No More Learning

"Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make,
While Love and Fate still drive me back;


## p. 11848 (#478) ##########################################

1 1848
MATTHEW PRIOR
Forced to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey.
Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh,
I with thee or without thee die. "
THE FEMALE PHAETON
HUS Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as a colt untamed,
THU
Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung,
With little rage inflamed:
Inflamed with rage at sad restraint,
Which wise mamma ordained;
And sorely vext to play the saint,
Whilst wit and beauty reigned:-
"Shall I thumb holy books, confined
With Abigails forsaken?
Kitty's for other things designed,
Or I am much mistaken.
"Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And visit with her cousins?
At balls must she make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens?
"What has she better, pray, than I,
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die,
Whilst I am scarce a toast?
"Dearest mamma! for once let me
Unchained my fortune try:
I'll have my earl as well as she,
Or know the reason why.
"I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score,
Make all her lovers fall:
They'll grieve I was not loosed before;
She, I was loosed at all. "
Fondness prevailed; mamma gave way:
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.
1


## p. 11849 (#479) ##########################################

11849
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER
(1787-1874)
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER
(1825-1864)
B
RYAN WALLER PROCTER was born in London, England, No-
vember 21st, 1787, according to his biographers, though he
himself put the date two years later. He came of good
farmer stock in Yorkshire; and, his father having accumulated con-
siderable fortune, he was sent to Harrow, where he was the contem-
porary of Byron and Peel. At twenty he
was bound to a solicitor at Calne, came up
to London in 1807 to live, and for the next
eight years was sufficiently occupied in do-
ing it. It was not until he was twenty-eight
that he began to write, "attracted," as he
says of himself, "to literature as a refined
amusement. "

Meanwhile he had formed the friend-
ships which were to influence his life; his
own personality and his excellent judgment
having their effect on his associates. Haz-
litt, who put himself out for few people,
thought so highly of his talents that he
always talked his best when Procter was
present. Talfourd says, "Charles Lamb regarded Procter as the spirit
most congenial with his own in its most serious moods;" and in his
celebrated letter to Southey in the London Magazine for October, 1823,
Lamb speaks of him as "Procter, candid and affectionate as his own
poetry. " Rogers introduced him to Moore as "well worth cultivat-
ing"; and his friendship with Leigh Hunt was maintained unclouded
throughout Hunt's long life. His father having bequeathed him a
comfortable property, Procter's first poems were written during years
of freedom and enjoyment. From 1819 to 1823 he wrote the 'Dra-
matic Scenes and Other Poems,' 'Marcia Colonna,' The Sicilian
Story,' metrical tales from Boccaccio's themes, Mirandola' (which
Macready produced at Covent Garden with great success), and The
Flood of Thessaly. ' Then too he laid the foundation of the lyrical
BRYAN W. PROCTER


## p. 11850 (#480) ##########################################

11850
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
collection which, published in 1832, continued to receive additions for
many years.
Meantime he had become engaged to Miss Skepper, the daughter
of Mrs. Basil Montagu. But his health had failed; the lady was an
invalid also; and somebody described the lovers as supping together
at nine o'clock on water gruel. In 1825 Lamb wrote to Leigh Hunt,
"Barry Cornwall has at last carried off the pretty A. S. They are
just in the treacle moon. Hope it won't clog his wings, 'gaum,' as
we used to say at school. "
Mrs. Procter was beloved and admired by all who knew her; her
house was the most popular rendezvous for literary men in London.
She had a sort of divination as to genius, recognizing it however
disguised. Monckton Milnes dedicated his life of Keats to her as
"A poet's wife, a poet's mother, and herself of many poets the fre-
quent theme and valued friend. " The admirable pen-and-ink sketch
of Keats in Milnes's 'Life' is by Mrs. Procter, who had as acute a
perception of likeness as she had of character.
Literature had been the pastime of Procter's leisure. He had pub-
lished all his poems under the pen-name of "Barry Cornwall"; not,
as Moore somewhat maliciously quotes, "because he was a gentleman
of fortune, and did not like to have his name free in the reviews,"
but because of that intellectual reserve and sensitiveness that influ-
enced his whole life, and of a curious underestimate of his talent.
After his marriage, when his partial loss of fortune made it neces-
sary to add to his income, he had neither strength nor ambition
to pursue literature in the intervals of business, but returned with
energy to his conveyancing. His idealism in verse contrasts strangely
with the cautious prudence of his external life. He sat up two nights
in the week to do his professional work; he took pupils, among whom
were Eliot Warburton and Kinglake; and he was a commissioner of
lunacy for many years.
His life was full of happiness and success; and during his age the
devotion of John Kenyon, of Dickens, of Thackeray (who dedicated
'Vanity Fair' to him), and after their deaths, the friendship of
Tennyson, Browning, Carlyle, Lord Houghton, and a host of others,
made an Indian summer around the old man's hearth. In person he
greatly resembled Walter Scott; and he was not unlike Scott in
his genius, with its union of romance and practicality. "Everybody
loves him," wrote Crabb Robinson. "The beloved and honored Barry
Cornwall, whose minstrel name I venture to speak," says Hawthorne.
He died in London, October 4th, 1874.
Procter's early verse was greatly influenced by his contemporaries.
Lamb was his guide in the fields of Elizabethan drama, Leigh Hunt
taught him poetic methods (as he in turn afterwards taught Poe),


