No More Learning

There was a delicious pudding, which the master of the
house, pushing the dish towards Quin, begged him to taste. A
gentleman had just before helped himself to an immense piece
of it. "Pray," said Quin, looking first at the gentleman's plate
and then at the dish, "which is the pudding? "
Sir George Beaumont, when a young man, was one day in
the Mount (a famous coffee-house in Mount Street, Grosvenor
Square) with Harvey Aston. Various persons were seated at
different tables. Among others present, there was an Irishman
who was very celebrated as a duelist, having killed at least half
a dozen antagonists. Aston, talking to some of his acquaintance,
swore that he would make the duelist stand barefooted before
them. "You had better take care what you say," they replied;
"he has his eye upon you. " "No matter," rejoined Aston; "I
declare again that he shall stand barefooted before you, if you
will make up among you a purse of fifty guineas. " They did so.
Aston then said in a loud voice, "I have been in Ireland, and
am well acquainted with the natives. " The Irishman was all
ear. Aston went on, "The Irish, being born in bogs, are every
one of them web-footed: I know it for a fact. ” "Sir," roared
the duelist, starting up from his table, "it is false! " Aston per-
sisted in his assertion. "Sir," cried the other, "I was born in
Ireland; and I will prove to you that it is a falsehood. " So
saying, in great haste he pulled off his shoes and stockings and
displayed his bare feet. The joke ended in Aston's sharing the
purse between the Irishman and himself, giving the former thirty
guineas and keeping twenty. Sir George assured me that this was
a true story.
Aston was always kicking up disturbances. I remember being
at Ranelagh with my father and mother, when we heard a great
row and were told that it was occasioned by Aston.
XXI-773


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12354
SAMUEL ROGERS
If I mistake not, Aston fought two duels in India on two
successive days, and fell in the second one.
WORDS are so twisted and tortured by some writers of the
present day that I am really sorry for them,-I mean for the
words. It is a favorite fancy of mine that perhaps in the next
world the use of words may be dispensed with,-that our
thoughts may stream into each other's minds without any verbal
communication.
THOMAS GRENVILLE told me this curious fact. When he
a young man, he one day dined with Lord Spencer at Wimble-
don. Among the company was George Pitt (afterwards Lord
Rivers), who declared that he could tame the most furious ani-
mal by looking at it steadily. Lord Spencer said, "Well, there
is a mastiff in the court-yard here which is the terror of the
neighborhood: will you try your powers on him? " Pitt agreed
to do so; and the company descended into the court-yard. A
servant held the mastiff by a chain. Pitt knelt down at a short
distance from the animal, and stared him sternly in the face.
They all shuddered. At a signal given, the mastiff was let
loose, and rushed furiously towards Pitt, then suddenly checked
his pace, seemed confounded, and leaping over Pitt's head, ran
away, and was not seen for many hours after.
During one of my visits to Italy, while I was walking a little
before my carriage on the road not far from Vicenza, I per-
ceived two huge dogs, nearly as tall as myself, bounding towards
me (from out a gateway, though there was no house in sight).
I recollected what Pitt had done; and trembling from head to
foot, I yet had resolution enough to stand quite still and eye.
them with a fixed look. They gradually relaxed their speed from
a gallop to a trot, came up to me, stopped for a moment, and
then went back again.
•
DUNNING (afterwards Lord Ashburton) was "stating the law"
to a jury at Guildhall, when Lord Mansfield interrupted him by
saying, "If that be law, I'll go home and burn my books. " "My
lord," replied Dunning, "you had better go home and read
them. "
Dunning was remarkably ugly. One night while he was play-
ing whist at Nando's with Horne Tooke and two others, Lord


## p. 12355 (#405) ##########################################

SAMUEL ROGERS
12355
Thurlow called at the door and desired the waiter to give a note
to Dunning (with whom, though their politics were so different,
he was very intimate). The waiter did not know Dunning by
sight. "Take the note up-stairs," said Thurlow, "and deliver it
to the ugliest man at the card-table-to him who most resem-
bles the knave of spades. " The note immediately reached its
destination. Horne Tooke used often to tell this anecdote.
WHEN titled ladies become authoresses or composers, their
friends suffer for it. Lady asked me to buy her book, and
I replied that I would do so when I was rich enough. I went
to a concert at Lady - -'s, during which several pieces com-
posed by her daughter were performed; and early next morning
a music-seller arrived at my house, bringing with him the daugh-
ter's compositions (and a bill receipted), price sixteen shillings.
THOMAS GRENVILLE told me that he was present in the House
when Lord North, suddenly rising from his seat and going out,
carried off on the hilt of his sword the wig of Welbore Ellis,
who was stooping to take up some papers. I have myself often
seen Lord North in the House. While sitting there he would
frequently hold a handkerchief to his face; and once after a long
debate, when somebody said to him, "My lord, I fear you have
been asleep," he replied, "I wish I had. "
ONE morning at his own house, while speaking to me of his
travels, Fox could not recollect the name of a particular town in
Holland, and was much vexed at the treacherousness of his mem-
ory. He had a dinner party that day; and just as he had applied
the carving-knife to the sirloin, the name of the town having
suddenly occurred to him, he roared out exultingly, to the aston-
ishment of the company, "Gorcum, Gorcum! "
LORD ST. HELENS (who had been ambassador to Russia) told
me as a fact this anecdote of the Empress Catherine. She fre-
quently had little whist parties, at which she sometimes played,
and sometimes not. One night when she was not playing, but
walking about from table to table and watching the different
hands, she rang the bell to summon the page-in-waiting from
an antechamber. No page appeared. She rang the bell again;
and again without effect. Upon this she left the room, looking


