BOOK I.

SONG I.

BOETHIUS' COMPLAINT.

Who wrought my studious numbers

Smoothly once in happier days,

Now perforce in tears and sadness

Learn a mournful strain to raise.

Lo, the Muses, grief-dishevelled,

Guide my pen and voice my woe;

Down their cheeks unfeigned the tear drops

To my sad complainings flow!

These alone in danger's hour

Faithful found, have dared attend

On the footsteps of the exile

To his lonely journey's end.

These that were the pride and pleasure

Of my youth and high estate

Still remain the only solace

Of the old man's mournful fate.

Old? Ah yes; swift, ere I knew it,

By these sorrows on me pressed

Age hath come; lo, Grief hath bid me

Wear the garb that fits her best.

O'er my head untimely sprinkled

These white hairs my woes proclaim,

And the skin hangs loose and shrivelled

On this sorrow-shrunken frame.

Blest is death that intervenes not

In the sweet, sweet years of peace,

But unto the broken-hearted,

When they call him, brings release!

Yet Death passes by the wretched,

Shuts his ear and slumbers deep;

Will not heed the cry of anguish,

Will not close the eyes that weep.

For, while yet inconstant Fortune

Poured her gifts and all was bright,

Death's dark hour had all but whelmed me

In the gloom of endless night.

Now, because misfortune's shadow

Hath o'erclouded that false face,

Cruel Life still halts and lingers,

Though I loathe his weary race.

Friends, why did ye once so lightly

Vaunt me happy among men?

Surely he who so hath fallen

Was not firmly founded then.

I.

While I was thus mutely pondering within myself, and recording my

sorrowful complainings with my pen, it seemed to me that there appeared

above my head a woman of a countenance exceeding venerable. Her eyes

were bright as fire, and of a more than human keenness; her complexion

was lively, her vigour showed no trace of enfeeblement; and yet her

years were right full, and she plainly seemed not of our age and time.

Her stature was difficult to judge. At one moment it exceeded not the

common height, at another her forehead seemed to strike the sky; and

whenever she raised her head higher, she began to pierce within the very

heavens, and to baffle the eyes of them that looked upon her. Her

garments were of an imperishable fabric, wrought with the finest threads

and of the most delicate workmanship; and these, as her own lips

afterwards assured me, she had herself woven with her own hands. The

beauty of this vesture had been somewhat tarnished by age and neglect,

and wore that dingy look which marble contracts from exposure. On the

lower-most edge was inwoven the Greek letter [Greek: P], on the topmost

the letter [Greek: Th],[A] and between the two were to be seen steps,

like a staircase, from the lower to the upper letter. This robe,

moreover, had been torn by the hands of violent persons, who had each

snatched away what he could clutch.[B] Her right hand held a note-book;

in her left she bore a staff. And when she saw the Muses of Poesie

standing by my bedside, dictating the words of my lamentations, she was

moved awhile to wrath, and her eyes flashed sternly. 'Who,' said she,

'has allowed yon play-acting wantons to approach this sick man--these

who, so far from giving medicine to heal his malady, even feed it with

sweet poison? These it is who kill the rich crop of reason with the

barren thorns of passion, who accustom men's minds to disease, instead

of setting them free. Now, were it some common man whom your allurements

were seducing, as is usually your way, I should be less indignant. On

such a one I should not have spent my pains for naught. But this is one

nurtured in the Eleatic and Academic philosophies. Nay, get ye gone, ye

sirens, whose sweetness lasteth not; leave him for my muses to tend and

heal!' At these words of upbraiding, the whole band, in deepened

sadness, with downcast eyes, and blushes that confessed their shame,

dolefully left the chamber.

But I, because my sight was dimmed with much weeping, and I could not

tell who was this woman of authority so commanding--I was dumfoundered,

and, with my gaze fastened on the earth, continued silently to await

what she might do next. Then she drew near me and sat on the edge of my

couch, and, looking into my face all heavy with grief and fixed in

sadness on the ground, she bewailed in these words the disorder of my

mind:

FOOTNOTES:

[A] [Greek: P] (P) stands for the Political life, the life of action;

[Greek: Th] (Th) for the Theoretical life, the life of thought.

