Classic Poem

When I'd advanced a space along the bank,
I saw a garden, large and fair, enclosed
With battlemented wall, sculptured without
With many a figure and inscription neat.
Because of all the painted images
I will recall the wall, and will describe
The appearance of these figures, and will tell
As much of them as I remember now.
Amidmost there I saw malignant Hate,
Who quarrelsome prime mover seemed in all
Contentions, and fulfilled with wickedness.
She was not well arrayed, but rather seemed
A frenzied dame, with dark and frowning face
And upturned nose, hideous and black with dirt.
Wrapped in a filthy towel was her head.
Upon her left an equal figure stood
Close by; and, carved upon the stone above,
Her name I read. She was called Felony.
Just at her right was stationed Villainy,
Who was so like her fellowimage carved
That in no feature could I difference see;
And she as wicked seemed — spiteful and proud
And evil-spoken. Well he knew his trade
Who could devise and paint the image so
That it seemed foul and churlish as alive,
Filled with injurious thoughts, a woman wont
But seldom to perform what she should do.
Next her was painted greedy Covetousness,
Inciting men to take and never give,
But fill their money chests. The usurers
She tempts to lend to many, in desire
Of gaining and amassing property.
'Tis she impels to robbery the thieves
And harlots; and great pity 'tis, and sin,
For at the last the most of them are hanged.
'Tis she makes men purloin their neighbors' goods,
Deceive, miscount, embezzle, rob, and steal.
'Tis she makes all the tricksters and the scamps
Who, pleading by false technicality,
Too often strip of rightful heritage
Young men and maids. Knotty and bent her hands
Had grown, as was but right; for every day
Does Covetousness incite to larceny.
She cares for naught except within her net
To get her neighbors' wealth; this she holds dear.
Another image, Avarice, I saw
Sitting by the side of Covetousness;
And she was ugly, dirty, weak, and lean,
Wasted and greener than a garden leek.
Such her complexion was, she seemed diseased,
Or like one famine fated, only fed
On bread concocted with strong, caustic lye.
Her shrunken limbs in rags were scarcely clothed;
Her seemingly dog-bitten cloak was torn,
Worn out, and poor — with older fragments patched.
Hard by her mantle hung from shaky pin;
It was of brunet cloth, not lined with fur —
Rather with sheepskin, shaggy, coarse, and black.
Her robe was ten years old, at least, for she
Would be the last to rush to get new clothes;
It weighed most heavily upon her mind
If each new dress she failed to wear out quite.
Even a costume threadbare, out of date,
She'd not, unless hard pressed, replace with new.
Her purse she clutched and hid within her hand
So tightly tied that long delay she made
Before a penny she could take therefrom
In case there was no help for it; she meant
That it for gain should open, not dispense.
Beside her sad, unsmiling Envy stood,
Who never in her life a thing enjoys
Unless it be to hear or see some ill
Or some discomfiture on good men fall;
For nothing moves her like mischance or harm.
They please her well; her heart has most delight
When she beholds someone of lineage high
Descend to shameful depths. When someone mounts
To honor by his prowess or his wit,
That sorely wounds her; when some good appears,
It well becomes her to be rancorous.
Envy displays so much of cruelty
That never she her loyalty will hold
To man or woman; and she has no kin,
How close soever, she will not desert.
She would not even wish her father well!
But you would know her malice dearly bought,
For in such torment great she always is,
And feels such woe when weal befalls a man,
Her felon heart seems breaking. Thus does God
Upon her sin a fitting vengeance take.
Envy will never let an hour go by
When all from her reproaches are secure.
I think, if Envy knew the very best
Of men who live near by or overseas,
She still would find some fault in him to blame;
And if he were so perfect in his wit
That she could never all his fame destroy,
Still would she try to lessen it at least
And by her words diminish his repute.
Now in that painting did I Envy note
To have an ugly look, a sidewise glance,
And never gaze direct, for face to face
She could not stare; but one eye in disdain
She closed. When anyone on whom she looked
Was loved or praised by others for good sense
Or gentleness or beauty, then with ire
She flamed, and seemed about to melt like wax.
Close beside Envy, painted on the wall,
Was Sorrow, showing by her jaundiced hue.
That heavy dolor weighed upon her heart.
Not even Avarice looked so pale and lean
As she; for woe, distress, chagrin, and care
From which she ever suffered, night and day,
Had yellowed and emaciated her.
Such martyrdom no person born has known,
Nor felt such sad effects of ire, as she
Seemed to have felt; and no man, I believe,
Could please her e'er by doing anything.
Nor did she wish, at any rate, herself
To comfort or relieve from all the woe
That her heart knew. For any human help
Too much depressed, too deeply grieved was she.
Most dolorous she seemed, and had not failed
To scratch her cheeks; and, as if filled with rage,
In many places had she torn her robe,
Considering it as naught. Her hair, unbound,
Lay all about her neck, torn by her hands
Because of her unbounded spleen and grief.
Now you should know it for a fact that she
Wept most profoundly ever. There's no man
So hard of heart that, seeing her distress,
Would not profoundly pity her estate;
For she would beat and tear her breast, and smite
Her fists together most relentlessly.