## p. 12356 (#406) ##########################################

12356
SAMUEL ROGERS
daggers, and did not return for a very considerable time; the
company supposing that the unfortunate page was destined for
the knout or Siberia. On entering the antechamber, the Empress
found that the page, like his betters, was busy at whist; and that
when she had rung the bell, he happened to have so very inter-
esting a hand that he could not make up his mind to quit it.
Now what did the Empress do? She dispatched the page on
her errand, and then quietly sat down to hold his cards till he
should return.
Lord St. Helens also told me that he and Ségur were with
the Empress in her carriage, when the horses took fright, and
ran furiously down-hill. The danger was excessive. When it
was over the Empress said, "Mon étoile vous a sauvée. "


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12357
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
BY HARRIET WATERS PRESTON
E
ARLY in the second century A. D. the sweet but slender after-
math of Latin pagan poetry began to ripen upon the sunny
hillside where it had pleased the Emperor Hadrian to fix
his most magnificent abode. That many-sided and enigmatical being,
whom the ancient writers can only attempt to describe by accumu
lating pairs of contradictory adjectives-"grave and gay, cordial and
reserved, impulsive and cautious, niggardly and lavish, crafty and
ingenuous," had certainly both a refined taste in poetry and a deli-
cate poetical talent of his own. The ghosts of the light and languid
men of letters whom he rather disdainfully patronized — " with an
air," goes on Spartianus, the author quoted above, "of knowing much
more than they". -seem always to haunt the beautiful oval gymna-
sium of Hadrian's villa at Tivoli, upon whose original marble seats
one may still dream away an idle hour. Here Annius Florus chanted
the brief glories of the rose, or engaged in merry metrical duels with
his imperial master; and the Etruscan Annianus sang in tripping
measure the song of the Falernian vine ("I am the one grape —I am
the grape of Falernum"), or sought to bring again into vogue, by
slightly adapting to the superficial squeamishness of a sophisticated
time, the naïve indecencies of the Fescennine harvest-home and mar-
riage hymns. The taste of the clique, as often happens in a period
of decadence, was for the far-sought and archaic, the curious and the
daintily sensuous, for tender sentimentalism and aromatic pains.
These artificial folk doted upon nature; and the fragments of their
verse which we possess reveal an altogether new sensitiveness to her
beauties, and sympathy with her moods. Whatever they knew of
aspiration or regret seems to have been gathered into one wistful
sigh, and to exhale in the forever inimitable farewell of the Emperor
himself to his own departing soul,—"Animula, blandula, vagula. ”
It is difficult also, upon internal evidence, not to refer to the same
period, and to some member or members of the same circle, the one
fragment of highly impassioned and melodious Latin verse which
has survived the wreckage of a couple of centuries,- the 'Pervigil-
ium Veneris. ' We know that Hadrian restored with great pomp the
worship of Alma Venus; and it seemed as if this dulcet song for the
vigil of her festa must have been inspired by that circumstance. The


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12358
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
connection of ideas is loose, the imagery as vaporous, fluctuating,
and insaissisable as in a Troubadour love-song; but here too the atmo
sphere is voluptuous and the emotion strong. The German critic who
"proves all things," without always holding fast to that which is
good, has both shown conclusively that the 'Pervigilium' does belong
to the time of Hadrian, and that it does not. The fact that the
strongly accented septennarian verse in which it is written, constantly
recalls the long surge of certain Augustinian hymns, may only mean
that the tonic accent really went for more in the delivery of native
Latin verse than is commonly supposed.
A similar uncertainty with regard to its date involves the work of
the best Latin bucolic poet after Virgil; the only one, in fact, whose
compositions will stand any kind of comparison with those of the
master. Calpurnius Siculus wrote eclogues of indisputable though
unequal beauty. He offered the incense of extravagant praise to a
youthful emperor who had lately acceded, whose advent had been
heralded by the appearance of a wonderful comet; whose personal
and mental gifts excited ardent hopes; who built a huge amphitheatre
of wood on or near the Campus Martius, and ransacked the earth for
curious beasts to exhibit therein. All these things have commonly
been thought to refer to Nero, and to the first five years of his reign
(54-59 A. D. ), during which he gave no sign of the vicious and insane
propensities which afterwards made his name a synonym of horror.
It appears, however, by the precise testimony of astronomy, that the
comet of 54 cannot be identified with the one which is described so
very vividly by Calpurnius; while a comet meeting the requirements.
fairly well did appear early in the third century A. D. Of the eleven
eclogues long attributed to the Sicilian, four are now almost univer-
sally assigned to the African, Olympius Aurelius Nemesianus, who
also wrote a poem upon hunting, and who certainly flourished during
the brief reign of the Emperor Carus and his sons,-282-284 A. D.
On the other hand, the recurring refrain of the last of these Neme-
sianian eclogues bears a strong resemblance to that of the 'Pervigil-
ium Veneris,' and may perhaps be considered an argument for the
advanced date of the latter.
Nearly a century more was to pass before the last ardent revival
of Roman patriotism found expression in a poetic revival, during
which the venerable forms of classic Latin verse were once again
handled for a moment with something like the old mastery and
grace. It was the flare of a forlorn hope. The cloud of barbarian
invasion already hung low upon the horizon; and the end of the
Golden City of the past was as plainly announced as is that of the
"golden autumn woodland" on the last still day of October. Mean-
while Roma Aurea had lost but little as yet of her unparalleled


