第 二十五 章 · THE VILLAGE STREET（3）

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SILENCE.--A FABLE.

The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves _are silent_.

"LISTEN to _me_," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head.

"The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders

of the river Zäire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.

"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow

not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red

eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles

on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic

water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch

towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro

their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh

out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh

one unto the other.

"But there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark,

horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the

low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout

the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and

thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,

one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous

flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling

and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,

a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind

throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zäire there is

neither quiet nor silence.

"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having

fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,

and the rain fell upon my head--and the lilies sighed one unto the other

in the solemnity of their desolation.

"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was

crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood

by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And

the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,--and the rock was gray. Upon

its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through

the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I

might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.

And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller

red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the

characters;--and the characters were DESOLATION.

"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the

rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the

action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped

up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the

outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the

features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and

of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his

face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;

and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and

weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.

"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and

looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet

shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the

rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within

shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man

trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the

rock.

"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon

the dreary river Zäire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the

pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of

the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I

lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the

man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the

rock.

"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in

among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami

which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the

hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of

the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay

close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man

trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the

rock.

"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful

tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And

the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest--and the rain

beat upon the head of the man--and the floods of the river came

down--and the river was tormented into foam--and the water-lilies

shrieked within their beds--and the forest crumbled before the wind--and

the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the rock rocked to its

foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of

the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and

he sat upon the rock.

"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and

the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the

thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,

and _were still._ And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to

heaven--and the thunder died away--and the lightning did not flash--and

the clouds hung motionless--and the waters sunk to their level and

remained--and the trees ceased to rock--and the water-lilies sighed no

more--and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow

of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the

characters of the rock, and they were changed;--and the characters were

SILENCE.

"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance

was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,

and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice

throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock

were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled

afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."

...

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi--in the iron-bound,

melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories

of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea--and of the Genii

that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was

much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,

holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around

Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he

sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most

wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell

back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh

with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx

which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at

the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.

* * * * *

ESSAYS.

* * * * *

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either

thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the

essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to

cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems

which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the

most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of

little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words

in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or

wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of

the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the

phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as

it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio

of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal

necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a

poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a

composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the

very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,

in effect, and in fact, no longer such.

There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the

critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired

throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,

during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum

would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical

only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,

Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its

Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be

necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation

of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true

poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no

critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the

work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say,

commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that

admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had

previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,

aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a

nullity--and this is precisely the fact.

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very

good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,

granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an

imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious

ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day

of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem

_were_ popular in reality--which I doubt--it is at least clear that no

very long poem will ever be popular again.

That the extent of a poetical work is _ceteris paribus_, the measure of

its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition

sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly

Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size_, abstractly

considered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk_, so far as a volume is

concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these

saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of

physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of

the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the

material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not

instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not

_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by

the pound--but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating

about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little

gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the

effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear

praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped thai common

sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art

rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by

the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained

effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The

fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor

can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this

proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received

as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as

falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.

On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.

Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem,

while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a

profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of

the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things,

pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too

imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and

thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be

whistled down the wind.

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a

poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the

following exquisite little Serenade:

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me--who knows how?--

To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark the silent stream--

The champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,

O, beloved as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast:

O, press it close to thine again,

Where it will break at last!

Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than

Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal

imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by

him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in

the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.

One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he

has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue

brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the

critical than in the popular view:

The shadows lay along Broadway,

'Twas near the twilight-tide--

And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride.

Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly

Walk'd spirits at her side.

Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,

And honor charm'd the air;

And all astir looked kind on her,

And called her good as fair--

For all God ever gave to her

She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare

From lovers warm and true--

For heart was cold to all but gold,

And the rich came not to woo--

But honor'd well her charms to sell,

If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair--

A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail--

Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

From this world's peace to pray,

For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,

Her woman's heart gave way!--

But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,

By man is cursed alway!

In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has

written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly

ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident

sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the

other works of this author.

While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity

is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of

the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded

by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in

the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have

accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all

its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It

has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that

the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem, it is said,

should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the

work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy

idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We

have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's

sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to

confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and

force:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to

look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under

the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly

dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per

se_, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written

solely for the poem's sake.

With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,

I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I

would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.

The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.

All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_

with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a

flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a

truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be

simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,

we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact

converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not

perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the

poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption

who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to

reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.

Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious

distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I

place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the

mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but

from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that

Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the

virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio

marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns

itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral

Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the

obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with

displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her

deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the

appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.

An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a

sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in

the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he

exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of

Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of

these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a

duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He

who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however

vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and

colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, I

say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a

something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have

still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the

crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at

once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is

the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the

Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired

by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle

by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to

attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps

appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,

the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into

tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess

of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our

inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,

those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or

_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.

The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on the

part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_

which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and _to

feel_ as poetic.

The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in

Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially

in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition

of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to

its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic

of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its

various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in

Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an

adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not

now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps

that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired

by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.

It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,

attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,

that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been

unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the

union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the

widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers

had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his

own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.

To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as

_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty._ Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the

Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.

Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with

Truth.

A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once

the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I

maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation

of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable

elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognize as the Poetic

Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the

satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of

the heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the

sublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an

obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as

possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough to

deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_

attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the

incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of

Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they

may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the

work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in

proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real

essence of the poem.

I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your

consideration, than by the citation of the Pröem to Longfellow's "Waif":

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,

That my soul cannot resist;

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired

for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.

Nothing can be better than

--the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Down the corridors of Time.

The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the

whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_

of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the

sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This

"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion

to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult

attainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who

should never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of

writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,

in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would

adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The

author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be

upon _all_ occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_

occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be

considered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than the

sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.

Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the

one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:

There, through the long, long summer hours,

The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers

Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell

His love-tale, close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard

The housewife-bee and humming bird.

And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,

Come, from the village sent,

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,

With fairy laughter blent?

And what if, in the evening light,

Betrothed lovers walk in sight

Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around

Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see

The season's glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me;

Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep,

The friends I love should come to weep,

They might not haste to go.

Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,

Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their soften'd hearts should bear

The thought of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene;

Whose part in all the pomp that fills

The circuit of the summer hills,

Is--that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice

To hear again his living voice.

The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more

melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The

intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of

all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to

the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The

impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the

remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or

less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or

why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected

with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,

A feeling of sadness and longing

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full

of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:

I fill this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements

And kindly stars have given

A form so fair, that like the air,

'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,

Like those of morning birds,

And something more than melody

Dwells ever in her words;

The coinage of her heart are they,

And from her lips each flows

As one may see the burden'd bee

Forth issue from the rose.