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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115080" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Canto III</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE ARGUMENT</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> An Owl instructed by the Night,<br> Cunningly counterfeits A Sprite :<br> In Pulpit close she lies Perdue,<br> And terrifies the Prelates Crew!<br> They Routed fly with heavy Clatter,<br> The Canto tells you, what's the matter ;<br> But Discord to Retrieve the sport<br> Rallies them soon in Warlike sort :<br> All Oppositions overpast,<br> They set the Pulpit up at last :<br> But fear not lest the Prelate Preacht in't ;<br> Alas he has a further reach in't !<br> To spight his Foes, yet for all's Feating,<br> The proof of th' Pudding's seen i'th' eating.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But Night in hast with her Dark Canopy,<br>Shrowding the viny Plains of Burgundy,<br>Flew back to th' City ; and as suddenly<br>Wheel'd round to view the Towers of Monlheri ;<br>Those walls, whose towering Summits mate the skies,<br>Built on a Rock which Duskie Clouds disguise.<br>And objects representing seen from far,<br>That they dis move perswade the Passenger.<br>Here ominous Birds, here Ravens foreboding fate,<br>In ruinous Chinks do roost, and keep their state ;<br>Here thirty Winters mur’d in obscure Cell<br>An Owl secure from hatefull Light did dwell :<br>This trusty Messenger of Dire mishap<br>Has the first News of Ill dropt in her lap ;<br>And always ready to proclaim sad Tiding<br>Waits in these Deserts, Nights approach abiding :<br>At whose return her Accents rend the Skies,<br>And fright the Vicinage with black Destinies ;<br>Complaining Progne answers to her Tones,<br>And mourning Philomel renews her Groans.<br>To whom Night thus : Come, follow me! The Bird<br>Obey’d, when first her Mistress voice she heard :<br> With flight Precipitant, the Pair, out spring<br>And reach the Town high fayling on the Wing,<br>The wasting at one Reach, they proudly Pearch<br>On highest Pinnacle of the fatal Church !<br> Night curst her Eyes to see the Camrades march,<br>For now All three had reacht the Porches Arch ;<br>She saw the Clock-maker, with faithful fingers<br>A glass of smiling Wine hold, glad, nor lingers :<br>Here Trusty Mates, A health I here Begin,<br>They pledg’d him, to their Patron Gilotin :<br>Oh see ( says Night ) these Rogues sing Huzza ! proud<br>Of sure success, under my favouring Shroud ;<br>But come ! the Traitors soon shall feel our Might,<br>If I at least be justly styled Night !<br> This said, she leads into the Sacred Vault,<br>Into the Vestry flies, there makes an Alt,<br>And in the Concave of the fatal Pew,<br>Orders Madge Howlet there to lie Perdue !<br> Mean while, our three great Champions flown with Wine,<br>And Wines effects, Audacity ; with Design<br>To push their Project on, without regard<br>To Danger near, had pass’d the Pallace-yard,<br>Embolden’d with success, still on they go<br>And mount the Stairs, leading to th’ Portico,<br>Here a Bookseller in his back-shop slept,<br>And under double Padlock safely kept<br>Rogero’s worthy Works ! and he may still<br>Keep ‘em entire, for sure no other will.<br> Now wary Boirude, fearing Danger nigh<br>Stops his rash Friends in heat of Zeal ; to try<br>How they might light a Candle : from his Pocket<br>He takes his Marchasite, begins to knock it<br>With hardned Steel, out springs an Active spark,<br>The hope of Light in the Despair of Dark ;<br>The spark in Tinder cherisht, toucht with Metch<br>In Sulphur dip’t, kindles with quick dispatch<br>The Torck ; which like a Comet blazing bright<br>Supplies the Office of Don Phœbus Light.<br>Boirude the Sexton, kept the Church-dore Key,<br>And if he entrance got, then why not they ?<br>With equal pace the Temples nave they measure !<br>Into the Vestry came : Here lies the Treasure !<br>Here prostate they behold the Pulpit’s frame,<br>And with due Reverence adore the fame !