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ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
12359
outward magnificence; and it seems to have been more that vision-
ary and bewildering beauty of aspect which fired the imaginations of
her latest pagan devotees, than any deep reverence for her hoary
traditions, or reasoned attachment to her political code and forms.
The three poets of the fourth and early fifth centuries whose names
we instinctively associate - Ausonius, Claudian, and Rutilius-were
all of them, like nearly every other late writer whose name has sur-
vived, of provincial extraction. Two were professed pagan believers,
and eager pagan apologists. The third, who as the tutor of a nom-
inally Christian prince was himself of necessity a nominal Christian,
was the most deeply imbued with pagan feeling, and debauched by
pagan sensualism, of them all.
Decimus Magnus Ausonius-"proud," as he used to say, "of pre-
serving even in his name a reminiscence of Italy"-was born in
Burdigala, now Bordeaux, in 309. He saw the conversion of Con-
stantine, the apostasy and death of Julian, the restoration of so-
called Christian rule in the person of the blunt soldier Jovian. In
369, being already well advanced in years, he was appointed tutor
to Gratian, then a boy of eight, son of the Pannonian general Valen-
tinian I. , who had been proclaimed Roman Emperor three years
before. Valentinian had divided the empire with his brother Valens;
sending the latter to the city of Constantine in the East, while he
himself assumed the sovereignty of the West and fixed his court at
Augusta Trevirorum (Trier or Trèves). Ausonius was educated at
Toulouse, and returned at about the age of twenty-eight to Bor-
deaux, where he had been known as a teacher of rhetoric and
literature for nearly thirty years before he received his court ap-
pointment. In 375 Valentinian I. went back to his own native prov-
ince, to subdue a revolt which had broken out among the Quadi;
and died there suddenly in the month of November of the same
year.
After the accession of his royal pupil at the age of sixteen, Auso-
nius was made prefect of Italy and Africa. Three years later, in 378,
he and his son Hesperius were joint prefects of Gaul; and we find
him consul-designate for 379. Four years later Gratian was murdered
by the revolting Briton Maximus, but not before he had associated
with himself in the empire a Spanish general who was none other
than Theodosius the Great. Maximus managed to hold his own for
four years; and while he reigned at Trèves, Ausonius was in disgrace.
Theodosius restored him to favor; but he was now past seventy, and
soon retired to a fine estate near his native town of Bordeaux, where
he seems to have lived to extreme old age, corresponding with
friends all over the Roman world, and polishing for publication his
early poetical writings.


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12360
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
The most noteworthy of these, the 'Idyll of the Moselle,' is a
description of the poet's journey upon that river from the port of
Taberna (now Bern-Castel) to the Augustan capital. It is full of
keen observation and picturesque description, affording by far the
clearest picture we possess of Roman civilization in the north of
Europe, and enabling us-along with the highly impressive Roman
remains yet existing in and about Trèves - to reconstruct with very
tolerable success the outward features of that civilization.
Ausonius also sketched a certain number of human figures typical
of his time, in the series of epigrams and epitaphs upon his own
kindred which he entitled 'Parentalia'; and in his 'Ordo Nobilium
Orbium' he described, seemingly from personal observation, the six-
teen greatest cities of Europe in his day, beginning with Rome and
ending with Bordeaux. "Her I love," he says of his native place;
"but Rome I worship. "
Officially as a laureate produces a birthday ode - Ausonius com-
posed, soon after his arrival at Valentinian's court, an Easter hymn.
But in his graceful 'Dream of Cupid Crucified' he travesties, appar-
ently with no thought of blasphemy, and in singularly light and
charming verse, the awful central scene of Christian history; and in
his 'Griphus, or riddling disquisition on the properties of the num-
ber three, he points out that there are "three Graces, three Harpies,
three Furies, three prophesying Sibyls, three drinks to a toast, and
three persons in the Trinity. " Ausonius also perpetrated many epi-
grams, most of them insufferably coarse, and a few tame and tasteless
eclogues; and he wrote other idyls besides that of the 'Moselle. '
In the best of these he essays, as Omar Khayyám and Ronsard, Wal-
ler and Herrick, and a hundred more have done since his day, the
everlasting theme of the evanescent rose; adorning it lavishly with
"pathetic fallacies," and giving it a wealth of sentimental develop-
ment which contrasts curiously with the perfectly simple transcrip-
tion of the elementary melody by Florus, two hundred years before.
A far more virile minstrel, many of whose compact and ringing
hexameters need have been disdained neither by Lucretius nor Vir-
gil, was Claudius Claudianus. He was born and brought up at Alex-
andria; and his father, who seems to have lectured on philosophy in
the city of Hypatia something like a generation before her day, was
a native of Asia Minor. But though born to speak Greek, Claudian
wrote, by preference if not always, in Latin. His mature years were
passed in Rome, and he was passionately identified with the last
struggle of the Roman patriciate against the official establishment of
Christianity by Theodosius.
When the great Spaniard died, in 395, each of his two sons, be-
tween whom the kingdom of the world was divided, fell under the
-


## p. 12361 (#411) ##########################################

ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
12361
dominion of a powerful prime minister. Arcadius, in the East, became
the tool of the infamous Rufinus; Honorius, in the West, was more
happily controlled by his father-in-law, the brilliant Vandal warrior
Stilicho, who was able so long as he lived to hold the other bar-
barians at bay. It was the signal deliverance, under his generalship,
of the Golden City from its first threatened sack by Alaric the Visi-
goth, which rendered Stilicho the hero par excellence of the poet
Claudian. He wrote among other things an epithalamium and four
short Fescennine lays on the marriage of Honorius to Stilicho's
daughter Maria; the praises of the great Vandal leader in two books;
of his consulate in another; of his wife Serena in a fourth; a brill-
iant poem on the Getic war and the defeat of Alaric; invectives
against Rufinus and Eutropius; and three books of a mythological
poem on the rape of Proserpine, parts of which are exceedingly fine.
The literary merits of Claudian were acknowledged by those who
had least sympathy with him in opinion: by Sidonius Apollinaris in
an ode; in the 'Civitas Dei' by St. Augustine, who mourns that so
noble a writer should have been "hostile to the name of Christ”; and
by Orosius, who says that though a superlatively good poet, he was
a most stubborn (pervicacissimus) pagan. After the fall of Stilicho in
403, there is no further mention of Claudian in history; and it seems
natural to conclude that his fate was involved in that of the man
whom he so admired and exalted. The emperors Honorius and
Arcadius, on petition of the Roman Senate, erected in the Forum of
Trajan a statue, of which the inscription, discovered in the fifteenth
century, describes "Claudian the Tribune" as uniting in one person
"the mind of Virgil and the muse of Homer. "
It is a singular fact that the one other militant pagan of this
tragic period whose poetical work has endured should have been as
vehemently hostile to Stilicho as Claudian was eloquent in his
praise. Rutilius Claudius Numatianus was born in Toulouse, but like
Claudian, he lived long in Rome, was at one time prefect of the city,
and was undoubtedly residing there at the time of Stilicho's disgrace
and Claudian's disappearance. He bitterly charges the great Vandal
himself with contempt of the elder gods, in ordering the destruction
of the Sibylline Books; and though this particular accusation has
never been substantiated, it is apparently true that Stilicho did strip
the doors of the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus of their golden plating,
and steal from the neck of a venerable statue of Cybele—a horrified
Vestal protesting the while a most ancient and precious necklace,
which he bestowed upon his wife Serena. When in 410 Rome had
finally succumbed to the second assault of Alaric, and the barbarian
hordes had overflowed into Gaul, breaking up the Aurelian Way as
they went, destroying bridges and plundering and laying waste the
―