## p. 11851 (#481) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11851
and Keats appealed to his æsthetic side. But Keats, infinitely richer
and more fertile, wrote of what he imagined; Procter of what he had
seen and read, not of what he had felt or experienced. On the other
hand, he was already a finished workman when at twenty-eight he
began to write, with a nature sensuous indeed but sane.
Among the 'Dramatic Sketches,' the 'Return of Mark Antony,'
'Julian the Apostate,' and 'The Way to Conquer,' are simple and
passionate; and the poem 'The Flower,' from the last named, has
the flavor and the picturesque detail of Shakespeare. Charles Lamb
said that there was not one of the 'Dramatic Sketches' which he
would not have placed in his collection if he had found it in the
Garrick plays at the British Museum. Even Carlyle pressed Procter
to continue his dramatic writings, as the best expression of his gift.
But while the modern reader has an acute pleasure in recognizing
how perfectly he has caught the spirit of the Elizabethan, or rather
the Jacobean drama, the quality of that pleasure soon reveals the
quality of Procter's talent. The interest in the 'Dramatic Scenes' is
purely literary; and 'Mirandola,' which was acted for sixteen nights,
and for which the author got six hundred and thirty pounds, owes its
popularity to the judgment of his literary contemporaries, who with
it have passed away.
Throughout his tragedies were scattered little lyric songs, in which
we see the groundwork of his later eminence; for he was to find his
place as a lyric poet. The dramatic quality, which in his 'Sketches'
excites a mere literary interest, perfectly expressed itself in musical
outbursts of thought, sorrow, and delight. They include all poetic
feelings "from sweetest melancholy to glad animal joy. " Not Pros-
pero's tricksy spirit has more glorious liberty than "The Stormy
Petrel'; the virile barytone quality, as Mr. Stedman describes it, of
"The Hunting Song,' wakes the lusty morn; 'Drink and Fill the
Night with Mirth' has the lightness of Anacreon; 'King Death' is
as fantastic as one of Doré's paintings; and perhaps the most perfect
lyric ever addressed by a poet to his wife is the little song set to
Neukomm's music:-
"How many summers, Love,
Have I been thine ? »
The delicate perfume of a flower is in the melody,
"Sit down, sad soul,
The moment's flying;"
and such songs as Touch us gently, Time,' 'The Sea, the Sea, the
Open Sea, and the dirge, 'Peace, what can tears avail? ' have touched
three generations of readers, some of whom, like Miss Martineau,–


## p. 11852 (#482) ##########################################

11852
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
whose brilliant sketch of Procter has best preserved his personality,
are not easily moved.
-
Early in his career he wrote much prose for the Literary Gazette,
showing great satirical power, a faculty he rarely exercised. It was
this characteristic, perhaps, that induced Jeffrey to try to secure him
for the Edinburgh; and perhaps the consciousness that he possessed
it decided him to decline. His Life of Lamb' was written after he
was seventy-seven years old; but although it is the most entertaining
of books, it fails to leave on the reader the impression of a character.
Lamb's personality had a piquancy which must be suggested, - not
explained, as is Procter's straightforward way.
What he failed to do for Lamb, Coventry Patmore did for him, in
his admirable Life of Bryan Waller Procter' (1877); a portrait con-
ceived as a whole, and suffused with its hero's indefinite charm.
-
ADELAIDE PROCTER, the daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, was
born in London in 1825. A shy and gentle girl, "my golden-tressèd
Adelaide," as he called her, she was her father's intimate companion
almost from her birth, when he addressed to her the lovely lines be-
ginning "Child of my heart. " She wrote her first poems for Dickens's
Household Words; but, afraid that the editor might accept them on
account of his friendship for the family, sent them under the pen-
name of Mary Berwick. Mr. James T. Fields, in his 'Barry Cornwall
and his Friends,' gives a charming description of Dickens's dining
with the Procters, and launching into enthusiastic praise of "Mary
Berwick" in Mrs. Procter's presence, who, in the secret, revealed with
tears the real name of the author.
The 'Lyrics' were collected and published in 1853; and in seven
years had reached their ninth edition,- Tennyson's poems not exceed-
ing them in popularity. They take single emotional themes, usually
permeated by a gentle piety. "It is like telling one's beads," says
Mr. Stedman, "or reading a prayer-book, to turn over her pure pages. "
Miss Procter became a Catholic in her later life, and was devoted to
works of charity and philanthropy. She died in London, February 3d,
1864.


