(A
loosely metrical, free-verse adaptation, with slight explications of
Cicero's Dream of Scipio.)
This
is in the form of a poetic improvisation, made without reference to
any other modern English version and using only the glossary and
notes for The Riverside Chaucer, Cicero’s
“Dream of Scipio,” and the personal assistance of Hermes, the god
of sudden inspiration.)
Not
years enough, in life so short,
to
learn a craft so long, Ars longa, vita brevis
whose
effort’s hard, whose winning hurts,
whose
painful joys slides snakily off —
by
all this I mean Love, whose working
wonderful
astonishes my senses,
so
painful indeed, that when I think on it,
I
know not whether I float, or fall.
1 The Lyf so short, the craft
so long to Lerne,
2 Th’assay so hard, so sharp
the conquerynge,
3 The dredful joye, alwey that
slit so yerne,
4 Al this mene I by love, that
my felynge
5 Astonyeth with his wonderful
werkynge
6 So sore iwis, that whan I on
him thinke,
7 Nat wot I wel wher that I
flete or synke.
Though
practice of Love have I no knowledge,
nor
of how well He pays his followers,
well
have I read of his ways in books,
of
both his miracles, and his cruelty.
There
read I well, he will be Lord and master;
I
dare not say how painful his strokes,
But
“God give me such a Lord!” Ah, say no more!
8 For at be that I knowe nat
love in dede,
9 Ne wot how that he quiteth
folk hir hyre,
10 Yit happeth me ful ofte in
bokes reede
11 Of his myralles, and his
crewe yre.
12 Ther rede I wel he wol be
lord and syre,
13 I dar not seyn, his strokes
been so sore,
14 But “God save swich a
lord!” — I can na moore.
What
use is Love? a moment’s friction or
a
whole life’s education? —
I
read so many books, as I did say —
and
why at all am I essaying this?
because
just now I happened to behold a book,
a
certain ancient text in antique tongues,
and
there I sought to learn a Certain Thing,
so
eager for it I read the whole day long.
15 Of usage, what for luste
what for lore,
16 On bokes rede I ofte, as I
yow tolde.
17 But wherfor that I speke al
this? Not yore
18 Agon, hit happed me for to
beholde
19 Upon a bok, was write with
lettres olde,
20 And therupon, a certeyn
thing to lerne,
21 The longe day ful faste I
redde and yerne.
For
out of old fields, as old wives say,
Comes
the new corn from year to year,
Just
so do old books, seen with new eyes
yield
all that is new, that we call Science.
But
now to get down to my business here:
reading
that one book gave me such delight,
that all that day my own
small soul seemed lost.
22 For out of olde feldes, as
men seyth,
23 Cometh al this newe corn
from yer to yere;
24 And out of olde bokes, in
good feyth,
25 Cometh al this newe science
that men lere.
26 But now to purpos as of
this matere:
27 To rede forth hit gan me so
delite,
28 That al the day me thoughte
but a lyte.
This
book of which I make such mention —
I'll
tell you how its title reads. It is:
The
Dream of Scipio, as told by Cicero
(yes,
Marcus Tullius, our old Roman friend!)
In
only seven chapters, Heaven to Hell,
and
Earth, and all the souls that dwell therein,
are
all encompassed, and I mean
as
quickly as I can, to share the gist.
29 This bok of which I make of
mencioun
30 Entitled was al ther, as I
shal telle,
31 “Tullius of the Drem of
Scipioun.”
32 Chapitres sevene hit hadde,
of hevene and helle
33 And erthe, and soules that
therinne dwelle,
34 Of whiche, as shortly as I
can hit trete,
35 Of his sentence I wol yow
seyn the greete.
First
off it says, when Scipio arrived
in
Africa, to meet Massinissa, that King
of
Numidia embraced him in joy –
they
talked of his great forebear till the sun did fade.
Then
in his sleep his ancestor appeared,
great
Scipio Africanus, Carthage’s conqueror!
36 Fyrst telleth hit, whan
Scipion was come
37 In Affrike, how he meteth
Massynisse,
38 That him for joie in armes
hath inome.
39 Thanne telleth [it] here
speche and al the blysse
40 That was betwix hem til the
day gan mysse,
41 And how his auncestre,
Affrycan so deere,
42 Gan in his slepe that nyght
to hym apere.
The
book relates, how from a starry place
the
ancient Roman showed him Carthage
[the
city he pillaged and sowed with salt],
forewarned
him of his own ill providence,
and
told him that any man, learned or ignorant,
that
loved the common good, with virtue’s ways —
that
man shall go to a blissful resting place,
where
joy without end awaits him.
43 Than telleth it that, from
a sterry place,
44 How Affrycan hath hym
Cartage shewed,
45 And warnede him beforn of
al his grace,
46 And seyde hym, what man,
lered other lewed,
47 That lovede commune profyt,
wel ithewed,
48 He shulde into a blysful
place wende,
49 There as joye is that last
withouten ende.
And
then he asked, if folk that here be dead
have
life and dwelling in some other place,
and
Africanus answered him, “Yes, doubt it not!”
and
that the present life we live, whatever
way
we go, is in itself a kind of death,
and
that the righteous folk shal Heavenward wend;
and
here, he showed the Galaxy
50 Thanne axede he, if folk
that here been dede
51 Han lyf and dwellynge in
another place.
52 And Affrican seyde, “Ye,
withoute drede,”
53 And that oure present
worldes lyves space
54 Nis but a maner deth, what
wey we trace,
55 And rightful folk shul gon,
after they dye,
56 To hevene; and shewed him
the Galaxye.
And
way below it, the little earth our home,
so
tiny compared to the vastness of things.
