Erse verse 8

An Múinteoir

Thóg an saor cloiche teampall
a bhí maisiúil greanta teann,
gach stua, póirse is colún
mar líne chruinn óna pheann.
Scairt an slua ar a fheiscint:
"ní bheidh meath ar sin go brách;
is mór í d'éirim a cheardaí!
mairfidh do chlú is do cháil."

Thóg oide scoile teampall
le dua is le gean a chroí,
níor dhein dhá leath dá dhícheall
is do leag gach cloch le guí.
Níor tugadh aird ar a iarracht,
ba chuma le cách a rún,
is an teampall a tógadh
ceileadh é ar radharc na súl.

Tá teampall an tsaoir scriosta
ina smionagar ar lár,
gach colún leagtha briste,
na fallaí tite le fán.
An ceann a thóg an múinteoir,
seasann sé go fóill gan loit:
óir is é a bhí sa teampall
anam síoraí bithbhuan linbh.

[After the Insular Saxon of an unknown pedagogue.]

Erse verse 7

An samhlód thú?

An samhlód thú le lá geal sa samhradh?
is áille thú agus is measartha
óir síothlaíonn léas an tsamhraidh go tapa
is rúscann gaoth mín-ghas na Bealtaine;
téann teas na gréine thar fóir ar uaire,
is minic scáth ag clúdach a gnúise -
le himeacht ama, de thaisme uaine,
tagann meath ar gach neach beo dá úire;
ach ní chaillfidh do shamhradh a luisne
ní fheicfear smál go deo ar do mhaise,
ní bhéarfaidh an bás ort ina ghaiste
is tú ag druidim le deireadh d'aistir:
a fhad a mhairfidh an cine daonna,
mairfidh sé seo, is do niamh le chéile.

[After the Insular Saxon of William Shakespeare.]

Erse verse 6

An Crann

Sílim nach bhfeicidh mé go brách
dán chomh dea-dhéanta leis an gcrann

Crann a dhiúlann tríd an ithir
leacht ó chíoch thorthúil na cruinne

Crann a adhrann Dia gan staonadh
ag ardú géag chun na spéire

Crann a bheireann ins an samhradh
nead spideoige faoina ascall

Crann a dtiteann sneachta geal air
is a thugann scáth ón bhfearthainn

'Sé mo leithéid a chumfadh dán
ach Dia amháin a chruthódh crann.

[After the Insular Saxon of Joyce Kilmer.]

Erse verse 5

Cumha Sochraide

Cuir gach clog ina stad agus múch an guthán,
ná lig do na gadhair a bheith ag glamaíl fá chnámh,
balbhaigh an pianó agus maolaigh an druma,
leag amach an cónra is lig don slua caoineadh.

Bíodh na heitleáin ag geonaíl os ár gcionn sa spéir
ag breacadh tásc an fhir a cailleadh ar an aer,
ceangail ribín ciardhubh le hucht an cholúir bháin,
cuir lámhainní dubha ar an bpóilín sa tsráid.

Ba eisean thuaidh is theas, thoir is thiar dom,
ba eisean Domhnach is dálach, obair is scíth agam,
ba é mo lá is m'oíche, mo chaint is mo cheol é,
shíleas go mairfeadh ár ngrá, ach mo léan gur éag.

Níl na réaltaí ag teastáil, múch gach ceann díobh,
cuir an ré i dtaisce is bain anuas an ghrian,
taosc an fharraige agus scuab an choill chun siúil,
ní bheidh rath ar aon cheo arís go Lá an Luain.
 
[After the Insular Saxon of W.H. Auden.]

Keats and Chapman 4

A fishy business



Captain Horatio Hill RN, retired, was a popular member of the gentleman's club in which Chapman was an habitué. The captain could and, whenever he was given half a chance, did boast of his family's long and almost unbroken tradition of naval service since 1758, the year in which young Herbert Hill, third son of a Devon squire, was taken up by a press gang as he emerged from a house of ill-repute in Portsmouth.