## p. 11853 (#483) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11853
THE SEA
HE Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
THE
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love (oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the southwest blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore
But I loved the great Sea more and more;
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest:
And a mother she was and is to me
For I was born on the open Sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,-
But never have sought, nor sighed for change;
And death, whenever he come to me,
Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea!


## p. 11854 (#484) ##########################################

11854
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
A PETITION TO TIME
OUCH us gently, Time!
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently, as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream!
Του
Humble voyagers are we,
Husband, wife, and children three.
(One is lost, an angel, fled
To the azure overhead! )
Touch us gently, Time!
We've not proud nor soaring wings:
Our ambition, our content,
Lies in single things.
Humble voyagers are we,
O'er Life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime:
Touch us gently, gentle Time!
――――――
WⓇ
E ARE born; we laugh; we weep;
We love; we droop; we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?
Why do we live or die?
LIFE
Who knows that secret deep?
Alas, not I!
We toil
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die?
through pain and wrong;
We fight and fly;
We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.
O life! is all thy song
"Endure and - die "?


## p. 11855 (#485) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11855
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN
EST! This little Fountain runs
RES Thus for aye: it never stays
For the look of summer suns,
Nor the cold of winter days.
Whosoe'er shall wander near,
When the Syrian heat is worst,
Let him hither come, nor fear
Lest he may not slake his thirst:
He will find this little river
Running still, as bright as ever.
Let him drink and onward hie,
Bearing but in thought that I,
EROTAS, bade the Naiad fall,
And thank the great god Pan for all!
"SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL»
IT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come- tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!
How many smiles? - a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying.
S¹T
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure.
We dream-do thou the same;
We love forever;
-
We laugh, yet few we shame,—
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then hope and happy skies
Are thine forever!


## p. 11856 (#486) ##########################################

11856
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE
ow many summers, Love,
Have I been thine?
HOW
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind
When 't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours.
Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both
Perhaps he weaves;
Some fears a soft regret
For joys scarce known;
Sweet looks we half forget;
All else is flown.
-
Ah! with what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!
Look where our children start,
Like sudden Spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time!
"PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL? »
EACE! what do tears avail?
She lies all dumb and pale;
And from her eye
The spirit of lovely life is fading,
And she must die!
Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?
Reply, reply!
PEA
Hath she not dwelt too long
'Midst pain and grief and wrong?
Then why not die?


## p. 11857 (#487) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11857
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,
And hopeless lie?
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?
Reply, reply!
Death! Take her to thine arms,
In all her stainless charms,
And with her fly
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,
The Angels lie.
Wilt bear her there, O Death, in all her whiteness?
Reply, reply!
THE STORMY PETREL
THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.
The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables and iron chains,
The hull which all earthly strength disdains,—
They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone
Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.
Up and down! up and down!
From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
And amidst the flashing and feathery foam,
The stormy petrel finds a home;
A home, if such a place may be
For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
And only seeketh her rocky lair
To warm her young, and to teach them to spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!
O'er the deep! o'er the deep!
Where the whale and the shark and the sword-fish
sleep-
Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
The petrel telleth her tale-in vain;
For the mariner curseth the warning bird
Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard!
XX-742


## p. 11858 (#488) ##########################################

11858
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;
Yet he ne'er falters-so, petrel, spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!
[The three poems immediately following are by Adelaide Anne Procter. ]
A DOUBTING HEART
HERE are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead,
WHERE
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.
O doubting heart!
Far over purple seas,
They wait, in sunny ease,
The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their northern homes once more.
Why must the flowers die ?
Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow
While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
The sun has hid its rays
These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O doubting heart!
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky
That soon (for spring is nigh)
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.
Fair hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night.
What sound can break the silence of despair?
O doubting heart!
Thy sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.


