Who of them all saw only what was done
Present and future) the much-knowing man
And aged heroë this plain course ran
Amongst their counsels: “Give me likewise ear,
And let me tell ye, friends, that these ills bear
On your malignant spleens their sad effects,
Who not what I persuaded gave respects,
Nor what the people’s pastor, Mentor, said, —
That you should see your issues’ follies stay’d
In those foul courses, by their petulant life
The goods devouring, scandalling the wife
Of no mean person, who, they still would say,
Could never more see his returning-day.
Which yet appearing now, now give it trust,
And yield to my free counsels: Do not thrust
Your own safe persons on the acts your sons
So dearly bought, lest their confusions
On your lov’d heads your like addictions draw.”
This stood so far from force of any law
To curb their loose attempts, that much the more
They rush’d to wreak, and made rude tumult roar.
The greater part of all the court arose;
Good counsel could not ill designs dispose.
Eupitheus was persuader of the course,
Which, cómplete-arm’d, they put in present force;
The rest sat still in council. These men met
Before the broad town, in a place they set
All girt in arms; Eupitheus choosing chief
To all their follies, who put grief to grief,
And in his slaughter’d son’s revenge did burn.
But Fate gave never feet to his return,
Ordaining there his death. Then Pallas spake
To Jove, her Father, with intent to make
His will high arbiter of th’ act design’d,
And ask’d of him what his unsearchéd mind
Held undiscover’d? If with arms, and ill,
And grave encounter he, would first fulfill
His sacred purpose, or both parts combine
In peaceful friendship? He ask’d: “Why incline
These doubts thy counsels? Hast not thou decreed
That Ithacus should come and give his deed
The glory of revenge on these and theirs?
Perform thy will; the frame of these affairs
Have this fit issue: When Ulysses’ hand
Hath reach’d full wreak, his then renown’d command
Shall reign for ever, faithful truces strook
‘Twixt him and all; for ev’ry man shall brook
His sons’ and brothers’ slaughters; by our mean
To send Oblivion in, expunging clean
The character of enmity in them all,
As in best leagues before. Peace, festival,
And riches in abundance, be the state
That crowns the close of wise Ulysses’ Fate.”
This spurr’d the free, who from heav’n’s continent
To th’ Ithacensian isle made straight descent.
Where, dinner past, Ulysses said: “Some one
Look out to see their nearness.” Dolius’ son
Made present speed abroad, and saw them nigh,
Ran back, and told, bade arm; and instantly
Were all in arms. Ulysses’ part was four,
And six more sons of Dolius; all his pow’r
Two only more, which were his aged sire
And like-year’d Dolius, whose lives’-slak’d fire
All-white had left their heads, yet, driv’n by need,
Made soldiers both of necessary deed.
And now, all-girt in arms, the ports set wide,
They sallied forth, Ulysses being their guide;
And to them in the instant Pallas came,
In form and voice like Mentor, who a flame
Inspir’d of comfort in Ulysses’ heart
With her seen presence. To his son, apart,
He thus then spake: “Now, son, your eyes shall see,
Expos’d in slaught’rous fight, the enemy,
Against whom who shall best serve will be seen.
Disgrace not then your race, that yet hath been
For force and fortitude the foremost tried
Of all earth’s offsprings.” His true son replied:
“Yourself shall see, lov’d father, if you please,
That my deservings shall in nought digress
From best fame of our race’s foremost merit.”
The old king sprung for joy to hear his spirit,
And said: “O lov’d Immortals, what a day
Do your clear bounties to my life display!
I joy, past measure, to behold my son
And nephew close in such contention
Of virtues martial.” Pallas, standing near,
Said: “O my friend! Of all supremely dear,
Seed of Arcesius, pray to Jove and Her
That rules in arms, his daughter, and a dart,
Spritefully brandish’d, hurl at th’ adverse part.”
This said, he pray’d; and she a mighty force
Inspir’d within him, who gave instant course
To his brave-brandish’d lance, which struck the brass
That cheek’d Eupitheus’ casque, and thrust his pass
Quite through his head; who fell, and sounded falling,
His arms the sound again from earth recalling.
