Classic Poem

DAME NATURE is so pitiful and good
That when she sees Corruption league himself
With envious Death, and both together come
To ruin the productions of her shop,
She forges and she hammers tirelessly,
Ever renewing individuals
By generation new. No better plan
Can she conceive than to imprint the stamp
Of such a letter as shall guarantee
That they are genuine; as men are wont
To stamp the various values on their coins,
Of which by Art we some examples have,
Though Art can never fashion forms so true.
With most attentive care, upon his knees,
Of Nature Art implores, demands, and prays,
Like wretched mendicant, of sorry skill
And strength, who struggles to pursue her ways,
That she will teach him how she manages
To reproduce all creatures properly
In her designs, by her creative power.
He watches how she works, and, most intent
To do as well, like ape he copies her.
But Art's so naked and devoid of skill
That he can never bring a thing to life
Or make it seem that it is natural.
Howe'er he tries, with greatest care and pains,
To make things as they are, with figures such.
As Nature gives them — howsoe'er he carves
And forges, and then colors them or paints
Knights armed for battle on their coursers fair,
Bearing their shields emblazoned blue or green
Or yellow or with variegated hues,
If more variety he wishes them to have —
Fair birds in forests fresh — fish in the flood —
All savage beasts that feed in woodland dells —
And all the flowers and herbs that in the spring
Maidens and youths go happily to cull
When first come forth the flower and the leaf —
Domestic animals and captive birds —
Balls, dances, farandoles with comely dames
Holding the hands of gallant bachelors,
Well dressed, well figured, and depicted well
On metal, wood, or wax, or other stuff,
In pictures or on walls — Art never makes,
For all the traits that he can reproduce,
His figures live and move and feel and speak.
Though Art so much of alchemy should learn
That he all metals could with colors tint,
Though he should work himself to death, he ne'er
One species could transmute to other kind;
The best that he can do is to reduce
Each to its constitution primitive.
He'll ne'er attain to Nature's subtlety
Though he should strive to do so all his life.
If he would labor till he knows the way
To transmute metals to their first estate,
'Twere needful he should have much sapience
To reach the right degree of tempering,
When he would his elixir make, from which
The final composition should result.
Who best knows how to reach successful end
Must comprehend essential differences,
Which to define he's often at a loss,
Between the substances that he manipulates.
However, 'tis well known that alchemy
Is veritably an art, and one will find
Great marvels in it if he practices
With wisdom; for, however it may be
Concerning species, individuals
Subjected to intelligent control
Are mutable into as many forms
As their complexions will delimitate,
By transformations various, and change
So that they will of different species seem
Once they have lost their aspect primitive.
Does not one see how those in glasswork skilled
Of ferns make ashes first and then clear glass
By easy depuration? And we know
That fern is glass no more than glass is fern.
When lightning flashes and the thunder rolls,
Men sometimes see a stone fall from the clouds,
Which certainly are not of stone themselves.
The sage may know the reason why these things
Have changed to matter so dissimilar.
In one case Nature — in the other, Art —
Has utterly transformed materials,
In form and substance, into different stuff.
Those who know how to consummate the work
Can do likewise with metals, from the ore
Extracting all the dross and rendering it
Pure bullion, using the affinity
Of substances that like complexions have;
Which shows that they a common nature own,
However Nature may have sundered them.
For, as the books assert, all ores are born
In various ways within terrestrial mines,
Of mercury and sulphur. One who knew
How skillfully the spirits to prepare
That they might enter into substances
And not depart when they had entered in
Until they found the substance purified
Might work his will with metals if he had
In calorific sulphur to depinct
Ore white or red. Those who have mastery
Of the alchemist's art can bring to birth
From finest silver finest gold, and give
It weight and color from an ore less dear;
And of fine gold they fashion precious stones
Most clear and enviable. Some other ores
They sunder from their species and transform
Into fine silver, using chemicals
That penetrating are, and clear and fine.
But sophisters can ne'er accomplish this;
Though they may work as long as they may live,
They never can attain to Nature's skill.
Ingenious Nature, who is so intent
Upon her much-loved works, worried and grieved,
Now made complaint and most profoundly wept
So that no heart that felt a bit of love
Or pity could perceive her suffering
And not join with her in those bitter tears.
Such dolor seized her heart because she'd done
A deed of which she now repented so
That she would willingly have left her work
And given it no further thought at all,
Provided only she could from her lord
Obtain permission, which she'd gladly seek,
Her heart was so tormented and oppressed.
Nature would I gladly describe to you,
But insufficient would my wit appear.
My wit! What say I? It is far too weak.
That without saying goes, quite naturally.
No human wit could that description make
Most certainly, in writing or in speech.
Though Aristotle, Plato, Ptolemy,
Algus, or Euclid, who've so great renown
As writers good, should dare attempt the task,
Their ingenuity would be in vain;
For they could hardly comprehend the theme.
Pygmalion could not carve Nature's mold;
Parrhasius would work to no good end;
Indeed, Apelles, whom I call the best
Of all the painters, howe'er long he lived,
Would not be able to portray her charms;
Myron and Polycletus could attain
To no such skill as such a task would take.
Zeuxis, the painter, strove in vain to draw
The form of Nature when employed to make
An image for a temple. He secured
As models five young girls, the fairest five
That could be found by searching all the land.
As Cicero reminds us in his book
On rhetoric, a most authentic work,
These maidens were directed to appear
Before him all unclothed, and one by one,
That he might see if he could find defect
Of limb or body in a single case.
He found no fault, but even with such aids,
And though he had great skill in portraiture
And coloring, he failed to imitate
Nature's perfectionment of pulchritude.
As Zeuxis failed, so have all masters failed
Whom Nature's brought to birth. However well
Her beauty they perceived, they'd waste their time
At such a task, and never teach their hands
To reproduce all Nature's loveliness.
'Tis God alone can claim such workmanship.
Had I been able, I had willingly
At least attempted to perform the task;
Had I the wit and skill, I'd penned for you
Such a description; but I have, myself,
Wasted my time, though all my lore I used,
Like foolish and presumptuous wight I was,
A hundred times more than you can conceive.
By sheer presumption I did undertake
Too much when I my resolution turned
To the achievement of such lofty work.
It rather seems as if my heart would burst,
So noble and so worthy have I found
Nature's great beauty, which I prize so much
That I would comprehend it with my mind.
And yet, whatever labor I employ,
However much I set my thought on it,
I do not dare to say a single word;
So I keep silent and renounce the thought.
The more I think of it, the more it seems
Far greater beauty than I can conceive;
For God, whose beauty is quite measureless,
When He this loveliness to Nature gave
Within her fixed a fountain, full and free,
From which all beauty flows. But none can tell
Either its source or limits. 'Twere not right
That I should give account of Nature's form
Or of her face, which is more fresh and fair
Than fleur-de-lis new sprung in month of May.
The rose upon the branch is not more red;
And no more white is snow upon a limb.
Why should I try to find a simile
When I cannot compare to anything
A beauty and a worth that men cannot conceive?