[B] The Stoic, Epicurean, and other philosophical sects, which Boethius

regards as heterodox. See also below, ch. iii., p. 14.

SONG II.

HIS DESPONDENCY.

Alas! in what abyss his mind

Is plunged, how wildly tossed!

Still, still towards the outer night

She sinks, her true light lost,

As oft as, lashed tumultuously

By earth-born blasts, care's waves rise high.

Yet once he ranged the open heavens,

The sun's bright pathway tracked;

Watched how the cold moon waxed and waned;

Nor rested, till there lacked

To his wide ken no star that steers

Amid the maze of circling spheres.

The causes why the blusterous winds

Vex ocean's tranquil face,

Whose hand doth turn the stable globe,

Or why his even race

From out the ruddy east the sun

Unto the western waves doth run:

What is it tempers cunningly

The placid hours of spring,

So that it blossoms with the rose

For earth's engarlanding:

Who loads the year's maturer prime

With clustered grapes in autumn time:

All this he knew--thus ever strove

Deep Nature's lore to guess.

Now, reft of reason's light, he lies,

And bonds his neck oppress;

While by the heavy load constrained,

His eyes to this dull earth are chained.

II.

'But the time,' said she, 'calls rather for healing than for

lamentation.' Then, with her eyes bent full upon me, 'Art thou that

man,' she cries, 'who, erstwhile fed with the milk and reared upon the

nourishment which is mine to give, had grown up to the full vigour of a

manly spirit? And yet I had bestowed such armour on thee as would have

proved an invincible defence, hadst thou not first cast it away. Dost

thou know me? Why art thou silent? Is it shame or amazement that hath

struck thee dumb? Would it were shame; but, as I see, a stupor hath

seized upon thee.' Then, when she saw me not only answering nothing, but

mute and utterly incapable of speech, she gently touched my breast with

her hand, and said: 'There is no danger; these are the symptoms of

lethargy, the usual sickness of deluded minds. For awhile he has

forgotten himself; he will easily recover his memory, if only he first

recognises me. And that he may do so, let me now wipe his eyes that are

clouded with a mist of mortal things.' Thereat, with a fold of her robe,

she dried my eyes all swimming with tears.

SONG III.

THE MISTS DISPELLED.

Then the gloom of night was scattered,

Sight returned unto mine eyes.

So, when haply rainy Caurus

Rolls the storm-clouds through the skies,

Hidden is the sun; all heaven

Is obscured in starless night.

But if, in wild onset sweeping,

Boreas frees day's prisoned light,

All suddenly the radiant god outstreams,

And strikes our dazzled eyesight with his beams.

III.

Even so the clouds of my melancholy were broken up. I saw the clear sky,

and regained the power to recognise the face of my physician.

Accordingly, when I had lifted my eyes and fixed my gaze upon her, I

beheld my nurse, Philosophy, whose halls I had frequented from my youth

up.

'Ah! why,' I cried, 'mistress of all excellence, hast thou come down

from on high, and entered the solitude of this my exile? Is it that

thou, too, even as I, mayst be persecuted with false accusations?'

'Could I desert thee, child,' said she, 'and not lighten the burden

which thou hast taken upon thee through the hatred of my name, by

sharing this trouble? Even forgetting that it were not lawful for

Philosophy to leave companionless the way of the innocent, should I,

thinkest thou, fear to incur reproach, or shrink from it, as though

some strange new thing had befallen? Thinkest thou that now, for the

first time in an evil age, Wisdom hath been assailed by peril? Did I not

often in days of old, before my servant Plato lived, wage stern warfare

with the rashness of folly? In his lifetime, too, Socrates, his master,

won with my aid the victory of an unjust death. And when, one after the

other, the Epicurean herd, the Stoic, and the rest, each of them as far

as in them lay, went about to seize the heritage he left, and were

dragging me off protesting and resisting, as their booty, they tore in

pieces the garment which I had woven with my own hands, and, clutching

the torn pieces, went off, believing that the whole of me had passed

into their possession. And some of them, because some traces of my

vesture were seen upon them, were destroyed through the mistake of the

lewd multitude, who falsely deemed them to be my disciples. It may be

thou knowest not of the banishment of Anaxagoras, of the poison draught

of Socrates, nor of Zeno's torturing, because these things happened in

a distant country; yet mightest thou have learnt the fate of Arrius, of

Seneca, of Soranus, whose stories are neither old nor unknown to fame.

