friends looked upon

him as destroying his constitution, as well as wasting his substance;

they therefore advised and entreated that he would leave the place, and

go and live somewhere else; for, by that means, he might lessen both his

love and expence. For some time he made light of this advice, till being

very much importuned, and not knowing how to refuse them, he promised to

do so; when, making extraordinary preparations, as if he was going some

long journey either into France or Spain, he mounted his horse and left

Ravenna, attended by many of his friends, and went to a place about

three miles off, called Chiassi, where he ordered tents and pavilions to

be brought, telling those who had accompanied him, that he meant to stay

there, but that they might return to Ravenna. Here he lived in the most

splendid manner, inviting sometimes this company, and sometimes that,

both to dine and sup as he had used to do before. Now it happened in the

beginning of May, the season being extremely pleasant, that, thinking of

his cruel mistress, he ordered all his family to retire, and leave him

to his own thoughts, when he walked along, step by step, and lost in

reflection, till he came to a forest of pines. It being then the fifth

hour of the day, and he advanced more than half a mile into the grove,

without thinking either of his dinner, or any thing else but his love,

on a sudden he seemed to hear a most grievous lamentation, with the loud

shrieks of a woman: this put an end to his meditation, when, looking

round him, to know what the matter was, he saw come out of a thicket

full of briers and thorns, and run towards the place where he was, a

most beautiful lady, naked, with her flesh all scratched and rent by the

bushes, crying terribly, and begging for mercy: in close pursuit of her

were two fierce mastiffs, biting and tearing wherever they could lay

hold, and behind, upon a black steed, rode a gloomy knight, with a

dagger in his hand, loading her with the bitterest imprecations. The

sight struck him at once with wonder and consternation, as well as pity

for the lady, whom he was desirous to rescue from such trouble and

danger, if possible; but finding himself without arms, he seized the

branch of a tree, instead of a truncheon, and went forward with it, to

oppose both the dogs and the knight. The knight observing this, called

out, afar off, "Anastasio, do not concern thyself; but leave the dogs

and me to do by this wicked woman as she has deserved." At these words

the dogs laid hold of her, and he coming up to them, dismounted from his

horse. Anastasio then stept up to him, and said, "I know not who you

are, that are acquainted thus with me; but I must tell you, that it is a

most villainous action for a man armed as you are to pursue a naked

woman, and to set dogs upon her also, as if she were a wild beast; be

assured, that I shall defend her to the utmost of my power." The knight

replied, "I was once your countryman, when you were but a child, and was

called Guido de gli Anastagi, at which time I was more enamoured with

this woman, than ever you were with Traversaro's daughter; but she

treated me so cruelly, and with so much insolence, that I killed myself

with this dagger which you now see in my hand, for which I am doomed to

eternal punishment. Soon afterwards she, who was over and above rejoiced

at my death, died likewise, and for that cruelty, as also for the joy

which she expressed at my misery, she is condemned as well as myself;

our sentences are for her to flee before me, and for me, who loved her

so well, to pursue her as a mortal enemy; and when I overtake her, with

this dagger, with which I murdered myself, do I murder her; then I open

her through the back, and take out that hard and cold heart, which

neither love nor pity could pierce, with all her entrails, and throw

them to the dogs; and in a little time (so wills the justice and power

of heaven) she rises, as though she had never been dead, and renews her

miserable flight, whilst we pursue her over again. Every Friday in the

year, about this time, do I sacrifice her here, as you see, and on other

days in other places, where she has ever thought or done any thing

against me; and thus being from a lover become her mortal enemy, I am to

follow her as many years as she was cruel to me months. Then let the

divine justice take its course, nor offer to oppose what you are no way

able to withstand." Anastasio drew back at these words, terrified to

death, and waited to see what the other was going to do: who having made

an end of speaking, ran at her with the utmost fury, as she was seized

by the dogs, and kneeled down begging for mercy, when with his dagger he

pierced through her breast, drawing forth her heart and entrails, which

they immediately, as if half famished, devoured. And in a little time

she rose again, as if nothing had happened, and fled towards the sea,

the dogs biting and tearing her all the way, the knight also being

remounted, and taking his dagger, pursued her as before, till they soon

got out of sight. Upon seeing these things, Anastasio stood divided

betwixt fear and pity, and at length it came into his mind that, as it

happened always on a Friday, it might be of particular use. Returning

then to his servants, he sent for some of his friends and relations,

when he said to them, "You have often importuned me to leave off loving

this my enemy, and to contract my expences; I am ready to do so,

provided you grant me one favour, which is this, that next Friday, you

engage Paolo Traversaro, his wife and daughter, with all their

women-friends and relations to come and dine with me: the reason of my

requiring this you will see at that time." This seemed to them a small

matter, and returning to Ravenna they invited all those whom he had

desired, and though they found it difficult to prevail upon the young

lady, yet the others carried her at last along with them. Anastasio had

provided a magnificent entertainment in the grove where that spectacle

had lately been; and, having seated all his company, he contrived that

the lady should sit directly opposite to the scene of action. The last

course then was no sooner served up, but the lady's shrieks began to be

heard. This surprised them all, and they began to enquire what it was,

and, as nobody could inform them, they all arose; when immediately they

saw the lady, dogs, and knight, who were soon amongst them. Great was

consequently the clamour, both against the dogs and knight, and many of

them went to her assistance. But the knight made the same harangue to

them, that he had done to Anastasio, which terrified and filled them

with wonder; whilst he acted the same part over again, the ladies, of

whom there were many present, related to both the knight and lady, who

remembered his love and unhappy death, all lamenting as much as if it

happened to themselves. This tragical affair being ended, and the lady

and knight both gone away, they had various arguments together about it;

but none seemed so much affected as Anastasio's mistress, who had heard

and seen every thing distinctly, and was sensible that it concerned her

more than any other person, calling to mind her usage of and cruelty

towards him; so that she seemed to flee before him all incensed, with

the mastiffs at her heels; and her terror was such, lest this should

ever happen to her, that, turning her hatred into love, she sent that

very evening a trusty damsel privately to him, who entreated him in her

name to come to see her, for that she was ready to fulfil his desires.

Anastasio replied, that nothing could be more agreeable to him; but that

he desired no favour from her, but what was consistent with her honour.

The lady, who was sensible that it had been always her fault they were

not married, answered, that she was willing; and going herself to her

father and mother, she acquainted them with her intention. This gave

them the utmost satisfaction; and the next Sunday the marriage was

solemnized with all possible demonstrations of joy. And that spectacle

was not attended with this good alone; but all the women of Ravenna, for

the time to come, were so terrified with it, that they were more ready

to listen to, and oblige the men, than ever they had been before.