## p. 11859 (#489) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11859
A WOMAN'S QUESTION
EFORE I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy future give
Color and form to mine,
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.
B
I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
A shadow of regret:
Is there one link within the past
That holds thy spirit yet?
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?
Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?
If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost.
Look deeper still. If thou canst feel
Within thy inmost soul,
That thou hast kept a portion back,
While I have staked the whole,-
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.
Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfill ?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?
Speak now-lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.
Lives there within thy nature hid
The demon-spirit Change,
Shedding a passing glory still
On all things new and strange?
It may not be thy fault alone - but shield my heart against thy own.
Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day,
And answer to my claim,
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake,-
Not thou,- had been to blame?
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and
save me now.
Nay, answer not, I dare not hear:
The words would come too late;
-


## p. 11860 (#490) ##########################################

11860
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
Yet I would spare thee all remorse,
So comfort thee, my Fate:
Whatever on my heart may fall,-remember, I would risk it all!
A LOST CHORD
SEAT
EATED one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.
I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an angel's psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.
It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
That came from the soul of the organ
And entered into mine.
It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again;
It may be that only in heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.


## p. 11861 (#491) ##########################################

11861
SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
(50 ? -15? B. C. )
BY GEORGE MEASON WHICHER
ITTLE is known of Propertius beyond the scanty information
to be gleaned from his own works. He was a provincial,
like so many prominent literary men of the day; of a good
Umbrian family. Most of his life seems to have been passed in
Rome, where he came to complete his education; but scarcely an
event in it can be dated with certainty. The latest allusion in his
works seems to refer to events of the year
16 B. C. , and it is surmised that he was
born about the year 50. It is a matter of
comparative indifference, however, whether
these and other conjectures are correct or
not. His five short books, mostly love po-
ems, sufficiently reveal the man; and there
is little in them which we could read with
greater interest for knowing who walked
behind lictors when it was written.

Propertius was one of that group of poets
who enjoyed the friendship and patronage
of Mæcenas, and who undertook to create
a new school of Latin poetry by following
still more closely Greek models. While
Virgil meditated "something greater than the Iliad," and Horace
wedded Eolian song to Italian measures, the younger and more
ardent Propertius devoted himself to erotic poetry and the perfecting
of the elegy. Gallus and Catullus had already naturalized this form
of poetry at Rome; Tibullus was winning great applause with it at
this very time; but with characteristic ambition and self-confidence
Propertius claimed it as his own especial field. The success of his
first volume, devoted to the praises of his mistress Cynthia, had
won him the favor of the all-powerful Mæcenas. In the three or four
succeeding books, - the division is uncertain,- he feels little doubt
that he has vindicated his right to be called the Roman Callimachus,
the "first initiate into the rites of Philetas's sacred grove," as he
expresses it. It was only with much doubt that so good a critic as
SEXTUS PROPERTIUS


## p. 11862 (#492) ##########################################

11862
SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
Quintilian denied his pre-eminence; and modern readers are still
more inclined to admit that with all his defects, Propertius is un-
doubtedly the master of the Latin elegy. It is an instrument of
somewhat narrow compass at best; but Propertius, more than all his
rivals, shows us its full range. Whether in the transcription of a
national legend, or in celebrating the glory of Augustus, or writing the
epitaph of Gallus or Marcellus, or most of all, in depicting the mani-
fold phases of a lover's mind, his work reveals a vigor and a sin-
cerity of spirit, a fertility of fancy, a pathos and a passion, which
are unequaled by any other elegiac poet. Some of them may excel
him in certain qualities, but none has his power and his variety com-
bined.
Even his warmest admirers must admit that his work is marred
by very grave defects. To begin with, he did not choose his models
wisely. Like all of his contemporaries he was fascinated by Alexan-
drine erudition; but he did not learn, as did the greatest poets of his
age, to correct this tendency by a close study of the earlier masters.
Indeed it is surmised, in the absence of the poems of Callimachus,
that Propertius has gone beyond his instruction. Doctus was a favor-
ite adjective with which to compliment a poet of that age, and Pro-
pertius strove to merit it by displaying his learning in and out of
season. He delights to refer to the most abstruse of myths, or to
their least familiar characters. Never poet stood more in need of
Corinna's advice; for his sack contained only the toughest nuts of the
Greek legend. The obscurity created by this fondness for mythologic
lore is too often increased by an abruptness of thought occasionally
bordering on incoherence. Images are not always clearly conceived.
in his impetuous imagination; and there is not infrequently an
awkwardness of phraseology, or an inexactness of expression. Some-
times one is faintly reminded of Persius and his verbal contortions,
or of other poets who fancy they have made poetry when they have
only written impossible prose.
All these are serious faults; and more likely to endear an author
to schoolmasters and editors than to lovers of poetry. But the per-
sonality of Propertius is strong enough to dominate them all. Few
writers win for themselves a more willing indulgence, or give a
clearer impression of a talent greater than its best work. Sooner or
later his readers come to believe that he might have done greater
things had he so chosen. He chose, however, to lavish his power
upon love elegies; and it is by them that he is usually judged. In
intensity of passion, in utter simplicity and directness of its expres-
sion, Propertius is inferior to Catullus,-as who is not? But as a
poet of love he may safely challenge comparison with any but Ca-
tullus. His Cynthia is never to be classed with the shadowy Chloes