Herbert's true identity was not established until after his return from a voyage to the West Indies, by which time he had become enamoured with the seafaring life and procured himself a place as a midshipman. Remaining in the service after peace returned, the first of the naval Hills served with distinction throughout the sadly mismanaged campaign to restore constitutional government in the revolted American colonies, before losing his head to a French ball in the Chesapeake Bay action of 1781. Herbert's son, Hamilton, rose to command a ship of the line in the Napoleonic war and laid the basis for his family's eminence by using his prize money to build Trafalgar Hall, the country seat where Horatio Hill still lived for a few months each year.

After a promising start, Horatio Hill's own naval career come to a premature end when he was observed in the company of a fellow officer's wife in circumstances that were capable of being misconstrued by those of a prurient disposition. The captain's prompt resignation from the service preserved the reputations of all concerned and his subsequent trading on the stock market prospered to such an extent that he was shortly enabled to design and construct a ten-berth yacht, the Victory, which he normally moored in the Bahamas and on which he frequently invited friends and acquaintances to join him for short cruises.

In due course, an invitation to holiday on the Victory was extended to Chapman, whose relationship with the captain was cordial rather than close. While the classicist would eagerly have accepted such an invitation had a cruise been proposed for the Aegean rather than the Caribbean, he inclined to the view that one palm tree is very much like another and pleaded a prior commitment to holiday with his friend Keats when declining the sailor's invitation. Hill responded by including the poet in his invitation. Four weeks of torrential rain and a further offer of free air-tickets to Nassau accomplished the rest and the literary friends joined the captain, his daughter Harriet, and a crew of three on board the Victory.

The contrast between Keats's and Chapman's behaviour afloat could not have been more marked: while the latter passed the time reading in a deck chair, a jug of iced water at his elbow and a parasol carefully adjusted to afford maximum protection from the ultraviolet rays, Keats entered enthusiastically into the holiday spirit: he stripped to his bathing trunks, consumed prodigious quantities of alcohol, loudly declaimed poetry composed by himself and others, and regularly dived overboard. The cause of the poet's unusual behaviour quickly became apparent to his friend: Keats was deeply smitten by the charms of Miss Harriet Hill - he drank rum and lime in her company, played quoits with her, and displayed his prowess as a swimmer only when she was on deck to observe.

As the Victory rode at anchor on the third day of the cruise, Keats was languidly performing the backstroke some ten yards adrift of the yacht's stern while engaging in a vapid conversation with Miss Hill, who was leaning over the rail at the yacht's stern, her arm hooked around the flag staff for support. Two crew members had gone ashore for provisions and the third was washing dishes in the galley. Captain Hill lay snoring on a sun bed and Chapman, who had been working on a critical essay on the Satires of Juvenal, was himself drifting in and out of sleep in his deck chair.

Suddenly he was jolted back to wakefulness by Harriet's hysterical screams. Rushing to the girl's side, he immediately saw the cause of her alarm: the dorsal fin of a shark was moving towards Keats in a zigzag fashion. Already alert to the danger, the poet was swimming as fast as he could towards a rope ladder which hung amidships on the port side of the yacht but it was all too evident that he had little chance of reaching it before the shark overtook him. Chapman was rooted to the spot as he tried to absorb the horrifying implications of the scene before before his eyes.

'Forget the bally ladder!' roared Horatio Hill, who had suddenly appeared between his daughter and Chapman, 'get over here and we'll haul you in!'

Keats obeyed the captain's instructions, but even as he altered course the shark abandoned its zigzag approach and bore down directly on its human prey with terrifying speed. The poet reached the stern of the yacht a few yards ahead of the shark and flung his arms in the air in what seemed like a last despairing gesture. Instantly, Chapman and the captain grabbed an arm each and pulled the imperilled swimmer upwards and inwards with all their strength. Keats hung suspended in mid-air for a brief eternity and a loud thud was heard as the shark collided with the hull inches below his feet, then the poet's centre of gravity crossed the mid-point of the railing and he fell head-first onto the deck of the Victory.

'By Jove, that was a bit too close for comfort!' exclaimed the captain after a few moments.

'Idiots!' hissed Keats angrily as he rubbed his forehead, 'you blithering idiots! What on earth did you think you were playing at?'

'Steady on old boy,' said Chapman, convinced that his friend was suffering from the effects of shock or concussion: 'that shark would have had your legs for lunch if we hadn't fished you out.'