So woebegone a wretch was she that all
Her thought was on her pain; she never knew
The joy of being fondled or embraced.
For you should know, in truth, that one in woe
Has no desire for caroling or dance;
Nor can she school herself, who lives in grief,
To merriment. Joy is woe's opposite.
Old Age was painted next to Sorrow there,
Shrunken at least a foot from what her height
Had been in youth. She scarce could feed herself
For feebleness and years. Her beauty gone,
Ugly had she become. Her head was white
As if it had been floured. 'Twere no great loss
Were she to die, for shriveled were her limbs —
By time reduced almost to nothingness.
Much withered were her cheeks, that had been soft;
And wrinkled foul, that formerly were fair.
Her ears hung pendulous; her teeth were gone;
Years had so lamed her that she could not walk
Four fathoms' distance without aid of crutch.
Time is forever fleeting, night and day,
Without sojourn, and taking no repose;
But as he goes he steals away from us
So secretly that he appears to stand,
Although he never rests, nor stays his course;
So that no man can say that time is now.
Ask of some well-read clerk; ere he can think
Three times will Time already have passed by.
This never-lingering Time, who all day long
Is going on and never will return,
Resembles water that forever flows
But ne'er a drop comes back. There is no thing
So durable, not even iron itself,
That it can Time survive, who all devours
And wastes. He changes all — makes all things wax
With nourishment, and wane then in decay.
'Twas Time who made our fathers old, and kings
And emperors, and who will do as much
For you and me ere Death shall us demand.
This Time, who has the power to senescate
All things on earth, had so reduced Old Age,
It seemed to me that, willy-nilly, she
Had to her infancy again returned.
No power she had, and no more force or sense
Than yearling child, although she did appear
Like one who in her prime was sage and wise;
Henceforth she would be nothing but a sot.
Her body well protected was, and clothed
In furry mantle, warm against the cold
Which otherwise had wholly frozen her;
For all old folk feel chills habitually.
The image standing next was well portrayed
To be a hypocrite, but she was named
Pope Holy. She it is who secretly
Contrives to take us unaware, and then
She does not hesitate at any ill.
Outwardly she appears a saint demure,
With simple, humble, pious person's face;
But under heaven there's no evil scheme
That she has never pondered in her heart.
The figure well her character did show,
Though she was of a candid countenance.
Well shod and clothed like good convent nun,
She held a psalter in her hand, and took
Much pains to make her feigned prayers to God
And call upon all male and female saints.
She was not gay or jolly, but she seemed
Attentive always to perform good works.
She wore a haircloth shirt, and she was lean,
As though with fasting weary, pale, half dead.
To her and to her like will be refused
Entrance to Paradise. The Gospel says
Such folk emaciate their cheeks for praise
Among mankind, and for vainglory lose
Their chance to enter Heaven and see God.
Last painted was the form of Poverty,
Who could not buy a rope to hang herself,
For she had not a penny in her purse;
Nor could she sell her clothes, for she was bare
As any worm, clad only in a sack
That fitted tight and was most poorly patched.
It served her for a mantle and a cloak,
But nothing else she had for covering.
I think that, if the weather had been bad,
She would have died of cold; for she did quake,
Clinging and cowering in a little coign,
Far from the others, like a mangy bitch.
Poverty-stricken folk, where'er they be,
Are always shamed and spited. Curse the hour
When poor men are conceived, to be ill fed,
To be ill shod, to be ill clothed — alas,
To be unloved and never to be raised
Into a place of profit or esteem!
I scanned these images upon the wall
Full well, for as already I've explained
They stood out prominent in blue and gold.
High was the wall, and neatly built and squared.
Its bulk, in place of hedge, a garden fenced.
To which no low-born man had ever come,
For it was quite too fine a place for such.
Willingly would I have found a guide
Who, by means of ladder or of stile,
Might bring me therewithin; for so great joy
And such delight as in that place might be
Were seldom known to man, as I believe.
A generous and safe retreat for fowl
That garden was; ne'er was a place so rich
In trees bedight with songsters of all kinds;
For there were found three times as many birds
As there can be in all the rest of France.
The full accord of their most moving songs
Delicious was to hear. It would delight
The world; and, as for me, it brought such joy.
That when I heard it I had gladly paid
One hundred pounds to have had entry there
That I might the assembly (whom God save!)
Both see and hear. Warblers that were therein
Sang most enthusiastically their notes
In gracious, courteous, pleasing songs of love.
Most powerfully stirred by all their tunes,
I tried to think how I might entrance gain
Into the garden by some trick or scheme.
However, not a portal could I see,
Nor did I know what one might do to find
An opening or door into the place;
Nor was there anyone whom I might ask
To show the way, for I was all alone.
Distracted then, and anxious, I became
Until I finally bethought myself
That no fair garden ever was without
Some means of entry, either stile or gate.
Then hotfoot I set out to gird the wall
Of square-cut stone, and all the enclosure large.
A tiny wicket — narrow, fully barred —
At last I found; there was no other door.
For want of better, at this gate I promptly knocked.