Spleen

I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich
but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch,
one who escapes Fénelon's apologues,
and kills the day in boredom with his dogs;
nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry,
his people dying by the balcony;
the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite
no longer gets him through a single night;
his bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb;
even the ladies of the court, for whom
all kings are beautiful, cannot put on
shameful enough dresses for this skeleton;
the scholar who makes his gold cannot invent
washes to cleanse the poisoned element;
even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy,
our tyrants' solace in senility,
we cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food
is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood.

Charles Baudelaire

Nathalocus

I.
Bleak was the pathway and barren the mountain,
As the traveller passed on his wearisome way,
Sealed by the frost was each murmuring fountain,
And the sun shone through mist with a blood-coloured ray.
But neither the road nor the danger together,
Could alter his purpose, nor yet the rough weather;
So on went the wayfarer through the thick heather,
Till he came to the cave where the dread witches stay.

II.
Hewn from the rock was that cavern so dreary,
And the entrance by bushes was hid from the sight,
But he found his way in, and with travelling weary,
With joy he beheld in the darkness a light.
And in a recess of that wonderful dwelling,
He heard the strange song of the witch wildly swelling,
In magical numbers unceasingly telling
The fortunes of kingdoms, the issue of fight.

III.
Up rose the witch as the traveller entered,
"Welcome," she said, "and what news from the king;
And why to inquire of me thus has he ventured,
When he knows that the answer destruction will bring?
Sit here and attend." Then her pale visage turning
To where the dim lamp in the darkness was burning,
She took up a book of her magical learning,
And prepared in prophetical numbers to sing.

IV.
Now she is seated, the curtain is o’er her,
The god is upon her; attend then and hear!
The vapour is rising in volumes before her,
And forms of the future in darkness appear.
Hark, now the god inspiration is bringing,
’Tis not her voice through the cavern is ringing;
No, for the song her familiar is singing,
And these were the words of the maddening seer.

V.
"Slave of the monarch, return to thy master,
Whisper these words in Nathalocus’ ear;
Tell him, from me, that Old Time can fly faster
Than he is aware, for his death hour is near;
Tell hint his fate with the mystery due it,
But let him not know of the hand that shall do it;"
"Tell me, vile witch, or I swear thou shalt rue it!"
"Thou art the murderer," answered the seer.

VI.
"Am I a dog that I’d do such an action!"
Answered the chief as in anger he rose,
"Would I, ungrateful, be head of a faction,
And call myself one of Nathalocus’ foes?"
"No more," said the witch, "the enchantment is ended,
I brave not the wrath of the demon offended,
Whatever thy fate, ’tis not now to be mended."
So the stranger returned through the thick-driving snows.

VII.
High from his eyrie the eagle was screaming,
Pale sheeted spectres stalked over the heath;
Bright in his mind’s eye a dagger was gleaming,
Waiting the moment to spring from its sheath.
Hoarse croaked the raven that eastward was flying;
Well did he know of the king that was dying;
Down in the river the Kelpie was sighing,
Mourning the king in the water beneath.

VIII.
His mind was confused with this terrible warning,
Horrible spectres were with him by night;
Still in his sorrow he wished for the morning,
Cursing the day when he first saw the light.
He said in his raving, "The day that she bore me,
Would that my mother in pieces had tore me;
See there is Nathalocus’ body before me;
Hence, ye vain shadows, depart from my sight!"

IX.
And when from the palace the king sent to meet him,
To ask what response from the witch he might bear;
When the messengerthought that the stranger would greet him,
He answered by nought but a meaningless stare.
On his face was a smile, but it was not of gladness,
For all was within inconsolable sadness.
And aye in his eye was the fixt glare of madness,-—
"In the king's private chamber, I’ll answer him there."

X.
"Tell me, my sovereign, have I been unruly;
Have I been ever found out of my place;
Have not I followed thee faithfully, truly,
Though danger and death stared me full in the face?
Have I been seen from the enemy flying,
Have I been wanting in danger most trying?
Oh, if I have, judge me worthy of dying,
Let me be covered with shame and disgrace!

XI.
"Couldst thou imagine that I should betray thee,
I whom thy bounty with friendship has blessed?
But the witch gave for answer that my hand should slay thee,
’Tis this that for long has deprived me of rest,
Ever since then have my slumbers been broken,
But true are the words that the prophet has spoken,
Nathalocus, now receive this as a token,"
So saying the dagger he plunged in his breast.

James Clerk Maxwell

Horreur sympathique

De ce ciel bizarre et livide,
Tourmenté comme ton destin,
Quels pensers dans ton âme vide
Descendent? réponds, libertin.

— Insatiablement avide
De l'obscur et de l'incertain,
Je ne geindrai pas comme Ovide
Chassé du paradis latin.