'Nonsense! You've just ruined everything' moaned the poet, his face a picture of frustration and disappointment. 'Together, you snatched the feet from the Jaws of Victory!'

Erse verse 4

Anam dochloíte

I nduibheagán doimhin na hoíche,
an dorchadas ar gach taobh,
gabhaim buíochas ó mo chroíse
don té a bhronn orm anam tréan.

Pé rud a tharla dom sa saol,
deor ná geoin níor bhain sé asam:
má síneadh mé le buille géar,
sheasas suas gan mórán achair.

Lastall de ghleann seo an chaointe
tá scáth uafar báis is daortha,
ach ag druidim le críoch m'aoise
táim go teann, gan ualach scéine.

Is dá dhaoire é an dua
nó dá chruaidhe iad mo dhála,
is mé máistir mo chiniúna:
is mé ceannasaí m'anama.

[After the Insular Saxon of W.E. Henley.]

Erse verse 3

Meán Fómhair 1913

Cad tá uaibh is sibh in inmhe
ach carnadh pinginí bréana
lena gcur i gcófraí taisce,
agus guí le Dia gan staonadh,
go mbeidh an cnámh gan deoir smeara?
Tá an tsaint i páirt le naofacht
is Éire na laoch gan oidhre
curtha fá leac leis an Laoghaireach.

Níorbh amhlaidh don aicme eile
a thuill meas na n-óg le héachta,
scaip a gcáil ar fud na cruinne
ach gearradh go luath a laetha -
dream a mhair fá scáil na croiche
gan beannú sagart ná séada.
Tá Éire na laoch gan oidhre,
curtha fá leac leis an Laoghaireach.

Chuaigh géanna fiáine ar eite
thar sáile i bhfad i gcéin uainn,
dhoirt na tréanfhir a gcuid fola -
ár gceann airm an tiarna Éadbhard,
Emmet óg is Tone na gaoise,
cad ab fhiú an phian go léir sin?
Tá Éire na laoch gan oidhre,
curtha fá leac leis an Laoghaireach.

Is dá bhfillfidís abhaile,
fir a d'éag ar son na hÉireann
gan chomhluadar is i laige,
déarfaí: "táid meallta ag céibheann
a chuir a n-intinn ar mire".
Ba chuma leo bás nó saoradh
ach táid ar shlí na fírinne,
curtha fá leac leis an Laoghaireach.

[After the Ingweonic of W.B. Yeats.]

Keats and Chapman 3

An obscure portal

Feeling himself in need of a stiff mid-morning drink, Chapman stepped into the gentleman's club of which he was a long-standing member. As he made his way, glass in hand, towards an armchair next to a window in the smokers' lounge he was surprised to see Keats slumped in an adjacent chair, a vacant but somewhat harassed expression on his countenance.

'Keats old boy! Good to see you! It's not often we have the pleasure of your company' said Chapman warmly – the younger poet had agreed, at Chapman's urging, to join the club some years before but he generally preferred the quiet of his study to the convivial surroundings of the club and rarely visited it.

'I have been hunted from house and home' replied Keats glumly.

'Good heavens! What happened? Do tell me everything' urged Chapman.

'It's my nephew Mervyn. He's coming up to college in October and my sister felt it would be a good idea for him to spend a month or two in town before then, to familiarise himself with the city and so on. He can't take rooms in college until term begins and, since I live alone in a four-bedroom house, I could hardly refuse to put him up ...'

'I can guess the rest', said Chapman, 'I dare say he plays the gramophone at all hours of the day and night, holds interminable conversations on the telephone, rolls home in a state of inebriation in the small hours – his rowdy friends blowing their car horns as they drop him off ...'

'No, no, nothing of the sort. Quite the opposite in fact. Young Mervyn is a model of industry and application and has hardly gone out since he arrived a month ago. He spends all his time making improvements about the house. It began innocently enough: first he mowed the lawn and trimmed the hedges, next he cleaned out the eave-gutters, then he swept the chimneys ...'