CYMON AND IPHIGENIA.

Beroaldus, who translated this novel into Latin, and published it in

Paris in 1499, affirms, that it is taken from the annals of the kingdom

of Cyprus; and from his intimacy with Hugo IV., king of that island, may

perhaps have had grounds for saying so, besides Boccaccio's own

allegation to the same effect. Whether entirely fictitious, or grounded

upon historical fact, it is one of those novels which have added most to

the reputation of the "Decameron;" nor has the version of Dryden been

the least admired among his poems. This popularity seems entirely due to

the primary incident, the reforming of Cymon from his barbarism and

idiocy, by the influence of a passion, which almost all have felt at one

period of their life, and love to read and hear of ever afterwards.

Perhaps the original idea of Cymon's conversion is to be found in the

Idyl of Theocritus, entitled ΒΟΥΚΟΛΙΣΚΟΣ. There is not in our language a

strain of more beautiful and melodious poetry, than that so often

quoted, in which Dryden describes the sleeping nymph, and the effect of

her beauty upon the clownish Cymon. But it is only sufficient to mention

that passage, to recal it to the recollection of every general reader,

and of most who have read any poetry at all. The narrative, it must be

confessed, is otherwise inartificial, and bears little proportion, or

even reference, to this most striking and original incident. Cymon might

have carried off Iphigene, and all the changes of fortune which

afterwards take place might have happened, though his love had commenced

in an ordinary manner; nor is there any thing in his character or mode

of conduct, which calls back to our recollection, his having such a

miraculous instance of the power of love. In short, in the progress of

the tale, we quite lose sight of its original and striking commencement;

nor do we find much compensation by the introduction of the new actor

Lysander, with whose passion and disappointment we have little sympathy;

and whose expedients, as Dryden plainly confesses, are no other than an

abuse of his public office by the commission of murder and rape. These

are perhaps too critical objections to a story, which Dryden took from

Boccaccio, as Boccaccio had probably taken it from some old annalist, as

containing a striking instance of the power of the gentler affections,

in regulating and refining the human mind, and a curious illustration of

the mutability of fortune, in the subsequent incidents attending the

loves of Cymon and Iphigene.

Dryden, in the introductory verses, has hazarded a more direct attack

upon Collier, than his consciousness of having merited his accusations

had yet permitted him to bring forward.

CYMON AND IPHIGENIA.

_Poeta loquitur_.

Old as I am, for ladies love unfit, }

The power of beauty I remember yet, }

Which once inflamed my soul, and still inspires my wit. }

If love be folly, the severe divine

Has felt that folly, though he censures mine;

Pollutes the pleasures of a chaste embrace, }

Acts what I write, and propagates in grace, }

With riotous excess, a priestly race. }

Suppose him free, and that I forge the offence,

He shewed the way, perverting first my sense;

In malice witty, and with venom fraught,

He makes me speak the things I never thought.

Compute the gains of his ungoverned zeal;

Ill suits his cloth the praise of railing well.

The world will think that what we loosely write,

Though now arraigned, he read with some delight;

Because he seems to chew the cud again,

When his broad comment makes the text too plain;

And teaches more in one explaining page,

Than all the double meanings of the stage.[219]

What needs he paraphrase on what we mean?

We were at worst but wanton; he's obscene.

I, nor my fellows, nor myself excuse;

But love's the subject of the comic muse;

Nor can we write without it, nor would you

A tale of only dry instruction view.

Nor love is always of a vicious kind,

But oft to virtuous acts inflames the mind,

Awakes the sleepy vigour of the soul,

And, brushing o'er, adds motion to the pool.

Love, studious how to please, improves our parts

With polished manners, and adorns with arts.

Love first invented verse, and formed the rhime,

The motion measured, harmonised the chime;

To liberal acts enlarged the narrow soul'd,

Softened the fierce, and made the coward bold;

The world, when waste, he peopled with increase,

And warring nations reconciled in peace.

Ormond, the first, and all the fair may find, }

In this one legend, to their fame designed, }

When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind. }

In that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court,

And every grace, and all the loves, resort;

Where either sex is formed of softer earth,

And takes the bent of pleasure from their birth;

There lived a Cyprian lord above the rest,

Wise, wealthy, with a numerous issue blessed.

But as no gift of fortune is sincere,

Was only wanting in a worthy heir;

His eldest born, a goodly youth to view,

Excelled the rest in shape, and outward shew;

Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion joined,

But of a heavy, dull, degenerate mind.

His soul belied the features of his face;

Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace.

A clownish mein, a voice with rustic sound,

And stupid eyes that ever loved the ground.

He looked like nature's error, as the mind }

And body were not of a piece designed, }

But made for two, and by mistake in one were joined. }

The ruling rod, the father's forming care,

Were exercised in vain on wit's despair;

The more informed, the less he understood,

And deeper sunk by floundering in the mud.

Now scorned of all, and grown the public shame,

The people from Galesus changed his name,

And Cymon called, which signifies a brute;

So well his name did with his nature suit.

His father, when he found his labour lost,

And care employed, that answered not the cost,

Chose an ungrateful object to remove,

And loathed to see what nature made him love;

So to his country farm the fool confined;

Rude work well suited with a rustic mind.

Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went,

A squire among the swains, and pleased with banishment.

His corn and cattle were his only care,

And his supreme delight, a country fair.

It happened on a summer's holiday, }

That to the green-wood shade he took his way; }

For Cymon shunned the church, and used not much to pray. }

His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake,

Hung half before, and half behind his back.

He trudged along, unknowing what he sought,

And whistled as he went, for want of thought.

By chance conducted, or by thirst constrained,

The deep recesses of the grove he gained;

Where in a plain defended by the wood, }

Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood, }

By which an alabaster fountain stood; }

And on the margin of the fount was laid,

(Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid.

Like Dian and her nymphs, when, tired with sport,

To rest by cool Eurotas they resort.

The dame herself the goddess well expressed,

Not more distinguished by her purple vest,

Than by the charming features of her face,

And even in slumber a superior grace;

Her comely limbs composed with decent care, }

Her body shaded with a slight cymarr; }

Her bosom to the view was only bare; }

Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied,

For yet their places were but signified:

The fanning wind upon her bosom blows, }

To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose; }

The fanning wind, and purling streams, continue her repose. }

The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes,

And gaping mouth, that testified surprise,

Fixed on her face, nor could remove his sight,

New as he was to love, and novice in delight;

Long mute he stood, and, leaning on his staff,

His wonder witnessed with an idiot laugh;

Then would have spoke, but by his glimmering sense,

First found his want of words, and feared offence;

Doubted for what he was he should be known,

By his clown accent, and his country tone.