These men were brought to destruction for no other reason than that,

settled as they were in my principles, their lives were a manifest

contrast to the ways of the wicked. So there is nothing thou shouldst

wonder at, if on the seas of this life we are tossed by storm-blasts,

seeing that we have made it our chiefest aim to refuse compliance with

evil-doers. And though, maybe, the host of the wicked is many in number,

yet is it contemptible, since it is under no leadership, but is hurried

hither and thither at the blind driving of mad error. And if at times

and seasons they set in array against us, and fall on in overwhelming

strength, our leader draws off her forces into the citadel while they

are busy plundering the useless baggage. But we from our vantage ground,

safe from all this wild work, laugh to see them making prize of the most

valueless of things, protected by a bulwark which aggressive folly may

not aspire to reach.'

SONG IV.

NOTHING CAN SUBDUE VIRTUE.

Whoso calm, serene, sedate,

Sets his foot on haughty fate;

Firm and steadfast, come what will,

Keeps his mien unconquered still;

Him the rage of furious seas,

Tossing high wild menaces,

Nor the flames from smoky forges

That Vesuvius disgorges,

Nor the bolt that from the sky

Smites the tower, can terrify.

Why, then, shouldst thou feel affright

At the tyrant's weakling might?

Dread him not, nor fear no harm,

And thou shall his rage disarm;

But who to hope or fear gives way--

Lost his bosom's rightful sway--

He hath cast away his shield,

Like a coward fled the field;

He hath forged all unaware

Fetters his own neck must bear!

IV.

'Dost thou understand?' she asks. Do my words sink into thy mind? Or art

thou dull "as the ass to the sound of the lyre"? Why dost thou weep? Why

do tears stream from thy eyes?

'"Speak out, hide it not in thy heart."

If thou lookest for the physician's help, thou must needs disclose thy

wound.'

Then I, gathering together what strength I could, began: 'Is there still

need of telling? Is not the cruelty of fortune against me plain enough?