'Capital!' exclaimed Chapman, 'you couldn't spare him for a few days could you?' Chapman suppressed a laugh as Keats shook his head and sighed wearily. 'I do apologise, Keats. I really shouldn't make light of a situation which distresses you. But what exactly is the problem?'

'It's the noise, the disruption, the general discomfort while Mervyn's laudable works are in progress. You recall I had stacks of books in all the bedrooms? Of course, I had to empty one room for Mervyn's use and I relocated those books on the steps of the staircase. There was still space enough for one person to pass by, but Mervyn insisted on erecting wall-to-wall shelving in every room.'

'But that's splendid! Just think Keats: when all your existing books are stored away on the new shelving, you'll be able to use the free floor space to double the size of your library.'

'Of course, I realise all that', said Keats, waving his hand irritably, 'but while Mervyn was working on the shelves I had to endure three days of uninterrupted sawing, drilling and hammering. And then the smell of turpentine and paint assailed my nostrils for another few days. I haven't been able to write a line for more than a week now. This simply can't continue, but how can I tell Mervyn that he must go? The young fellow means well, after all, and I couldn't possibly explain it to his mother – a most formidable woman I assure you.'

'Surely the bookshelves are finished by now?' asked Chapman.

'Oh yes indeed. The shelves are finished. But then he announced that all the electrical wiring in the house needed to be replaced. At present he is working on the front door and the windows. They were varnished as you may recall, but Mervyn assures me that this is most improper for external surfaces. For the last couple of days I could hear nothing from dawn to dusk but the infernal scratching of sandpaper. I had hoped for some respite when he began painting this morning, but he insists that all the doors and windows should be left open until the paint dries and there is a veritable gale blowing through the house. The very papers on my desk ...'

'What colour of paint is he using?' interrupted Chapman, a note of excitement entering his voice.

'It's a mahogany colour, the same as he used for the bookshelves. Why do you ask?'

A smile spread across Chapman's features and he slapped the palm of his hand against his knee in a gesture of triumph. 'Then you have him Keats – young Mervyn has played right into your hands!'

'I'm afraid I don't follow you' replied the poet in a baffled tone.

'When you return home today' said Chapman, 'you must tell your nephew, politely but firmly, that he is never to darken the door of your house again'.

Erse verse 2

Ná gabh go réidh

Ná gabh go réidh fá choim chaomh na hoíche,
Ba chóir don aois bheith fíochmhar ar deireadh;
Lig racht borb i gcoinne éag na drithle.

Cé léir don saoi nach bhfuil dul ón oidhe
Bíonn aistí gaoise fós le ríomh aige;
Ná gabh go réidh fá choim chaomh na hoíche.

Caitheann an fíréan a shaol sa deireadh
ag caoineadh na deise ar chúb sé uaithi;
Lig racht borb i gcoinne éag na drithle.

An réice a bhain sult as taitneamh na gréine
Tuigtear dó, ró-mhall, gur theith an óige;
Ná gabh go réidh fá choim chaomh na hoíche.

An fear stuama ar bhruach na huaighe,
Tapóidh sé gach uain le haghaidh suáilce;
Lig racht borb i gcoinne éag na drithle.

Tusa, a athair, ar leac na síoraíochta,
Caith mionn agus mallacht orm go fíochta.
Ná gabh go réidh fá choim chaomh na hoíche.
Lig racht borb i gcoinne éag na drithle.

[After the Ingweonic of Dylan Thomas.]

Keats and Chapman 2

An Iberian haven

Keats had for many years taken an informed interest in the visual arts and, at length, he began to paint occasional landscapes in oils. He had too much intellectual honesty to harbour any illusions about the quality of his work but he found that the process of painting was an excellent means of relaxation – especially during those regular but brief intervals when writer's block interrupted his literary endeavours.

It was during one such episode that he arranged to rent a fishing lodge in a remote part of the west, with the intention of spending a few weeks trying to capture the beauty of the surrounding mountains and lakes on canvas. Since the lodge was much too large for one person, and desiring the presence of a congenial dinner companion, he invited Chapman to join him. The latter was working on an annotated edition of Thucydides and, feeling that progress might be accelerated by a period of rural isolation free from the distractions of city life, he was happy to accept.