Through the rude chaos thus the running light

Shot the first ray that pierced the native night;

Then day and darkness in the mass were mixed,

Till gathered in a globe the beams were fixed;

Last shone the sun, who, radiant in his sphere,

Illumined heaven and earth, and rolled around the year.

So reason in this brutal soul began:

Love made him first suspect he was a man;

Love made him doubt his broad barbarian sound;

By love his want of words, and wit, he found;

That sense of want prepared the future way

To knowledge, and disclosed the promise of a day.

What not his father's care, nor tutor's art,

Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart,

The best instructor, love, at once inspired,

As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired;

Love taught him shame, and shame, with love at strife,

Soon taught the sweet civilities of life.

His gross material soul at once could find

Somewhat in her excelling all her kind;

Exciting a desire till then unknown,

Somewhat unfound, or found in her alone.

This made the first impression in his mind,

Above, but just above, the brutal kind.

For beasts can like, but not distinguish too,

Nor their own liking by reflection know;

Nor why they like or this or t'other face,

Or judge of this, or that peculiar grace;

But love in gross, and stupidly admire;

As flies, allured by light, approach the fire.

Thus our man-beast, advancing by degrees,

First likes the whole, then separates what he sees;

On several parts a several praise bestows,

The ruby lips, the well-proportioned nose,

The snowy skin, the raven-glossy hair, }

The dimpled cheek, the forehead rising fair, }

And even in sleep itself, a smiling air. }

From thence his eyes descending viewed the rest,

Her plump round arms, white hands, and heaving breast.

Long on the last he dwelt, though every part

A pointed arrow sped to pierce his heart.

Thus in a trice a judge of beauty grown,

(A judge erected from a country clown,)

He longed to see her eyes, in slumber hid,

And wished his own could pierce within the lid:

He would have waked her, but restrained his thought,

And love new-born the first good manners taught.

An awful fear his ardent wish withstood,

Nor durst disturb the goddess of the wood;

For such she seemed by her celestial face,

Excelling all the rest of human race;

And things divine, by common sense he knew,

Must be devoutly seen at distant view:

So checking his desire, with trembling heart

Gazing he stood, nor would, nor could depart;

Fixed as a pilgrim wildered in his way, }

Who dares not stir by night, for fear to stray, }

But stands with awful eyes to watch the dawn of day. }

At length awaking, Iphigene the fair,

(So was the beauty called, who caused his care,)

Unclosed her eyes, and double day revealed,

While those of all her slaves in sleep were sealed.

The slavering cudden, propped upon his staff,

Stood ready gaping with a grinning laugh,

To welcome her awake, nor durst begin

To speak, but wisely kept the fool within.

Then she; What make you, Cymon, here alone?--

For Cymon's name was round the country known,

Because descended of a noble race,

(And for a soul ill sorted with his face.)

But still the sot stood silent with surprise,

With fixed regard on her new-opened eyes,

And in his breast received the envenomed dart,

A tickling pain that pleased amid the smart.

But conscious of her form, with quick distrust

She saw his sparkling eyes, and feared his brutal lust;

This to prevent, she waked her sleepy crew,

And, rising hasty, took a short adieu.

Then Cymon first his rustic voice essayed,

With proffered service to the parting maid

To see her safe; his hand she long denied,

But took at length, ashamed of such a guide.

So Cymon led her home, and leaving there,

No more would to his country clowns repair,

But sought his father's house, with better mind,

Refusing in the farm to be confined.

The father wondered at the son's return,

And knew not whether to rejoice or mourn;

But doubtfully received, expecting still

To learn the secret causes of his altered will.

Nor was he long delayed; the first request }

He made, was like his brothers to be dress'd, }

And, as his birth required, above the rest. }

With ease his suit was granted by his sire,

Distinguishing his heir by rich attire:

His body thus adorned, he next designed

With liberal arts to cultivate his mind;

He sought a tutor of his own accord,

And studied lessons he before abhorred.

Thus the man-child advanced, and learned so fast,

That in short time his equals he surpassed:

His brutal manners from his breast exiled,

His mien he fashioned, and his tongue he filed;

In every exercise of all admired,

He seemed, nor only seemed, but was inspired;

Inspired by love, whose business is to please;

He rode, he fenced, he moved with graceful ease,

More famed for sense, for courtly carriage more,

Than for his brutal folly known before.

What then of altered Cymon shall we say,

But that the fire which choked in ashes lay,

A load too heavy for his soul to move,

Was upward blown below, and brushed away by love.

Love made an active progress through his mind,

The dusky parts he cleared, the gross refined,

The drowsy waked; and, as he went, impressed

The Maker's image on the human breast.

Thus was the man amended by desire,

And, though he loved perhaps with too much fire,

His father all his faults with reason scan'd,

And liked an error of the better hand;

Excused the excess of passion in his mind,

By flames too fierce, perhaps too much refined;

So Cymon, since his sire indulged his will,

Impetuous loved, and would be Cymon still;

Galesus he disowned, and chose to bear

The name of fool, confirmed and bishoped by the fair.

To Cipseus by his friends his suit he moved,

Cipseus, the father of the fair he loved;

But he was pre-engaged by former ties,

While Cymon was endeavouring to be wise;

And Iphigene, obliged by former vows,

Had given her faith to wed a foreign spouse:

Her sire and she to Rhodian Pasimond,

Though both repenting, were by promise bound,

Nor could retract; and thus, as fate decreed,

Though better loved, he spoke too late to speed.

The doom was past; the ship already sent

Did all his tardy diligence prevent;

Sighed to herself the fair unhappy maid,

While stormy Cymon thus in secret said:--

The time is come for Iphigene to find

The miracle she wrought upon my mind;

Her charms have made me man, her ravished love

In rank shall place me with the blessed above.

For mine by love, by force she shall be mine,

Or death, if force should fail, shall finish my design.--

Resolved he said; and rigged with speedy care

A vessel strong, and well equipped for war.

The secret ship with chosen friends he stored;

And bent to die, or conquer, went aboard.

Ambushed he lay behind the Cyprian shore,

Waiting the sail that all his wishes bore;

Nor long expected, for the following tide

Sent out the hostile ship and beauteous bride.

