THE HIND AND THE PANTHER

PART III, LINES 993-1033

The Hind in this allegorical satire represents the Church of Rome; the Panther the Church of England. At the beginning of the poem they meet and enter into friendly discussion as to the merits of their respective creeds. During this discussion the Hind relates the fable of the pigeons and the fowls-an allegory within an allegory-by which again the two Churches are represented. The pigeons and fowls are owned by 'a plain good man', possessor of 'three fair lineal lordships', and the story of them proceeds as follows:

ANOTHER farm he had behind his house,
Not overstocked, but barely for his use;
Wherein his poor domestic poultry1 fed
And from his pious hands received their bread.
Our pampered pigeons with malignant eyes

2

Beheld these inmates and their nurseries;

Though hard their fare, at evening and at morn,
A cruse of water and an ear of corn,

Yet still they grudged that modicum, and thought
A sheaf in every single grain was brought.
Fain would they filch that little food away,
While unrestrained those happy gluttons prey.
And much they grieved to see so nigh their hall
The bird that warned St. Peter of his fall;
That he should raise his mitred crest on high,
And clap his wings and call his family
To sacred rites; and vex the ethereal powers
With midnight matins at uncivil hours;
Nay more, his quiet neighbours should molest,
Just in the sweetness of their morning rest.

'Beast of a bird, supinely when he might Lie snug and sleep, to rise above the light!

1 The Church of Rome.

2 The Church of England.

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What if his dull forefathers used that cry,
Could he not let a bad example die?
The world was fallen into an easier way;
This age knew better than to fast and pray.
Good sense in sacred worship would appear
So to begin as they might end the year.

Such feats in former times had wrought the falls
Of crowing chanticleers in cloistered walls.
Expelled for this and for their lands, they fled,
And sister Partlet, with her hooded head,

Was hooted hence, because she would not pray abed.
The way to win the restive world to God

Was to lay by the disciplining rod,

Unnatural fasts, and foreign forms of prayer:
Religion frights us with a mien severe.
"Tis prudence to reform her into ease,

And put her in undress, to make her please;
A lively faith will bear aloft the mind
And leave the luggage of good works behind.

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A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began ;
When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye more than dead.

Then cold and hot and moist and dry
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony

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This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal' struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound:

Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, hark! the foes come;

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

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Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

1 Genesis iv. 21.

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But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

Grand Chorus.

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

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FROM THE PREFACE TO THE TRANSLATION OF OVID'S EPISTLES

No man is capable of translating poetry, who, besides a genius to that art, is not a master both of his author's language, and of his own; nor must we understand the language only of the poet, but his particular turn of thoughts and expression, which are the characters that

1i. e. following.

PREFACE TO TRANSLATION OF OVID'S EPISTLES 111

distinguish, and as it were individuate him from all other writers. When we are come thus far, 'tis time to look into ourselves, to conform our genius to his, to give his thought either the same turn, if our tongue will bear it, or, if not, to vary but the dress, not to alter or destroy the substance. The like care must be taken of the more outward ornaments, the words. When they appear (which is but seldom) literally graceful, it were an injury to the author that they should be changed. But since every language is so full of its own proprieties, that what is beautiful in one, is often barbarous, nay sometimes nonsense, in another, it would be unreasonable to limit a translator to the narrow compass of his author's words: 'tis enough if he choose out some expression which does not vitiate the sense. I suppose he may stretch his chain to such a latitude; but by innovation of thoughts, methinks he breaks it. By this means the spirit of an author may be transfused, and yet not lost: and thus 'tis plain, that the reason alleged by Sir John Denham' has no farther force than to expression; for thought, if it be translated truly, cannot be lost in another language; but the words that convey it to our apprehension (which are the image and ornament of that thought,) may be so ill chosen, as to make it appear in an unhandsome dress, and rob it of its native lustre. There is, therefore, a liberty to be allowed for the expression; neither is it necessary that words and lines should be confined to the measure of their original. The sense of an author, generally speaking, is to be sacred and inviolable. If the fancy of Ovid be

Poetry is of so subtle a spirit that in pouring out of one language into another it will all evaporate; and if a new spirit be not added in the transfusion there will remain nothing but a caput mortuum.'-Denham, Preface to the translation of the Second

Aencid.