So it was that the friends set out in a Ford Prefect borrowed from Chapman's Aunt Maude on a cold and drizzly Monday morning at the beginning of March.

The weather worsened steadily as the pair drove west at forty miles an hour, the fastest speed that could be safely coaxed from their elderly vehicle. By mid-afternoon the travellers were only ten miles from their destination but the drizzle had turned to heavy sleet and a combination of gale-force headwinds and a cratered road surface had slowed their progress to little more than twenty miles an hour. The jolting and jarring of the Ford Prefect suddenly worsened. Unaccustomed though they were to motoring, Keats and Chapman realised at once that a tyre was punctured.

There was no alternative but to brave the elements, and both men fumbled with the unfamiliar jack and spanners of the borrowed car as they struggled, first to loosen nuts that had not been removed for years, then to lift off the affected wheel, replace it with a none-too-firm spare, and then to retighten the nuts. After half an hour the work was done, but when Keats and Chapman sat into the car again they were wet to the skin and shivering with cold.

Within a few minutes, as the car rounded a bend in a particularly desolate stretch of road, the friends were surprised and cheered to see a white-washed pub. Light from the windows pierced the gloom of the overcast afternoon and the thick clouds of smoke billowing from the chimney testified to the presence of a substantial fire within.

'Stop the car!' exclaimed Chapman – quite superfluously as Keats was already easing the Prefect to a halt on the strip of gravel outside the unexpected oasis of warmth and light.

Spirits reviving, the men vied to be first through the door but Chapman won the race to the large wooden bar within.

'So Keats', he asked, 'what will it be?'

'I think I rather fancy a hot port' replied the poet.

'An excellent idea – just what the doctor ordered!' agreed Chapman. 'Two hot Cockburns please' he called in a louder voice to the elderly publican who was approaching from the far end of the bar where he had been deep in conversation with the only customer in the house.

'Cockburns?' repeated the publican in a puzzled tone, his right hand rising to tug an earlobe.

'Yes. Cockburns port – you do have it?'

'Of course, of course', said the publican, 'well, that is to say, no. We're, ah, out of the Cockburns right now ...'

'Not to worry', said Chapman graciously, 'two hot Crofts will do just as well'.

'Well I'm afraid now, actually, we're a bit short on the Crofts right now too ...' said the publican, shifting from foot to foot.

'Oh very well, a Sandeman will do. You do have Sandeman surely? Give us two hot Sandemans then – and make them large!' exclaimed Chapman, a note of testiness entering his voice.

'Well now, would you believe it sir', said the publican, brightening suddenly, 'we did have a half bottle of the Sandeman there for a while all right but wasn't it all finished off around Christmas time, or was it maybe the New Year, I'm not sure if I remember...'

'Good God man!' snapped Chapman, 'do you or do you not have a bottle of port on the premises at this moment?'

'Oh I do indeed sir, I do indeed. Just a minute now sir and I'll take a look.' At this, the publican knelt down behind the bar and started to rummage through a collection of bottles beneath the counter.

'Isn't this simply incredible?' said Chapman in a low voice to Keats, whose teeth were still chattering from the cold. Before the latter could reply their host reappeared. Holding a dusty bottle in one hand, he wiped it with the sleeve of his other arm.

'Yes indeed sir, here it is now' said the publican in mixed tones of satisfaction and triumph. 'A nearly full bottle of MV Ruby Port sir – will that fit the bill?'

'MV Ruby Port?' repeated Chapman in a tone of incredulity, 'MV Ruby Port – what on earth is that?'

'Well sir, it's a port – a red port – isn't that what you wanted, sir?'

A reddish-purple colour not unlike that of port spread across Chapman's face as he struggled to control his temper but Keats recognised the warning signs of an imminent explosion and moved at once to defuse the situation. Placing a hand on his friend's shoulder he whispered urgently in his ear: 'do remember what they say old chap – any port in a storm!'

