No More Learning

_

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.