## p. 11863 (#493) ##########################################

SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
11863
and Leuconoës of Horace's bloodless affections. The genuineness of
his love is undoubted. His delight in the charms and accomplish-
ments of his mistress; the jealousy provoked by her infidelities; his
sorrow at parting from her, even in fancy; the rapture of a recon-
ciliation; these and many another aspect of love, and the "evil cares
which it has," are depicted with unmistakable sincerity. For Cyn-
thia's sake he will give up a career, and abandon his plans for travel
abroad. At times he even refuses to write on any other subject:
Cynthia is the first and will be the last of his songs.
The day came, however, when he could narrate his own infidel-
ity, and picture Cynthia's successor filching jewelry from her funeral
pyre. More and more throughout his later books, it is apparent that
other themes were claiming part of his attention. To most men his
great passion will hardly seem a less genuine experience because he
too came to feel that life is greater than love. Believers in poetical
fitness may insist that he died shortly after ceasing to write on the
all-absorbing theme; but the man Propertius, though not the poet,
is quite as likely to have lived to found the family which Pliny
expressly ascribes to him.
Some of the most pleasing of the poems are among the num-
ber not concerned with Cynthia. The "queen of elegies," his noble
epitaph on Cornelia, is deservedly famous, though marred by his
characteristic faults. In the last book are found also a few poems,
dealing with the legendary history of Rome. Whether we regard
them as among his earliest, or as their metrical structure would
seem to indicate, his latest works, they are an interesting evidence of
the manner in which his intense nature responded to the appeal of
national and patriotic themes. It has been surmised that they prob-
ably suggested to Ovid the plan of his 'Fasti. ' Ovid mentions Pro-
pertius with warm admiration, and many imitations and echoes show
clearly the impression made by Propertius upon the poets of the
younger generation. By later Roman writers Propertius is seldom
cited, and there are no selections from his works in the anthologies.
The extant manuscripts are for the most part late, and much
interpolated, as might be expected in the case of a writer so often
obscure. The same quality has caused the earlier editions of the
elegies to be loaded with useless conjectures, and subjected to the
most arbitrary rearrangement. The saner criticism of the present cen-
tury has restored the text; but a satisfactory commentary is yet to
be written. The neglect of Propertius by the schools is shown by
the comparative rarity of editions in modern times. That by F. A.
Paley (London, 1872) is practically the only accessible edition with
English notes, though a volume of selections has been more recently
edited by J. P. Postgate (London, 1881). Of the German editions,


## p. 11864 (#494) ##########################################

11864
SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
Hertzberg's (Halle, 1843), in four volumes with Latin notes, is the
most complete. Of English translations, by far the best poetical ver-
sion is the work of Dr. James Cranstoun (Edinburgh, 1875), from
which the following selections are made.
G. M. Whicher
BEAUTY UNADORNED
WHY
HY wear, my Life, when thou abroad dost stir,
A head trimmed up to fashion's latest laws?
A Coan vestment of transparent gauze,
And hair perfumed with Orontean myrrh ?
Why deck thyself with gems and costly dress?
Why mar with trinkets Nature's form divine,
And not allow thy beauties forth to shine
In all their own, their matchless loveliness?
To thee such aids can add no charms—ah, no!
True love will aye disdain the artist's care.
See! the fair fields a thousand colors wear,
And ivy sprays far best spontaneous grow.
Fairer in lonely grots green arbutes rise,
Fairer the streamlet wends its wandering way,
Lovelier bright pebbles gem their native bay,
And birds sing sweetlier artless melodies.
TO TULLUS
D
EAR Tullus, now I'd gladly plow wild Adria's waves with thee,
And fearlessly my canvas spread upon the Ægean sea;
Yea, by thy side I'd o'er the steep Rhipæan ridges roam,
Or wend my toilsome way beyond swart Memnon's distant home:
But me a maiden's pleading words and circling arms detain; [vain.
'Gainst her pale cheek and earnest prayers to strive, alas! were
Still of her ardent love for me she raves the weary night,
And swears there's not a god in heaven, if e'er I leave her sight;
Declares that she is not my love; nay more, the frantic girl
Vents every threat that peevish maids at heartless lovers hurl;