Erse verse 1

An ród nár gabhadh

Scar dhá ród i lár coille órbhuí,
b'oth liom nach bhféadfainn an dá bhealach
a thriall d'aon gheábh is ligeas mo scíth
ag breathnú bóthar amháin go dtí
an áit ar chlaon sé sa scrobarnach;

Ghabhas ansin an dara slí, a bhí
chomh maith agus níos mealltaí b'fhéidir,
mar bhí sí féarach gan lorg coisí;
ach arís, d'fhág an trácht uirthi
go raibh na róid chomh rocach céanna,

Is an mhaidin úd bhí siad araon
fá bhrat duilleog nár satlaíodh fós.
Ó, d'fhágas an chéad ród go malairt lae!
Ach thuigeas mar a scarann gach raon
is bhí amhras orm an bhfillfinn go deo.

Beidh mé á aithris seo le hosna
in áit éigin i bhfad anonn:
scar dhá ród i gcoill, agus mise –
do ghabhas an ceann ba lú taisteal,
is b'in a shocraigh mo chinneamhain.

[After the Ingweonic of Robert Frost.]

Keats and Chapman 1

Le trahison d'un clerc

Keats and Chapman sat reading in armchairs drawn up on either side of a blazing fire. The poet was engrossed in a well-thumbed copy of the Iliad and scarcely noticed the sighs and groans which his friend emitted with increasing frequency and vehemence. At length, however, he was distracted from the feats of Achilles by a furious snarl and looked up in time to see Chapman fling a large and pristine volume into the middle of the flames.

'Good lord!' exclaimed the poet, shocked and astonished by his friend's behaviour, 'what on earth is the matter?'

Chapman paced the room, his entire frame shaking as he sought to control his emotions.

'Do calm down old chap and try to tell me what has caused you such distress.'

Chapman slumped into the armchair opposite and buried his face in his hands.

'Fowler', he sobbed, 'it was Fowler'.

'Fowler?' said Keats in an incredulous tone. 'Surely you don't mean the distinguished author of Modern English Usage?'

'The same', confirmed Chapman.

'I'm afraid I don't understand', replied Keats, his astonishment growing, 'I have perused that work on many occasions and have found much to commend and nothing to censure in its pages. I must, in honesty, confess that I did feel his strictures on the use of "Hellenic" were unduly severe – the result, no doubt, of an excessive ...'

'No, no, no!' moaned Chapman, who dropped his hands from his face to reveal an expression in which disgust and anger competed for dominance. 'Fowler's first edition was capital, of course, and his second was never less than solid. The volume I have just consigned to the flames is the third edition – a work that can only be described as an incitement to linguistic permissiveness, promiscuity and miscegenation. The man has simply turned his coat, he has stabbed a legion of faithful purists in the back, he ...' Chapman raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness as his words trailed away.

'Oh come now! Surely it can't be as bad as that? Let us bear in mind the maxim error communis non error est, and let us also reflect that both split infinitives and terminal prepositions have long ...'

'Shut up!' bellowed Chapman.

Keats directed his gaze into the fireplace where fragments of charred paper floated up and disappeared into the black void of the chimney. Chapman broke the silence.

'I do apologise, but you simply have no idea ... you can have no idea. Do you know what the bounder has done? He has sold the pass on "gender"!'

'Good god no!' cried Keats, aghast.

'He has, he has!' Chapman sobbed uncontrollably.

'Why, it's ... it's unbelievable', stammered Keats. He rose and strode to a large oaken bookcase inherited from his grandfather, took down a copy of Fowler's second edition and began to read aloud: '"Gender is a grammatical term only. To talk of persons or creatures of the masculine or feminine gender, meaning of the male or female sex, is either a jocularity ... or a blunder" – why, what could possibly be plainer than that?'

'He's recanted, abjured, decamped at the first approach of the monstrous regiment ...'

'The thing is infamous!' exclaimed the poet, his upper lip curling in an expression of contempt. But after a moment's reflection a sudden look of triumph transformed his features. Turning to his friend, he declaimed: 'let us take solace from the knowledge that the scoundrel's poltroonery shall not go unpunished; that those whom he has betrayed so shamefully shall not go unavenged; that he shall live to rue the day of his treachery!'

'I do wish I could believe it,' said Chapman, wiping a tear from the corner of one eye, 'but how can you be certain? Those who are without principle so often seem to prosper ...'

'Surely', asked Keats rhetorically, 'you must be familiar with the old adage, "filleann an feall ar an bhFowler"?'