Cieux déchirés comme des grèves
En vous se mire mon orgueil;
Vos vastes nuages en deuil

Sont les corbillards de mes rêves,
Et vos lueurs sont le reflet
De l'Enfer où mon coeur se plaît.

Charles Baudelaire


Sympathetic Horror

From that sky, bizarre and livid,
Distorted as your destiny,
What thoughts into your empty soul
Descend? Answer me, libertine.

— Insatiably avid
For the dark and the uncertain,
I shall not whimper like Ovid
Chased from his Latin paradise.

Skies torn like the shores of the sea,
You are the mirror of my pride;
Your vast clouds in mourning

Are the black hearses of my dreams,
And your gleams are the reflection
Of the Hell which delights my heart.

— Translated by William Aggeler

Eternity

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.

William Blake

Reflex Musings: Reflections from Various Surfaces

In the dense entangled street,
Where the web of Trade is weaving,
Forms unknown in crowds I meet
Much of each and all believing;
Each his small designs achieving
Hurries on with restless feet,
While, through Fancy’s power deceiving,
Self in every form I greet.

Oft in yonder rocky dell
Neath the birches’ shadow seated,
I have watched the darksome well,
Where my stooping form, repeated,
Now advanced and now retreated
With the spring’s alternate swell,
Till destroyed before completed
As the big drops grew and fell.

By the hollow mountain-side
Questions strange I shout for ever,
While the echoes far and wide
Seem to mock my vain endeavour;
Still I shout, for though they never
Cast my borrowed voice aside,
Words from empty words they sever—
Words of Truth from words of Pride.

Yes, the faces in the crowd,
And the wakened echoes, glancing
From the mountain, rocky browed,
And the lights in water dancing—
Each my wandering sense entrancing,
Tells me back my thoughts aloud,
All the joys of Truth enhancing
Crushing all that makes me proud.

James Clerk Maxwell

Roads go ever ever on

Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journety new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still 'round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien

Numa Pompilius

O well is thee! King Numa,
Within thy secret cave,
Where thy bones are ever moistened
By sad Egeria’s wave;
None now have power to pilfer
The treasure of thy tomb,
And reveal the institutions
And secret Rites of Rome.
O blessed be the Senate
That stowed those books away,
Curst be the attempt of Niebuhr
To drag them into day;
Light be the pressure, Numa,
Around thy watery bed,
May no perplexing problems
Infest thy kingly head!
As thus I blessed King Numa
And struggled hard with sleep,
I felt unwonted chillness
O’er all my members creep;
Before mine eyes in fragments
The fireplace seemed to roll,
The chillness left my body
And slid into my soul.
Deep in Egeria's grotto
I saw the darksome well;
I slowly sunk to Numa,
But why I cannot tell.

"What! Livest thou still, old Sabine,
With thy mysterious wife?"
"Yes, here beneath the surface,
We lead a torpid life.
But little think the Critics
Who nullify old Rome,
That in these benumbing waters
I always lived at home.
Never was I a Sabine,
Or lived like men above;
No mortal wight was Numa,
Who quelled the fear of Jove.
Before my day the Romans
Served gods of wood and stone,
But what each man had fashioned
That worshipped he alone;
With care he saved the silver,
With pains the mould designed,
He loved and feared the offspring
Of his pocket and his mind.
To him he went for counsel
And then to Common Sense;
When both of these had failed him
He took to tossing pence;
But I forbade all tossing,
Made men enquire of beasts,
Pulled down all private idols
And set up public priests.
Birds, too,’ said I, ‘are holy,
They show us things to come,
They have more subtle spirits
Than wooden idols dumb.
No longer burn your incense
Before your private shrine,
My Vestals are most careful
To feed the flame divine;
Dismiss all fear of idols,
Of demons, and of gods,
My Augurs will protect you
With their long crooked rods.
(With such the careful shepherd
Drags lambs from ditches deep;
With such he points to heaven
When they are fast asleep.)
O, trust me, those same Augurs
Know more about the stars
Than you whose only business
Is everlasting wars.
How can you be religious,
How can they work for bread?
You sinners must be shriven,
My Augurs must be fed.
You know dividing labour
To nations riches brings,
So let my Augurs shrive you
While you mind earthly things.
Your case I’ve set before you,
You see the thing to do,
If you fork out the needful,
They do your job for you.’
With this and other speeches
I brought the people round,
Till not a single Roman
In Jove’s house can be found.
For well he knows each evening
When bells in steeples toll,
’Tis a sign that well-paid Augurs
Are helping on his soul.
’Twas this that kept ’em quiet
Through all my fabled reign,
Till quarrelsome young Tullus
Brought battles back again.
Thus my cold-blooded doctrines
The fear of Jove could quell,
Wonder not then to find me
Alive here in a well."

James Clerk Maxwell