## p. 11865 (#495) ##########################################

SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
11865
Against her plaints a single hour I cannot, cannot hold.
Ah! perish he, if such there be, whose bosom could be cold!
True, I should see fair Athens reared beneath Minerva's smile,
And Asia's grandeur famed of old; but is it worth the while
To make my Cynthia scream what time my vessel seeks the sea,
To see her tear her tender cheeks in frenzied agony,
And say that she will kiss the wind that balks her lover's plan,
And that no monster walks the earth so fell as faithless man?
Go, strive to earn a nobler wreath than e'er thine uncle wore,
And to our old allies their long-forgotten rights restore:
And may the unpitying Boy ne'er bring on thee my sorrows fell,
And all the tokens of a woe my tears too plainly tell;
For thou hast frittered not thy years on Beauty's fatal charms,
But aye been ready to assert thy country's cause in arms.
Here let me lie, as fortune aye hath willed it in the past;
And let me still devote my soul to folly to the last.
Many in tardy love have gladly spent their latest day,—
Then let me die with these, with these let earth conceal my clay:
For fame I was not nurtured, nor in arms would glorious prove;
The Fates decree my fields shall be the battle-plains of love.
Then whether thou shalt roam athwart Ionia's pleasant lands,
Or where Pactolus streaks the Lydian vales with golden sands;
Whether on foot thou'lt scour the plain or tempt with oars the sea,
And all the duties well discharge thine office claims from thee:
If thou shouldst chance to think of me in foreign climes afar,
Be well assured I'm living still beneath a baleful star.
TO CYNTHIA
SINC
INCE from my love I had the heart to flee,
Justly to halcyons lone my wail I pour;
No more Cassiope my bark will see,
And all my vows fall fruitless on the shore.
The winds are leagued for thee now far away;
Hark to the threatening tempest's fitful gust!
Will no kind fortune this dread storm allay?
Must a few grains of sand conceal my dust?
Oh, let no more thy harsh upbraidings rise,
But say this night at sea my fault atones!


## p. 11866 (#496) ##########################################

11866
SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
Or canst thou paint my fate with tearless eyes,
Nor in thy bosom bear hold my bones?
Ah! perish he who first, with impious art,
In sail-rigged craft dared tempt the unwilling sea!
'Twere better I had soothed my mistress's heart-
Hard though she was, how peerless still to me!
Than view this wild and forest-mantled shore,
And woo the longed-for Twins that calm the wave.
Then earth had veiled my woes, life's fever o'er,
And some small stone-love's tribute - marked my grave.
For me she might have shorn her cherished hair;
'Mid sweet-breath'd roses laid my bones at rest;
Called o'er my dust my name, and breathed a prayer
That earth might lightly lie upon my breast.
Fair Doris's daughters, who o'er ocean roam,
Speed our white sails with your auspicious band!
And oh, if Love e'er sought your azure home,
Grant one who loved like you, a sheltered strand!
TO CAIUS CILNIUS MÆCENAS
YOU
You ask me why love-elegy so frequently I follow,
And why my little book of tender trifles only sings:
It is not from Calliope, nor is it from Apollo,
But from my own sweet lady-love my inspiration springs.
If in resplendent purple robe of Cos my darling dresses,
I'll fill a portly volume with the Coan garment's praise;
Or if her truant tresses wreathe her forehead with caresses,
The tresses of her queenly brow demand her poet's lays.
Or if, perchance, she strike the speaking lyre with ivory fingers,
I marvel how those nimble fingers run the chords along;
Or if above her slumber-drooping eyes a shadow lingers,
My tranced mind is sure to find a thousand themes of song.
Or if for love's delightful strife repose awhile be broken,
Oh, I could write an Iliad of our sallies and alarms;
If anything at all she's done - if any word she's spoken-
From out of nothing rise at once innumerable charms.
――――