Doth not the very aspect of this place move thee? Is this the library,

the room which thou hadst chosen as thy constant resort in my home, the

place where we so often sat together and held discourse of all things in

heaven and earth? Was my garb and mien like this when I explored with

thee nature's hid secrets, and thou didst trace for me with thy wand

the courses of the stars, moulding the while my character and the whole

conduct of my life after the pattern of the celestial order? Is this the

recompense of my obedience? Yet thou hast enjoined by Plato's mouth the

maxim, "that states would be happy, either if philosophers ruled them,

or if it should so befall that their rulers would turn philosophers." By

his mouth likewise thou didst point out this imperative reason why

philosophers should enter public life, to wit, lest, if the reins of

government be left to unprincipled and profligate citizens, trouble and

destruction should come upon the good. Following these precepts, I have

tried to apply in the business of public administration the principles

which I learnt from thee in leisured seclusion. Thou art my witness and

that divinity who hath implanted thee in the hearts of the wise, that I

brought to my duties no aim but zeal for the public good. For this cause

I have become involved in bitter and irreconcilable feuds, and, as

happens inevitably, if a man holds fast to the independence of

conscience, I have had to think nothing of giving offence to the

powerful in the cause of justice. How often have I encountered and

balked Conigastus in his assaults on the fortunes of the weak? How often

have I thwarted Trigguilla, steward of the king's household, even when

his villainous schemes were as good as accomplished? How often have I

risked my position and influence to protect poor wretches from the false

charges innumerable with which they were for ever being harassed by the

greed and license of the barbarians? No one has ever drawn me aside from

justice to oppression. When ruin was overtaking the fortunes of the

provincials through the combined pressure of private rapine and public

taxation, I grieved no less than the sufferers. When at a season of

grievous scarcity a forced sale, disastrous as it was unjustifiable, was

proclaimed, and threatened to overwhelm Campania with starvation, I

embarked on a struggle with the prætorian prefect in the public

interest, I fought the case at the king's judgment-seat, and succeeded

in preventing the enforcement of the sale. I rescued the consular

Paulinus from the gaping jaws of the court bloodhounds, who in their

covetous hopes had already made short work of his wealth. To save

Albinus, who was of the same exalted rank, from the penalties of a

prejudged charge, I exposed myself to the hatred of Cyprian, the

informer.

'Thinkest thou I had laid up for myself store of enmities enough? Well,

with the rest of my countrymen, at any rate, my safety should have been

assured, since my love of justice had left me no hope of security at

court. Yet who was it brought the charges by which I have been struck

down? Why, one of my accusers is Basil, who, after being dismissed from

the king's household, was driven by his debts to lodge an information

against my name. There is Opilio, there is Gaudentius, men who for many

and various offences the king's sentence had condemned to banishment;

and when they declined to obey, and sought to save themselves by taking

sanctuary, the king, as soon as he heard of it, decreed that, if they

did not depart from the city of Ravenna within a prescribed time, they

should be branded on the forehead and expelled. What would exceed the

rigour of this severity? And yet on that same day these very men lodged

an information against me, and the information was admitted. Just

Heaven! had I deserved this by my way of life? Did it make them fit

accusers that my condemnation was a foregone conclusion? Has fortune no

shame--if not at the accusation of the innocent, at least for the

vileness of the accusers? Perhaps thou wonderest what is the sum of the

charges laid against me? I wished, they say, to save the senate. But

how? I am accused of hindering an informer from producing evidence to

prove the senate guilty of treason. Tell me, then, what is thy counsel,

O my mistress. Shall I deny the charge, lest I bring shame on thee? But

I did wish it, and I shall never cease to wish it. Shall I admit it?

Then the work of thwarting the informer will come to an end. Shall I

call the wish for the preservation of that illustrious house a crime?

Of a truth the senate, by its decrees concerning me, has made it such!

But blind folly, though it deceive itself with false names, cannot alter

the true merits of things, and, mindful of the precept of Socrates, I do

not think it right either to keep the truth concealed or allow falsehood

to pass. But this, however it may be, I leave to thy judgment and to the

verdict of the discerning. Moreover, lest the course of events and the

true facts should be hidden from posterity, I have myself committed to

writing an account of the transaction.

'What need to speak of the forged letters by which an attempt is made to

prove that I hoped for the freedom of Rome? Their falsity would have

been manifest, if I had been allowed to use the confession of the

informers themselves, evidence which has in all matters the most

convincing force. Why, what hope of freedom is left to us? Would there

were any! I should have answered with the epigram of Canius when

Caligula declared him to have been cognisant of a conspiracy against

him. "If I had known," said he, "thou shouldst never have known." Grief

hath not so blunted my perceptions in this matter that I should complain

because impious wretches contrive their villainies against the virtuous,

but at their achievement of their hopes I do exceedingly marvel. For

evil purposes are, perchance, due to the imperfection of human nature;

that it should be possible for scoundrels to carry out their worst

schemes against the innocent, while God beholdeth, is verily monstrous.

For this cause, not without reason, one of thy disciples asked, "If God

exists, whence comes evil? Yet whence comes good, if He exists not?"