## p. 12362 (#412) ##########################################

12362
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
country,- Rutilius followed them by sea, to save what he might of
his patrimony. It was with heartsick reluctance that he forsook the
city of his impassioned predilection; endeavoring to silence, by yearn.
ing promises of a speedy return, the ominous voice within which
told him that his farewell was a final one.
Seven years later, in 417, we find him beguiling his lingering
exile, in Gaul by the composition in sweetly flowing elegiacs of an
'Itinerarium,' or narrative of his homeward journey. The poem was to
have been a long one, to judge by the first and fragment of a second
book, which are all that we possess; and its easy graphic style
enables one to follow the poet, mile by mile and day by day, from
the port of Ostia, where he embarked, to a point on the eastern
Riviera of the Mediterranean somewhere between Pisa and Genoa.
All the incidents of the voyage are recalled and revivified. All the
objects descried in passing, upon mainland or island,- cities, villas,
fortifications, fishing and salt-making stations; immemorial ruins, like
those of the Etruscan Populonia, whose aspect is almost the same to-
day as when Rutilius beheld it; incipient convents which excite him
to explosions of scorn and wrath at the senseless fanaticism of the
monks; mines of Elba divined rather than seen,- pass before him in
review; and when the white city of Luna, on a spur of the Carrara
Mountains, fades from view, and this fascinating guide-book of the
fifth century comes to an untimely end, we regret its fragmentary
nature, for the moment, almost more than the mutilation of some of
the greater works of antiquity.
One more name remains to be added to the list of Roman poets
whose hearts were irrevocably set upon the past, and who caught
such inspiration as they had from the expiring glories of the pre-
Christian order. Claudian had once said, in his carelessly hyperboli-
cal way, that every individual of the renowned Anician stock would
be found to have sprung from a consul; and Anicius Manlius Seve-
rinus Boëthius, born in 480, or about seventy-five years after Claudian
ceased to be, was certainly himself a consul, the son of a consul, and
the father of two boys who were named honorary consuls in their
mere infancy by Theodoric, on his visit to Rome in 522. The Anicii,
like the remnant in general of the old Roman patriciate, were now
Christian in name, as their sovereigns had long been; but their feel-
ing of race, their habits of mind, their code of conduct,- all their
civic and social traditions, in a word,-were still intensely and im-
penitently pagan. With great wealth, commanding position, and the
broadest culture of his day, Boëthius passed the years of his early
manhood chiefly in his own beautiful library, "ceiled with ivory and
decorated with crystal," now writing a philosophical essay on the
Trinity or a tract against Nestorius, now translating Plato, Aristotle,


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ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
12363
or Euclid. But when the hour came suddenly upon him, of cruel
calamity and uttermost reverse, it was in the innate pride and power
of a long-descended and indomitable Roman that he rose to meet his
fate. It was philosophy, not religion, that he summoned to his aid;
and in her mystic sign, rather than that of the Labarum of Constan-
tine, he conquered. A monotheist Boëthius undoubtedly was, and a
devout one; but not, if we are to judge him by his own clear and
candid testimony, a practical follower of the sect of the Nazarenes.
He was a Roman citizen first; a deist afterward; an orthodox Christ-
ian last and least of all: and the book by which he still holds the
memory and affections of men, and still, out of the solitude and
squalor of his dim prison chamber, affords help in trouble to a cer-
tain order of minds among them, is a dialogue, partly in prose, but
interrupted by pieces of noble verse, with a visible embodiment of
the philosophic spirit.
Jealousy of the splendid fortune and exclusive national prejudices
of Boëthius would seem to have been the sole source of the baseless
and malign accusation of treason which poisoned against him the
mind of Theodoric. He was arrested in the sacristy of a church near
Ticinum, the modern Pavia,-imprisoned for a year in a strong
tower, never examined or allowed a hearing, finally tortured and
slain in prison. The 'Consolation of Philosophy,' beloved of Dante
and many another undaunted sufferer, was written there; and the
simplicity and sincerity of expression born of the writer's own des-
perate condition invest its thrilling pages with unique and enduring
power.
Harmeet Tracers Preston
ANNIUS FLORUS
ROSES
NCE more the genius of the laughing spring
Doth roses bring.
A spear-like point amid the under green
Is one day seen,
The next a swelling bud, the next we greet
The rose complete;
Whose race, before another set of sun,
Will all be run.
Gather then, quickly, ere this glory's o'er,
Or nevermore!
ON
Translation of H. W. P.


