It will appear by the following anecdotes, that some men may be said to
have died _poetically_ and even _grammatically_.
There must be some attraction existing in poetry which is not merely
fictitious, for often have its genuine votaries felt all its powers on
the most trying occasions. They have displayed the energy of their mind
by composing or repeating verses, even with death on their lips.
The Emperor Adrian, dying, made that celebrated address to his soul,
which is so happily translated by Pope. Lucan, when he had his veins
opened by order of Nero, expired reciting a passage from his Pharsalia,
in which he had described the wound of a dying soldier. Petronius did
the same thing on the same occasion.
Patris, a poet of Caen, perceiving himself expiring, composed some
verses which are justly admired. In this little poem he relates a dream,
in which he appeared to be placed next to a beggar, when, having
addressed him in the haughty strain he would probably have employed on
this side of the grave, he receives the following reprimand:--
Ici tous sont égaux; je ne te dois plus rien;
Je suis sur mon fumier comme toi sur le tien.
Here all are equal! now thy lot is mine!
I on my dunghill, as thou art on thine.
Des Barreaux, it is said, wrote on his death-bed that well-known sonnet
which is translated in the "Spectator."
Margaret of Austria, when she was nearly perishing in a storm at sea,
composed her epitaph in verse. Had she perished, what would have become
of the epitaph? And if she escaped, of what use was it? She should
rather have said her prayers. The verses however have all the _naïveté_
of the times. They are--
Cy gist Margot, la gente demoiselle,
Qu'eut deux maris, et si mourut pucelle.
Beneath this tomb is high-born Margaret laid,
Who had two husbands, and yet died a maid.
She was betrothed to Charles VIII. of France, who forsook her; and being
next intended for the Spanish infant, in her voyage to Spain, she wrote
these lines in a storm.
Mademoiselle de Serment was surnamed the philosopher. She was celebrated
for her knowledge and taste in polite literature. She died of a cancer
in her breast, and suffered her misfortune with exemplary patience. She
expired in finishing these verses, which she addressed to Death:--
Nectare clausa suo,
Dignum tantorum pretium tulit illa laborum.
It was after Cervantes had received extreme unction that he wrote the
dedication of his Persiles.
Roscommon, at the moment he expired, with an energy of voice that
expressed the most fervent devotion, uttered two lines of his own
version of "Dies Iræ!" Waller, in his last moments, repeated some lines
from Virgil; and Chaucer seems to have taken his farewell of all human
vanities by a moral ode, entitled, "A balade made by Geffrey Chaucyer
upon his dethe-bedde lying in his grete anguysse."[116]
Cornelius de Witt fell an innocent victim to popular prejudice. His
death is thus noticed by Hume:--"This man, who had bravely served his
country in war, and who had been invested with the highest dignities,
was delivered into the hands of the executioner, and torn in pieces by
the most inhuman torments. Amidst the severe agonies which he endured he
frequently repeated an ode of Horace, which contained sentiments suited
to his deplorable condition." It was the third ode of the third book
which this illustrious philosopher and statesman then repeated.
Metastasio, after receiving the sacrament, a very short time before his
last moments, broke out with all the enthusiasm of poetry and religion
in these stanzas:--
T' offro il tuo proprio Figlio,
Che già d'amore in pegno,
Racchiuso in picciol segno
Si volle a noi donar.
A lui rivolgi il ciglio.
Guardo chi t' offro, e poi
Lasci, Signor, se vuoi,
Lascia di perdonar.
"I offer to thee, O Lord, thine own Son, who already has given the
pledge of love, enclosed in this thin emblem. Turn on him thine
eyes: ah! behold whom I offer to thee, and then desist, O Lord! if
thou canst desist from mercy."
"The muse that has attended my course," says the dying Gleim in a letter
to Klopstock, "still hovers round my steps to the very verge of the
grave." A collection of lyrical poems, entitled "Last Hours," composed
by old Gleim on his death-bed, was intended to be published. The death
of Klopstock was one of the most poetical: in this poet's "Messiah," he
had made the death of Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, a picture
of the death of the Just; and on his own death-bed he was heard
repeating, with an expiring voice, his own verses on Mary; he was
exhorting himself to die by the accents of his own harp, the sublimities
of his own muse! The same song of Mary was read at the public funeral of
Klopstock.
Chatelar, a French gentleman, beheaded in Scotland for having loved the
queen, and even for having attempted her honour, Brantome says, would
not have any other viaticum than a poem of Ronsard. When he ascended the
scaffold he took the hymns of this poet, and for his consolation read
that on death, which our old critic says is well adapted to conquer its
fear.
When the Marquis of Montrose was condemned by his judges to have his
limbs nailed to the gates of four cities, the brave soldier said that
"he was sorry he had not limbs sufficient to be nailed to all the gates
of the cities in Europe, as monuments of his loyalty." As he proceeded
to his execution, he put this thought into verse.
Philip Strozzi, imprisoned by Cosmo the First, Great Duke of Tuscany,
was apprehensive of the danger to which he might expose his friends who
had joined in his conspiracy against the duke, from the confessions
which the rack might extort from him. Having attempted every exertion
for the liberty of his country, he considered it as no crime therefore
to die. He resolved on suicide. With the point of the sword, with which
he killed himself, he cut out on the mantel-piece of the chimney this
verse of Virgil:--
Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor.
Rise some avenger from our blood!
I can never repeat without a strong emotion the following stanzas, begun
by André Chenier, in the dreadful period of the French revolution. He
was waiting for his turn to be dragged to the guillotine, when he
commenced this poem:--
Comme un dernier rayon, comme un dernier zéphyre
Anime la fin d'un beau jour;
Au pied de l'échafaud j'essaie encore ma lyre,
Peut-être est ce bientôt mon tour;
Peut-être avant que l'heure en cercle promenée
Ait posé sur l'émail brillant,
Dans les soixante pas où sa route est bornée
Son pied sonore et vigilant,