The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw Volume II Part 58

Non erit innocua haec, quamvis tua fingas manu; Ipsa heu nocens erit nimis, cujus imago nocet.

TRANSLATION.

ON PYGMALION.

Grief for work his hands have done Harroweth Pygmalion; Happy reach of art! yet he The artificer, unhappily, He feels the wounds: what deals the blow?

Can it be true? can flames from gelid marble flow?

Marble, treacherous and to blame To burn your Sculptor with such flame!

What madness in his heart is hid?

He wonders at, he adores the work he did.

First he made, and next his hand With wandering fingers softly tries The mystery to understand.

Ah, surely now the hard flesh lies!

Is it a living maiden, see!

O treacherous blisses!

Is it no marble? can it frail flesh be?

Does it return his kisses?

He knows not, he.

He doubts, he fears, he prays; what mean All these sweet blandishments between?

Venus, wretched Sculptor, wills You should suffer these sad ills; This is her triumph over you, Because at love your lips would curl; Your will not living overthrows yet this dead girl.

Weep, ah, weep, Pygmalion!

Though you shap'd her with your hands, With your chisel, out of stone, Not innocuous here she stands.

O image of a maiden!

If you so strangely baneful prove, With what despair will you come laden, Coming alive to claim his love! A.

ANOTHER VERSION (_more freely_).

Pygmalion mourns his own success; Was ever such strange wretchedness?

His work itself, a work of Art, Perfect in its every part; But himself? Alas, artist he Of his own utmost misery.

He feels his wounds, but who shall tell Whence come the drops that downward steal?

Flames leap out from the marble, cold As ice itself by storm-wind roll'd: And he, contriver of that fire, Burns self-immolate on his own pyre; Furies of his own genius born Cast him, adoring and forlorn, Into a strange captivity Before his own hands' work; and he Clings to the shapely form, until, In ecstasy of love a-thrill, He burning lips to cold lips sets, And wild with pa.s.sion her cheek wets; Strains to his breast insensate stone, As 'twere a breathing thing; with moan, With clasp and grasp and tingling touch, As though he ne'er could grip too much; And wilder'd cry of agony, That she respond would; by him lie A virgin pure as drifted snow, Or lilies that i' the meadows blow.

Is it ivory? is it stone?

Lives it? or is it clay alone?

O that to flesh the stone would melt, And show a soul within it dwelt!

He looks, he yearns, he sighs, he sobs, Convulsive his whole body throbs; He doubts, he fears, he supplicates With wistful gaze; he on her waits; Gifts lavish he lays at her feet, And, stung to pa.s.sion, will entreat, As though the image he has made Were thing of life he might persuade-- Persuade and woo, and on her stake His future, all. O sad mistake!

For thee, Pygmalion, Venus sends These triumphs which thy chisel lends, To punish thee, for that no love Erewhile thy obstinate heart might move.

Why flee'st thou the living, say, When this image thee doth slay?

Thee doth--ay, slay! Why dost thou stand Entranc'd before the work o' thy hand, None the less hurtful that it is Thine own genius yields the bliss?

Venus must thee still deny; The sculptured maid must breathless lie. G.

ARION.

Squammea vivae Lubrica terga ratis Jam conscendet Arion.

Merces tam nova solvitur Navis quam nova scanditur. Illa Aerea est merces, haec est et aquatica navis.

Perdidere illum viri Mercede magna, servat hic Mercede nulla piscis: et sic Salute plus ruina constat illi; Minoris et servatur hinc quam perditur.

Hic dum findit aquas, findit hic aera: Cursibus, piscis; digitis, Arion: Et sternit undas, sternit et aera: Carminis hoc placido Tridente Abjurat sua jam murmura, ventusque modestior Auribus ora mutat: Ora dediscit, minimos et metuit susurros; Sonus alter restat, ut fit sonus illis Aura strepens circ.u.m muta sit lateri adjacente penna, Ambit et ora viri, nec vela ventis hic egent; Attendit hanc ventus ratem: non trahit, at trahitur.

TRANSLATION (_full_).

ARION.

Never since s.h.i.+p was set a-float Have men seen so strange a boat: Alive it is from deck to keel, Having the gray gleam of steel; Slippery as wave-wash'd wreck, Or as a war-s.h.i.+p's b.l.o.o.d.y deck.

