Chapter VI

From one of causes three do night-mares spring,Dreams, I should say, for such a name withalTo ears polite may have a finer ring.

The first concerneth matters that recalOur daily life, our customary vein;The second physic wills that we should call

After the fullest humour we contain;The third with revelations hath to do,Which touch our welfare more than t'other twain.

I slept and dreamed; and from the third cause grewMy dreaming, which had ground enough, I trow,In indigestion and tooth-rasping too.

The sick man dreameth, he whose fevered browWithers with fire, that near his mouth there flowsSome bubbling stream he knows and covets now;

And while to sip its fleeting stream he goes,His restless dreamy strivings are in vain,His thirst he slakes noi, and his longing grows.

The slumbering soldier fights his fights again,And in his dreaming, as in waking, freaks,He wields his trenchant blade, with might and main;

The tender lover gains what he bespeaks,For as he sleeps he nears the wished-for goal,And without shipwreck makes the port he seeks;

The dreaming miser, in his restless roll,Wraps up his breast within his golden store,Where for all time he hath consigned his soul.

I, who am ever decent at the core,Alike in dreaming as in waking states,Since I am neither Troglodyte nor Moor,

Did of my soul throw open wide the gates,And through the eye-lids slumber entered in,With glorious promise, spite of all the fates.

Asleep, four thousand triumphs did I win,Which I could tell, without in any caseMissing one single joy that lurked therein;

Time, opportunity, and fitting place,Each by itself and all of them in one,Produced effects of corresponding grace.

Two hours I slept, more soberly did none,No elfish vapours, nor fantastic powersDid through my quiet brain unbridled run;

My loosened Fancy strayed mid thousand flowers,Which decked a meadow fragrant with the scentOf far Panchaian or Sabaean bowers;

My straining vision roamed with great contentAthwart that beauteous spot, for dreaming sightHath, more than waking, range and wide extent.

What I distinctly saw I fear to write,For things impossible to mortal kenMy prudish quill hath scruples to indite;

What hath a gleam of possible to men,The sweet, the smooth, the certain and the sound,These are fit topics for my blundering pen.

My narrow wit hath ne'er its gates unboundTo things incongruous, but welcomes theseWhich keep within the range of reason's bound.

How can Extravaganza hope to please,Unless it hath some aim and purpose meet,Where humour leads the way and sprightly ease?

For Fiction then is conned with zest completeWhen likest truth, and writ with fitting graceTo charm at once the simple and discreet!

Returning to my tale: A countless raceI saw go up and down that meadow green,With jocund clamour and with lightsome pace;

Some clad in homely dress, of modish mien,To which hypocrisy lent cunning showOf poverty, but neat withal and clean;

Others in colours which the day doth know,When on the fresh Aurora's locks of goldThe earliest streak of light begins to glow.

The teeming Spring presents a wealth untoldOf varied hues, and with such beauty gracedThe mind is charmed with what the eyes behold;

There prodigality and wanton waste,Holding athwart the plain high revelry,Make up in splendour what they lack in taste.

Upon a throne exalted very high,(Where Art ruled matter with a power confest,Wrought though it was in gold and ivory,)

A maid I saw, in such adornments dressed,And eke in every part so wondrous bright,The eye was ravished and the ear was blest.

She sat thereon with majesty bedight,In stature, as it seemed, a giantess,Of fine proportions though of towering height;

With greater lustre shone her lovelinessWhen seen from far, for as we nearer drawIts power to fascinate grows strangely less.

Entranced with wonder, and o'erwhelmed with awe,I fixed my gaze on her, and straight awayWhat now my trembling tongue would sing I saw:

If maid or no, I am not free to say,Though I've affirmed it, for in such like caseThe keenest sight may haply go astray;

For almost ever those of spiteful race,Who brand the vessels cracked that are entire,Are scant of reason and devoid of grace.

Bright as a hawk's, and full of amorous fire,Her eyes had yet such winning softness too,As made them beautiful beyond desire;

Whether to artifice or habit due,Their radiant flash at times would grow intense,Then change to lustre of a mellower hue.