Ulysses and his son rush’d on before,
And with their both-way-headed darts did gore
Their enemies’ breasts so thick, that all had gone
The way of slaughter, had not Pallas thrown
Her voice betwixt them, charging all to stay
And spare expense of blood. Her voice did fray
The blood so from their faces that it left
A greenish paleness; all their hands it reft
Of all their weapons, falling thence to earth;
And to the common mother of their birth,
The city, all fled, in desire to save
The lives yet left them. Then Ulysses gave
A horrid shout, and like Jove’s eagle flew
In fiery pursuit, till Saturnius threw
His smoking lightning ‘twixt them, that had fall
Before Minerva, who then out did call
Thus to Ulysses: “Born of Jove! Abstain
From further bloodshed. Jove’s hand in the slain
Hath equall’d in their pains their prides to thee.
Abstain, then, lest you move the Deity.”
Again then, ‘twixt both parts the Seed of Jove,
Athenian Pallas, of all future love
A league compos’d, and for her form took choice
Of Mentor’s likeness both in limb and voice.
THE END OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH AND LAST BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
“SO WROUGHT DIVINE ULYSSES”
So wrought divine Ulysses through his woes,
So crown’d the light with him his mother’s throes,
As through his great Renowner I have wrought,
And my safe sail to sacred anchor brought.
Nor did the Argive ship more burthen feel,
That bore the care of all men in her keel,
That my adventurous bark; the Colchian fleece
Not half so precious as this Soul of Greece,
In whose Songs I have made our shores rejoice,
&n
bsp; And Greek itself vail to our English voice.
Yet this inestimable Pearl will all
Our dunghill chanticleers but obvious call;
Each modern scraper this Gem scratching by,
His oat preferring far. Let such let lie.
So scorn the stars the clouds, as true-soul’d men
Despise deceivers. For, as clouds would fain
Obscure the stars, yet (regions left below
With all their envies) bar them but of show,
For they shine ever, and will shine, when they
Dissolve in sinks, make mire, and temper clay;
So puff’d impostors (our muse-vapours) strive,
With their self-blown additions, to deprive
Men solid of their full, though infinite short
They come in their compare, and false report
Of levelling or touching at their light,
That still retain their radiance, and clear right,
And shall shine ever, when, alas! one blast
Of least disgrace tears down th’ impostor’s mast,
His tops and tacklings, his whole freight, and he
Confiscate to the fishy monarchy,
His trash, by foolish Fame brought now, from hence
Given to serve mackarel forth, and frankincense.
Such then, and any too soft-eyed to see,
Through works so solid, any worth, so free
Of all the learn’d professions, as is fit
To praise at such price, let him think his wit
Too weak to rate it, rather than oppose
With his poor pow’rs Ages and Hosts of Foes.
TO THE RUINS OF TROY AND GREECE
Troy rac’d, Greece wrack’d, who mourns? Ye both may boast, Else th’ Iliads and Odysseys had been lost!
AD DEUM
The Only True God (betwixt Whom and me
I only bound my comfort, and agree
With all my actions) only truly knows,
And can judge truly, me, with all that goes
To all my faculties, In Whose free Grace
And Inspiration I only place
All means to know (with my means, study, pray’r,
In and from His Word taken) stair by stair,
In all continual contentation, rising
To knowledge of His Truth, and practising
His Will in it, with my sole Saviour’s Aid,
Guide, and Enlight’ning; nothing done, nor said,
Nor thought, that good is, but acknowledg’d by
His Inclination, Skill, and Faculty.
By which, to find the way out to His Love
Past all the worlds, the sphere is where doth move
My studies, pray’rs, and pow’rs; no pleasure taken
But sign’d by His, for which, my blood forsaken,
My soul I cleave to, and what (in His Blood
That hath redeem’d, cleans’d, taught her) fits her good.
DEO OPT. MAX. GLORIA
THE BATTLE OF FROGS AND MICE
OR, BATRACHOMYOMACHIA
CONTENTS
THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY
THE OCCASION OF THIS IMPOSED CROWNE
BATRACHOMYOMACHIA
THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY
TO MY EVER MOST-WORTHY-TO-BE-MOST HONOURED LORD, THE EARL OF SOMERSET, ETC.
Not forc’d by fortune, but since your free mind
(Made by affliction) rests in choice resign’d
To calm retreat, laid quite beneath the wind
Of grace and glory, I well know, my Lord,
You would not be entitled to a word
That might a thought remove from your repose,
To thunder and spit flames, as greatness does,
For all the trumps that still tell where he goes.
Of which trumps Dedication being one,
Methinks I see you start to hear it blown.
But this is no such trump as summons lords
‘Gainst Envy’s steel to draw their leaden swords,
Or ‘gainst hare-lipp’d Detraction, Contempt,
All which from all resistance stand exempt,
It being as hard to sever wrong from merit,
As meat-indu’d from blood, or blood from spirit.