## p. 11867 (#497) ##########################################

SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
11867
But if the Fates had given me the power, beloved Mæcenas,
To marshal hero-bands, I'd neither sing of Titan wars,
Nor Ossa on Olympus piled, that Terra's brood most heinous,
By aid of Pelion, might scale the everlasting stars;
Nor hoary Thebes, nor Pergamus in Homer's song undying;
Nor sea to sea by stern decree of haughty Xerxes brought;
The warlike Cimbri, nor the soul of Carthage death-defying;
Nor Remus's ancient realm, nor deeds of fame by Marius
wrought;
But I would sing of Cæsar's might and Cæsar's martial glory,
And next to mighty Cæsar would my lyre for thee be strung:
For while of Mutina, or of Philippi fell and gory,
Or of the naval war and rout by Sicily I sung;
Or of Etruria's ancient hearths in ruin laid forever,
Or Ptolemæan Pharos with its subjugated shore,
Or Egypt and the Nile what time the broad seven-mantled river
In drear captivity to Rome our conquering armies bore;
Or kings with golden fetters bound, in gorgeous-hued apparel,
And trophied prows of Actium, whirled along the Sacred Way,
My Muse would ever twine around thy brow the wreath of
laurel-
In time of peace, in time of war, a faithful subject aye.
TO THE MUSE
'TIS
Is time to traverse Helicon in themes of higher strain,
'Tis time to spur my Thracian steed across a wider plain;
Now I would sing of mighty hosts and deeds of battle done,
And chronicle the Roman fields my general has won;
And if my powers of song should fail — to dare were surely fame:
Enough that I have had the will; no higher praise I claim.
-
Let hot youth sing the laughing loves-be war the theme of age;
Be war my theme-till now the dream of love has filled my page.
With sober mien and graver brow I now must walk along,
Now on another lyre my Muse essays another song.
Rise, O my Muse! from lowly themes; put on your strength, ye
Nine
Who haunt the clear Pierian springs! -outpour the lofty line!


## p. 11868 (#498) ##########################################

11868
SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
As when we cannot reach the head of statues all too high,
We lay a chaplet at the feet, so now perforce do I;
Unfit to climb the giddy heights of epic song divine,
In humble adoration lay poor incense on thy shrine;
For not as yet my Muse hath known the wells of Ascra's grove:
Permessus's gentle wave alone hath laved the limbs of Love.
THE IMMORTALITY OF GENIUS
RPHEUS, 'tis said, the Thracian lyre-strings sweeping,
Stayed the swift stream and soothed the savage
Citharon's rocks, to Thebes spontaneous leaping,
Rose into walls before Amphion's lute.
With dripping steeds did Galatea follow,
'Neath Ætna's crags, lone Polyphemus's song:
Is't strange the loved of Bacchus and Apollo
Leads captive with his lay the maiden throng?
Though no Tænarian blocks uphold my dwelling,
Nor ivory panels shine 'tween gilded beams;
No orchards mine Phæacia's woods excelling,
No chiseled grots where Marcian water streams,-
Yet Song is mine; my strain the heart engages;
Faint from the dance sinks the lithe Muse with me:
O happy maid whose name adorns my pages! *
Each lay a lasting monument to thee!
The pyramids that cleave heaven's jeweled portal;
Eléan Jove's star-spangled dome; the tomb
Where rich Mausolus sleeps,- are not immortal,
Nor shall escape inevitable doom.
Devouring fire and rains will mar their splendor;
The weight of years will drag the marble down:
Genius alone a name can deathless render,
And round the forehead wreathe the unfading crown.


## p. 11869 (#499) ##########################################

SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
11869
CORNELIA
O
PAULUS! vex my grave with tears no more:
No prayers unlock the portals of the tomb;
When once the dead have trod the infernal floor,
Barred stand the adamantine doors of doom.
Though the dark hall's dread king would hear thy prayer,
'Twere vain: dead shores will drink thy tears the
while.
Prayers move high heaven; but pay the boatman's fare,
The drear gate closes on the shadowy pile.
I doffed the maiden's dress;-I was a bride;
The matron's coif confined my braided hair:
Too soon, O Paulus! doomed to leave thy side;
I was but thine, my tombstone shall declare.
Years changed me not; a blameless life I spent,
From wedlock to its close our fame secure:
Nature my blood with inborn virtue blent;
No fears could make my guileless heart more pure.
My meed a mother's tears; the city's woe;
Even Cæsar's sorrow consecrates my bier:
Rome saw the mighty god a-weeping go,
And mourn his daughter's worthy sister-peer.
Though young, the matron's honored robe I wore;
Death from no barren dwelling bore his prize:
My boys! my solace when I live no more,
Ye held me in your hands and closed my eyes.
Twice had my brother filled the curule chair,
A consul ere his sister's days were run.
Thy censor-sire in mind, sweet daughter, bear:
Uphold his honor; wed, like me, but one;
With offspring prop our line. The bark's afloat:
I gladly go, so many mourn my doom;
A wife's last triumph, and of fairest note,
Is fame's sweet incense rising o'er her tomb.
Paulus, our pledges I commend to thee;
Burnt in my bones still breathes a mother's care.
Discharge a mother's duties, then, for me;
For now thy shoulders all their load must bear.