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12364
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
THE EMPEROR HADRIAN
TO HIS SOUL
IFELING, changeling, darling,
L My body's comrade and guest,—
To what place now wilt betake thee,
Weakling, shivering, starveling,
Nor utter thy wonted jest?
Translation of William Everett.
LITTLE Soul from far away,
Sweet and gay,
While the body's friend and guest,-
Whither now again wilt stray?
Shivering, paling,
Rent thy veiling,
And forgot thy wonted jest?
Translation of L. P. D.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
From the 'Pervigilium Veneris >
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet!
SPE
PRING again! The time of singing! All the earth regenerate!
Everywhere the rapt embrace! Each winged creature seeks his
mate.
From thy leafy locks, O forest, shake the drops of bridal dew,
For to-morrow shall the Linker pass thy shadowy by-ways through,
Binding every bower with myrtle. Yea, to-morrow, on her throne,
Set in queenly state, Dione gives the law to all her own.
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet!
Hark! the goddess calls her nymphs to enter by the myrtle gate.
"Come, my maidens, for the day to Love disarmed is consecrate.
Bidden to fling his burning gear, his quiver bidden to fling away,
So nor brand nor barbèd shaft may wound upon my holiday:
Lo, the Boy among the maidens! Foolish maidens, dull to see
In the helpless, bowless Cupid, still the dread divinity.
Have a care! his limbs are fair, and nakedness his panoply! "


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ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
12365
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet!
"Be my bar," the queen ordains, "with blushing garlands decorate.
When I sit for judgment, let the Graces three upon me wait;
Send me every blossom, Hybla, that thy opulent year doth yield;
Shed thy painted vesture, fair as that of Enna's holy field.
Rally, all ye rural creatures!
nymphs of grove and fountain bright,
Dwellers in the darksome woodland, haunters of the lonely height! "
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet!
This is she, the procreatrix, hers the power, occult, innate,
Whereby soul and sense of man with breath divine are permeate.
Sower of the seed, and breather of the brooding warmth of life,
Hers the universal realm, with universal being rife.
None in air or hidden ocean, or the utmost parts of earth,
But have trodden, at her bidding, the mysterious ways of birth.
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet!
Hark the lowing herd, their joys in leafy shades who celebrate!
Hark the hoarser calling of the noisy marsh-bird to his mate!
Aye the goddess will have song of all whom she has dowered with
wings;
Wherefore still the soul of Philomela in the poplar sings,
Till the very pulse of love seems beating in the rapturous strain,
And the sister soul of Procne hath forgot her wedded pain.
Who am I, to listen dumbly? Come, my spring, desired so long!
I have angered great Apollo, I have done the Muses wrong.
Come and waken on these voiceless lips of mine the swallow-song!
Translation of H. W. P.
CALPURNIUS SICULUS
THE RUSTIC IN THE AMPHITHEATRE
C
ORYDON—I saw the heaven: high structure of woven timbers
wrought,
Looking down on the very Tarpeian rock, methought;
I saw the gradients vast, and I gained by easy stairs
The place assigned to the common folk, and the women's chairs.
Where these and the men in homely raiment view the show;
For the statelier places under the open sky below


## p. 12366 (#416) ##########################################

12366
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
Are all for the knights and the tribunes in their snowy dress.
Even as our sunny valley in the wilderness
Ringed by these forest ranks that aye reclining seem,
Flares to the unbroken chain of hills about its brim,
So there, the arena circuit girds the level ground,
And the massive hemispheres in an oval vast are bound.
But how to tell thee all, which I scarce had eyes to see
In part? For the universal splendor dazzled me.
And there I stood agape, and as rooted to the spot,-
Though little of all the coming wonders then I wot,-
Till an ancient gaffer on my left hand spake and said:
"No marvel if all this glory hath turned thy clownish head,
Who knowest, mayhap, not gold by sight, nor ever saw
Statelier home than a starveling peasant's hut of straw!
Why, hoary-headed and shaky as I stand here to-day,
Having grown old in the city-I know not what to say!
All they have shown us in years before is poor and mean,
Sordid, I tell thee, man, to this bewildering scene!
Look how the gem-set barriers and gilded loggia shine!
And down on the marble wall,- the arena's boundary-line,—
Where are the foremost seats of all, dost thou discern
The cylinders made of beauteous ivory slabs, that turn
Smoothly on polished axles, and suddenly let slip
Claws of the dizzied climber, who tumbles in a heap?
For him too glitter the nets of golden wire hung out,
Each from an ivory tusk,-the arena round about
Whole tusks, and all of a size! " And I, Lycotas, deem
Each one of those tusks was longer than our plowshare beam!
And what shall I tell thee next? All manner of beasts were
-
-:
there,
The elk, even in his own native forest rare;
With snow-white hares, and horrid boars, and bulls galore!
Some without necks, a hideous hump on the shoulders bore;
There were shaggy manes and bearded chins. And others yet
Had rigid dewlaps all with quivering bristles set.
But the strange, wild forest creatures made not all the show:
Seals were there, along with the bear, their constant foe;
And the shapeless being called a river-horse, and born
Of the stream whose overflowings quicken the vernal corn.
Awesome it was indeed, to see in the sandy deep
The wild things out of their subterranean caverns leap,
Or up from the selfsame hollow places grow amain
Living arbutus bowers, in a nimbus of golden rain!
-