A Dolphin, lo, its huge back bending, Safety to Arion lending From the sailors of Sicily, Covetous of his golden monie; Money that as prize he had won Before all Singers aneath the sun; Playing and singing so famouslie, Singing and playing so wondrouslie, That there went up from ev'ry throat The verdict, 'for Arion I vote:'

Vote the prize; and gifts as well, Crowns of gold and of asphodel; Lyres all a-glow with gems, Robes bejewell'd to their hems; A thousand golden pieces and one For the gifted son of Poseidon: And, hark, as 'twere the bellowing thunder, In clang'rous shouts men tell their wonder.

Arion now homeward takes his way In a fair s.h.i.+p steer'd for Corinth Bay; Proud of his prizes, proud of his skill, Proud that soon Periander will Welcome him fondly, and call him friend, With words such as no money can send.

Alas and alas, such crime to tell!

The s.h.i.+p-captain and sailors fell Covet his gold, and have it must, Though Arion they murder by blow or thrust.

But Apollo at midnight hour Sendeth a dream in mystic power; It showeth the men, it showeth their crime.

Arion awakes with the morning's chime; Awakes, and planneth how to escape.

Vain, vain all; on him they gape, Thirsting alike for gold and life, Murder and covetousness at strife.

'Suffer me, then,' Arion said, 'That I may play as I have play'd; Here is my poor Lyre, and, ere I die, Let me prove its minstrelsy.'

He has donn'd him now in gay attire, Festal robes; in his hand his Lyre.

List ye, list ye; above, below, Sounds such as only the angels know; Sounds that are born of rapture and bliss, Of the throbbing heart and the burning love-kiss.

Now it is soft, pathetic, low, Then 'gins to change to cry of woe; Now it comes rus.h.i.+ng as if the thunder Came booming from the deep earth under; Pulsing along each quivering string As though the Lyre were a living thing, And Arion's hand had so cunning a spell As should win all heaven--ay and h.e.l.l.

O, came there never such melodie From mortal earth or mortal sky.

He mounted to the good s.h.i.+p's prow, And mingling with his song a vow To the G.o.ds, he himself threw Out 'mid the waves from that d.a.m.nable crew.

Up through the waves the Dolphins bound, A hundred bended backs are found, Each one more eager than the rest To upbear the sweet Player on Ocean's breast.

Arion ascends; and, lo, he stands, His Lyre unwet within his hands: Onward and onward careering they go; O soft and true the notes that flow!

Rising, falling, swelling, dying, Near and nearer, far-off flying; Pulsing along each quivering string As though the Lyre were a living thing.

New is the s.h.i.+p, as new the freight; The Dolphin feels never the weight; New is the s.h.i.+p, and new the fare, That of the water, this of the air: The sailors in their greed him lost, The Dolphin bears him withouten cost.

Away and away with a s.h.i.+m'ring track Arion goes on the Dolphin's back; Away and away, still softly playing, Each string his lightest touch obeying.

Under the spell the Sea grows calm, Listing attent his witching psalm; Under the spell the air grows mild, Breathing soft as sleeping child.

But who may seek all the tale to tell?

It is a tale unspeakable.

Onward and onward careering they go, Silence above and silence below: The Storm-gale shuts its mouth and lists, The Wind folds its pinions and desists, Following, not blowing, drawing not, but drawn, From early ev'ning to breaking dawn.

Tenarus at last Arion beheld; Tenarus, his own dear home that held; And as together they swiftly come, He claps hands loud and thinks of home.

The Dolphin seeks a quiet cove; The Dolphin arching its back above The azure waters, leaves him there, A-list'ning still his Lyre to hear.

Homeward to Corinth Arion proceeds: Periander a tale of suff'ring reads In the thinned cheek and the dreamy eye, In the tremulous words and the laden sigh.

The story is told. O story of wrong!

The s.h.i.+p returns; and it is not long Ere captain and crew, at bar arraign'd, Must tell where Arion they detain'd.

'He tarries,' quoth they, 'in Sicily, Winning all men by his minstrelsie.'

Lies were proven in their throat.

Periander his hands together smote, Swearing a solemn oath that they-- One, all--should drown'd be in the Bay.

Tied hand and foot, pallor'd and grim, 'Tis done as they would ha' done to him.

A plunge as of a plunging stone, A few bubbles--Vengeance is done! G.

IN

APOLLINEA DEPEREUNTEM DAPHNEN.