Beside her stood two nymphs of eminence,Of such a lively air and sprightly mien,As bound all hearts in wonder and suspense;

To her who on the lofty throne was seenThey oped their lips, and forth their words did pressRich in their sweetness, yet in wisdom mean;

Her titles grand they laboured to express,That stood for little or for naught, I trow,In the blurred annals of forgetfulness;

And as the twain did whisper soft and lowTheir honied words, she, of the throne on high,In beauty unsurpassed before or now,

Rose to her feet; in twinkling of an eye.It seemed as if her head would soar uprightTo pierce the clouds; in faith I do not lie;

Yet not one tittle of her charms so brightShe lost thereby, for, without stint or stay,She rose in beauty as she rose in height.

Her arms were lengthened out in such a way,As if they would embrace all things that lieBetwixt the springing and the dying day;

The so-called dropsy, that grave malady,So bulged her stomach out, that all the seaMight flow therein; so did it strike mine eye.

Each part of all her frame in like degreeSeemed to increase in bulk, though verilyHer beauty, as I've said, ne'er ceased to be.

To wait the upshot of such prodigyI stood enwrapt, and would have given my thumbTo know the certain truth, and speedily:

One, whom I know not, to my side did comeAnd said in clear and quiet whisper: "Stay,Of all that thou would'st know this is the sum!

She, whom thou seest increase in such a way,That scarcely hath she further scope to grow,And fain the highest part of all would play;

She, who doth scale the clouds and upward goThe very circle of the moon to gain—Although her mode of flight we do not know—

Is one who, of her better fortune vain,Would seek to check the inconstant wheel, and fastIts axle fix, thus ever to remain.

She, who hath never felt misfortune's blast,Nor fears it now, so daring proud is she,Prodigal ever, lustful to the last,

Is one who, with ambition past degree,Hath set herself to grow and ever grow,Until she is the giantess we see;

And, to increase her growth she is not slowTo bring her great achievements to the light,Whence her extreme of daring men may know!

Hast never heard of those famed works of might,The arches, amphitheatres, and fanes,Baths, porticoes, and walls of towering height,

Which stand entire, or show their vast remains,In spite of gathering years, and seem to holdThose fell destroyers, Time and Death, in chains?"

"No scrap," quoth I, "of what thou now hast told,But I do hold it in my memory right,Well nailed and rivetted from days of old!

I have the lovely widow's tomb in sight,With Rhodes' Colossus in the self-same row,And eke its lanthorn with the starry light!

But come we to the point I long to know:Who may she be?" "Be of an easy mind!"Responded he with acrid voice and low,

"I'll tell thee presently; but, wert not blind,Thou wouldst ere now have recognized the dame,But, sooth, thy layman's wit doth lag behind!

She, who to heaven soareth like a flame,Pregnant, she knows not how, yet by the wind,Is the true daughter of Desire and Fame;

To her, in whole or part, must be assignedThe cause why in this world we can, and may,Not seven wonders but a hundred find.

Short number is a hundred; should I sayA hundred thousand millions, do not fearThat in the reckoning I go far astray.

She planned and finished, while the world did cheer,Structures that sit enthroned on the ground,And to the clouds their soaring summits rear;

Full often hath she levied war around,Where gentle peace lay couched with soft desire,Because her limits had too small a bound;

When 'mid the flames, and ready to expire,Bold Mucius let consume his arm of might,'Twas she that tempered down the dreadful fire;

She gave the impulse to the Roman knightTo leap into the yawning gulf of flame,Beclad with flashing steel and armour bright!

Full often, borne away by lust of fame,To tempt the impossible she daring goes,And on some novel wonder stamps her name;

From burning Lybia to the Scythian snows,Her course is tracked by works immense and hoary,Which Fame hath decked with titles grandiose;

In fine, she is the arrogant Vainglory,Who by her grand achievements stuns mankind,And binds the ages to rehearse her story!

Herself unto herself gives promise kindOf triumphs and of joys; and in her stressShe leaves bald Opportunity behind.