## p. 12367 (#417) ##########################################

ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
12367
Lycotas-Ay, ay!
And thou art a happy fellow, Corydon,
To have seen by grace divine, e'er tremulous eld come on,
This age of ours! And tell, oh, tell me if by chance
Thou hadst a right near view of the godlike countenance;
And how did the dread one look ? What manner of garb
wore he?
I fain would know the aspect on earth of deity!
Corydon - Would I had gone less meanly clad! For then, mayhap,
I had not been balked of a noble sight by a sordid wrap
And a clumsy brooch! But to me, as I stood afar,
He carried, unless these eyes of mine deceivers are,
The part at once of the god of song and the god of war!
Translation of H. W. P.
DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS
IDYL OF THE ROSES
SP
PRING morning! and in all the saffron air,
The tingling freshness of a day to be!
The breeze that runs before the sun-steeds, ere
They kindle fire, appeared to summon me;
And I went forth by the prim garden beds
To taste that early freshness, and behold
The bending blades dew-frosted, and the heads
Of the tall plants impearled, and heavy-rolled
O'er spreading leaves, the sky-drops crystalline.
Here too were roses, as in Pæstum gay;
Dim through the morning mist I saw them shine,
Save where at intervals a blinding ray
Flashed from a gem that Sol would soon devour!
Verily, one knew not if the rosy Dawn
Borrowed her blushes from the rosy flower,
Or this from her; for that the two had on
The same warm color, the same dewy veil.
Yea, and why not? For flower alike and star
Live under Lady Venus, and exhale,
Mayhap, the self-same fragrance. But afar
The planet's breath is wafted and is spent,
The blossom sheds its fragrance at our side;
Yet still they wear the one habiliment
The Paphian goddess lent them, murex-dyed!
A moment more and the young buds were seen
Bursting their star-like sheathings. One was there


## p. 12368 (#418) ##########################################

12368
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
Who sported yet a fairy helm of green;
And one a crimson coronal did wear;
And one was like a stately pyramid
Tipped at the apex with a purple spire;
And one the foldings of her veil undid
From her fair head, as moved by the desire
To number her own petals. Quick, 'tis done!
The smiling casket opens, and we see
The crocus therein hidden from the sun
Dense-seeded. But another flower, ah me!
With flame-like hair afloat upon the breeze
Paled suddenly, of all her glory shorn.
"Alas for the untimely fate of these,
Who age the very hour wherein they're born,"
I cried. And even so, the chevelure
Of yon poor blossom dropped upon the mold,
Clothing it far and wide with color pure!
How can the same sunrising see unfold
And fade so many shapes of loveliness?
Ah cruel Nature, with thy boon of flowers
Too quick withdrawn! Ah youth, grim age doth press!
Ah life of roses, told in one day's hours!
The morning star beholds a birth divine
Whereof the evening star shall find no trace.
Think then upon the rose's endless line,
Since the one rose revisiteth her place
Never again! And gather, sweetest maid,
Gather young roses in the early dew
Of thine own years, remembering how they fade,
And how for thee the end is hastening too!
Translation of H. W. P.
A MOTHER'S EPITAPH
Æ
ONIA, mother, with thy mingled strain
Of blood from Normandy and Aquitaine,
Thine were the graces of the perfect wife!
The busy fingers the inviolate life,
Thine husband's trust, the empire of thy boys,
A gracious mien, a fund of quiet joys!
Thy long embrace among the peaceful dead
Make warm my father's tomb, as once his bed!
Translation of H. W. P.


## p. 12369 (#419) ##########################################

ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
12369
CLAUDIUS CLAUDIANUS
THE BEREAVEMENT OF CERES
From the Rape of Proserpine>
A
LL in terror, in hope no more, as the mother of nestlings
Fears for her tender young, in the rowan sapling deserted,
Fears while she seeks their food, and wearies again to be
with them;
Trembling lest the wind may have smitten the nest from the
bough, or
Cruel man have slain, or the fang of the ravening serpent,—
So she came again to her lonesome dwelling unguarded.
Wide on their idle hinges yawned the doors, and, beholding
All the silent space of the empty hall, in her anguish,
Rent she her robes, and tore the bearded wheat from her tresses.
Never a tear nor a word had she, for the breath of her nostrils
Barely went and came, and she shivered in every member.
Then upon quaking feet, and closing the portal behind her,
Passed within, and on through the lorn and sorrowful chambers,
Found the loom with its trailing web and intricate skein, and
Read with a failing heart the woven story unfinished.
Vain that gracious labor now! and the insolent spider
Busily spinning among the threads his texture unholy!
Never a tear nor a moan; but she fell with kisses unnumbered
Upon the woven stuff, and the sob of her gathering passion
Choked with the useless thread: then pressed to her bosom
maternal,
As it had been the maid herself, the delicate shuttle
Smooth from her hand, and the fallen wool, and the virginal trifles
Of her delight; surveyed the seats where she loved to linger,
Leaned o'er the spotless couch, and touched the pillow forsaken.
Translation of H. W. P.
WHAT
XXI-774
INVOCATION TO VICTORY
From the Consulate of Stilicho'
HAT shouts of our nobles, in jubilant chorus
Went up to the hero, while over his head,
Inviolate Victory, bodied before us
Wide, wide in the ether, her pinions outspread!
O guardian Goddess of Rome in her splendor!
O radiant Palm-bearer in trophies arrayed,
Who only the spirit undaunted canst render,
Who healest the wounds that our foemen had made!


## p. 12370 (#420) ##########################################

12370
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
So
I know not thy rank in the heavenly legion,-
If thou shinest a star in the Dictæan crown,
Or art girt by the fires of the Leonine region,
Or bearest Ione's sceptre, or winnest renown
From the shield of Minerva, or soothest in slumber
The War-god, aweary when battles are o’er;
But come, all the prayers of thy chosen to number,
Oh, welcome to Latium! Leave us no more!
Translation of H. W. P.
CLAUDIUS RUTILIUS NUMATIANUS
PROLOGUE TO THE ITINERARIUM'
EADER, marvelest thou at one who early departing,
R
Missed the unspeakable boon granted the children of Rome?
Know there is time no more to the dwellers in Rome the
beloved,
Early and late no more, under her infinite charm!
Happy beyond compute the sons of mortals appointed
Unto that marvelous prize, birth on the consecrate soil!
Who to the rich estate of the heirs of Roman patricians
Add thy illustrious fame-City without a peer!
Happiest these, but following close in the order of blessing.
They who have come from afar, seeking a Latian home.
Wide to their pilgrim feet the Senate opens its portal,—
"Come all ye who are fit! Come and be aliens no more! "
sit with the mighty and share in the honors of Empire.
Share in their worship too, kneeling where all do adore,
Thrill with the State's great life, as aye the State and its æther,
Unto the uttermost Pole, thrills with the being of Jove.
Translation of H. W. P.
ANICIUS SEVERINUS BOËTHIUS
THE GOVERNMENT OF THE World
From the Consolation of Philosophy'
FRAMER of the jeweled sphere,
Who, firm on thy eternal throne,
Dost urge the swift-revolving year
The stars compel thy laws to own;-
The stars that hide their lesser light
When Luna with her horns full-grown
O