## p. 11870 (#500) ##########################################

11870
SEXTUS PROPERTIUS
Kiss them, and kiss them for their mother; dry
Their childish tears: thine all the burden now.
Ne'er let them see thee weep or hear thee sigh,
But with a smile thy sorrow disavow.
Enough that thou the weary nights shouldst moan,
And woo my semblance back in visions vain;
Yet whisper to my portrait when alone,
As if the lips could answer thee again.
If e'er these halls should own another queen,
And a new mother fill your mother's bed,—
My children, ne'er let frowning look be seen,
But honor her your father chose to wed.
So shall your manners win her tender grace,
And surely she will love for love return;
Nor praise too much your mother to her face,
For fear her breast with jealous feelings burn.
But should my image still his thoughts engage,
And Paulus dower my dust with love so rare,
Oh, learn to watch your father's failing age,
And shield his weary widowed heart from care!
Heaven add to yours the years I hoped in store,
And may your lives my aged Paulus cheer!
'Tis well: I ne'er the robes of mourning wore,
And all my children gathered round my bier.
My cause is plead. Each weeping witness, rise,
Since death's rewards life's losses well repay.
Heaven waits the pure in heart: be mine the prize
To soar triumphant to the realms of day.


## p. 11871 (#501) ##########################################

11871
PROVENCAL LITERATURE
(THE TROUBADOURS, 1090–1290)
BY HARRIET WATERS PRESTON
CURIOUS natural feature of Dalmatia—that long, narrow coun-
try straitened between the mountains and the Adriatic-is
the number of rivers which come up suddenly from under-
ground, or burst full-grown from the bases of the hills, and seek the
sea with a force and velocity of current all the more impressive from
the mystery of their origin. Just so the poetry of the Troubadours
leaps abruptly, in full volume, out of the mirk of the unlettered ages,
and spreads itself abroad in a laughing flood of which the superficial
sparkle may sometimes deceive concerning the strength of the under-
current passion on which it is upborne.
Gai Saber-the Gay Science -was the name bestowed by these
gushing singers themselves upon their newly discovered art of verse-
making; and the epithet was perfectly descriptive. To the serious,
disciplined, and systematic nineteenth-century mind, there is some-
thing incongruous, not to say indecent, in the association of science
and joy. Whatever else the science may be, in whose sign we are
supposed to conquer, it is not gay. But the Troubadour did not even
know the difference between science and art. His era in the life of
modern Europe corresponds exactly with the insouciant season when
«< a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. " The Trou-
badour was palpitating, moreover, with the two masterful enthusiasms
of his time: the religious enthusiasm of the Crusades, and the high-
flown sentiments and noble chimeras of the lately formulated code of
chivalry.
Seizing the instrument nearest to his hand, a supple and still
growing offshoot from the imperishable root of Latin speech,-he
shaped his pipe, fashioned his stops, and blew his amorous blast;
and was so overcome by amazement at the delightful result, that he
was fain loudly to proclaim himself the happy finder (trobaire) of the
verbal music he had achieved, rather than its maker or poet.
Lengua Romana, or Romans, was what he called his own language.
To Dante, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, it was Pro-
vençal as distinguished from the lengua materna, or Italian: and
Provençal it is, to this day, loosely called. But it was spoken in
-


## p. 11872 (#502) ##########################################

11872
PROVENÇAL LITERATURE
substantially the same form, far outside the fluctuating limits of
mediæval Provence; and one of the Troubadours themselves - Rai-
mon Vidal- has in fact defined its limits very explicitly. "The only
true language of poetry," he says, "is that of Limousin, Provence,
Auvergne, and Quercy;
and every man born and brought
up in those countries speaks the natural and right speech. "
The time at which the troubadour minstrelsy flourished is as
distinctly marked as its locality. Two hundred years, from the last
decade of the eleventh century to the last of the thirteenth, com-
prise it all. Fifty years for its rise, a hundred for its most exuberant
period, fift more for its decline,- and the brief but picturesque and
exciting story is all told. The love of man for woman is its per-
petual and almost exclusive theme; primarily that same "simple and
sensuous" motif which was already old in the world when the all-
knowing King of Israel sang,—“Rise up, my love, my fair one, and
come away! For lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone,
the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle
is heard in the land! " The special form of the tender passion to
which the troubadour tuned his lay was, however, the love of chiv-
alry: theoretically a selfless and spiritual sentiment, having even a
touch about it of religious exaltation. It involved the absolute devo-
tion of life, wit, and prowess to the service of a formally chosen lady-
love; and was as much a part of the sacramental obligations of a
full-made knight as the service of God and of his feudal seigneur.
The art in which this love found expression was thus essentially an
aristocratic one; reserved for the practice of those who were either
élite by birth and fortune, or ennobled by the possession of rare
poetic gifts.