<br>The Gloomy shades of that Religioius place<br>Horrour begat, the Bigot Church-man’s Grace<br>Horror awakes Devotion ; they pray !<br>And dread those Deities they Scorn’d by day.<br> When thus the Clock-maker : Why stare ye thus,<br>My Masters, A-la-mort ? time’s precious !<br>Why stand we trembling, trifling, shall I, shall I ?<br>Our work’s before us, let’s no longer dally !<br>The Pulpit must be rais’, that by to morrow<br>Our Dean may see’t with Joy, his Foes with Sorrow !<br>So said, he laid his bones to’t ; and did strain<br>To roll it o’re, with all his Might, and Main ;<br>He scarce had mov’d it, O portentous wonder !<br>When from its hollow womb a Voice did Thunder ;<br>Brontin starts back ! The Sexton lookt like Dead !<br>John with his Dear, twice wisht himself in Bed !<br>But on their purpose obstinately bent,<br>They roll it o’re, true Zeal will ne’re relent !<br>Out flies the broad-fac’d Chorister of the Night,<br>And with her ruffling wings strikes out the Light :<br>This struck their Souls with horrible Confusion,<br>Amaz’d they stand, they doubt ; but in conclusion,<br>As soon as Fear lent them the use of Feet<br>Away they trudge, fill’d with shame and Regret ;<br>The Nave they soon recover ; whil’st their hair<br>Stands bristling on their heads, dissolving fear<br>Makes their Knees quiver underneath their Bodies,<br>And there they sneaking stand like baffled Noddies,<br>Sheltred by the same Darkness brought them thither,<br>The Squadron flies at last, they knew not whither.<br> So when a Jolly Grew of Truants gather<br> Into some Nook, to play their pranks together,<br> Secure of Eyes from Monitor and Master,<br> They burn the day in game, and sport the faster ;<br> If now by chance, the Tyrants Eye doth watch ‘em,<br> And unawares at Cards or Dice he catch ‘em ;<br>The sad surprise, their Mirth and Pastime dashes,<br>And each shifts for himself to scape his lashes.<br>Such was our Warriours plight when once the Owl<br>Sprung from the Pew, set up her Doleful howl.<br> Discord, who saw unseen their fowl disgrace,<br>Clapping her wings, pity’d their woful case :<br>Their Spirits quail’d, their Courages abated ;<br>Rallies in haft the Troop disanimated.<br> Of Sidrae, she th’ Audacious Visage borrow’d,<br>His front she smooth’d into a smile ; but furrow’d<br>Confirms his staggering steps ; thus stalks along<br>The Marble Pavement ; guided by a Torch,<br>Finds out the skulking Cowards near the Porch ;<br>Then with a squaking Voice spoke fourscore years,<br>Awakes their mettle, dissipates their Fears.<br> Rascals ! where are you? What Pannick Dread does rout you ?<br>Run from one paultry Owl ? ne’re look about you !<br>Where are those boasts which late breath’d nought but Thunder ?<br>Fie ! Shall a harmless Bird disperse y’ asunder ?<br>How would you sneak, vilce Souls, if at the Barr,<br>My daily sport, you met with horrid Warr ?<br>How would you stand a tedious Chanc’ry Hearing,<br>If poor Hobhowchin puts you in this fearing ?<br>Hw would your hearts misgive to bide a Triall,<br>No Friend at Hand, nor in your Purse a Ryall ?<br>Believe me ( Cowards ! ) I, with Grace be’t spoken,<br>Simply thô I stand here, have foil’d and broken<br>A Chapter, with her Chanons, Prebends, Dean ;<br>Nor was my Soul so Abject, Base, so Mean,<br>But I durst look the Proctors in their faces,<br>I have pursu’d ‘em all, Asham’d, confuted,<br>‘Tis Persecutors, cry’d out, Persecuted !<br>All this I did, and ten times more in sooth,<br>With the sole Breast-plate arm’d of Naked Truth !<br>The Church of old was mann’d with Gallant Spirits,<br>A Novice then confiding in the Merits<br>Of the fam’d Good Old Cause, dar’d to Defend it<br>In formâ Pauperis, and make ‘em end it !<br>But this Decrepid Age to Sloath inclines,<br>Nor brings forth now such Puissant Divines !<br> Thus far howe’re their Virtues imitate,<br>Let not an owl your Courages abate :<br>Think what a Blot it draws upon your Glory,<br>How it does stain the luster of your story :<br>If once the Chaunter learns your base Defeat,<br>Your flight Ignoble, and your vile Retreat,<br>Where e’re he meet you, hee’d thus fleer and flout you ;<br>Heark, the Owl cryes ! brave Souldiers look about you !