## p. 12371 (#421) ##########################################

ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
12371
Reflects her brother's glories bright,
Paling-she too - when he draws nigh,
In his great fires extinguished quite;
As Hesper up the evening sky
Leads the cold planets, but to fling
Their wonted leash aside, and fly
At Phoebus's bright awakening;-
Thou who dost veil in vapors chill
The season of the leaf-dropping
-
With its brief days, rekindling still
The fires of summer, making fleet
The lessening nights;-all do thy will;
The year obeys thee on thy seat;
The leaves that Boreas bore amain
Return once more with Zephyr sweet;
Arcturus tills the unsown grain,
And Sirius burns the waving gold;
The task thy ancient laws ordain
All do, the allotted station hold.
Man's work alone dost thou despise,
Nor deign his weakness to enfold
In changeless law. Else wherefore flies
Sleek Fortune's wheel so madly round?
The good man bears the penalties
Of yon bold sinner, who is found
Enthroned, exultant, apt to grind
His blameless victim to the ground!
Virtue is fain in caverns blind
Her light to hide; and just men know
The scourgings meet for baser kind.
Mendacious Fraud reserves no blow
For men like these, nor Perjury;
But when they will their might to show,
Then conquer they, with ease and glee,
The kings unnumbered tribes obey.
O Judge unknown, we cry to thee!
To our sad planet, turn, we pray!
Are we we men the meanest side
Of all thy great creation? Nay!
Though but the drift of Fortune's tide
Compel her wasteful floods to pause!
And, ruling heaven, rule beside
O'er quiet lands, by steadfast laws.
-
Translation of L. P. D.


## p. 12372 (#422) ##########################################

12372
ROMAN POETS OF THE LATER EMPIRE
THE HYMN OF PHILOSOPHY
From the Consolation of Philosophy'
NDYING Soul of this material ball,
Heaven-and-Earth-Maker!
Thou who first didst call
Time into being, and by thy behest
Movest all things, thyself alone at rest,
No outward power impelled thee thus to mold
In shape the fluid atoms manifold,
Only the immortal image, born within
Of perfect beauty! Wherefore thou hast been
Thine own fair model, and the things of sense
The image bear of thy magnificence!
Parts perfect in themselves, by Thy control,
Are newly wrought into a perfect whole;
The yoked elements obey thy hand:
Frost works with fire, water with barren sand,
So the dense continents are fast maintained,
And heaven's ethereal fire to earth restrained.
Thou dost the life of threefold nature tame,
To serve the parts of one harmonious frame,—
That soul of things constrained eternally
To trace thy image on the starry sky,
The greater and the lesser deeps to round,
And on thyself return. Thou too hast found
For us, thy lesser creatures of a day,
Wherewith thou sowest earth,- forms of a clay
So kindly-fragile naught can stay our flight
Backward, unto the source of all our light!
Grant, Father, yet, the undethroned mind!
A way unto the fount of truth to find,
And, sought so long, the Vision of thy Face!
Lighten our flesh! Terrestrial vapors chase,
And shine in all thy splendor! For thou art
The final Rest of every faithful heart,
The First, the Last! of the expatriate soul
Lord, Leader, Pathway, and Eternal Goal!
UN
-
Translation of H. W. P.


## p. 12373 (#423) ##########################################

12373
PIERRE RONSARD
(1524-1585)
BY KATHARINE HILLARD
HERE is no more picturesque moment in the whole history of
France than that at which Pierre Ronsard was born. The
Gre
first quarter of the sixteenth century had just struck, and
Europe was waking to the new day of the Renaissance. Luther
had burned the Pope's bull at Wittenberg, and had introduced the
reformed worship there. Henry VIII. and Francis I. had met on the
Field of the Cloth of Gold; Michael Angelo
had finished his masterpieces in the Sistine
Chapel; Raphael, having painted the great-
est of all Madonnas, had been dead five
years; Titian was still holding the world
breathless with the triumphs of his brush;
Rabelais had just emerged from his mo-
nastic prison to begin life at the age of
forty; Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Earl of Sur-
rey, and their co-mates, were preparing the
way in England for the full choir of the
next half-century; and France, stimulated
on all sides by the advance of her neigh-
bors in literature and art, had set herself
to rival them. Since the appearance of the 'Roman de la Rose' in
1310, there had been little of note in French literature. The feeble
singers of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, whose voices could
scarcely be heard through the constant din of war, made that poem
their great example; and it is hard to say whether the poverty of
their invention, or the religious allegory concealed beneath its senti-
mental platitudes, had had the greater power in preserving it so
long. Charles d'Orléans, François Villon, and Clément Marot, had
already sung the first chansons worthy of note since the 'Roman de
la Rose' began to reign; and the "gentil maistre Clément " was even
now sharing the captivity of his royal master at Pavia.
PIERRE RONSARD

Besides the usual causes that impede the production of great
poems, we must take into account the transitions and imperfect con-
dition of the French language at this time; the patronage of zealous