To Rhodes the rival bark directly steered,

When Cymon sudden at her back appeared,

And stopped her flight; then standing on his prow,

In haughty terms he thus defied the foe:--

Or strike your sails at summons, or prepare

To prove the last extremities of war.--

Thus warned, the Rhodians for the fight provide; }

Already were the vessels side by side, }

These obstinate to save, and those to seize the bride. }

But Cymon soon his crooked grapples cast, }

Which with tenacious hold his foes embraced, }

And, armed with sword and shield, amid the press he passed. }

Fierce was the fight, but, hastening to his prey,

By force the furious lover freed his way;

Himself alone dispersed the Rhodian crew,

The weak disdained, the valiant overthrew;

Cheap conquest for his following friends remained,

He reaped the field, and they but only gleaned.

His victory confessed, the foes retreat,

And cast their weapons at the victor's feet.

Whom thus he cheared:--O Rhodian youth, I fought

For love alone, nor other booty sought;

Your lives are safe; your vessel I resign,

Yours be your own, restoring what is mine:

In Iphigene I claim my rightful due,

Robbed by my rival, and detained by you;

Your Pasimond a lawless bargain drove,

The parent could not sell the daughter's love;

Or if he could, my love disdains the laws,

And, like a king, by conquest gains his cause;

Where arms take place, all other pleas are vain,

Love taught me force, and force shall love maintain.

You, what by strength you could not keep, release,

And at an easy ransom buy your peace.--

Fear on the conquered side soon signed the accord,

And Iphigene to Cymon was restored.

While to his arms the blushing bride he took,

To seeming sadness she composed her look;

As if by force subjected to his will,

Though pleased, dissembling, and a woman still.

And, for she wept, he wiped her falling tears,

And prayed her to dismiss her empty fears;--

For yours I am, he said, and have deserved

Your love much better whom so long I served,

Than he to whom your formal father tied

Your vows, and sold a slave, not sent a bride.--

Thus while he spoke, he seized the willing prey,

As Paris bore the Spartan spouse away.

Faintly she screamed, and even her eyes confessed

She rather would be thought, than was, distressed.

Who now exults but Cymon in his mind? }

Vain hopes and empty joys of human kind, }

Proud of the present, to the future blind! }

Secure of fate, while Cymon plows the sea,

And steers to Candy with his conquered prey,

Scarce the third glass of measured hours was run,

When like a fiery meteor sunk the sun,

The promise of a storm; the shifting gales

Forsake by fits, and fill, the flagging sails;

Hoarse murmurs of the main from far were heard,

And night came on, not by degrees prepared,

But all at once; at once the winds arise,

The thunders roll, the forky lightning flies.

In vain the master issues out commands,

In vain the trembling sailors ply their hands;

The tempest unforeseen prevents their care,

And from the first they labour in despair.

The giddy ship, betwixt the winds and tides

Forced back and forwards, in a circle rides,

Stunned with the different blows; then shoots amain,

Till, counterbuffed, she stops, and sleeps again.

Not more aghast the proud archangel fell,

Plunged from the height of heaven to deepest hell,

Than stood the lover of his love possessed,

Now cursed the more, the more he had been blessed;

More anxious for her danger, than his own,

Death he defies, but would be lost alone.

Sad Iphigene to womanish complaints

Adds pious prayers, and wearies all the saints;

Even, if she could, her love she would repent,

But since she cannot, dreads the punishment:

Her forfeit faith, and Pasimond betrayed,

Are ever present, and her crime upbraid.

She blames herself, nor blames her lover less,

Augments her anger, as her fears increase:

From her own back the burden would remove,

And lays the load on his ungoverned love,

Which interposing durst, in heaven's despite,

Invade, and violate another's right:

The powers incensed awhile deferred his pain,

And made him master of his vows in vain:

But soon they punished his presumptuous pride, }

That for his daring enterprise she died, }

Who rather not resisted, than complied. }

Then, impotent of mind, with altered sense,

She hugged the offender, and forgave the offence,

Sex to the last: meantime with sails declined

The wandering vessel drove before the wind:

Tossed and retossed, aloft, and then alow, }

Nor port they seek, nor certain course they know, }

But every moment wait the coming blow. }

Thus blindly driven, by breaking day they viewed

The land before them, and their fears renewed;

The land was welcome, but the tempest bore

The threatened ship against a rocky shore.

A winding bay was near; to this they bent,

And just escaped; their force already spent:

Secure from storms, and panting from the sea,

The land unknown at leisure they survey;

And saw (but soon their sickly sight withdrew)

The rising towers of Rhodes at distant view;

And cursed the hostile shore of Pasimond,

Saved from the seas, and shipwrecked on the ground.

The frighted sailors tried their strength in vain

To turn the stern, and tempt the stormy main;

But the stiff wind withstood the labouring oar,

And forced them forward on the fatal shore!

The crooked keel now bites the Rhodian strand,

And the ship moored constrains the crew to land:

Yet still they might be safe, because unknown;

But, as ill fortune seldom comes alone,

The vessel they dismissed was driven before,

Already sheltered on their native shore;

Known each, they know, but each with change of chear;

The vanquished side exults, the victors fear;

Not them but theirs, made prisoners ere they fight,

Despairing conquest, and deprived of flight.

The country rings around with loud alarms,

And raw in fields the rude militia swarms;[220]

Mouths without hands; maintained at vast expence,

In peace a charge, in war a weak defence;

Stout once a month they march, a blustering band,

And ever, but in times of need, at hand:

This was the morn when, issuing on the guard,

Drawn up in rank and file they stood prepared

Of seeming arms to make a short essay,

Then hasten to be drunk, the business of the day.

The cowards would have fled, but that they knew

Themselves so many, and their foes so few;

But, crowding on, the last the first impel,

Till overborne with weight the Cyprians fell;

Cymon enslaved, who first the war begun,

And Iphigene once more is lost and won.

Deep in a dungeon was the captive cast,

Deprived of day, and held in fetters fast;

His life was only spared at their request,

Whom taken he so nobly had released:

But Iphigenia was the ladies care, }

Each in their turn addressed to treat the fair; }

While Pasimond and his the nuptial feast prepare. }

Her secret soul to Cymon was inclined, }

But she must suffer what her fates assigned; }

So passive is the church of womankind. }

What worse to Cymon could his fortune deal,

Rolled to the lowest spoke of all her wheel?

It rested to dismiss the downward weight,

Or raise him upward to his former height:

The latter pleased; and love (concerned the most)

Prepared the amends, for what by love he lost.

The sire of Pasimond had left a son,

Though younger, yet for courage early known,

Ormisda called, to whom by promise tied,

A Rhodian beauty was the destined bride;

Cassandra was her name, above the rest

Renowned for birth, with fortune amply blessed.