Nor in the spirit’s chariot rides the soul
In bodies chaste, with more divine control,
Nor virtue shines more in a lovely face,
Than true desert is stuck off with disgrace.
And therefore Truth itself, that had to bless
The merit of it all, Almightiness,
Would not protect it from the bane and ban
Of all moods most distraught and Stygian;
As counting it the crown of all desert,
Borne to heaven, to take of earth, no part
Of false joy here, for joys-there-endless troth,
Nor sell his birthright for a mess of broth.
But stay and still sustain, and his bliss bring,
Like to the hatching of the blackthorn’s spring,
With bitter frosts, and smarting hailstorms, forth.
Fates love bees’ labours; only Pain crown’s Worth.
This Dedication calls no greatness, then,
To patron this greatness-creating pen,
Nor you to add to your dead calm a breath,
For those arm’d angels, that in spite of death
Inspir’d those flow’rs that wrought this Poet’s wreath,
Shall keep it ever, Poesy’s steepest star,
As in Earth’s flaming walls, Heaven’s sevenfold Car,
From all the wilds of Neptune’s wat’ry sphere,
For ever guards the Erymanthian bear.
Since then your Lordship settles in your shade
A life retir’d, and no retreat is made
But to some strength, (for else ’tis no retreat,
But rudely running from your battle’s heat)
I give this as your strength; your strength, my Lord,
In counsels and examples, that afford
More guard than whole hosts of corporeal pow’r,
And more deliverance teach the fatal hour.
Turn not your med’cine then to your disease,
By your too set and slight repulse of these,
The adjuncts of your matchless Odysses;
Since on that wisest mind of man relies
Refuge from all life’s infelicities.
Nor sing these such division from them,
But that these spin the thread of the same stream
From one self distaff’s stuff; for Poesy’s pen,
Through all themes, is t’ inform the lives of men;
All whose retreats need strengths of all degrees;
Without which, had you even Herculean knees,
Your foes’ fresh charges would at length prevail,
To leave your noblest suff’rance no least sail.
Strength then the object is of all retreats;
Strength needs no friends’ trust; strength your foes defeats.
Retire to strength, then, if eternal things,
And y’are eternal; for our knowing springs
Flow into those things that we truly know,
Which being eternal, we are render’d so.
And though your high-fix’d light pass infinite far
Th’ adviceful guide of my still-trembling star,
Yet hear what my discharg’d piece must foretel,
Standing your poor and perdue sentinel.
Kings may perhaps wish even your beggar’s
-voice
To their eternities, how scorn’d a choice
Soever now it lies; and (dead) I may
Extend your life to light’s extremest ray.
If not, your Homer yet past doubt shall make
Immortal, like himself, your bounty’s stake
Put in my hands, to propagate your fame;
Such virtue reigns in such united name.
Retire to him then for advice, and skill,
To know things call’d worst, best; and best, most ill.
Which known, truths best choose, and retire to still.
And as our English general, (whose name 1
Shall equal interest find in th’ house of fame
With all Earth’s great’st commanders,) in retreat
To Belgian Gant, stood all Spain’s armies’ heat
By Parma led, though but one thousand strong;
Three miles together thrusting through the throng
Of th’ enemy’s horse, still pouring on their fall
‘Twixt him and home, and thunder’d through them all;
The Gallic Monsieur standing on the wall,
And Wond’ring at his dreadful discipline,
Fir’d with a valour that spit spirit divine;
In five battalions ranging all his men,
Bristl’d with pikes, and flank’d with flankers ten;
Gave fire still in his rear; retir’d, and wrought
Down to his fix’d strength still; retir’d and fought;
All the battalions of the enemy’s horse
Storming upon him still their fieriest force;
Charge upon charge laid fresh; he, fresh as day,
Repulsing all, and forcing glorious way
Into the gates, that gasp’d, (as swoons for air,)
And took their life in, with untouch’d repair: —
So fight out, sweet Earl, your retreat in peace;
No ope-war equals that where privy prease
Of never-number’d odds if enemy,
Arm’d all by envy, in blind ambush lie,
To rush out like an opening threat’ning sky,
Broke all in meteors round about your ears.
‘Gainst which, though far from hence, through all your rears,
Have fires prepar’d; wisdom with wisdom flank,
And all your forces range in present rank;
Retiring as you now fought in your strength,
From all the force laid, in time’s utmost length,
To charge, and basely come on you behind.
The doctrine of all which you here shall find,
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 163