However, it might well be that wretches who seek the blood of all honest

men and of the whole senate should wish to destroy me also, whom they

saw to be a bulwark of the senate and all honest men. But did I deserve

such a fate from the Fathers also? Thou rememberest, methinks--since

thou didst ever stand by my side to direct what I should do or say--thou

rememberest, I say, how at Verona, when the king, eager for the general

destruction, was bent on implicating the whole senatorial order in the

charge of treason brought against Albinus, with what indifference to my

own peril I maintained the innocence of its members, one and all. Thou

knowest that what I say is the truth, and that I have never boasted of

my good deeds in a spirit of self-praise. For whenever a man by

proclaiming his good deeds receives the recompense of fame, he

diminishes in a measure the secret reward of a good conscience. What

issues have overtaken my innocency thou seest. Instead of reaping the

rewards of true virtue, I undergo the penalties of a guilt falsely laid

to my charge--nay, more than this; never did an open confession of guilt

cause such unanimous severity among the assessors, but that some

consideration, either of the mere frailty of human nature, or of

fortune's universal instability, availed to soften the verdict of some

few. Had I been accused of a design to fire the temples, to slaughter

the priests with impious sword, of plotting the massacre of all honest

men, I should yet have been produced in court, and only punished on due

confession or conviction. Now for my too great zeal towards the senate I

have been condemned to outlawry and death, unheard and undefended, at a

distance of near five hundred miles away.[C] Oh, my judges, well do ye

deserve that no one should hereafter be convicted of a fault like mine!

'Yet even my very accusers saw how honourable was the charge they

brought against me, and, in order to overlay it with some shadow of

guilt, they falsely asserted that in the pursuit of my ambition I had

stained my conscience with sacrilegious acts. And yet thy spirit,

indwelling in me, had driven from the chamber of my soul all lust of

earthly success, and with thine eye ever upon me, there could be no

place left for sacrilege. For thou didst daily repeat in my ear and

instil into my mind the Pythagorean maxim, "Follow after God." It was

not likely, then, that I should covet the assistance of the vilest

spirits, when thou wert moulding me to such an excellence as should

conform me to the likeness of God. Again, the innocency of the inner

sanctuary of my home, the company of friends of the highest probity, a

father-in-law revered at once for his pure character and his active

beneficence, shield me from the very suspicion of sacrilege.

Yet--atrocious as it is--they even draw credence for this charge from

_thee_; I am like to be thought implicated in wickedness on this very

account, that I am imbued with _thy_ teachings and stablished in _thy_

ways. So it is not enough that my devotion to thee should profit me

nothing, but thou also must be assailed by reason of the odium which I

have incurred. Verily this is the very crown of my misfortunes, that

men's opinions for the most part look not to real merit, but to the

event; and only recognise foresight where Fortune has crowned the issue

with her approval. Whereby it comes to pass that reputation is the first

of all things to abandon the unfortunate. I remember with chagrin how

perverse is popular report, how various and discordant men's judgments.

This only will I say, that the most crushing of misfortune's burdens is,

that as soon as a charge is fastened upon the unhappy, they are believed

to have deserved their sufferings. I, for my part, who have been

banished from all life's blessings, stripped of my honours, stained in

repute, am punished for well-doing.

'And now methinks I see the villainous dens of the wicked surging with

joy and gladness, all the most recklessly unscrupulous threatening a new

crop of lying informations, the good prostrate with terror at my danger,

every ruffian incited by impunity to new daring and to success by the

profits of audacity, the guiltless not only robbed of their peace of

mind, but even of all means of defence. Wherefore I would fain cry out:

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The distance from Rome to Pavia, the place of Boethius'

imprisonment, is 455 Roman miles.

SONG V.

BOETHIUS' PRAYER.

'Builder of yon starry dome,

Thou that whirlest, throned eternal,

Heaven's swift globe, and, as they roam,

Guid'st the stars by laws supernal:

So in full-sphered splendour dight

Cynthia dims the lamps of night,

But unto the orb fraternal

Closer drawn,[D] doth lose her light.

'Who at fall of eventide,

Hesper, his cold radiance showeth,

Lucifer his beams doth hide,

Paling as the sun's light groweth,

Brief, while winter's frost holds sway,

By thy will the space of day;

Swift, when summer's fervour gloweth,

Speed the hours of night away.

'Thou dost rule the changing year:

When rude Boreas oppresses,

Fall the leaves; they reappear,

Wooed by Zephyr's soft caresses.

Fields that Sirius burns deep grown

By Arcturus' watch were sown:

Each the reign of law confesses,

Keeps the place that is his own.