Lysimachus, who ruled the Rhodian state,

Was then by choice their annual magistrate:

He loved Cassandra too with equal fire,

But fortune had not favoured his desire;

Crossed by her friends, by her not disapproved,

Nor yet preferred, or like Ormisda loved:

So stood the affair; some little hope remained,

That, should his rival chance to lose, he gained.

Meantime young Pasimond his marriage pressed,

Ordained the nuptial day, prepared the feast;

And frugally resolved (the charge to shun, }

Which would be double should he wed alone,) }

To join his brother's bridal with his own. }

Lysimachus, oppressed with mortal grief,

Received the news, and studied quick relief:

The fatal day approached; if force were used,

The magistrate his public trust abused;

To justice liable, as law required,

For when his office ceased, his power expired:

While power remained, the means were in his hand

By force to seize, and then forsake the land:

Betwixt extremes he knew not how to move,

A slave to fame, but more a slave to love:

Restraining others, yet himself not free,

Made impotent by power, debased by dignity.

Both sides he weighed; but after much debate,

The man prevailed above the magistrate.

Love never fails to master what he finds, }

But works a different way in different minds, }

The fool enlightens, and the wise he blinds. }

This youth, proposing to possess and scape,

Began in murder, to conclude in rape:

Unpraised by me; though heaven sometime may bless

An impious act with undeserved success;

The great, it seems, are privileged alone

To punish all injustice but their own.

But here I stop, not daring to proceed, }

Yet blush to flatter an unrighteous deed; }

For crimes are but permitted, not decreed. }

Resolved on force, his wit the prætor bent,

To find the means that might secure the event;

Not long he laboured, for his lucky thought

In captive Cymon found the friend he sought.

The example pleased; the cause and crime the same;

An injured lover, and a ravished dame.

How much he durst he knew by what he dared; }

The less he had to lose, the less he cared }

To manage loathsome life when love was the reward. }

This pondered well, and fixed on his intent,

In depth of night he for the prisoner sent;

In secret sent the public view to shun,

Then with a sober smile he thus begun:--

The powers above, who bounteously bestow

Their gifts and graces on mankind below,

Yet prove our merit first, nor blindly give

To such as are not worthy to receive:

For valour and for virtue they provide

Their due reward, but first they must be tried:

These fruitful seeds within your mind they sowed;

'Twas yours to improve the talent they bestowed:

They gave you to be born of noble kind,

They gave you love to lighten up your mind,

And purge the grosser parts; they gave you care

To please, and courage to deserve the fair.

Thus far they tried you, and by proof they found

The grain intrusted in a grateful ground:

But still the great experiment remained,

They suffered you to lose the prize you gained,

That you might learn the gift was theirs alone;

And, when restored, to them the blessing own.

Restored it soon will be; the means prepared,

The difficulty smoothed, the danger shared:

Be but yourself, the care to me resign,

Then Iphigene is yours, Cassandra mine.

Your rival Pasimond pursues your life,

Impatient to revenge his ravished wife,

But yet not his; to-morrow is behind,

And love our fortunes in one band has joined:

Two brothers are our foes, Ormisda mine,

As much declared as Pasimond is thine:

To-morrow must their common vows be tied: }

With love to friend, and fortune for our guide, }

Let both resolve to die, or each redeem a bride. }

Right I have none, nor hast thou much to plead;

'Tis force, when done, must justify the deed:

Our task performed, we next prepare for flight,

And let the losers talk in vain of right:

We with the fair will sail before the wind;

If they are grieved, I leave the laws behind.

Speak thy resolves; if now thy courage droop,

Despair in prison, and abandon hope;

But if thou darest in arms thy love regain,

(For liberty without thy love were vain,)

Then second my design to seize the prey,

Or lead to second rape, for well thou know'st the way.

Said Cymon, overjoyed,--Do thou propose

The means to fight, and only shew the foes:

For from the first, when love had fired my mind,

Resolved, I left the care of life behind.--

To this the bold Lysimachus replied,--

Let heaven be neuter, and the sword decide;

The spousals are prepared, already play

The minstrels, and provoke the tardy day:

By this the brides are waked, their grooms are dressed; }

All Rhodes is summoned to the nuptial feast, }

All but myself, the sole unbidden guest. }

Unbidden though I am, I will be there,

And, joined by thee, intend to joy the fair.

Now hear the rest; when day resigns the light,

And cheerful torches gild the jolly night,

Be ready at my call; my chosen few

With arms administered shall aid thy crew.

Then, entering unexpected, will we seize

Our destined prey, from men dissolved in ease,

By wine disabled, unprepared for fight;

And hastening to the seas, suborn our flight:

The seas are ours, for I command the fort,

A ship well manned expects us in the port:

If they, or if their friends, the prize contest,

Death shall attend the man who dares resist.--

It pleased; the prisoner to his hold retired, }

His troop with equal emulation fired, }

All fixed to fight, and all their wonted work required. }

The sun arose; the streets were thronged around,

The palace opened, and the posts were crowned.

The double bridegroom at the door attends

The expected spouse, and entertains the friends:

They meet, they lead to church, the priests invoke

The powers, and feed the flames with fragrant smoke.

This done, they feast, and at the close of night }

By kindled torches vary their delight, }

These lead the lively dance, and those the briming bowls invite. }

Now, at the appointed place and hour assigned,

With souls resolved the ravishers were joined:

Three bands are formed; the first is sent before

To favour the retreat, and guard the shore;

The second at the palace-gate is placed,

And up the lofty stairs ascend the last:

A peaceful troop they seem with shining vests,

But coats of mail beneath secure their breasts.

Dauntless they enter, Cymon at their head,

And find the feast renewed, the table spread:

Sweet voices, mixed with instrumental sounds,

Ascend the vaulted roof, the vaulted roof rebounds.

When, like the harpies, rushing through the hall

The sudden troop appears, the tables fall,

Their smoking load is on the pavement thrown;

Each ravisher prepares to seize his own:

The brides, invaded with a rude embrace,

Shriek out for aid, confusion fills the place.

Quick to redeem the prey their plighted lords

Advance, the palace gleams with shining swords.

But late is all defence, and succour vain;

The rape is made, the ravishers remain:

Two sturdy slaves were only sent before

To bear the purchased prize in safety to the shore.

The troop retires, the lovers close the rear,

With forward faces not confessing fear:

Backward they move, but scorn their pace to mend;

Then seek the stairs, and with slow haste descend.

