I shall force you to confess that what I say is true."

Thus was ended the parley and challenge betwixt these two.

Translated by FRERE.

DESCRIPTION OF HUDIBRAS.

[Samuel Butler, born at Strensham, Worcestershire, 1612; died in London, 1680; a celebrated English poet, who for some time resided with Sir Samuel Luke in Bedfordshire, a gentleman very zealous in behalf of the Covenant and Puritanical principles. Here he became acquainted with the characters of the leading men of this party, and formed the plan of his famous burlesque poem, Hudibras, the principal person of which was, unquestionably, Sir Samuel. Hudibras is unique in literature, for wit, humor, and a marveldous fertility of ideas. After the restoration, Butler became secretary to the Earl of Carberry, who appointed him steward of the court held at Ludlow Castle. About this time also he married Mrs. Herbert, a lady of family, but whose fortune was lost to him by being invested in bad securities. It is said, that although Butler lived in good society, he was suffered to die in extreme indigence. He was buried in St. Paul's Church, Covent Garden. In 1721 Alderman Barber, the printer, erected a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey.]

A wight he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood;
That never bent his stubborn knee
To anything but chivalry;

Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade:
Chief of domestic knights, and errant,
Either for chartel or for warrant:
Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o'er as swaddle:
Mighty he was at both of these,
And styl'd of War as well as Peace.
So some rats of amphibious nature
Are either for the land or water.
But here our authors make a doubt,
Whether he were more wise or stout.
Some hold the one, and some the other;
But howsoe'er they make a pother,
The difference was so small, his brain
Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain ;
Which made some take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, call'd a Fool;

And offer'd to lay wagers, that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras:
For that's the name our valiant knight
To all his challenges did write.
But they're mistaken very much,
'Tis plain enough he was no such :
We grant, although he had much wit,

He was very shy of using it;

As being loth to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about,
Unless on holy-days, or so,
As men their best apparel do.
Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak:
That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle:
Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted;
But much of either would afford
To many, that had not one word.
He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skilled in Analytic;
He could distinguish, and divide
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side;
On either side he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute;
He'd undertake to prove by force
Of argument a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl;
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men or trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination
All this by syllogism true,
In word and figure, he would do.

For rhetoric, he could not ope
His mouth, but out there flew a trope:
And when he happened to break off
I' th' middle of his speech, or cough,
H' had hard words, ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by.
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talk'd like other folk;
For all a rhetorician's rules

Teach nothing but to name his tools.
But when he pleased to shew off, his speech
In loftiness of sound was rich;

A Babylonish dialect,

Which learned pedants much affect;

With clouds for garments glorious thou dost fare,

Veiling thy dazzling majesty and might, As when Yamuna saw thee with the share,

A peasant-yet the King of Day and Night.

Merciful-hearted! when thou camest as Boodh

Albeit 'twas written in the Scriptures soThou bad'st our altars be no more imbrued

With blood of victims: Keshav bending low.

the Mode YATI.)

I know where Krishna tarries in these early days of Spring,

When every wind from warm Malay brings fragrance on its wing;

Brings fragrance stolen far away from thickets of the clove,

In jungles where the bees hum and the Koil flutes her love;

He dances with the dancers, of a merry morrice one,

All in the budding Spring-time, for 'tis sad to be alone.

blue and gold,

horde;

When parted lovers sigh to meet and greet and closely hold

Where the breath of waving Mâdhvi pours

incense through the grove,

And silken Mogras lull the sense with essences

of love,

The silken-soft pale Mogra, whose perfume fine and faint

Can melt the coldness of a maid, the sternness

of a saint

There dances with those dancers thine other

self, thine Own,

All in the languorous Spring-time, when none will live alone.

Where-as if warm lips touched sealed eyes and waked them-all the bloom

Opens upon the mangoes to feel the sunshine

come;

And Atimuktas wind their arms of softest green about,

Clasping the stems, while calm and clear great Jumna spreadeth out;

There dances and there laughs thy Love, with damsels many and one,

In the rosy days of Spring-time, for he will not live alone.

Mark this song of Jayadev !
Deep as pearl in ocean-wave
Lurketh in its lines a wonder
Which the wise alone will ponder:
Though it seemeth of the earth,
Heavenly is the music's birth;
Telling darkly of delights
In the wood, of wasted nights,
Of witless days, and fruitless love,
And false pleasures of the grove,
And rash passions of the prime,
And those dances of Spring-time ;
Time, which seems so subtle-sweet,
Time, which pipes to dancing feet,
Ah! so softly-ah! so sweetly-
That among those wood-maids featly
Krishna cannot choose but dance,
Letting pass life's greater chance.

Yet the winds that sigh so
As they stir the rose,
Wake a sigh from Krishna

Wistfuller than those:

All their faint breaths swinging
The creepers to and fro
Pass like rustling arrows
Shot from Kama's bow:

Thus among the dancers
What those zephyrs bring
Strikes to Krishna's spirit
Like a darted sting.

And all as if-far wandered-
The traveller should hear
The bird of home, the Koïl,

With nest-notes rich and clear;
And there should come one moment
A blessed fleeting dream
Of the bees among the mangoes
Beside his native stream;
So flash those sudden yearnings,
That sense of a dearer thing,
The love and lack of Radha

Upon his soul in Spring.

Then she, the maid of Radha, spake again: And pointing far away between the leaves Guided her lovely Mistress where to look, And note how Krishna wantoned in the wood

Now with this one, now that; his heart, her prize,

Panting with foolish passions, and his eyes Beaming with too much love for those fair girls

Fair, but not so as Radha; and she sang:

(What follows is to the Music RAMAGIRI and the Mode YATI.)

See, Lady! how thy Krishna passes these idle hours

Decked forth in fold of woven gold, and crowned with forest flowers;

And scented with the sandal, and gay with gems of price

Rubies to mate his laughing lips, and diamonds

like his eyes:

In the company of damsels,' who dance and sing and play,

Lies Krishna laughing, toying, dreaming his Spring away.

One, with star-blossomed champåk wreathed, woos him to rest his head

On the dark pillow of her breast so tenderly outspread;

1 It will be observed that the "Gopis" here personify the five senses. Lassen says: "Manifestum est puellis istis nil aliud significari quam res sensiles.”