<br>Then will your conscious guilt with shame upbraid you,<br>You’ curse your slavish fears that Cowards made you !<br>Then reinforce your Spirits, by preventing<br>Th’ Affronts, which will be bitter in resenting :<br>Remember, Sirs, whose Cause your hands engages,<br>First win, then bravely wear his Lawrel wages :<br>Recall your wonted worth, new frights forgetting ;<br>‘Tis Tork-shire Cloath, you know, that shrinks i’th’ wetting !<br> But I perceive success my speech doth follow,<br>Then march, run, fly ( brave Boys ! ) where dangers call you !<br>That our Great Mitred Prince, may see his Engines<br>Befre th’Affront be spread, taking due Vengeance.<br> This spoke, the Fiend disguis’d in flash of Fire<br>Vanisht, with fresh rage did their hearts inspire.<br> Just so it was, Great Conde ! at that battle<br>When thy brave Arms made Rhine and Sheld to rattle,<br>Thy wings, and Battle on lens spacious Border<br>Inclin’d to rout, and lean’d to foul discorder,<br>Thy Valour firm’d the wavering Troops that day,<br>And spirited their Files with fresh array !<br>Inspir’d new Hearts, and gave ‘em all New Hands,<br>Till vanquisht Victory follow’d thy Commands !<br> Thus in a moment Rage succeeded Fear,<br>And clouded courage once again shone clear !<br>They countermarch ! The Owl Retreats quite routed<br>And now they scorn her, whome so late they doubted.<br> Not unreveng’d ! for as she flew, she muted<br>In Boirude’s gaping mouth, triumph’d and hooted ;<br>Rascally Bird, (said he ) All Face and Feather !<br>The Shame of Day ; the Boder of Ill Weather !<br>Dar’st thou perfume ( profane ! ) to spice i’th’ Quire ?<br>And make the Pulpit A Sir-Reverence higher ?<br>And Scot-free this ! No, no, I’m not in sport ;<br>I’le trounce and bounce thee for’t i'th’ Spiritual Court ;<br>Where Doctors, Proctors, Paritors together<br>Shann’t leave upon thy Naked back one Feather ;<br>I’le make thee then for all thy Hooting, sneak<br>Like her that scap’d the Devils Arse i'th’ Peak :<br> But talk’s but talk ! Come Boyes, let’s fall to action !<br>The Owl is flown ! the last o’th’ Chanters faction !<br> The Pulpit now is heav’d into the Quire,<br>And on the Chanter’s Seat advanced higher,<br>Her Rotten ledge repair’d ; her Joints that gaped<br>With Planes united ; all was comely shaped !<br> The Wainscott eccho’s to the lab’ring hammer,<br>The Roof back to the Walls refounds the Clamor ;<br>The Organ-pipes provok’d with this rude Rumbling,<br>Struck up a Base, and gravely fell a grumbling !<br> Now Chanter ! black’s thy Day, thou little thinkest<br>What work’s a brewing ; Sleep in Boles thou drinkest,<br>On both ears ; snoring after late Debauches,<br>Nor dream’st what mischief now thy Head approaches :<br>Secure thou ly’st unmarm’d, unwarn’d of Harms,<br>Hugging thy Dainty Doxy in thy Arms !<br> O that some friendly Ghost, in Nightly Vision<br>Would timously reveal thy sad condition !<br>Now ! now they heave ! the hateful Pulpit rearing !<br>‘Twould strike thee dead, wer’t thou within the Hearing ;<br>Alas ! above thy Seat, the Machine glories<br>To have surmounted thee five lofty stories ;<br>The Sexton at three strokes, makes the Nail enter,<br>And now the Pulpit stands firm on its Center.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Nicolas+Boileau-Despr%C3%A9aux">Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux</a> from <i>Le Lutrin</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115080" data-title="Canto III de Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux" data-description="THE ARGUMENT/ An Owl instructed by the Night,/ Cunningly counterfeits A Sprite :/ In Pulpit close she lies Perdue,/ And terrifies the Prelates Crew!/ They Routed fly with heavy Clatter,/ The Canto tells you, what's the matter ;/ But Discord to Ret..."></div>
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