Fierce Pasimond, their passage to prevent, }

Thrust full on Cymon's back in his descent, }

The blade returned unbathed, and to the handle bent. }

Stout Cymon soon remounts, and cleft in two

His rival's head with one descending blow:

And as the next in rank Ormisda stood, }

He turned the point; the sword, inured to blood, }

Bored his unguarded breast, which poured a purple flood. }

With vowed revenge the gathering crowd pursues

The ravishers turn head, the fight renews;

The hall is heaped with corpse; the sprinkled gore

Besmears the walls, and floats the marble floor.

Dispersed at length the drunken squadron flies, }

The victors to their vessel bear the prize, }

And hear behind loud groans and lamentable cries. }

The crew with merry shouts their anchors weigh, }

Then ply their oars, and brush the buxom sea, }

While troops of gathered Rhodians crowd the key. }

What should the people do when left alone?

The governor and government are gone;

The public wealth to foreign parts conveyed;

Some troops disbanded, and the rest unpaid.

Rhodes is the sovereign of the sea no more;

Their ships unrigged, and spent their naval store,

They neither could defend, nor can pursue,

But grin'd their teeth, and cast a helpless view:

In vain with darts a distant war they try,

Short, and more short, the missive weapons fly.

Meanwhile the ravishers their crimes enjoy,

And flying sails and sweeping oars employ:

The cliffs of Rhodes in little space are lost,

Jove's isle they seek, nor Jove denies his coast.

In safety landed on the Candian shore,

With generous wines their spirits they restore;

There Cymon with his Rhodian friend resides,

Both court, and wed at once the willing brides.

A war ensues, the Cretans own their cause,

Stiff to defend their hospitable laws:

Both parties lose by turns; and neither wins,

Till peace propounded by a truce begins.

The kindred of the slain forgive the deed,

But a short exile must for show precede:

The term expired, from Candia they remove;

And happy each at home, enjoys his love.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 219: Although this interpretation is invidious, it might have

been wished, that Collier, against whom the insinuation is directed, had

been less coarse, and somewhat veiled the indecencies which he justly

censures.]

[Footnote 220: Dryden willingly seizes the opportunity of being witty at

the expence of the militia of England, which were then drawn out, and

exercised once a month, instead of being formed as at present into

permanent fencible regiments; differing from those of the line, only in

the mode of raising them, and the extent of service.]

ORIGINAL, FROM THE DECAMERON.

THE FIFTH DAY.

NOVEL I.

_Cymon becomes wise by being in love, and by force of arms wins

Ephigenia his mistress upon the seas, and is imprisoned at Rhodes.

Being delivered from thence by Lysimachus, with him he recovers

Ephigenia, and flies with her to Crete, where he is married to her,

and is afterwards recalled home._

A great many novels come now fresh into my mind, for the beginning of

such an agreeable day's discourse as this is likely to be; but one I am

more particularly pleased with, because it not only shews the happy

conclusion which we are to treat about, but how sacred, how powerful

also, as well as advantageous, the force of love is; which some people,

without knowing what they say, unjustly blame and vilify, and which I

judge will rather be had in esteem by you, as I suppose you all to be

subject to the tender passion.

According to the ancient histories of Cyprus, there lived sometime in

that island, one of great rank and distinction, called Aristippus, by

far the wealthiest person in all the country; and if he was unhappy in

any one respect, it was in having, amongst his other children, a son,

who, though he exceeded most young people of his time in stature and

comeliness, yet was he a perfect natural; his true name was Galeso, but

as neither the labour nor skill of his master, nor the correction of his

father, was ever able to beat one letter into his head, or the least

instruction of any kind, and as his voice and manner of speaking were

strangely harsh and uncouth, he was, by way of disdain, called only

Cymon; which, in their language, signified _beast_. The father had long

beheld him with infinite concern; and as all hopes were vanished

concerning him, to remove out of his sight an object which afforded

constant matter of grief, he ordered him away to his country-house, to

be there with his slaves. This was extremely agreeable to Cymon, because

people of that sort had been always most to his mind. Residing there,

and doing all sorts of drudgery pertaining to that kind of life, it

happened one day, as he was going, about noontide, with his staff upon

his shoulder, from one farm to another, that he passed through a

pleasant grove, which, as it was then the month of May, was all in

bloom; from whence, as his stars led him, he came into a meadow

surrounded with high trees, in one corner of which was a crystal spring,

and by the side of it, upon the grass, lay a most beautiful damsel

asleep, clothed with a mantle so exceedingly fine and delicate, as

scarcely to conceal underneath the exquisite whiteness of her skin; only

from her waist downwards she wore a white silken quilt, and at her feet

were sleeping likewise two women and a man servant. As soon as Cymon

cast his eye upon her, as if he had never seen the face of a woman

before, he stood leaning upon his staff, and began to gaze with the

utmost astonishment, without speaking a word. When suddenly in his rude

uncivilized breast, which had hitherto been incapable of receiving the

least impression of politeness whatsoever, a sudden thought arose, which

seemed to intimate to his gross and shallow understanding, that this was

the most agreeable sight that ever was seen. From thence he began to

examine each part by itself, commending every limb and feature; and

being now become a judge of beauty from a mere idiot, he grew very

desirous of seeing her eyes, on which account he was going several times

to wake her; but as she so far excelled all other women that he ever

saw, he was in doubt whether she was a mortal creature. This made him

wait to see if she would awake of her own accord; and though that

expectation seemed tedious to him, yet so pleasing was the object, that

he had no power to leave it. After a long time she came to herself, and

raising up her head, saw Cymon stand propt upon his stick before her, at

which she was surprised, and said: "Cymon, what are you looking for here

at this time of day?" Now he was known all over the country, as well for

his own rusticity, as his father's nobility and great wealth. He made no

answer, but stood with his eyes fixed upon hers, which seemed to dart a

sweetness, that filled him with a kind of joy to which he had hitherto

been a stranger; whilst she observing this, and not knowing what his

rudeness might prompt him to, called up her women, and then said:

"Cymon, go about your business." He replied, "I will go along with you."