'Sovereign Ruler, Lord of all!

Can it be that Thou disdainest

Only man? 'Gainst him, poor thrall,

Wanton Fortune plays her vainest.

Guilt's deserved punishment

Falleth on the innocent;

High uplifted, the profanest

On the just their malice vent.

'Virtue cowers in dark retreats,

Crime's foul stain the righteous beareth,

Perjury and false deceits

Hurt not him the wrong who dareth;

But whene'er the wicked trust

In ill strength to work their lust,

Kings, whom nations' awe declareth

Mighty, grovel in the dust.

'Look, oh look upon this earth,

Thou who on law's sure foundation

Framedst all! Have we no worth,

We poor men, of all creation?

Sore we toss on fortune's tide;

Master, bid the waves subside!

And earth's ways with consummation

Of Thy heaven's order guide!'

FOOTNOTES:

[D] The moon is regarded as farthest from the sun at the full, and, as

she wanes, approaching gradually nearer.

V.

When I had poured out my griefs in this long and unbroken strain of

lamentation, she, with calm countenance, and in no wise disturbed at my

complainings, thus spake:

'When I saw thee sorrowful, in tears, I straightway knew thee wretched

and an exile. But how far distant that exile I should not know, had not

thine own speech revealed it. Yet how far indeed from thy country hast

thou, not been banished, but rather hast strayed; or, if thou wilt have

it banishment, hast banished thyself! For no one else could ever

lawfully have had this power over thee. Now, if thou wilt call to mind

from what country thou art sprung, it is not ruled, as once was the

Athenian polity, by the sovereignty of the multitude, but "one is its

Ruler, one its King," who takes delight in the number of His citizens,

not in their banishment; to submit to whose governance and to obey

whose ordinances is perfect freedom. Art thou ignorant of that most

ancient law of this thy country, whereby it is decreed that no one

whatsoever, who hath chosen to fix there his dwelling, may be sent into

exile? For truly there is no fear that one who is encompassed by its

ramparts and defences should deserve to be exiled. But he who has ceased

to wish to dwell therein, he likewise ceases to deserve to do so. And so

it is not so much the aspect of this place which moves me, as thy

aspect; not so much the library walls set off with glass and ivory which

I miss, as the chamber of thy mind, wherein I once placed, not books,

but that which gives books their value, the doctrines which my books

contain. Now, what thou hast said of thy services to the commonweal is

true, only too little compared with the greatness of thy deservings. The

things laid to thy charge whereof thou hast spoken, whether such as

redound to thy credit, or mere false accusations, are publicly known. As

for the crimes and deceits of the informers, thou hast rightly deemed

it fitting to pass them over lightly, because the popular voice hath

better and more fully pronounced upon them. Thou hast bitterly

complained of the injustice of the senate. Thou hast grieved over my

calumniation, and likewise hast lamented the damage to my good name.

Finally, thine indignation blazed forth against fortune; thou hast

complained of the unfairness with which thy merits have been

recompensed. Last of all thy frantic muse framed a prayer that the peace

which reigns in heaven might rule earth also. But since a throng of

tumultuous passions hath assailed thy soul, since thou art distraught

with anger, pain, and grief, strong remedies are not proper for thee in

this thy present mood. And so for a time I will use milder methods, that

the tumours which have grown hard through the influx of disturbing

passion may be softened by gentle treatment, till they can bear the

force of sharper remedies.'

SONG VI.

ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR NEEDFUL ORDER

He who to th' unwilling furrows

Gives the generous grain,

When the Crab with baleful fervours

Scorches all the plain;

He shall find his garner bare,

Acorns for his scanty fare.

Go not forth to cull sweet violets

From the purpled steep,

While the furious blasts of winter

Through the valleys sweep;

Nor the grape o'erhasty bring

To the press in days of spring.

For to each thing God hath given

Its appointed time;

No perplexing change permits He

In His plan sublime.

So who quits the order due

Shall a luckless issue rue.

VI.