## p. 12374 (#424) ##########################################

PIERRE RONSARD
12374
but ignorant princes; and more than all, the fact that in the recent
revival of learning, studious minds grasped at everything. They
made no distinction between natural genius and acquired talents;
and believed the development of poetry to be as much a matter of
perseverance as the development of physics,- a thing to be worked.
at like a sum in arithmetic.
While, then, in France the learned were poring over classical dic-
tionaries, and occasionally giving evidence of progress by a neat copy
of Greek or Latin verses, the French language was suffering neglect.
Noble words and phrases used by the Troubadours had dropped out
altogether; the writers of each half-century had to be translated by
their successors before they could be understood. For the new music
there must be new strings to the lyre; and two young poets, Pierre
Ronsard and Joachim du Bellay, undertook the audacious task of re-
constructing their native tongue.
Pierre Ronsard, to whose influence may be ascribed the 'Illustra-
tion de la Langue Française,' published by his friend Du Bellay, was
born on the 11th of September, 1524, at the Château de la Poissonière
(Vendômois). He was the fifth son of Louis Ronsard, maître d'hotel
to Francis I. His father, born of a noble Hungarian family, was
himself a scholar and a poet, who composed verses in both French
and Latin which received a tolerable amount of praise from his con-
temporaries. Till the age of nine, Pierre was brought up at home
under the direction of a tutor. When sent to the College of Navarre,
he was a bright and beautiful boy of ten; but the Regent there was
an uncommonly harsh master, under whose rule in six months the
child lost not only his color and his vivacity, but his taste for study.
His alarmed father gave up all thought of educating him for the law
or the church, and entered him in the service of the Duke of Orléans
as a page. Three years later, in 1537, when James V. of Scotland
returned to his own country with his first wife, Madeleine of France,
Ronsard went in their train to Edinburgh, where he spent two years;
and then, despite the King's efforts to detain him, returned to France
(spending six months in England on the way), and re-entered the
service of the Duke. His royal master sent his prodigy of a page
on all sorts of secret missions, -to Scotland, to Flanders, to Zealand,
to the Diet of Spires with Lazare de Baïf, to Piedmont with the
viceroy Du Bellay. He suffered many hardships, and even ship-
wreck; and finally a severe illness, which left him almost totally
deaf at the early age of sixteen. He lost his heart too about this
time (not so irremediable a loss, however, as his hearing), to a fair
bourgeoise of Blois, whom he chose to christen Cassandra.
She was
little more than a child; and he, though not seventeen, was already
an accomplished courtier, skilled in all manly exercises, and already


## p. 12375 (#425) ##########################################

PIERRE RONSARD
12375
a verse-maker. His deafness interfering with his chances at court,
he wished to devote himself to study. But his father, ambitious for
the future of his brilliant son, peremptorily forbade his apprentice-
ship to "le mestier des Muses. " During his travels, however, he had
learned to speak English, Italian, and German, while one of his com-
rades had taught him Latin.
When the elder Ronsard died, Pierre was left free to follow his
own inclinations. At eighteen, having already seen more of life than
most men, he retired with his friend Antoine de Baïf, then only six-
teen, to the College of Coqueret. Seven long years they passed in
this retreat, studying with the greatest ardor, and helping each other
along the thorny ways of learning.
At the college they were joined by Remi Belleau, afterwards an
enthusiastic disciple of Ronsard, and by Antoine Muret, his future
commentator. Here too came Joachim du Bellay, who eagerly em-
braced the literary theories of Ronsard, and published in 1549 the
result of their joint studies and speculations under the title of
'L'Illustration de la Langue Française. ' "Coloring their prejudices
as erudite scholars with all the illusions of youth and patriotism,"
says Sainte-Beuve in his admirable work on 'French Poetry in the
Sixteenth Century,' "they asserted that there was no such thing as
poetry in France, and promised themselves to create it all. " The
ideas of these youthful enthusiasts were set forth (in part) as follows:
"Languages are not like plants, strong or weak by chance: they depend
upon human volition. Consequently, if our language be more feeble than the
Greek or the Latin, it is the fault of our ancestors, who neglected to strengthen
and adorn it. Translations alone will never enrich a language. We need
to follow the example of the Romans, who imitated rather than translated the
best Greek authors, transforming them into their own likeness, devouring
their substance, and after digesting it thoroughly, converting it into nourish-
ment and blood. »
To this careful transportation of the classics, of Spanish and Ital-
ian, Ronsard added an audacious use of the words of his own tongue.
Where French failed him, he dressed up a Latin, Greek, or Italian
substitute. He advised what he called the provignement (literally
the layering of words, the term being taken from the gardener's
method of laying a shoot under ground to take root, without detach-
ing it from the parent stem); and from a recognized substantive, for
instance, would form a verb or an adjective to suit his need. More-
over, he borrowed right and left from every French patois he could
lay his hands upon; and in all the workshops of Paris he sought
among the artisans for words and phrases to give amplitude and
vigor to his verse. His genius melted down this heterogeneous mass
into a wonderfully mellifluous stream; and to us, in this polyglot age,
-


## p. 12376 (#426) ##########################################

12376
PIERRE RONSARD
his verse presents fewer difficulties than it did, perhaps, to his con-
temporaries.
-
In 1549, after seven years' study of "le mestier des Muses," Ron-
sard was persuaded to appear in print for the first time; and to
publish his Epithalamium on the marriage of Antoine de Bourbon
with Jeanne de Navarre. His first book of 'Odes' came out in 1550;
and two years later, 'Amours,' - a collection of sonnets addressed to
the fair Cassandra. Meantime he was publishing more odes, of which
a fifth book appeared in 1553, accompanied with music fitted to the
songs and sonnets, and a commentary by Muret. Then came a book
of 'Hymnes,' followed in two years by a second, and by the last of
the 'Amours. ' Finally, in 1560, he brought out the first edition of
his collected works.
Never were poems received with such tempests of applause. In
vain the jovial curé of Meudon made fun of his neighbor; not even
the mighty laughter of Rabelais could drown the praise of princes.