And though she was afraid, and would have avoided his company, yet he

would not leave her till he had brought her to her own house; from

thence he went home to his father, when he declared, that he would

return no more into the country, which was very disagreeable to all his

friends, but yet they let him alone, waiting to see what this change of

temper could be owing to. Love thus having pierced his heart, when no

lesson of any kind could ever find admittance, in a little time his way

of thinking and behaviour were so far changed, that his father and

friends were strangely surprised at it, as well as every body that knew

him. First of all then, he asked his father to let him have clothes, and

every thing else like his brethren; to which the father very willingly

consented. Conversing too with young gentlemen of character, and

observing their ways and manner of behaving, in a very short time he not

only got over the first rudiments of learning, but attained to some

knowledge in philosophy. Afterwards, his love for Ephigenia being the

sole cause of it, his rude and rustic speech was changed into a tone

more agreeable and civilized: he grew also a master of music: and with

regard to the military art, as well by sea as land, he became as expert

and gallant as the best. In short, not to run over all his excellencies,

before the expiration of the fourth year from his being first in love,

he turned out the most accomplished young gentleman in every respect

that ever Cyprus could boast of. What then, most gracious ladies, shall

we say of Cymon? Surely nothing less than this; that all the noble

qualities, which had been infused by heaven into his generous soul, were

shut up as it were by invidious fortune, and bound fast with the

strongest fetters in a small corner of his heart, till love broke the

enchantment, and drove with all its might these virtues out of that

cruel obscurity, to which they had been long doomed, to a clear and open

day; plainly shewing from whence it draws those spirits that are its

votaries, and whither its mighty influence conducts them. Cymon,

therefore, though he might have his flights like other young people,

with regard to his love for Ephigenia, yet when Aristippus considered it

was that had made a man of him, he not only bore with it, but encouraged

him in the pursuit of his pleasures. Cymon, nevertheless, who refused to

be called Galeso, remembering that Ephigenia had styled him Cymon, being

desirous of bringing that affair to an happy conclusion, had often

requested her in marriage of her father, who replied, that he had

already promised her to one Pasimunda, a young nobleman of Rhodes, and

that he intended not to break his word. The time then being come, that

was appointed for their nuptials, and the husband having sent in form to

demand her, Cymon said to himself: O, Ephigenia, the time is now come

when I shall give proof how I love you! I am become a man on your

account; and could I but obtain you, I should be as glorious and happy

as the gods themselves; and have you I will, or else I will die.

Immediately he prevailed upon some young noblemen who were his friends,

to assist him; and, fitting out a ship of war privately, they put to

sea, in order to way-lay the vessel that was to transport Ephigenia;

who, after great respect and honour shewed by her father to her

husband's friends, embarked with them for Rhodes. Cymon, who had but

little rest that night, overtook them on the following day, when he

called out, "Stop, and strike your sails; or expect to go to the bottom

of the sea." They, on the other hand, had got all their arms above deck,

and were preparing for a vigorous defence. He therefore threw a

grappling iron upon the other ship, which was making the best of its

way, and drew it close to his own; when, like a lion, without waiting

for any one to second him, he jumped singly among his enemies, as if he

cared not for them, and, love spurring him on with incredible force, he

cut and drove them all like so many sheep before him, till they soon

threw down their arms, acknowledging themselves his prisoners; when he

addressed himself to them in the following manner: "Gentlemen, it is no

desire of plunder, nor enmity to any of your company, that made me leave

Cyprus to fall upon you here in this manner. What occasioned it is a

matter, the success of which is of the utmost consequence to myself, and

as easy for you quietly to grant me: it is Ephigenia, whom I love above

all the world; and as I could not have her from her father peaceably,

and as a friend, my love constrains me to win her from you as an enemy,

by force of arms. Therefore I am resolved to be to her what your

Pasimunda was to have been. Resign her then to me, and go away in God's

name." The people, more by force than any good will, gave her, all in

tears, up to Cymon; who seeing her lament in that manner, said: "Fair

lady, be not discouraged; I am your Cymon, who have a better claim to

your affection, on account of my long and constant love, than Pasimunda

can have by virtue of a promise." Taking her then on board his ship,

without meddling with any thing else that belonged to them, he suffered

them to depart. Cymon thus being the most overjoyed man that could be,

after comforting the lady under her calamity, consulted with his friends

what to do, who were of opinion that they should by no means return to

Cyprus yet; but that it were better to go directly to Crete, where they

had all relations and friends, but Cymon especially, on which account

they might be more secure there along with Ephigenia; and accordingly

they directed their course that way. But fortune, who had given the lady

to Cymon by an easy conquest, soon changed his immoderate joy into most

sad and bitter lamentation. In about four hours from his parting with

the Rhodians, night came upon them, which was more welcome to Cymon

than any of the rest, and with it a most violent tempest, which

overspread the face of the heavens in such a manner, that they could

neither see what they did, nor whither they were carried; nor were they

able at all to steer the ship. You may easily suppose what Cymon's grief

must be on this occasion. He concluded, that heaven had crowned his

desires only to make death more grievous to him, which before would have

been but little regarded. His friends also were greatly affected, but

especially Ephigenia, who trembled at every shock, still sharply

upbraiding his ill-timed love, and declaring that this tempest was sent

by Providence for no other reason, but that as he had resolved to have

her, contrary to the will and disposal of heaven, to disappoint that

presumption; and that, seeing her die first, he might die likewise in

the same miserable manner. Amongst such complaints as these, they were

carried at last, the wind growing continually more violent, near the

island of Rhodes; and not knowing where they were, they endeavoured, for

the safety of their lives, to get to land if possible. In this they

succeeded, and got into a little bay, where the Rhodian ship had arrived

just before them; nor did they know they were at Rhodes till the next

morning, when they saw, about a bow-shot from them, the same ship they

had parted with the day before. Cymon was greatly concerned at this; and

fearing what afterwards came to pass, he bid them put to sea if

possible, and trust to fortune, for they could never be in a worse

place. They used all possible means then to get out, but in vain; the

wind was strongly against them, and drove them to shore in spite of all

they could do to prevent it. They were soon known by the sailors of the

other ship, who had now gained the shore, and who ran to a neighbouring

town, where the young gentlemen that had been on board were just gone

before, and informed them how Cymon and Ephigenia were, like themselves,

driven thither by stress of weather. They, hearing this, brought a great

many people from the town to the sea-side, and took Cymon and his

companions prisoners, who had got on shore, with a design of flying to a

neighbouring wood, as also Ephigenia, and brought them all together to

the town. Pasimunda, upon hearing the news, went and made his complaints

to the senate, who accordingly sent Lysimachus, who was chief magistrate

that year, along with a guard of soldiers, to conduct them to prison.