'First, then, wilt thou suffer me by a few questions to make some

attempt to test the state of thy mind, that I may learn in what way to

set about thy cure?'

'Ask what thou wilt,' said I, 'for I will answer whatever questions thou

choosest to put.'

Then said she: 'This world of ours--thinkest thou it is governed

haphazard and fortuitously, or believest thou that there is in it any

rational guidance?'

'Nay,' said I, 'in no wise may I deem that such fixed motions can be

determined by random hazard, but I know that God, the Creator, presideth

over His work, nor will the day ever come that shall drive me from

holding fast the truth of this belief.'

'Yes,' said she; 'thou didst even but now affirm it in song, lamenting

that men alone had no portion in the divine care. As to the rest, thou

wert unshaken in the belief that they were ruled by reason. Yet I

marvel exceedingly how, in spite of thy firm hold on this opinion, thou

art fallen into sickness. But let us probe more deeply: something or

other is missing, I think. Now, tell me, since thou doubtest not that

God governs the world, dost thou perceive by what means He rules it?'

'I scarcely understand what thou meanest,' I said, 'much less can I

answer thy question.'

'Did I not say truly that something is missing, whereby, as through a

breach in the ramparts, disease hath crept in to disturb thy mind? But,

tell me, dost thou remember the universal end towards which the aim of

all nature is directed?'

'I once heard,' said I, 'but sorrow hath dulled my recollection.'

'And yet thou knowest whence all things have proceeded.'

'Yes, that I know,' said I, 'and have answered that it is from God.'

'Yet how is it possible that thou knowest not what is the end of

existence, when thou dost understand its source and origin? However,

these disturbances of mind have force to shake a man's position, but

cannot pluck him up and root him altogether out of himself. But answer

this also, I pray thee: rememberest thou that thou art a man?'

'How should I not?' said I.

'Then, canst thou say what man is?'

'Is this thy question: Whether I know myself for a being endowed with

reason and subject to death? Surely I do acknowledge myself such.'

Then she: 'Dost know nothing else that thou art?'

'Nothing.'

'Now,' said she, 'I know another cause of thy disease, one, too, of

grave moment. Thou hast ceased to know thy own nature. So, then, I have

made full discovery both of the causes of thy sickness and the means of

restoring thy health. It is because forgetfulness of thyself hath

bewildered thy mind that thou hast bewailed thee as an exile, as one

stripped of the blessings that were his; it is because thou knowest not

the end of existence that thou deemest abominable and wicked men to be

happy and powerful; while, because thou hast forgotten by what means the

earth is governed, thou deemest that fortune's changes ebb and flow

without the restraint of a guiding hand. These are serious enough to

cause not sickness only, but even death; but, thanks be to the Author of

our health, the light of nature hath not yet left thee utterly. In thy

true judgment concerning the world's government, in that thou believest

it subject, not to the random drift of chance, but to divine reason, we

have the divine spark from which thy recovery may be hoped. Have, then,

no fear; from these weak embers the vital heat shall once more be

kindled within thee. But seeing that it is not yet time for strong

remedies, and that the mind is manifestly so constituted that when it

casts off true opinions it straightway puts on false, wherefrom arises a

cloud of confusion that disturbs its true vision, I will now try and

disperse these mists by mild and soothing application, that so the

darkness of misleading passion may be scattered, and thou mayst come to

discern the splendour of the true light.'

SONG VII.

THE PERTURBATIONS OF PASSION.

Stars shed no light

Through the black night,

When the clouds hide;

And the lashed wave,

If the winds rave

O'er ocean's tide,--

Though once serene

As day's fair sheen,--

Soon fouled and spoiled

By the storm's spite,

Shows to the sight

Turbid and soiled.

Oft the fair rill,

Down the steep hill

Seaward that strays,

Some tumbled block

Of fallen rock

Hinders and stays.

Then art thou fain

Clear and most plain

Truth to discern,

In the right way

Firmly to stay,

Nor from it turn?

Joy, hope and fear

Suffer not near,

Drive grief away:

Shackled and blind

And lost is the mind

Where these have sway.