THE PROGRESS OF TOESY A PINDARIC ODE* I. 1 Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. A thousand rills their mazy progress take: roar. I. 2 Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Has curbed the fury of his car, Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king eye. I. 3 Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Tempered to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green+ 2 Mars 3 Jove's eagle turn. 1 The tyre, said to have been made by Hermes from a tor4 In Cyprus, sacred to toise shell. Venus (Cytherea). The odes of Pindar, the most renowned lyric poet of ancient Greece, were mostly constructed in symmetrical triads, each triad containing a strophe, antistrophe, and epode, or counter-turn, and after-song. Metrically the strophes and antistrophes all corresponded exactly throughout, and likewise the epodes. The livelier odes were written in what was known as the Eolian mood. in contrast to the graver Dorian mood and the more tender Lydian measures. Gray has borrowed freely from Pindar, even translating a portion of the first Pythian Ode. The following is a condensation of Gray's notes to his own poem: I. 1. The various sources of poetry, which gives life and lustre to all it touches.-I. 2. Power of harmony to calm the turbulent sallies of the soul.-I. 3. Power of harmony to produce all the graces of motion in the body. II. 1. Poetry given to mankind to compensate the real and imaginary ills of life.-II. 2. Extensive influence of poetic genius over the remotest and most uncivilized nations. II. 3. Progress of Poetry from Greece to Italy, and from Italy to England.-III. 1. 2. 3. Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden. The rosy-crowned Loves are seen With antic Sports, an.l blue-eyed Pleasures, Now pursuing, now retreating, Slow-melting strains their queen's approach declare: Where 'er she turns the Graces homage pay. II. 1. Man's feeble race what ills await, And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, II. 2 glittering In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. Every shade and hallowed fountain Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour III. 1 Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was nature's darling laid, Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! Of horror that, and thrilling fears, III. 2. Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of ecstacy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,7 Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Two coursers of ethereal race,s With necks in thunder clothed, and longresounding pace. III. 3 Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy But ah! 'tis heard no more flame. O lyre divine, what daring spirit Yet oft before his infant eyes would run in grief. "Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way great. "OSSIAN" JAMES MACPHERSON (1736-1796) OINA-MORUL.* As flies the inconstant sun, over Larmon's grassy hill, so pass the tales of old, along my soul by night! When bards are removed to their place: when harps are hung in Selma's hall; then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds! I seize the tales as they pass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is the song of the king, it is like the rising of music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp! Light of the shadowy thoughts, that fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song? We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Coneathlin, on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the isle of Fuarfed, woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to the aid of Mal-orchol, king of Fuarfed wild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met at the feast. In Col-coiled, I bound my sails; I sent my sword to Mal-orchol of shells.3 He knew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, and seized my hand 1 The royal residence of 3 See note 1 to Gray's ode just preceding. Fingal. 2 A star, perhaps the pole-star. The rhythmical prose pieces published by James Macpherson in 1760-1763 as translations from the ancient Gaelic bard Ossian (Oisin), son of Fingal (Finn), were apparently based upon genuine Gaelic, though probably not Ossianic, remains, with liberal additions by Macpherson himself. See Eng. Lit. 223. In the poem here given. Ossian, addressing his daughter-in-law Malvina, "maid of Lutha," relates a generous deed of his youthful days. Sent by his father to the assistance of the king of Fuarfed, he defeated the foe, Ton-thormod, and was promised the king's daughter, Oina-morul. But discovering that she loved Ton-thormod, he yielded his claim and brought about a reconciliation of the foes. The rather excessive punctuation of the piece is meant to emphasize its rhythmical character. loved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought; I denied the maid! for our fathers had been foes. He came, with battle, to Fuarfed; my people are rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?'' "I come not," I said, "to look, like a boy, on the strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves, the warrior descended on thy woody isle. Thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with songs. For this my sword shall rise; and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in their danger, though distant is our land."' "Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of Cruth-loda, when he speaks, from his parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feast; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the winds; but no white sails were seen. But steel resounds in my hall; and not the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race of heroes! dark-skirted night is near. Hear the voice of songs, from the maid of Fuarfed wild.'' We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina-morul. She waked her own sad tale, from every trembling string. I stood in silence; for bright in her locks was the daughter of many isles! Her eyes were two stars, looking forward through a rushing shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's resounding stream: the foe moved to the sound of Ton-thormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed. I met Ton-thormod in flight. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the king in war. I gave his hand, bound fast with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuarfed, for the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away, from Oinamorul of isles! "Son of Fingal," began Mal-orchol, “not forgot shalt thou pass from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladness, along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid move in Selma, through the dwelling of kings!" In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear: it was like the rising breeze, that whirls, 4 Odin. first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the aadowy, over the grass. It was the maid of storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; Fuarfed wild! she raised the nightly song; she for he beholds thy beams no more; whether knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or at pleasant sounds. "Who looks," she said, thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But "from his rock on ocean's closing mist? His thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy long locks, like the raven's wing, are wander- years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in ing on the blast. Stately are his steps in grief! | thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. The tears are in his eyes! His manly breast is Exult then, O sun! in the strength of thy heaving over his bursting soul! Retire, I am youth: Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the distant far; a wanderer in lands unknown. glimmering light of the moon, when it shines Though the race of kings are around me, yet through broken clouds, and the mist is on the my soul is dark. Why have our fathers been hills; the blast of the north is on the plain, the foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids?'' traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey. "Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said, "why dost thou mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander, by streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! Within this bosom is a voice; it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian hear the hapless, in their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer by night! Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock! THOMAS CHATTERTON* (1752-1770) EPITAPH ON ROBERT CANYNGE Thys Morneynge Starre of Radcleves rysynge hyghte,1 Benethe thys Stone lies moltrynge ynto Claie, With morning I loosed the king. I gave the A True Man, Good of Mynde, and Canynge long-haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words, in the midst of his echoing halls. "King of Fuarfed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war. Your fathers have been foes, but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors! it was the cloud of other years. "" Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were young: though loveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! FROM CARTHON OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall: the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again: the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same; rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy 5 The Hall of Odin. Thyrde from hys Loyns the present Canynge came; † Houton are wordes for to telle his doe; 3 | For aie shall lyve hys Heaven-recorded Name, Ne shalle ytte die whanne Tyme shall be ne moe; 4 Whan Mychael's Trompe shall sounde to rize the Soulle, 1 named 3 deeds The "Rowley poems" of Chatterton, ascribed by him to a fictitions priest called Rowley, of the fifteenth century, are written in a spurious archaic dialect, not a few of the forms being pure inventions, sometimes merely for convenience of rhyme. In the selections here given (except the Epitaph, which is left unaltered) the spelling and some words are modernized, in accordance with Professor Skeat's edition, the better to show what genuine powers the youthful poet possessed. Chatter ton wrote after this fashion: etc. "In Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene, William Canning, an actual mayor of Bristol in He'lle wynge toe heaven with kynne, and happie be ther dolle.5 AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE (AS WRITTEN BY THE GOOD PRIEST THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464) 1 In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene, 2 The sun was gleaming in the midst of day, 3 Beneath a holm,s fast by a pathway-side, 6 List! now the thunder's rattling noisy sound Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs; 7 Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain, With the poor alms-craver near to the holm 8 His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine, 9 "An alms, sir priest!" the drooping pilgrim said, Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?"Oh! let me wait within your convent-door, He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh. Till the sun shineth high above our head, |