Thus the miserable and enamoured Cymon lost his mistress soon after he

had gained her, and without having scarcely so much as a kiss for his

pains. In the mean time Ephigenia was handsomely received by many ladies

of quality, and comforted for the trouble she had sustained in being

made a captive, as well as in the storm at sea; and she remained with

them till the day appointed for her nuptials. However, Cymon and his

friends had their lives granted them (though Pasimunda used all his

endeavours to the contrary) for the favour shewed to the Rhodians the

day before; but they were sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, where

they remained sorrowfully enough, as they had no hopes of obtaining

their liberty. Now whilst Pasimunda was making preparation for his

nuptials, fortune, as if she had repented the injury done to Cymon,

produced a new circumstance for his deliverance. Pasimunda had a

brother, beneath him in years, but not in virtue, called Ormisda, who

had been long talked of as about to marry a beautiful lady of that city,

called Cassandra, whom Lysimachus was also in love with, and had for

some time been prevented marrying her, by diverse unlucky accidents. Now

as Pasimunda was to celebrate his own nuptials with great state and

feasting, he supposed it would save a great deal of expence and trouble,

if his brother was to marry at the same time. He consequently proposed

the thing again to Cassandra's friends, and soon brought it to a

conclusion; when it was agreed by all parties, that the same day that

Pasimunda brought home Ephigenia, Ormisda should bring home Cassandra.

This was very grating to Lysimachus, who saw himself now deprived of the

hope which he had hitherto entertained of marrying her himself; but he

was wise enough to conceal it, contriving a way to prevent its taking

effect if possible; none however appeared, but that of taking her away

by force. This seemed easy enough on account of his office; still he

thought it not so reputable as if he had borne no office at all at that

time; but in short, after a long debate with himself, honour gave way to

love, and he resolved, happen what would, to bear away Cassandra.

Thinking then what companions he should make choice of for this

enterprise, as well as the means that were to be taken, he soon called

Cymon to mind, whom he had in custody, as also his companions; and

thinking he could have nobody better to assist him, nor one more trusty

and faithful on that occasion than Cymon, the next night he had him

privately into his chamber, where he spoke to him in this

manner:--"Cymon, as the gods are the best and most liberal givers of all

things to mankind, so are they also the ablest judges of our several

virtues and merits: such then as they find to be firm and constant in

every respect, them do they make worthy of the greatest things. Now

concerning your worth and valour, they are willing to have a more

certain trial of both, than it was possible for you to shew within the

scanty limits of your father's house, whom I know to be a person of the

greatest distinction; for first then, by the pungent force of love, as I

am informed, have they, from a mere insensible creature, made a man of

you; and afterwards by adverse fortune, and now by a miserable

imprisonment, are they willing to see if your soul be changed from what

it was, when you appeared flushed so lately with the prize you had won.

If that continues the same, I can propose nothing so agreeable to you,

as what I am now going to offer; which, that you may resume your former

might and valour, I shall immediately disclose. Pasimunda, overjoyed

with your disappointment, and a zealous promoter, as far as in him lay,

of your being put to death, is now about to celebrate his marriage with

your Ephigenia, that he may enjoy that blessing, which fortune, when she

was favourable, first put into your power, and afterwards snatched away

from you; but how this must afflict you, I can easily suppose by myself,

who am like to undergo the same injury, and at the same time, with

regard to my mistress Cassandra, who is to be married then to his

brother Ormisda. Now I see no remedy for either of us, but what consists

in our own resolution, and the strength of our arms: it will be

necessary, therefore, to make our way with our swords, for each of us to

gain his lady: if then you value (I will not say your liberty, because

that without her would be of little weight with you; but, I say, if you

value) your mistress, you need only follow me, and fortune has put her

into your hands." These words spoke comfort to the drooping soul of

Cymon, who immediately replied, "Lysimachus, you could never have a more

stout, nor a more trusty friend for such an enterprize than myself, if

it be as you seem to promise: tell me then what you would have me do,

and you shall see me put it nobly into execution." Lysimachus made

answer, "Three days hence the ladies are to be brought home to their

espoused husbands, when you, with your friends and myself, with some

people whom I can confide in, will go armed in the evening, and enter

their house whilst they are in the midst of their mirth, where we will

seize on the two brides, and carry them away to a ship which I have

secretly provided, killing all that shall presume to oppose us." This

scheme was entirely to Cymon's good liking, and he waited quietly till

the time appointed. The wedding-day being now come, and every part of

their house full of mirth and feasting, Lysimachus, after giving the

necessary orders at the time fixed, divided Cymon and his companions

with his own friends into three parties, and putting arms under their

several cloaks, and animating them boldly to pursue what they had

undertaken, he sent one party to the haven to secure their escape, and

with the other two they went to Pasimunda's house; one they stationed at

the gate, to prevent any persons shutting them up in the house; whilst

he, along with Cymon, went up stairs with the remaining part.--Coming

then into the dining-room, where the two brides, with many other ladies,

were seated orderly at supper, they advanced up to them, and throwing

down all the tables, each seized his lady, and giving them into the arms

of their followers, ordered them to carry them away to their ship. The

brides, as well as the other ladies and the servants, cried out so

much, that immediately there was a great tumult. In the mean time, Cymon

and Lysimachus, with their followers, all drew their swords, and came

down stairs again without any opposition, till they met with Pasimunda,

having in his hand a great club, whom the noise had drawn thither, when

Cymon, at one stroke, laid him dead at his feet, and whilst Ormisda was

running to his assistance, he was likewise killed by Cymon; many others

also of their friends, who came to their relief, were wounded and beaten

back. Leaving the house then all full of blood and confusion, they

joined parties, and went directly on to their ship with their booty,

without the least hindrance whatever; when putting the ladies on board,

and they with all their friends following them, the shore was soon

filled with crowds of people, who came to rescue them, upon which they

plied their oars, and sailed joyfully away for Crete. There they were

cheerfully received by all their friends and relations, when they

espoused their ladies, and were well pleased with their several prizes.

This occasioned great quarrels afterwards between the two islands of

Cyprus and Rhodes. At length, by the interposition of friends, every

thing was amicably adjusted, and then Cymon returned along with

Ephigenia to Cyprus, and Lysimachus in like manner carried Cassandra

back to Rhodes, where they lived very happily to the end of their days.

END OF THE ELEVENTH VOLUME.

* * * * *

EDINBURGH:

Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

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| Transcriber's notes: |

| |

| P.36. 'Hoddesden' changed to 'Hoddesdon'. |

| P.119. 'Eleanora' changed to 'Eleonora'. |

| P.120. 'Eleanora' changed to 'Eleonora'. |

| P.152. 'copartment' changed to 'compartment'. |

| P.232. In footnote 130 'reason to thing' changed to 'reason to think'.|

| P.260. 'musk ask' changed to 'must ask'. |

| P.279. 'profered' is 'proffer'd' in another volume, changed. |

| P.301. 'atchievements' changed to 'achievements'. |

| P.436. 'mein' changed to 'mien'. |

| P.453. 'criti- objections' changed to 'critical objections'. |

| P.475. 'disagreeble' changed to 'disagreeable'. |

| Various punctuation fixed. |

| Note: text surrounded by _this_ indicates italics. |

| |

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