Later,
the ghost showed Scipio nine spheres.
from
which he heard the harmonies and notes
that
come by nature from thrice times three —
the
wellspring of all music and melody,
the
basis of all our harmony!
57 Than shewed he him the
lytel erthe, that here is,
58 At regard of the hevenes
quantite;
59 And after shewede he hym
the nyne speres,
60 And after that the melodye
herde he
61 That cometh of thilke
speres thryes thre,
62 That welle is of musik and
melodye
63 In this world here, and
cause of armonye.
Then
Africanus bade him: if the world is a mote,
deceptive
and full of bad fortune,
to
take no delight in this lower world.
Then
he revealed to him, that ages hence
all
the great stars will spin back home
from
where they started, and all that man
has
done in this world shall be forgotten.
64 Than bad he hym, syn erthe
was so lyte,
65 And dissevable and ful of
harde grace,
66 That he ne shulde him in
the world delyte.
67 Than tolde he hym, in
certeyn yeres space
68 That every sterre shulde
come into his place
69 Ther it was first; and al
shulde out of mynde
70 That in this world is don
of al mankinde.
Then
he prayed Scipio to tell him
how
he might himself arrive at Heaven’s bliss
and
the ghost said, “Know thyself first immortal,
then
look to your work and direct yourself
to
the common good — you cannot miss
your
chance to come swiftly to that place
where
clear souls live in eternal bliss.
71 Thanne preyede hym Scipion
to telle hym al
72 The wey to come into that
hevene blisse;
73 And he seyde, “Know
thyself first immortal,
74 And loke ay besily thow
werche and wysse
75 To commune profit, and thow
shalt not mysse
76 To comen swiftly to that
place deere,
77 That ful of blysse is and
of soules cleere.
“But
breakers of the law, if truth be told,
and
lecherous folk, once they are dead,
shall
whirl about the earth in pain,
age
upon, fearful age, and then at last
they
shall be forgiven of their wicked deeds,
and
they shall come into that blissful place,
where
all who come to God receive his grace.”
78 But brekers of the lawe,
soth to seyne,
79 And likerous folk, after
that they ben dede,
80 Shul whirle aboute th’erthe
always in peyne,
81 Til many a world be passed,
out of drede,
8i And than, foryeven al hir
wikked dede,
83 Than shul they come unto
that blysful place,
84 To which to comen God the
sende his grace!”—
The
day had fallen, and gave way to night,
which
robs all beasts of their business.
Men
too — it was too dark to read —
and
so, undressed for bed, I went —
my
thoughts filled up with a heavy burden,
for
I had a Certain Thing that I did not want,
and I did not have a
Certain Thing I wished for.
85 The day gan faylen, and the
derke nyght,
86 That reveth bestes from her
besynesse,
87 Berafte me my bok for lak
of lyght,
88 And to my bed I gan me for
to dresse,
89 Fulfyld of thought and busy
hevynesse;
90 For bothe I hadde thyng
which that I nolde,
91 And ek I ne hadde that
thyng that I wolde.
But
finally my spirit, at the last,
so
weary from my labor of the day,
took
rest and put me fast asleep,
and
in my sleep I dreamed, as I lay,
that
Afticanus, just in the same array
as
Scipio saw him that time before,
just
so he came to my bedside and stood.
92 But fynally my spirit, at
the laste,
93 For wery of my labour al
the day,
94 Tok reste, that made me to
slepe faste;
9S And in my slep I mette, as
that I lay,
96 How Affrican, ryght in the
selve aray
97 That Scipion hym say byfore
that tyde,
98 Was come and stod right at
my beddes syde.
The
weary hunter, asleep in his bed,
dreams
that he never left the wood;
the
judge dreams that his case moves forward;
in
the carter’s dreams, the cart rolls on;
the
rich dream of gold; the knight fights foes;
the
sick man dreams he drinks of the cask;
the
lover dreams he has his lady won.
99 The wery huntere, slepynge
in his bed,
100 To wode ayeyn his mynde
goth anon;
101 The juge dremeth how his
plees been sped;
102 The cartere dremeth how
his cart is gon;
103 The riche, of gold; the
knyght fyght with his fon;
104 The syke met he drynketh
of the tonne;
105 The lovere met he hath his
lady wonne.
Can
I not say but that the cause of this
was
that I had read of Africanus,
and
that’s what made me dream he stood there.
But
what he said: “You’ve borne yourself well.
You
found me in that tattered book —
found
me despite the footnotes of Macrobius,
a
monk who understood me not at all.
Let
me repay your labor with something ... ”
106 Can I not seyn if that the
cause were
107 For I had red of Affrican
byforn,
108 That madde me to mete that
he stod there;
109 But thus seyde he, “Thou
hast the so wel born
110 In lokynge of myn olde bok
totorn,
111 Of which Macrobye roughte
nat a lyte,
112 That somdel of thy labour
wolde I quyte” —
Venus!
Cytherea, thou blissful lady sweet,
who
with your fire-brand conquers
whom
you please, you who made me dream this very vision,
be
thou my help in this, for you lead best,
as
truly as the sail turns north-north-west,
so
as I begin my vision to write,
so
give me strength to rhyme and indite!
113 Citherea! thou blysful
lady swete,
114 That with thy fyrbrond
dauntest whom the lest,
115 And madest me this sweven
for to mete,
116 Be thow myn helpe in this,
for thow mayst best!
117 As wisly as I sey the
north-north-west,
118 When I began my sweven for
to write,
119 So yif me myght to ryme,
and endyte!
The
Middle English text is that published in The Riverside
Chaucer.
“The
Dream of Scipio,”, translated by Michael Grant, from Cicero:
On the Goo