Her natural food is air, her drink no less;So in a moment to such height she growsThat in her measure she is measureless!

These at her side, with semblance of repose,Are the attendants twain she most doth prize,Who bear her Atlas-like where'er she goes;

The thrilling voice, the brilliant beauteous eyes,The seeming humbleness, the dulcet playOf wanton words where passion hidden lies,

A god-like more than human source betray;In sooth they are—with peace and patience hear—Falsehood and Flattery, twin sisters they.

They haunt her presence, and are ever nearWith sweetly murmured words of high pretence,That have a ring of wisdom to the ear;

And she, quite blind as to the finer sense,Sees not the venomous asp that lurking liesBeneath the seeming flowers of innocence;

Stung with unhallowed craving, forth she hiesTo taste the deadly poison in its glassOf crystal pure, while flash her eager eyes;

Yet, sooth to say, the wariest of his class,Who drinks in flattery, finds, before he knows,His glories vanish as the light winds pass!"

As rapt I listened, lo! Vainglory rose,And burst with an explosion wondrous loud,That brought my sweet dream to a bitter close.

On this the morning rose without a cloud,Arrayed with liquid pearls and scattering flowers,Proud in her looks and of her virtue proud;

The tiny nightingales within their bowers,With self-taught song, to echo forth her praise,Trilled forth their amorous notes in silvery showers;

Caught up the sound the linnets on their sprays,The lightsome larks responded from the air,And all in concert sung their morning lays!

Some of the squadron started from their lair,That the bright god of day they might not meetIn the constrained plight in which they were.

Now at the casements of Aurora sweet,With face of Teuton ruddiness, I ween,His lordship shewed himself in garb complete;

On one side stout, on t'other limp and lean,As one who waits the contest with dismay,Wherein as vanquished he may soon be seen.

With courteous air he wished them all, good-day!In proper Spanish, and Toledan true,And quick prepared him for the coming fray;

Then from a hillock, with his host in view,And with a voice that rang from side to side,He made them this oration impromptû:

"O spirits fortunate, wherein resideThe gift of splendid speech, the subtle flowOf untold wisdom gathered far and wide,

To which fair poesy, with kindly glow,Doth lend her native loveliness divine,Perfect in all her parts from top to toe!

Do not permit, upon your life and mine—(Mark how Apollo's speech is void of flowers)—That that vile crew should sully this fair shrine;

That crew, I say, which girds its fiendish powers,And with its countless hordes, inflamed with lies,Prepares its ruin, or it may be ours!

Ye, the fond pride and lustre of mine eyes,The lanthorns where my light is wont to glow,Whether by nature, or through exercise!

Can ye consent that this brute herd and low,This knavish, stupid, stuff-inventing race,Should beard me here, and in my presence crow?

Give to your powerful arms such ample space,That after ages may proclaim aloudYour gathered glory, and their fell disgrace;

With righteous wrath your stalwart breasts enshroud,And charge with fury, that will never cease,That lazy, vagabond, and useless crowd!

Not worth a rush, not worth a burba piece,—Of Berber coins the very dross and scum—Should ye esteem these folk who spoil our peace!

The sound of more than one bemuffled drum,The fife's shrill shrieking, and the trumpet's blare,That rouse up choler, and make terror dumb,

Let these stir up your secret virtues rare,As they arouse the courage, drown the fearsOf that vexatious swarm who wait us there!

I hear the sound, it strikes upon mine ears,The mighty clamour of the marching foe,The hubbub wild of martial shouts and cheers!

'Tis needful now, and that full well ye know,That each one, with a seasoned warrior's eye,Without allowing vain caprice to show,

Should order keep, and stand his comrades by,And like a valiant man his duty do,Resolved to conquer or at worst to die!"

Then by the western side there rose to viewA marching squadron great as could be found,Of barbarous rabble, blind and ragged too;

Now from our host there rose a mighty sound,A joyful, fearless shout: To arms! they cry,To arms! re-echoes all the country round,

To arms! To arms! to do or else to die!